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momodita · 2 months

Text

snapshots. [—chilchuck tims]

TAGS / WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, modern au, minor pining, background marcille/falin WC: 1,000 NOTE: divorced father of 3 save me... save me divorced father of 3...

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

“Move over.”

Chilchuck’s voice startles you. The bowl in his hands is steaming: a hearty stew made with Falin and Marcille’s collective effort—(“Senshi’s tried and true recipe!”). A thick slice of bread perches on its rim. It smells just as heavenly as it did at dinner.

“Here?” you ask, stupefied. The armchair you’ve claimed is wide; there’s easily enough space to fit a Chilchuck-sized person, but your mind jumps—unbidden—to the reason he’d been late in the first place.

“Where else?” He nudges you with his knee. “As if I’m gonna sit near that love-fest over there.”

“You’re not welcome anyways,” Marcille tuts, midway through dipping the maraschino cherry from her sundae into Falin’s mouth.

“This is my apartment!”

You concede with a laugh: it’s just your bruised heart working overtime. The moment his body settles, shoulders touching, you stop being able to taste the ice cream Laios had scooped into your bowl. Existence narrowing to that point of contact with a familiar little rush.

It’s Laios’ turn to choose tonight’s movie, much to Marcille’s dismay—(“A documentary classifies! This is a really interesting one!”)—and he scrolls to find it as Chilchuck digs into his food.

Midway through, you engage him in a thrilling mock-battle of fencing spoons. Falin dozes, lulled from the careful stroke of Marcille’s fingers through her hair. By the time the credits roll, they’re folded onto each other, soft snores drowned out by music.

“They fell asleep again,” Chilchuck drawls, chin cushioned against his hand.

“Must be crashing after all that sugar,” Laios suggests, drapes a blanket over them.

“They were pretty high energy tonight. Eager to hear about how Chilchuck’s date went, I guess,” you tease, taking up the mantle with Marcille fast asleep. “You didn’t even tell us her name.” Keeping the tone casual despite the haunting little pit in your stomach.

(It’d been a shock to hear about it: for as long as you’ve known him, Chilchuck has been eager to keep his life private—even from long-time friends. And there’d been no signs of anyone—except you and your little group—coveting his time and attention; no extra, unexplained toothbrushes, no brands you don’t recognize in his pantry, no missed get-togethers.)

“Huh?” He gives you a look, confusion twisted in his features. The TV’s light illuminates a silver hair. “I wasn’t with any girl.”

Your brow furrows. “…His name? Their name?”

Chilchuck stares. This close—where the minuscule twitches in his expression are noticeable—it’s strangely evaluating.

“You know Marcille was joking when she said it was a date, right?” Heat sears along your cheekbones; embarrassment flushing hot under his gaze—the realization of your mistake.

“Of course I knew,” you say stupidly. Chilchuck’s eyebrow quirks. “Shut up. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, then if it wasn’t a date, who were you with?”

“Senshi,” he says. “He was—we, uh,” his eyes slide off to the side, “I asked him for a favor.”

“Oh?” you hum, relief and mirth creating a warm hum behind your ribs. “Looking to get a side hustle as a cook?”

“Not even close,” he grunts, looking away.

“Should we start calling you our little master chef?” You nudge him with a grin.

“Chilchuck is already quite good at cooking,” Laios pipes up without taking his eyes off the screen. “Maybe he’ll learn to make something else after mastering ramen.”

“Hey—”

“Ramen?” you ask, head tilting. “Like, the instant kind?”

Chilchuck splutters. “No!”

“From scratch!” Laios beams. “Senshi’s said he’s been making really good progress since his first day.”

“Oh?” you grin. “Our little master chef is gonna open a ramen shop?”

“Shut up. No way. Not ever,” Chilchuck grumbles, the high curve of his ear a soft pink.

“I hope you’ll make it for us one day—I love ramen,” you say. “Very tedious, though, so I’ve never done it myself.”

His face scrunches, mouth pursing together like he wants to speak, but doesn’t. His cheeks puff with air, releasing as a long, quiet sigh.

“Oh, hey, so after ramen”—you lean a hand on the chair’s opposite arm, boxing him in with a cheeky little smile—“you should look into French onion soup. It’s probably easier than ramen but caramelizing the onions takes so long—”

“You—!” he leans back, shoulders tense and eyes wide. “Don’t go making requests before I’ve even cooked anything decent.”

“Why not? I bet it’ll be great! You’re good with your hands, so soup is probably a piece of cake for you.” You watch—with no small amount of pleasure—as Chilchuck’s face flushes with vivid color.

“Get away from me,” he mumbles, but his tone is so insincere all you do is laugh. He knocks a loose fist against the inside of your elbow. A surprised noise jumps out; you retreat back against the chair, rubbing the spot.

“Mmh?” Marcille rouses with a sleepy hum. “What’re you requestin’?”

“Chilchuck is making us ramen,” you joke, relishing the way he knocks an admonishing leg against yours. “He’s our little master chef.”

“Oh, yeah. Did Laios end up spilling the beans?” Marcille yawns. Falin stirs, eyes fluttering. “Congratulations, you two.”

Chilchuck goes stiff beside you. “What do you mean?” you ask.

Marcille pauses, head tilting with a drowsy look of confusion. “Huh? Didn’t you ask why he’s learning to make it?” she asks. Falin tugs her sleeve.

You blink. “No. Should I have?” Marcille doesn’t respond right away, head bent to put an ear by Falin’s mouth, expression pinched as they whisper. Then, with a sigh, she reaches up to stretch.

“No. Never mind. Forget I said anything.” Laios is quick to grab her attention.

“Hey, so are you actually opening a ramen shop?” you whisper to Chilchuck.

“You’re such an airhead,” he grunts against his palm.

“I’m great,” you reply. His eyes meet yours, holding your gaze. When next he speaks, his voice is soft—acquiescing easily to your jest.

“Guess you are.”

#chilchuck tims x reader #chilchuck x reader #dungeon meshi fic #dungeon meshi x reader #snapshot fic #reader insert #food as a love language from me wow how new and exciting #momodita fic

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stellamancer · 2 months

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obligatory (satoru gojo x reader)

notes: haha. the valentine's fic. it's funny i still have to post halloween fic. maybe i'll finish this week since i'm off work. uh anyway, for those who say my posts, i'm kind of hesitant to post this for two reasons: 1) it's removed from context— like you can still get a feel of what is going on, but there's no explanation as for why and 2) due to reason 1 it's tonally different than usual, at least according to my beta reader. my eternal gratitude goes to @momodita who helped me workshop this fic and continues to demand i write more gojo fics despite denying being a gojo fucker.

contains: implied f!reader (no pronouns), the return of gojo's pov (a little less whacky this time lmao), jealous gojo (because those who know me know i can't get enough), light angst or whatever the hell is going on there. additionally, for those who don't know giri choco is chocolate you give out of obligation to your coworkers and honmei choco is chocolate you give to someone you have romantic feelings for. part of the infinite loop verse.

wc: 1.8k

“Here you go.”

Satoru graciously accepts Shoko’s offering: a thin, delicately wrapped box of Valentine’s Day chocolate. Naturally, it's giri choco; Satoru is well aware that Shoko would be caught dead before even thinking about giving Satoru honmei choco. That said, it looks like she's given more thought to her gift this year— the last few years she's just handed him a gourmet chocolate bar from some high end chocolatier. Actually, the last time she'd given him something wrapped up like this was…

“There better not be any liquor in this,” Satoru says in a petulant tone reminiscent of his high school days.

Shoko merely laughs. “As if I'd waste something like that on you.”

There's no way she’s forgotten how sick Satoru got the one time she did give him liquor filled chocolates. Not only had it made him sick to his stomach, it'd given him the worst headache of his entire life. If it were up to Satoru, liquor filled chocolates wouldn't even exist. “Welllll, thanks for the chocolate. I'll be sure to get you something good next month.”

Shoko gives him a relaxed smile. “Looking forward to it, Gojo.”

Knowing Shoko, she'll want liquor as usual. Maybe the same bottle of shochu that he got last year? She liked that, but then again, the same gift twice would be boring and Satoru is not about that. Whatever it is will be a little pricey, but Satoru doesn't mind it one bit— anything for one of his oldest friends.

Having given Satoru her yearly offering of chocolate, Shoko shoos him away so she can actually get to work. Satoru considers ambling around for another hour or two, but Ijichi will probably have a heart attack if he delays his mission briefing any longer. The sooner he does it the better, he guesses. Satoru starts sauntering toward the assistant managers’ office to find Ijichi, pulling at the ribbon on the box he received from Shoko as he goes. Inside are two rows of perfectly round chocolate truffles and Satoru picks one at random and pops it into his mouth. It's filled with a sweet raspberry cream that practically melts on his tongue. Shoko really went all out this year, but no matter how good these are they'd never match up to anything homemade.

Though, when he thinks about it, Satoru supposes he won't be getting anything like that this year.

When he gets to the assistant managers’ office he easily finds Ijichi, who, for once, is not bent over a mountain of paperwork, and with him is—

You.

Handing Ijichi a box of chocolates.

For some reason, Satoru suddenly feels very, very annoyed.

“Well, well, well,” he says, the volume of his voice louder than intended, but he doesn't care. “What do we have here?”

Ijichi whirls around and lets out a squeak, his face red as can be. He starts to blubber and it almost feels like Satoru's caught him in the middle of something more illicit than receiving chocolates. If Satoru weren't feeling so annoyed, he'd find the whole sight rather funny.

You, on the other hand, are far calmer, indifferent even, as a slight frown mars your features. Something about it makes Satoru's blood burn hot.

“Did I just interrupt a heartfelt love confession?” Satoru asks dryly and Ijichi starts to freak out even more, and while Satoru notices the slightest twitch of your eye, you remain impassive.

“I hope you like the chocolates,” you tell Ijichi, outright ignoring Satoru and somehow that makes Satoru's blood run even hotter. “I kept in mind what you said about last year's so they're not as sweet.”

“Thank you!” Ijichi squeals and you give the man a sympathetic smile before you head toward the door where Satoru's standing. He knows he's blocking the way, but he doesn't move.

Will you say something to him?

You don't.

Instead, you keep your head down and squeeze past him. Or try to. You brush against his side and Satoru doesn't miss the way your body jolts when you make physical contact with him. But it only lasts a second, and when that second ends, Satoru tries to ignore the feeling of bitterness rapidly spreading throughout his chest.

He means to say something, anything to you, but the words get caught in his throat.

By the time they free themselves, you're already gone.

Satoru sighs and saunters over to Ijichi, who's been taking deep breaths to calm down after Satoru's little bout of teasing. He leans against one of the desks and crosses his arms. “So, you had a mission for me?”

“Right! Yes!” Ijichi squeaks again and takes a deep breath before he starts to explain. Satoru only half listens to the briefing, his attention more focused on the little box sitting on Ijichi’s desk. The mere sight of it spurs a complicated set of feelings. He doesn't understand. You've been giving Ijichi chocolates every Valentine's ever since you moved to Tokyo and it's never bothered him before so why now?

“Um, Gojo?”

“What?” Satoru almost snaps.

Ijichi doesn't answer right away, instead he clears his throat and then says. “It's giri choco.”

Satoru scowls. Of course it is. It's not like you'd give Ijichi honmei choco. You don't see him like that. “I know that.”

Ijichi swallows thickly. Nervously. “Just making sure.”

Then he falls silent, the air between them now terribly awkward.

“...do you want some?” Ijichi asks.

“It's your chocolate.”

“I don't mind sharing,” Ijichi says, reaching over and opening the box to reveal your homemade chocolates. They're nowhere near as perfectly round as the ones Shoko bought for Satoru, but he can tell you put effort into making sure they looked presentable. “Help yourself.”

Even Satoru isn't terrible enough to steal an entire box of chocolates meant for another man, but he does grab the nicest looking one and tosses it into his mouth.

It's bitter; a mix of dark chocolate and black coffee that's not only completely unpalatable to Satoru, but disturbingly reminiscent of the bitter feeling that's now threatening to eat him whole. He almost wants to spit it out.

But he doesn't.

Satoru swallows it all.

The mission is uneventful, absurdly easy even, though Satoru took a little longer than he needed to by toying with the curses a little prior to exorcising them. Some would consider it a touch cruel, but Satoru doesn't care. Anything to rid himself of that pesky feeling from earlier.

If it were up to him, he would have headed straight home afterwards, but Yaga had asked him to come back and do some paperwork. Satoru had tried to reason with him, tell him he'd just do it tomorrow but the principal was insistent.

Satoru trudges to his office and throws open the door. Inside, someone lets out a surprised yelp.

It’s you.

Again.

Both you and Satoru stare at each other in surprise. Given that you've been avoiding both him and this entire corridor like the plague for the past two months, you're the last person he’d expect to find in his office, hovering over his desk. And yet…

You look away from Satoru, your expression awkward. This isn't like your encounter in the assistant manager's office earlier; you can't just walk out of his office without an explanation of why you're there.

Well, you can try, but it's not like Satoru will let you.

“Weren’t you supposed to be out on an assignment?” you finally ask. Satoru thinks you mean to sound annoyed, but your tone is watered down.

“I was, but it was so easy I could have done it blindfolded.”

Normally, you'd just roll your eyes or snap back about how he's a show off or his jokes are shit, but you remain quiet. He shouldn't be surprised, but it still makes him feel weird. Almost sad. Almost empty.

“Principal Yaga asked me to leave some paperwork on your desk,” you say, sounding uncharacteristically meek.

Satoru frowns a little. Yaga, huh? He never pegged him as a meddler. Satoru approaches the desk to look at the paperwork in question; he grimaces— it's a whole freaking stack.

You start to shuffle away from Satoru and toward the door as Satoru flips through all the papers. “Anyway, if you'll excuse me—”

“Wait a sec.” Satoru says and you glance back at him in confusion. There's something peeking out from under the stack of papers. Satoru gingerly fishes it out, revealing a familiar looking box. He holds it up and adds, “Did you leave this too?”

A myriad of varying emotions flashes across your face before you settle on an awkward sort of embarrassment. “I… did.”

It's weird. Satoru didn't expect you to be so straightforward given that under normal circumstances you always choose to be as obstinate as possible. Which Satoru doesn't mind in the slightest; it makes things exciting. There are few things more fun than prying the truth out of you with whatever means necessary. Answering him so readily like this… almost feels wrong.

“I accidentally made too much,” you explain.

Satoru stares at you. It’s not an excuse, not a lie. Honestly, adjusting the amounts to account for one less person probably slipped your mind until it was too late. You could have done anything with the extra chocolate, given more to each person, eaten it for yourself, but instead…

You still chose to give it to him.

Satoru tries to ignore the strange feeling stirring in his chest.

“Anyway, eat it if you want, toss it if you don’t,” you add, almost hurriedly as you move closer to the door. You give a quick bow to excuse yourself and before Satoru can say anything else, you run off.

His eyes remain glued to the empty doorway where you were just standing for a second before looking back at the box of chocolates you left for him. Carefully, he unties the ribbon and pulls off the lid. Just like Ijichi’s chocolates, the ones in his box aren’t perfect, but something about them looks nicer than the ones Ijichi got. Satoru wonders if you consciously put in a little more effort when you’d realized you had extra. The thought makes him chuckle a little.

He delicately plucks one from the box and pops it into his mouth. It’s sweet, infused with a hint of strawberry and vanilla that makes Satoru crave even more. As soon as he’s done with the first he shoves another into his mouth, and then another. With each chocolate he eats, the painful feeling in his chest grows, but he ignores it.

Before he knows it, the chocolates are all gone. Satoru licks his lips, hoping for one last taste of that strawberry vanilla sweetness only to find nothing. All he has left is the empty box and an aching heart.

if you read this whole thing, thank you and i hope you enjoyed it.

also yes, shoko got chocolates (tomo choco) too. they were similar to ijichi's, but with liquor instead of coffee.

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #infinite loop!verse

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momodita · 4 months

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snapshots. [—todoroki shouto]

TAGS / WARNINGS: pro hero shouto, gender neutral reader, pining, lots of food talk (shouto feeds reader a gyoza), pining, silly fluff WC: 1,000 NOTE: realizing i forgot to link the snapshots masterlist but can’t do it now bc tungle doesn’t update reblogged versions and i’m a sucker for consistency… weeps…

Your mouth goes dry when the door swings open.

“You’re here early.”

It’s Shouto, inclining his head in a curious tilt. Outside air rushes in. Were it not for the mid-winter freeze, you would’ve thought he warmed you with his Quirk: eager blood pounding in your ears to accompany the rush of heat from your throat to your face.

Remembering to speak, you offer a smile. “I wanted to help set up.” There’s a scarf tucked neatly against his throat—a fluffy, well-kept material—not for its functionality, surely, but completing a cozy, well-prepared look nevertheless.

Behind you, Katsuki barks out his own type of greeting. “The fuck you standin’ there for, Icy-Hot? Get inside already. And no distractions.” As acting head chef of tonight’s hot pot party, he offers no leeway to kitchen loiterers.

“Sorry, you arrived right in the middle of dinner prep.” You watch Shouto remove and arrange his shoes by the foyer step. “We’re just getting everything ready for later.”

“This early?” he asks. The sweater he’s wearing looks large and comfortable without being too baggy. Complimenting it gives you an excuse to stare as he shrugs off his coat.

“Bakugou’s making sure we have enough,” you say. “Said it was easier before everyone arrives.”

“He’s doing everything himself?”

You chuckle. “He wrangled some extra hands.”

(Denki had fallen into Katsuki’s clutches after trying to usher everyone out of the kitchen, only to be put to work prepping carrots. Then he tried slipping away when he thought no one was looking; a mistake not to be repeated under Katsuki’s hawkish supervision.)

Shouto doesn’t break away to mingle with Izuku and Tenya setting up decorations around the living room like you thought he would. After his greetings, he wanders over to watch you prep bok choy at the counter.

“My important task,” you joke, tossing the leaves into a colander for washing.

“I can help.”

Bakugou scoffs. His knife clicks against the cutting board. “You can’t even cut chives correctly,” he touts. Beside him, Eijirou claps a hand on his back, grinning.

“Don’t worry, Bakugou. No matter how you chop bok choy, it’s tasty!”

Shouto doesn’t look bothered by the heckling—he never does—though you imagine it would take devastatingly little for him to unintentionally goad the blond into blowing up tonight’s dinner.

“Here,” you hand him a paring knife, “it’s kind of small, but we’re only cutting off the ends.”

Shoulder to shoulder with him, the warmth in your face is an adversary that refuses to abate: a habit you’ve never been able to kick, cemented over the years. Amid the aromatic broths is the scent of his cologne. Your nose can’t help but pick it out, and your brain can’t help but latch onto it.

“Look at the two of you, so hard at work!” Hanta chirps, saddling up with a plate of steaming gyoza. He waves some chopsticks. “A snack for your troubles.”

They look and smell incredible: the bottoms are perfectly golden and crispy, the thin wrappers clings to the filling, shiny and slightly translucent. Apparently Katsuki made the filling earlier that morning. He’d already been assembling them by the time you arrived, barking out corrections to Denki and Eijirou.

“Here, Todoroki—say ahh.” Hanta grins, picks up a gyoza. You stifle a laugh: bemusement rarely makes Shouto’s expression, but your chest always flips when it does. It’s endearing, too, the way his cheek puffs as he chews. Your head tips to try and hide the smile. Hanta nudges you with an elbow. “You too, ahh—”

“Oi! Flat Face, quit yappin’, the apples’re gonna brown if you leave ‘em out.”

“Coming, coming! So scary, Kacchan,” Hanta grins, leaving the plate of gyoza on the counter. “Juice is right there if ya want it.” He departs with a wave.

“Sero’s taking care of the snacks,” you explain. “Insisted on making apple bunnies.”

Shouto blinks. He’s staring at the plate of gyoza.

“They’re good,” he gestures, “you should try one.”

“I’ll be eating my fill when the prep is done, don’t worry,” you say. It’s a tempting thought: homemade gyoza are best when they’re hot. But prep is almost done, you can wait a minute longer.

Shouto, on the other hand, decides that is not the case. He picks one up with the chopsticks.

“Ahh.” Mimicking Hanta with a monosyllabic tone, he presents it with a completely blank expression. Your hand jumps to muffle the laugh that escapes; you almost angle away—a split second thought your body prepares to follow through with.

Realistically, though—selfishly—you know there won’t be another chance to monopolize his space like this when everyone else arrives. And the gyoza looks so good, it would be a shame to refuse.

With a murmur of thanks, you lean in. The outside has cooled some, but the filling has not. It’s savory and juicy. Your eyes squeeze shut with a satisfied, trilling hum.

“Hot.” You huff instinctively against your palm, reaching for a drink. “But good. Have you made gyoza before, Todoroki?”

Shouto’s eyes flutter a blink, chest expanding with a breath.

“Once,” he says, chin tilting. You’re almost too distracted by his eyelashes: the curve of them casting gentle shadows on his cheeks. “I tried to fold some with my siblings.”

“‘Tried to’, huh?” you muse, smile stretching easily. “How’d they come out?”

Shouto’s mouth quirks. “The ones that didn't have filling spill everywhere were alright.” You laugh. “And you?”

“I have a couple times. Not recently. The success… varied,” you admit, sheepish. “It takes more skill to make gyoza than I thought. You gotta have good technique to fold the wrappers—they look good when they’re uniform. Maybe your sister will teach you if you ask,” you suggest lightly, snapping apart bok choy leaves that weren’t separated by the knife.

“I will,” he says, and adds, “When I get better, I’ll teach you.” A little thrill dances up your spine.

“Yeah,” your chest is light, “I’d like that.”

#todoroki shouto x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #reader insert #bnha x reader #bnha fic #snapshot fic #momodita fic

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momodita · 4 months

Text

snapshots. [—millions knives]

TAGS / WARNINGS: trigun stampede verse, no crash au, gender neutral reader, possessive behavior, plant mating cycles (implied aphrodisiac effect), jealousy, implied predator/prey WC: 1,000 NOTE: buff knives save me. save me buff knives.

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

“What do you think of Vash.”

Knives doesn’t ask questions—he makes demands. You’ve barely set the tray with his supper down before he speaks. This side of the ship is out of range of the hull’s lights. He’s facing away from the window, but even his reflection seems to stare. The air is noticeably sweet—almost unbearably so. Like honey.

“Good evening to you, too.” The tease comes first, reflexively. His nose wrinkles, expression testy. He’s confined himself to the ship’s residential sector all day: no wonder he’s extra irritable, you didn’t hear anyone else en route to his room.

“Answer me,” he commands.

You appraise him, pausing. His clothes are loose—as casual as he’ll allow himself. He looks no less ruffled than normal, but his body is poised: the eerily motionless outline of him stark against the midnight stretch of glass.

“We’re friends? I'm sure he would say the same.” You pull words with careful truth. Since childhood, Knives has stuck to Vash like glue. Rarely are they seen apart, except the occasions they fight and when duty pulls them to different sectors.

Vash is companionable and easy to approach; the same cannot be said for his brother. Yet over the years you’ve come to consider Knives somewhat of a close friend as well.

You tell him this—cheerful despite his mood—but he merely stares, expression pinched; unsatisfied. The honeyed air is so thick, you can almost feel the crawl of it in your lungs.

“You’re hiding something,” he insists, agitated. “That’s not all, is it?” He’s losing patience. You’ve no idea what inspired these questions, what he hopes to gain from asking them. Is he perhaps envious of his brother’s wide network of friends? In no lifetime would he care for tips on getting along with people. That’s how he's always been—a far cry from his personable, people-loving brother, but no less intelligent.

Head tilting, your confusion is obvious. “…What’s with the interrogation?” If you’d known he was in the mood to scrutinize, you wouldn’t’ve volunteered to bring his dinner.

“Answer me.” He steps forward, closing the short distance between you. Instinct tells you to flee, but it’s just Knives. He’s just Knives. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. How he dotes on you.”

Vash dotes on everyone. He supplies you snacks during long shifts, he cracks jokes that make you laugh, he listens to your worries, he keeps you company in the wee hours—but he does that with everyone. He’s let you nap in his room a couple times, but it’s closer than yours and you’ve been found dozing off in the kitchens. A bed is better than the floor.

“Knives, are you alright?” He’s got all the movement and concentration of a hunting animal. The kind you’ve seen from archived media. You take an instinctive step back.

He descends upon you like a wall. The years have been kind to his height and build: he closes the distance between you in just three strides. Fear blooms, unbidden and merciless—you think he’s going to hit you. But there’s a bruising pressure around your arm, his grapple like iron as his heaving chest presses against you—into you—forcing a hasty retreat until your heel knocks the door.

The movement pushes air from your lungs, and you realize late—much too late, far too late considering who you’re dealing with—that he is the reason for this sweet aroma. It fills your nose as he aligns your bodies together, all but squishing you into the cold steel.

“Stay,” he hisses. A wide, hot palm pressing into your hip. “Tell me what you think of my brother.” The hairs on your nape stand straight as he speaks against your temple. “All of it.”

(The other crew members had seemed apprehensive. One suggested to wait for Vash so he could do it. But it’d gotten too late. There was no guarantee he’d come back. They’d been apprehensive, but maybe… maybe not for the reason you initially thought.)

“You’re not for him,” he’s saying, sounding almost delirious. “You’ll never be for him.”

“I’m not for anyone!” Alarmed by his strength—his unwillingness to release you, struggling is an easy choice. “Knives, let’s think rationally—”

“I am thinking rationally.” He looses a rough, clipped breath. Nerves splinter a fierce trail down your spine when his face presses into the length of your throat.

“You’re not.” It’s useless to admonish him in this state: he listens to nothing. Not logic, not facts, not even Rem. “Knives, let me—let me get Vash. I’ll get Vash and we can—”

The teeth are a surprise. They scrape up your throat—a ragged breath flickers down your esophagus, fingers jumping up to fist into the material of his shirt. The heat of his body is unrelenting. The saccharine smell is so violently potent. It makes your knees oddly weak.

“You’re mine.”

…What?

You nearly go limp against him—the shock saps you of any fight. He’s acted this way a handful of times before. The memories are finally resurfacing: being easily aggravated, making impossible childish demands. It happens infrequently, but on a schedule. And this syrupy fragrance… you’ve experienced it before in a diluted form: years ago, when Vash had been red-faced and forced to tell you about certain cycles—

“Knives, this smell isn’t—don’t tell me you’re—”

“You came to me willingly,” Knives breathes, rough and low. His markings begin pulsing with light. His mouth is hot and wet as it moves over your rabbiting pulse. Hungry. “You knew.”

Oh. Oh no.

“I came to deliver your food,” you protest, muffled into his chest as his arms tighten, squeezing you against him. He looses something like a growl into the dip of your shoulder, rubbing his face there. “Knives,” you plead.

Distant thundering footsteps approach. His eager fangs are sharp—they threaten to break skin. And you, for all your struggle, cannot muster the coherence to protest.

#millons knives x reader #knives x reader #reader insert #trigun x reader #trigun fic #momodita fic #gender neutral reader #cw possessive behavior #cw predator prey #snapshot fic

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momodita · 10 days

Text

snapshots. [—trafalgar law]

TAGS / WARNINGS: a/o/b au, alpha/alpha, gender neutral reader, post rut, reader is part of law's crew, reader bites and is bitten (not a mating bond), lightly suggestive WC: 1,000 NOTE: [taps mic] this thing on [trips and falls and spills op blorbos on the ground] oh shit my bad sorry about that...

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

Despite the exhaustion of post rut, you cannot bend to another alpha’s wishes, even those of your vessel’s captain.

Law’s arm is mid-motion when you seize it. His nostrils flare, but he’s in your den—temporary as it is. His scent thickens, but hardly matches the volume and intensity of your own.

The mix of them teases your salivary glands. The blanket you’ve favored for the duration of this rut is full of puncture holes—perfectly shaped marks where your fangs have sunk in and pierced; turning the fabric into a poor mimicry of flesh.

“I’m taking your temperature.” A silent command to release him. He does this for everyone: a final checkup before the recovery period. A formality he adheres to.

“Then do.” Still, you do not let go.

Law’s eyes narrow. He pulls, almost experimentally. You fight the urge to snarl—remiss to release him: to surrender the upper hand you have. And the contact is good, a part of you preens—the touch of another person, the warmth and firmness beneath your palm. Even if you wanted to, you could not bring yourself to uncurl your fingers.

“Don’t be stupid.” His scorn prickles down the length of your spine. Law has no shortage of insightful thoughts, but your eyes have instead focused on the toned length of his neck: the seamless dip of his clavicle to his exposed chest. The skin is flawless—no sign of a claiming scar; a canvas for his tattoos and you, your quietly aching teeth.

What a thing it’d be to claim him. And how easy it would be to push a harmless bruise or two into him: alpha he may be, but his flesh is just as susceptible to damage as the rest of them. Nothing would last—it wouldn’t take unless you were to bite.

Just the thought of it is intoxicating. Giving temptation a name you dare not speak aloud. Imagining your hands on him is easy with his scent seeping out, enveloping you.

Your mouth spreads in a grin. Taking advantage of his surprise, you readjust your grip and yank.

But Law, true to his reflexes, deflects with a palm flat against your forehead, thrusting you back onto the bed. All at once you’re aware of how messy it is—the presentation laughably inadequate for a heat partner. Though, Law is not your companion; he’s just a man—a fellow alpha that falls easily into wrestling.

You match his growl with your own, thrusting a hand out to try and topple him—not wanting to be bested in your own den. Adrenaline surges through you, blood going hot: relishing the pressure of another person’s hand on your sternum. Your body is still tender.

The skirmish reveals his throat again. This time, you cannot hide your fascination, veins buzzing; lost in the excitement, you snarl. A low, wordless challenge—a turn from playful grappling.

When next you grab him, it’s not to push him off. Post rut makes you clumsy. He sends the two of you sprawling on the floor. You keep a fist in his shirt, angling yourself forward, teeth snapping hungrily.

Law is quicker at getting his bearings. Manhandles you into a prone position on your stomach with a quiet huff of victory.

“The rut’s gone to your head, idiot,” he snaps, but his hands are much more patient with you—scanning for injuries, pressing tentatively. Nothing amiss but the tender spots where he grabbed and flipped you; and your bruised pride, to boot. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You weren’t, really.

You try to buck him off, nerves crawling—for space, for skinship; it’s not easy to tell, tangled up in your haze. Beneath the control of another alpha, you merely groan and thrash.

Law shoves his forearm into your face.

“Bite,” he commands. Your jaw sets—unwilling to submit to another alpha’s demand. Law presses harder against you, hand clenching around your wrist. “Bite.”

It feels a little like guilt when you do—chasing the pungency of his scent gland. Blood rushes in your ears when you do—jaw opening for a mouthful of the soft, fleshy part of his forearm. The tendons in his wrist go taut. His tattoos taste as human as the rest of him.

You can feel his pulse against your gums: the warm, iron-victory of his blood on your tongue. It’s a little humiliating how the taste makes you moan, muffled into his arm. It’s not a neck, but it doesn’t have to be.

You don’t even notice that his grip has shifted—the pleasure of finally having another’s flesh nearly overwhelming—nor do you notice the collar of your shirt being tugged away, or the warm puff of air across your nape: swallowed by the feverish haze of your rut.

But it is noticeable when Law’s teeth sink into you. Getting his lips on your skin to bite.

Instinct has your jaw opening in favor of jerking away. But he grunts, shoves his arm harder into your mouth. Blood and saliva slicks your bottom lip, pearling and dribbling along the curve of it.

There’s no intimacy in this particular mark. It’s nothing but an unspoken reprimand as Law situates himself, your hips locked tightly between his knees.

Scuffle settled, it takes time for you to accept defeat. Going limp. The muscles in your face finally loosening.

Law releases you. The air is cool, circling where his mouth was.

“Have you calmed down?” he asks, voice rough. His arm is motionless. Blood sinks into the divots of your molars.

“And if I say no?” you ask, unconvincing with the drawl of fatigue in your voice. Rearing your head for one last show of control.

Law drags a thumb along the stinging skin—as if surveying his work. A pacifying gesture. Not unkind, but not born out of benevolence. He’ll treat it later, indubitably. None of these marks will last a week, and that—you think—is a damn shame.

#trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar d water law x reader #law x reader #one piece fic #one piece x reader #reader insert #snapshot fic #cw omegaverse #i did not use his full name in the title bc #its long LMFAOOOOOO #momodita fic

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momodita · 1 month

Text

snapshots. [—dazai osamu]

TAGS / WARNINGS: male reader, specific clothing (suit), dazai being dazai, barely suggestive WC: 1,000 NOTE: even though this was written with male readers in mind, there are no pronouns used and can read as gender neutral!

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

“Need some help?”

You muffle the swear, but not the pained noise that escapes as your leg smacks the counter. Teeth clenched, you hunch over the sink, clutching your throbbing knee before gathering yourself to glare at the intruder.

“Where’s Atsushi.”

“Surprised?” Dazai trills, volume surprisingly controlled for how loud you know him to be. His lofty hum echoes—you grimace as he fills the precious little space left in the bathroom. “Atsushi-kun got sent on an assignment. He’ll be gone for a while.”

“And he entrusted you to help me instead?” you snark, a touch mean knowing the thickness of his skin. Turning your back on him never feels safe—at least with the mirror, you’re not completely vulnerable. “I would’ve thought he’d ask someone a little more reliable. Like Kunikida-san.”

“Oh! You wound me!” Dazai exclaims, hand flying up to press against his forehead. He saunters forward with a dramatic lean. “And here I thought you might need me to lend you a hand,” he says, flourishes with a grin, gaze lingering meaningfully on your tie.

Your nose wrinkles. “No thanks.”

Dazai merely tuts—undeterred by the blatant dismissal—leaning on the counter to watch you fumble.

“If it were Kunikida-kun here,” he says, low and amused, stoking the burn of irritation at the back of your throat, “He would’ve made you start over. In seiza to boot.”

You shudder imagining it. “No one will notice if it’s bad. It’s just a stupid tie.” The excuse doesn’t burn nearly as much as his huffing laugh, something quiet that makes the muscle under your eye twitch. Maybe you should forgo the tie, after all.

“Now, now, don’t say that,” he sings—gleeful, like he’s sitting on the punchline of a joke. “It won’t take long.” His hand opens for you, expectant. “Besides,” Dazai says, “seems like you really want this meeting to go well.” He speaks plainly enough, but you’ve no confidence to decipher any double entendre while operating under several layers yourself.

Against the sticky apprehension licking your ribs, you let him: slipping the tie from your shoulders and lowering it onto his palm. Not for the first time, his presence raises the fine hairs on your nape.

He’s an indomitable presence behind you. You’re sure he can’t see the goosebumps erupting along your arms, but the little quiet chuckle by your ear makes you think he knows of their existence.

Dazai lays the tie across your nape. Drapes it down your front and adjusts the two ends with an impish, plucking touch. You watch his hands in the mirror. It occurs to you, now, that as you are—trapped between him and his mirror image—there’s nowhere to run. In the silence, your mouth purses, twitching with the pressure to break the tension—anything to release the buzz of adrenaline clogging your throat.

“Don’t tie it too tight,” you say haltingly, blood rushing to your face. “I’ll choke.”

Dazai, humming, merely smiles. You watch his eyes narrow with it in the mirror, how he loops and pulls and twists the fabric—almost mesmerized by the knot coming neatly together in his fingers: long and pale—a sharp contrast to the matte black of your suit and dress shirt.

His expression drops as he works. It’s a rare moment where it holds no fallacies, no comedic lilt of his brow or mouth. Your chin twitches when he wiggles the knot to a tight finish, uses both hands to slide it up against the base of your throat.

You swallow, then—not meaning to—and drop your eyes to the faucet. Dazai drags the tie between his fingers, smoothing the fabric with a slow motion of his arm. You can’t stop the tightness in your chest—as if his hands were sliding all over you.

“Dazai-san.” His name gets pulled from your throat like teeth, hand twitching, wanting to snatch the tie from his fingers. His presence is a weight on your shoulders—heat at your back, crawling up your throat all the way down your calves, the tips of your fingers, as you tease the idea of shoving him away. Forcibly relaxing your aching jaw.

Your eyes dart up to meet his in the mirror. It’s a mistake. For one dizzying breath, his head tips—just a fraction, small enough that you blink and are no long sure it even happened—and the gleam in his eyes is gone, swallowed by the shadow of his fringe. You don’t need the subtle press of his thumb to know your skin has gone clammy.

But then he blinks, and the moment passes. He splays his hands out as if revealing a surprise, grin full of teeth.

“See? Not too bad, wouldn’t you agree? Kunikida-kun would’ve had you make one hundred knots.” Despite the obvious playfulness of his voice, it does little to quell the blood rushing in your ears. His hands descend upon your shoulders, a gesture somehow more threatening than when his fingers had been kissing distance from your throat. “And his lectures take forever.”

“Aren’t you just saying that because you’re the one he lectures the most?” you ask. “That’s why no one takes you seriously, Dazai-san.”

His eyes narrow with a smile—the familiar stretch of it triggering your flight impulse. You manually reset your footing to rid yourself of the feeling.

“Maybe they should,” he suggests, and reaches for your throat. Your blood freezes, but all he does is flip down your collar, tucking the tie under the starched fabric. “I’m quite the hidden gem.”

Muffled laughter outside the door is just the remedy you need to reset.

“How egotistical of you,” you reply flatly, and sigh. “Are you done?”

“Of course, of course.” Dazai waves. “Safe travels.”

“Thanks,” you mumble. He ducks out of the bathroom to engage with Kunikida, putting himself directly into the blond’s verbal line of fire.

And you, alone, dip fingers inside your suit pocket to find a familiar plastic lump.

#dazai osamu x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs fic #bsd x reader #bsd fic #reader insert #snapshot fic #male reader #sorry for the character to those who are #unfamiliar w bsd SJKDHFKHSJ #also this fic could've so easily turned into nsft but i was GOOD and i RESTRAINED MYSELF #momodita fic

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momodita · 20 days

Text

snapshots. [—hibari kyoya]

TAGS / WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, a/o/b au, predator/prey elements, hibari being hibari, tyl setting, marriage run WC: 1,000 NOTE: hold on i gotta tell the me from 10+ yrs ago that i still have a thing for this guy...

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

Hibari exhibits all the strength and ferocity of a real predator.

He knows only one truth: surrender. You’ve seen it countless times in different forms from his enemies: humiliated defeat; merciless death; bitter prostration. But never could you have imagined that his appetite for glory would extend to you.

Stinging air brushes the fine hairs on your nape when he swings at you—broad-knuckled hands weapon-free to align with the rules, but no less deadly. Forced to overcome your shock as he lunges, scent thick and roiling; you’ve caught whiffs during the run before your encounter, carried by the breeze. He’d caught you off guard—approaching fast during your leisurely stroll.

“Submit.”

Even the vibrations in his voice demand you forfeit. The rough baritone raising your hackles—instinct to fight overriding cordiality.

(In your mind, Hibari hadn’t even been in the realm of potential runners. But he’d come—arriving later than everyone else, standing far from the clumps of mingling alphas. And you briefly, only briefly, wondered if he planned to take it seriously.)

From the gleam in his eyes—the memory of his stare on your neck—you have no doubt he’d been aiming for this outcome all along. The bell has been ringing at steady intervals for the past ten minutes: formed pairs evacuating the designated area to leave the remaining participants in peace. It’s difficult to tell how many remain—where they might be wandering.

“Get real, Hibari.”

You expect him to snarl—your clash stoking the prideful venom that all alphas with a similar penchant for violence boast no shortage of. You expect anger: incredulity and the arrogance he carried with him into this mating run.

Instead, he smiles, and you realize with cold blood draining from your face that he doesn’t pursue surrender—but surrender comes to him.

No one else had looked in your direction for more than friendly acknowledgement. There’s a scrap of hopeful disbelief that he’s simply ignorant of the implications and has merely rushed in blind. That he chose to engage you for the familiarity of having fought side-by-side. After all, you could hardly fathom an alpha like him willingly pursue a beta.

The problem with Hibari is he does not chase. He hunts.

And it is impulsive—recklessness that would put you towards an early grave had he been an enemy—to abandon all momentum and test your hand against the Vongola’s most bloodthirsty Guardian.

You’ve sparred against him countless times before. The results were always as expected.

It’s laughable, almost, how quickly you realize your strength is no match for him.

You go down. And Hibari—like any man thirsty for conquest—is all too eager to partake in the sweet reward of his victory. The heel of his palm pressing on your sternum, right beside the tight rabbiting of your heart. Fingers splaying—a touch too inappropriate in its placement for the mannerly guidelines of this tradition.

Thrashing is easy. Struggling is easy. But Hibari is an immovable force above you, subduing his prey with practiced hands, holding you down against the mossy earth. His head ducks, aiming for the crook of your throat—and you suck in a breath, the impulse to fight betraying you as you freeze beneath him.

But he doesn’t bite.

Nothing will take if he does; you’ve no scent glands, no area primed for a claiming mark to officially tie the two of you together. You don’t even know how he found you amidst the plethora of other candidates. The only realistic outcome is the thorough verbal scolding you’d get from Gokudera.

Hibari leans close, so close the heat of his face melts into your own. He takes a breath—smelling you, you realize with no small amount of mortification—and speaks.

“Submit,” he commands once more. You almost laugh.

“Do you even know the purpose of this run?” His hair tickles, that choppy dark fringe dipping against your skin.

“What a foolish question,” he muses. “A hunt is a hunt.”

You suppress a groan. “Right. Okay. Well, this probably seems like a—competition of sorts, but that’s not what this is,” you explain, pulse showing no signs of slowing. “This is a marriage run, not a hunt. There’s no way to—you know. Win.”

“A claim,” he says, silencing your next thought. “When a claim is made, there is a clear winner, isn’t there?”

You nearly stop breathing. Hibari withdraws to stare at you.

(Tsuna’s earlier apprehension makes perfect sense. It occurs to you, then, that you were the one that hadn’t been taking it seriously from the beginning.)

“A claim here,” he continues—pleased; you’ve known him long enough to hear the subtle tang in his voice—reaching up to brush over your neck, “usually denotes a victor.”

“I am not a prize.” Your limbs go tense, preparing to fight. Hibari catches your wrist easily, his palm calloused and hot.

“You misunderstand,” he says, “this is not a matter of prizes. It’s one of choosing.” His thumb presses lightly into your wrist, where a scent gland would lay. Your pulse is lively under his hands and fingers.

This time, you do laugh, disbelieving. “You would choose this?”

“There is no one else.”

You’re tempted to laugh again. But his face does not betray a hint of sarcasm.

“There will be others,” you insist. “If not by your choice, then the famiglia’s.” His eyes narrow.

“They are irrelevant.”

Your mouth opens to argue. Hibari closes the distance again; his breath hits the pulse point in your throat. He does it so confidently you think—with a squeezing pressure in your chest—that he’s going to bite you for real this time.

For an insane, thoughtless moment, you almost tilt your head to let him.

Your eyes flutter shut, imagining it—almost craving it—and then, when they open, your gazes lock, and—with the prickling rush of adrenaline—you realize there’s nowhere else you could’ve fallen but into his clutches all along.

#hibari kyoya x reader #hibari x reader #reader insert #momodita fic #snapshot fic #khr fic #khr x reader #katekyo hitman reborn fic #katekyo hitman reborn x reader #cw omgegaverse

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momodita · 3 days

Text

snapshots. [—hirako shinji]

TAGS / WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, comfort, reader does not like aizen (lmao), light angst WC: 1,000 NOTE: shinji u are everything to me...

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS DNI.

“Somethin’ interesting up there?”

It is not an insignificant thing for another division’s captain to invite another squad’s subordinate to their quarters. But Shinji was never one for convention and has even less love for etiquette.

“Say, don’t you think it’s time to change out the tatami?” you ask instead of acknowledging his question.

Your back is to him, crouched in a corner of the room—staring at the ceiling. He was penning some kind of letter to Hiyori up until a couple minutes ago, humming to himself every few brush strokes; probably imagining her reactions to the stupid jokes he’s undoubtedly including.

“The time to spring clean has long since passed, ya know,” he drawls. Your head bends. Index finger scratching at a frayed edge, coaxing out the light click and snap of it. Loud in the oppressive quiet of midnight.

“When was the last time these were replaced?” you ask. “They're all discolored and patchy. And look—it’s coming apart.” You flick up a broken thread.

“Don’t pull it apart!” Shinji’s protest falls on deaf ears.

“I bet there’s a bunch of dirt trapped under here, too. I’ve never seen you clean it once.”

“Aizen probably had it done when he was captain.” Shinji waves a hand.

Your lips purse. You pierce a fingernail into the woven mat, testing its durability. There’s no doubt Aizen Sousuke had indeed done some upkeep of this room. You’d once walked by while looking for Hinamori and had taken it upon yourself to peek in—just to see.

Aizen was out working, of course. But his presence was unmistakable in the neatly arranged bookshelves, the futon he kept plump and folded, the desk, the tea set. All of it so neat. Sterile. It was like Shinji had never even lived there at all.

“Well, now you can get it replaced to celebrate your reinstatement,” you say, trying to sound casual around the plucking snap of another ripping thread. “They get musty during the summer.”

“Are ya sayin’ I stink?” he lilts. “There’s better things for us to do than fuss over the floors.” He tosses a crumpled piece of paper at you. It bounces off your shoulder. “And stop wreckin’ the tatami—I really will have to get them replaced.”

“Captain Kuchiki has someone do his—I hear they’re good. Efficient. He probably wouldn’t mind passing their name along—y’could have it done in like, three days tops.”

A pause. Then, Shinji sighs. His footsteps are soft and rhythmic as he crosses the room to slide the shoji doors open. A chill crawls inside. You shiver as it caresses up your uniform.

The Seireitei is at its best under moonlight, when the barracks are quiet and the only chatter is from the cicadas.

But Shinji, at least, is suited for its warm afternoons, when the sun is at its highest and it brings out the color of his hair.

(This insight strikes a familiar memory you keep of him: decades ago, before his disappearance, you would catch him under cloudless summer skies, lounging on the roofs. Perched for friendly, passing small talk; or perhaps to strike one of Hiyori’s many easy nerves. He’d tilt his head to talk to you and the light would catch that sheet of hair, illuminating it into golden strands.

And you, caught by the tempting shape of his profile, would always be coaxed to join. Sitting less than a sword’s length apart, he’d no idea of the longing brewing in your chest—so potent it knocked against each of your ribs.

When you spoke, you wondered if he saw it pouring out of your mouth in vapors like you did; if he was keen enough to spot the lift of your cheeks as you smiled away from him.)

“Something’s on yer mind,” he says, taking a seat beside you. “Don’t even think of hidin’ it from me, either. Got it?”

Much has changed since his disappearance. Not all of it good. You weigh the truth against a white lie. Then settle for something in between.

“Nothing really,” you mumble, drawing your arms across your chest. An absence of birdsong makes you that much more aware of your breath. “Just thinking ahead.”

“Will I have to replace them for the New Year, too?” he jests, leaning back on his hands.

The nostalgia of his posturing and banter stirs an acute yearning in your chest. Dry air stings your sinuses. Moistens your eyes. You think of life in Seireitei before everything. Before rising the ranks. Before Shinji cut his hair. Before Aizen Sousuke.

Before Aizen, you and Shinji would enjoy tea together. Or talk. Or admire the gardens. Before Aizen, you’d stare and stare at Shinji to take your fill of him—to memorize the ugly scrunch of his face as he squinted and the tiny lines by his eyes when he laughed.

“I want every trace of him gone,” you whisper finally, face buried. “I don’t want even a single piece of him left behind. I don’t want to remember him wearing your haori, or sleeping on the same futon, or using your brushes.” The brushes you gifted Shinji to celebrate his promotion. “It makes me sick just thinking about it.” From the specks of dirt to the air in that room, Aizen lingers everywhere he shouldn’t.

Shinji’s gaze is a heavy entity. You feel it on your shoulders—his quips withheld as he considers your words.

“I never took ya for the sentimental type.”

You huff an agitated noise. “It’s revenge. Don’t confuse them. ”

“Revenge for me?” Shinji asks, sounding infuriatingly gleeful.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scoff, nape prickling—caught. “Revenge for deceiving everyone.” Shinji merely hums. “You had your chance—Hinamori-chan deserves a turn to throttle him.” To that, Shinji doesn’t respond. But what is there to say? The wretched ghosts of your past bend to no one.

“Idiot,” he chides, achingly soft, “there’s nothin’ to worry about.”

(The tatami is replaced by the following week.)

#hirako shinji x reader #shinji hirako x reader #reader insert #bleach fic #bleach x reader #snapshot fic #momodita fic

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