xixi.

twenty - any pronouns

[withlove-xixi]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ #ㅤㅤWELCOME TO XIXI'S WORLD !

ꔛ i'm xixi ! twenty - any pronouns + pup/pups xe/xem ⌒°(❛ᴗ❛)°⌒ i love tragic yuri and pathetic men!

sometimes nsfw/suggestive — multifandom ! currently: hajime no ippo, one piece, dungeon meshi, fe3h + more

— masterlist ٩(๑`ȏ´๑)۶ — kinktober 2024 [NSFW. MINORS DNI.] — xixi's yumeslop 𑁍ࠬܓ

requests: closed! commissions: closed!

find me on ao3 support me on ko-fi find me on my personal blog

[withlove-xixi]

blsckleg sanji and the absolute blind devotion of asking "can i be your boyfriend?" when asking you out .... the want to submit, to become someone's as opposed to asking the other to be theirs ......

[withlove-xixi]

— BANKSHOT: sonar x reader

ᥫ cw: nsfw, petnames, alcohol/drinking mentioned ᥫ wc: 4216 ★ 4.2k words .. i cant even tell u how i managed this ... i blanked out and it was there on my gdocs cross posted on ao3

— DESPERATION WASN’T A GOOD LOOK ON YOU. YOU HOPED IT WASN’T TOO OBVIOUS AT LEAST.

[♡]: you were never the type to throw yourself at people, let alone stoop down to some pathetic scheme like this. but it was just too easy, too tempting; cheese in a trap with a certain coworker of yours already halfway into getting caught.

HARVARD GRADUATES CARRIED A DIFFERENT AIR. It was something you had heard from your dad way back when about some coworker he used to have that was an alumni. He said there was this certain difference in the way they spoke and carried themselves, some underlying smartassness about them that gave away just how much more clever they were than you. Which, to give them credit, was usually true. Getting into an Ivy League college (Harvard of all colleges) was one feat, and getting out of it with a diploma no less was far more impressive. In a way, they earned the right to be a bit obnoxious about it. Harvard grads were smart, witty, clever.

Then there was Sonar.

Now, you admit, your plan seemed a bit… desperate. Pathetic, really. It’s definitely how you would’ve described it if you saw someone else play it out in front of you. It’s definitely how you would describe yourself right now. 

“Nooo! I missed it again…”

Sonar chuckles at your disappointed tone, falling into your trap hook, line and sinker. “Thought you’d be better than this, sweetheart.”

There’s the distinct, sharp crack of resin against resin as he easily shoots the cue ball against another, knocking it straight into the far left pocket. He huffs in amusement from his shot, the air of smugness thick around him as he lines his cue stick with chalk.

“I am!” You make a show of pouting, your voice whiny and bratty. The way his ear twitches at the sound doesn’t go unnoticed. “That one was a fluke… I promise!”

He chuckles again, eyeing the table, counting how many balls he has left. You want to engrave the sound into your skull. “Sure, sweetheart. And I’m sure the last five shots were flukes too.”

You weren’t good at pool. That wasn’t to say you were necessarily bad at it. You were alright, could play better than most if you really wanted to, even picked up a few tricks from those nights in college you were assigned designated driver and resolved yourself to playing alongside the cigarette scented men at the pool table. But the way you played tonight was outright embarrassing. And honestly? It was kind of obvious; the way you’d always make sure to hit the cue ball a bit too hard that it rolls into a pocket, the way you’d intentionally aim a bit lower to bounce it off the table, the way you’d somehow miss your shot and have the cue ball knock one of his balls instead? It’s too calculated. Anyone who has ever played pool would’ve seen right away that you obviously knew how to play properly.

Unless you were Sonar.

Because the moment the idea of a bet left your lips, he was locked in; the casualness he had previously carried in the game he had played before you walked your slightly tipsy self over to him was thrown out the window. Maybe the alcohol in his system contributed to it, the buzz frying his poor half-bat brain into mush the moment you turned to him with a confident smile and a mischievous glint in your eye. Then again, if he were sober, he’d be acting the same way.

If you try to recall how you got in this position, you’d cringe at yourself for being so lame (you’d definitely wince at the memory of it tomorrow, no matter how good your memory of what might come after is). But every time you remember the weight of his chest against your back as he leaned against you, the warmth of his hand over yours as he guided it to line up the shot better, you remember exactly why you’ve put yourself up to this.

“Three more for me plus the eight ball,” Sonar says with a wince as he bends over to take another shot. His tone is light, teasing and just a little bit smug— exactly where you want him. “Things are not looking too good for you, sweetheart.”

“It’s not fair…” You mutter as you crank your neck to peer behind him, watching the way the tight fabric of his slacks hugs his ass. “God, if I had known you’d be so good, I’d never have suggested this…”

He chuckles again, you could almost see his smirk. “Too late to back out now.” He knocks the cue ball to two balls against the cushion, sending both rolling down the pockets at the opposite ends of the table. “You gotta be a man of your word.”

“Bullshit,” you say in faux annoyance, crossing your arms.

Honestly, you're kind of impressed with your little display. More than that, you’re surprised you haven’t been caught. You must be somewhat good at acting to lead Sonar on like this, goad him into right where you want him before you eat him up. Plus you were certain that after the third miss, Sonar would’ve called you out on messing up intentionally. But then again…

“Hm… If you beat me at pool, I’ll have sex with you.”

Even if he knew (which, given that it’s Sonar, was a bit hard to tell if he did), you doubt he would’ve brought it up. Not when it was this easy for him, like luring a dog into its crate with a line of treats, only he doesn’t mind the crate because crate in this specific scenario is having you under him.

You try not to giggle as he shoots his last ball into the farthest pocket— which, by the way, you’ve noticed he’s been deliberately choosing the most difficult shots to take for each turn and definitely using more tricks than necessary to do so. Fucking showoff —leaving only the eight ball left, which unfortunately was pressed behind two of your balls and against the cushion. He resigns the round by simply breaking the cluster, picking up the cue ball and placing it into your palm, dropping it so that its weight catches you off guard.

Sonar leans down into your ear. “Better hold your end of the bargain, baby.”

You huff, but the shakiness of it makes it obvious you’ve become a bit flustered from that, the huskiness of his voice sending shivers straight down your spine. “Not if I beat you, dumbass.”

He turns back to the table and you want to kiss that smug grin off his stupid face. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Sonar crosses his arms as he watches you decide where to place the cue ball, you feel his stare at you, feel the weight of his growing ego push against your back. It’s kind of hot, if you’re being honest.

Now, with what happened next, you swear this time was unintentional. Maybe pressure got to you, being so aware of the way Sonar seemed to study your movements throwing you off. Maybe your hand genuinely slipped against the cue stick, the chalk on your palm having gradually dissipated with how much your hands seemed to have sweat. Or maybe, subconsciously, you wanted to cut to the chase.

Because as you push against the cue stick, the cue ball knocks into the ten ball, rolls it hard enough it slams against another, then that one slides smoothly on the felt, gently knocking into the eight ball and toppling it into the pocket it was next to.

Your jaw drops at the sheer ridiculousness of the loss, some Looney Tunes bullshit of a play, it's got Sonar standing straight now, arms dropped to his sides, his expression mirroring yours. You feel the vibrations in your throat build up a complain, the first genuine one of the night, about how that was definitely and genuinely a fluke and how you deserve another shot at least because— Jesus —how the hell do you even fuck up that bad?

But the words die before they’re even formed as you feel Sonar’s chest press against your back once more, the fur of his cheek grazing yours as he leans over your shoulder, grinning in amusement at the aftermath of the game.

“So,” he starts, drawing out the syllable in a way that’s dripping with smugness. “Your place or mine?”

You should be happy. In the end, you got what you wanted, right?

There’s a certain harshness with the way you pull him by his loose tie into a sloppy kiss, catching him midway to shrugging off his jacket. Your lips press against his, his snout awkwardly smushed against your nose, tongue prodding against his, in a kiss that’s hungry and rough and pissed.

“Sore loser, huh?” He teases as he gently pushes you off him, a lopsided grin on his face. It only pisses you off more.

You click your tongue, turning away, embarrassed and annoyed. You try to think of some clever response, maybe if you lost the way you wanted to, you might’ve even said something flirty. “Fuck off.” Is all you can muster.

He laughs at you, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that completely juxtaposes your roughness. His thumb caresses the plumpness of it for a second. Another time you might’ve found the gesture sweet, but when you meet his eyes, you feel like mush. The glare you didn’t realize you were holding falters and your stomach does flips. He’s looking at you like he’s gonna eat you, like he’s gonna ruin you; pondering which parts of you he should toy with first. It’s laced with this annoying smugness thanks to how much you’ve stroked his ego tonight and how genuinely upset you are still about the game.

The look almost melts away your frustration.

Sonar pulls you in for another kiss, one more calculated this time. His tongue presses against your mouth, pushes against yours and runs along the edges of your teeth in a way that makes you whimper against him. It’s sloppy and slow, something you didn’t really expect from the man who just won a bet to have sex.

When he pulls away, there’s spit all over your faces, smeared across the corners of your lips and sticking to the edges of his fur.

“Think of it this way,” he starts, “getting me to fuck you is kind of a consolation. I see this as a win-win for both of us, really.”

Oh, you were gonna kill him. How the hell did you find him hot earlier?

You open your mouth to retort. And Sonar is smart enough to know you wouldn’t stop cussing him out once you start, so he pulls you into another kiss. It’s chaste. Really it’s a series of kisses as he slowly strips you of your clothes, taking off each layer in between gasps of air and tossing them around haphazardly in his apartment. He peppers your face with wet, sloppy kisses, kissing along your jaw and dragging his fangs across your skin, nipping at your neck before pressing another kiss against your lips. Sonar’s good at distracting people, something you’ve learned from that time you watched him blabber bullshit to Robert before slipping away for another break scott free. He tests his skills on you first hand because the next thing you know you’re tossed onto his bed, the heavy scent of him instantly surrounding you and flooding your senses. His mattress and pillows are softer than you thought they’d be, the sheets are cool against your skin. Sonar sits above you, well-manicured scar stained hands caresses your hips, grazing against the garter of your underwear.

He’s stripped you almost naked somehow, leaving you in just your underwear. Milky white eyes are focused on your bare body, and even with his lack of pupils, you can see the way they trace your figure. You see his tongue peek out to moisten his lips and on instinct, your thigh twitches in anticipation. His head snaps to the movement, some sort of predatory instinct that makes your stomach churn with want.

His fingers slide down your hip to your thigh, almost as if trying to coax the reaction out of you again. There’s something about it that’s soft in a way you didn’t think you’d be getting tonight, let alone from Sonar. You figured after all that praise from earlier and— well… It's Sonar. You expected teeth and spit and the sound of fabric tearing. But so far, he’s been everything gentle, tender; from the way he’s looking down at you with an insane amount of fondness to the way he had held your hand on the Uber ride over here.

Sonar’s ear twitches as he hooks his fingers on the garter of your underwear. He seems shy, maybe a bit nervous. It’s cute and it ignites this fire in your chest that you can’t properly express in any way other than you want to bite as hard as you can into his arm and pinch his furry cheeks.

“What? Getting cold feet?” You spare him the awkwardness of the silence by teasing him, lifting a bit of the weight from his shoulders. “Don’t wanna claim your prize, big guy?”

His head turns to you like he’s only just realized this wasn’t a dream. You see his jaw clench at the  “Can’t let a man take things slow? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, y’know? Lemme savor it, sweetheart.”

You laugh, it comes out a giggle. God, you’re a mess tonight. You blame the alcohol, and Sonar who is actually more responsible for your behavior than the few drinks you had. Your brain feels like mush, a mix of giddiness, want and lingering frustration making your heart race with every movement Sonar makes.

He tugs down your underwear, slow and shaky, like even now he’s still wrapping his head around the fact you’re real and naked in his bed. It’s only then you notice he’s also naked save his underwear, there’s a wet patch that stains his boxers, just where his cock strains against the fabric. The sight makes you draw in a shaky breath. Once he discards your underwear, tossing it to the side, he pushes your thighs up, lifting them and letting your knees fall onto his shoulders.

“Could smell you from here…” He mutters, mostly to himself. He’s staring intently.

The sourness inside you (residue from your bitterness from losing) bubbles up inside you and translates to embarrassment. You kick his chest lightly, glaring up at him. “Don’t be weird.” You scold, but there’s barely any seriousness behind it.

He chuckles, and once more it resonates deep in your ribcage. “I’m not.” Sonar says simply, hands moving to free himself from his boxers. “If anything, you’re weird for thinking it’s weird.”

“Because it is.” You say as your frustration builds up again.

“It is?”

“It is.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Sonar—”

You feel his tip press against you and once more you’re met with how good he is at distracting people. You feel yourself salivate at the contact, squirming on the bed as you take deeper breaths. Your thigh twitches in anticipation again and Sonar lets out an amused exhale.

“What—” you breathe out shakily, “What happened to taking things slow?”

“Dunno if you know this, but I’m not exactly the most patient guy,” he says, licking his lips again as he nudges against you, seemingly testing the waters. “Besides, you seem pretty eager about this too. Doing both of us a favor here if you think about it.”

You huff, eyes watching the way he’s got a hand wrapped around his cock, watching the way precum leaks from the tip. “Wow, how heroic.”

Sonar shrugs. “That’s sort of an entry level requirement to being a superhero.” He does an experimental thrust, pushing past your entrance by just about an inch. He shudders and groans, throwing his head back. “Fuck, baby.”

You whimper in response, fists balling the comforter beneath you. The sudden motion leaves you gasping for air. “Shit! Easy, dude. Jesus Christ.”

“Dude?” He almost sounds offended, but there’s a lopsided grin on his face as he stares wildly at where you two now meet. “I’m about to fuck your brains out, sweetheart, and all I get is dude? Really? What happened to ‘big guy’? I liked ‘big guy’.”

“You don’t get ‘big guy’ anymore,” you scowl at him, but the words come out garbled, mixed with what is half a squeal and a groan.

It’s because he pushes his hips forward as you speak, driving himself deeper inside you. He hisses when he’s got himself all the way in, a shaky breath drawing from his lips as you pulse around his cock.

“Do I get ‘big guy’ privileges now?”

God, you want to strangle him. You want to shove at his fur covered chest and yell as many insults as you can come up with in a minute. You want to tear out tuffs of fur from his face. But you can’t, too focused on the delicious way he fills you up, the way his cock twitches deep inside you when you let out a soft whimper and involuntarily buck your hips against his.

He’s got his hands on your hips, pushing you forward so your knees just barely touch your chest. You feel him in the deepest parts of you and you’re so very conscious of the weight of him inside you. It takes a bit to get used to, and you’re pleasantly surprised Sonar doesn’t need to be told to wait before trying anything else. You pant softly, chest heaving as you adjust yourself around him, the thought of what’s inside you (especially after seeing it) makes your mouth water a bit more.

Only when you sigh softly does Sonar attempt to move, a slow and steady pull of his hips, which you’re certain is to ease you into things but is only making you feel every inch of him, before an equally slow and steady push; it’s a gentle thrust that pulls himself halfway out before easing himself back it. It has you seeing stars.

He picks up the pace at the sight of your arched back and the sound of your moans, his manicured nails digging crescents into your skin as he holds you a little tighter. Sonar’s pace is steady, the same easy push and pull set at a higher tempo this time, somehow you can tell he’s holding back.

You whine, a squeaky little sound nearly drowned out by the wet smack of your saliva. “S— Fuck.”

Oh, that sets him off. He grunts, jaw clenched as his hips snap forward. Sonar huffs as he stills, cock still buried deep inside you. He leans forward, essentially folding you in half in the process, your knees finally pressing against your chest. His mouth is by your ear, his breath hot and loud against the shell of it. It makes you pulse around him, earning you a husky groan.

“Jesus…” his voice is hoarse already, breathing ragged as he catches his breath.

You’re not quite sure what he’s doing or what he’s up to, but you’re certain you’re upset about the loss of friction, even if Sonar hadn’t pulled out. 

You swallow your spit. “S… Sonar…” You call softly, hands finally letting go of the now wrinkled sheets, moving to find purchase in the thick scruff of fur on his nape. Fingers bury themselves in the grey, tugging lightly. He inhales sharply.

You roll your hips against his, something that surprises the both of you, because your body seems to have grown a mind of its own, moving as it pleases against your better judgement. Sonar groans next to your ear, cock twitching inside you. But still, he doesn’t move.

You huff, tugging a bit harder on his fur. “Sonar…” You cry out, pitchy and bratty, something whiny, the same voice you used while pretending to lose at pool because you had a hunch it would rile him up.

He mutters something, it barely registers in your head before he’s pumping his cock in and out of you at the exact roughness you had been expecting since the bar. Guess your hunch was right.

You moan, throwing your head back against his pillow. You’re scrambling to grab him, fingers pulling at his fur, digits digging into his back. It must drive him crazy because his hands on your hips pull you closer, until your ass is resting on his lap. There’s a growl by your ear before you feel his breath around your neck, then feel his lips suck on the skin there. You squeal at the feel of his cold fangs against your hot skin as he kisses you, yelp at the feel of them finally sinking into your neck as he bites you.

The bed creaks, a disharmonious plea for help as Sonar pounds into you, thrusting wildly as he continues to bite and kiss at your neck. You feel yourself getting closer, feel that tingly feeling on the tips of your toes shooting up your spine as it travels through your nerves. He’s close too, you hear it in the way he groans and pants between kisses and bites and sucks. There’s this small part of your brain that’s surprised he’s so quiet, you expected him to talk your ear off throughout the whole ordeal. Half of you is thankful he’s too focused on fucking you to annoy you (plus the sounds falling from his lips are a delicious bonus), the other half, regrettably, misses how he was cooing and teasing by the pool table.

“Shit.”

Hearing his voice again pulls you from your thoughts. He’s on his elbows now, either resting by the sides of your head, which is drooped enough the tips of the furs on his forehead stick to the sweat of yours.

You open your mouth to speak, but what comes out is a breathy whimper. His eyes snap towards yours at the sound of it. Sonar grins, fondly, a big smile that pairs nicely with the way he’s looking at you so softly.

“Feel so good, sweetheart,” he mutters between pants before he leans down to kiss you.

The kiss is tender, contrasting the way his hips push towards yours. You whimper again, muffled by his mouth. His fingers grip onto the meat by your waist, a bruising hold on you as he gradually loses his rhythm. Sonar pulls away from the kiss with a fucked out look on his face, bushy brows twitching, milky eyes half-lidded, mouth agape with a mix of your spit glistening against his lips.  You want to tease him, but you’re certain you don’t look much better.

But your mouth was already open to speak. And as you try to find what words to say, he cuts you off, a throaty moan as he throws his head back. It takes a second for you to realize, but the syllables sound exactly like your name. That’s because it is.

You come undone. Thighs tense on his shoulders, heels digging into his back. You stutter out a moan, try to breathe out his name in return. It’s ecstasy, blinding you for a split-second as you clench your walls around him in an addicting grip. You feel his body go rigid above you, a shudder that runs through his system.

Sonar doesn’t last long after that, a few clumsy thrusts and he’s shooting sticky white ropes of cum all over the skin of your stomach. You’d grimace at the way it sticks to your skin, mingles with your sweat, but seeing his cock twitch as it spurts out cum is hot— very hot. You whimper at the sight alone.

Above you, Sonar’s panting goes soft, his breathing is steadying. He unceremoniously rolls onto the space of the bed next to you, chest rising and falling as he stares blankly at the ceiling with a lazy grin on his face. Your head is turned to watch him, studying the way his fur clings onto the sweat of his skin, watching the way his teeth glint against the light of his room. You’re taken aback when he turns to face you, his eyes have the same softness as earlier, his smile doesn’t falter.

“You should lose bets more often, sweetheart,” he teases, pulling his arms to rest behind his head. You smack his torso weakly.

He laughs at that, an airy sound that sounds so pure, just a genuine laugh free of sarcasm. It causes warmth to bloom in your chest. You click your tongue, but it’s lighthearted as a smile slowly grows on your face. There’s a comfortable silence between you two, just the soft unsynchronized breathing as you two catch your breaths.

“You know,” Sonar breaks the silence after about five minutes of it, “I’d offer to teach you how to properly play next time,” he turns and pulls a box of cigarettes from his bedside drawer. But he takes one look at the furrow on your brows before slowly slipping it back into the drawer. “But that’ll make it harder for me to beat you next time.”

You sigh. You’re too tired to tell him you let him win at pool, so instead you press yourself against his side, to which he instantly wraps an arm around you. Just for tonight, you’ll let him win twice.

[withlove-xixi]

i genuinely can't get enough of your writing hnnngngn!!!! you're so talented and intelligent and your writing is so well thought out and delectable and sexy!! and i'm also an ace lesbian who was raised religious so i feel like ur writing brain works so similarly to mine and that makes your work all the more yummy!! hope you have a lovely dayyy🥰

WAA THANK YOU SO MUCH :(( <3 !!! im really glad you enjoy my work omg TT !! and honestly need to get back into writing ... i miss it sm TT !

also oughh ... you get meee you get meeee !! you are actually my target audience for everything actually /silly

[withlove-xixi]

uhh might clear my inbox of requests to sort of "revamp" the acc for a bit ... TT i feel so bad for not being able to do people's reqs tho orz

[withlove-xixi]

— VIDEO GAME GRIND: sonar x reader

ᥫ cw: nsfw, cockwarming, pathetic sonar tbh ᥫ wc: 883 ★ sorry .. hes got a bit of a chokehold on me idek what to say .. i keep saying dont expect any dispatch stuff from me but i keep writing for sonar anyway ... its so xixiover .... cross posted on ao3

— WHAT BETTER WAY TO SPEND YOUR FRIDAY NIGHT?

[♡]: no better way to unwind after a stressful week at work than to play video games with your boyfriend!

“THAT’S— N-NO THAT’S— WRONG WAY, SWEETHEART.” His voice is strained, breathy and dangerously deep, a huskiness that melts into a sort of neediness and desperation.

“I know what I’m doing, Vic,” you say with a huff, arrogance in your tone despite falling off a cliff to your death.

You feel him twitch. “Told you.”

Victor didn’t quite expect to spend his Friday night like this. Sure, when you had come home to the apartment panting, sweating and pissed, he assumed he would be rewarded with some form of coitus as a means of stress relief on your part. He didn’t mind being used for it, it turned him on actually. But being used like this? Beyond cruel. Alas, Victor is a good boyfriend, and you are keeping his cock nice and warm.

It presses deep inside you, filling you up to the brim in a toe-curling stretch, yet your attention couldn’t be farther from it. Your eyes remained glued to the TV, determined to get to the temple of whatever to finally complete some side quest you accidentally started the first week you started playing this game.

Victor’s hands stay on your waist, fingers twitch as they threaten to dig into the fat of it and pull you up and down his cock. His head rests on your shoulder, watching you play the game he’s beaten seven or so times now, occasionally he glances at you to see the scowl on your face as you release the build up frustrations from work on the poor controller button, mashing it through some unimportant exposition from an NPC you accidentally interacted with.

“What the fuck am I even meant to do in this town,” you say with a click of your tongue.

“You— This is for the… the, uh— shit —shrine quest.” Victor’s breathing is ragged, obviously trying to calm himself, maintain his composure.

If it had been any other day, this would’ve been heaven for Victor, having his cock buried deep in his sexy partner and just spending the night playing video games, in his head he could hear the soft “please, Victor… want you to move” rolling off your tongue, he could imagine the deep grunt and the “not now, babe, I’m about to cream this fucker”, he could practically feel the roll of your hips against his, the breathy “I wish you could cream me instead” hot against his skin. Fuck, that’s so hot actually… God, wow, yeah, that would’ve been perfect.

Instead he’s forced to suffer, be patient for you.

It’s difficult when you’re pulsing around him, when you burst through the apartment door looking hot and disheveled, when you tell him to sit on the couch and pull out his cock out of his boxers, when you slip off just your bottoms right in front of him. Man, he really really expected something more fun. But this isn’t so bad. He could be patient. And this all could’ve been worse really. Like… at least he has you on his lap, that’s good. And he’s nice and snug deep inside you too, that’s also good.

It’s not bad. And besides he could learn to be patient— he should actually, so he’ll consider this as some sort of sexy training on that. He’ll be patient while he guides you through the game, point at the different items you should be collecting for your quest. He’ll be patient with every time you groan and whine and inadvertently squirm on his lap. He’ll be patient while he waits for you to either be satisfied enough or frustrated enough to finally fuck him.

Victor’s hands slide under your shirt and find your chest, gently caressing the skin of it and feeling the nice weight of it against his palms. Just a bit longer, he tells himself. His snout wrinkles as he watches you die to some monster. Just a little bit longer, he tells himself. His leg twitches impatiently as you fall off yet another cliff. Just a tiny little bit longer, he tells himself. His jaw clenches as he watches you run around looking for your horse. Just… Just a tiny, itty bitty bit longer, he tells himself. But, Jesus, if you just stopped falling off cliffs and getting distracted…

You groan, frustrated, throwing your hands up in defeat and he muscles on Victor’s thigh clenches at the slightest bit of friction from it. “Vic,” you coo, drawing out the syllable, “can you beat this guy for me?” Your voice is whiney, clearly having enough of respawning every five minutes after getting your ass handed by the same boss.

His breath catches in his throat from the tone of your voice alone, cock twitching against you needily. He bucks his hips against you on instinct, hissing in pleasure at the sudden friction.

He half-expects you to scold him for it, given your mood tonight (you know, not that he’s particularly against you being mean to him), so he’s a little taken aback when your soft giggle fills the room instead.

You wiggle the controller at him, shifting your hips on his lap, causing him to shudder out a moan. “If you beat him, I’ll reward you.” You smile at him.

Thank God for patience. That shit’s a virtue and it comes with sweet rewards.

[withlove-xixi]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ #ㅤㅤDISPATCH MASTERLIST !

★ NOTE: for nsfw/suggestive, minors dni !

the perks of being good — sonar x reader video game grind — sonar x reader [NSFW. MINORS DNI.] bankshot — sonar x reader [NSFW. MINORS DNI.]

[withlove-xixi]

— THE PERKS OF BEING GOOD: sonar x reader

ᥫ cw: none ᥫ wc: 2161 ★ "dont expect more dispatch from me" they said.... WHAT A LIAR!!! erm .. anyway, take this w a grain of salt because genuinely i havent seen much of this game besides sonar edits ... i apologize if things are a bit ooc cross posted on ao3

— VICTOR… WASN’T A GOOD PERSON…

[♡]: that’s not to say he isn’t a good person. well at least, he’s trying his hardest to be. the change is… difficult. there are still bad habits he’s having trouble breaking. but he hasn’t done anything too illegal since working at the sdn, so he hopes he’s started to make a good impression. most especially, a good impression to you.

CLUBS… WEREN’T REALLY YOUR THING, Prism and Flambae had to drag you out of your desk to get you here tonight, to hang out with the rest of your coworkers in some dimly lit, overstimulating room, trapped with sweaty drunk people dancing clumsily to some music that resonates deep in your chest. Not… your ideal way to spend the night, but at least they had the courtesy to drag you here during the weekend.

Now, a few things to note.

One (which has already been established): you are not a night out type of person. Especially not after a long day of work. You’d much rather be at home, lounge around pantless in your bedroom watching trashy content until you fall asleep. Or, at the very least if you really had to go out, it’d be some place much more quiet and much less rowdy.

Which means, two: you were not a drinker. Sure, a few drinks here and there with friends is fine, beers during movie nights at your place, maybe wine paired with some fancy meal you’d treat yourself to, but a cocktail with some cheesy name that’s a dubiously vibrant color for a beverage? Not something you’re used to. Especially not when it tastes so sweet, you barely taste the alcohol— Which causes your second mistake; drinking it too quickly since you had quickly forgotten the drink was alcoholic. Your first was ordering the stupid thing in the first place.

Safe to say you were more drunk than you’d like to be.

It was fun for a bit. The mushy feeling of your brain registering every thought as something funny to giggle about, the way the music around you suddenly feels like it’s beating along with your heart, the giddiness of dancing with your friends and trying your best not to fall over (you nearly would’ve if it hadn’t been for Flambae to have quickly caught you).

It was a buzz that sent jolts of electricity down your spine, how everything about the whole experience made crystal clear sense. Until it didn’t.

Suddenly the music seemed to pound along with your headache and dancing suddenly became way harder to do, even with Flambae looking out for you. Consequences you knew would come eventually, but not this soon.

As you trip, there’s a hand that steadies your waist, and when you turn to see its owner, you break out in a fit of giggles.

“Sonar!” You call, immediately turning to throw your hands around his neck.

He smiles fondly at you, hands moving to your hips to make sure you stay upright. “Hey,” he replies cooly.

You giggle as he moves to brush away stray strands of hair. “I was just thinking about you,” you tell him with a wide grin and he has to bite back the immediate instinct to smile back just as wide.

“Yeah? All good things, I’d hope,” he smirks, tone playful, light, like it always is.

You pause, which is a complete 180 from your smiley, giggliness just now. “I guess so…” You mutter, unsure of yourself.

Oh, he didn’t like that.

What did you mean by that? What? Huh? He was teasing with his previous quip, thinking it was some cool, suave thing to say to the coworker he might have a bit of a crush on, but to be met with an answer like that? Paired with how quickly your whole demeanor shifted? It doesn’t take a Harvard graduate to know that it couldn’t be good.

Your wobble pulls him out of his thoughts, a strangled noise escaping your lips as your knees suddenly buck. Sonar is quick to steady you, his grip on your tightening slightly as you straighten yourself out, holding onto his arms for support. You giggle because it feels so silly to you, unaware of how Sonar is trying his best to keep his cool.

“Okay, let’s get you to a seat and get you some water and maybe you could tell me about it, ‘kay?” Cool. Smooth even. Indirectly digging for more information while simultaneously being a gentleman.

You nod with a loopy smile, clinging onto his as he guides you to an empty booth. You wave dazily at your friends as you pass them, all of which are too busy having fun to notice. Sonar sets you down on the couch and immediately you sink into the velvet cushion. Only now do you notice how much your head is pounding and how much your feet are aching. He gestures for you to stay put, both palms ushering you to as he slowly backs away like you’re some puppy that would’ve immediately bounded up behind him the moment he turned away.

When he’s back with two bottles of water, you’re crying, soft sniffles and a teary expression. Once more, consequences you knew would come eventually.

Victor, however, had no idea.

Since leaving you at the table, his mind has been racing, trains of thought filling his brain with countless things that could follow your previous conversation. Maybe you’ve noticed his horrible attempts at flirting with you and have begun to consider getting HR involved. Maybe you’re still bothered by the one time you watched him eat his lunch (because he remembers clear as day the way you squirmed in your seat when he pulled out a cold rat). Maybe he’s been annoying you with all his bad attempts at small talk. Maybe he’s not doing as good a job as he hoped at being good.

This whole reformed villain thing is… not easy. Something about old habits dying hard. Victor knows more than anyone about his flaws. He’s not perfect. No one is. But people are good, and he really is trying his hardest to be that.

It’s for himself mostly, wanting to clear the slate and everything, but part of it was for you, the cute dispatcher who greets him good morning every time he bumps into you, the sweetheart who defends him when the Z Team are getting a bit too aggressive with their fun, the person who looks at him with so much faith that he can be better. It’s inspiring how tender you are to him. He wants to be the same for you. Even if you counted Victor’s romantic interest out (which started from the time you came to him in the break room with a small carrier of live rats you obviously got from a pet store and were obviously guilty about feeding to a coworker), he wanted to be a good person for you. It’s his own way of repaying the indiscriminate kindness you’ve shown him.

But here you were wiping tears from your eyes and sniffling one last time before taking one of the water bottles. He sits next to you in the booth, helps you twist open the cap because your arms feel too weak to move. His leg is bouncing rapidly as he awkwardly folds his hands on the table, swallowing back the urge to crash out in front of you.

“So, what were you thinking about— O-of me, I mean.” God damnit, he’s fucked up already.

Thankfully you disregard it, letting out a small exhale as you swallow down half the bottle of water.

You turn to frown at him, brows scrunching up in a way that makes his heart hammer is anxiety. “It’s just… I don’t— I don’t get you, Sonar.” You mutter, disappointment heavy in your tone.

He tells himself to calm down. Harvard graduates are more sophisticated than this.

“What’d you mean?” He asks, his horrible attempt at being cool evident in the way he talks a bit too quickly and how he keeps shifting the position of his hands.

You shake your head, sniffling slightly. Your hands move to grab one of his, caressing the back of it and feeling its weight against both your palms. On one hand, it’s soothing, makes butterflies burst in his stomach. On the other, it makes him panic a bit more. It’s like you were about to break some bad news. It makes Victor feel worse.

“Just… I don’t get it…” There’s a pout on your face as you refuse to meet his gaze, eyes trained down on his hand, watching your fingers trace patterns on it. “I’ve been trying to figure you out and I— I can’t. I don’t…” You shake your head again.

Victor tries his best not to show his anxiety, nervousness pricking at the ends of his skin. His snout twitches as he desperately tries not to think about the growing itch for the little baggie in his suit pocket or about the fact he hasn’t got one because he’s been trying to be better.

He stays silent. You take it as a sign to continue, really it’s because he might puke if he opened his mouth too much.

“It-It’s not bad, I just… I dunno…” You giggle because you're drunk, but one quick glance at your face and he sees you’re wearing the same expression as earlier, brows still knit with a frown on your face; a melancholic look reminiscent of an attempt for a civil break up. God he hopes you’re not breaking up with him. You haven’t even gotten together.

“I’m confused.” You say, and it’s the most straightforward answer you’ve given him all night.

“Confused about… me?” He hopes it’s followed by something about how you feel about him. And later followed by how he makes you feel giddy and goofy the same way you make him feel. But Victor knows that’s a stretch.

“I don’t…” You sniffle. Then quickly it turns to a sob as you finally meet his eyes, a big frown on your face as tears roll down from your cheeks. “I-I dunno know what kinda bat you’re supposed to be and it’s— i-it’s pissing me off…”

He blinks. “What.”

You only shake your head hysterically, gripping tightly on his hand. “L-like—” you sniffle “—don’t bats only eat bugs and shit. Not like… N-not like… sh-shit shit but like—” you hiccup “—I dunno fruits and whatever.”

He blinks again. “What.”

You start crying hysterically, mumbling something about how bats don’t even eat rats (they do) and how they’re not supposed to poop upside down (they really aren’t) and how Victor doesn’t look like any bat you’ve seen and at this point he’s started tuning you out because he’s washed with an overwhelming sense of relief.

"—and like… bats migrate, so are you gonna leave me when winter comes or—”

“Wait so… you… you don’t think I’m like… a bad person or whatever? You’re not here to tell me to eat shit and then never talk to me again?”

You stare at him after rubbing your eyes, mouth agape with your brows still furrowed. Your voice cracks slightly as you let out a soft: “what?” as tears start to quickly roll down your cheeks again.

Victor scrambles to cup your face, wiping away the tears with his thumb. “I didn’t mean it like that.” It comes out way quicker than he’d like.

He’s staring at you with an awkward expression, eyes blown wide in preemptive panic making his face sort of resemble just a blank stare. He watches your expression slowly shift to confusion. And before he can clarify some more (which he’s half-certain only makes him sound crazy), you giggle, smiling so widely and giggling so loudly until you’re just laughing. It ends with a soft sigh, the lopsided grin still plastered on your face as you reach up to toy with his ears.

“You’ve been such a sweetheart to me all night, taking care of me and all,” you say as you flop his ears all the way back and watch them spring back up when you let go. You giggle when they do. “‘Could never think you’re a bad person. You’re… really sweet, Sonar… and also… maybe a spectral bat?” You smile fondly at him as you tap his nose.

He stares at you dumbfounded, mouth agape as he slowly tries to process things. It’s good that you’ve stopped crying, back to the giddiness you bore when he first spotted you dancing with Flambae. The only evidence of your hysteria is the lingering dampness on your cheeks and the occasional sniffle.

You take his hand again, pulling it from your cheek, which he only now realizes he’s still cupping, and interlock your fingers. You smile a bit wider when you notice they slot perfectly against each other. And despite sitting, you sway them slightly. Victor’s eyes shift from your joined hands up to you, watching as you smile so tenderly down at them. He squeezes your hand slightly, fingers twitching against yours, praying you won’t bring up how sweaty they were.

The moment feels… nice— domestic even, some cliché slide of life moment he’s never really gotten to properly experience given his previous lifestyle. And it feels nice. It feels good, feels… right.

[withlove-xixi]

— SONAR FIRST DATE HEADCANONS: sonar x reader

ᥫ cw: none ★ im not actually big into dispatch ive only seen edits of sonar and malevola and i am ......gmmlllg,.asdagbbb Ok!

you end up in the hospital to get rabies shots

[withlove-xixi]

— UNREQUIRED LOVE (AND OTHER CLICHES): spike spiegel x reader

ᥫ cw: none ᥫ wc: 777 ★ i dont even have any words the idea came to me so suddenly and i HAD to write it anyway its 3:30 in the morning GOOD NIGHT cross posted on ao3

— SPIKE IS A SMOOTH TALKER.

[♡]: you can tell right off the bat the way words flow out of his mouth like whiskey; smooth and rich. and spike’s words flow quick like whiskey too, straight out of the bottle into a chilled glass. there’s no need to prepare some script, because before he knows it, he’s pulling the words right out of his mouth.

YOU WERE ALWAYS IN AWE OF SPIKE’S CHARISMA, the silky way words roll off his tongue, sentences form in absolute perfection at the drop of a hat. You’ve seen how good of a talker Spike is, watched him talk himself out of trouble, watched him spin words to get himself past a shitty sales pitch, watched him flatter his way out of a lecture from Jet. It’s amazing, admirable really. It’s some set skill you’re surprised any human could master.

But what you don’t realize is there are some things wedged between the lines; there are the slip ups in speech, the miscalculation of words, the stolen glances that go unnoticed, the words are left unsaid.

“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that, darlin’.” Spike says, big hands on your hips, thumbs caressing the curve.

You giggle, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck as you sway along to the distant sound of jazz in the background, dancing along on some rooftop to the sounds of the city.

“I’m not looking at you like anything!” You say with a big smile.

Spike smiles back, a slight curl to his lips that doesn't ever really seem like much. He pulls you closer, enough that the scent of your perfume envelopes his system like a vice. Two-toned eyes trail the way you look against the evening lights, the way neon and warm yellow blend into a soft glow on your face, highlighting the apples of your cheeks and the curve of your nose and the sparkles of your eyes.

“You are. It’s killin’ me, ya’ know?” He sways you a bit more firmly, plays the statement off as a joke.

You giggle again: music to Spike’s ears. “This is fun, Spike.” Your laughter fades into a tone of peace, of contentment. Your eyes shift to look over the city, the flashing lights and far away sounds of a night life Spike can’t be bothered to care more about. 

“Should take you dancin’ more then,” his gaze is fixed only on you, watching as you watch the city below you, as a smile slowly creeps on the lips he longs to kiss.

“Maybe you should,” you say, in a tone you seem surprised to find because Spike half-expected it to have sounded teasing. But your voice is laced with something soft, something tender, something Spike Spiegel can’t quite place.

Your gaze shifts back to him, and for a split second, you look surprised to find him staring at you.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” you tease, but even then it’s laced heavy with that something soft, something tender.

It’s at this moment more than ever Spike Spiegel realizes he might be in trouble. Because his charms have never failed him before, his cleverness has never failed him before, his words have never failed him before. But he finds every bit of it dying at the back of his throat before he could get it out, a million things he’s meant to say being translated into an entirely different thing.

“Can’t help it, sugar.—”

You’re beautiful.

“—Just in my nature.”

You’re so so beautiful.

You giggle, pressing your head against his chest with a content sigh. “Of course it is.”

“Mhm.”

I want to stay like this.

“Honestly, I have no idea how I can stand you.” You giggle.

Spike laughs. “Could ask myself the same thing.”

I want to stay like this forever.

“I wanna try that restaurant we passed by earlier.” You say, looking up at him with your chin resting on his chest.

Spike rubs circles on your hips, slower, more intimate. “If that’s want ya’ want.”

You’re looking at me with too much love.

“Can we go now?”

He chuckles, brushing strands of hair away from your face. “It’s late. I’m certain they’re closed.”

I think… I look at you the same way.

“What, no way, the night’s barely begun.”

“It’s very much begun.”

I think I might love you.

“Doesn’t feel like it! Not one bit! I… feel like the world’s gone slow, you know?”

“‘m not much of a man for slow.”

I think… I think I do love you.

There’s a pout now. “I guess… But you can’t lie and say it doesn’t feel nice, no?”

“What feels nice?”

I love you.

“Just—” you shrug “—this.”

“This?”

I love you.

“Yeah… Being like this– with you… It’s… nice.”

“You reckon?”

I love you.

“Mhm and I ‘reckon’ you do too.”

“Hm…”

I love you.

Spike Spiegel is a man of words, and in the moments in life when he needed them most, they betrayed him.

“Guess it ain’t half bad.”

[withlove-xixi]

— AT LONG LAST, LOVE!: kimura tatsuya

ᥫ cw: none ᥫ wc: 553 ★ xixi rewatched execution arc and i feel so terribly ill, this is my suicide note

THEY WERE LEANED AGAINST THE KITCHEN COUNTER, each a bottle of beer in hand as silence passed over them like the visit of a long-forgotten friend; comfortable yet there’s this unshakable weight along with it.

“So…” She starts, unsure of herself, her voice chipping at the fragility of silence. “How’s retirement treating you?” Her voice is soft, careful. It’s quickly followed by a much softer, much more careful: “Can’t be too good, huh?”

There’s a strained chuckle at the end of her sentence, a bittersweet laugh to such a heavy question, which is why Kimura winces, hissing as his face contorts to a grimace, because there’s no easy way to say this.

“Ah– Uh… actually, I… kind of… didn’t… retire… haha…”

“What.”

“Hm?”

Her expression is unreadable and Kimura winces again with how intensely she’s staring at him, eyes wide in a mix of disbelief and shock and— he hoped to God it wasn’t —betrayal.

“I’m gonna hit you.” She says almost monotonously, teeth grit as she sets her beer down and grabs at his sleeves.

“C-calm down!”

And while Kimura half-expects it, nothing came. Before Kimura can say anything else, she suddenly slumps forward, the top of her head pressed against his chest as the grip on his sleeves tighten; it catches him off guard. There’s suddenly silence that fills the kitchen; this big, heavy silence like all the world had suddenly gone mute, like everything around them had suddenly frozen, like suddenly Kimura was well aware of how dim and empty the kitchen was in the late afternoon. Then she trembles, an unmistakable shake on her hands as her grip tightens and tightens on Kimura’s sleeve. Instinctively, he places a hand on her head, a gentle, reassuring pat in an attempt to calm her down. But she trembles more, body seemingly hiccupping in a quiver that runs down her spine to her knees. He runs his hand through her hair, the other coming up to the small of her back to rub circles because suddenly his shirt feels damp and suddenly the silence is filled with the faintest sniffle.

“I—” She starts and Kimura can hear so very clearly just how much she’s holding back a sob. “I-I’m glad… I-I’m really glad…” Her voice breaks, but there’s a soft giggle that melts between her tear-stricken words. There’s that bittersweet laugh again and this time it makes Kimura’s heart clench. “Thank God.”

Kimura finds himself relaxing, muscles unclenching though he didn’t even realize how tense he had suddenly become, how loudly his heart was pounding in his ears out of fear of disappointing her. He strokes her hair and rubs her back, pulling her closer to him that her face was against his chest now, and he could feel his shirt soak wet and salty. Kimura feels her hands relax too, seemingly following his lead as her vice grip loosens and her hands slowly fall, sliding down his arms before wrapping themselves around his torso in a tight embrace, like she was too afraid to let him go, like he’d disappear if she did.

“I—” She starts again, and Kimura finds himself holding her as tightly as she’s holding him, like he wanted to ground himself to her, like she’d disappear if he didn’t. “I wasn’t ready to stop cheering for you.”

[withlove-xixi]

— WHITE DAY: kimura tatsuya

ᥫ cw: none ᥫ wc: 1076 ★ dudeeee whateverrr!! like we get it!!! you;re like totally in love with this guy!!! we get it!!! like come onnnn!! we get it already !!!

KIMURA DIDN’T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL TODAY. Well, more specifically he didn’t want to stay in school today.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, the ends of his nerves tingling with a familiar sense of anxiety, jitters he feels only when he was being particularly stupid. Like how he was feeling particularly stupid today, coming to school a good hour or so before homeroom just to avoid being caught with a bouquet of flowers he snatched from his parents’ shop.

Kimura remembers the incident like yesterday, remembers how she stood in front of him with nervousness plastered all over her face, the same jitters he feels as he trudges into campus, drawing closer and closer to his classroom.

“I-I’m sure you’re not much of a sweet tooth,” she had said, pink dusting her plump cheeks. “But… Well, I read in a magazine that this was the sort of thing people did today and… I-I just… I— I wanted to give these to you.”

The scene couldn’t have been worse for Kimura; the girl he thinks he might like a little more than he originally thought in the middle of the hallway after school, just early enough that there are some people still around. It felt like hell.

There’s part of him that’s annoyed, that’s bothered by this girl who’s fidgeting with the neatly packed cookies, waiting for him to at least say something. It’s the part of him that urges his blood to boil, because no way in hell is a man who could take down six other men meant to blush and accept such a shitty gift, no way in hell is a delinquent meant to be in such a girly situation, no way in hell is a man with his reputation meant to be seen with her— especially like this.

Then there’s part of him that’s jumping for joy and thanking every god up in heaven for such a blessing. It’s the part of him that’s absolutely drinking the tint of pink in her cheeks, that’s fighting so hard not to smile and laugh (things he finds he could do so very easily around her). It’s the part of him whose heart is threatening to leap out of his chest, whose mouth is watering even if he’s not much of a sweet tooth.

But in this moment, Kimura has to choose: her embarrassment or his own. 

To reject this indirect confession and keep up this crumbling charade of a heartless delinquent or to accept it and be now known in public as a softie. Aoki’s already pissed at him for his behavior the past few months, his best friend repeatedly expressing his distaste for her and how she’s been affecting Kimura. Not to mention rumors of it spreading, causing the duo to be targeted more often by the other delinquents of Tokyo.

As he snagged the pastries from her hands and muttered a soft ‘thank you’ and placed a gentle pat on her head, Kimura finds it’s not really as hard of a decision as he originally thought. Especially not when he’s rewarded with her smile and a short ramble on how much effort it took to bake them and how she hoped he’d like them and how she’s happy he’ll try them. Kimura chuckled, eyes brimming with unnoticed fondness as he watched her go on and on about messing up a batch prior and having to eat a dozen burnt cookies. It really wasn’t a hard decision at all.

“It’s easier to go through the door, you know?”

Kimura looks up, bouquet wedged in his mouth as he comes face to face with her, his body still halfway through the window. His face instantly flushes, embarrassed to have been caught in such a stupid position. But when she laughs at him, it quickly washes away and again his heart is pounding against its confines.

She hurries over and grabs his arm, steadying him as he pulls himself into the classroom. There’s a smile on her face, she always seemed to be smiling around Kimura.

“Flowers?” She asked, head tilted to the side as she eyes the bouquet still sandwiched between his teeth.

Kimura scoffs (muffled by stems and paper) before pulling the flowers out of his mouth. There’s an air of smugness with her, he could tell by the way she’s staring at the flowers, looking like she’s trying hard not to seem expectant, and suddenly Kimura thinks that maybe he’s not as slick as he thought he was.

Regardless, he thrusts the flowers towards her, his face heating up as he averts his gaze. “Pay back.” He says plainly, but honestly it’s a cheap attempt at trying to look cool.

There’s a pause, brief enough that Kimura’s heart nearly drops because perhaps she’s facing the difficult decision of his embarrassment or her own. But after a minute he hears the soft giggle he expected from her. His gaze reels back and he finds her with an expression he’s seen on her before; she’s crying.

Tears brimming the corners of her eyes, a few spilling down her cheeks as she blinks. And for a second panic surges in Kimura’s veins as a million different ways to comfort her flash through his head, but she giggles again and he notices her smile, big and wide and toothy.

“I… I’ve never…” She starts, hands hovering over his, like she’s scared the flowers would vanish if she tries to grab them, like he would vanish if she tries to say anything else. “Sorry.” She says with a laugh, quickly wiping away tears with the heel of her palm.

And before Kimura could say anything, her hands wrap around his and take the bouquet from his grip. He’s left dumbfounded, watching as the tears in her eyes slowly come to a halt, replaced with giddy laughter and the biggest grin Kimura’s ever seen on her. This is stupid, he feels stupid. What kind of stupid delinquent brings a girl stupid flowers? What kind of man’s heart starts pounding at the sight of a girl crying? Where’s his toughness? His pride? Kimura’s a name people start to fear, one that carries such a heavy weight around his peers. He’s built this reputation, has the bruises and cuts to prove that. Is this all ever really worth it?

“Thank you…” she mutters, eyes finally meeting his.

In Kimura’s heart he knows, it’s not a hard decision at all.

[24hour-xixi]

— SURPRISE ME / SKEB PAY WHAT YOU WANT SKETCHES 🍀 (ignore it says roonie, i am roonie its my other name)

🍅 depending on the amount, the drawing will be more detailed! ⤷ [ base price is 3 USD per character ] Paying the minimum $3 = cleaned sketch (like below)

⊂⊃ get them thru MY VGEN + more samples on there too 𓂃˖ dm me if youre interested or have any inquiries !

guh ... posting it on here too .. guhhh really wanna get a new tablet soon because my current one is dying + really wanna get verified on vgen soon TT

[withlove-xixi]

HELLOOO! wanna promo my sketch comms on here too! guhh ... help xixi get a new drawing tablet please TT

[buniix3]

I was in the mood to animate today

[withlove-xixi]

wow ok .. rereading my writing that was essentially me venting my emotions at the time and its ... ermmmm Wow Ok!

[withlove-xixi]

did so again and huh ... Ok! i . completely forgot i pulled things word for word from my vents on my notes app ... Cool!

[withlove-xixi]

wow i wonder who xixi's favorite one piece character is !

[withlove-xixi]

— SCORCH MARKS: sanji x reader

ᥫ cw: none ᥫ wc: 718 ★ angsty sanji fic i found collecting dust in my drafts (which im certain was a pseudo-vent i had written at the time) uh anyway .. cross posted on ao3

— THERE ARE SCARS WHERE YOUR BODY USED TO BE.

[♡]: invisible scars only sanji can feel, the residual burning heat of your touch against his skin, your hold on his hand, your head on his shoulder, your lips on his neck.

“SANJI…? WHAT’RE YOU DOING?”

Sanji doesn’t realize yet just how much he misses you.

“Oh, uh– Sorry, Nami dear,” he mutters, quickly placing bits of food back on her plate.

His face burns red with embarrassment, cheeks dusted pink as that uneasy feeling settles in his chest. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until Nami had called him out. Muscle memory working against him to the habits you’ve unintentionally trained him, to the tender way of how he loved you.

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t be picky with my food…” You had muttered, voice shy and soft with just a hint of embarrassment.

You had looked like you were expecting him to yell at you, scold you or laugh at you for being grown but still picking at the finely chopped ingredients on your plate. You had half-expected him to be disappointed, to look at you scornfully as you desecrated what food he spent so much time working on. Instead he smiles at you with the usual fondness he reserves for only you.

Sanji presses a gentle kiss on your temple, chaste and tender, chucking under his breath as he pulls back. “Don’t worry about that, my dearest,” he says so delicately, his smile never leaving his face as he watches you hesitantly eye the ingredients you had shyly pushed aside. He chuckles again as he picks up his fork and takes them from you, moving them from your plate to his. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“I feel bad…” you muttered, guilt dancing in your eyes as you watch his nimble fingers calmly take the food you’ve set aside.

“Don’t,” he says simply as he takes a bite out of whatever he’s taken from your plate as if to reassure you that you really don’t have to worry about anything. “I’m not mad at you for having preferences. I can make sure to stop including them in your portion if you’d like.”

You smile at him, warmly and brightly. “That’d be… nice. Thank you, Sanji. You always make me feel so loved.”

Sanji’s jaw clenches, face red as he mutters another apology to Nami who looks at him with knit brows. He waves his hand dismissively, assuring her that it was some absent-minded mistake, not some instinctive response to the way he’s molded himself to you and your being.

He needs to forget you, put the past in the past. Because you’re in the past, some person who’s come and went through his life. And he desperately needs to forget you. Forget the way his skin burned when you touched him, forget the way his name sung sweetly on your tongue, the way you looked at him like nothing else mattered.

Sanji still sees the world in the colors you painted for him, that rosy tint that made the sun shine a bit brighter, made flowers smell a bit sweeter, made the world a bit more right. He felt that in the way your body fit perfectly in his hands, the way his nose rested on the curve of your neck, the way your fingers slotted between his, the way his lips melted exactly against yours. He sees that stupid, god forsaken rosy tint still; hears you in love songs, sees you in cloudy skies, smells you in freshly baked bread, feels you in all the ways you used to love him, in all the ways he used to love you.

He’s been smoking more recently, fighting himself to rid the presence of you that still haunts him, that giggles in the back of his mind whenever he cooks the food you like the way you like, whenever he finds himself trying to pull you closer to him when it gets cold at night, whenever his fingers twitch because it’s expecting yours to lace between them. 

Sanji looks down at his plate, eyes immediately darting to whichever foods you didn’t like, the ones he’s gotten so used to eating for you. And he curses himself that even then you’re so integrated into his life, teeth grit and fist clenched. In the back of his head, he hears your giggles, sees your gentle smile, your eyes looking at him like you’re just so in love.

“Silly boy.”

Sanji needs to forget about you, the sooner the better.