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nausicaaandhermouth · 2 months ago

Text

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane viktor fanfic #viktor fanfic #physics professor viktor #viktor x gn!reader #violinist reader #neighbours trope #viktor smut #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x you #arcane smut #arcane viktor smut #nausicaas fics

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vershl · 5 months ago

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HELLO ITS ME--

Sorry I've been gone for so long, I've been focusing on drawing for myself, as well as having massive brainrot for Sonic OCs and such. I won't be sharing my ACTUAL ocs at the moment, they're a bit personal and-- yeah.

However; I WILL share new blorbos :] -- Let's start with Sonic, Shadow, and Vespera. I haven't drawn more of my dadow or REALLY made a true design for Sonic, BUT Shadow has gotten a tweak. I yoinked an idea from Lancelot artists, and honestly- I'm obsessed with Shadow looking this way asjfgkajsg

cough cough- ignore the sauce asgjasgj

Vespera also now has a proper reference, so that's fun.

SOOOO--- She has two new younger siblings now as well, it was spontaneous BUT I love them.

She needs a little more work, but say hi to Maria. She's an albino hedgehog, and unfortunately I don't have more art of her-- YET.

Well, other than her and her twin brother as babies. :]

And speaking of twin brother; This is Orion. Personality wise, he's EXACTLY like younger Shadow, to a fault. He's egotistical, hot headed, self absorbed, and sarcastic. Very much a neutral-evil aligned dude. He's smelly, but we love him.

Had to include a close-up of the really nice one ashgajsg IM GONNA EAT HIMM-

-- This is all I have to share.. for now, I'll try to come back soon with more doodles, as well as share some stuff I've done for ArtFight. But I might leave that for tomorrow.

I know my style has changed since I last posted-- but I've been converting from SAI 2.0 to Clip Studio, and it's been a bit of a journey.

Needless to say-- I think SatCG is going to be put on hold for a while, I'm lacking the braincells to work on a comic 💀

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galaxylover06 · 7 months ago

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UPDATE ON MY AU:

What's happening? Why don't I make art/talk about it anymore? What even is it? Let's go over it

Been a very long while since I addressed my long beloved "AU"

Many of my early followers began supporting me in hopes of seeing it and it's surrounding comic, but I've slowly stopped talking about it because my story was very undecided and in development.

Well not anymore, today I'm happy to share I've made some final discussions for this project.

–––––

1.) It's not an AU anymore.

Just going to get this out of the way, I can't call this an alt universe. I like the current sonic universe and how it's world works and want to build a story in that.

So now I'll be addressing it as a fancomic, that's really all it is!

2.) my VERY early followers know it's name was "Reverent Heart" however that's long changed.

The fancomic and anything related to it's story is now called "Timeless"

3.) that's all cool but what does this fancomic bring to the table?

Three things.

• 1: a mainline series with two sagas, saga one being a semi-self contained story.

If all goes well I'll move onto saga 2, with a more ambitious story consisting of two parts

• 2: a mini prequel series I'll be releasing first for comic/writing practice as well as to flesh out the comics plot

This series in particular will focus solely on Silver and my OC Rocket.

• 3: a couple miscellaneous holiday specials just for fun

4.) does Shadikal still play a significant role in the fancomic?

Yes! (and no) Shadow and Tikal are my protagonist and their relationship is important for the story and their development in it

However I don't plan to make them a couple by the end of the first saga. There will obviously be hints, ship moments, and a clear bias I like them as a couple, but overall I want to develop a proper friendship between the two first.

Thats personally how I'd view them in canon and what I'd like to write in all honesty.

5.) when will this comic ever see the light of day? Soon!

I hope to start around winter this year if scripting goes well!

That's all I can say for now, stay tuned everybody! 💫

#made a thread on twitter and realized I should update this crowd too #sonic au #update #Timeless

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ratrrriot · 2 years ago

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Do you have any sonic ocs? (Or ocs in general, haha) (totally not asking so I can make fanart, nahhhh….)

The fact that you are considering drawing my OCS when you haven't even seen them yet is very flattering,thank you!!

these are from when i was in highschool lol

This is Spark, They are a Tetraplegic Chao Cream found and brought to Tails,who successfully managed to build a fully functional mechanical body for them to play with. This robot body is connected to their brain and can even fly.

Spark lives at Tail's workshop and they’re clearly very fond of Cream -who regularly visits them to play- and Tails.

Originally,Tails was going to design Spark’s robot body based on his own (for trademark reasons) but since Cream was Spark's “owner” (for lack of a better term referring to someone who takes care of a chao) ,she wanted to participate in the designing part and gave him a few crayon drawings of rabbits, which were so cute that Tails simply had to include them in the final design. This is why they look like a Fox/Rabbit hybrid. (it also makes sense since Spark sees them both as some sort of older siblings)

ofc Spark isn't always inside their robot body,Tails takes them in and out everyday.

Aaand these are some apprentices I designed for the Babylon Rogues! Tundra,Velvet and Ember. They love snowboarding and are developing their skills at Extreme Gear Racing. They kinda need some redesigning...

These three are orphans. They used to live at an orphanage situated in a small town near Snow Valley. Unsatisfied with their lives there (and that nobody seemed to be interested in adopting them) they ran away around the age of 12 to try and start new lifes on their own,resorting to thievery and trickery to get by. Life was hard and unfair for three kids growing up in the snowy streets,but thanks to Velvet's determination,Ember's charisma and Tundra's intelligence they managed to survive. After a year of wandering,they stole 3 snowboards and started practicing the sport ,with the hopes that one day they would become famous professionals who didn't need to resort to stealing. However,by they age of 16, they hadn't just developed great skill and love for what they now consider "the art of thievery" - and a liking for equipment and luxuries most can't afford- but they also had lost all interest on the "safer" version of snowboarding and became addicted to the speed and the danger of racing.

They set on a journey to find their childhood idols: The babylon Rogues, a group of legendary thieves that they heard tales about back at the orphanage's storytime and who's Extreme Gear skills were what originally inspired them to try snowboarding. They traveled far and wide searching for them and once they managed to find Wave,Jet and Storm,they begged them to teach them their ways . After annoying them enough (and practically not letting them alone lol) the trio of professionals finally agreed to train them.

VELVET THE NORTHERN CARDINAL:

Energic,Peppy,Sassy,Optimistic,laid-back and confident. A speed junkie and a little bit of a clown. The fastest of the trio. Jet is his Idol and he'll do anything to impress him. Tries to annoy Sonic to imitate his teacher,but he actually thinks he is the coolest guy around after Jet. He has a big heart and doesn't seem to hate Sonic -or anyone -at all,but he does enjoy some friendly banter at the moment of competing. Jet likes him a lot and is kinda proud of him but he tries not to show it ,as he doesn't want the kid (or himself) to get attached or to think he'll actually pass to him his "Master of the wind" title someday.

The gem-shaped-computer on his neck was a gift he received from Wave after she updated her own and didn't know what to do with her old one. According to her,she handed it down to him cause "it matched his feathers". Now,feeling honored by one of his idols,he wears it with pride.

EMBER THE COCKATIEL:

Cheeky, Rebellious, Brave, Impulsive and Loyal. Doing tricks in the air like its nothing is her specialty. Cares a lot about her looks and is an expert at the art of deception. She is also can be a little bit of meanie. She and Wave share a sister-like kind of relationship. Since they both have strong personalities, they fight a lot and she tends to disobey her,espeally when it comes to the times she tries to teach her about mechanics and "the boring part" of Extreme Gear personalization. However, they always make up and end up gossiping at the end of the day.

TUNDRA THE CRESTED PENGUIN :

Silent, cold, shy, serious, a bit competitive and incredibly smart. Expert at strategizing and finding shortcuts while racing. Has high expectations of himself and doesn't handle failure very well. Being the oldest by a year,he is very protective of his adoptive siblings. Unlike Wave and Jet,Storm didn't have to be convinced to take him under his wing cause he liked the kid since the moment he showed up. tho he is trying to teach him to live a little and be a bit more impulsive at the moment of racing.

#rat answers #my sonic ocs #Spark #Ember the cockatiel #Tundra the crested penguin #Velvet the northern cardinal

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bunji-enthusiast · 9 months ago

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So. Uhm..

Have this small idea that came to me.

Sonic.exe world, with Knuckles(like maybe his soul version or before he gets killed) x reader (who can somewhat be like Sonic.exe? But more ,,, normal? Like. A kind & nice exe who saved him from being killed by Sonic.exe)

But with that, they kinda take his form? But their form looks more cartoony & classic-style. Kinda like a simpler and small form, easy to pick up Knuckles (maybe other survivors?) and run just as fast to a safe place. (kinda inspired by my own sonic.exe OC tbh,, but yeah). (You don't have to, tho! Just thought that this was interesting—!)

Mimicking Friend — Knuckles The Echidna

Note || this is a really neat idea! I hope I read this right. And if this is okay ^^

WC || 568

Sypnosis || If anyone told him beforehand he’d get saved by the one lesser of two evils, he would’ve laughed. Now he’s believing it himself.

He was confused as hell when it all began, the ebony grays and the scarlet red skies. It was all so menacing, but not truly to someone like Knuckles, he wasn’t very put off by any bit of the blood either. Only then he got concerned when he started to learn about Sonic, someone who he recently met. The echidna certainly didn’t expect the blue blur to actually kill his two-tailed fox friend, he thought they were as close as brothers can be.

Knuckles felt fortunate when he managed to fight off the demon, the bloody hedgehog was a killer but he sure as hell was no fighter. Even then, he knows the killer can and will adapt overtime, especially with all the strange manipulation of reality he can do. When he was sure the damn demon was down for good, he ran as fast as he could. Knuckles certainly wasn’t about to stick around for that possessed hedgehog to actually succeed in killing the echidna, he couldn’t leave the Master Emerald without the guardian.

When you finally made the decision to make an appearance before Knuckles, he was rather confused. You looked so similar to him, only tinier in size. Yet it was even more surprising when you possessed more strength he realized, carried as if he was a bride just married you ran even further then he possibly could (More so floated, but who cares?). You felt as if you had to keep Knuckles safe and hidden away from the demon, accursed and trickster with a knack for obsessing over things unnecessarily.

“Who the hell are you?” He finally asked after you had whisked away the two of you to somewhere far and safe away from the bloody hedgehog, Knuckles felt as if he was close to snapping within his emotions. He was confused, mixed up about every recent event which had occurred in mere minutes away from each other.

Why’d you save him?

Why do you look just like him?

Many thoughts and questions had run through the echidna’s head, but the one he had uttered was something he found most important.

You looked down, shifting closer to the ground so you could lay yourself for rest. “Someone who just wanted you to stay alive,” You began, feeling the words finicky to find. “Cause they know what it’s like to fail to do so.” Those words felt wrong, yet so right. You wince internally as you search his face for any hint of a reaction to your words. Knuckles sighed, complacency wasn’t his greatest idea of a deal begotten between him and a stranger who just saved his life.

“I owe you.” He spoke, finally decided to break the awkward silence. Knuckles took a moment of pause, closing his eyes as he crossed his arms. “Thank you, I suppose.”

You interject, “You owe me nothing, but I do owe you something.”

At this, he raises a brow. Eyes opening to reveal magnificent purple hues expressing interest in your next set of words, “You need answers yes? I can provide them.” Knuckles was albeit, relieved he could get them from someone friendlier than most entities right now. He wasn’t in a very grateful mood if he were to search for them himself.

“Alright then..” The echidna begins, taking a walk towards the distance.

He then gestures vaguely as he asks, “Who the hell was possessing Sonic?”

#sonic.exe #knuckles the echidna #knuckles x reader

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thefrogdalorian · 1 year ago

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Dincember Day 21: Love

Word Count: 2362 Rating: General Summary: Despite how much time you have been spending with Din and getting to know him, you are still none the wiser as to whether your feelings for him are reciprocated. But an impromptu night of stargazing leads to a confession that may just change everything for the two of you... Content Warnings: None! Author's Note: Obsessed with the mental image of Din being a dork and saying wizard if you ever told him you loved him! The scene in Barbie where Ken leaves to shout "SUBLIME!" yep... I could imagine Din doing something similar. Also a bit of a prequel to this whole Dincember universe I am creating. I may run with this in future and turn reader into an OC because I really love writing a dynamic like this! Hope you enjoyed this one!

Link to read on AO3 | My Dincember Masterlist

It had been such a draining day at work that the only thing keeping you sane was the knowledge that you had plans that evening to visit Din in his little cabin and spend some quality time with him and Grogu. One might expect that doing archival work on Nevarro was a pretty low-stress job but it seemed that today, every single last one of your colleagues had come to you with some demand or other. Half the time, you expected they were doing it purely to get a rise out of you and test your patience. You were, after all, the newest member of the team.

Mercifully, it was finally the end of the day. As you made your way out of the building, you realised how exhausted you were. Your limbs felt heavy, as though all energy had been sapped out of you. If it weren’t for the date you had arranged with Din, you would probably have had a scalding hot sonic shower before clambering into your cot, hiding behind thick blankets from the world.

But that wasn’t to be the case. There was a certain Mandalorian whom you were very fond of awaiting your arrival. Given Din’s adherence to the Creed, there were a somewhat limited number of ways for the two of you to spend time together, that did not mean his inability to remove his helmet was an issue. The two of you often went for strolls around Nevarro; Din would sometimes meet you after work or on a day off and the two of you would hit the market. You sometimes wished that you could take him to your favourite eateries and cantinas to feast and drink the evening away, and enjoy time with him there. But you were growing so close to him that you almost forgot you had never seen his face.

It was strange, really. You knew that a face should be such a large part of getting to know who a person was. After all, a face comprised many elements that made a person who they were. You had always heard phrases like ‘eyes are a window to the soul,' with no previous reason to question their validity. But now you felt that you perfectly understood the man Din was, despite having never set eyes upon his face. From the moment you had met Din, you felt instantly drawn to him. You felt safe and comfortable in his presence almost immediately which was rare for you, especially after seeing the way he cared for Grogu. Yet, there was so much about Din that remained a mystery to you.

Despite the sides of Din that you were yet to see, you knew unquestionably that you were falling in love with him. From the moment you had met him, you felt as though any second spent without him was torturous. His deep voice and comforting presence were always the last things on your mind at night. Din was the first person you thought of when you woke up. Being with him, regardless of where you were or what you were doing, was exhilarating. As was any time you communicated on your comlinks, his messages usually left you grinning broadly. Plus, it was thoughts of seeing Din and Grogu that saw you through your most hectic, draining days. Just like today.

Yet, you still had no idea whether he felt the same way about you. Did he merely view you as a good friend, or was there any possibility that he loved you, too?

You had no idea if Din was even permitted to feel love as part of his Creed, or if he could, whether he could love someone who was not Mandalorian. You could not imagine that he was prejudiced against those who were not Mandalorian. You had certainly never felt such coldness from him or seen anything that indicated he held such beliefs. But his personal feelings would probably not have mattered, especially given how strict some aspects of the Creed appeared to be.

You were reasonably certain that Din, at the very least, enjoyed spending time with you as much as you did with him. He always made an effort to see you whenever he was back on Nevarro between jobs, and even when work with the New Republic took him away, the two of you kept in regular contact via your comlinks. But you remained unsure to what extent his care for you was borne out of a desire to ensure that the person he had brought to this planet and secured a job for was adjusting... or to what extent it could be evidence of deeper feelings for you.

Feelings like these were confusing and, after the stressful day you had, you had resolved not to spend every single second with Din agonising over whether his every little word or gesture was some subtle clue as to his feelings about you. You knew you should probably gather the courage to ask him for yourself. After all, you could not imagine that a man who seemingly cared for you as deeply as Din did would have an overly negative reaction.

Despite your vow to yourself, your mind was overactive. As you sat playing with Grogu on the floor of the cabin while Din tidied away the dishes from the meal you had just enjoyed together. (Well, almost together. Din had eaten his meal with you in the kitchen, but he sat at the counter rather than joining you and Grogu at the table. He ensured too that your back was turned to him so you did not inadvertently glimpse any part of his face). You could not stop fantasising about evenings like this becoming your everyday life. Living in this cabin with Din and Grogu, enjoying every mealtime and evenings playing with Grogu just like this. You could see it so clearly before you that you almost wanted to cry. It was a cruel game that you were playing with yourself, daring to believe that a man as incredible as Din Djarin could ever love you.

Before those depressing thoughts could continue any longer, though, Din returned from the kitchen. You were instantly brought out of your ruminations at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

“I hope he’s not being too much trouble for you,” Din said as he leaned down to pat Grogu’s head lightly, before he took a seat in front of you on the couch.

“Never,” You shook your head. You genuinely meant it too, you loved spending time with Grogu.

“You’re so good with him,” Din said as he stretched his arms across the back of the couch, his legs spread.

You swallowed. Both his words and the position he was in had moved something deep inside you. “Thank you,” You said quietly, looking down away from Din as you felt the way your cheeks warmed in embarrassment.

The moment passed and you resumed playing with Grogu. You were trying to show him how to stack wooden blocks without using the Force, to improve his dexterity. But there was a certain mischievous side to the little green child and he kept levitating the blocks when he thought you weren’t looking. You were also painfully aware that Din was watching the two of you interact. His unrelenting gaze made you feel incredibly shy.

“I was thinking, after I put Grogu down in his crib, perhaps we could sit outside together so I could show you some of the constellations visible in the sky on Nevarro?” Din said, you thought you detected a hint of nervousness in his usually steady voice. “It gets so dark out here away from some of the lava flats that you can see so much.”

“I’d love that, Din,” You smiled at him.

“Okay,” Din nodded as he stood up from the couch and scooped Grogu into his strong arms. “Time for bed, buddy.”

You stood up and leaned down to kiss Grogu’s wrinkled forehead. “Goodnight, little guy,” You whispered.

You stood back and looked up at Din. Your cheeks were burning once more, as you realised how intimate that gesture had been. In the moment it just felt natural and completely right. Din remained silent, save for the shaky breath he released. You suddenly felt extremely awkward.

“I’ll, um…” You started, “I’ll wait for you outside, Din.”

You turned your back and bolted from the cabin before you could embarrass yourself further by overstepping your mark. You paced up and down anxiously, before folding your arms, looking towards the stars and inhaling deeply the cool air of the Nevarrian night. You knew that you really needed to pull yourself together and have a conversation with Din about your feelings. Feeling constantly on edge like this could not continue. Now that you were slightly more composed, you turned towards the cabin and waited for Din to return.

When Din emerged from the cabin, you noticed two things. Firstly, how he had removed his armour and was wearing form-fitting cotton clothes that accentuated his muscular body. Secondly, he was walking towards you with what appeared to be a blanket, ready for your impromptu stargazing session.

“It gets cold at night,” Din explained when you closed the distance between the two of you and nodded towards the blanket. “Thought we could sit on the bench and put this over us.”

You made your way to the porch and made yourself comfortable on the bench that was scarcely wide enough for two adults, but the two of you made it work. Din was impossibly close, the warmth emanating from his body as the two of you sat pressed up against each other, shoulders, arms and legs all touching. As you sat there, your eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness, you marvelled at how correct Din was. The view of the stars from this area of Nevarro was nothing short of breathtaking; it seemed as though you could see every single star twinkling brightly.

“I forgot to ask earlier, how was your day?” Din asked, finally breaking the companionable silence that the two of you had been enjoying.

“It was…” You paused, struggling to find words. “Not the best,” You eventually added, settling on a diplomatic answer.

“Why? What happened?” Din questioned, concernedly.

“I just feel like all my colleagues hate me. It feels like they want to give me the most difficult, time-consuming tasks possible,” You said honestly. “It feels like everywhere I go, sooner or later, everyone winds up hating me.”

“How could anyone hate you?” Din shook his head incredulously. “I mean… you’re so… amazing. The way you treat Grogu, it makes me so happy that the two of you get on. That’s… important to me,” Din exhaled deeply.

“Thank you, Din,” You said sincerely, appreciating the warmth that his words provoked in you as the sensation spread throughout your body. “And this was a great idea. I can’t believe how clear the stars are here.”

“Oh, that reminds me! I almost forgot!” Din exclaimed as he stood up. “I was going to get some binocs so you could see the stars more clearly. I’ll be right back.”

Din disappeared off into the cabin and you mulled over his words as you awaited his return. He had called you amazing and indicated that having a good relationship with Grogu was important to him. Surely that meant he placed a great deal of importance on your relationship, platonic or otherwise? But before you could ponder it any further, Din emerged with the binocs and stood with his broad back to you, holding them to his T-visor to ensure they functioned. He sighed deeply as he glanced toward the heavens.

“I’ve had my fair share of people out there who hated me too, you know,” Din said, your earlier conversation clearly still weighing on his mind as he turned around to hand the binocs to you.

“Oh, Din,” You sighed, then added without thinking: “I can’t believe anyone would fail to be completely and hopelessly in love with you from the second they met you.”

For a moment you froze. You had just as well admitted how you felt for him, this was never how you had planned for this conversation to go. Although you did not regret finally vocalising your feelings for Din, you had never intended for it to slip out so casually.

“Do you mean that you…you love me?” Din asked quietly, clenching and unclenching his fists that hung at his sides.

“I do,” You said quietly with a firm nod of your head. Your pulse was thundering in your ears as you admitted something that you had been withholding for months.

The vocoder amplified the way Din swallowed thickly. For a brief moment you wished you could see what his face looked like as you awaited his response.

“Wizard,” Din finally said cheerfully, the grin evident in his voice despite the helmet.

You shook your head slightly, in disbelief that his response to such a moment was such a dorky slang word. Despite his appearance, all hulking in his gleaming unpainted Beskar, which probably terrified almost everyone that he encountered, this man was completely different underneath his armour.

“I love you too,” Din finally said.

You stood up from the bench and without thinking, you threw your arms around Din's neck, giddy with the happiness that his confession had provoked within you. Din laughed heartily and brought his arms around your waist.

You were immensely relieved; there would be no more agonising over whether Din loved you too. You now knew unequivocally that he did.

Later, your cheek was resting on Din’s firm chest as the two of you cuddled underneath the thick blankets of his cot. You were relieved that you had finally taken the step and defined the nature of your feelings towards each other. Never again would you doubt how deeply Din cared about you. You buried your head into his warm, broad chest and giggled softly. Remembering that Din loved you caused a warmth throughout your body that confirmed one inescapable fact: you were hopelessly in love.

#dincember 2023 #din djarin #din djarin fluff #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal characters #my fics #i keep wanting to make these around 1k words and always end up writing way more

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fleetways · 1 year ago

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OKAY! It’s time for the Chimera Baby Lore Post!!

🌼 How did you come up with the OC's name?

In both a meta and non-meta sense, Chimera Baby’s name is probably the most notable part about them. The name Chimera Baby is a reference to m-flo and LiSA’s Tripod Baby, ft in the game Shadow the Hedgehog. For over 6 months that was her official non-official name, as I couldn’t decide on a name for her. I received over 15 name suggestions, but in July I ran a poll at which point she was dubbed Mira!

As it turns out, Mira happens to be the name of a binary star system. Two stars in a dance doomed to end in supernova—rather fitting for a chimera character, wouldn’t you say? I like to imagine Shadow was the one to name Mira something meaningful and space-themed like that, meanwhile Sonic named the other child something totally arbitrary (“His name is Mochi because he's white lol”)

On that note, I’ve also decided Sonic calls Mira “Chili” exclusively, because its silly and he would. So Mira, Chimera Baby, CB, and Chili are all names she goes by!

🌸 How old are they? (Or approximate age range)

I like to depict them anywhere from baby to teenager, but in their most recent incarnation I’d say they’re somewhere between 15-17

💖 Do they have any love interest(s)?

At the moment no. She’s generally too aloof and off putting for anyone to approach her with romantic intent, but maybe in the future….

🍓What is their favorite food?

Strawberries and Triangle Chao Fruit

⭐️ What do they do for a living?

💥 Do they have any hobbies?

Besides combat training, CB enjoys the occasional outdoor activity. Sometimes her friends goad her into a game of soccer (which she is an absolute beast at), but she generally prefers solo sports such as archery, rock climbing, or hiking. Sometimes her brother convinces her to fish with him, but she finds it pretty boring (but would never turn him down)

💃 What do they do best?

Mira excels at hand-to-hand combat. As the reigning champion of Chao Karate, Mira takes their martial arts training very seriously. They also possess exemplary control over chaos energy, and incorporates this into their technique. While they may not be as fast as their fathers, they make up for it with not just raw power, but an extremely disciplined technique.

Her skills also happen to make her an amazing breakdancer, but she’ll break your face if you ask her to demonstrate.

☀️ What is one of your OC's best memories?

A tie between making her baby brother laugh for the first time and the time she drew first blood for the first time in a fight with Shadow

🌧️ What is one of your OC's worst memories?

The aftermath of almost drowning as a child after she saved a chao friend.

✍️ Is their current design the first one?

For the most part—I did redesign their shoes because originally they were rocking some McDonalds drip.

💡What originally inspired the OC?

This post i made ^^

Basically its a mix of me poking fun at the phenomena of Sonadow fan-children all looking kinda similar, and this plush reminding me of actual chimerism in animals and wanting to create a character with that characteristic! Over the months my ironic love for her has grown into genuine fondness—so while she remains primarily as a parody, she’s also a character I’m having fun exploring concepts with <3 Much like both Shadow and Sonic the Hedgehog, you can take her as seriously or not seriously as you wish!

👾 What genre do they belong in?

PS1-era graphics Jet Set Radio game

🏳️‍🌈 What is your OC's gender identity and sexuality?

Non-binary and trans (you decide what direction). And she’s bisexual bc i love bisexuals <3

🍃How many sibling does your OC have?

One little brother Mochi—he is a perfect angel who is also her closest friend. She adores him, but you wouldn’t know from seeing them interact.

⚠️ What is the OC's relationship w/their parents like?

So I mentioned that Mira was reared in a chao garden, where her dads basically only visited once every couple days if not longer (Sonic and Shadow are not very attentive parents, go figure). However, this was honestly a perfectly fine arrangement as I headcanon mobian children don’t need the same level of parental contact as human children (Hell, Cream is kind of an outlier FOR having a present parental figure in her life).

That being said, I imagine Shadow spent more time with her when she was really young before stepping away, which made her really latch onto Shadow more than Sonic during that time. Especially seeing as Sonic is the most laissez-faire parent ever but simultaneously was the type to abandon her on a floating platform in midair with a trail of badniks so she can learn how to homing attack.

Much like her father before her, her latent Black Arms genes have caused her to develop a burning desire to destroy Shadow—a fact that Shadow seems strangely indifferent about. While this fact has pretty much wrecked their previous relationship, there are circumstances where Mira will put aside her goal and work with Shadow against a common enemy or towards a common objective (of course, this doesn’t stop her from trying to stab him in the back during these operations).

Her relationship with Sonic has remained mostly the same, with Sonic treating her much more like a friend or little sister than a daughter. They have lunch together at least once a month, and usually she’ll go to him for advice on any social interaction matter—conversations that have become much more frequent now that she’s begun to make friends.

💗 What do you like most about the OC?

I think I popped off with her design—chimerism is such an interesting concept and I loved balancing her two sets of genes without making it seem too busy. I also love her dynamic of trying to kill Shadow and how you would think her growing up in chao garden basically alone would have contributed to that, but that's not the case at all she’s just like that <3

‼️ Who is your OC's arch-nemesis or rival?

Shadow the Hedgehog is her self-proclaimed nemesis, but she makes a fair share of enemies and rivals wherever she goes due to her punch-first-ask-questions-later attitude. One notable rival is another OC of mine named Sauvik the Badger—another cold and brooding anti-hero much like her. Sauvik and Mochi are something of a team, but being a protective big sister she wants him to stay away from her brother. This generally leads to a fight that Mochi is inevitably forced to break up.

⏰ How long have you had the OC?

She was created in January of 2023!

—

That’s all! Feel free to ask any other questions and remember to vote for her here!

@sonic-oc-showdown

#chimera baby #sonic oc #soandow fankid #mochi #text

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sotogalmo · 2 days ago

Text

(5:46 pm December 2nd — 5:55 pm, December 25th)

All the style went out of fashion as we danced through the crowd and- Well spent was praise in cheerful amaze

Cw: OC x reader, x reader, mobian x mobian (appearance is left to many kinds of interpretations and whatever animal fits you), mixed headcanons and a oneshot, fluff If x readers aren't your thing- just leave.

OC x reader / established queer platonic relationship/qrp / AU: Sonic The Hedgehog / Gender neutral pronouns for Reader when referring to the Reader

Note: For my amazing mutual @friedclownshrimp ...as I started to ..want. To write x reader stuff (but starting with oc x readers because .why not. Why not!!!), and they were the who gave me a request (first writing request too!); “Can we get maybe............flor x reader going on a date on her birthday......i want her to be happy...”. Hope you enjoy this clown! Always know that Flor loves you! (And happy holidays/merry Christmas, etc!) ...tbh was actually having this as a Christmas present to you ......because... yes

___________

Summary: Reader plans their date with Flor, and it so happens to be on her birthday! (September 25th) .. just some fluff, relaxing with each other, having a good time! (Kinda like a silent film thing, hope that's good)

Three specific dividers are by @/ sisterlucifergraphics ! Biggest credits to them.. absolutely love their graphics (& thank you again for doing my request)

-> Flor, who.. funnily enough, is a hybrid. Hybrid created by.. whoever fits the bill- and a hybrid of what exactly? Well, a hybrid of a Hedgehog and a Echidna. Why? ... Ehhh.... Well, why not? (Taking DNA of some other hedgehogs and lasting scraps of Tikal)

And so.. well..... She mainly takes her looks from the echidna side. Red-orange (burnt peach or terra-cotta for specific) fur color, the quills, almost everything of her screams echidna. But there are also parts of her, very small, but too small? That make her different from regular echidnas from the stories; and it's the fact that her tail is more streamlined then tri-crooked (tho it's still crooked.. just not three times).

And with the small fact that.. like.. she has visible ears (not just holes on the side of her head like other animals and mainly reptiles, iirc). Though, they get covered by her dreadlock-quills, and a bit of a headband or bandana head scarf

Which leads into the fact that she also wears -wears bots, a jacket (tho not fully sipped and also how she shows off her shoulders like that), and yk.. having pants... Anyways.

-> Flor, a hedgehog/echidna (hedgedna? echidehog?) hybrid who has a job as protector and trainer to others- gets carried away with doing such things and has been extra busy that she has lightly forgotten that her birthday is very close (practically coming up in a couple of hours!)

I will be Your Fool

It's one of those days where Flor is just spending time working out dates, talking with parents or just lone adult trainees, and all of that. And it's very easy for her to forget that something special is going to happen (tho, she does know that something is going to happen, just not the special part)... today? Or is it going to happen tomorrow?

With all of that happening around, she just can't help but move around the house in anticipation. Tapping her foot, shaking her legs, shaking her head, her hands shaking. (Okay, she needs to stop for a moment and just ...rest. Just breathe)

(Just breathe; ....1...2..3— rinse and repeat. Easy! Calm downnn, girl. Just a bit more, and then a small chill time, then back to work— ooorrr... Maybe not?) she would lightly smirk at the end of that thought process, to appear calm right in front of you

. . .

. .

"heyyyy, hon...." Saying with a small strain? in her voice while slicking back a few quills that have stood up by her shaking, just to appear calmer and more.. clean(?)

"What brings ya here ...?" She questions, sounding a bit more calmer than before (which she does a very tiny celebration with a sigh). And while that happens, you just cross your arms and tap your elbows.

Which she understands fast to what you're trying to say even before you open your mouth to explain and answer her question. And that makes her look down, and start to lightly sweat bullets in a cartoon-y fashion, while still having her strained smile on (which eases into a small one that isn't strained, but that's not the focus now)

Then after doing that, she then looks around and just verbally sighs and so she re-fixes her dreadlock-quills and just... Stands up. Away from desk and chair and planning dates. Kinda reckless, but she gets where you're coming from; needing a break.

And... She sighs again, with a much more kinder smile on her peach muzzle.. "yeah ..yeah, yeah. I know- it's dark out. ..."

. . . .

. . .

. .

And just like that? She heads her way to the shared room, and to her area of the bed (her tail wagging nonsensically). Just to get ready for tomorrow..

. . . .

. . .

. .

The big day is here!

The big day is here!— (all according to plan..) ... It seems like Flor doesn't even notice the date (or maybe she did? and doesn't think that anything will happen despite the fact that she mentions her birthday a few times and mostly with enthusiasm but then shrugs it off without a care due to stuff that have happened before when she did mention her birthday and how she remembers stuff). Well, maybe that's for the better. Added with the fact that.. well, today is a day where she can relax again (as told by you, since she seems to be stressed? when doing the schedules, and when you said that she could take another day-break, she had taken it well!.. a two day break is honestly what she needed this week..)

And it's a day (thought not just any day) where you have a surprise for her!

. . . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

"'Can you ask me something..?'— Of course!" She repeated the question you said to her and then answered it with a smile (she loves questions that she can answer), "you know you don't need to ask me that, right?" She says (again, not really remembering the other times where she was overstimulated and didn't answer any questions, as she was in her bed sulking)

"Am I willing to go outside? ..I mean ... Sure?? Today is my second free-day!" She again repeats the question, answers with confusion but then smiles. "What's the reason for it?" She asks (even though she can guess but she doubts it)

"Can't tell me???" She then pouts and crosses her arms, but she's fine. She can handle that

...

-> Honestly the fact that you're hiding something on this day is very suspicious to her. But whatever floats your boat, and she won't really pry into it, all that much (even though her tail couldn't stop wagging at the mere mention of the surprise. She absolutely loves surprises)

-> Disguising the date as a surprise, you just said it was something you wanted to try out!

-> Flor, being antsy but with.. joy? If that word fits, it feels like something will happen. And well- something always happens, but not that kind? More in the sense that she feels like that she should dress for the occasion-type of gut feeling.

-> But since that's more of a gut feeling and you combine that with how this is a free day for her, she decides to like ..not listen to said feeling. It would just kinda be too much to do, yk? She went in a more casual style. Formal but still her, and not too formal. Just to listen to the feeling,for a bit. even if she really shouldn't have..

(DATE, Start!)

-> I like to think that this will be like... One of her first dates with you. That's how I've taken the idea, and it's quite nice

-> When the fact that this is a Date-Date, comes to her head- it's when she becomes fully red in the face and seems to not have any words to say... yet her tail seems to have "words" to "say" by the fact that it's endlessly wag away (it's a miracle that she hasn't even fly away by the fact that her tail wags way too much, and even whenever her tail wags endlessly!)

-> The idea of having this birthday surprise be a date, is like. All too much, but in a good way you know? She's really. Glad. Fortune!

The fact that this is one of her first dates and its one where you want to spend it on her birthday? Aha.... Thats—

Having no words to say when you explain how this is your gift to her.. she just. Suddenly makes weird noises and gestures to thin air and nothing around the both of you, as you sit on the booth.

This is something she just. Never knew??? That would?? Happen to her?????? And on her birthday??

You. You did this for her?

For her?

Why. Shes honored, as hell.

Truly something that she won't ever-ever forget! (After she was done with her gestures and weird sounds, she soon just goes to hug you very tightly because, oh holy fuck??? Your... You're very kind to her. To the point that she has felt like that she can literally fly, with the way that you always make her tail wag! Along with her heart racing!!)

(finally done! Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!)

Just to get slightly sappy inna way, but thank you Clown??? Like. Genuinely tbh .. I don't really have much to say but like. Thank you for being yourself. Thank you a lot. Thank you for liking my silly girl... Really. Wanted to make this longer but. Hope this suffices

First title; lyric from Chromatica by xXtha. Second lyric from Fool by Djo

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