Today’s request shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng—With a reader who likes to pretend they’re asleep in order to see how their partner reacts. Whether it’s in the morning to prolong their cuddles, or curious if they leave them be or “wake” them up. 🤭💙❕Bonus when the men know their partner is still awake and either teases them or plays along.
Soft Lies and Sleepy Smiles
Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Moments, Playful Teasing, Established Relationships, Light Banter, Soft/Affectionate Moments, Subtle Intimacy.
Warnings: Mild suggestiveness, Mentions of past trauma (Implied for Sunday & Dan Heng, but not explored in depth), Minor physical contact (Soft touches, forehead flick, kisses), Aventurine being a smug menace (Because of course), Sunday’s quiet intensity (He’s poetic and a little too smooth for his own good), Dan Heng’s understated softness.
A/N: Hi lovely!! Thank you for this hehe, I hope you like it!! 🤭💙✨ Ignore any mistakes, I'm writing this at like 3:28 am 🧍♀️🙏😭
Tagslist: @themiddletenmasibling
The warmth of the Astral Express' quarters felt almost unreal—soft golden light filtering through the curtains, the gentle hum of the train beneath you, and Sunday’s slow, steady breaths beside you.
He was always an early riser, preferring quiet contemplation in the mornings. But today, as you lay curled against him, you decided to stay still, feigning sleep just to see what he’d do.
For a while, he didn’t move. His eyes remained on you, a silent observer as his fingers traced idle patterns against your arm. Then, barely above a whisper—
"You're awake, aren't you?"
You held your breath, keeping up the act.
A soft chuckle. The kind that barely touched the air but sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers grazed the edge of your jaw, the flutter of his wings betraying his amusement.
"It’s unlike you to be this still," he mused, voice like the quiet ripple of a dream. "But if you insist on pretending..."
He shifted, drawing you closer—enough for you to feel his breath against your temple. His halo gleamed faintly in the dim light, golden and unblinking, like an ever-watchful eye.
Then, just as you thought he’d let you continue the charade, Sunday whispered something against your ear, so soft it sent heat rushing to your cheeks.
"Would it be cruel to wake you with a kiss? Or shall I let you remain lost in your dreamscape?"
Your resolve wavered. The warmth of his lips barely ghosted over your cheek, and you couldn't help it—a tiny twitch of your mouth, a sharp inhale.
His hand, featherlight, cupped your cheek.
"Caught you," he murmured, voice laced with quiet victory.
You peeked open an eye, meeting his gentle yet knowing gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Next time, love, you’ll have to try a little harder."
Aventurine was warm. Unfairly so, draped lazily beside you in bed, the fur-lined edges of his overcoat tossed haphazardly over the chair nearby. The morning light slanted through the window, painting soft golds and deep greens across the room.
You, ever the curious one, decided to play a game.
Eyes closed, body perfectly relaxed—you stayed still, waiting to see how he’d react.
For a moment, there was silence. Then—
"Hah, what’s this? A little trick from my darling?"
His voice was honeyed, teasing. You felt the mattress dip as he shifted, his hand brushing ever so gently against your exposed shoulder.
"You’re terribly convincing, I’ll give you that."
There was a pause, and then—a sharp flick to your forehead.
Your body betrayed you. A reflexive twitch.
"Ah-ha! You flinched!" His laugh was rich with amusement. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll have to bluff better than that."
You groaned, cracking an eye open. Aventurine grinned down at you, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"I’ll have to reward you for the effort, though. Tell me, love—should I make it up to you with breakfast, or perhaps…" He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your lips. "Something sweeter?"
You rolled your eyes, but your heart raced nonetheless.
"Cheat," you muttered.
"Always," he replied, pressing a playful kiss to your forehead.
The gentle rocking of the Astral Express made for the perfect excuse to stay in bed a little longer. Dan Heng, ever composed, lay beside you, his breaths steady and deep.
You decided to test him. Would he wake you? Leave you be? Perhaps... tease you?
You kept your breaths even, your face perfectly serene. A few minutes passed before you felt him stir.
Soft movements. The rustling of sheets.
Then, ever so carefully, you felt his fingers brush against yours—hesitant, barely there.
You almost smiled.
He knew.
Rather than calling you out, he played along. His hand shifted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Then, a whisper, barely above the hum of the train.
"If you want more sleep, I’ll let you rest."
A pause. His fingertips ghosted over your knuckles, almost as if he was hesitant to let go.
"But I’d rather you stay with me a little longer."
Your resolve broke. Slowly, you opened your eyes, meeting his steady gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, barely there, but unmistakable.
Fandom:The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader
You woke to a throbbing ache behind your eyes, a dull, persistent reminder of the previous night's festivities. The echo of laughter, the rhythmic pulse of bass, and the strobing kaleidoscope of club lights still swirled like phantom sensations in your head. It had been a typical Friday night - an escape orchestrated with familiar ease beside your friends. Good music, potent cocktails, and that ephemeral, dizzying freedom that always felt a little too short-lived. The city's energy had been a palpable force, a siren song pulling you deeper into its chaotic rhythm. You'd surrendered willingly, dissolving into the sea of bodies, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating feeling of being momentarily untethered from reality.
But as you pushed yourself up from the tangled bedsheets, your fingertips grazed your neck, and a jolt of unease, cold and unfamiliar, shot through you. There was a strange sensation there, not quite pain, but a persistent, foreign pressure—an unfamiliar warmth that radiated from a specific point. It was subtle, at first, easily dismissed. But then your fingers explored, tracing the contours of your skin, and you realized: there was something there. Something raised, with a jagged, almost deliberate edge, chillingly unmistakable. A bite. The skin around it was angry red, inflamed and tender to the touch. The two puncture marks, small and sharp, seemed almost... intentional. Placed. Something cold and predatory, like the fangs of a wolf, had touched you.
Your breath hitched in your throat, the blood draining from your face as a whirlwind of panicked thoughts took hold. You were certain there was no bite from the previous night - no feral alley cat, no drunken stumble into a rosebush. You had left the club with your friends, the walk home a blur of shared jokes and tipsy laughter - none of them had noticed anything amiss. A quick memory check: no strange encounters, no unexpected contact. Nothing - but this. You stumbled to the bathroom, peering into the mirror, a growing sense of dread coiling in your stomach. The mark was small, concealed just beneath your hairline, at the nape of your neck. It looked… almost like a brand, a warning etched into your flesh. A possessive claim.
The mark itself was small, almost easily hidden under your hair, but it radiated a strange power, a claim, like something had carved itself beneath the skin, changing you in a way you couldn't understand. It felt alien, unnatural. You shook your head, trying to dispel the creeping unease, the primal fear blooming in your chest. You went through the motions of starting the day, a shower, coffee, but the normal routines felt… off. The air seemed to thicken around you, a suffocating blanket of awareness, and a prickling sensation of being watched from every corner. The usual city sounds, the distant rumble of trucks, the chatter of pedestrians, seemed to amplify, echoing much louder in your ears. The weight of the world felt heavier, pressing down on you from all sides, and the sense of being hunted grew with every passing moment. Every now and then, you’d catch a flicker in your peripheral vision – a shadow that darted too quickly, a figure obscured by the crowd, too illusive to pin down. Just a hint of darkness, a vague unease settling in with every glance.
The day passed in a state of anxious paralysis, a constant battle against the mounting feeling of wrongness. That night, after another restless day of unease, your phone buzzed. A message. Plain and to the point: “We need to talk.” The name at the top sent a jolt of cold dread through you: Sofia Falcone. Just the name alone felt like a weight on your chest. A wave of sickening unease washed over you, the dots of fear connecting. You tried to push back the feeling that this all must be a mistake, overthinking, a bad dream, but the fear, the bite, felt solid and real. You knew Sofia, or at least, you thought you did. She was an enigmatic woman, a captivating presence with long dark hair cascading down her shoulders, piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see through you, and an undeniably dangerous air that shimmered beneath the surface of her composed exterior. But this? This was something else, something you couldn't fathom, something terrifying in its unknown nature.
You tried to rationalize, to find a logical explanation, to convince yourself it was all a misunderstanding, but deep down you knew this feeling wasn't something that could be explained by rational thought. There was no escaping it, you were caught in this web. You had been marked, and the familiar world that surrounded you was about to shift into something completely alien.
When you arrived at her penthouse, the door opened before you even had the chance to knock, as if she had been expecting you. The cool, calculating gaze of Sofia Falcone met yours immediately, sending a shiver crawling up your spine. She was standing in the dimly lit entryway, the soft glow of candlelight casting long, unsettling shadows around her. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on your face, her expression unreadable.
“Come in,” she said, her voice smooth and inviting, but laced with an edge of something predatory that sent an icy chill down your bones. “We need to have a conversation.” The words were polite, almost casual, but there was a definitive authority in their tone, an unspoken command that brooked no refusal.
As you stepped inside, your heart hammered against your ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the silence. You tried to ignore the subtle burning sensation at the back of your neck, the insistent throb that was a constant reminder of what had happened. The atmosphere inside the penthouse was thick, a heady mix of expensive perfume, polished leather, and a faint, lingering smell of something old, almost like cigar smoke, a ghost of a previous life and history clinging to the air.
Sofia closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click, each movement graceful and controlled, like a panther stalking its prey. You felt small and vulnerable, insignificant in her presence, like you were in the presence of something far older and more powerful than yourself, something that could devour you whole without a moment's hesitation.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry with fear. “What’s happening to me?” Your voice was barely a whisper, the fear bubbling uncontrollably to the surface.
Sofia tilted her head slightly, her eyes scrutinizing you. Her gaze flickered to the bite mark on your neck, a spark of something knowing, something almost triumphant, flashing behind her eyes. “You’ve noticed it, then,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, like the stillness before a storm. “Good. I was starting to wonder if you’d be too oblivious to understand what happened.” Her words were a subtle taunt, a challenge to the fear that was clearly visible in your eyes.
You took a step back, shaking your head, trying desperately to piece together the words, the situation, but it was all blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare. "What do you mean? What is this bite? Why is it—why is it hurting?" You ran a hand across your neck, the tenderness of the skin a sharp reminder of the violation.
Sofia moved closer, each step slow and deliberate, narrowing the distance between you. Her presence was suffocating, like a thick fog that robbed you of air. Before you could protest, she was close enough to touch, her fingers brushing against the sensitive skin around the mark, her touch light, almost affectionate, but there was a chilling coldness in her eyes, the calm gaze of a hunter who has cornered its prey.
“I’ve marked you,” she said softly, her voice a hypnotic whisper, a silken thread that bound you to her word. “And it’s more than just a bite. It’s a symbol. You’re mine now.”
The words hit you like a physical blow, a wave of cold shock that paralyzed your body. You couldn't move, couldn't pull away from her gaze, the weight of her words sinking into your very core. The heat of the bite on your skin began to intensify, spreading across your neck and chest, filling you with a strange and unfamiliar warmth, but it wasn't the comforting warmth of a fire. It was a consuming heat, like you were being devoured from the inside out. Your heart pounded in your chest, hammering out a frantic rhythm against the silence.
“I’m… yours?” you managed, the words foreign and forced in your throat, tasting like ash. You couldn’t believe what she was saying, what was happening, yet the truth of it rang loud and undeniable.
She smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was full of something dark, something predatory, a flicker of malice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A wolf showing its teeth before the kill.
“You’re more than you think. More than you were. You’ll understand in time,” she murmured, her hand lifting and stroking your cheek, her touch a strange mix of fondness and malice. “This bite isn’t just a mark. It’s a bond, a promise that we’re connected now.” Her voice was soothing, but the undertone was unsettling, like the murmur of a predator lulling its prey into a false sense of security.
“No one else can take you from me now,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a possessive intensity. “No one. The bite means you belong to me—body, soul, and every last breath you take. You are mine.” Each word was a claim, a chain forged in the depths of darkness, binding you to her.
A shudder ran through your body at her chilling declaration, your heart racing in panicked flight, trying to escape the truth that she was weaving before you. You opened your mouth to protest, to deny, but no words came out, your voice caught in the web of her carefully wrought words. The heat, the overwhelming sensation of being bound to her, of being claimed, choked you. You had to close your eyes, unable to meet her gaze any longer, the horror of what she was saying washing over you like a tidal wave.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Sofia said softly, her fingers trailing down your cheek as if offering a twisted comfort, the light touch almost a brand. “But you’re mine now. And this… this is your new reality.”
The pressure at the back of your neck grew stronger, the bite throbbing, your body trembling with an agony that wasn’t physical, but emotional, as the weight of her control settled deep into your bones. You were hers now—marked and bound in ways you couldn't yet comprehend, a puppet dancing in her hands.
𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Power Imbalance, Manipulation, Implicit Coercion, Verbal & Emotional Confrontation
𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 5K
𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: In this game, to lose is to never have played at all. And you’re a sore loser.
𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: Helllloooo babes, how are you? Hopefully you're doing well and if not, maybe this chapter might bring you some comfort. As always I love hearing all your feedback and can't wait to read your comments.
As always, banners done by @cafekitsune!
Enjoy 🖤
Luther Koth’s office wasn’t a grand library or some towering archive of Jedi wisdom. It was small, cluttered, and filled with the dull hum of a man who had long since buried himself in labor that few would ever care about.
You sat at his desk, hunched over the third and final book, your fingers pressing into the brittle edges of its pages as if by force alone you could will the text to make sense.
The first two had been exhausting enough. Accounts of Jedi history, but told through the voices of those who had watched from the sidelines.
A village elder who spoke of the wars Jedi had waged in the name of peace. A merchant who had seen his home burned in a battle between Republic and Separatist forces, both sides wielding lightsabers, neither side caring for the rubble they left behind. It had taken hours to untangle their words, to piece together the meaning through scraps of old dialects and conflicting records. You had done it, though.
Last night, before sleep had dragged you under, you had translated them both.
But this one—the third—was different.
The texts are a mess of ink and strange symbols.
You had tried the same methods that had worked before: cross-referencing, pattern recognition, even gut instinct, but the text refused to bend. Every few sentences, you’d have to stop, search through the scattered volumes beside you, and try to stitch together meaning from half-formed thoughts. It wasn’t working.
And yet, here you were. Drowning in it.
Your fingers flexed against the paper, frustration mounting as you reread the same passage for the third time. Jedi traditions, ancient wars, the betrayals… it was all a twisted game. Nothing was ever as simple as they made it sound.
The Jedi spoke of history with such certainty, as if the past were a clear path leading to the present, but these texts, these forgotten voices, told a different story. A messier one. One that didn’t fit so neatly into the Council’s teachings.
Why am I even reading this?
Master Koth sat across from you, silent as ever, his head bowed over his work. He hadn’t spoken to you since you arrived that morning and hadn’t really acknowledged you beyond a brief glance before returning to whatever meticulous records he was compiling.
You weren’t sure what to make of him yet. There was an intensity to the way he worked, something almost mesmeric; resembling a man reaching for the final piece of evidence that does not exist, his focus unshaken despite the absence of anything to complete.
You tried to ignore the other thing—the way his presence curled around the whole room, a boisterous feeling you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the silent authority he carried, the practiced discipline in every movement, or perhaps it was simpler, some other answer for the way your skin pricked. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t paying attention to you now. His silence was almost oppressive, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. Not yet.
The ink on the pages blurred, the letters writhing and twirling as if a harmonious tune were lulling in the air. You leaned back in the chair, the ache settling deep in your spine from hours of leaning over. This was ridiculous. Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you make sense of it like the first two? Why did everything in this damn place feel as if it was out of your control?
Focus. You have to focus.
But the words wouldn’t come.
“You seem distracted,” the quiet ruptured beneath his voice, his tone sharp but not unkind. “You should rest. Come back to it later.”
Your head snaps up, eyes locking onto his for the first time that morning. The space between you felt charged now, taut with tension that hadn’t been there before. Master Koth hadn’t moved much from his place across the desk, both arms poised on either side of his work with his pen still in hand, but his attention was fully on you now.
A ruminative beat of silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say.
“I’m fine,” you mumbled, and the sound of it felt thin, it sounded like a lie.
“Then continue.”
Instantly, the scratching sounds of his pen resumed and an invisible drape had fallen between you two. You waited for something; acknowledgment, maybe, or a sign that he had meant to say more, but his focus had already returned to the pages in front of him.
The expression on your face was anything but professional, and your frustration was lurching closer and closer to a full psychotic break. The sharp angle of his brow, the downward tilt of his head, the way his free hand hovered near the edge of the paper like a silent barrier—all clear signs of a man who didn’t want to be spoken to, much less one who wished to teach.
You looked down at the page again, but the words were still a jumble. You sighed sharply. “This text…” you began, trying to keep your voice level, but it came out clipped. “It’s nothing like the others. It doesn’t make sense.”
He didn’t glance up. “Then move on to something else.”
“That’s not helpful,” you muttered under your breath.
“No,” he said, voice smooth yet distracted. “I don’t imagine it would be.”
The sheer indifference of his response made your fingers twitch, the urge to snap the book shut and walk out nearly overwhelming.
“The other two followed a structure,” you tried again, keeping your tone cadenced. “I could track the changes, map out the influences, but this one—” You gestured at the pages, feeling ridiculous even as you did so. “It’s quite literally written as if it’s hiding something.”
Master Koth still didn’t look at you. “Perhaps it is.”
You stare at him, waiting for more, but after serval grueling seconds of wordless scratching it becomes crystal clear he was not going to give you any substantial advice.
He is infuriating.
The room warped and distorted similar to a fever dream you couldn’t shake, and the silence cracked like dry glass, then flattened into a hum. It placed the last building block you needed to turn your frustration into a living, breathing thing. The new resident is now pressed against the inside of your skull, your teeth grind to accommodate the stretch of its unconventional intrusion as your fingertips dig into the crumbling parchment.
You want to break something.
And then—
“There you are.” He quirked, “Am I interrupting something?”
The room changed.
No, shifted.
The walls didn’t move. The air didn’t change temperature.
But the room—the room collapsed.
No sound accompanied it. No astonishing, violent transition, no physical proof that something was different. But it was. He was here.
You are a spasming knot of nerves and dread, yet you forced yourself to stay still. Your body cannot be trusted; it betrays you in its shuddering, in the weakness of your limbs, in the sheer biology of its reaction to him. The mind can build walls, but the body is faithless.
A writhing mass of hot, clammy disgust coils within you.
Is this fear, that is liquefying your gut, making you feel hollow, yet horribly full, as if there were too much of him, forced into the pit of your being? Is this the burn of his fingerprints bruising your neck—is this the savage grind of his hips against yours, is this the suffocating silence, your mind screaming one thing while your body does another? Is this the way your body can’t forget his hands, or how it doesn’t try to? Or is this the inevitable feeling of giving too much away?
Koth had been here before Anakin entered, and he was still here now. But something was wrong. The way he held his pen. The way his copper eyes flicked over his own work as if he was the only one in the room. Nothing had mundanely changed about him yet… something was wrong.
The moment split, a hairline fracture in the world’s logic, and through it, Anakin stepped.
His arrogantly paced footsteps settled into the foundation of the office. He was in no hurry.
"The Council has reassigned her schedule for today, she’s needed on the frontlines.”
The fabric of your reality cracked a little wider.
“Effective immediately."
You couldn’t breathe.
Master Koth didn’t lift his gaze. His hand remained frozen around the pen, an unspoken message that he was choosing to remain in his world, to pretend that nothing had changed. But even as he stared down at his work, his mouth twitched, just the slightest sign that he was aware of the disruption.
"Is that so? You come with orders, I take it?"
Anakin’s lips quirked slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, but there was no warmth in it. He was businesslike—almost too businesslike. Without a word, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of parchment. The paper was thick, well-creased, and bore a distinct wax seal of the Republic.
Koth finally lifted his gaze, but only briefly. The sunken hold beneath his eyes made it look more akin to an afterthought than genuine interest. The paper crackled in the stretch between them as Anakin extended it forward.
Koth took it.
Not eagerly. Not cautiously. Just... absently.
His fingers pressed into the paper, the seal catching faintly in the light. For a moment, there was silence. Anakin didn’t move, didn’t sway. He didn’t need to. He knew what Koth would do.
And he was right.
“Everything seems to be in order.”
Your throat burned, a thick chunk of disbelief swelling just behind your ribs to accompany the acid swelling to your tongue. You stared at Koth, searching, pleading, for some flicker of hesitation, some sign that he would reconsider, that he would wake up from whatever hollow trance he’d buried himself in. Or was it even a trance, was this just who he was, a dissociated forgotten Jedi who lives in his own world?
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Then—
"You can't be serious. This is all in order?”
Your voice hit the space between you like a dropped glass. The drawn-out pause afterward only made it worse.
Koth didn’t look up immediately. He pressed his thumb against the parchment’s edge, smoothing it flat.
“I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.” The words were steady, matter-of-fact. “It’s in order.”
You stared at him. The moment ached, expanding into something vast and thin, threatening to break, yet stubbornly refusing to end. It should have snapped under the burden of its impossibility, but it didn’t. It just sat there, lodged in your throat resembling something that couldn’t be swallowed.
“No,” you said, voice lower now, as if keeping it controlled might make him listen. You close the coded book, placing it atop the others on Koth’s desk as you stand. “It is not in order.” Your heartbeat kicked and spasmed, a sickly, uneven thing, tripping over itself. And the heat—gods, the heat—slithered after it, slick and unnatural, soaking into your muscles, sticky as spit, cloying like blood. Like hands. Like him.
“It’s not—”
A pause.
Not real? Not right? What were you even supposed to say? This isn’t happening?
Koth didn’t seem to register the unfinished sentence nor the way your eyes demanded attention. Or if he did, he chose not to acknowledge it. He’d already shifted back into his world, his pen scratching softly as he stared down.
“Master Koth, please—”
His hand flicked, a small, precise movement as if brushing away an insect. “Go.”
You opened your mouth, grasping for anything that would make him look up at you. If you spoke again, if you pleaded again, would he just repeat himself? Would he even bother?
Go.
Uniform to a command you would give a stray.
Anakin hadn’t so much as sighed. He watched you instead, head tilted ever so slightly as if committing the exact shape of your resistance to memory. Anakin Skywalker was not a patient man, but he could wear the illusion of patience well.
You swallowed, hard. “That’s not—”
“You’re wasting time.” Anakin’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t dip. “If you want to stand here and debate with him, fine. But soldiers are dying and the council has called for our quick support.”
The breath you’d tried to take snagged.
That was a lie.
You weren’t needed. You knew that. The war would grind on with or without you, just as it always had. But that wasn’t the point, was it? This wasn’t about the war. It wasn’t about duty, or necessity, or orders.
It was about him.
You could still feel Koth’s presence at the desk, just over your shoulder; could still hear the slow, agonizing drag of his pen. He had already dismissed you. And now, the last and only thing between you and Anakin had crumbled to dust. You wanted to look back at him, wanted to shake him, force him to see what he was doing, what he was letting happen.
But you didn’t.
Because deep down, you knew.
It wouldn’t change anything.
"You’d rather argue with the Council’s decision?" Anakin muses, and there it was—something nearly amused in his tone, but not quite. "I can’t imagine that would go well for you."
You only noticed the bite of your nails when the pain sharpened. A poor replacement for something solid. Something real.
Because this—this—wasn’t real.
Couldn’t be.
And Koth, Koth had already disintegrated.
He wasn’t gone. Not physically. But he may as well have been a fixture. A chair. A table. A comatose object, there for viewing pleasures only. His body existed here, but his mind had flown, far beyond the four walls of this room, far beyond you.
“I— I belong here. I was assigned here.”
Koth exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple.
“Things change.”
"Things don’t change like this," you returned.
Scratch. Silence.
"You can stand here all day if you want," Anakin added, mildly. "But I won’t."
You turned back to see him at the door, waiting, patiently.
Silence. Scratch.
More damn silence.
You stepped forward, and the world shrank.
Not all at once—no, that would be merciful. It crumpled in increments, creasing in on itself like a lung emptied too fast. It was a ruin of sensation, a series of mute failures. You were stepping toward him, but it didn’t feel as if forward movement was taking place.
You were sinking.
The steps you take aren’t your own; they belong to something else, something that doesn’t care what your body wants, what your mind screams. You’re not running. You’re not even trying to fight it. There’s a numbness to it now, the kind that rots you from the inside out, an unheard rebellion against the instinct to recoil, to flee. It’s not courage; it’s nothing as romantic as that. It’s just a twisted form of understanding.
Am I losing my mind?
The last breath you took in Koth’s study tasted identical to dust, but you didn’t mind. Dust, after all, was all that was left in this room.
The warship groaned.
Metal ribs flexed and sang with each shift of the ship, great iron lungs inhaling deep, exhaling deeper, dragging you and everyone else through the suffocating black of space. The assault ship was clotted with voices, the easygoing murmur of clones exchanging jokes, shifting in their armor. They had nothing to fear. This was just another mission for them.
Another landing. Another fight.
They were at ease, strapped in side-by-side.
But beside you, twin to the low whisper of a whetstone kissing steel sat Anakin. He was leaning back in his seat, long legs stretched out, his posture easy; too easy. As if he knew exactly how much space he occupied. Like he knew that no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, you were aware of him.
The ship was a fusion of sounds, the air hefty with the scent of musk, of ozone, of armor warmed by body heat and the hours of waiting. You focused on that instead; on the steady thrum of the hyperdrive and the jumbled noise of the clones talking amongst themselves.
Anything but him.
“I can practically feel you thinking,” he murmured, his voice just for you.
You refused to turn.
Don’t react.
You knew better than to give him even the slightest hint of any disposition. Anakin thrived on reactions. He could feel them before they fully took shape in your mind, could track every shift in your breath, each flicker of your eyelids. Every hesitant move was a victory.
“Shouldn’t you be focused on the mission instead of me?”
The words came out of your mouth so casually, as if you too weren’t watching for the minute adjustments of his body from the corner of your eye, measuring the distance from his hand to yours on the shared armrest, or the restless bounces of his legs.
A shadow of something ruinous passed over his features, there and gone, smoothed with the kind of grin that suggested he wanted you to notice the transition. “I’m always focused on the mission.” He replied, his head tilting toward you.
You refused to look at him straight on.
The way he watched you, almost as if he was examining a puzzle that he had the last piece to, but was savoring every instant before solving it, made your blood glow. You swallowed down the urge to stir in your seat. Instead, you exhaled, slowly through your nose.
“Hmm,” you murmured, feigned disinterest coating your words. “sounds like you’re distracted.”
He didn’t answer right away, but his lips ticced, the barest hint of regalement.
“I don’t get distracted,” he shared, his voice low, almost purring. It was too mellow, too knowing.
You couldn’t trust it.
“I just know how to handle distractions when they come.”
The double meaning of his words dangled.
Your pulse stuttered.
But you gave him nothing.
From across the seating area, one of the clones—broad-shouldered, a jagged scar carving a pale line from temple to cheekbone—chuckled. “Yeah, General Skywalker’s got nerves of steel. Nothing fazes him.”
The others muttered in agreement, a few exchanging knowing glances. They had seen proof of it firsthand, in battle, in command. On the field, Anakin was unshakable.
You didn't need to hear it. It didn’t matter what they thought. What mattered was that Anakin had made you feel something that shouldn’t have been there. That shouldn't exist.
But here—now—
Here, is something else entirely.
“Oh?” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, mostly to mask the slight uneasiness that threatened your chest. Using your perfected form of communication, sarcasm, you add. “What’s your secret then? Get rid of the distraction before it becomes a problem?”
The moment the words left your lips, you regretted it.
Anakin’s jaw worked slightly, chewing on a thought. "I wouldn’t say ‘get rid of,’" he ventured with a luster of intent in his eyes. "More... guide it. Mold it to fit the situation."
You turned your head slightly, enough to meet his gaze fully.
The flux was subtle, nearly imperceptible to anyone but you, but what had been a flicker of awareness now swelled.
There it was again. That undercurrent.
"So you control things,” you mused, testing the words on your tongue. Your skin prickled, but you made it sound casual. “How impressive."
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Anakin countered, the electricity in his voice gripping around the sonants. “Control is an art. And not everyone can master it.”
You felt the shock of his words, your eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Master? You’ve got a very funny way of looking at things.”
His mouth ticced again, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve learned... that sometimes, to teach someone control, you have to show them what it feels to be out of it.”
Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, daring to draw blood as you averted your gaze to them.
The words slotted themselves somewhere inside you, filling a space you hadn’t realized was vacant.
A calculated move.
That was the thing about Anakin. It was never just words.
It was the way he said them. The way he let them settle, let them combine into you.
Your defenses bristled, fury in your chest winding, the beat at your throat suddenly more noticeable.
“You think you can teach me anything?” You scoffed, keeping your tone light, but his equivoques pressed against a visible nerve. “I’m already learning plenty under Master Koth. Lessons that actually matter.”
Anakin’s chin dips. Not by much, just enough, and that was when you realized—he was playing the long game, moving slowly, waiting for you to notice, waiting for you to come to the conclusion on your own. He was watching an unraveling, and he wouldn’t miss a second of it. “I’m sure you are. But lessons aren’t always ink-covered and painless.”
You blinked at that, slightly thrown off. Your lips parted, a retort brewing as his gaze skimmed the clones, who were still nescient to the vein of frisson between the two of you. Anakin leaned just a fraction closer, his breath skating against the hairs covering your ear. “What I mean to say is… you don’t get to choose when this lesson ends.”
Heat licked up your spine. Your head snaps sharply to his, but his expression has already reverted to that same maddening ease. The conversation around you carried on, clones snickering, their attention flicking between you both as if spectating a match. They weren’t in on the game. Not really. They heard only the surface of your words, the back-and-forth, the teasing edge of it all.
And you—despite everything—you played along.
“You took me away from my lessons.” You snap back.
“You wound me,” he enounced, pressing a hand to his chest as if you had struck him while his grin widened just enough to show the edges of those vexing canines. “I would never take you away from anything… important.”
There was an emphasis on the word important.
The kind of emphasis meant to remind you that he had done just that.
You almost wanted to laugh, but the sound caught. You cross a leg over the other, glancing to the side as if the right angle would give you release from this conversation.
The clones snickered again, some muttering to each other. They were entertained. Oblivious.
Anakin enjoyed this game. He triumphed in it. And maybe you did too, just a little. Maybe you savored throwing stones at him, just to see if he would throw them back. The small, defiant part of you riled, but you kept your shoulders back, forcing a casualness you didn’t feel.
“You could’ve just left me alone.” You whisper, as your fumbling hands find place across your chest; the only form of solace you can give your body. You didn’t want to sound small, yet your hushed tone didn’t make you sound the least bit confident.
Anakin’s eyes tapered on you, and his whisper sounded anything but small.
“I don’t leave things unfinished. And you... You’re far from done.”
The laugh you were holding escaped in a sharp exhale, a mixture of irritation and bewilderment. You pulled your arms tighter across your chest as if physically reinforcing the shield you had placed.
“You think you’re above everything, above everyone.” Your voice came serrated, frustration had honed your voice into something finer than steel, not meant for brute force but for the exacting cut. “It’s not just control that you’ve mastered—manipulating people around you, thinking you can bend them to your will like this—it takes true dedication to master selfishness to this level General.”
“I know exactly how far I can bend you.”
Your nails dug into the fabric of your sleeve, distorting the weave into rippled lines. The clones were still laughing, entertained by the show they didn’t understand.
Of course, he knew how far he could bend you.
Hadn’t he already?
Yet—How dare he?
It wasn’t just frustration that propelled you to speak your next words; it was fate itself. A glowing nerve, one that filled every ending with an orange—no, red—no… a cohesive quintessence of golden promise, where consequences bore no weight, so long as you kept alight.
“Maybe you are the expert at bending people, breaking them, warping them into something else.” A breath, steady and slow. “But tell me, General—who did it to you first?”
You felt the clones' eyes on you, their laughter fading as they finally began to sense the gravity of the exchange. But they didn't know what was really happening. How could they? This was after all just the playful veneer of a Padawan and her General having a spat, right?
Yet for you, it was not the same; a strange cadence in your chest, as if the very air carried a scent of another time—sharp, metallic, and sweet, like crushed herbs taking refuge inside warm resin—freshly smoked spice and velvet lined walls.
Your body was compressed as if it were preparing for something that was both foreordained and irrevocable.
I know you want requests. Sorry. But I need this. Can you write something about Twisting Tiger plsss
Btw, your writings are very nice. Go girll
Sure of courseee! I mean, if the people want blood, it is my duty to shed it.
I'm glad you like my writing <3
Now that I look at Tiger after so much time, I noticed he looks like Zeus from "Destripando la Historia" (it's a Spanish YT channel)
Don't look it up if you're with your parents or something, he only wears briefs
So soft moment for the guy, I'm sorry, lack of imagination rn, so I'm not really sure what this is
The stadium lights had dimmed hours ago, but the buzz of the crowd still clung to his skin like sweat. You could always tell — not just by the way his body moved slower after a match, or the faint bruises that bloomed on his arms, but by the look in his eyes. Restless. Still spinning from the adrenaline.
But here, in the low light of your shared apartment, Twisting Tiger wasn’t a star midfielder. He was just Tiger.
You found him sitting on the balcony, hair still damp from the shower, one leg pulled up to his chest as he leaned against the railing. The city below hummed quietly, but he only had eyes for the cup of tea in your hands.
“Chamomile,” you said, holding it out.
He took it without a word, fingers brushing yours, and you felt the smallest smile twitch at the corner of his lips.
“You’re quiet tonight,” you added, sitting beside him. Your knees bumped. His foot nudged yours in return — absentminded, familiar.
“Was a tough match,” he admitted after a beat. “Everyone kept expecting me to do the move. You know — spin, flip, make the crowd scream.” He glanced at you, eyes softer now. “But I didn’t feel it today. It wasn’t there.”
“You don’t always have to perform,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re allowed to just play.”
“Tell that to the fans.”
He said it with a half-laugh, rubbing his thumb over the side of the cup. “One guy had a cardboard cutout of me doing the flip. Like, full size. He held it up every time I touched the ball. Felt like I was being challenged by myself.”
You snorted. “Maybe they should let the cutout play next time.”
Tiger gave you a look. “It probably has better stamina than me right now.”
“That’s because you eat like a raccoon when I’m not watching,” you replied, plucking a piece of tape off his socked foot. “I saw the snack wrappers in your bag. Was that… three mochi packs?”
“They were mini mochis,” he defended, scandalized. “Barely counts as one full pack.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the railing beside him. “You act like your muscles run on rice flour and sugar.”
“They kind of do,” he mumbled, sipping his tea.
“Unbelievable.”
There was a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft clinking of his cup as he drank. The city kept moving below you, but up here it was just two tired humans — one an international soccer star, the other someone who knew which brand of muscle tape he hated and how he took his tea when he was grumpy.
Tiger nudged your knee with his. “I’m glad you’re home.”
You didn’t look at him, just smirked. “You mean you’re glad I’m here to supervise your late-night snack habits.”
A Team Building & Koganegawa/Yachi fanfic by me - READ HERE .
Other fanfics by me - FOUND HERE .
This is an old fanfic by me, not a newer piece of work.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Series: Part 2 of How to Confess Your Love to a Kitsune (What Not to Do)
Summary:
One shot. Modern AU. Kitsune!Komaeda. Sequel to "The taste of melon and the weight of a plushie fox".
“I do,” Hinata hummed before groaning. “It’s going to be a messy conversation. There will be questions. They’ll be suspicious, especially Chiaki.”
“It will work out fine. I’ll be there for you.”
“If Chiaki comes after you, I don’t know how much I can help. So, you better have a story to give her.”
A story. Right. There were plenty of stories he could tell, so long as some truth was interwoven in the lie. “Got it.”
“Also, you have no option,” Hinata snorted. “If I have to sit through the conversation, so do you.”
Hajime's friends are being a little nosey regarding his relationship with Komaeda, but this is the spark it takes for Hajime to realize he cannot keep them in the dark forever. (So, he and Komaeda decide to tackle the main boss and tell Chiaki first.) (Just not the whole truth. That's a bit too much.)
~
Hello everyone!!! Wow, if someone told me I was going to write a sequel to a two year old fic earlier this month I would have laughed. But here we are... with a sequel LOL. Originally I had more planned but that wasn’t in the cards. Regardless I had fun and I hope you enjoy this fic! Let me know!
Also make sure you read part one or this second part will make Zero Sense.
Hey guys! Here's the winner of what I shall draw, which is puzzleshipping~ here we have Yugi and Yami fighting over chocolate which ultimately leads up to cuddles 😂 Anyways! I hope y'all will like it~ 💖💖
