#excerpt from a slow burn I probably won't write more of

[jomiddlemarch]

By Yonder Shining Star

He had not expected to begin with a reprimand.

“I don’t bite, you can stop lurking in the doorway,” Dr. Blythe said, not glancing up from the chart she was writing in. Foyle suspected she would have sounded much the same if he’d come upon her while she finished closing an incision after a long surgery, the same wry tone that had a hint of impatience in it. There were few enough female surgeons in England, even fewer egalitarian ex-pat Canadians, so it didn’t take much to infer she must be brilliant and driven, used to those around her finding her an anomaly. An Original, they would have said once in London society and been more accurate perhaps, but not a remark he’d offer if he wanted to get anything helpful from her. That’s why he was here, he reminded himself. It had been a long while since he’d needed reminding about his work.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I’m—”

“You did mean to interrupt and you’re Detective Superintendent Christopher Foyle of Hastings,” she said as she laid the pen down. He’d heard her described as “attractive enough” and had wondered enough for whom before he met her. Now, he found himself pinned by her grass green eyes, startled into silence like a green lad, feeling a fool as he hadn’t for years.

Decades really. Sam would burble in wonder to see him struck dumb while Milner would only give a brief and comradely nod of recognition.

“You’re well-informed, Dr. Blythe,” he said.

“You expected that,” she said. “That’s why you’ve come, to pick my brain, to winkle out some piece of information, some cipher that will break the code you can’t. To solve your case. It is a Godawful mess, I’ll give you that. The pathologist’s report was quite detailed. Almost literary.”

“I’ve come to ask for your help,” he said simply. Because he thought she’d prefer it and because it couldn’t think of what else he might have said.

“You might as well sit down. You’ll have to forgive me—I can’t offer you a cup of tea or even a biscuit,” she said. “I haven’t an assistant who sees me fed and watered.”

Something about the way she’d said it was an alert.

“The other surgeons do. Any of the nurses are glad to fix them a cuppa,” Foyle offered.

“I don’t know about glad, exactly, but it’s in that general way. I’m meant to fend for myself. It’s my own fault I’m not much good at fending. I was spoiled, growing up, with our housekeeper Susan. There was never an evening without a little snack prepared and her solution to any problem was the teakettle on the stove and a slice of fresh pie,” she said. She had a square jaw and her auburn hair was sprinkled with grey and tucked back in a practical snood, but there was a certain whimsical nostalgia in her expression. “She was a splendid bustler, our Susan, and that you may tie to, Mr. Foyle. And now I’ve run on and run and you want my help or whatever help you think I can give you, so you may as well begin winkling.”

“You have a way with words,” he said.

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me. I’m by far the least eloquent person in my family. It’s no accident I’m a trauma surgeon,” she said.

“It was an observation,” he replied. “And it’s because of your family I’ve come to speak with you.”

“It’s Walter,” she said, any dry humor entirely gone from her voice, from those arresting green eyes. Saying the name of her brother dead these twenty odd years aged her; Foyle saw the lines her face fell into when she despaired, the nights of grief that never entirely abated. 

“Yes. Because of what he wrote, Dr. Blythe,” he said, wondering if the clarification would bring her any relief. Wondering at himself for thinking of that first. Rosalind, who’d ever been generous, would not begrudge him an interest, a possibility, but he worried what it meant for his duty to the dead men, whose murders he was charged to solve, no matter that other men were dying across the Channel, that he risked making Diana Blythe’s hand unsteady when she held a scalpel or a needle trailing suture. 

“A poem,” she guessed. Hoped? The alternative was most likely one of his letters, perhaps one he’d written to her, one she wouldn’t want to surrender or corrupt by handing it over to be part of a criminal investigation.

“Yes. The poem, the famous one,” Foyle said.

“The Piper,” she said, her color back. “He’d have hated it, positively loathed what happened with that. All the breathless sentiment, the rallying and the women who memorized it, that sickly sweet melody Tremaine wrote for it—I swear it would be tattooed over half of Canada and all of PEI if people thought it was within the bounds of polite society. It’s not even close to his best work, I want you to know—”

“I know. I met him. In the trenches,” Foyle said.

“Fuck,” she said softly. And then, “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t speak so—”

“Plainly? You can’t imagine I’d take any offense,” Foyle said. “I met your brother only a few days before he died.”

“Before Courcelette.”

“Yes. I was very young and he wasn’t much older, but he’d been fighting for several months longer than I had, maybe a year. I didn’t think anyone could live that long in that hell and still find something worth living for. Could still remember anything beautiful,” Foyle said.

“It was that bad?”

“It was worse,” Foyle said. Something in her face told him she would not challenge this, nor would she make him explain. Rosalind hadn’t done either, which was why he hadn’t cracked up entirely before Andrew was born. “Whatever he wrote to you, it was worse.”

“He didn’t tell us anything. Not even me,” she said. 

“You were close,” he said.

“I thought so. The night before he died, he wrote a letter. To our younger sister Rilla and a friend, Una. She was in love with him, Una, we all knew that, but he didn’t love her that way. I thought we were close, closest to each other over everyone, but he didn’t write to me,” Diana said.

“Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he knew you would be able to tell if he held something back. If he lied to try and protect you,” he said.

“Perhaps. Is that what you did, Detective Superintendent Foyle? Did you lie and keep secrets?” she asked. No one had ever dared before, not Rosalind, who’d admitted once she did not want to know everything about him.

“Christopher. My name is Christopher,” he said. “A long time ago, I was Kit. That was when I knew your brother.”

“I’m Diana. How does Walter’s poem have something to do with a triple murder?”

“There have been five murders thus far,” Foyle said. “It’s complicated, will take some time to explain. There’s a Lyons round the corner, quiet enough this time of night. We might have that cuppa—”

“If there have been five murders and somehow my brother’s poem is crucial to finding the killer, I’ll need something stronger. Bitter will do. I’d offer to stand you a pint, but I imagine that’s not considered ethical,” she said.

“No, nor gentlemanly,” he said, surprising himself.

“We’ll go Dutch,” she said, getting up from her desk and walking around to take down her coat and cram her barely fashionable hat upon her head. The coat flapped around her legs, obscured in a pair of drab tweed trousers, an unremarkable pair of brogues on her feet. She was beautiful.

“We haven’t much time,” she said, passing him at the door.

“I know it’s late. You must have an early surgery tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant. I ship out in a few weeks,” she said.

“France?”

“France,” she said. “I never wanted to go before. And now I can hardly wait.”

“I won’t waste your time,” he said.

“No, I don’t think you will,” she replied.

[akashis-waifu]

Excerpt from Beyond God and Evil (Aizen Sōsuke/Female Reader)

Continuation of An Eternity of Mind Games with You

Canon-divergence set months after TBYW. Reader is the new Soul King, so is Aizen if you squint hard enough. Your name is "Hana" for plot-purposes.

Tags: Romantic comedy, fluff and angst, enemies to old married couple, banter as love language, mutual pining, immortality, so good luck with the slow burn, Aizen is a menace but your menace <3

THAT NIGHT, in the Greater Soul King Palace, Aizen can be seen looking for you as you were not in your shared office nor in your personal quarters. He eventually finds you in the tearoom, reading a scroll while leisurely sitting on the tatami mat, near the window.

He stops himself from speaking, simply staring at you from a short distance away. You are already dressed in your usual nightwear — a white yukata so plain that it does not seem to befit a woman of your status. Nonetheless, with the gentle moonlight shining down upon your form and accentuating your regal yet serene features, the soothing breeze swaying your long, ivory strands in languid waves, the sight is incontestably ethereal — the image akin to a goddess in a painting.

Except that you are actually one. In every sense of the word.

After minutes of engrossed reading, you rise to return to the table when you finally notice Aizen standing in the doorway. He saunters towards you and stops in front of the low table, his eyes — that were previously appreciative — instantly narrowing in disdain upon sighting the poorly-written characters on the scattered papers.

“Can you, for the hundredth time, get off my case?” you groan while taking a seat.

He makes no retort and merely picks up your calligraphy brush and a blank paper, demonstrating how to write characters properly before handing the brush back to you.

“Like this. Do it again,” he commands, sounding like a stern teacher dealing with a wayward student. You repeat his strokes but the result is nowhere near satisfactory. You glance at him gingerly.

Although the displeased frown is ever-present on his face, he surprisingly does not insult you and simply sits beside you.

“Again.”

This time, he carefully guides your hand, pressing against your knuckles and fingers as he adjusts your grip. It is arguably an intimate gesture yet both of you pay it no mind, your entire focus on your calligraphy.

Strange enough, when he moves your hand along with his, you are able to write beautiful characters. But when left alone, your penmanship is almost comparable to that of a toddler. Hence, it is probably no exaggeration to claim that your innate inability to write legibly remains to be one of the greatest mysteries in the Three Realms.

Aizen observes your crestfallen expression. A mischievous idea suddenly crosses his mind, causing a smirk to spread across his face.

“Shall we make this more interesting? Every time you fail to write correctly, you will have to do one thing I want.”

You regard him with an look that screams you find his suggestion idiotic. “You must be out of your mind if you think I will ever agree to that.”

He leans closer to you, his grin widening in taunt. “Why? Do you have zero confidence in your own writing skills?”

“Your obvious provocation won't work on me.”

Aizen simply stares at you for a moment before leaning back with feigned nonchalance. “Shame. And here I was thinking of treating you to your favorite restaurant for the next decade should you win.”

Your ears instantly perk up at his offer. “Really?”

He barely stops himself from laughing derisively at your piqued interest. The way you fell for such an obvious bait, like a child who has been promised a treat, was downright pitiful.

“Do you accept the challe—?”

“Wait a minute,” you interject with a hand raised. “But your money technically comes from the Soul King Palace.”

“Which is my palace,” he argues with arms crossed over his chest. “Your point is?”

“It actually belongs to me but since I’m feeling particularly generous right now, I will share it with you,” you start rambling to buy yourself more time to consider his offer. “Anyway, your money is my money. Even if you say that you’ll treat me—”

“Hana. Do you want the unagi or not?”

Your mouth instantly shuts at his question and the way he called your name, sternly but also in a familiar manner. After a long moment of silent contemplation, you surrender with a sigh.

“Fine, but make it a millennium.”

He raises an eyebrow at your bold haggling. “Five decades.”

“Millennium.”

“A century.”

“A millennium, Aizen,” you declare with finality. “I refuse to play your game unless you agree.”

“Alright,” he relents. “I’ll treat you for the next one thousand years if you win.”

However, unbeknownst to you, the game is but a scheme, as per usual, to make you spend more time with him in the next decade — which you unknowingly extended to a millennium. Aizen smiles to himself, beyond pleased to witness you digging your own grave.

“Then, let the challenge begin.”

After handing you the brush and paper, he gives you the first character to write. You have never been so focused in your life as you are determined to win at all costs. However—

“Huh?” you mutter in disbelief as you stare at your own disastrous handwriting.

Aizen smirks, having seen your failure coming from a mile away. He already has an order in mind but feigns uncertainty to prolong your agony. His index finger drums the table, pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmm, shame. What should I make you do now?”

You watch him with narrowed eyes, already well-acquainted with his antics. “Stop beating around the bush and say it already.”

“How about this?” he deliberately pauses for dramatic effect. “I want you to say ‘All hail Lord Aizen, the new Soul King of the Three Realms’ ten times.”

A deafening silence falls upon the room as you meet his taunting gaze with a bemused expression. When he shows no indication of changing his command, you unwillingly surrender but not without a catch.

“All hail Lord Aizen, the self-proclaimed new Soul King of the Three Realms,” you deadpan.

Obviously, Aizen is far from impressed. “If you refuse to adhere to the terms, you will not get that unagi even if you win.”

With your beloved meal held hostage, you grit your teeth in annoyance and reluctantly heed his order. The grimace on your face worsens as you watch his shit-eating grin widen with every repetition you make, his head nodding with purposeful slowness to further grate your nerves.

Once you’re finished, he praises you with a sarcastic applause. “Well done, Hana. I never knew you appreciated me that much.”

You hiss under your breath and impatiently pick up the brush, glaring down at the empty paper, determined to win the next challenge. However—

As Aizen has predicted, you still fail at your second attempt. And miserably at that.

Slamming your hands down onto the table, you stare at the paper with profound disbelief, eyeing the barely decipherable scribbles as if wanting to wipe them from existence. How is it even possible to be that bad at something that was supposedly easy to do?

At the realization that you lost to him again, you look down, refusing to meet his gaze due to humiliation.

Aizen only sighs before shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I’m starting to think that you’re losing on purpose so I can get to order you around.”

“Please shut your mouth and just get on with it,” you beseech almost pathetically.

Thus, without further ado, he declares:

“You have to sit in my lap for the rest of your calligraphy practice.”

[sio-writes]

hello!! i just recently discovered your writing and i am really, really enjoying reading through it! ❤️ i have oodles of questions, but mostly i'm curious about: do you have unpublished/unwritten stories that you've been dying to talk/vent about? and what kinds of media do you take the most inspiration from?

Oooh I have so many things I wanna talk about!!

Firstly, I've been leaving tags and I have an excerpt that I've shared for my latest project Blood and Bourbon (working title) about the relationship between our MC Elliot who's a vampire, and his love interest Mathias, an immortal. Originally it was meant to be a oneshot, but 6k words turned into 10k, and then turned into almost 14k, and that's when I had a talk with my brain like, "Okay!! New project, you win!" Except now, when I try to dig for a plot within the chopped up remains of this oneshot, I look to my characters and they just. Shrug. I have the threads of a conflict in the works, but that's about it? The oneshot had a very specific, very contained, A-to-B storyline that was character specific, so now, trying to stretch out towards external motivations has been. Work. I don't have any plans to post it soon, maybe early 2024? I want to write a good buffer for once so we don't go another *checks notes* ugh, six months without a serial update. I also made a promise that I won't start any new serials without finishing at least one current one, so I'm going to finish up Into the Woods before anything else.

Next WIP has been in the background for nearly six months now, and it's the DND-based romantasy with mine and my roommate's characters. My temp title is Of Course, Darling but I'm not sold on it. It doesn't roll off the tongue. This is one I've been chipping away at whenever I have the free time, and...it's a beast. I love worldbuilding, I really do, but starting from the ground up (to avoid copyright issues with WotC as I plan to sell this) is very time-consuming and energy-draining, but I'm so excited for it. This is also an m/m novel between Nyx, a shapeshifter with a bounty on his head and a dead sister to avenge, and Kaivus, a tiefling* who joins Nyx to help, but his services have never come free, and he's strangely without his magic. It's an annoyance-to-lovers with a dash of romantic history, magic lessons, and found family as they pick up more adventurers their journey. I really like this one, I'm so excited to have this one going because it hits all the romantasy buttons that I personally haven't found in mldern novels.

*in name only, I've been calling them Fiends, but that still feels too close? I don't want to just call them demons

As far as inspiration, I adore the way tumblr user/not-poignant characterizes and slow burns and pretty much everything skfjsj. Their smut and BDSM is top tier as well. Heavy trigger warning for their content, though, it gets intense!

My next biggest inspiration is probably movies in general, horror in specific. I love the stories that can be told across the board and I love the different ways they can be told, even by the same person! Horror, for me, is a big mash of every movie that could be considered such. I love Blumhouse and A24 alike, I find joy both in the splattergore of the Saw series (it's a personal favorite tbh) and the slow psychological burn of Midsommar. But I love the different ways the genre as a whole can address the same issue in different ways. I like the catharsis that comes with a good, well thought out story.

I also used to watch a lot of youtube channels like Jenny Nicholson, Lidndsay Ellis, Folding Ideas, Nerdwriter1, LftS, basically any kind of academic-leaning analysis of media, particularly visual media and movies in specific. I used to consume how different movies did things effectively/not so much, and how to make it better, I even wanted to write my own story boards for an animatic at one point! I think a lot of that taught me to analyze media a little more critically and also in how I structure stories.

There's probably dozens more little things I'm missing, books I've read I want to emulate, other writers that haven't popped up in my mind, there's probably hundreds.

I'm so glad you're liking everything, though! Your comments make me smile every time I look at them :D

[danceswithdarkspawn]

Hey, Dances! Coming in hot!

1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)

(I really wanna know so I can start reading your stuff, your excerpt yesterday really enticed me!)

10. How do you decide what to write?

16. What’s an AU you would love to read (or have read and loved)?

33. If you write chaptered fics, what’s your ideal chapter length to write? Is it different from your ideal chapter length to read?

Don't wanna give you too much, so these four should be good! Nice running through your inbox, Dances!

Oh boy, so I have a few different things. Currently, a couple of longfics that are written from different characters and POVs (one in 1st, another in 3rd limited). A lot of my works tend to tiptoe around angst and might be heavy reads. If you want the lightest possible smack with the angst bat, Two of Swords or A Small Victory would probably be best. If you wanna go full-tilt on the angst bat with some idiot slow-burning forever, Broken Bird. This is the first-person POV fic that I'm writing. 10. If we're talking about creating new things, I don't generally get ideas I want to write all that often, or if I do, they go in my notes folder. From there, if I have the time, I pick something that's enticing or that I've been itching to read myself (or just wont leave me the hell alone) and go from there. As to deciding which of my ongoing projects to work on, it honestly depends on the headspace I'm in. I prioritize my longfics over any shorter pieces because I want to finish those. Ultimately, I decide based on what I feel like writing at that moment. 16. I once read an AU in which the events that started Dragon Age: Inquisition (i.e. the Conclave blowing up) never happened. While the fic itself didn't delve too far into that aspect and instead explored something else, I think it sets up a lot of "well what now?" types of scenarios. I'd also be incredibly interested in an AU in which one or more characters comes back from the dead, basically, but they come back...wrong somehow, and can't or won't articulate that to people around them. 33. My written chapter lengths have been anywhere from 2.7k to 8k, but generally I try to hit between 4-5k. Generally speaking, I prefer to read the same length (4-5k), however, if I'm enjoying the story enough, I will read almost any length. I just might need a break depending on the length.

[kinetic-elaboration]

February 6: Time Loop Ch 3 Excerpt

Aaaah, I'm tired. Had a day today. Started out very anxious, was almost toooo productive at work, spent a good chunk of time on my way home getting way too into this idea for a Daria fic that I probably won't write but sort of want to write but definitely don't know how to write... we'll see.

Hopefully I'll have a more normal day tomorrow and also an earlier night--as I say every evening.

Here's an excerpt from the Time Loop--Chapter 3 coming soon!

*

She tugs at Murphy's jacket. "Let's go," she orders, and he murmurs a low whatever you say, like he's under the impression she likes his subservience. They take the path going straight, don't turn until they hit the second intersection, and only then, properly hidden between the towering, green-yellow stalks, does she let go of him and put some space between them.

"You don't need to be in such a hurry to ditch me," Murphy grumbles, rolling his shoulders like their awkward, three-legged monster routine gave him a crick in his neck. She hasn't paused in the slightest, so he has to jog to catch up to her. "You're not a fan of corn mazes, are you?"

"I'm more of an open-spaces person," she answers, which isn't an admission.

"Got it." He lets her get a few paces ahead on the narrow, dirt path, then reaches out for her wrist—not her hand but just her wrist, over her jacket sleeve, half-swings her around and slows her down. "Pump the breaks, Speed Racer. Don't want you burning out too fast."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means if you keep picking random paths and going down them full speed ahead, we're going to be here a while. Come on." He lets go of her wrist, bumps his shoulder against hers instead, a gesture that makes them feel like old friends. His smile is crooked and annoyingly endearing. Only half meaning to, she lets her step fall in with his.

"So you know how to get out of here?" she asks, after a moment.

"No. Not really. But there's probably a trick. You'll figure it out if you get out of your own head."

[maudus1]

Two things: 1. Can you share some of the wips and fic ideas you’ve got squirreled away on your laptop with us? 🥺 2. I wish you loved your writing as much as I love your writing and self doubt or overthinking stuff didn’t hold you back from posting. You are so talented!! Don’t let your brain tell you otherwise!!!

Thank you sm 😭🥺

Sure, I can share some stuff! I have a doc I fling ideas into whenever they hit me, no matter how detailed or small or stupid. PWPs, crack, AUs, slow burns, fix-its, etc. They're usually little more than stream of consciousness rambling, and sometimes just a link, or song lyrics, a reddit thread, meme, or fanart - whatever inspired me in the moment and made me think, "I should revisit this later."

To give you an idea what the former looks like (though I'll be honest, this is tidier than most lol):

Psychologist/Client Modern AU

Premise: Obi-Wan realizes he’s becoming attracted to his beautiful young client and tries to refer him to another doctor. Little does he know, Anakin has been harboring a crush for years.

Anakin comes in one day for a session and Obi-Wan seems off somehow, nervous almost. It's unlike him. Immediately, Anakin is wary. Before he has a chance to say anything, Obi-Wan gets right to the point and tells him he's referring him to another doctor. Anakin demands to know why and he won't give him a straight answer, or at least not one Anakin believes. He's heartbroken, but the more Obi-Wan dodges his questions, the more frustrated he becomes. Obi-Wan opens the door and tells him he should probably go.

As Anakin is passing by, he gets a little too close, and that's when he notices it. A hitch in Obi-Wan's breath, dilated pupils. And he knows. There's no way he's letting it go now. So he tests his theory. Boxes Obi-Wan in. Obi-Wan is becoming increasingly agitated, holy shit he's actually stammering - that never happens - not to him, the man who's always so smooth and professional and careful with his words.

“If you're referring me,” Anakin says, leaning closer, “I guess I'm not your patient anymore then, am I?" 

Obi-Wan blinks, eyes falling briefly to Anakin’s lips. “No,” he breathes, “I suppose you aren't.”

Anakin grins. "Good.”

And then they kiss! Blah blah blah cue the hot desk sex.

Okay, the rest of this got pretty long so I'm dropping the WIPs under the cut.

First, there's Troubled Water. I have bits of multiple chapters written already but most of my focus is of course on chapter 4. Idk why but I've been struggling with it. 😅 It takes place on a different point in the timeline than originally intended (it was actually ch3 but what was supposed to be a flashback ended up turning into an entire scene of its own and thus the whole club disaster lol). It's, again, so long that it will probably end up split into two chapters but as of right now I'm kinda wingin' it.

And am I being entirely self-indulgent by using my own OCs (and some friends')? Yes.

I'm a writer, I can do anything.

Also I just thought it'd be cool to introduce a new species or two lol. The GFFA is vast okay, there's always room for more. Anyway, here's an excerpt:

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Da’riel of Clan Sarel. You have already met my Captain. The big guy behind you is my personal bodyguard. Don’t mind him, he only looks terrifying.” His grin takes on a mischievous edge as Bull huffs what might be a grunt or a laugh and he gestures toward the room he just emerged from. “And last but certainly not least—”

Another Dua’vian materializes in the doorway as though summoned, leaning her shoulder against the architrave. Her hair catches Anakin’s attention first; red as Queen’s Heart blossoms, it cascades in thick waves around shoulders draped in the black silk of a shirt several times too large to be hers, its hem halting mid-thigh. Her legs are bare beneath it.

Cheeks flaming, Anakin turns his gaze resolutely away.

“—this absolute vision is Liv Viventoly. If Preia is my right hand, Liv is my left.”

“What does that mean,” Anakin blurts, and everyone looks at him. Though Obi-Wan never rolls his eyes, the expression on his face is about as close as he gets to it. It’s a very particular brand of fatigue and mild annoyance entirely unique to his master, translated via a blank stare and slightly raised brows. He doesn’t even have to hear the “Honestly, Anakin,” aloud to know that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

“It means”—Liv straightens, smirking—“that I work in the shadows.” Anakin flinches back as she saunters past him and slides smoothly onto one of the tall stools at the well-stocked bar.

Like that answers anything. Why is everyone so cryptic all the time?

“What’s important is that while you’re here, know that you can trust them as I do,” Dua’primia Sarel says.

Obi-Wan nods, though Anakin senses apprehension through their bond. “We appreciate your hospitality, Dua’primia. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is—”

Anakin jolts forward. “Anakin Skywalker. We are at your service, my Lord.”

Sarel looks at his proffered hand with something like amusement and glides past Obi-Wan to clasp it with his. This close, he realizes the Dua’vian is an inch or two taller than himself—being somewhat tall for a human, it’s not an experience Anakin has often—and his eyes are a vibrant peridot green, accentuated by the black markings curving elegantly around the angles of his face that remind Anakin a bit of a Zabrak’s. A vicious scar bisects one eye from brow to cheek, long healed but still pink against his fair complexion, and Anakin spares a second to wonder if he got it during the war.

“Please,” he says, and is it just Anakin’s imagination, or did his voice lower in timbre? “Let us do away with such formalities. Call me Da’riel.” 

Anakin swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Oh—okay. Da’riel,” he repeats stiffly, hoping he isn’t completely butchering the pronunciation. By the way the man beams, he thinks he did alright. Da’riel releases his hand slowly, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of his inner wrist before Anakin withdraws it behind his poncho. He glances sidelong at Obi-Wan, but his master’s expression is as inscrutable as ever.

“Well then,” Da’riel declares with a brisk clap, making his way to the bar, “drinks?”

“Can we get down to business, please?” Preia says, rolling her eyes. 

“Such a spoilsport. Would it surprise you to know she isn’t always this uptight?” Chuckling, Da’riel uncaps a sapphire-blue crystal decanter and waves it beneath his nose. “Normally my dear Captain is the one pouring the liquor.”

“And I’ll drink you under the table like always once this threat is dealt with.”

“I shall hold you to that, my friend. And you, Jedi?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replies, a little too quick to be casual. “Thank you.” Anakin shoots him an inquisitive glance. 

“Ah.” Da’riel nods sagely. “So the rumors are true.”

“Da’riel—” Preia hisses.

“What?” Da’riel looks around at everyone, not contrite in the least. 

And his master was concerned that Anakin would be the one to say or do something culturally insensitive. He hides a quiet snicker behind his hand, pretending to rub his nose, and Obi-Wan gives him an unamused look before schooling his expression back to its artificial serenity. 

“Please excuse him,” Preia says, hip cocked, a finger rubbing against her temple. “He’s very—”

Liv butts in, “Reckless, blunt, uncouth?” 

Da’riel merely laughs, and Anakin can feel that it’s genuine. This is not at all the fearsome war General, leader of a revolution, and ruler of an entire planet that Anakin imagined. He seems close to these people, treats them more as equals and friends than subordinates or subjects, yet there’s still an aura about him that commands attention and respect as power or royalty would. 

Preia smirks. “Too honest for his own good.”

Whatever it is, Anakin doesn’t sense cruel intent coming from the Dua’primia, just honest curiosity. Despite the glare his master is drilling into the side of his head like he knows what Anakin is going to do, he can’t help asking, “What rumors?” 

“That you’re, er, monks,” Preia says, chuckling to mask embarrassment on behalf of her comrade and her own curiosity. 

“You know.” Liv sips at the drink Da’riel just poured her, not looking at them as she speaks, and Anakin leaks a pulse of unease into the Force. There’s something about her he simply can’t put his finger on. “No drinking, no fu—”

“Fun!” Preia hastily interjects, staring daggers at the other redhead. 

The corners of Anakin’s mouth twitch into a partial frown. They aren’t entirely wrong. He has his own… issues with the Order, with following rules that often either don’t make sense to him or directly conflict with his own ingrained beliefs. But it rankles for some reason, like he’s being judged, like they’re being judged. Mocked, even, though he doesn’t quite discern their meaning. Jedi are guardians of peace and justice within the galaxy. Maybe he doesn’t agree with the way the Order does things sometimes, but without them, without Anakin and Obi-Wan, the world would fall to disorder. To the dark side. People should be grateful—

“We are simply tired from our journey,” Obi-Wan interrupts his thoughts, sidling close enough that their shoulders graze, and Anakin exhales.

“My apologies, Jedi,” Da’riel says sincerely. “I am merely intrigued by your culture, as I’m sure you are of ours.” Obi-Wan bows his head in acceptance. “The hour is late. Preia?”

She hands Obi-Wan a datapad. “This contains an updated blueprint of the palace and map of the city, including the hidden exits and underground tunnels. I’ve marked the positions of my officers for each shift rotation as well as their schedules.”

Obi-Wan hums, stroking his beard as his eyes flit over the information on the screen. “And the evening of the festival?” 

“We’re tripling security, pulling from both the palace guard and local law enforcement.”

“How many of them know we’re here?” Anakin says.

There’s a knock at the door before she can answer, and Bull moves to open it, standing back to allow someone entry. It's a man Anakin recognizes. Tall and broad, with neatly-combed dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a kind yet serious face. His attire perfectly matches the regal demeanor flowing off him in waves, fine tailored robes of pewter-blue that swish around matching trousers as he walks. When his eyes land on Obi-Wan, a fond grin meets Obi-Wan’s public, Jedi-persona equivalent; a small, polite smile, though his eyes twinkle with equally affectionate mirth as Senator Bail Organa bends to his height to trade light kisses upon each cheek. 

Anakin knows from experience that it’s just a traditional Alderaanian greeting; it doesn’t mean anything. The Senator is a happily married man. And he’s pretty sure Obi-Wan hasn’t been involved with anyone in years, if ever. Whatever illicit affair he’d thought his master had with Vos was obviously just fueled by his own overactive imagination. He knows this because Obi-Wan never did meet the Kiffar before he shipped out for his next mission, and he hasn’t been alone with Vos since. Obi-Wan even stopped going to bars and clubs; stopped going out much at all, in fact, aside from diplomatic dinners and stuff they do on missions. Otherwise, he mostly stays with Anakin, and that’s exactly how Anakin likes it. 

None of that prevents the irritation boiling within his veins or the tormenting memory of a kiss that’s burrowed its way into his very soul, a kiss that should have never been, and the hollow, bitter pang that always follows in its wake.

Goosebumps prickling the flesh at his nape, he glances around and finds Da’riel leaning back lazily against the front of the bar on one elbow, sipping his drink and watching Anakin intently. Face flushing with heat, he plops into one of the plush chairs and out of the Dua’primia's view.

“Obi-Wan. As always, it is a pleasure to see you.”

“And you as well, Bail.”

“Now that everyone is here,” Preia says, “shall we get started?”

This is Da'riel btw:

"But there are no elves in Star Wars," one might say. Well guess what: there are now. 😌

Preia and Liv belong to @jacklyn-flynn & @charlatron respectively.

As for other WIPs; there's one I started before Troubled Water, though my focus was drawn to TW instead so it's been put on the backburner for now. The original idea was some kind of canon-divergent time-travel fix-it, but in the sense that Vaderkin's consciousness from the end of RoTJ returns to his body around the end of the Mortis arc in The Clone Wars. Can't say why that inspired me but it did lol, it felt like a pivotal moment (one of the shatterpoints I like to theorize about, change one thing and they're all altered via butterfly effect etc).

Like, what if he lived the future shown to him in that vision that the Father erased, and how would he react differently afterward, how would he talk to Obi-Wan and Ahsoka about what they went through on Mortis and the implications if he actually, finally understood and believed that he was indeed the Chosen One, how would they approach the Sith situation and the war from that point on... yeah I just have a lot of thoughts idk. I know that arc isn't a fan favorite but I personally loved the metaphor and the entire Prophetic Greek Tragedy vibe.

Excerpt:

“General Skywalker, come in.”

He feels… strange. Heavy yet impossibly lighter. Awareness presses down around him, suffocating, and a sharp pain lances through his skull as he draws the first shuddering breath in what feels simultaneously like mere minutes and several millennia. His mouth is dry, his throat sore, and his eyes burn as he slowly blinks into wakefulness. The crust of sleep clings to his long lashes, the salt-stained skin upon his cheeks pulling uncomfortably as he moves. He rubs them with a gloved hand and groans at the bright flashing lights of a console as they sharpen into focus. 

Wait—

He has a body. 

Moments ago he was formless and adrift, yet he is once again whole. And before that, he was… he was…

Kriff, he has hands. Hands he sees unfiltered, rather than through a tinted transparisteel visor protecting damaged retinas. And he’s breathing. Unassisted by a mechanical apparatus, by endless tubes and wires, no longer submerged under the ceaselessly distracting harsh rasp of a ventilator. Fingers flexing inches before his face, he blinks again, stunned. Not only does he have a body, but it’s his body. His limbs—well, with the exception of one. His gaze drifts slowly down to his long legs, toes curling experimentally in his boots. The sheer relief of it sends him reeling. 

Red light glints off his leather tabards and he looks up, expecting that any moment now, this will all prove another dream, a nightmare; a life free of that shell dangled temptingly before him only to be snatched away again. But the scene does not change. Dazed, he assesses his surroundings. A ship. He's on a ship? Familiar, Republic make. And there is a presence in the Force, a presence he has not felt in—

Hours. Years. An eternity.

Breath held, he turns. Only his head; as though any attempt to move this foreign yet thrillingly familiar youthful body will snap him out of this vision, send him back to that… that hell. And as he does, he sees him, a shining beacon of pure light, warm and bright and soothing. A man in beige robes, slumped in the co-pilot’s chair beside him, just beyond arm’s reach. Legs akimbo, elbows perched upon the armrests, hands dangling limply over his lap. His bearded chin is tucked to his chest which rises and falls in the slow, steady rhythm of unconsciousness. Auburn hair spills across his forehead, obscuring his eyes. But he would know this man anywhere.

Obi-Wan.

The desperate beat of his heart and rough, relieved exhale that escapes his lips seems thunderously loud in the otherwise silent cockpit. Fresh tears springing to his eyes, he attempts to stand—to go to him, to sweep Obi-Wan into his arms and feel his warmth, to surround himself with his scent and know for certain that he’s here, he's real, he’s alive—only to wobble and collapse back into the seat like a fawn testing new legs for the first time. 

How is this happening?

He feels himself, and not himself. As though he took a nap and awoke with another lifetime sliced into his brain, a vision he can't shake, an overwrite of his programming, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between it and the reality he's presented with the more he struggles to process it—

A flicker of blue dances in his periphery, repeating a question, and it is only with great reluctance that he tears his eyes away from his former Master. The holo-projection of another man stands at attention in the center console, brow furrowed with worry. Fondness and guilt and confusion flood him with equal measure as he takes in his Captain’s, his friend’s, appearance. 

“General Skywalker, do you read me?”

Skywalker.

The voice of the last person to call him by that name, in that other life, echoes in his mind. It is the name of your true self, you have only forgotten. The son he tried to kill, to corrupt, to save. The son who saved him, and in the end, returned him to the light. Luke.

Clearing his parched throat, he responds, “I—we read you, Rex,” and marvels at the sound of his own voice, so crisp and clear and young, without the distortion of that burdensome helmet. “You—you’re a sight for sore eyes. Can you hear me?”

Fabric rustles behind him and he instinctively reaches for the lightsaber at his hip before the sleepy, curious brush of another Force signature meets his own. Gasping, he whips around in the flight chair.

“Ahsoka!”

She winces, rubbing her tired eyes. “Not so loud, Skyguy,” she says on the back end of a yawn, glancing around the cockpit. “What happened? We were—-mmphh!” Her surprised grunt is muffled against his shoulder as he all but falls out of his seat to the floor at her feet and drags her into his arms, then his lap, cradling her like a child. 

Face buried in her soft lekku, he squeezes her close to his chest, body wracked with silent sobs. All he’d wanted was to protect Ahsoka. To mentor her, as his master before him, and give her the tools she needed to protect herself and innocents across the galaxy. Brilliant, kind, stubborn and strong, and so, so wise beyond her time, she became one of the most talented Jedi he had ever met. Though they’d gotten off to a rocky start, she made him proud, made him feel honored to be her master. Watching her leave the Order tore his heart in two. Watching her leave him destroyed him. Already he’d been questioning the Council, questioning the Order as a whole and their damn inflexible code. But more than that, he questioned himself. He’d failed as her master, failed as a Jedi. 

The memories haunt him. For months he examined the shatterpoints of their lives together, in hindsight—every lesson taught, every battle fought, wondering where he went wrong, what he could have done differently, how he could have fixed things, helped her, kept her close—spiraling down, down into the depths of his own torment and self-loathing. Without Ahsoka, Obi-Wan had been his only remaining tether to the Jedi. To the light. A tether broken, in the end, by his selfishness. By jealousy and hatred and greed, by the fear of abandonment, loss, and… deep, shameful, unrequited feelings. 

But here she is, right here in the secure circle of his arms. His beloved young padawan, the girl he’s come to cherish like a friend, a sister, who he’d met lightsaber for lightsaber in that dark future but even then, corrupted as he was, could not bring himself to kill because he loved her so. Loves her still.

“Master?” Ahsoka murmurs, hands hanging limp at her sides for several seconds before hesitantly returning his embrace with equal strength. Too often preoccupied with and separated by the war, the opportunities to shown her such open affection were far and few between, usually coming after particularly difficult missions, brief brushes with death, and how kriffed up is that? Filled with regret, he promises himself here and now that will change. 

“Are you…” Trailing off, she reaches up to slowly pet his hair and he releases a quiet sigh, finally pulling back to look at her. Her eyes are wide and worried and so very, terrifically, blue. “Master, what’s wrong?”

Letting out a soft chuckle, he shakes his head. “Nothing, Snips.” The old nickname rolls off his tongue without even thinking and his heart clenches, this time with both pain and joy. “Nothing at all. Everything is perfect.”

There’s a crackle of static behind them, then, “Ah, General Kenobi. It’s good to see you, sir. Are you three alright? General Skywalker seems—”

He lifts his gaze to the co-pilot’s chair. Obi-Wan is awake and perched upright in front of the holo, staring silently at them with a frown so achingly familiar a tangled web of affection, longing, pain, betrayal swells within his chest. It hurts, it hurts so much to look at Obi-Wan like this, yet now that those eyes are open and trained so intently on him, he can’t tear his own away. And Obi-Wan’s just as beautiful as ever, just as heart-wrenchingly perfect and good. 

Too late, he remembers that their bond, while not as strong as it had once been, remains. Unlike most master and padawan pairs after the apprentice reaches knighthood, neither he nor Obi-Wan could bring themselves to sever it. They were at war, their connection was vital. It made them a better team. Until— 

His mental shields slam into place but not before Obi-Wan arches a single brow, lips parting as if to repeat Rex’s inquiry. 

“I’m fine,” he rushes to cut Obi-Wan off, “we’re all fine. Just, uh—where are you?” 

He can only beg the Force that his former master and current padawan did not feel too much, did not see the torment buried within him. By the way they appear to be communicating with one another like whispers behind closed doors, however, he’s sure they will have questions. Questions he doesn’t know how to answer. Letting go of Ahsoka, he clambers to his feet, limbs still trembling, and drops heavily back into the pilot’s chair.

“Standing by, sir. We were worried. You were,” Rex hesitates, “off the scopes there for a moment.”

Memories hit him in a rush. Chaotic, lacking order. He's in a dark room with his dead mother whispering poison in his ear. On a balcony overlooking a pristine lake, flowers scenting the air, one hand rising to touch soft skin. In a junkyard, fingers covered in mech oil, the ever-present grit of sand between his molars. At an opera listening to the viper beside him spit lies, lies, lies. The sky above shifts rapidly from day to night, and he's lost in a spinning whirlpool of stars and the obscene rush of power he feels as he brings gods to their knees. Then he's watching the silhouette of a robed man against the backdrop of sunset thinking look at me, look at me, please look at me, I need you—

Sifting through them is a struggle. Everything blurs together, and he can't control what comes or when, skull throbbing from the effort. His thoughts, his feelings, are an amalgamation of eras he can't quite reconcile; the slave boy, the padawan learner, the Jedi Knight, the General, the Sith Lord. It's too much, it's too much and he doesn't know who or what he is anymore and the panic is rising— 

A comforting hand settles upon his shoulder and he opens his eyes. Ahsoka.

“A moment?” Obi-Wan says, still staring at him. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under that all-too perceptive gaze. At length, his master turns to the holo. “We’ve been gone far longer than a moment.”

Rex’s eyes flit between them. “Sir, I don’t understand. You’ll need to explain.”

Ahsoka snorts. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”

Still have a lot of mental fleshing out to do before it goes anywhere but there ya have it.

May the Force be with you, always!

As for the first part of your comment, really, thank you. It's not that I don't love my writing so much as the process can be difficult at times. 😅 I'm a perfectionist, and not by choice so much as my brain simply won't let things go until they feel right. Even after publishing something I have a very bad habit of going back in and editing it a dozen more times. It's very annoying! 😂

Sometimes that single-minded focus gets me stuck in a huge rut because I'm too zoned in on trivialities to navigate back to the big picture. Basically writer's block is the worst feeling ever and sometimes I get down about not being as productive as I should be. But I do love writing, and making people happy with my work gives me a lot of joy and motivation to keep at it. Well, I should probably get back to work on TW but I hope you enjoyed the excerpts! All your kind words made me smile and I'm gonna try to carry that positivity with me. 🥰

[spicycreativity]

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 6

Chapter: 6/12 Additional Notes: See Ch 1 for more information. Read on AO3 under "WizardGlick." Any formatting/italics errors are holdovers from AO3 that I was too lazy to fix. Chapter Content Warnings: Derealization, general depictions of illness Excerpt: "But he asked," Patton said. "He never asks for anything, he just kinda… talks around it until you figure it out on your own." It occurred to Janus, briefly, to defend himself, but there was no judgement in Patton's tone. There was only a heavy sorrow.

They call me Starburner, but they don't know me none They say I'm burnin' up the galaxy Starburner? Ha, what a travesty I'm just seekin' out amnesty (No one can save your soul) Oh, no (No one can save your soul) Oh, no! If I am damned, what will become of me? And furthermore, what about your souls?

Awareness. Heat. Nagging soreness in all of his joints. Janus sat up slowly, unsure of what time it was or exactly what he was doing.

He had woken up on the couch again, so… Had they been watching a movie? He didn't remember.

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He'd have to find his hat at some point. The living room lights made halos in his vision, gentle edges on harsh corners. Was this a dream? His mind felt too hazy for it to be anything else, but he never dreamed like this. Unbearable heat raged inside him, pulsing from his chest to his limbs to his extremities; he ripped off his gloves and lifted his shaking hands to undo the clasp of his capelet. He tried for some of his shirt buttons too, but only succeeded in scratching the tender skin of his neck and throat.

Maybe… Water? At the very least he could stand in front of the freezer while he got himself sorted.

Standing made his head spin. When it died down into a gentle, floating sensation, Janus started to walk. It was only a few steps to the kitchen; he just had to weave around the dining room table, turn the corner. It shouldn't have worn Janus out the way it did, but his movements were slow and took effort. Maybe this was a dream.

Patton and Logan were already in the kitchen when Janus arrived: Logan was washing the dishes while Patton sat at the bar. That wasn't right, they shouldn't be out here this late at night. Janus blinked hard and glanced between them. The light flared in his eyes and the water from the sink roared in his ears.

"Janus! You're up!" Patton said, his voice reverberating strangely. The smile slid from his face when Janus met eyes with him. "You don't look so good." He hopped off the barstool and placed the back of his hand to Janus' forehead, then to his cheek. "Oh, honey, I think you're running a fever. Did you take any medicine yet?"

Patton had yet to withdraw his hand from Janus' cheek. Janus touched his fingertips to Patton's palm. His gloves… Had he taken them off? He must have. And now, he traced his bare fingertips across the lines of Patton's palm. "I like that," he mumbled.

"My hand?" Patton asked.

Janus nearly shook his head, but he caught himself. He didn't want to break the spell. "Honey."

"Oh," said Patton. "Oh." He turned away and his hand shifted a few millimeters across Janus' cheek. Janus wrapped his fingers around Patton's, scratching at his own irritated skin with his nails. "Logan," Patton said in a low, hurried tone. "He's burning up."

Janus nodded slowly, unsure of how exactly Patton knew. When he looked up, he caught Logan's eye. When had he finished at the sink? Time passed strangely tonight. Janus thought he should be worried about that.

"Patton, I need you to move, if you would," Logan said.

"He won't let go of my hand," Patton whispered, his face still turned away from Janus.

"Ask him," Logan said.

Patton turned his face back to Janus', and how badly Janus wanted to lean in! Just one chaste kiss, delivered reverently to Patton's lips, nothing more. Why shouldn't he? He had never cared about the effects of his actions on others before. He didn't even know if this was real.

Patton's voice cut through the haze. "Janus, honey, can you let please let go of my hand?"

Janus didn't want to let go, so he didn't. "Come to bed with me," he said to Patton. "That's all I want." The naked honesty slipped for too easily past his lips for this to be anything but a dream.

Patton laughed, high and nervous. "L-Logan? What do I do?"

"Hold still for a moment, please." Logan stepped forward and, leaning awkwardly around Patton, pressed two ice-cold fingers to Janus' neck. Janus released his grip on Patton's hand. The dream ended, even if the white vignette lingered in the corners of his vision. Shame ran hot through his veins.

"Janus." Logan's eyes stared deep into his own. "Do you know where you are?"

"Kitchen," Janus said. Logan's touch had shocked the sleep out of his system and now horror seeped in to take its place. His pride lay in shattered pieces at Patton's feet and Janus winced at the realization of what he had done.

He had let them see him weak.

He had to find a way back now. He had to think fast. But the fever fogged his mind, and he couldn't think of anything to do.

"I…"

His knees buckled and he fell and fell and fell until the gentle touch of his pillow met his cheek.

"Do you really want this, Janus?" Patton asked.

Before Janus could even try to make sense of Patton's question, Logan's voice cut in, "Patton, I advise against sharing a bed with Janus in his current condition. He could be contagious, or the added body heat could increase his current state of discomfort."

"But he asked," Patton said. "He never asks for anything, he just kinda… talks around it until you figure it out on your own."

It occurred to Janus, briefly, to defend himself, but there was no judgement in Patton's tone. There was only a heavy sorrow.

"Do you think he meant it?"

"Hm?"

"He said he liked it when I called him 'honey.' Do you think that was a lie?"

"At present, Patton, I don't have enough data to draw a conclusion on that. I may go speak to Remus to see if he has any insight to offer on the situation, although I don't wish to upset him."

"Oh," said Patton in a voice so small it made Janus' heart wrench beneath his ribs like someone had physically squeezed it.

"But," Logan said, "if…" He sighed and continued in a slightly louder voice, "If you want to know how I feel about it, it seems like an unusual thing to lie about."

"Thanks, Logan." The smile was audible in Patton's voice.

"You're welcome. Now, I'm going to go try to speak with Remus. I don't recommend you stay long; Janus needs to rest."

"Okay, Logan. See you."

It was quiet for a moment. Then Patton's hand came to rest on Janus' cheek. Janus sighed in response, but couldn't bring himself to speak. He didn't even know what he'd say.

"I guess you're probably asleep and can't hear me right now," Patton said. "And I guess I don't really have anything important to say." A pause. Patton's hand withdrew. Paper crinkled and a pen clicked; he was evidently writing a note. "Just… Get better soon, okay? And then we can have a real conversation about whether you want me to call you 'honey.'"

I do, Janus tried to say, but his treacherous tongue refused to move.

Patton sighed and turned out the light.