#write off check

[salarymanwaka]

[post-it-notes7]

happy 4th anniversary heart and soul!

[ruby-static]

Dude caught me taking a screenshot, I'm cooked-

[ekk0klo]

so i just got this super cool tron figure that i didnt knew existed and its now my favorite thing i own :D

[tea-cat-arts]

Shen Yuan getting transported into pidw isn't "the system punishing him for being a lazy internet hater," but instead representative of "step 1 of the creative process: getting so mad at something you decide to go write your own fucking book" in this essay I will

[bitegore]

I made a character sheet to plot your OC's development over time! (There's supposed to be a character name in the big white space next to "over time" but it got eaten a little lmao)

You can use this for whatever you want, and you don't have to credit me. Feel free to change or edit anything you feel like. Please don't tag me if you credit me - just link to the original post.

Credits, explanations & a transparent version under the cut :D

Credits:

The actual image was made with the free NBOS character sheet creator, which is a sort of dated but free and solid text-layout sheet maker intended for ttrpg style character sheet creation.

Fonts used were Bisdak (titles) and Rockwell (body). Both are free! You can use them to fill it out if you like.

Inspired by a comment @maybe-solar-powered-calculator made on this other post about filling it out for characters at multiple points along their arcs. Thanks for putting the idea in my head :D

This is explicitly released under a CC0 1.0 deed, ie: you can do fucking whatever you want with it and I don't care and you don't have to tell anyone where you got it from and no one gets to stop you.

-

Last time I made one of these I got a bunch of questions on all manner of things, and I can never keep up, so I'm just appending a set of notes for how to use it and a glossary because I know some of these phrasings will be confusing.

Ignore or change anything you don't feel like works for you here. You can do whatever you want forever.

Suggested / intended use & general notes:

This sheet could work for something story-level, if you want. But it's really only good for individual arcs; if the character goes through multiple arcs in your story, then they're going to fit poorly here. In that case, you're probably better off doing versions for each arc, or just adapting this to a different format more suited to your thing.

Also, if your arc has a nontraditional structure - divorced from the typical "rising action - climax - conclusion" type of structure where there's a clear 'important turning point' - it may not work as well either.

The mindset section is meant to come at it from a 'golden mean' standpoint - that is, everything on either extreme of the slider is 'too much' and therefore bad. It's not bad-to-good! The far right side is a flaw too. They're only grouped the way they are on basis of the specific OCs I personally had in mind when I put it together.

Growth is labeled 'worse'-to-'better' but it means, like, active decrease in that area vs active increase; if nothing changes, it should stay at the center even if it sucks. The category is about contrasting changes, and sometimes changes are for the worse!

The entire sheet is very deliberately subjective. It should really be answered from the character's perspective - how they feel about it, not what's necessarily true. Technically you can do whatever you want and I can't stop you, but it's a better tool if you approach it from the point of view that the character may believe things that aren't true - that will define their behavior way more than the objective facts of the story.

-

Definitions:

This part is long as hell - recommend using ctrl+f to find the specific words you're stuck on. I defined everything.

General categories:

Mindset: how your character thinks about themself and how they act. Their understanding of their own approach to life. Attitude, viewpoint, decision-making process, that sort of thing.

Circumstances: the relationship between your character and the world around them. Where they are, what that place is like, and how they feel about it.

Growth: how the character and their impact - their attitude, their behavior, their immediate surroundings - changes over time.

Outset: the start of the character's arc.

Present: the 'center' of the arc. If you're planning something ahead of time and it hasn't 'happened' yet, then this is the near future.

End-game: where they are after the conclusion of the arc.

Mindset terms:

Center of the world: "If I have a problem, it's the only thing that matters to me." Self-centered, self-absorbed. Doesn't necessarily mean anything beyond that - they don't necessarily have to be unpleasant to be entirely focused on their own life.

my life isn't relevant: "Everyone else's problems are so significant, I don't pay any attention to my own". Someone who ignores or neglects their own life in service of some other thing, or doesn't consider their own behavior to have any real importance.

Only see enemies: Paranoid. Everyone's out to get them. Anyone who seems nonthreatening is hiding their potential for danger and everyone who seems threatening is a threat. The character must remain ever-vigilant, lest the cashier at the 7/11 suddenly stab them, or their best friend turn out to secretly be trying to poison them to death.

Only see friends: Naïve. Everyone is a good actor who wishes everyone else well, and if they don't seem like they're acting from a place of kindness or care then you probably don't understand what they're up to. The character is pretty sure the stranger holding that knife is, like, someone to chat up maybe, they're clearly only hanging out in this dark alleyway because it's a nice spot and no other possible reason.

overthink everything: Ten thousand thoughts per every single action taken. Maybe they never get around to acting at all. They have to consider every possible outcome. What if by eating lunch they accidentally trigger the apocalypse?! Who's going to think about these things if not them?!?!?!

impulsive to action: Act first, think never. What do you mean "consequences of actions"?

Unilateral decisions: "I will make every choice and no one else's opinions or thoughts are relevant". Discounts outside suggestions. Firmly convinced that they know best in any situation, and will brook no disagreement with their views when it comes to actually doing things.

Command me, please: "I don't know what to do and I don't know what to even start with, someone please tell me what to think". No confidence in their own views. Will not make any decisions unless forced and even then will beg someone else to please tell them what to do. Has no idea what's best and is pretty sure anyone else will have a better idea.

can't ask for help: No one will ever help the character; they have to do everything themself, even the things other people have repeatedly offered to do for them and have much more experience with. Doesn't necessarily mean that no one will help them or that they are explicitly barred by some real-world circumstance; just that, for whatever reason, they refuse to ask for help. This is an attitude thing - will they ever reach out? No? Then they're here.

too reliant on others: Have they ever solved a problem alone? Do they believe they're even capable of doing so? The character all the way at this end of the scale absolutely never expects to be able to do anything themself, has no trust in their ability to solve a problem, and needs someone else to come save them from it. The kind of person who needs ChatGPT to do their homework. Again - doesn't actually mean anyone will help them, or that the people they're relying on are reliable - just that they think they are helpless without ... well, help.

Weapon maker: This has to do with problem-solving strategies and not actual weapons. The weapon-maker is a character who views every situation as a conflict that cannot be de-escalated or solved by cooperation, and responds appropriately. The most fundamental weapon maker character turns everything into an argument, a fight, a war, etc. There are a bunch of other responses to conflict, though - they might avoid problems that need solving because they avoid conflict generally too. Fundamentally what you want to answer here is: when they see a locked box and they don't have the key, do they respond to it the same way they'd respond to someone telling them "you can't open this box"? And how do they respond to that? Typical weapon-maker approaches: - brute-force the box open or try and then give up if it doesn't work; and also get into an argument that might turn physical with the hypothetical person - shrug and give up immediately, in both situations so on and so forth. Another hallmark is that they kind of suck at problem-solving and give up if brute-forcing a problem doesn't work. This is not someone who is picking locks unless someone else told them to - they have one solution, it's to make everything into a conflict, and then to win that conflict by beating them or to give up because they think they'll lose.

Tool maker: This person approaches every situation like it's a puzzle, not a fight - up to and including actual fights. Tool-maker characters generally assume that a situation can be solved by just finding the right approach and doing it the clever way. There's the same fundamental question as above - if your character sees a locked box and has no key, would they approach it differently than someone telling them they're not allowed to open the box? 'Typical' tool-maker approaches: - I can trick the person into giving me the key by saying the right things, and I can also pick the lock because fundamentally there are 'right answers' to both of these - If i make friends with this person, they might change their mind, because now we're cooperating. I can still pick the lock because there are 'right answers' there. - The person has a reason for wanting me not to open the box, so I can definitely figure out what that is and solve the reason so then they'll let me open it. I can take whatever it is even if they really want to keep it if I just find the right answer. I'm going to break this box into little pieces because that's the easiest way to get into it but I could probably open it some other way if that wouldn't work.

A note - the center of this bar is someone who generally has different responses to different kinds of situations - like, in the box example, they'd approach the box and the person with two different general attitudes and processes - but generally responds to those situations using the same kind of decision-making process for each category every time. Most people are nowhere near either extreme. Characters tend to be classifiable into weapon-maker and tool-maker because they are fictional and it's easier to define one kind of approach than many. Approximately average approaches: - pick the lock if no one's around, but give up if someone is there because someone telling me not to open the box is a conflict i think i'll lose but a locked box is just a puzzle that i can solve - argue with the person, but give up on the box, because they're approaching the box as a puzzle and they don't think they have the skill to get into it, but the person is someone who can be convinced or bullied into handing over the key

I made this particular dichotomy up, which is why I think I get a lot of questions on it whenever I put it into anything, but I also don't know of any other snappy way to describe this sort of thought or approach variance, and it's genuinely useful for character writing in my opinion.

Pessimist spot-finder: Generally a downer but not necessarily. This kind of character just approaches everything with a close eye for problems, issues, reasons to find fault. If they're miserable, it might be why, but like, they can be a cheerful spot-finder if you want, I just wanted to get at "the glass is half empty" and "the glass is half full" more than anything.

Optimist upside fan: The opposite. "The glass is half full". If there are problems, they can find something about them that's not so frustrating or bad to focus on. Pretty damn good at overlooking minor issues if there's no reason to fixate on them. Not necessarily cheerful.

Abysmal company: could not give less of a damn about treating people the way they 'should' be treated. Maybe they take pride in that. Maybe they just think it's irrelevant. Either way, they know they treat people badly and they don't see any reason to stop. Does not necessarily mean that they treat people badly if they think they're doing the right thing and are wrong. Doesn't mean they're actually pleasant or unpleasant to hang out with, either, unless you really want it to mean that.

Decent to others: treats people well as a matter of course, or at least they sure think they do. Makes an effort. Would probably care and/or consider changing their behavior if someone said they were treating someone poorly. As before - they can be completely un-self-aware and just think they're doing right by people while treating them completely horribly.

Morality is irrelevant: 'abysmal company' for broader approaches to life and problems. Maybe they just know they're myopic and don't think other people's problems matter. Maybe they just gave up on trying to differentiate between 'good' and 'bad' and outsourced it to someone else or stopped paying any attention. Maybe they just like to take morally unjust actions and can't be bothered giving a damn when someone points out that they're morally unjust, or maybe they're proud of it. Kind of a villain trait generally, but not necessarily - it doesn't have to mean they act badly, just that they don't care if they do. Also, this is about how they choose their own actions and view their own behavior. They can think morality is relevant for other people as long as they ignore it when they act themself.

Always in the right: feels morally righteous in every decision they make. Standard superhero type of trait. Doesn't necessarily pass judgement on others, doesn't necessarily act well according to everyone's moral code (see: blue and orange morality), but they are extremely principled and will never deviate from the moral code they personally believe in. And they do genuinely believe in it.

Circumstances terms:

Generally terrible to generally excellent: how subjectively decent is your character's situation, overall? If they think everything is horrible, but the situation is charmed to everyone except them, then it's generally terrible.

Need for changes to passive tolerance: will they do something about it? Do they feel like they have to?

No agency in action to decisions are huge: agency being "how much power do I have to make changes here?", this just asks how much they have. No agency means that, no matter what they do, nothing will happen - they might be locked in a cage or somehow otherwise completely unable to use any sort of power at all, even the power of just leaving. The other end of the spectrum is where every decision the character makes makes a huge difference, not just to themself but to everyone around them as well. They can start wars, they can have anyone they want killed, they can do anything whenever they feel like it. If they think they have no agency even though they do actually have agency, they don't have agency here. If they feel like they have all the agency in the world and can do anything, then they do even if it's not true. It's perceptual again.

Stakes are deadly to mistakes solvable: what are the consequences of failure? Will you die, will you lose status you can't afford to lose, will you lose belongings, will you have to apologize, will nothing happen at all? Mistakes solvable is where they think every mistake is solvable forever - the character pushes someone through a woodchipper and they come out and to fix it, maybe an apology has to occur, but not much else. Does not necessarily mean no one gets hurt or killed as long as the character thinks there are no permanent consequences. This is the most important one on this section to keep subjective because it will greatly influence how your character approaches situations. A character who thinks everything is deadly-stakes may go to cartoonishly-extreme lengths to avoid turning a report in a day late. A character who thinks all mistakes are always solvable may push someone through a woodchipper and then just assume they can say they're sorry and it'll all go away. The setting and their approach do not need to be applicable.

Needs go unmet to attended with care: how do the people around them treat them? Do they pay attention when the character needs something, or do they ignore it? Does the character have to do everything themself around here, or are there people who will help out?

Regarded poorly to regarded well: how do they think other people see them? Are they respected, are they liked, or are they disliked? Do people broadly trust them or are they pretty sure everyone regards them with suspicion?

Nothing changes to changes in seconds: functionally the 'stability' meter of your setting - is the situation generally stable, or are things constantly changing? Does your character feel like every five minutes, there's a new problem that needs dealing with, or do they feel like nothing has ever happened ever?

Growth terms:

Changes in place: do they go somewhere else? Does the physical setting otherwise change (eg; earthquake, war, etc) ? Are there any other reasons that the 'vibe' or 'experience' of the place is different from before?

Change in power: does the character's percieved agency (see: no agency in action to decisions are huge) change? Alternately you can use it if they've gained or lost power in some percieved way (deposed, assigned a commanding position, etc).

Change in bonds: do their relationships with people change? Have they made new friends, lost old friends, changed the nature of their relationships with friends or partners, etc?

Change in beliefs: straightforwardly, have their beliefs, morals, etc, changed?

Change in hurts: have they undergone some horrible experience? Do they have past trauma from some pre-arc horrible experience they're healing from and/or discovering they're more powerfully subject to? Did they experience a physical injury that they're recovering from or which materially changed their life? Did something recent dredge up old issues? So on and so forth.

Change in hopes: Do their desires for the future look the way they used to? Do they care about different things now? This is something the character is not actively working for, but may be tied to actual goals.

Change in fears: are they overcoming fears? Growing past them? Gaining new ones? Are they scared of shit different from how they used to be?

Change in goals: Not the same as a hope because it needs to have a specific, achievable outcome the character is actively working toward. Do those material goals look different? Perhaps they no longer want to work against something, maybe they didn't have any goals and now they do. Or maybe they've realized the goal is impossible, or something has happened to make that goal unachieveable. Whatever it is, if there's a change, it's a change.

Change in self-awareness: their beliefs about who they are and what they're like, and what their circumstances are. Have they gotten more self-aware, have they gotten less self-aware, or has nothing changed?

Change in relationships: their relationships' overall health and resilience, as far as the character is concerned - which doesn't mean they're necessarily good, just that the character thinks they're how they're supposed to be. Have they improved? Have they gotten worse? Have they not changed?

Change in knowledge: do they feel like they know more about the world, their place in it, the people around them, etc? Not necessarily how to do things - just general information and awareness.

Change in social standing: how does others' regard for the character change over this part of their arc? Do people like them more or less? Are they respected more or less than before? Has nothing changed? And so on.

Change in skills and abilities: do they feel more skilled than they were before? Do they feel like they know how to do as many things as before? Again - not necessarily rooted in reality - a classic example of a character being wrong about this is a 'big fish in a small pond' character who used to be the high school sports star going to college on a sports scholarship and discovering they're not the best any more, and suddenly feeling like they're the worst - when they're better than they've ever been in an objective light. Use a subjective viewpoint for this.

Change in agency in life: how does the character's percieved agency change? Do their decisions matter less now than ever? Do their actions make way more happen than before? (See: no agency in action vs decisions are huge)

Change in outlook: Here's the upper/downer part. Are they more or less hopeful for the future? Do they think things are more terrible now? Are things improving as far as they're concerned? Or has that not changed?

Change in goal progress: how do they feel like they're progressing on the goals they've set for themself? Are they getting further and further away? Are they getting closer?

If some of this doesn't make sense and you want a clarification, you will have to tag me to get my attention, because I'm turning notifications for this post off the minute it leaves my immediate social circle.

Transparent version: (sorry you had to scroll so far)

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Dust to Dust

Chapter WC: 6,865

Chapter Tags/Warnings: angst, once again doing whatever I want with the Force /threatening

A/N: This chapter has been rotating in my brain for almost nine months. I honestly can't believe we've made it this far. I can't believe I've made it this far.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Join the Taglist | Masterlist

Duro, 20 BBY

You've never seen anything like it. You never knew such a thing was even possible.

In just one year, you've seen more death and weapons of destruction than you ever thought possible. Tanks, ships, lasers, even an ion cannon, once. You've lost count of the battles, the planets, the people you've left behind.

But none of it compares to this.

None of it could have prepared you.

The missiles rain down, hitting the surface and exploding with devastating force, striking first outside the wall surrounding the city and moving inward, a fiery trail of devastation that leaves nothing in its wake. Buildings are leveled, entire city blocks reduced to rubble. And the screams are constant, the cries of the wounded and dying mixing with the roar of the bombs. It's a nightmare, a vision of hell brought to life.

Your vision.

You're not sure what you thought it would be like, this cataclysm, but seeing it now brings to life a terror that you never knew existed. A dread so profound, so deep, that it sweeps through you and leaves you breathless and cold. And you understand now, with a clarity that almost brings you to your knees, why the Force showed this to you.

You did this. 

It was your call. Your decision. You led your men here, to this end. You pulled Dash out, you gave the order for him to abandon his post. If it weren't for your choices, they could be safe right now. The shield could have held. The mission could have been completed. The Separatists could have been driven off.

But you chose wrong. You chose attachment, friendship, love, over duty. And now, hundreds, maybe thousands, are paying the price.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the wind. You can't tell if the men heard you, but it doesn't matter. You'll apologize a thousand times, a million, and it will never be enough. It will never bring back the lives lost.

There's no taking back what's done. No undoing the choices you made. All you can do is try to save who you can, if there's anyone left to save.

You glance at the men around you, their faces ashen and pale, their eyes wide with horror and fear. You know they feel it too. The crushing weight of responsibility, the burden of the lives that are lost, or will be, because of their actions.

"I'm sorry," you repeat, your voice cracking.

"It's not your fault," Dash says weakly. His head is leaning on Price's shoulder, and he looks up at you, his eyes glassy. "It's mine. I couldn't...I couldn't do it. You made the right call."

You want to find comfort in his words, but you can't bring yourself to believe them. Did you? Was it the right choice? Or did you just let your feelings get the better of you, the attachment you have for your men, the ones who've become like family to you, overrule the greater good? Who were you trying to save, really? Your men, or yourself?

"It's no one's fault," Price mutters. He's staring off into the distance, his face blank and emotionless. "It just is."

Snap shakes his head, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Screwball just stares, his mouth open, the horror etched into his features.

"We need to get out of here," Snap announces. His voice is shaking, and he reaches up, wiping the rain and tears from his eyes. "There's...there's nothing we can do. We have to keep moving."

"To where?" Screwball asks, gesturing around at the burning city. Another missile strikes the outskirts, and the ground trembles, sending bits of rubble falling around you. A rock pings off his pauldron, and he flinches, ducking his head. "There's nowhere to go."

"We'll figure something out," Snap replies as he pulls away from you and begins limping forward, his gait uneven. "Come on."

You and the others follow, the five of you huddling together, trying to stay out of the path of the deadly projectiles. But it's impossible to avoid them all. You have to duck and dodge, scrambling around the ruins, the smoke stinging your eyes and lungs. The air around you is thick with ash and the smell of burning metal, and the rain is still pouring down, running in rivets through the cobblestone streets.

A flash of lightning lights up the sky, and a thunderous crack fills the air, followed by the roar of a ship's engines. You look up and see the dark outline of a fighter as it flies past, the rain and smoke obscuring its form. A squad of vulture droids is chasing it, followed by another Republic fighter, and the laser bolts light up the night. The battle is still raging, though it feels like a lifetime ago.

"Reinforcements?" Screwball asks, watching the spectacle above.

"Or just more targets," Price mutters.

"You think Booker made it yet?" Snap asks, his tone hopeful. "Maybe he can turn them back, get some more ships out here."

"I don't know," you say, but you can't hide the doubt in your voice. Even if he was here, the battle is already lost. What could he do, even if he wanted to?

A part of you hopes Booker and the rest of the regiment you left on Nadiem are safe, far away from this hell, but you know it's probably wishful thinking. The odds are that they're already here in orbit, fighting against the Separatist blockade. And if not, the chances are they'll be caught up in the massacre, cut off from support and stranded. Just like you.

You lift your wrist to try to send a message, only to realize your vambrace is cracked down the middle, your comm shattered in its casing. You curse under your breath, kicking a piece of rubble and sending it flying into the wall next to you.

"Booker was right. We should have stayed on Nadiem," you mutter. "I should have listened."

"What?" Dash asks, and he winces as Price adjusts his grip, taking more of the younger clone's weight. "You couldn't have known. None of us could."

"I did know," you admit, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "I saw it. In a vision. This. The missiles, the destruction. I saw it, and I did nothing. I thought...I thought maybe we could change it. That we could make a difference. But we couldn't."

The group falls silent, the only noise the crackling of the fires and the rumble of the explosives in the distance. Your shoulders slump, and you close your eyes, feeling the weight of the guilt pressing down on you. You should have told them sooner, you think. Should have trusted them, believed in them. They would have understood, would have done everything in their power to change the outcome.

But it's too late now.

You feel the hair raise on the back of your neck, and you move your head just in time to avoid a blaster bolt as it zips past, narrowly missing your ear.

"Get down!" you shout, and you throw out a hand, using the Force to shove the others against the nearest wall. You duck behind a pile of rubble, your heart racing, and reach for your lightsaber. A sigh of relief escapes you as it comes to life in your hands again, flashing a familiar yellow.

"What was that?" Dash asks, his voice trembling.

"Droids," Screwball hisses.

Price peers around the corner, and a volley of blaster bolts fly past his head. The droids from the generator site seem to have caught up to you again, looking worse for wear, but still determined. You spot two commando droids, their armor dented and covered in scorch marks, and a trio of B1s. They're firing from across the street, their shots ricocheting off the wall and shattering the glass windows nearby.

"Go," you tell the others, motioning toward a nearby alley. "I'll hold them off."

"We can't leave you," Snap argues.

"You're not," you say. "I'll catch up. Just go."

Snap hesitates, but Price grabs his arm and yanks him forward, dragging him away from you. Screwball and Dash follow, and you hear their footsteps fading as they run. You wait until they're out of sight before moving from your cover, the lightsaber raised.

The commando droids see you first, and they stop firing, turning to face you. They both reach for the glaives strapped to their backs, the curved blades extending with a metallic snap. They begin to move forward, slowly, deliberately, while the other droids continue to fire.

You raise your lightsaber and block the bolts, letting them ricochet off the blade and fly into the surrounding buildings. You focus on the commandos, keeping an eye on their movements. They're trying to flank you, and you move with them, staying between them and the alley, giving the others time to get away.

They advance on you, and you dodge their attacks, sidestepping their slashes and parrying their strikes with quick bursts of the Force. They're fast, and you're beyond exhausted, but you've learned your lesson now, and you let the anger and pain fuel you, pushing your body to its limits.

One of the commandos goes high, and you duck, rolling underneath its swing and coming up behind it. Your lightsaber takes its head clean off as you throw Yaddle's blade. It arcs through the air, slicing through the three B1s and returning to your hand.

The remaining commando lunges, and you leap over its strike, kicking off the wall and bringing your saber down on its head. It surprises you by rolling out of the way, and your blade cuts into the pavement, sending sparks flying. It takes advantage of your stumble, slamming its elbow into your chest and knocking you to the ground.

The air is knocked from your lungs, and you scramble to get up, barely blocking its strike in time. You curse as your lightsaber shorts out again, and the commando kicks you, sending you flying backward. You hit the wall with a grunt and drop your saber, and the droid bears down on you, its blade arcing toward your neck.

There's a flash of light in the sky, and you look up just in time to see a missile streaking toward you, a trail of smoke behind it. The commando turns and freezes, realization dawning on its form as the weapon plows into the street and explodes.

You throw up a barrier as the explosion sends shockwaves rippling through the air, the blast throwing you down the street and into the wall at the end. Your head slams against the stone, and your vision goes white, the pain radiating through your skull.

When the ringing in your ears stops, you roll over, groaning, and push yourself up. Everything is blurred, and your balance is unsteady, but you're alive.

You look back to see the street where the droids had been is nothing more than a crater, the surrounding buildings reduced to rubble. Fire licks at the walls, and pools of molten metal run through the cracks in the ground. There's nothing left. Nothing but dust and ash.

You stumble forward, picking your lightsaber up and holstering it.

But Yaddle's saber is nowhere in sight.

A sense of dread washes over you, and the blood drains from your face as you realize what this means. If the lightsaber is gone, destroyed, the last remnant of Yaddle is gone, too. Her memories, her thoughts, her essence. It's all been erased, wiped out by the flames.

And that means the Light will be gone with her.

"No," you breathe, and you stagger forward, trying to find the lightsaber, trying to find any sign that it survived the blast. You search the area frantically, shoving aside rocks and debris, hoping against hope that it's somehow intact. "Where is it?"

Another explosion rocks the street, and the ground shifts beneath your feet. Your hand scrabbles for purchase against the crumbling wall, managing to catch yourself before falling. You can hear the building above you creak and groan, and a shower of stones and dust rains down, pelting you with debris.

"No, no, please," you whisper, your hands shaking. The pain in your side has returned, a sharp stabbing sensation that radiates through your entire body, and the world spins around you. But you can't leave without it. It's all you have left.

You push forward, moving from pile to pile, looking for the chrome hilt. Your heart pounds, and your lungs burn, the smoke filling the air and stinging your eyes. The flames dance around you, drawing closer, and the heat is almost unbearable.

And still, you keep searching, even as the building threatens to collapse around you. Even as the fires rage and the smoke grows thicker. You can't leave without it.

"Where is it?" you murmur, a note of hysteria entering your voice. You're running out of time. If you don't find the lightsaber soon, it will be lost forever, swallowed by the flames. "Where is it?"

There's a crash as the roof collapses, and you dive out of the way, rolling across the ground as the building comes down, burying the remains of the street in rubble. A plume of smoke rises from the wreckage, and the flames spread, licking at the edges and consuming everything in their path.

"No," you say again, your voice cracking.

You struggle to your feet and limp toward the remains of the building, reaching for the Force to steady your movements. You can feel the pain and the exhaustion pulling at you, and your knees buckle, sending you to the ground. You cry out as the tears start to fall, mingling with the rain.

This isn't how it's supposed to end. This isn't the vision the Force gave you. The planet is being torn apart, your men are dying, and you...you're supposed to succumb to the dark side, let it consume you and give in to the rage and grief. Let Rex be the one to pull the trigger. That's how the story goes.

But here you are, kneeling in the wreckage, the darkness nowhere to be found. Instead, there's just emptiness. Emptiness and an overwhelming feeling of loss. And you know, deep down, that there's no point in looking any more. The lightsaber lost to you, just as she is, just as the part of yourself that was once good and true.

"I'm sorry," you murmur. Your hand is shaking, and you reach up, touching the pendant around your neck. The stone is warm beneath your fingers, and you trace the edges, trying to find comfort in its familiarity.

"I'm sorry."

It's a pitiful thing, a small gesture in the face of so much devastation, but it's all you have left. You take a deep breath, and it shudders, a sob escaping your lips as you close your eyes. All you can see is her face, her smile, the warmth in her eyes. And all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the hollow pit of emptiness where the darkness used to be.

And, in that instant, something breaks inside you.

It's a quiet snap, a subtle shift, but it resonates through you, rippling through the Force like a stone cast into a pond. You can feel it, the change, and a strange sense of calm settles over you. It’s not the calm that precedes the storm of rage and fear that overtakes you in times of darkness, but the calm after the storm, the stillness and quiet that follows in its wake.

It shouldn't have ended this way. It shouldn't have ended at all. You should've done better, fought harder, been stronger. The Force had given you opportunities again and again to see the signs, to prepare for the onslaught, and you failed to see it. You'd been so focused on saving Rex, saving the men, from some dark, twisted version of you that you'd failed to realize the danger was coming from within.

But the past is the past. It's gone now. Gone forever.

"I'm sorry," you murmur again, and your hand falls from the pendant. 

You watch, unmoving, as the missiles continue to fall, and the flames lick at your heels, the smoke choking your lungs. Your ribs scream in agony, and the blood loss is starting to take its toll. You can feel yourself slipping, the world fading away around you. And through it all, the Force is silent, the whispers and voices that have plagued you for months, years, gone.

And, somehow, the absence of the dark is the most terrifying thing of all.

"I'm sorry," you breathe, the words barely audible over the roar of the flames. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to forgive."

Your eyes fly open, and you whip around, searching for the source of the voice and finding only rising fire and the empty night. The wind howls around you, and the rain pours down, stinging your skin and obscuring your vision. But there's no one there, no living being in sight. Just the ghosts of the city and the flames that will consume it. Still, your heart pounds, and you can feel the hope sparking in your chest, a fragile flame, burning bright and true.

"Master?" you call out, scrambling to your feet. Your wounds scream in protest, and you stumble, the dizziness threatening to send you crashing back down. But you don't care. You need to see her. Need to know she's there.

You turn on your heel as a wall crumbles, sending a plume of ash and embers into the sky. And in it, you see a flicker of something, a shape, a face.

It can't be.

You have to be hallucinating.

You're dying.

"Yaddle, is that you?" you ask, and your voice is hoarse, a weak rasp, barely audible above the crackle of the flames.

But she hears you, and the shape begins to move, the shadows shifting and coalescing into a form. It's small, humanoid, its features obscured by the smoke and haze, a shadowy specter floating amidst the flames. But you recognize the pointed ears, the familiar cloak, the warmth and light radiating from the figure, and a sob escapes your lips, the tears falling freely.

She's not real. She can't be. You know that. But still, you can't stop yourself from stepping forward, reaching for her. The hazy ghost of her form watches you approach, her head tilted to the side, and you can almost make out the smile, the glint in her eyes.

"Yaddle," you repeat, and you choke back another sob, the pain in your side flaring. “I'm sorry."

“You see now, child… what the Order would not,” she says. Her voice is distant, faint, and yet, you can hear her clear as day.

You stumble forward, falling to your knees before her, the flames roaring around you. Your injuries scream, and the tears stream down your face, the emotions flooding through you, relief, joy, pain, regret, sadness, hope, all at once. It's overwhelming, and you clutch at your chest, trying to hold it all in.

"I tried," you insist, and the tears fall, a wave of grief washing over you. "I tried so hard, I just..."

“You chose the heart over the whole,” she says. There's no anger in her tone, no disappointment. Only a sad understanding, a weight of knowledge that has aged her beyond her years. "A Jedi’s burden is not to love without fear… but to choose despite it.”

A girder cracks and crashes to the ground between you, and you flinch, but Yaddle remains, unfazed. Her face is barely visible now, her features shrouded in smoke and shadow, but you can still see her eyes, the familiar gold and green that seem to shine with a light all their own.

“This is not your end,” she says, bowing her head. “But it is a turning.”

“I don’t want to become what I felt in me back there,” you admit, the words heavy on your tongue. "Not again."

“And yet… the dark calls to those who fear themselves more than they fear the fall,” Yaddle replies, her tone solemn.

The flames dance around her, and she moves, her cloak hanging still despite the breeze. The wind is picking up, and the rain has turned into a downpour, the droplets falling from the sky in sheets. You wipe the rain and tears from your eyes to find her standing before you, her face level with your own. She’s glowing with a strange light, her presence suffused with the Force, and it almost hurts to look at her. But you can't bring yourself to look away.

“It was never the power,” she continues. "It was always the fear.”

"How do I stop it?" you plead. "Please, Master, tell me. How do I make this end?"

She steps forward, and her hand reaches out, resting on your cheek.

Her touch is cold, like the water from a mountain stream, and the shock of it sends a shiver down your spine. But there's a comfort in it too, a peace that settles over you, a gentle calm. And you find yourself leaning into her, her presence filling the void within you, the emptiness that has been gnawing at you for so many years.

“Remember who you are, not just who they told you to be,” she says. Her hand drops, and she turns, her gaze falling to the burning city, the devastation. "And remember who we fight for."

"I will," you whisper. "I'll make things right."

She smiles and nods, the flames flickering in her eyes.

"You already have."

You blink, taken aback. The flames roar, and the image of her flares and dissipates, replaced by the fire and the smoke and the chaos. Your heart aches, and you reach out, grasping for her, trying to hold on.

But she's gone.

A part of you wants to run after her, follow her into the fire and ash, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to follow.

"Goodbye," you say, the word a faint echo. You feel a faint brush at the back of your mind in return, and despite yourself, a small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

A wave of fatigue washes over you, and her last words come back to you, her final request.

You take a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs. The wind howls, and the rain pours down, washing away the ashes and tears. You stand, slowly, and look out over the burning city. The missiles have stopped, but the fires have spread, engulfing the streets and buildings. And still, the battle rages, the Republic ships fighting valiantly against the Separatist fleet. All is not lost. Not yet.

Your hand lifts, and you close your eyes, focusing on the Light. It's weak, so far away, but you can feel it, a flicker of hope, a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds. You reach for it, pulling it into you, letting it fill the cracks and wounds in your heart. And you let go of the fear and guilt, releasing it into the Force.

When you open your eyes, the familiar hilt of Yaddle’s saber is in your hand. 

It feels right, holding the weapon again, and the weight of it settles over you, anchoring you. You thumb the activator, and the blade comes to life, casting its green glow over the destruction. You look up at the burning sky, watching the fighters streak across the heavens.

The battle isn't over yet.

And you have work to do.

The time for grieving will come later.

By the time you reach the watchtower, the sun is rising again.

The missiles have long since stopped falling, but the city is in ruins, the air thick with smoke and the smell of death. You've spent the last several hours digging through crumbling buildings and collapsing streets, looking for any survivors, fighting off what few droids remain to aid their escape, and it's left you exhausted and weary. Every time you blink, black spots fill your vision, and your body aches, a dull throb of pain that runs deep into your bones.

You look up at the ruined remains of where you and Rex had last stood together, a sigh escaping your lips. He had made you promise to meet him here if the darkness became too much for you, if you felt like there was no other choice, and now, that choice has been taken away from you. He'll never know what happened, or how close you came to ending it all.

He's not here, either. No one is. All the clones you've helped pull from the rubble have picked through the collapsed gate and trudged out into the destroyed streets and factories beyond. You still have no way to contact the fleet or your men, but from what you've gathered, they're beginning to pick up survivors from the surface, ferrying them away from the destruction.

You stand in silence, watching the sun rise over the smoldering city, the sky streaked with red and orange. The day will be beautiful, even as the ash and smoke float on the wind, casting everything in a gray hue.

You turn away from the ruined watchtower, the tears welling up in your eyes, and you wrap an arm around your waist. Your ribs are a mess, and you're certain there are several broken bones, your left arm covered in scorch marks and burns, the sleeve of your robe singed away. The pain is nearly unbearable, and your head spins, a sharp stabbing sensation running through your temple.

But the worst of the pain comes from your side, the gash that seems to be deeper with every step, blood flowing freely from the wound. You can feel it spreading, the warmth seeping into the fabric of your clothing, and you know that if you don't treat it soon, it will kill you.

You have to keep moving.

You walk through the shattered gates and out into the ruined streets, following the trail of debris and fallen droids. Someone has come through and rounded up the bodies, but the wreckage remains, the broken and burning vehicles and ships littering the streets.

As you make your slow trek, your feet slow, weighed down by the gravity of it all. You know what the Jedi would say. What they will say. This is the price of attachment. It blinds us, clouds our judgement, and leads to suffering. You can hear them now, their voices echoing in your head, their disappointment and disapproval a weight on your shoulders. But you can't bring yourself to believe it, not completely.

Duro was doomed from the start, by your hand or another's. Grievous had sunk his claws deep into the planet, and he would not have let it go without a fight. And the Republic's decision to invade, despite knowing the risks, had only compounded the tragedy. But it doesn't erase the pain of knowing that so many lives were lost, and for what? For a war that is tearing the galaxy apart, piece by piece?

It’s hard not to wish you could turn back time and make a different choice, save those who could be saved. But you can't. And even if you could, you're not sure what good it would do. This is the path the Force has laid before you, and all you can do is follow it, no matter where it may lead you.

Your path now takes you through the obliterated manufacturing district and toward the valley beyond. You can see the Republic fleet hanging in orbit, and you wonder if Rex is up there, watching over the carnage. You can picture him, his face etched with worry, pacing the bridge of the ship, waiting for any word. Waiting for you.

Or maybe he’s already given up. Maybe he's already resigned himself to the fact that you're dead. That you're not coming back.

"I'll find a way," you whisper to yourself.

The pain is getting worse, and you can barely put one foot in front of the other, the world tilting and shifting around you. The valley is pockmarked with craters and blown out tanks, slowing your progress to a near crawl. But you keep moving, pushing past the exhaustion, the blood loss, the grief.

A rumbling reaches your ears, and you look up as a medical transport flies over head, dropping from the sky and soaring toward a small gathering of abandoned buildings. It disappears from view, but the noise grows louder, and soon, another transport appears, followed by a dozen more. They're picking up survivors, and you know you could be among them, could get off the planet, find Rex, tell him everything.

With that thought in mind, you quicken your pace, your steps becoming more frantic, your breathing labored. Your head is pounding, and your vision is blurred, the world spinning around you, but you keep going, stumbling over the debris, falling and rising again.

As you near the buildings, the transports are beginning to take off, rising into the air and disappearing into the clouds. There are men lined up along the street, far more than you had expected to see, and for a moment, you’re stunned. You had thought Duro would be a wasteland, but here, the survivors are gathered, waiting for the last shuttle out.

They look as bad as you do, some worse. Bloodied and broken, armor scorched and dented, many leaning on each other as they wait. But they're alive. They've made it. And so have you.

You keep pushing forward, limping down the street, and their voices begin to reach your ears. They're murmuring to each other, some shouting, and the sounds blend together, a cacophony of noise that threatens to overwhelm you.

"...lost, sir..."

"...dead..."

"—can't find her."

"We're sure she was in the building?"

"How could this happen?"

"I don't know."

"This is madness."

You approach, your hand pressed against your wound. The crowd shifts slightly as a few of the men board the transport, and you notice a familiar blue pauldron among the crowd. Rex's back is to you, and you can see his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, his shoulders tense. Wise stands next to him, a bacta patch taped to his head and a grim expression on his face as he directs the men.

"...and get her body," Wise is saying. "We'll make sure she's laid to rest."

Rex's head hangs, his voice muffled by the crowd.

"No. She's not dead," he says, his voice low, but firm. "Not until we have a body. I...I'm not leaving without her."

"It's not safe," Wise replies as he places a hand on Rex's shoulder. "You have to accept—"

"No!" Rex shouts, and the men around him flinch. "I'm not giving up. Not until we've found her."

You stop in your tracks, the realization dawning on you. He thinks you're dead. He hasn't given up on you.

The weight of it hits you like a blow, and the tears come, hot and heavy. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. All you can do is stand there, watching, unable to speak.

Rex shakes his head. His shoulders are trembling, and he takes a step back, running a hand over his face. You're too far away to hear what else he says, but the grief in his voice is clear, a raw, aching pain that cuts deep.

"Rex," you breathe.

You try to call out to him, but your throat is too tight, the words lodged inside. Your knees buckle, and the ground rushes up to meet you. You watch as Rex shrugs off Wise's hand and walks away from the transport, and the crowd begins to board, leaving the two of you behind.

Rex stops a short distance away, leaning against the wall, his head bowed. His hands are shaking, and he brings a fist to his mouth, trying to muffle the sob that escapes his lips.

"I'm sorry, Rex," Wise says, his voice barely audible above the roar of the engines.

Wise turns, walking back toward the shuttle, and the ramp closes, the doors sliding shut. The transport begins to lift off the ground, the turbines kicking up dust and debris, and the last of the survivors on the street are swallowed up by the swirling wind.

Rex watches it fly away, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his helmet clutched tightly in his hands.

"Rex," you manage to croak out, your voice cracking, trying to break the spell, but it's not enough. You're still too far away, too caught up in the haze of pain and exhaustion, drowned out by the sound of the engines.

He doesn't turn.

"Please," you plead, your voice a hoarse whisper. "Look at me."

There's a pause, and you reach out, using the Force to guide his gaze. His body stiffens. Slowly, Rex turns, his eyes searching the street.

Your gaze meets his, and the world goes still.

It's like a switch is flipped, the weight pressing down on your shoulders lifting, the fear and the doubt and the guilt evaporating in an instant. And all you can see is him, the man you love, the man who has stood by your side through it all, who has seen you at your best and your worst, and yet, still chosen to stay. Who hasn't given up on you, even now.

Your name is barely a whisper on his lips as he stares at you, a choked sob. But it's enough.

“Hey,” you say weakly, a tired smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

And Rex runs.

His helmet falls to the ground, forgotten, as he sprints across the space between you, his footsteps echoing through the street. You see his face, streaked with dirt and blood, his eyes red and swollen.

You try to move to meet him, but your body is frozen, the pain keeping you rooted in place. You can only watch with bated breath as he comes closer, the sun behind him framing him in a brilliant halo of light.

"Rex," you murmur again, the words a sigh.

His arms are around you in an instant, and he pulls you against him, holding you tight. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, warm and uneven, and his hands are everywhere, tracing your features, running through your hair, caressing the back of your neck. You sink into him, his warmth seeping into your bones, and you can't stop the tears as they roll down your cheeks, mixing with his.

"I thought I lost you," he says, his voice hoarse, and the tears fall faster.

"I'm here," you reply. "I'm okay."

"I thought you were dead," he repeats, and his arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. "I couldn't find you. I couldn't—"

"I'm sorry," you say, the words catching in your throat. "I'm so sorry."

Rex shakes his head, and he presses his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezing shut.

"No," he says. "Don't be. Just...let me hold you. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," you murmur as you reach up, placing a hand against his cheek, brushing the tears away with your thumb.

He leans into your touch, his eyes opening again, and the warmth you see in them steals your breath away.

Rex's hand comes to rest over yours, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your knuckles, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, his lips lingering. Tears continue to fall, mingling with the ash and blood, and he takes a shuddering breath. A soft, almost incredulous laugh escapes his lips, and his free hand traces the edge of your jaw, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"You came back," he whispers.

You nod, smiling, and a faint sob escapes your lips.

"Always," you promise.

There's a moment, a brief, breathless pause, where the only thing you can do is look at him, and he looks back. His gaze is filled with an emotion that is impossible to describe, and it pulls at something deep within you, tugging at a thread that binds the two of you together.

Then Rex surges forward, capturing your lips with his.

A small gasp escapes your lips, and his hands cup your face, pulling you close, as if he's trying to draw the very air from your lungs. Your hands wrap around his neck, holding him close. The kiss is desperate, frantic, filled with a need that goes far beyond the physical.

It's not perfect. It's clumsy and rushed and filled with the salt of tears. His lips are chapped and cracked, and the blood from his nose drips onto your face, staining your skin. But it's Rex, and it's all you've ever wanted.

The kiss lasts forever and ends too soon, and you're both breathless, clinging to each other, your bodies pressed against one another. You pull back, just far away to rest your forehead against his, and his eyes lock onto yours, searching, seeking.

“I love you,” he breathes, his voice low and rough through ragged gasps. "I love you. I should’ve—I tried to tell you, before. So many times. I just...couldn't find the words. Or the courage. I—"

You lean in and silence him with a kiss, and he melts into it, the last bit of resistance draining from him.

"It's okay," you murmur, breaking the kiss and smiling up at him. "It's alright. I love you too. I have for a while."

Rex's eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat. His hand slides down your neck and rests over your heart, and his thumb brushes against the stone, tracing the pattern.

"I...I know," he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. "I think I've always known. Just didn't want to admit it."

"I guess we've both been a little stubborn," you reply with a weak laugh.

"You're telling me," Rex says, chuckling, his breath warm on your cheek. "Kriff, you scared me."

"Scared myself too," you admit, leaning into his touch. "Thought I was done for."

Rex swallows hard, and his trembling hands tighten on your waist as his smile falters. You can feel his pain and fear, a mirror image of your own, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

"When we saw the generator explode...I couldn't find you. I went back to look, but...there was nothing left. I thought—" He breaks off, his voice catching, and the tears begin to flow again. "I thought you were gone."

"I'm not going anywhere," you reassure him. Your hand moves up, cupping his cheek. "Not without you."

Rex nods and takes a shuddering breath, the tears falling freely now.

"I'm sorry," you say again. The words seem pitifully inadequate, but they come out anyway, tumbling from your lips. "For everything. I should've been there, should've seen it coming, should've—"

"It's not your fault," Rex says, and the conviction in his voice cuts you off. "This was a setup. An ambush. They used us."

"I know," you say. "But if I had just been stronger—"

"No," Rex interrupts, his tone firm. He tilts your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. "No more blaming yourself. This was war. Things happen. People die."

"But—"

"No. I'm not letting you carry the blame for this," he says, his grip tightening. "Not alone."

You swallow the lump in your throat, and the tears well up again, burning hot. You nod, and Rex sighs, the last of the anger and resentment draining from his eyes.

"Come here," he says, pulling you close.

He leans in, stealing another kiss, softer and slower than the first. Your fingers trace his jawline, the stubble rough beneath your fingertips, and he sighs against your mouth, a contented hum rumbling in his chest. It sends a shiver through you, and you press closer, losing yourself in the sensation, the heat, the taste of him.

The pain is still there, but it's fading now, pushed to the background by the warmth of his presence, the solidity of his body against yours. It feels like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. Like a missing piece finally being returned to its place.

You're safe, and you're together. And in this fleeting, fragile moment, the war and its horrors are far away, lost in the shadows of the past.

Rex pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, his eyes shining. His smile is soft and gentle, and you feel your heart swell, the love and the joy welling up inside you, threatening to overflow.

"What do we do now?" he asks, his voice a soft rumble.

You sigh and close your eyes, savoring the warmth, the comfort. You're not sure how much time passes before you speak, but eventually, the words come, a quiet murmur.

“Let's go home."

taglist: @cyaretra @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @dreamie411 @sukithebean @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @yoitsjay @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @dustmusings @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams @cw80831 @earlgreyci

[penumbra-mayhem]

An Accidental Bridge

Sam/Darlin' fluff | 1759 words

(I hc Darlin' with a stutter; read here for more.)

--------------------------

Sam’s mind was gently pulled into consciousness as a great horned owl called from outside his bedroom. He glimpsed at the clock on the wall. Nine o'clock. Still late evening, not yet time to be up. Enticed by the owl's promise of a set sun, though, Sam slipped off his blankets.

Bare feet met hardwood as he left the bed, eyes still closed in an attempt to at least stay half-asleep. He shuffled over to his window and pulled back the black-out curtains before feeling around for the latch. His fingers found it just as a sliver of a voice snuck through the silence:

“SSSam?”

He gave a groggy response as he opened the window, “Jus’ gettin’ someair…”

Darlin’ gave a low hum of approval and rolled over to face him. Sam made his way back over and climbed into their bed with all the grace of a drunk bat, eliciting a sleep-laden giggle from his mate.

“Oh, hush,” he grumbled, his smile unwittingly trickling into his voice, “I’m barely awake.” He drew Darlin’ to his chest.

They both drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the owl’s repeated call. The cool air of early night seeped into their room; the two snuggled further under the covers in response.

"I can feel your magic,” Sam mumbled. It was an uncommon sensation; usually, Darlin' only let their magic extend beyond themself when they felt safe. And they rarely felt safe.

“Yours t-t-too...”

“Feel good?”

Sam felt them nod. He gave them a small kiss before asking, “What’s it feel like?”

Darlin’ drew sleepy circles on his chest as they tuned into his magic. After a few moments of silence, they spoke—slowly, like they were savoring a flavor in their mouth:

“It’s l-l-like….sinking into a wwwarm b-b-bath..it’s like a…b-b-bass…low and in-in the b-back…thrumming…ocean wwwaves under a full mmmoon…immmmense…soothing…l-like aloe v-vera on skin after a-a sunny day…”

Joy swelled in Sam's chest and he tightened his arms around them. “I love the way you put that, darlin’,” he murmured.

Darlin’ smiled softly, sleep tugging at them. “How's mmmine?”

“Yours? Mmm…” Sam allowed Darlin’s magic to seep into him. “Your magic…is like fireworks. Those kinds that you light and then toss into the street to see them spin real quick and change colors…you’re the buzz after a concert...the windswept euphoria when you get off a roller coaster…you’re stargazin' durin' a meteor shower…your magic feels like…like…”

Home.

Darlin’ jumped.

They pushed themself up a bit and stared at Sam with wide eyes.

“What? What is it?” he asked, staring back in concern.

They shook their head. “Fuck, I-I-I heard y-you in-in mmmmy head.”

Sam mouthed a small ‘oh’. Seeing that Darlin’ was more startled than scared, he relaxed slightly. “You think we might of bridged?”

Darlin’ gave a small nod. “I-I didn’t mmmmean t-t-to.”

“Me neither,” Sam assured them, “Guess we were just…in tune with each other.”

They dropped their gaze. "I...I-I haven't d-d-d-done that in-in...in a l-l-l-long t-t-time."

"Me neither," Sam replied. He studied them a moment before asking, "Are you okay?"

They nodded again. "Are-are y-you?"

Sam couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm just worried about you."

Darlin' lowered their head back onto his chest. “I-I’m fine. J-just…surprised mmme,” they muttered, trying to slow Sam's heartrate with their words.

Sam ran one hand up and down their back, with the other in their hair. When he felt like they had both reached a state of calm again, he asked, “Is that somethin' you’d be interested in doin' with me?"

After no response, he added, "S'alright if the answer’s no.”

"You don't wwwant that. N-not wwwwith mmme."

Shut down. It was the kind of response he often got from them. It was the kind of response he couldn't stand. He knew it was a form of protection, and they had been getting better about it. But still, every so often, Darlin' would deny him or themself something in the belief that they were broken or unworthy or dangerous. Every time, it simultaneously burned Sam's heart and broke it.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, trying to keep his tone gentle.

Darlin' bit the inside of their cheek. When he was met with no response again, Sam kissed the top of their head and entreated, "Please, Darlin'. You don't have to speak quick. You don't even have to give an explanation. But please don't ignore me entirely."

Fuck. How could words spoken soft as candlelight twist guilt into their gut like a knife? Darlin' buried their face into Sam's chest, breathing in his scent. It steadied them.

Finally, they responded, their voice muffled by Sam's sleepshirt, "It...fucking s-sucks…in-in mmmy head."

There it was.

Sam sighed, "That may be true, for you. But that doesn't mean I don't want to bridge with you. I'm not scared of your thoughts, darlin'."

"B-but you should b-be.”

"But I'm not," Sam pushed back, just a little. Silence fell between them, and he let it. Darlin' had answered his question. There was no point in trying to convince them how he felt. He kissed their head once again in silent reassurance that he was not mad and closed his eyes, hoping to get a bit more sleep.

Darlin' bit harder at the inside of their cheek, their mind buzzing with frustration. The owl outside made itself known again; Darlin' laid in indecision as they listened to it call over and over. They could feel Sam's magic—not reaching out but still present. His magic was safe. He was safe. He was strong. Stronger than they were. Braver. Calmer. Steadier.

When Darlin' finally spoke, their voice was small and soft and scared:

"I-I wwwwant t-to try...if-if you also wwwant t-to."

Sam felt his heart skip. He craned his neck to the side to make eye contact with Darlin' as he asked, "You sure? I don't want you doin' this if you're not really wantin’ it."

"You-you give mmme all of you. I-I wwant to do the same. E-Even if it scares mme," they whispered, "I-I wwwant t-to b-be b-brave for you."

"You don't have to."

"B-but I wwant t-to."

Sam studied their face for a moment before kissing their forehead and whispering, "Alright. Thank you, darlin'. But if we start and you don’t like it, you tell me and we’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good…is there a certain way you want to lay or sit?"

"N-n-no. You?"

"Nah, this is perfect."

Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against his pillow, running his hand through Darlin's hair. Darlin' closed their eyes as well, listening to Sam's heart.

It was quick. Almost as quick as the first time. When the bridge reformed, Sam could feel Darlin's body tense against his. Through the bridge, he felt the tension in his own muscles. He kissed the top of their head.

It's okay. You're safe.

“Fuck.” Fuck, woah, that's fucking weird.

I'm going to fuck this up.

I shouldn't have done this.

I'm just going to hurt you—

—hey, hey, it's ok.

Fuck, sorry, I'll try to quiet down...

...Do you think anyone's ever tried bridging with more than one person at one time?

If you can do that, could you make a true hive mind?

Bee people. Bee shifters? Are there any insect shifters—

—fuck! Sorry!

"SSSorry..." Darlin' muttered. Sam giggled and stroked Darlin's head. The sensation soothed them both.

You're alright, darlin'.

I don’t mind your thoughts.

But you should—

—shut up, Tank—

—fuck, I wish I would just shut up!

Sorry…

...Your head is so quiet.

Shit, I don't mean quiet like empty I just—

—god I am such an ass!

You're not an ass, darlin'.

Damn, I love you.

I love you.

"I love you, darlin'."

Darlin’s body went lax at the assurance. Their mind stilled for just a moment. Tap tap tap. Darlin’ tapped Sam’s chest three times—a gesture he’d come to learn meant ‘I love you’. The feeling of their own fingers echoed against Darlin’s chest.

I love you, too.

So much.

Fuck what time is it?

Shit, we’ve got to get up soon.

Do we?

It’s…Saturday? Yeah, Saturday.

Fuck yeah, we can stay in bed.

We could make breakfast.

More like you could make breakfast, I’m shit at cooking.

I’m shit at most things.

I don’t even think I’m doing this right—

—you’re doin’ just fine, pup.

Sam’s heart skipped as he realized what he’d just thought. Or maybe it was Darlin’s heart skipping, he couldn’t quite tell. His eyes shot open, and he looked down at Darlin’, whose face was already turning red. Sam’s own face began to burn too.

“Fuck, Darlin’, I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to think that.

That wasn’t appropriate.

I should have asked before—

—fuck…

For once, Darlin’s head was quiet. Like static. Sam’s stomach fluttered. Or maybe it was Darlin’s. The bridge was somehow deepening, and Sam struggled to differentiate where the feelings were originating.

I know wolves can be particular with those kinds of names.

Especially when their mates aren’t wolves.

I should have asked.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…

Sam’s thoughts slowed as Darlin’ pressed a soft kiss to his lips. They buried their face into his neck.

“Darlin’?”

I liked that.

You…what? "What?"

Darlin’ groaned quietly, “I-I liked it.”

Call me it again—

—wait, I mean, uh, um…

A grin stretched across Sam’s face. “Oh yeah?” he cooed, stroking the nape of Darlin’s neck.

You like bein’ called pup?

Sam giggled as his stomach fluttered at the word; this time he could tell that feeling definitely came from Darlin’.

You just a little puppy?

My puppy?

“SSSSSaaaammm…” Darlin’ whined.

Sam pulled his body back a bit. Darlin’ turned their head to look up at him. The blush on their cheeks made Sam swoon, but he still had to be sure:

“I can stop, darlin’,” Sam said, his voice soft but serious.

Darlin’ shook their head. “N-no.” It’s just, nobody’s ever called me that…

Sam couldn’t stop grinning. Their blush. The way they ducked their head and avoided his eyes. The weakness in their voice. He rarely saw Darlin’ so bashful.

Well it’s about time…

My sweet puppy…

C’mere… "C'mere."

Darlin’ hummed as they curled themself around Sam once more, tangling their limbs with his. Sam ran his hands through their hair as they traced their fingers over his chest. The two sank into repose as their sensations and thoughts melded and lost origin.

Sam breathed deep and murmured, “Such a good pup.”

Your pup.

[ipostmysimpingstuffanonymously]

My entry for a prompt week we organized on the SatoSho Discord Server. The prompt was Soft Touches

[saint-hymn]

happy birthday, @ria-writes-stuff. long live the antimonarch

[manofthepipis]

sorry I keep bothering you!!!! but I need your thoughts on Tenna he's so um um so uh and mail guy and and um divorce and and uhhhhhhhhhh I love hearing you break it down theoretical-style because your brain has wonderful ideas. (i havent actually gotten to watching any playthroughs of chapter 4 yet because I needed an emotional break and from what I've heard its .... yeah...)

aaa hi!! ur not bothering me :D man i rlly do love this tv man and i have so many thoughts

man what a character to introduce, like all we had for context to him was spamton's absolutely enraged ramblings on how much he sucks, which ended up being like the worst and messiest miscommunication that could have happened to the both of them. Like in retrospect, it's so funny how tenna was introduced versus how he actually turned out. We have the most unreliable guy (a literal scam artist) giving us our only background, calling Tenna a criminal (even if said scam artist is 3x the criminal that tenna is when we actually compare the crime list), and then telling us to not trust him (this is coming from someone who doesn't tell us his actual motivations and betrays us to get Neo and eventually the soul). Like Tenna's buildup was so hilarious yet masterfully done, that when he appeared on screen in chapter 3, i was expecting the worst when in actuality, he's a sweetie with a masters degree in showmanship and abandonment issues.

I also like how similar spamton and tenna really are, how each are driven by their own motivations and aren't entirely exempt from being self-serving in their own regards. Like Tenna, despite being definitely being more grounded and more trustworthy than Spamton, still is so focused on keeping himself relevant, he resorts to extreme measures like trapping the lightners. He so desperately wants to be appreciated and cared for, and selfishly acts on this ambition by whatever means before Susie is (once again) the mvp of deltarune by empathizing with his situation. He's also held onto his influence and position for a rather long time, only losing it all at the end of ch3, as compared to spamton who's had time to deteriorate and spiral, to put it kindly. Like Tenna's story is so very close to Spamton's (from the way they lived to the way they "died"), but Tenna's case is like if Spamton had a better run with his luck and didn't crash and burn so harshly and so rapidly.

Speaking of which, like I love how messy and complicated their falling out was because it's neither of their fault, but you could see it playing out like it did a mile away when you understand both of their self-serving natures. Like Spamton gambled with the fact that spilling the beans about his secret, to get more success out of Tenna, wouldn't get it all pulled as a result. He lost that gamble, and fled the room in a panic (probably running to try and last-minute fix what was inevitably about to happen). That's not normal, but instead of trying to understand why it happened, or comfort Spamton, Tenna took the chance while he was away to get that secret for himself by picking up the phone, to find no one there, and misinterpreted it as Spamton scamming and ditching him. i absolutely love that even if it makes me so ill thinking about it :') They're so alike, and that was their biggest shared downfall.

even after, though, Tenna maintains his (albeit dwindling) influence, like he still had employees and TV world, but Spamton had it all drop to 0 immediately, his sales, his business, his friends, and more after he lost his "help". It's such a powerful contrast. It's even made worse that Spamton was made into a shell of his former self, undergoing something that made him completely unrecognizable, like if I was him, and having made that losing gamble, I wouldn't be able to live comfortably with that guilt, so pinning it all on Tenna as to divert all that hate and vitriol and blame makes sense so he can instead focus on a plan B (becomming [[Big]] or something real, now that he knows he's not real) by any means necessary. Meanwhile, Tenna is left with the obliviousness of what Spamton truly lost and, like, got the majority of the hangups in their separation. Like dude pls pls pls get overrrr him you'll be so much happier. Overall, Tenna's character is amazing at both giving us so much context to not only Tenna, but our favorite puppet man. Deltarune Chapter 3 how i love you.

This ended up with me just waxing poetic about these two lol. Their divorce was also incredibly funny and the fact that Tenna took the [pipis] in the divorce will forever send me.

[lovesickeros]

now that natlan is out it's tsaritsa yearning hours again because i am one nation closer to either being horribly disappointed or foaming at the mouth!

creator!reader w a little side of conflicted tsaritsa is such good food I can't not yap about it. a woman who has dedicated so much of her life to severing herself from "love" of all kinds and succeeding and. just being so confident that when she meets you she's bitter and angry and mean. because she can't stand you. she isn't supposed to love yet you worm your way into her heart anyway and you don't even know it.

especially in smth like an imposter au. she tells herself your just a tool for her to use but your treated like the Divine you really are, pampered and spoiled every step. tells herself it means nothing when she indulges you – let's you hold her hand in private, eventually let's you move aside the veil, just a little.

and she hates it. hates how easy it is to let you break down the ice she's built up for years.

all you do is smile and she feels like she can't breathe. because despite how violently she rejects love in all aspects, it always bleeds through eventually. she despises it but the way you brush your thumbs over her cheeks makes her bitter and warm and it infuriates her to no end.

she hates you and she loves you and she can't stand you and if you were ever taken from her she'd destroy every inch of teyvat if she had to go get you back.

and ironically enough I think she'd also be the one to initiate any first kiss. maybe she's still trying to convince herself it's just a fluke and itll make her realize it meant nothing, it means nothing. desperate to fix whatever you've done to her and instead it just makes it worse.

a horrible mess of a woman who gave up on love just to be confronted with it when she finally accepted it's absence.

[boimgfrog]

it's always "autism acceptance" until the autistic person is weird, or fat, or a man, or has poor hygiene, or a POC, or makes unfunny jokes, or isn't a cute feminine gay, or is actually bad at communicating, or needs to have things explained to them, or is too loud, or too quiet, or needs to be told something multiple times to understand it, or has mannerisms that make people stare at them, or, or, or, etc. if you would show patience to the cute autistic girl who collects plushies and stims by flapping her hands then you MUST show equal patience to the large autistic boy who stims by humming or hitting his head and worms underwater welding into every conversation. I am no longer asking. your acceptance cannot begin and end with people you deem palatable.

[fatedroses]

Baby Zenos being curious of everything means Atticus can't skip out on tuning anymore and Solus gets extra hands for some of his tools.

[chirpsythismorning]

El being *12 hours earlier* than the Cali timeline when she arrives at Nina. Will saying ‘it’s been 9 hrs’ in the scene following his monologue in the van.

We know that at some point their timelines merged when they arrived to save her…

But we don’t know when exactly those alignments took place when they were still apart… which just makes you wonder…

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

Tony Baddingham is the exact kind of man Lana Del Rey writes about and I hate it