#Loose Frosted Dots

[craftystampin]

Stampin Scoop Hello, Irresistible and More Online Exclusives Suite Episode 156

Stampin Scoop Hello, Irresistible and More Welcome back for part 2 of the Stampin’ Scoop show featuring the Stampin’ Up! Online Exclusives with lots of Hello, Irresistible Collection samples. Stampin’ Up’s just dropped a new line of “Online Exclusive” products. Tami and I shared a sampling of them in our pre-order haul last month but now we’re able to share them all! And in addition to the hot…

[softshuji]

𝟐𝟑:𝟏𝟕𝐏𝐌 | 𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀

Title: Maybe I love you

Summary: Izana finds that he comes to you every night, but it doesn't mean he wouldn't kill anyone who knew that though. Link to main masterlist here!

cw: fem! reader, semi-suggestive, possessiveness, brief kissing, nightmares, izana and reader are a bit dense, reader calls him sir, pet names (good girl) mentions of sex (nothing explicit) praise, marking. Reblogs appreciated!

Izana doesn’t know if he has the capacity to appreciate beautiful things, he doesn’t know if he knows how, at least not in any way that doesn’t involve destroying them. The stars for example, bright and cold and so close he can skim them with his lithe fingers as he sleeps beneath a moonlit night, the velvet blanket of dark dotted by a sheen of glitter and he thinks he can feel the chill of the more distant ones as the breeze blows in through the open window.

The netting flutters, catches on the exposed wood, the single strip of the torn windowpane, a not-so-subtle reminder of his earlier outburst and he wants to ruin it again, wants to rip away the memory and feel the blood on his knuckles, the callouses torn open, flesh peeling back to remind him of something, to feel something.

His gaze drops from the moon, pearly, opalescent and milky white in the sky, to the upturned guitar on the chair, strings pulled loose, curled with the force by which he’d smashed it against the ground in his grief, loose splinters of varnished wood now beige against the dark carpet. And he thinks this when the regret sets in, an unfamiliar feeling for him, because he is Izana Kurokawa and he has not gotten this far by constantly looking back. Has he?

But it feels foreign to some extent. The lash of pain in his chest, the tightening of his ribs, the sting in his throat, in his eyes when he remembers how he’d slammed it against the ground and all the anger had seemed so trivial when he heard the string snap, a chord that burned at somewhere he thinks a heart might be. 

Just like all those things he has lost to something or another, some divine providence that keeps taking from him. He glares at it, as if the splinters of wood and varnish are themselves responsible, as if they can sate his anger, assuage his rage against the world.

You’re in the room next door, and you hear the soft pad of his feet hitting the carpet, the shuffle of sheets and a clunk or two as he picks up the two broken halves of the guitar, of his heart. He frowns, now that the clarity has descended and the moon has shifted behind the clouds and tries to piece it together, joining them back, something lurching inside when they crash against his cut palms again, all varnished wood and strings loose with force.

It’s a shame that his hands are only for breaking, isn't it?

He has an ear trained on your room, and in truth he isn’t sure what drives him to drop the guitar onto the unmade bed, sheets twisted, the imprint that remembers him as clearly as you always do. 

The hallway light flickers on, pale yellow spilling through the slice at the bottom of your door. It always happens like this. He comes to you as midnight approaches and you reach for him and he latches onto you till morning pours over the sky and then he pulls away again and again and the cold indifference slams down on you, a metal sheet of steel and frost.

And you let him. Every night, your arms open, skin warm, him practically folding into you, his mouth warm against your neck, teeth grazing the juncture of your shoulder. 

It’s predictable. Izana Kurokawa finds himself in your bed every night.

He knocks. ‘Y/N.’ A command as usual, the edge of his voice a little higher, a little more desperate, the inflection of a question, of a plea all the same, because despite himself, he’s determined to keep up the act and pretend like he’s just using you to warm himself.

‘Come in, it’s open,’ you say, muffled by the sheets, your hair spilling ink across the pillows, your back to the door and watching the light seep across the carpet as he shuffles in.

He looks smaller like that, dwarfed by the light, pyjama pants rolled up to the knees, the messy hair framing his face and haggard eyes that still reflect the moonlight falling in eaves across the painted wall. 

You turn over, your cheek pressed to the soft Egyptian cotton, fatigued eyes squinting against his shadow. 

There is a second of recognition, understanding even, as his gaze drops to you huddled under soft throws and a heavy duvet in his shirt that just about reaches your thighs. It sends the blood rushing in waves to his head seeing you like that. In the bed he owns, the shirt he wears that kisses your skin in all the right places, with the hallway light glinting off the mahogany headboard. 

You look at him, dishevelled and beautiful, cold and distant. He is spring frost clinging to Winter’s chill, to what he knows, and you are the late spring blossom that thaws the mildew in the morning.

‘Izana?’ Your vision hazy, dotted with the black spots of exhaustion, but forthcoming all the same, the softness of your eyes, your upturned mouth a balm for his anxiety. 

‘Y/N.’ He says your name like a command, like a request. You like the way it sounds from him, the power that curls along it, as if you are more than you are, as if he can make you more. His prized possession to mould and touch, the fire that warms him. 

You open out your arms, still on your side and he all but crawls into your embrace, slotting himself against you, his breath warm against your neck. You shuffle forward, your arms around the small of his back and pull, not all together gently, till his pelvis bumps against yours. Your thigh lifts against his, weighs him down and your hands come up to tug at the hair at the base of his neck and all the while, he is softly sighing, dry and slightly dehydrated lips grazing the column of your throat and all of it elicits a slight shiver from you, needy and tenuous all at once. 

‘You okay?’ You start, your voice low and undulated by the whistle of the breeze through the draught, the silence that’s almost weightless and heavy, thick with tension.

‘I’m fine.’ His chest against yours, cheek laying flat against the dip under your collarbones. A lie, because he’s used to it, because he has a facade to keep up and he’ll be damned if he allows himself to look weak, even in front of you. Especially in front of you.

‘I heard you. Couldn’t sleep?’ If he hears you swallow against the tide in your throat, he makes no mention of it. 

‘I was… having trouble.’

‘Me too. Are you going to stay?’ And maybe you crave him as much as he does you, maybe it is nice to be needed, to be owned in such a way by someone like him, who could easily break you if he chose, who moulds you to wrap yourself around him, buries himself in you till there is him, and only him. 

He blinks, pulls you closer, tighter, his hands resting against the dip in your hips, the familiar ache of you tightening in his stomach when your breath fans his ear.  

‘I’ll stay,’ he says, as if you had thought he’d say any different, as if he has not made a pattern of silently begging for warmth. ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’

You sigh, your tongue darting out to lick at chapped lips. ‘Nightmares, as usual. Thinking about things.’ It is a silent understanding, the weight of a shared and perhaps understood experience. Is that not what it means to be human?

‘Mhm.’ His voice is rough, the low cadence of it is a rumble in his chest, a thrum against yours.  He nestles further into your touch, his lips meeting the plane of your chest and your heart jumps under his breath. ‘What was the nightmare about?’ 

‘You’re sure you want to know? They’re all the same.’

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance as his lips press a soft and hesitant kiss against the slope of your collarbone. He pretends, but he is not half as good a liar as he assumes he is. Or maybe it is that this corrugated wall of concrete and metal and roughness is chipped away when he is alone with you.

‘I dreamt about you, about you dying.’ And it happens so often that the sharp and jagged edges of that paralysing fear have wilted away and left only numbness there, despite the fact that you know that nightmare could come any day now, a day where maybe you search for him as he lies in the snow. 

He pauses, his breath tickling your clavicle. ‘I see.’ And he sighs and tucks an arm around your back, a kiss here and there and always so chaste, as if he is holding back. ‘It was just a dream, not real.’

Perhaps that’s why this works, why you come back, why you let him shape you. A shared fear, a need for each other, the push and pull of a puppeteer and a puppet on a string. Maybe for once, letting go isn’t so hard, letting yourself be moulded by his rough hands seems almost blissful when his breath tingles at the hollow of your throat.

Today is worth a little more though. Today the tension in his bones is rigid, sharp and you can tell by the way his grip tightens on your hips, keeps you pulled flush against him, that the incident is still weighing heavily on his mind. 

You test the words out on your tongue, search the spiderwebs for courage. ‘Don't worry about the guitar,’ you say and a hand winds into his hair lightly scratching at his scalp.

‘I'm not.’ A lie, he knows that. You do too. It’s easy to see in the violet of his eyes, flecked through with iridescent lavender, the white lashes that kiss the apple of his cheeks, soft and cold as frost. 

‘We can always get it fixed, I'll fix it for you tomorrow.’ You’ve no idea how, the technicalities of it all, the weight of its significance but it hardly matters. Your delicate touch, the unflinching embrace and willingness to run towards him is enough.

‘Why?’

The answer is obvious. ‘Because it means a lot to you, because I want to hear you play, remember?’ You’re smiling, he can sense as much by the curve of your mouth against the soft shell of his ear, the slow and easy exhale of breath that lifts his platinum hair. It had been a flippant request made in a more vulnerable moment, when he had been craving your touch, and you were happy to be wanted by him after spending so long vying for his approval. You had it, you just didn’t know you had it.

‘I don't remember promising that.’ With more mirth this time, a soft sigh that has the tension easing from his bones, seeping through his skin and into yours. 

‘So? No take backs. Consider it a gift for fixing it.’

He almost smiles. And maybe you can’t fix what’s been lost, but you can do this, you can give him yourself to pour his frustration into.You love him, you’ve never said it, never thought it, too scared to approach the sleeping lion, as if by giving it that space you will have brought to life. You wonder if he can love you back in any way that does not hurt so much, if perhaps he can love something that does not end with it broken and lying dead at his feet. You know he can, but you wonder if he knows it.

‘I see. In that case I should reward you.’ 

‘With what? It’s not that big of a deal.’

‘Are you disagreeing with me y/n?’ An eyebrow lifts and his grip on the small of your back tightens in warning, a thrum of energy pulsing underneath the cool of his touch against your warm skin. His hand moves to the back of your neck, squeezing lightly, his thumb and forefinger amping up the pressure before softly skimming over the skin with a featherlight touch.

‘No sir,’ you say, your breath now caught in the confines of your drying throat, your lips sliding along the curve of his smooth neck and tugging on the fine frost of his hair between your fingers. 

‘Good girl.’ His thumb presses on the hollow of your throat and the sigh that escapes your parted lips is instinctual when your forehead drops to the juncture of his shoulder, the praise rolling over your skin in a wave. He tips your head, uses a thumb to tilt it to face him, drinking in your fluttering eyes, the sleep that’s only a moment away, the dilated pupils in which he sees his own reflection exactly how he prefers it. He likes it like this, to be the only one who sees you in this way, who gets to pull the breath from your lungs when his hand tightens around your throat, the power of your life so readily given to him by your own eager hands.

‘Y/N,’ he says, a domineering command, the delicious power of it curling to the base of your spine as his free hand traces the bones under his shirt. 

Your eyes flit to his, wide with both lust and adoration, your neck tingling from his telltale bite marks, the grazing of his teeth along the sensitive skin.

‘Yes sir?’ A whisper. You rock your hips against him subconsciously, a thigh moving to trap him between your legs and you hate how your body betrays you in moments like this, how much you want him to give into the weakness of you, have him carving his name into your skin with the sharpness of his teeth.

His eyes darken, his lips a firm line as he watches you swallow from where his hand is clasped around your throat. It sets something off in him to see you like this, to touch you as if you were made to shape as he sees fit, the willingness of you to run into the lion’s den.

A knuckle brushes your chin, your head tilted up to face him and he waits for your lips to part instinctively before he presses his mouth to yours. 

It’s warm, feverish, desperate even, a muted sigh that he pulls from your lips as his hand strokes the hollow of your throat and when you gasp, his tongue slides along yours in tandem. It’s messy, the saliva breaking in a string when you part for air, only to slot your lips against his again and again, needy and with warmth pooling between your legs every time he bites down and pulls on your lip.

And Izana would kill anyone who knew this was happening, who knew that he came to you every night and begged for your warmth, his arms tightening around you as he whispers your name into the dark. 

You are his secret, his Doll and you know the level of power you hold to mould yourself to him like this, that you are perhaps the only person who has not flinched from his touch. 

He doesn’t know if it’s love, if it’s lust that has him marking the expanse of your chest, his name a choked and breathy whisper that he thinks sounds better to his ears than anything else could, your fingers tangled in his hair as he makes his way down, his tongue expertly gliding over the marks blooming in his wake. Maybe it should matter to you, that come morning, once he wakes up having driven you over the edge and released inside you once more, his mouth warm on your neck,  he’ll pretend as if he has not, as if he does not murmur truths into your skin every night, crawl to your bed like a starving man in the desert and let your name churn in his perfect mouth till the early hours.

It does not. You think you just love the way your name sounds from him, the way the praise comes that much easier when he is between your thighs. 

Or maybe you love him. 

a/n: I have no comments to make this time, only just to say happy birthday to my pretty king !!!!

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @mxnjiros @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @rottingreveries @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @sweet-seishu @burnishedcrown @saintokkotsu @nikokopuffs @sin-and-punishment @derk4iserr @mochimiyaas @bertholdts--butt @theaonlax

[moineauz]

જ⁀ 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐊𝐄

synopsis: in which zhongli- a most doting partner- decides to not only surprise you, but personally bake you a cake for your birthday.

side comments: this is for @staarri 100 followers and birthday event! i hope you like it- can't wait for more events <3 hope i’m not too late 😅

extra: fluff, gn reader, inspired by spring and my love for baking, word count: roughly 786

Zhongli is- undoubtedly- knowledgeable and adept in various subjects; gliding over words with eloquence. Weaving the mundane and mediocre of every day into tales of raw human experience and tender adoration for the subtle moments of life.

Yet, when it comes to baking, he is quite frankly, doomed to fail in the most comical and disastrous ways.

He once attempted to bake your cultural dish- and burnt it... your apartment fire alarm went off. Not long after, he wanted to create a simple loaf of banana bread, however, when you took a bite, you held back a gag. Salty cookies, bread as hard as stone, tarts that crumble, undercooked muffins, and dough that won't rise. The list goes on.

However, Zhongli has seen the corners of your lips rise like bread as you knead dough with a tenderness and endearment unmistakable to him. Zhongli has seen you peck strawberry after strawberry when baking strudels: a loose childlike passion glowing in your iris like a flower blooming in the light of spring, each time you laugh and say "Just one more."

Flour fights and sticky syrup. Melted butter and vanilla extract. All of that made the struggles of baking sweeter for Zhongli.

Thus, Zhongli crossed his arms like a ladle of pie while his eyebrows knit together: the calendar's date echoed in his mind as does a timer.

There were exactly five months before your birthday and Zhongli desperately wanted to bake a cake.

A cake for you, of course.

That desire echoed through his head; bouncing off the walls of his mind and amplifying in longing as his fingers traced over the memory of your figure in the kitchen baking at night: dim lights, the warmth of cinnamon enveloping the soul, a wool sweater, and street jazz which gradually swayed and erupted in sweet rapture.

Five months, from start to finish, he'll make that cake no matter how much flour smears his face and icing that dots his arms.

Your apartment is serenely quiet, darkness blanketing the walls as the liminal coolness of a spring night ushers itself in like a friend through an open window.

You heave a sigh. Gradually slipping your shoes off; balancing the small gifts in your palms like gems. You don't bother to flick the lights on, opting for ambient lighting found in your living room. However, as your feet bare the face of your cool wooden floor, the living room light flickers on and so does the warmth growing in your chest; readily awaiting to break the moment you step out of your body, taking the new form of blossom.

"Oh, Zhongli..."

Zhongli smiles gently, poignancy and subtle fear arising in his body, "Hello love."

You set the gifts down, your steps deliberate and unhurried, as if you were walking on glass, or the space between reality and a dream, the aroma of strawberries, vanilla and lemon consuming you whole. However, not before leaving you longing for more and soothing the ache from the soles of your feet after a long day. Inviting you back again and again to the tender layers of cake and frosting.

"Zhongli how did you...?"

"Bake the cake?" finishes Zhongli with a humorous smile on his lips, the flame of the candle wavering slightly. "I can confidently say it tastes just as wonderfully as it looks."

You emit a lighthearted giggle, your cheeks aching from the extent of the grin brought to your face. "Love you- you didn't have to-"

"But I wanted to," he interjects, balancing the cake in one hand as his other gingerly caresses your cheek. "Because you deserve it and much, much more."

From there, silence stirs and the faint beating of hearts loosens your joints and time mellows with each passing minute. From there Zhongli lifts the cake, and with one simple breath, you blow the candle. A wisp of smoke a spirit of tender solace.

Zhongli places the cake down before opening his arms and the two of you interlock, becoming one; molding together into one languid breath of life, drawn together by sugar, flour, and butter. You bury yourself in his shoulder, your arms reaching out to run through the rivers of his deep brown hair. "Tell me," you begin in a mere mutter, "How exactly did you bake the cake?"

Zhongli laughs quietly his hands rubbing circles on your back, "We can touch on that later my dear."

You hum in response, the two of you standing there amidst the songs of the streets whisking itself through the air, amidst the electrifying touch of another breaking and spreading like the yolk of an egg kissing a mixture of sugar, butter, baking power and bliss. And amidst the warmth of the heart rising like that of an oven. Heart in hand; being kneaded together into one unified loaf of bread.

"Happy birthday, my dearest."

masterlist.

interact with a comment, it helps greatly! don’t be a silent reader 🤍

[gumballavocadoharry]

A period piece:

Izzy woke to a groggy morning, feeling the frost burn of February air. Little snow dots stuck to her window like diamonds, or a sugar dipped iced cube. While goosebumps picked through her skin, another feeling ran through her. After adjusting herself to the temperature of the bedroom, Izzy realized that the lingering ping was coming from her stomach.

Not the usual hunger growl that struck her around 3 am on some nights, but a faraway type of ache that waded inside like a toothache.

Only then would she notice the mushy feeling down below and the cool damp spot that sat underneath her. Jolting up, Izzy saw the dark red spot that had bleed from her shorts, onto her sheets. Her period.

It came! she thought. But the moment was short lived when she heard the floor settle of her father's bedroom. Grabbing her sheets, Izzy did a quiet jog down the stairs and into the laundry room- shoving her sheets into the washer. The only item in the wash, Izzy used a mundane amount of liquid and then turned the dial to the perfect setting for the delicate item. It was hard to think of her father and her period in the same thought.

Sure, he knew what they were- as he had taught her about them the for the first time when she was eight- but it didn't evaporate the sting of him seeing her with blood skimming down her legs or with blood-stained sheets. The very thought made Izzy's cheeks burn. An overreaction of his delight and dewy-eyed excitement: 'She's becoming a woman! My little girl! My little Izzy bunny!' It sent this curl through Izzy's gut that wasn't the steady cramps. Running back to her room, Izzy threw her pajama shorts into the hamper before grabbing the sanitary napkins that she kept in the third drawer of her cube dresser and ran into the bathroom after grabbing a pair of loose fitting, sturdy underwear, that would become Izzy's period type ones.

Izzy felt fresh now. While still breaking in the soft heaving quilted cotton of her pad, she felt this protection around her- like a long jacket that covered the secret tattoo of someone's arm. Slipping on the shorts, Izzy walked back to her bedroom and changed into her usual clothes for the day.

"Good morning, sweetie," Harry said, closing his bedroom door. "How do pancakes sound for breakfast?" Izzy smiled. "Just fine."

I'll tell him a few days from now she promised.

But it was broken. Not by her standards of course..... the school's.

Izzy didn't count on her piercing cramps to alight in the middle of third period math class.

Fidgeting in her seat, Izzy found her hands grab her stomach, grazing it back and forth with tenderness. Finally raising her hand and asking permission for the nurse. Gliding through the hallway with her aching gut, still tucked under her hand.

The nurse was kind. Gave Izzy two tablets of Midol and water and let her rest in the office for a few minutes. "I'm going to call your dad now, okay?" Izzy shot up and turned to the nurse. "Oh, I'm feeling better now."

"I know, but we always call anytime a student has menstrual symptoms," she leaned over to Izzy's ear as if to whisper a secret to her like two girls at a sleepover. "It's a policy here now, ever since a few of the PTA moms complained about how they're daughters didn't have the proper sanitary napkins or any for that matter in case of something like this."

Izzy tried to understand, but she couldn't. She couldn't imagine the embarrassment of her unsuspecting father showing up to the school with the altruistic, but dour type of sugary support he could give. Watching the nurse dial the number, Izzy laid back on the little cot like bed, and tried to drift her mind away from the scene.

Jade Paler, had gotten her flow at eleven, Sarah Brookson, at twelve. Even though Izzy knew it wasn't true, some girls had made this rule that once your age had a 'teen' to it, then it meant you were a late bloomer, and therefore, too old. Izzy was thirteen. It was dumb- sure she knew- but it still singed in her somehow, even though she couldn't put her finger on it. It nicked something inside her, like a scratched paint from a jagged edge. It irritated Izzy more than she wanted it to.

"Baby?" A pinch sensation swam through her round cheeks. Glancing up and seeing her father, now leering over her with sympathetic puppy dog eyes, let his hands cup her cheeks- squishing them like how you did with babies or little kids. And maybe that's how she felt.

Like a baby. A fragile and frail little girl in the eyes of her father.

"You have your period?" Izzy nodded. "Oh honey," Harry began. "you know this means you're a woman now, right?"

Suddenly a slice of happiness beamed Izzy. "But you'll still be my little baby."

A furrow appeared in between Izzy's eyebrows. Agitated at her father, but glancing back to the nurse, made her cheeks blossom pink again. But Izzy let a tight small smile grow across her face anyway, sat up and thanked the nurse for everything. And with that, she and her father left the nurses station.

The car ride was silent. Izzy had not spoken one word, and instead, gathered her attention to the window, where everything whizzed by, like time in those time travel movies.

"Izzy," Harry finally spoke. "You're very quiet.... is something wrong?"

"It's that time of the month, so I don't feel good."

Harry glanced towards Izzy quicky before turning back to the road again. Pulling into a parking of some office building, Harry turned off the car, and turned towards his daughter. "Sweetie.... you know you can tell me anything right?"

Izzy turned to him, letting her eyes follow up to his. "Yes," she said quietly. "So....is there something going on? I know you have your period but.... if you need anything-"

Izzy had let her face fall into her hands, wetting them with tears. Harry- without thinking- wrapped his arms around Izzy and let her little body be curbed into his. "I-I-I started my period this morning but, I stained my sheets and threw them into the wash because I didn't want you to see them."

"Why?" Harry's face full of concern. "I don't know..." Izzy thought- scrambling to rack her brain for the root of her shame. "I guess.... because I knew how'd you react. Not with anger or anything.... but with pride."

"Why would that be bad?" Izzy sighed. "Because... I guess I didn't want you to make a big deal out of it, because- well, getting your period means you're growing up and..."

Harry listened closely.

"With every other milestone, you would cheer and say 'how I'm still your baby' or something like that- and I just wanted this to be different. More mature, you know?"

He did. "Yeah.... I get that swee- Izzy."

Wrapping his arm around his daughter, Harry and Izzy shared a hug.

Izzy was growing up. And Harry knew, he had to accept that. But deep down, even if she didn't want to see or believe it herself....

She would always be his Izzy Bunny.

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 11: Alone (Part 1)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: Angst, description of night terror, descriptions of person and animal injury :/, violence, fluff, canon character death, and description of near-death experience.

Summary: Soon after losing yourself within your own mind, you are deployed to the distant planet Lanos to aid Obi-Wan Kenobi in his secondary mission of delivering supplies to a Republic supply port amidst his coordination of the primary fleet rendevous. But as you begin to dip your toes into the responsibilities that accompany becoming a General in The Clone Wars, you are quick to discover that lightyears of travel will do nothing to shield you from the consequences of being The Guardian.

Song Inspo: Widow's Peak — Neil Finn

Words: 8.2K

A/n: I'M ALIVEEEE. Haha, sorry for the long hiatus, but I'm back with Chapter 1 of Part II (of many). We begin with events running tangentially to Rising Malevolence. Also, I have to thank each and every one of you for your continued support. I can't put into words how much it means to me to receive your Kudoses and read your comments. It's what has really driven me to make this story as entertaining for y'all as possible. So thank you ❤️ So excited to be back! Looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this one in the comments below :)

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Series Masterlist

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead — Benjamin Franklin

Squinting against the icy gale as loose flakes snagged your eyelashes, you steadied into a stiff crouch atop the snowy plain. One that stretched out for endless miles across the hostile planet’s pallid surface, but still allowed for enough idle traction with the dig of your determined heels into its niveous layers.

It wasn’t the easiest feat, considering your small body of just five years felt like loose parchment against the billowing gusts that howled past your ears and ruffled the furs of your Wampan cloak. But, no matter, you still did well for your age, relying on the Force’s converging stability to focus your body and mind on the far more interesting sight that lay ahead.

Sharp claws scurrying and scraping into the chipping frost below, the long, floppy-eared Ice Scrabbler continued its desperate search for the day’s meal. Your eyes graced its soft, brown coat, taking note of the progressive ruggedness that characterized the ends of its tail, and tight curls which twisted its cheeks into a perpetual frown.

What tugged at the muscles cornering your lips, however, was neither of those benign features. It was, instead, that pointed beak— a quite bulbous thing that greatly contrasted against the equally confused set of tiny button eyes dotting either oblivious side of the animal’s head as it remained affixed toward the ground.

You giggled.

Floppy ears spun like propellers, slapping against the small creature’s pointed mouth while those same, searching eyes locked cautiously onto your figure.

Sucking in the winter’s teeth-rotting chill, you held your breath, hoping not to upset the being any more than you obviously already had. Instead, you took comfort, simply by watching the miniature thing while your shoulders relaxed into the imperceptible numbing sensation the weather cast onto your grinning lips.

But the Galaxy had other plans, as the Scrabbler seemed to derive permission from your stilled expression to commence a slow approach. In which, placing one carefully lowered paw in front of the other, it rigidly prowled toward your figure crouched only a few feet away.

Still, you watched on quite happily, permitting the critter to carry out its nature during one of those rare trips you and your friend took across the planet’s surface.

Until the Scrabbler’s suddenly coiled spine launched like a flash of light toward your arm, levying a hefty scratch with sharp claws that plunged your knees into the sleet.

You cried out, thrusting a reactive fist toward the defensive, four-legged animal as the Force carried out your whim, sending its surprised limbs tumbling into the unfeeling embrace of a nearby, blackened rock that jutted ruggedly from the ice.

“Are you alright?” Qui-Gon asked calmly while swiftly approaching your squatting figure, having left behind his light scavenging efforts some meters away in favor of the sudden commotion.

You wiped a loose, crystal tear from your cheek as the wise-eyed man kneeled before you, gently grasping your small arm to assess the damage prior to loosening a travel pack off his back and down his shoulder so to leisurely rummage through its varied contents.

“That dumb thing attacked me!” You spit, eyes narrowed on the Scrabbler’s semi-distant form that softly limped beyond its disturbed landing spot, silent whimpers trailing paw prints which denting the snow.

That’s when the old Jedi’s gaze locked with yours. And without sharing a hint of anything but lifted features of neutrality and acceptance, your Master blindly grasped onto whatever he was looking for from his pack.

Soon, he revealed the mystery by raising a white bandage roll from its rear compartment before, once more, motioning for your arm, all of which began the gradual process of wrapping its red-streaked, mangled body that stung from the dissolving mess of descending flakes.

“Do you think they were unwise in attacking you?” The man questioned, circling the itchy white ribbon firmly around the inking, crimson wound.

You stared at him straight. “Yeah!”

“Even if they saw you as a threat?”

“But I wasn’t doing anything!” You complained, scrunching your nose in annoyance. “I was just… watching it.”

After tightly sealing your arm from any risk of leakage, the Master Jedi tied off the bandage. Embracing the seconds following that last, knotted loop to face you with his whole self, completely, before he settled to speak.

“Sometimes, we can do nothing at all, and everything right, yet still face the consequences.”

He rose to his feet, offering you a warm hand to firmly grab as you lugged yourself upwards, catching your sprightly feet to stand beside his articulate incarnation.

“But it is our responsibility as Jedi to face such circumstances without fear.”

Your eyes raised toward the warm, hue-scattered horizon, scanning the icy expanse for the animal before that same, conflicted stare grounded on a small brown ball of fur, quivering a few meters beyond the rock like a fleck upon a pearly white blanket.

“I wasn’t scared,” you defended meekly, a subtle pull tugging at your chest. “I was just… upset.”

But no matter how much you tried to hide it, Qui-Gon seemed to take clear notice of your gaze as his own subtly curious expression traced it to the nearby cramped creature struggling through a noticeable limp.

“It is fear that leads us to become upset. Fear that guides us to take it out on others.”

With deliberate leisure, the Master Jedi approached the trembling, small Scrabbler, leading you to follow in step as you steadily trailed along through suffocating snow banks. Their spilling bodies gliding like hands with tightening fingers as if ready to clasp your ankles before yanking you down into their underground world.

He hummed lowly, taking careful measure not to panic the tiny animal with intimidating noises. “But we must act compassionately to all. Even those who frighten us.”

Before long, the two of you reached the whining Scrabbler. And, with each successive movement that Qui-Gon made, from kneeling down to even extending a sedated, innocuous arm toward its wet snout, the being could only shrink in place at what they perceived as coming doom. With its left, front leg dreadfully abraded and slowly bleeding into reddening fur at the bend, that was all it could feasibly do.

Until the back of Qui-Gon’s hand graced those drooping ears, the gentle, kneading strokes progressively plucking out the Scrabbler’s surreptitiously affectionate nature. Most evident when the smoothly tranquilizing critter leaned into the Master Jedi’s palm with pleasurably squinting eyes, as if his rough skin held the only warmth found for miles.

Which was probably true.

Still, as was his timeless essence, Qui-Gon sourced the infinite prowess to calm the creature a significant degree. Enough, apparently, for your dear friend to feel comfortable gradually transferring that same roll of bandaging tape into your pocket-size palms. Tiny fingers which impulsively clutched onto the ruggedly thin material as your confounded gaze communicated every baffling, skeptical thought that flitted through your mind.

But all that only compelled the Master Jedi to respond with was a subtle, lighthearted beckon of the brows toward the faintly preoccupied, wild animal.

So, with equal prudence, and a healthy bout of watchful nerves, you gently wrapped your tiny fingers around the creature's leg.

Yet as those chilled digits graced bloodied fur bordering the Scrabbler’s wound, you were quick to earn a flick of its bulbous skull toward your now stiffened form, followed by a quiet, meaningful growl that seemed to sting your freshly wrapped wound the most.

This time, however, you didn’t react so rashly.

With Qui-Gon’s silent encouragement acting in tandem with his subsisted, distracting ear scratches, you carefully began wrapping the abrasion.

“To be their friend?” You questioned, eyes locked into the twirling, pearly fabric.

Qui-Gon lifted his hand from the Scrabbler while he considered your words, allowing the latter to curiously observe your actions with a regularly tilting head and clicking beak as the Jedi Master’s eyes graced the blue sky’s boundless existence.

“A Jedi is a friend to all who are imbued with the living Force.”

Your brows furrowed at the old man whose gaze had traveled elsewhere, though your hands remained steady. “But that’s… everything.”

His serene stare skipped back toward your patient expression.

“You are correct,” he smiled softly.

With a securing knot at the upper leg, you finished bandaging the creature, leaving enough room for them to bend their knee during the next few weeks of healing until the fabric dissolved.

The Scrabbler, too, seemed to approve of your quick handiwork, as they swiftly leaned over to swipe their beak past your cheek, offering a sloppy, wet lick of appreciation. All the while their sandpaper-like tongue roped a feeble giggle to fall past your lips.

And it was enough, too, to reel you back into the reality of your actions, like an air bubble shooting to the surface of any deep ocean.

“I feel bad,” you faintly admitted, averting your gaze from the only honorable man you’d ever known.

Instead, you focused your guilt by repaying the presently comfortable creature with a few scratches on their unfairly soft, browned back.

“There is no need,” he declared nonchalantly. “You have made your amends and were forgiven.”

A gentle, thrumming purr oozed from the Scrabbler’s belly— a sound so foreign yet entirely relaxing that it drowned out the echoing howls of swelling gusts that whipped your hair and numbed your cheekbones.

Still, nothing could ever stifle the way Qui-Gon’s subtle wisdoms stimulated your inner thoughts. Whether it was hours or days prior, once the gravity of his words set in, it was like rushing water to the crops of your mind.

You couldn’t help but drink it in.

“So… when I’m The Guardian, I’ll have to protect everyone else too? Why can’t I just help The Chosen One to keep balance in the Force?”

A sudden warmth enveloping your shoulder drew your gaze, along with your once stooped body, upwards. Empowering you to wonder up at the soft-eyed Jedi whose comforting grasp always reminded you that as long as he was around, you’d always be safe.

“Because all life is sacred, Young One. It is as meaningful as it is fleeting. It is when we accept this truth that we may find peace in the Galaxy.”

You grinned.

Until the wisp of glazed disorientation consuming Qui-Gon’s once bright, blue eyes drew it to falter.

“Qui-Gon?” You questioned nervously with wrinkled brows.

His jaw plunged open, orbs swirling gray as a sharp, red glow reflecting off their gloss caught your attention against the world’s white sheen.

You snapped your heed down toward a new heat, settled in the form of a blaring, red saber that burned your watering eyes. Sucking the life from your breath once your gaze traced its body from the hilt lying neatly in your palm all the way into Qui-Gon’s marred gut.

“Qui-Gon!” You cried. “I didn’t mean to!”

A maniacal hiss from just behind fluttered past your tingling ear, catching your heart in your throat as two fierce hands with sharpened nails dug ruthlessly into your arms to wheel you around.

A blood face lined by black streaks, craggy horns threatening to scratch out your skin, and eyes as yellow as the darkest side of the most rotten star.

“General.”

He grabbed your throa—

“General, sir.”

Shimmering silver eyes shot open, subdued shock heaving your once-lying chest upwards like a pebble stuck to the end of a string as you disjointedly adjusted to the warped, muggy cavern’s dimmed surroundings. That very instant in which your shoulders graced a higher altitude, you unconsciously scooted, palms scrambling your back to touch the rear, cold rock face while your mind caught up to the blood rushing in from your tingling extremities.

It was a brief existence of disorientation as disorderly thoughts gradually adjusted for the contrasting present. Allowing your senses to hone in on the fact that you were still within that happenstance cave on Lanos. One that you, Obi-Wan, and his Ghost Company of the 212nd decided to take short respite in, you quickly recalled.

Through that brisk remembrance, you found the blurriness of odd shapes soon cleared like melting ice into the curved lines and sharper cuts of clone troopers’ white and black uniforms, which graciously dotted your surroundings.

Some, like you, were resting against the cavern’s walls in various states of lying, sitting, and leaning, across or beside scattered Republic-marked cargo containers. A couple for shut-eye, and one group for, what looked like, a quick game of Card Commander, which you’d heard a bit about these last few days.

Others moved through the makeshift corridor manufactured by sporadically lounging bodies. Either in straight dialogues with one another or to strictly coordinate the transport of supply-riddled repulsersleds back out into the valley that formed this cave at least a millennia ago.

Most noticeable, however, was the clone trooper stood just in front of your once dormant figure. Presenting a silent disposition which dedicated his helmed stare to an existence of patient observation. All while you attempted to conceal somewhat erratic breaths emerging from that strange dream’s persisting sensation of bottomless emptiness as it settled within your chest like a voracious parasite.

Because it all just felt a little too real.

Nevertheless, you rammed that feeling down.

“Apologies for waking you, sir, but General Kenobi requested I inform you that we will begin moving again in the next ten minutes.”

You nodded, adjusting your spine against the rather uncomfortable, bumpy crag before glancing up at the bulkily masked trooper. One of the many soldiers in this Company tasked with acting as a defensive escort to a ground supply convo headed for the Republic’s Lanos supply port that still stood a few clicks out.

You recalled how the atmospheric electrical storm dancing beyond the skies forced the three cargo shuttles to land at least five clicks out from the compound in order to ensure a safe landing. Which, of course, left a quick trek as the only guarantee of a punctual supply delivery. All in hopes that this secondary mission would be completed in time for Kenobi to return the Negotiator.

He did have to coordinate an entire fleet rendezvous to protect the main supply convoys, after all. So, haste prevailed as the most important factor; no matter if Obi-Wan’s primary mission remained in the same system.

Speed, yes. A constant rush. That would explain why you felt so jostled when awoken. Particularly if you’d only been out for a few minutes.

Well, that among other factors.

“Thank you,” you croaked, throat dry from sleeplessness until you cleared it with a gruff cough. “And your name?”

“Designation CT-7212, General,” he straightened. “But the boys call me Boil.”

“Boil,” you hummed, tasting the vowels. “I like that. But call me Silvey.”

You climbed to your feet, reaching for your knees to pat off the dirt that had accumulated in your unconscious state.

“Sir?” He asked perplexed.

You glanced up at the man, and, were it not for the helmet, you would’ve seen a sharp, bundle of nerves stitch together his brows right about now.

“Close, but you’re missing a couple letters,” you teased, throwing a light smile toward the speechless soldier undoubtedly drenched in discomfort, until you adopted a more practical, commanding tone.

“No General, no sir. Just Silvey.”

Boil offered a curt nod. “Understood sir—uh—Silvey.”

You opened your mouth, loosened tongue primed to inquire about the approximate arrival time to the Republic port, when a vivid, repeating flash erupted from your wrist. Followed by a high-pitched beep and vibrating buzz that, in equal intervals, tingled like tiny Endorian ants up and down your non-dominant arm.

Your new wrist comm seemed to be aptly functioning, you thought while glancing down at the device. It was one of the few upgrades the Republic Army supplied for your wears. Much like the other handful of Jedi you’d seen dressed for battle, you bore forearm-length granite gray gauntlets and shin guards that blended well with your long-sleeved charcoal tunic and trousers. Even the sage shoulder guard did an excellent job extending into your similarly tinted robe’s design.

Though, in hindsight, it wasn’t the most appropriate clothing for such a humid cavern, considering how the cloth stuck to your skin and pulled droplets from your forehead like a desert heat.

All in all, you couldn’t wait to step outside into unfettered air.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” you informed Boil, who simply nodded before retreating down the passageway while you comfortably folded your legs to answer the comm.

Only to hear a familiar groan of annoyance as Anakin seemed to, once again, request that Ahsoka leave from whichever room he was currently occupying on a ship lightyears away. From what you could make out, he was suggesting to his Padawan that she inform the Admiral of their split approach tactic. Still, you couldn’t gather much else from the exchange as it was swiftly followed by the clear whoosh of a sealing door that prompted you to speak.

“Glad to hear that you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Sorry,” he huffed into the comm, a tin film separating the essence of his voice from you. “My Padawan has yet to learn how to talk with the Council.”

“Struggling with tact? Sounds like someone else I know.”

And the brief silence that followed suggested all you needed to adequately imagine the thin, unimpressed line characterizing the Chosen One’s frustrated lips.

Which was certainly enough to yank a healthy chuckle out of you.

Until a concerned edge cut you off.

“Obi-Wan dodged my question when I asked how you were a few minutes ago.”

Your jaw subconsciously tightened.

This is exactly what you were hoping to avoid.

Anakin worrying about you when he had much more on his mind to deal with.

You knew particularly well what it was like to lose someone you were close to. Including the dangers of tying another string to one more rattling tree so soon after a mother’s death. Which is why you didn’t want to complicate his potential endeavors of relying on the Force to forge ahead with your own, peeling branches.

Nevertheless, while you were sure Obi-Wan did his best in redirecting Anakin’s questioning, you were now close enough with The Chosen One to know that he was quite capable of catching someone, especially his former Master, in a subtle act of deception.

Although there was perhaps still a way to salvage this, you considered.

So, you feigned ignorance.

“Oh?”

“Are you okay?” He questioned without a lick of hesitation.

“I’m fine, Ana—“

“I know something is going on. That it has been for a while. But no one is tellin—“

“Anakin, drop it,” you stated tersely.

A perpetual silence seemed to cloud the comm line, interrupted by only the occasional pop of static that merely acted as proof of life.

Still, it supplied enough of a buffer for you to hopefully steer the conversation to something more… productive? Harmonious?

No matter the uncomfortable sheen that draped across your figure, that needed to happen.

He couldn’t have any distractions.

“Um,” you breathed deeply before releasing a noisy exhale. “If you heard from Obi-Wan, I assume it was during the Council meeting on that new Separatist weapon I’ve been hearing so much about,” you inquired somewhat smoothly. “Any news on your end?”

Another beat of complicated stillness crossed the communique before Anakin’s firm, business-oriented tone echoed through the line.

“Master Plo Koon’s fleet was in the Abregado System when we lost contact. Sensors say that this weapon may be why. But the Council ordered we redirect to protect the supply convoys.”

“Sounds like I’ll be seeing you soon,” you commented while your chest distended at the loss of life. “Who’s been tasked with rescuing the survivors?”

“Technically, no one,” he straightly remarked. “But… you also probably won’t be seeing me as soon as you thought.”

Well, that certainly tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Bring support,” you advised.

“Don’t worry,” Anakin relayed, a slight unsettlement underlying his tone. “The Master Insubordinate herself is tagging along. Ahsoka was the one who wanted to go in the first place.”

“Like Master, like Padawan,” you remarked lightheartedly, hoping to relieve the Jedi’s mood.

“At least she’s learning something, I guess.”

Though, despite the levity of his words, you could still hear the steady unease buffering his voice like a decaying foundation, fracturing all the way up to its highest spires.

A nervous trill swirled in your gut.

He seemed to be in better spirits before. So then…

Was this your doing?

Did your earlier deflection infect him with this gradual rot of apprehension?

“I won’t tell Obi-Wan,” you revealed, hoping to seize some sense that perhaps his tense articulations were primarily rooted in that particular worry. “But please update him when he starts coordinating the rendezvous. Otherwise, he’s gonna turn gray because of us. Well, if he doesn’t figure it out by then.”

Silence spoke for your groundless optimism instead.

And, against every warring cell of your being that despairingly endeavored to justify the past month’s clandestine behavior, it suddenly forced you to consider:

Were you making things worse?

No. No.

The alternative of sharing these strange afflictions was sure to confuse your role as his protector. His Guardian.

Not the other way around.

… but

Hiding it? When he already knew something was going on?

And it was that very justification that seemed to lift some invisible veil from your radiantly, silver eyes.

You’d driven this secret to its farthest bounds, when scooping at its crumbling remains proved to just pour sand into unwanted places.

And the result?

Keeping such a lid sealed only allowed for the pressure to rise.

And if there was any hope of ensuring that Anakin would be able to focus on his mission, on himself, without undeniable questions regarding your being bouncing about his brain, it meant that it was time to crack it a sliver.

Lest it explode into a million, tiny shards.

You exhaled, quite desultorily.

He believed in you. At least, somewhat.

And you him.

Though you still couldn’t help but shake your head at yourself as this decision haphazardly knitted its way across your synapses.

It was time to rely on that trusting notion.

And although, given the tightly wrapped string already knotted around your branches, there was little other choice, you could only hope that this was, in fact, the right one.

No matter how compromising it felt to share.

“I don’t know what it was,” you lowly breathed with mindless abandon.

Another beat.

“Huh?” His tired voice crackled through.

“What happened to me,” you angled your head to watch a handful of clones secure the last two, red and white cargo containers lining the cavern’s walls on a large, gray repulsorsled for travel. “I don’t know what it was.”

Anakin could’ve yelled until his throat turned raw and it still would’ve sounded like a distant squeak in comparison to the rumble of his quickening heart. A beat you could sense from his uncontrollably stilled breath thousands of planets away.

“What happened, Silvey?”

“I’m not sure how much Obi-Wan has told you—“

“Nothing,” he tightly reminded.

“He’s not to blame, Anakin,” you assured, eyes lifting to the cave’s rugged ceiling. “I asked him to keep this private.”

You sighed, closing your eyes momentarily as you gathered your thoughts surrounding the peculiarity of recent events while the Jedi on the other side of the Galaxy lingered in quiet anticipation.

“Pretty soon after arriving on Coruscant, I started having these strange headaches. They weren’t great, but manageable. Until it got worse. One of those times being in the fighter cockpit, if you recall. Eventually, I found some kind of solution. Well, a few. It’s hard to put into words. But, that’s not important. I—“

You swallowed thickly.

“There was an… incident. I was meditating and then, I don’t know, the headaches came back and my mind went… somewhere else? A different land, I suppose. A deadly one.”

You exhaled through your nostrils, taking Anakin’s perpetual silence as permission to continue.

“Obi-Wan was nearby so he helped bring me back before… before it was too late. But whatever happened in there… it changed something. I don’t know. I just don’t feel like myself, I suppose.”

You shrugged, forgetting temporarily that this was, in fact, not a holocomm call.

“From what I was told by Master Windu, I passed out. Spent the rest of the day in the Infirmary before being declared fit for duty and shipping out the next morning. Nothing has happened since then so hopefully it’s all in the past.”

“What do you mean another land?” Anakin questioned, crossed brows and tensed teeth traveling as clearly as his voice through the gravely comm.

“Just that,” you admitted honestly. “Another land. Lots of black rocks, rough waters...”

You bit your lip.

“Well, Obi-Wan did say he sensed a darkness there.”

“Not in you?” Anakin nearly pleaded.

“No, no,” you confirmed quickly, shaking your head for no one in particular. “Just in this ‘place.’” Uneasily, you rubbed your moist forehead with the back of your chilled hand. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“No kidding,” Anakin huffed, before his voice softened into a realm that nearly made you question whether he believed someone was eavesdropping from the other end of that far-off door.

“But, you’re okay?”

You smiled gently to yourself, chin dipping into your chest as you sensed a waxing alleviation flood his side of the comm before you even had the chance to respond.

“I’m alright,” you verbalized, releasing that last bit of trouble pervading your mind.

Well, other than that strange imagery your brain concocted earlier.

That was no dream, you soon surmised once you allowed such thoughts to finally coalesce into a more, credulous form since awakening.

It was something else.

A corrupted memory, perhaps.

You recalled that particular scouting day on Hoth. How the Scrabbler mistook you for a credible threat. And how Qui-Gon, as always, used the experience for a teaching moment.

But that red lightsaber... laid in your hands…

Piercing your Master’s life force.

A trickle of guilt crawled down your spine.

That devil face…

You shuddered.

No.

This was something entirely new.

And, still, nothing with enough substance to be quite concerned about just yet.

Nothing worth sharing.

“You better get going,” you counseled, focusing your mind on the present. “People need you, Anakin.”

“That they do,” he chuckled, leading you to subconsciously shake your head at his oddly charming ego.

Until he abated to relay one last item.

“Thanks, Silvey.”

You cocked your head curiously at his sudden warmth. “For what?”

Another crackle of the comm.

“For trusting me.”

Your shoulders relaxed.

“I’ve always trusted you Anakin,” you breathed. “Just needed a little reminder.”

“Then keep a calendar, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Shut it, Smarty.”

And, somehow, you knew that even hundreds of parsecs away, The Chosen One and his Guardian were, in equal measure, smiling at their respective comms with an expression only either would recognize.

“Bring as many of those boys home as you can, Anakin. You hear me? I’ve heard countless stories about Master Plo over the years. And no Separatist ploy can cut him down.”

“I’ll be sure to share your praises when I find him.”

You could taste his grin as your teeth parted.

“You better.”

—

If Master Kenobi appreciated anything during this secondary mission, it was Lanos’s proclivity for far-reaching, grassy plains and vivaciously deep gales. An environment that, in some ways, reflected Naboo’s natural monuments, which the bearded Jedi had opportune time to take note of during its battle ten years ago. Though, while Lanos carried less staggering plateaus, its rolling hills had the power to eclipse the sight of any mortal being, effortlessly putting Theed to shame.

Still, his enjoyment of these notable planetary characteristics stretched far beyond aesthetic pleasures. They acted as a strategic advantage for the task at hand: delivering necessary cargo while remaining hidden from the visual sensors of Separatist ships dedicated to broad-band sector scans only parsecs away.

It was why the General chose this pathway in particular. A profound valley whose towering, dense rock walls and thick vegetation would do wonders in concealing about 36 armed clones, 27 repulsorsleds of cargo, and two Jedi from periodic sweeps. Especially during an electrical storm.

Maybe it was that self-assured sense of security, that peace of mind imbued by the presence of a large Republic fleet in the sector above, that beckoned Kenobi’s mind to wander beyond those scattered, nine clusters of steadily marching clones and hovering supplies.

He was instead drawn toward the far more compelling presence trekking about ten meters ahead. Locked in friendly conversation with a convo-guarding solider who carried a green, circular mark on his helm’s rear.

You.

You. You. You. That’s all that consumed the General’s mind.

And, for quite a logical reason, of course.

It had only been a few days prior when the two of you narrowly escaped the brink of death at the hands of your own mind. An experience that flooded the Jedi’s thoughts with seemingly unanswerable questions and unsettling speculations. All rooted in one, unmistakable conclusion.

Obi-Wan sensed a great darkness there.

Never before the incident, not since after, and, frankly, never within you.

Never a part of you.

Just, there.

It was such a nebulous, unfamiliar sensation that no Basic words existed to support its nature— a conception which bloomed childlike echoes of uncertainty within Obi-Wan’s very being.

But even that wasn’t a fair assessment. Kenobi felt immeasurably more well-versed while a young Padawan in the intricacies of the Force and their purport than he had in the previous days.

Much like your headaches, those murky energies were there for as long as your mind was trapped. Until freeing you compelled them to disappear, preferably for good.

But what occurred in order for you to rediscover your connection to the light, so to escape that nightmarish realm, he did not know. All he knew was that in some peculiar way, he felt it affect him as well.

In a process that compelled him to momentarily misplace his being within the Force while he rushed to find it again.

Though it was nothing compared to what Obi-Wan experienced when he nearly lost you too.

Your spirit-paled face. Those cold fingers that rivaled even the temperatures of your home planet.

Your once vibrantly silver eyes faded into a distant, stiff gray.

Thank the Maker he hadn’t waited for the Healer.

Against the stony judgment of Windu’s agitated brows and thinned lips, Obi-Wan decided that he couldn’t just kneel there. He couldn’t simply linger. Doing nothing to aid you besides propping up your slacked spine before it slammed against the rigid balcony amidst that sudden fall.

The Galaxy, the Order, and Anakin needed The Guardian. And the Master Jedi was going to carry out his Council-given duty to ensure that exigency was fulfilled.

So, with a firm verbal commitment to his fellow Master that Kenobi would be getting help, he scooped up your nearly lifeless body into contrastingly scorching arms before taking off sprinting.

He zigzagged around corners, down winding staircases, and through twisting hallways. Dashing all the way, and ignoring every inquisitive glance and curiously dragging foot until he reached the Temple Infirmary.

“Just in time too, Master Kenobi. I believe we would have lost them had you arrived a moment later.”

Master Nema’s words reverberated against his inner skull like the ticking of a bomb. One he’d only nearly prevented from shattering everything in its path. It rang the loudest amidst those timeless seconds in which the uneasy Jedi, powerlessly staring from a distant corner, followed the platoon of medical droids swirling around your body that drifted in and out of critical condition.

It was not until the Master Healer deemed you well on the way to recovery that Obi-Wan found greater ease in dulling those eery tolls. Chiming bells signaling a now distant reaper of peace and light that trailed him all the way to Master Yoda and Windu’s emergency meeting called to be held on one of the high spire’s windy private balconies after the fact.

“Darkness in them or not. There is no gray."

A concept every Jedi was taught from a very young age, the bearded man knew. So he certainly didn’t need a reminder from the Grand Master himself. Especially when the fact of Obi-Wan’s analysis still held true:

“Yet, I sense it no longer.”

“Still, that argument remains immaterial, Master Kenobi. As you may recall, I have engaged with Silvey in deep meditation to access her mind for the past month and have had little success. Perhaps, in their momentary weakness, you were able to sense what was present all along.”

“Coincidence, it is not, their headaches and loss of mind. More, there is to this story. But in the light, Young Silvey resides.”

And Obi-Wan wholeheartedly agreed.

Not just because he was now beginning to understand the Jedi you were, but also due to another salient development that sprouted with a subtlety akin to the budding petals of a Jade rose.

That, while uncomfortably idling in the doorway of your infirmary cubicle for news, only a few hours after the droids recorded a steadily strengthening heartbeat, did Kenobi discover with boggled irises the faintest sensation of your mind’s presence for the very first time.

A distinct vicissitude that only he himself seemed to perceive.

The auburn-haired man thought he’d have a moment to explore this development too. He needed time to understand, to discover, what it was that could’ve possibly initiated this change. Maybe meditation during the temporary separation from your being, which was bound to occur with your recovery taking place amidst Kenobi’s next-day deployment, would provide some answers.

Yet, come the following morning, as the General ambled down the Temple’s outer hall, he instead sensed a familiarizing presence. It wasn’t until he turned into the hangar bay to greet one of his platoons did he come to realize why the impression felt so novel, as he clocked a fully mended Silvey chatting amongst the clones.

Undeniably, he had an obligation to pull you aside.

“You should be recovering.”

“I’m as healthy as I’m gonna be, Obi-Wan. I’m cleared for duty, and Master Windu said that I’ve been assigned to your deployment. So you’re stuck with me.”

And he certainly was.

He was stuck with you, and he was stuck with these new perceptions that, even just a few hours ago, drove his mind into backflips after summersaults as he endeavored to decipher them.

It was a strange sensation. He barely felt it. A blip from your presence during the Company’s brief recess at one of the valley’s cave entrances a click back.

A weight. A brief pressure leaning on his chest.

But, just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

And what all that meant was that Obi-Wan Kenobi was also stuck with himself. Throughout this supply port journey, while he paced those same ten meters behind your conversational figure, the bearded man felt trapped within that gnawing, clawing realization that he was simply following in the footsteps of that same dreadful mistake he’d committed during the prior month.

Leaving you to your own when he knew that something was wrong. Observing from afar when he had the power to say something. All ignored in favor of his omnipresent trepidation that was primarily fueled by your history of swift withdrawals whenever faced with internal inklings of distress.

Well, no longer.

Master Kenobi nodded to the black-and-white helmeted clone sergeant leading the gradually hovering group of repulsorsleds beside him, signaling that there was no need to follow before picking up his stride through the caravan’s strict formation.

A Jedi learned from the past.

And this particular Jedi was quickly inferring that if he wished to certify that you were, in fact, ‘as healthy as you were gonna be,’ he had to personally confirm it:

At least, that’s what he told himself while he promptly neared your ambling figure still enraptured by deep conversation with a Corporal.

There was no more polite waiting until the last minute.

The Master Jedi recalled the impression of holding your icy, limp body. How it felt like a shutter from a sudden coil of wind chill.

And he didn’t like it at all.

“Silvey,” Obi-Wan projected, causing you to pause mid-discussion in favor of angling your neck back toward him with expectant brows.

The bearded Jedi continued. “A moment?”

Offering a faint smile toward his resolved gaze, Kenobi observed as you briefly turned back to the clone.

“Nice talking with you, Getter. Let’s catch up later.”

And with that, you eased your heels back to walk beside the older Jedi. An action additionally facilitated by a sudden gust that tugged equally at both your fluttering robes like a raised sail.

“Getter?” Kenobi questioned light-heartedly as a faint smile graced his lips. “I believe he’s a new addition to the Company, so I’ve yet to learn the root of that moniker.”

Obi-Wan watched your knowing eyes pass onto him an aura of sweet appreciation that sprawled out to every inch of your body before leaving glowing remnants atop the receding grass.

“Your new recruit was labeled as quite the ‘go-getter’ during his Kamino days,” you expressed, nodding your chin toward the named clone marching ahead as your gaze focused in the same direction. “Which equals having an olive painted on your helmet. Green means go,” you chuckled.

Kenobi hummed appreciatively, allowing another whistle of wind to whip by your bodies as it challenged both strides with equal resistance.

Until it calmed enough, dissipating into a gentle blow, for his facial muscles to relax into the real reason he called you back.

“How are you feeling?”

“You know,” you began with a teasing lilt. “That’s the second time I’ve been asked that today.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head with interest, brows slightly furrowing with hands trailing to meet each other behind his back while he hung for you to resume.

“A friendly warning,” you smirked. “Anakin can read you better than you think.”

And then it clicked.

“Anakin had inquired following this morning’s holocomm meeting,” Obi-Wan soberly relayed, eyes glued to the verdant blades of grass traveling past his strolling brown boots. “But I assure you, Silvey, I hadn’t revealed anything about your condition.”

“It’s okay, Obi-Wan,” you calmed, moderately bobbing your head side to side in thought as you considered your words. “I’m choosing to look at it as a blessing in disguise. I think I made a mistake it not telling him earlier.”

Kenobi silently nodded before peering up at you inquisitively. “So, he knows?”

You offered him a distinct look.

“He knows,” you acknowledged, the General noticing as your silver eyes snagged onto some pointed sight beyond his other flank that brightened their gleam. “And he seems to be taking it well.”

Collarbone following your gaze, Obi-Wan glanced to his right when a whipping movement among the bordering foliage centered his own vision.

Streaks of fiery orange lined the back of some fox-like creature that darted from one bush to another. Its fur blending into a pale yellow, soft underbelly and hind legs that flared brightly below Lanos’s equally glaring sun.

It continued its frantic trek of sprightly bounds while skittering into thickets of obscurity. Though soon, the animal’s narrowed skull and gold-ringed irises found rationale to peak out from the opposite end of a latent bush, snout drawing a pure line of curiosity toward both your figures five meters away.

“And regarding my inquiry?” Kenobi gently pressed with a nonchalant regard centered on the timid creature as you and the bearded Jedi naturally reigned your steps into a brief pause.

Though, instead of distantly observing, the General felt through the Force’s most sensitive intricacies the subtle brush of your arm floating past his as you carefully approached the furry onlooker.

With one airy foot after another, all while ignoring the rear battalion’s continual trudge onwards, you reached a free hand to your robe’s pocket. Meticulous fingers searching for some loose item as you quietly spoke,

“Master Kenobi,” you hummed factitiously, digits grasping onto some cylindrical, crackling object that you swiftly tugged from its enclosure to reveal as a pearly white ration bar. “I admit, the preceding, mind-altering incident was not ideal.”

Smoothly, you snapped off a piece of the food item, the resulting crack catching the doe-eyed fox’s twitching nose. Drawing its creeping figure a step or two out from the concealing foliage as your voice evenly lowered in response.

“But I’ve had my fair share of fainting spells from exhaustive circumstances before. And I’ve recovered all the same.”

Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed perplexedly.

“Fainting spells?” He questioned under his breath, looking onwards with now crossed arms as your final paces and kneeling figure landed you before the creature's nervously narrowing eyes and prying spine.

Is that why you were acting so careless about this incident? Did you not know how close to death you nearly came? The Healer on duty or your Master would’ve fully explained what truly occurred, Kenobi assured himself. Yet, you appeared unaware. Oblivious to Obi-Wan’s efforts to save your life that oh so nearly fell short.

If so, he had a responsibility to inform you.

Perhaps it was this sudden conviction which dragged his once stilled feet to stroll toward your bowed figure. To approach the same generous being that fed each broken ration bar piece to a greedily licking fox whose snout relaxed into your warm, outstretched palm.

“We only have a finite count of those,” Kenobi expressed as he reached your side, eyeing the raised, gingered fur of a creature equal parts absorbed and oblivious. “It was intended to last you the day.”

You angled your outspoken head and raised brows back toward him. “I think we can both agree that he’s enjoying it way more than I ever could’ve,” you grinned glowingly, nose crinkling with each lick that clearly tickled your fingertips as the animal lapped up every last crumb of ‘flavor.’

A sight that caused a soreness to shoot by Obi-Wan’s sternum, disappearing just as quickly as it arrived.

The loss of innocence in this new world, he surmised. From this war, and the years preceding it. Seeing an act as simple and kind as this certainly did numbers to remind him of the peace that marked most of his Padawan days.

And he disfavored that he’d have to slice into it like a saber through bark.

“Silvey, do you know what happened after we exited your mind?”

Again, you twisted toward Obi-Wan, sharing an equally amused yet questioning expression that lifted you from your squat to shake off foreign slobber with a sliding clap or two.

“Um, yeah,” you shrugged your shoulders, pivoting to face the battalion’s forward movement before leaning into another hiking pace that led Obi-Wan’s white shin-guarded legs to traipse in tandem. “Master Windu said I passed out. Nothing a day’s rest in the infirmary couldn’t heal.”

Kenobi paused.

In fact, your words stopped him in his tracks altogether, the weight of which yanked down his leading foot like Coruscant’s gravitational pull on an incoming shuttle.

Obi-Wan’s probing eyes raked over your expression in search of any inkling of understatement. A fixed scan that would prod every image you reflected onto him until it satiated his urge with absolute satisfaction. A burning desire to learn of what truly happened when you left his carrying arms that day in the infirmary. And an aspiration that radiated from his orbs so fiercely, it snatched your noticing figure to halt alongside his as a concerned glow etched across your countenance.

“You were nearly killed, Silvey,” Obi-Wan hushed, hoping to keep his promise of discretion by ensuring that any nearby clone was out of earshot. “I felt your Life Force weaken in my arms. Master Nema said as much.”

Obi-Wan watched while your parted teeth tensed to chew the inside of your lip. Uneasy cheeks shifting as you raked a backhand across your lowered head in thought, wiping away a few, loose strands of sticking hair.

“I had no idea…” you uttered mindlessly.

Until your flitting eyes shot up to meet his. All while antsy feet, budged by rote, drew you both to lean into another march forward, toward the faraway Republic supply port.

“Why wouldn’t Master Windu tell me this?” You expressed, lips parted in thought as your eyes raked the traveling blades of grass for answers. “He’s known of my concerns for weeks.“

Another swiping ripple unfurled through the Force, driving Kenobi’s focus to tilt toward a familiar, fury blob dashing from verdant cover-to-cover as those recognizable golden eyes kept watch in its perpetual, ensuing creep. One whose curiosity apparently devolved into desire for another tasty treat.

Although not by any other Jedi’s standards.

“It appears you’ve acquired a new friend,” Kenobi commented, casually motioning toward the unceasing orange fox with a few fingers.

His words drew your lifted brows toward the endearing sight, with the critter’s smart golden eyes and sharp, conniving ears appearing to play a titular role in poking a restrained smile through once-drained features.

“During a time in which friends are most sought after,” you breathed before offering him a thin lip tug.

Another beat sprinkled by the resounding crunch of grass.

You roughly exhaled through your nose, eyes sheepishly drifting toward the carefully observing man before you stiffly articulated churning thoughts.

“I’m really starting to realize I owe Anakin a big apology.”

“Coincidence, it is not.”

Yoda’s eerily judicious words echoed against Obi-Wan’s skull like the instant that follows a visceral nightmare as his feet continued their steady tread across lusciously viridescent turf.

He couldn’t deny the Grand Master’s infallible logic. So much so, that his eyes pierced through your frame, passing by any deeper meaning of your long-forgotten words as his thoughts tumbled through logic spells.

This incident’s severity proved it to be no fluke.

It was something to do with your mind. And while Kenobi couldn’t grasp an ounce of clarity from the Force on the matter, he knew from recent history that any indications of what this was or where it was headed could be discerned from those peculiar, cerebral manifestations.

A thought that grew all the more concerning when a Jedi like Mace Windu failed to address it seriously.

A Jedi like him, as he blindly assumed that stress was the rationale behind your initial symptoms, despite your vehement dissent.

But, this time, Obi-Wan refused to let you keep it all inside. He wouldn’t disregard your perceptions again.

Luckily, on the former, it appeared that you were starting to agree.

“Silvey, in the nature of commensurate openness, I must ask, have you experienced any more symptoms since the incident? Specifically, in relation to your mind?”

Another gust of winding valley breeze swiped Kenobi’s robe against his legs, tugging his senses to canvas the vale. The perpetual brigade and whirring repulsorsleds’s even procession and the sunned fox agilely and stealthily weaving through shrubs not far behind streamed prominently around his perception. Even the gentle sway of a distant leaf tied to its maker, or the churning hiss of waterways that streamed through the surrounding mountains flowed with even impressions throughout the Force.

All before his mind circled back to the being at the forefront of his mind.

One whose uncertain, downcast gaze and gently parted lips had yet to answer.

And that was always an unfortunate sign.

“Silv—“

“General.”

Kenobi stalled his gate almost instantly, swiveling neck facing Lieutenant Waxer as his spine lengthened into the military-grade armor encapsulating his limbs while you correspondingly braked beside him.

“Apologies for the interruption, Sir,” Waxer elucidated toward the bearded Jedi. “The electrical storm has mostly cleared for communications. The Council is requesting your presence on The Negotiator for final rendezvous preparations.”

Kenobi nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Though he spoke with a hint of indecision.

“Go,” you clearly adjured, swirling Obi-Wan’s attention back toward your brilliantly silver eyes that easily caught onto his hesitant tone. “I can finish this delivery on my own. I’ll have Boil work with me on leading the rest of the clones temporarily in Waxer’s place while you two are off-world.”

Your first mission alone. Or partial mission, he supposed.

But you would be leading. And with limited training in the area of wartime feats. Something which certainly pulsated his unease.

“Go,” you assured, adorning a knowing smile that relaxed Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

But only after a few more seconds of analytical consideration did the Jedi Master finally raise a plain brow, tilting his beard as he left you with one final reminder:

“I’m a comm ring away.”

Taglist

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[marlenacantswim]

nicholas isn't used to being carried, so anytime danny does it (which is quite often) he's completely confounded.

you think he would've figured it out by now, but nope! there's something deeply autistic about this man, i've decided.

linework under the cut ✂️✂️✂️

i had an idea for another drawing of the two of them though it won't be quite so unserious. this has been great practice for getting myself to draw loose and ignore a lot of the perfectionism that takes hold of my balls when i draw, and now i'm ready to make some ART again babeyyyyy

usually i draw once every six months and write maybe a fourth of a fic once a year, so it's actually crazy to me that Hot Fuzz (2007) and the other pegg-frost-wright collaborations have rooted themselves in my brain so deeply and intensely that i'm??? being??? consistent??? with both????? and you know, i'm 1000% a lot of this motivation comes from the so dearly kind words y'all've been giving me on fic and art alike (i don't want to link my ao3 account but those who know, ily) because OH MY GOD you guys say the SWEETEST AND MOST GLORIOUS THINGS, i truly think we as people were put on this earth to read the tags people put on our art posts on tumblr dot com because what else can that well convince someone that what they do is worth it?

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

yay new event

a trey love request pls :

hello trey-boo <3 you know we have valentines day today right

you are in every way perfect and I cannot have anyone stealing my picture book perfect boyfriend from me eveeeer so I got you this for valentines <3 *gets out marriage contract* go on love of my life write down your name and grant me with a life supply of your baked godly goods tehehe~ <3

.... yes I lost a bet... *whispers* yes it's Ace... Sorry Sir...

I swear to Michard 😩 Trey prompts have so much potential for fun awkwardness… Love it 💕

Sweet on You.

Trey-boo?

Well, that’s a new one.

He blinked, cautiously eyeing you as you sauntered over to him, hands folded behind your back. Between you, his younger siblings, and Heartslabyul, Trey had always thought he’d get accustomed to high-octane antics—alas, here came another curveball, courtesy of his significant other.

“Yeah, I know the date.” He cocked an eyebrow. “… Is there something you want to tell me?”

You let loose a torrent of mushy praise, whipping out a piece of parchment paper and waving it in his face. Singing of his perfection and even more perfect baked goods, you urged him to sign, your eyes large and pleading.

Trey startled, setting his glasses askew. The honeyed drawl and the sprinkle of a giggle on top was, perhaps, a little too much for his brain to comprehend at once.

“Ahahah…” He readjusted his frames, a pithy laugh at his mouth as he tried to collect his thoughts. “I see that you’re taking a page out of Azul’s book. Maybe a little too much of it.

“… So, what’s this really about?”

You glanced at the ground, shyly kicking it. The confession slipped through your lips before you had even realized it—you were so honest with Trey, so comforted by his presence. It was only natural to spill your heart out to him.

He nodded understandingly. “Ah, I thought something was up. You know, you really shouldn’t let Ace bait you into these dares and bets. It always ends up badly for one of you—or worse, for both of you.”

Wise words from a wise man.

… Too bad you weren’t so wise.

You pouted, your brows turning up and your eyes starting to water. “Pwetty pwease, Twey-senpai?”

“Aw, don’t look at me like that. It’s not fair,” he sighed—though his tired tone tinged with his own brand of playfulness. “How can I say ‘no’ to that face? Sure, I’ll sign for you if that’s what makes you happy.”

It took but a moment for Trey to scrawl his name on the dotted line. You furled the paper back up and pumped your fist triumphantly. Victory tasted as sweet as one of his cupcakes--but even sweeter would be Ace's shocked expression when you rubbed it in his face later.

"Alright, alright, settle down." Trey's hand coming down upon your head and giving your hair a good ruffle. "I know I just signed my soul away to you and all, but you really don't need a contract to lock me down. You call, and I'll come running."

Your cheeks warmed at his promise. Perhaps you'd have said something just as charming and sincere, had the growl of your stomach not cut you off.

Trey laughed lightly. "Come on, I have a cake cooling in the kitchen. You can help me frost and decorate it, and then we can cut you a slice. Gotta make use of my perks and get some of those 'baked godly goods', right?"

[safyresky]

🆕 Crystal Springs Chapter 29: Mind Goop now up on ao3/ff dot net!

Chapter 29: Mind Goop

After a good night's rest, Blaise sets to work tying up loose ends among the denizens of the North Pole, and charming his way through Santa's in-laws. Meanwhile, Santa crashes Jack's pity party and Elle checks in with Jacqueline, maybe a little too literally.

ao3 | ff dot net

In my heart of hearts, I call this chapter the "Blinter Gay Panic" chapter. Those mofos are out here charming the crap outta Carol, outta Santa, and Blaise does a NUMBER on the in-laws (not before they do a number on him!)

Have an excerpt ;)

Blaise looked down. Below him, baby Buddy had tottered over, sitting in the foam on the floor and smacking it with his hands. Carol rushed over, picking him up and pulling him out. He giggled, kicking his legs as foam went flying. “Looks like someone needs to be hosed down,” Santa joked, hoping to cut the tension. “No need,” Blaise said, snapping his fingers again. In a flash, Buddy was clean; foam gone, his clothes nicely pressed, and his bib clear of food stains new and old. “There we go! All tidy,” Blaise said, making a silly face at the toddler. Buddy giggled, kicking his legs happily as Carol sat him on her side. Clearing his throat, Blaise looked up at the Claus’s extended family and flashed them a prize-winning smile. “Hi. Frost, Blaise Frost. Governor of the Capitol of Crystal Springs and baby cleaner extraordinaire.” He winked, his hair fwooshing to life, briefly bending like a flickering candle before once more burning brightly at an acceptable height. “Oh, wow,” Sylvia said, sultry. “Wow!” Bud agreed, impressed. “Bud Newman! Father-in-Law of Christmas!” Placing down the fire extinguisher, he stuck out his hand. Blaise shook it enthusiastically. “Some grip you got there, Governor.” “Playing with fire works wonders on the old grippers,” he teased, letting go of Bud’s hand and turning to look at Sylvia. “And this is the lovely Mrs. Newman?” “Just Sylvia is fine,” she said, patting her hair and giving him her hand. Blaise took it, very briefly kissing her knuckles. She flushed. “He’s got ‘em,” Santa whispered to Carol. “Hook, line, and sinker baby,” Carol replied, the pair of them bumping fists.

YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE THIS! OR AFTER THIS! Or maybe you will! With a chapter title like MIND GOOP? I ain't SLICK. Or maybe I am! Who's to say? YOUS to say!

That's RIGHT! You can check Chapter 29: Mind Goop out HERE on ao3 and HERE on fanfiction dot net and be the judge of how slick tumblr user safyresky really is!

Want to start from the top? Check out the Prologue: An Encounter HERE on ao3 and HERE on ff dot net!

Story summary and SafyreSky Industries Ramblings below the cut!

It's been almost a year since Jack Frost thawed and things are looking...well, not so great. Jack's powers are seemingly gone. Without them, the Dome that keeps the North Pole safe from the cold and its magic controlled is melting, putting everything and everyone magical at risk. Unable to hide his power shortage any longer, Jack is forced to admit the truth. Thankfully, there is a solution: enacting the Legate Law, bringing Jack and the sister that he hurt so many centuries ago back together again. But when Jacqueline starts experiencing destructive blackouts, the pair are forced to head back home to Crystal Springs, bringing Jack face to face with the rest of the family. Needless to say, between getting his powers back, helping his sister figure out what in the FROST those blackouts even were, reconciling with his parents, meeting the two even younger siblings he didn't even KNOW he had, NOT TO MENTION the ancient threat that's had it out for the ENTIRE Frost family finally making a move? Saving Christmas (regrettably) is looking to be a little bit...complicated.

SO sorry for the SLIGHT delay!! I think I spent like 75% of December taking care of sick husband/being a little low energy/feeling unwell, and then holidays came around and were BUSY. AND FULL OF MORE SICKNESS. This time the hubbers and I got hit with a stomach bug like no other AFTER CHRISTMAS DAY. I've never had to put so much effort into tossing my cookies in my LIFE. GAH.

The other problem I ran into was, funnily enough, Jacqueline and Elle. Their mind goop scene wasn't hitting right, so I let the chapter sit for a bit while rereading older Jacquie/Elle bits and rereading Rules of Engagement and when I finally looked back at it I realized the PROBLEM was that THESE TWO GOOBERS. HAD M O R E TO SAY TO ONE ANOTHER!!!!!!

WHAT DO YOU TWO HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELVES?

UNBELIEVABLE.

Goobers aside, here it FINALLY is :3.

🆕 this chapter:

Blaise decided he was going to be present for the rescue Polly mission, too

(that was a whole OTHER writing problem, oy vey)

(the cast has taken control. i don't even think i'm in the CAR anymore! I think I fell out!)

Both he and I continue to be plagued by CS Lore (magical incidents and how they are taken care of, the CS equivalent of "Police" and how they work, Mother Nature apparently having absolute power in extreme circumstances--though that checks out, AND some Call/Fae War Lore Drops)

This, of course, means you all get fresh CS Lore!

Next time I rework CS it's gonna be to separate it from Fandom and make it a publishable original work

WORD COUNT: CS 2014 (OG)->6,055k CS 202X-> 15,444k

Yet another MASSIVE change lmao

And I think that about covers it! MUCHAS thanks to mr alex hirsch for unleashing gravity falls onto the world and making me aware of GRUNKLE as a title, which Lucy 100% would use and WILL USE. I think Sylvia is like "just Sylvia is fine dear" and Lucy's like "Consider: GRAUNTIE SYLVIA!" (bc you can't convince me that Bud and Sylvia wouldn't be brought into the blended family the way the Millers and Scott did it, lmao)

Goal for Chapter 30: write it, first off, lmao. I'm two scenes in?? But I'm HOPING to have it ready for Crystal Spring's TENTH Birthday on the 20th of this month. TEN YEARS. MAHOOSIVE. AH.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter and enjoy your weekends! I will be cleaning at my folk's house so ANY AND ALL NICE WORDS AND COMMENTS AND DISTRACTIONS ARE APPRECIATED AS I AM TIRED AND FAMILY'D OUT AND WILL NEED THE SEROTONIN, LOL.

[birinboom]

7 (👀 i see you’ve listed a deku fic as a project!! 👀👀👀), 55, and 72 for the fanfic ask game! ✨✨✨

Thank you so much for asking! 💖💖💖 I’m sorry to tell you though that the Deku fic is still only a draft (I’ll never get it finished for New Year’s 😅) so I’ll post a different WIP snippet at the end.

55. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics?  Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

I’ve noticed that I use the phrase ‘couldn’t help but __’ a lot. I know that I also use nature themes a lot, but generally I’m really bad at noticing these kinds of things 😅 Have any of you noticed patterns that keep reappearing in my fics? 👀👀

72. What’s your favorite writing compliment you’ve gotten?

I’ve gotten quite a few sweet comments like ‘didn’t know I needed this’ and ‘omg you should all read this!!’ but one of the ones that really sticks out to me is a comment that my writing was (partially) the reason a reader started writing again. The feeling that I’ve inspired someone that much - even if I was only one part of a bigger bout of inspiration - really makes me happy 🥹

7. Post a snippet from a wip.

Okay, so this needs a little bit of explanation. It’s from an upcoming fic called ‘Dragon’s Heart’, a fantasy fic with human!reader and dragon!Kirishima. The reader has been poisoned and has been suffering from high fevers and delirium and Kiri has been taking care of them for several days at this point.

「The first thing you noticed, as you fought to pull your mind from the depth of sleep, was Eijirou’s soft voice. It rose and fell, repeating the same pattern again and again. It took your addled mind a while to realize that he was singing to himself, and even longer before you could make out the words of his song.

Frigid winds are howling Ravens cry and wolves are prowling Seeking food and seeking rest Snowflakes fall, the cold is stinging In the trees no birds are singing Taking shelter in their nests

It slowly dawned on you why your fever dreams were full of the cries of birds and wolves, he must have been singing this exact song while you slept. Staying still, you listened as he drew in a deep breath, then continued,

All around are yearning For the warmth, yet frost is burning Still the wind blows from the North Come South-West who bests the winter Earth will thaw and ice will splinter  As she guides the springtime forth

Springtime. You could barely wait for spring. Eyes slowly closing again, you fell back asleep, your mind filled with the image of dots of vibrant green and yellow peeking out through the snow.」

Not sure when I’ll get this finished, I’ve been working on it for years at this point 😅

The song is a very loose translation of a Danish folk song called ‘It Is White Outside’ (‘Det Er Hvidt Herude’ by St. St. Blicher). I’m so sad that I couldn’t include the part about South-West and their wings of fog. It literally goes ‘come South-West who bests the frost / come with your wings of fog / come and release the bound earth’ (Kom sydvest som frosten tvinger / kom med dine tågevinger / kom og løs den bundne jord)

Fanfiction writing asks

[fleurladari-a]

👀

" it seems the world wants me to talk to the former leader, doesn't it? "

Lysandre turned to look towards Xerosic, who was sat at his own desk, writing a few papers, looking through documents and images they had attained from their plants in the International Police. More photographs of those marks. Why couldn't assets just stay put long enough for his satellites to swoop in and grab them?

Moreso, why couldn't his satellites be faster about it. Connecting dots and wires to not only get a read on how the experiment was going out of supervision, but also trying to find more connections to better figure out where it was. That tracking was Xerosic and Bryony's responsibility on the side, Lysandre simply overseeing it.

He unfortunately had too much to do to focus in one the retrieval of that asset.

" have a little meeting with that boy, learning he might have been in contact with our runaway battery...really it's quite telling. "

Of course, he could confirm neither at the moment, but one was so strong of evidence it might as well have been fact, while the other was...loose but not without merit. He had been spotted near the beginning of this little escapade. It wasn't unreasonable to think.

" still, as much as rocket--at the surface--felt like a man collecting rats, i never thought him a father. "

The man crossed his arms behind his back as he walked over towards Xerosic's desk, leaning over his scientists shoulders to look down at the images and documents. Paper bound, perhaps it was based strictly on paranoia, but given Xerosic's origin, as well as their own work in the development of AI...It wasn't too unorthodox.

" what do you think? with enough time, we could track down a line...or go straight to the source and try to reach out to him, no need to be sneaky about it. i'm sure he would love a drink. "

Lysandre paused, then set his hand across one of the images, frost cavern, reflection cave, and glittering cave. Pulling them out from the bunch and spreading them out.

" here. send a group here to investigate possible remnants for it. let me know the results. i'll look into a possible, mmh...drink. "

A Conversation Mention. ( accepting ! )

[shieldretired]

development tea room holiday & winter prompts Day 8: during a gingerbread house construction contest, you realize your competitor has sabotaged you @symbiiotic​ gets a little surprise drabble

                      SOMETIMES, Steve lets himself get sweet-talked into terrible things. This time he agreed to make three dozen gingerbread houses for the youth organization at church because Father Timothy is planning on making a nativity play just for the little ones. Every amateur actor will get a present: a necklace with the portrayal of Saint Stylianos, the protector of children, and, well, a fucking gingerbread house. Steve liked the idea of a nativity play for and with children (the one for the adults can be very long and very, you know, old-fashioned), so he said yes before he realized how much work making over 30 gingerbread houses would be. 

                      Luckily enough, Steve is also very good at sweet-talking someone into helping him, which is why Eddie came over this morning to get some house construction done. And since everything is better if you turn it into a contest, Steve declared that whoever makes the 10 nicest gingerbread houses would get to lick all the bowls with icing and chocolate and frosting. That, of course, was very interesting for Venom, who is rather good at art and also has, like, fifty tentacles that can work on gingerbread houses simultaneously. Steve won't make it too easy for them, of course, because he's a competitive asshole, especially when it comes to art, so he decorates his houses in excruciating detail: a little cat sitting near the front door, windows where you can see the Christmas tree inside, icicles hanging from the roof. It takes a little longer, but it's worth it, Steve thinks as he moves his third finished gingerbread house to the side of the table.

                      That's also the moment he realizes a sneaky, little black tendril hurridly retracting back into Eddie's shoulder, dropping one of those little tubes with the colorful icing Steve bought in a store dedicated to everything regarding baking. Steve squints at his finished gingerbread houses. "Venom, you asshole," he exclaims. The house he painfully decorated with lots of little flowers and windowboxes now has red dots all over it. It looks like chickenpox. Venom, of course, has the audacity to turn a tentacle in Steve's direction in an innocent who, me? gesture. Steve squirts his tube of blue icing at them, and then all hell breaks loose.

                      3.5 minutes later, the kitchen looks like a battlefield: the cupboards are covered in melted chocolate, Steve has red and green frosting all over his shirt, Venom's tentacles are decorated with sugar holly leaves and fondant flowers, and Eddie has sugar pearls in various colors in his hair and yellow frosting on his nose. "Okay, okay, truce!" Steve yells while trying to stop a tendril from squirting icing into his ear. He succeeds: It ends up in his left eye instead because Venom wants to get the final word. Wiping the sugary mass out of his face, Steve looks over to where, what a miracle, the gingerbread houses are still standing. There's nothing detailed about them anymore, though. It looks like straight out of an abstract art workshop with stripes and dots and little swirls of color.

                      A beat of silence, then Steve starts laughing. "You know what? I love them. It's like Kandinsky made a gingerbread baby with Pollock. Those are the nicest gingerbread houses that were ever made. Well done, everyone."

[b-blushes]

garden log 1.5 argh i forgot to update at the end of the 1st one! :P

looks a little underwhelming but a) i didn't connect the dots between 'frost on the ground still at 2pm' and 'the dirt will be frozen bestie' and i didn't get any tools out to actually dig up weeds and b) i was strictly sticking to my 10 minute timer to make sure i don't overdo it (:

anyway i took photos of everything, pulled out all the nasturtium leftovers that were loose enough to remove, and pulled up a couple of weeds/sprouts of grass that i could get to! nice!

[chronothread]

Duel

CANTO I: My Dearest Gale.

“Gale. I want you to promise me something.”

“That no matter what happens…”

“You will always be with me. Until the bitter end.”

——————————————————————————————————

It was snowing.

Why was it always snowing? Whenever something happens, it’s always snowing.

Was it a gift? So I would always know when to brace myself?

Or was it a curse? So I would always know when to brace myself?

Every gift that has been given to me has also been a curse.

And I wonder sometimes…

Is my life a gift? Or is it a curse?

How cruel then that I was never given the opportunity to brace myself.

——————————————————————————————————

CANTO II: My Dearest, Gale.

There he stood. In the middle of the snowfields - away from the city, away from the households that dotted Coerthas. He was alone, like he had always been. His pale gold hair flowed gently in the breeze, light bouncing off the surface of his shield and into the ground. He was in his armor - red, black, and gold - his back turned to me. Unceasingly his gaze was fixed upon a pillar, unmoving, unspeaking, unflinching. Though I suppose gaze was incorrect as his eyes were shut - his reflection told me as much. 

“Gale. I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

Lucien.

Of course, he knew I was here. The only one who could ever tell if I had arrived or if I had left. If I was present or if I was absent. Preternatural - but then again - so was the rest of our relationship. There were two possibilities of him being here. Two possibilities and I could not accept one. Only the other.

“I’m late, aren’t I? Or you’re early. Well the important part is that we’re both here. So why don’t we get this show on the road and find out where-”

“Stop.”

And so my footsteps stop. And he turns around slowly and he opens his eyes. And they’re cold. And dead. Those swirling amethyst eyes of his were like…a vortex. A maelstrom that sucked the light and life out from the world around us. A freezing pit that drew what little heat there was from the air and left me chilled to the bone.

I could not accept one.

“You aren’t stupid, you’re playing stupid. You know why we are here.” He takes one step forward. My heart beats once. “You have always been perfectly…infuriatingly brilliant. Too smart for your own good, too clever for the court. You and your whole family. Even when you are cornered the walls themselves seem to reshape in your favor.” He draws his sword. He draws it, and he quietly points it at me.

“You have a funny sense of humor. I enjoy our duels Lucien, but this isn’t the time. With the info we found this is where we should start searching for-” 

I don’t get to finish my sentence. Lucien’s blade cuts through the air and a wave of water rushes across the field, slicing the snow at my feet to reveal the dirt buried underneath. All of a sudden, it became much harder to breathe.

“You’re here to tie up loose ends. To snip every last thread. To kill every last person who was responsible for the deaths of your family and of mine. And I’m the only one here. Put two and two together, you’re better than that.” 

I didn’t need permission to do that. I’d put two and two together long ago. But I wanted to hear it from him. I wanted to look him in the eye and hear him say it and I…

I didn’t like it. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be feeling. A combination of my blood boiling and icing over like…a frozen spring? No - like freezing flame. It was a storm of frost and flame roiling within my veins, racing back to my heart in a struggle to wrest control over my emotions. To scream, or to cry. I felt like doing both. I drew both blades.

“Why.”

It was the only thing I could ask. I swallowed, and it went down hard. I felt my throat tighten, I felt my face flatten into steel. I felt everything except grief leave my body.

“Because your family, my family…we’re all heretics. We are all blights on this land, and the only way we can atone and be welcomed back in Halone’s embrace is if we die in her service. We were all stained. Someone needs to clean it up.”

“That…wasn’t for you to decide. That wasn’t for you to decide! They weren’t perfect but they were good, loving people. They welcomed you, with open arms they took you in. They…you…they loved you. Like a son, a grandson, a brother. I love you. So what if we stray from the Church’s path? The Church was lost! We were all lost! I thought…I thought you of all people would see that.

“Then you were a fool. You all were. There is nothing that I will not do to see that justice is served. To anyone and to everyone. I will…purge our country of the rot that has infested it. One person at a time. By any means necessary.”

I grit my teeth. And I lower my stance. And narrow my eyes, and I…seal my heart. In a wall of flaming frost. Isolated, and alone. Just as it should be.

A deep, unfathomable darkness takes hold of Lucien, an unending void of shadow seeps from his form and envelopes him. A helmet grows from his circlet and obscures his face, and his blade is shrouded in a horrible current of water the color of the abyss. A second sword appears next to his shield, and a second shield appears next to his sword - held by ghostly limbs. 

A voidsent.

He barely gives me time to think about it as he rushes towards me and I to him. Lucien slashes one sword and I parry it away, but just as soon as he does that another comes from the opposite direction. Again I swat it away but one of his shields comes crashing into my stomach and throwing me back. I gasp for breath as the wind is knocked out of me and Lucien rushes me down again. It takes every last bit of strength I have to pull myself together and roll to my left, narrowly avoiding a ravenous pillar of aether land right where my head just was. 

“I’ve never been able to beat you in a fair fight, so I am not leaving any chances. If you don’t get your head into this duel and give me the respect I deserve then I will take your head myself. You will die just like your family did.”

I don’t know how loudly I shrieked, but it must have been loud because my throat was crying out in protest afterward. I channel a blast of lightning from one of my swords right at him, which is eaten by the waters that wreath his own. I take advantage of the moment to dash towards him, covering my approach with another bolt of levin which he absorbs with one of his shields. I aim for his throat and for his ribs from opposing directions, which he blocks with his arsenal. The screeching of metal grinding against metal filling the air. 

As our weapons clash momentarily, I allow my arms to go slack, and he loses his balance for a moment as I dart behind him. I sweep a leg under his and he trips and falls to the ground. With a yell I thrust my katana towards Lucien - only for him to bring his shield to bear and knock my strike away. Continue to hack away at the man on the ground, only for him to block and parry every blow with all four of the limbs he had readied. Our fight is savage and wild, much unlike the grace and care of our dances.

I get sloppy. I get carried away. I put too much in my swing and he rolls to the side, cutting horizontally slicing deep into my side. Blood splashes across the snow, but I feel nothing. Adrenaline perhaps. I don’t know. I don’t think I really felt anything since going into this duel. Anger, grief. But it’s all hollowed out.

Again I run at him. I quicken my pace, I change my tactics. I dip in and out of his reach as he attempts to catch me with water and shadow, slicing the snow at my feet. Sometimes behind me, sometimes in front of me, but he never hits me again as I make little nicks on his legs, his arms, his hands. Slow him down while I speed up, ignoring whatever pain was in my side. I see my blood flow into the spaces where the snow had been displaced. Dark red.

It’s a haze to me. Whenever I fight like this. Like a wild animal, when I let my instincts take hold. It’s all just shapes that I need to get rid of, movement that I need to stop. 

Then I see it, the opening. He charges…something. I can see it, feel it. Aether coalescing between all four of his armaments. So I run. Faster than I’d ever run before. A torrent of shadow and water mix and grow and grow and grow, but I don’t care. With a deep breath, I leap forward with both of my blades outstretched.

There is a sickening sound of flesh tearing, bones breaking. And the crunch of snow as we both fall to the ground.

——————————————————————————————————

CANTO III: My Dearest…Gale.

“Gale. I…I want you to promise me something.”

“That…no matter…what has happened…

“You will stay…with me. Until…the bitter end…”

My Dearest Gale. In another life I would have loved to grow old with you.

My Dearest, Gale. In another life, I would have loved to be forever frustrated by you.

My Dearest…Gale. In this life? I am glad to die beside you.

It was snowing. Why…was it always snowing?

[heartofmorioh]

South Park writing under the cut

 There is kindness at the window. It wears the smile of a boy with the hood of a villain. He is at once familiar and unknowable, and so there is a venomous question mark etched into the fabric of his clothing. 

 "I don't need rescuing," Stan protests, and he wants to slam the window shut, breaking all the boy's fingers against the windowsill. 

 "Not rescuing, but protection," the boy answers, and he seems so genuine that Stan can't bring himself to turn around and face him. The boy's voice shakes slightly, but he is steady and sure. Stan imagines him with blond hair, tumbling down his back in waves, and strawberry freckles dotting his round face. Stan calls the stranger at his window Kindness.

 "Why are you here?" Stan asks and Kindness laughs in a way that is so familiar, a way that is so known - Stan is visited by a familiar desire to slam the window shut. 

 "You prayed for me," Kindness answers in reverent tones. "You begged for me to come here."

 But the only person Stan can remember ever praying for is his dead best friend.

 Kindness returns to his windowsill and Stan spills his heart. He is bleeding out, veins and arteries loose and broken. Frantically stitching them back together as he tries to illustrate why he needs to get this out of him. He is being poisoned.

 "You're such a good listener, dude," Stan says one night, and he blushes. And though his back is turned, Kindness feels his heart ache. He knows what is happening, he always will. There will never come a day when he doesn't recognise that tone in Stan's voice. He'd know it if he'd seen it only once before and did nothing. He knows what is happening, and he cannot interfere.

 Kindness at the window is telling the softest lies, like strawberries at a picnic, like cupcakes so perfectly frosted. Kindness has done this time and time again, and has yet to be able to stop himself from ever showing up at the window. He can't help it. It is simply his nature; he must come when he is called, and he must allow whatever Stan wants to happen.

 "I don't need rescuing," Stan reminds him one night. "I don't want you to just be, you know, the superhero on my windowsill. I have to see your face."

 Kindness has no face, no eyes, no lips or tongue or teeth. So when Stan turns to look, all he will see are green eyes staring out of shadows, blond twin braids tossed over thin shoulders. Kindness isn't a person, so when Stan turns to look, he'll only see a boy. Everything will be ruined.

 "You can't see me, Stan," Kindness answers quietly, his voice wavering like it did that first night. He lets out a light, airy laugh. "It's in the name, I guess. My name is Mysterion."

 And Stan is satisfied with this. Kindness at his window is so much more real, now. He exists outside his virtue. He's no longer intangible. Stan wants to touch him, wants to feel his heart beating in his fingertips. It is simply his nature; he wants to touch what he knows is there.

 Mysterion's voice grows cold over time. Stan is supposed to trust he is there, not to look back into the underworld. Stan is supposed to trust that he is still the same boy when he cannot even hear his voice. He can't trust what he can't see. Don't look back, you may walk out of the underworld, but you may not look back.

He can't help it. It is in his nature. He needs to look back. And in a way, it is almost as if his display of distrust is truly a display of the opposite. If he truly believed what he saw would not be his friend, he would not have looked. Surely this is true.

 How could anyone kill him without killing themselves?

But Mysterion watches him turn his head. He longs to be gone, to fix it, to stop it from happening just this one time. He knows what will happen when Stanley looks back. But it is simply his nature; he must come when he is called, and he must allow whatever Stan wants to happen.

[safyresky]

Crystal Springs Chapter 20: Now on ao3!

Happy Thursday everyone! Apparently it's becoming my CS update day ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Anyway, catch Chapter 20 on ao3 RIGHT HECKIN HERE

Chapter 20: Breaking the Chains

Jacqueline opens up about the blackouts. Kasper gets to see Polly. The Man has a very good evening.

The Man has a very VERY good evening. He's very productive. Here's a fun lil excerpt for you all:

Inside the castle, The Man hummed to himself, walking towards his study with a steaming mug of something hot. There was no discernible smell; it was just hot. He sipped, humming happily, as he entered the commandeered parlour and poured the rest of the mug into a smaller cauldron sitting on top of his usual vat. It was filled with a shiny, gold, liquid that had the consistency of molasses. The liquid sparked as the hot stuff hit it; the glow turned purple. "Promising," he said to himself, throwing the mug against the wall behind him. It shattered, the porcelain nearly disintegrating on impact with the stone walls. Still humming, The Man walked around the cauldron, pulling one hand out from behind his back. He made a loose fist; in a swirl of fire, his staff appeared. Positioning himself on the scary side of the cauldron, very much on purpose, he spread his legs apart and gripped the golden staff tightly between both fists. He slammed it onto the floor. The red oval stone glowed, hovering between the crest it rested in. The Man's voice grew deep and echoey as he uttered the spell; the staff crackled and sparked, and on the other side of his vat of lava, a whirl of fire appeared. It whooshed downwards and dissipated, revealing a very startled elf, holding tight to a teddy bear and a small package. "What in the blazes is all of that?" "I was just. I...sorry, I wasn't ready to be. To be." He gestured to the ground below him. "Here." The Man blinked, unamused. "No matter. Did you get the item I requested?" The elf nodded. "I did! Here you go," he said, reaching into his vest pocket (teddy crammed under his arm) and passing The Man the vial. "There's a couple. Definitely hairs. For-for sure." "Let's test that, shall we?" Eagerly The Man grabbed the vial out of the elf's hand. He cracked it open; with a wiggle of his finger, one single hair flew out and hovered. He squinted at it. He mumbled under his breath, drawing a shape in the air. The hair glowed. The Man grinned. "Excellent." He moved his finger in an arc through the air; the hair followed, hovering above the vat and falling when he snapped his fingers.

Intrigued and disturbed and perhaps, oddly enjoying The Man's shenanigans? Give it a read to see where this takes him RIGHT HERE :)

Also, NEW CHAPTER TITLE. Bout to go update it's ff dot net counterpart in a mo.

Want to start reading Crystal Springs from the beginning? Tune in to Prologue: An Encounter HERE on ao3 and HERE on fanfic dot net :)

Story summary below the cut!

It’s been almost a year since Jack Frost thawed and things are looking…well, not so great. Jack’s powers are seemingly gone. Without them, the Dome that keeps the North Pole safe from the cold and its magic controlled is melting, putting everything and everyone magical at risk.

Unable to hide his power shortage any longer, Jack is forced to admit the truth. Thankfully, there is a solution: enacting the Legate Law, bringing Jack and the sister that he hurt so many centuries ago back together again. But when Jacqueline starts experiencing destructive blackouts, the pair are forced to head back home to Crystal Springs, bringing Jack face to face with the rest of the family.

Needless to say, between getting his powers back, helping his sister figure out what in the FROST those blackouts even were, reconciling with his parents, meeting the two even younger siblings he didn’t even KNOW he had, NOT TO MENTION the ancient threat that’s had it out for the ENTIRE Frost family finally making a move?

Saving Christmas (regrettably) is looking to be a little bit…complicated.

[stampwithtami]

Hello Irresistible [Floating Frame Series #8 & 9]

HELLO IRRESISTIBLE FLOATING FRAME CARD SETS Hugs and love floating frame card set from the Stampin' Up Hello Irresistible Suite. I'm loving this beautiful collection and Happy Labels stamp set. So many different ways to use it. I colored the flowers with Stampin' Blends markers. The Stampin’ Up! Hello, Irresistible Suite is part of the Online Exclusives and will be released in my online store on March 1. You can also get them with my new Hello, Irresistible Kits and in a Demo Kit now. Scroll down for: - INSTRUCTIONS - VIDEO: FLOATING FRAME - CARD PHOTOS - CARD SUPPLIES - FLOATING FRAME SERIES - MORE FROM ONLINE EXCLUSIVES   KIT DETAILS & ORDERING INSTRUCTIONS INSTRUCTIONS VIDEO: FLOATING FRAME MORE DETAILS CARD PHOTOS Want to save these ideas for later? Pin them to your favorite Pinterest board. Have you tried these designs? I love to see your creations! Be sure to share them on #shareyourcrafts post every Saturday on my Facebook Page. I colored the images with Stampin' Blends Markers.  The embellishments are from the Loose Frosted Dots which are part of the Irresistible Suite. I created this card as an encouragement card but it can go for any occasion if you change the greeting.       CARD SUPPLIES The Stampin’ Up! Hello, Irresistible Suite is part of the Online Exclusives and will be released in my online store on March 1. You can also get them with my new Hello, Irresistible Kits and in a Demo Kit now.     FLOATING FRAME SERIES Read the full article