#i love eugene's cloak

[0bticeo]

lurk | feyd-rautha

part one of five. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary:

feyd-rautha. 

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

it is kill or be killed, and you intend to live.

wc: 2k

tw: blood. death. non graphic description of gore (this is a gladiator fight). mentions of eugenics. fighting as foreplay. reader may or may not have a blood kink. knife kink??? reader is more refined than feyd but don't let it fool you she's a freak. uuuh hubris? probable inaccurate handling of dune lore, esp with the voice (forgive me for the creative liberty of assuming the mother of the kwisatz haderach should be a freak. as a treat.)

many, many years ago, the sisterhood deems you ready for the gom jabbar. you enter the room, your mother a looming shadow, hands folded in her sleeves, head bowed before a long figure cloaked in shadows.

it doesn’t sit right with you, this intrusion in your mother’s parlor. how dare that old witch make a servant out of your mother in her own house?

“kneel.”

you do. you fall to your knees. before you, a phalto green box. in it, pain. at your neck, the gom jabbar, its deadly poison whispering into your ear.

it tells you about sweet, sweet little death. it tells you the reverend mother will not put your life in danger. not when you’re the culmination of nineteen generations of careful planning.

you are to be married to a harkonnen and bear the kwisatz haderach.

so you raise your head and put your hand in the box, eyes boring into the old crone’s. you see something flash in her depthless eyes. you think of the calm before mother-storms, the stillness of the air before pounding rain. 

it’s rage.

pain shoots through your hand. fire that burns and charrs and eats away at your flesh, consuming one layer of skin after another until you’re sure it reaches the bone below. you almost scream. instead, you bite your lip until metal-blood stains your tongue. 

you will endure this pain. you will not let fear consume you — you have nothing to fear, you shall not die, not here. fear is the mind killer. pain is the mind killer. you will let it wash over you and face the eons of bene gesserit knowledge standing before you.

through gritted teeth, you ask:

“am i human enough, oh wise one?”

you were. otherwise you wouldn’t be here, years later, rotting in a harkonnen cell. 

(there are things that have been kept a secret from you. you have been raised following your mother’s footsteps in the weirding way. the reverend mother denied you a place under her tutelage with harsh words and a harsher look. you’ve caught wind of her thoughts in shimmering fragments of dreams — what has jessica done?)

it will matter, in the end, that your mother decided to give your father a son. already, you’ve seen it, behind the web of your eyelids, the lone silhouette of your brother, blood of your blood, rising, rising.

he will gather them, the fremen, from the burning sands of arrakis, and rise, blade glinting under scorching sun. lisan al gaib, they already call him, hushed whispers lost in the shifting sands of dunes. 

your hand falls to your womb, empty still. 

they were scared, the bene gesserit. the atreides line was growing too powerful, too fast. you — the promised daughter, skilled in the way, with tongue and mind sharper than your blade — are to be bred and deliver the one.

but in came paul — beloved little mouse of a younger brother. too smart, too observant, too skilled, too much. your mother’s defiance, your mother’s love for your father led her to commit the unthinkable and defy the order.

it retaliated.

you’ve been betrayed. that, you’ve seen coming. so did your father. so did your mother. even your brother felt it, in his very bones, the low thrum of wrongness. something was bound to happen. something was bound to shake you to your very core. 

something happened.

the harkonnens came. house atreides fell. you can still smell it, the stench of death, the bloodied sands beneath your feet as you struck and struck.

all must die, and so they did.

you feel it still, the blood coating your hands, your forearms, dripping from your blade, the old scar on your forearm burning righteous fury. 

they caught you, in the end. you, who willingly put a target on your back, allowing your brother and mother’s quiet escape. you, beaten down, bloodied. grinning, voice warping the harkonnen rats’ perception.

“you will not see me as i am.”

the atreides have been set up. offering arrakis has been nothing but a convenient way for the emperor to get rid of your bloodline.

you scoff; in the quiet depths of your cell, your fingers dig crescent moons in your palms.

you’ve been taught to read behind veils upon veils of lies. the truthsayer suggested the eradication of your house. painted you a threat.

being able to breed the kwisatz haderach won’t protect you.

so here you are, eldest daughter of duke leto atreides and lady jessica, older sister to paul atreides. here you are, sitting with your back pressed up against the wall. cold seeps into your marrow, reaching bone. rage simmers low in your gut. you quell it. nurse it until it becomes a living beast eager to feast.

you will need it.

your body fails you. your sight is blurry, your hands tremble. they should not. duncan would have hit the back of your head had he been there. he isn’t. (dead.) breathe in. breathe out. focus what’s left of your attention on the too small bowl of food that’s been given to you, on the glass of water. empty, both of them. 

poison isn’t a problem — not with your training, not with the constant shifting and turning of lethal molecules within you. there. prana bindu — precise alteration of the body’s vitals. you will bear your condition for a time, weakened, but alive.

you clench your fist and slam it against the wall. pain surges through you, burning through your joint. good. if fear is the mind killer, pain clears the fog clogging your brain.

here goes: you’re rotting in the cell of your hereditary enemy, malnourished and poisoned. you’ve heard the guards, their off handed comments when they thought you too drugged to understand. your cell is below an arena. you will need to fight. perhaps, they’ll pit you against your men. the atreides house, dying by its own hand. fitting. 

you’re neck-deep in trouble.

the door slides open. two guards come in, all dressed in black. harkonnens. harkonnens everywhere, and you cannot do a damned thing as they pull you up, pushing you out of your cell. they’re laughing. those bastards are laughing.

one less atreides scum in the known universe — good riddance!

you will tear into them and rip out their spine with your teeth.

they drag you in a maze of hallways, each darker than the last. you’re ascending, a catabasis of twists and turns and sliding doors. there’s a low thrum in your gut. louder and louder with each step is a pulse. a chant. a name. 

the guards press a blade in your hand and push you forward.

the door slides up. shadows part. you blink with a low hiss. light pours down on you, all-consuming, blinding. sands stretch before you, unnaturally white.

the arena.

thousands upon thousands of people gaze down at you. the voice surges forward, eons of your foremother speaking through you.

“you will not perceive me as i am.”

something trickles down your nose. blood. you’ve overdone it. the voice isn’t meant to be used against that many people, not for long.

you wipe it off.

it will have to hold for the time of this fight. the harkonnen won’t rest until the atreides are completely and utterly wiped out. deceit is your only chance at survival.

the thought makes your blood boil. 

good thing the crowd is screaming for it. they're all screaming for it. a pulse. a chant. a name.

feyd-rautha. 

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

the noise alone has him turning towards you, head tilting to the side. he’s assessing you, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen. he glances up. for a split second, you follow his gaze. above, looking down upon you, is baron vladimir harkonnen, gargantuan mass of flesh.

you want him to collapse. to watch as his bones break under the weight of monstrous grease. you make out the movement of his lips.

happy birthday, nephew.

he’s on you before you can react. your blade raises. steel meets steel. you clench your teeth. his strength surpasses yours. you won’t yield, not to him. but by god is the bastard strong. you’ve got your hands full with just parrying his blows, the force of them echoing in your very bones. your feet slide on the sand below. any more and you’ll lose your footing.

his blades meet yours, again and again, their serrated edge slicing the corrupt air of the arena. they slice through you, too. a vicious cut on your bare forearm has you reeling back, your blade and sheath raising to parry.

this is bad. there’s only so much you can deal with in your decrepit state. fighting to survive isn’t an option — you must kill or be killed.

.

.

.

you draw in a sharp breath.  

watchful eyes bore down upon you. bene gesserit. the reverend mother herself has come to geidi prime.

something at your side — you let your guard down. there’s a flash, a metallic clang. feyd-rautha gazes down upon you, apex predator with your death written in the greedy sands of the arena. here, you’re precious prey. 

rage grips you by the throat and has you baring your teeth.

there you are, blades intertwined with harkonnen scum, a breath away from his lips. they part in a slow, assessing grin. you feel more than you see his appraising gaze raking over you. you, unyielding, matching him blow for blow, blood drip drip dripping down. under the black sun of geidi prime, it, too, has turned a velvety black.

from above your crossed blades, you raise your head and meet his eyes — twin pools of dark, abysses made to consume you whole. time slows down. you want to drown in the marrow of him and feel the warmth of his flesh beneath yours, lost in rapturous agony. something settles in your gut, low and warm.

you call it fury.

you pivot out of the way and nick him, a thin cut splitting open the skin of his cheek. he laughs. slashes at you with deathly precision. you duck, squatting down, leg springing forth, slamming at the back of his knee. he falls. catches you by the ankle and drags you to him.

you snarl. 

“let go.”

how utterly pathetic of you. his grip falters. you hear his blades fall to the ground. you twist, pivot until you’re straddling him, blade pressed against his throat.

there you have it. internal carotid, right below the sculpted edge of his jaw. five minutes until death. five minutes, with his lifeblood coating your hands, soaking your robes, sinking down to your skin beneath.

your hand cramps on the handle of your weapon, in a mockery of rigor mortis. nervous impulse. the tip of the blade pierces tender flesh, drawing a droplet of blood. you follow its path down the column of his flesh, until it reaches the edge of his collarbone.

his hands surges forward, seizing your forearm in a vice grip, yanking you towards him. you feel his breath on your lips with his next words.

“do it.”

his voice sends a shiver down your spine. low, gravelly, it calls for blood. if you don’t spill his, yours will be drawn. yet, you do not move, eyes riveted to his face, to the vicious impatience carved in his features. if you kill him, you’ll be hunted and put down like a dog. 

he shifts under you, the nervous twitch of a beast untamed. even through the hard edges of his ritual armor, you can feel the raw power of him.

you feel his thumb trace the edge of an old scar, up, up your forearm, a flash of black teeth and then— 

pain.

there’s something in your side, serrated, razor-sharp, twisting. your hand raises to your side. warmth trickles down your fingers. his hand wraps over yours, warm, blood a silky black against the porcelain of his skin.

he watches you, twisting the blade until yours fall to the ground, bloodied hand coming up to your cheek. you lean into it. welcome him, as his thumb smears blood across the edge of your parted lips.

“you fought well, atreides.” 

he pulls out the blade.

you fall.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

[tangledbea]

Got one for ya! If Tangled was made at a later date - where the CGI was more progressed and less expensive - if you could what would you - or what do you think Disney - would do wardobe wise to visually tell the story? What would be the story beats for each character you would feel would require an outfit change for story telling purposes? Hopefully this is a fun question for you - I've always thought about it since there is SO much amazing concept art.

Frankly, I think Eugene would stick to his one outfit until the end, and get an upgrade in the epilogue, just like he does in the movie. He doesn't have a home in which to store clothes, and carrying around extraneous garb would be a hindrance to a thief.

Rapunzel would get a new dress in town, though, perhaps directly after her hair gets braided. Then, it's like a total transformation. Also, I think, with the knowledge that she'd be getting a glow-up, she'd start out in something more peasant-y (and possibly green, since her promotional outfit would still be the purple one, or a variation on it). There are multiple concept art dresses I would pull for that one. Then, she'd also get her princess attire in the epilogue, though I think it wouldn't necessarily be so similar to her standard outfit/wedding dress. (Fun Fact: her pink princess dress and her wedding dress are nearly identical because originally, she and Eugene were going to get married in the epilogue, so they already had that dress design programmed and just needed to change the colors.) Since they now have the tech/budget for wildly different clothes, I think they'd use that as a flex.

Ooh, though perhaps Eugene would also get something new in town as a sort of disguise! That way, it mirrors the story beat of his world view changing as he falls in love, and then "I See the Light" would be all the more poignant with the two of them in their nice new clothes, holding hands, surrounded by the lanterns!

Gothel, on the other hand, wouldn't change styles at all, but her prologue outfit would be different colors. And she sort of gets an outfit change in the movie, in that she does wear her cloak when she goes out and takes it off when she gets home.

That's really all the costume change she needs. Her "costume change" is really that she visibly changes age.

The King and Queen would wear different clothes in the prologue and epilogue. Hell, they'd wear something different at the lantern festival than they do when Rapunzel returns to them. I mean, for goodness sake, they're the king and queen. Don't try to tell me they have one outfit apiece.

[paintbrushnebula]

I came up with something that I can't stop thinking about

It's this idea that I kinda wanna headcanon... idk it could sound lowkey weird and messed up though so I need to hear some thoughts on it

Rapunzel still has Gothel's cloak.

Or at least. had. Gothel's cloak for at least the first few weeks or maybe even months after she returned home. Does she ever get rid of it? Does she still have it now? I don't know...? Trying to think on that 😅

I know that for this to work, I'd have to answer the question of how she has the cloak. Like it's easy to say she just took it with her when she left the tower, but knowing Eugene is there, ehh.... ooh! Maybe picture this. Eugene gives Rapunzel a few minutes to pull herself together, like he has to assume she needs a moment to herself to say goodbye to the tower, maybe pack a few of her most personal possessions to take with her. He waits outside that vine entrance to give her some privacy. He doesn't know what she takes, nor does he ask. He just sees her walk out the entrance about 20 minutes later with a well sized shoulder bag that surely doesn't look as packed as he was expecting, but he doesn't dwell on it.

I like the idea that Rapunzel mourned Gothel behind closed doors, and she never ends up sharing this grief with anyone out of fear of being judged, or that they could never understand. They just couldn't understand. And ugh! What would they think of her? If they knew she harbored grief for the despicable woman that abused her? Would they think her some sort of masochist? what would Eugene think. No one could know (my writing is terrible I'm so sorry)

Mourning the woman raised her and abused her is just something she has to face alone. She couldn't let go of that cloak. It's all she had left of her. It's the only remaining relic of her past life. Like, the last thing that felt 'familiar' for a long time of that makes sense.

I just don't think anyone (apart from Eugene, who probably would understand if he knew about this) understands Rapunzel enough. No matter how much love they have for her, they don't understand how this girl who'd lived her first 18 years in captivity by a woman who left her confused about what love looks like, about what a good home looks like. Of course it was bad, of course she deserved better, of course she never wants to go back to that life, but her feelings are feelings and she just needs time. Rapunzel has to adjust and it's confusing. God she's so confused, and no one understands, like the people are just gonna expect her to fill up the missing hole she was stolen from when she was a baby and they have all these expectations for her. They all just expect her to go from having nothing to having everything like it's no big deal, and you know she's gonna ACT like it's no big deal because she doesn't want to seem ungrateful. Rapunzel doesn't want to disappoint anybody. And she can't just earn people's approval the same way she's used to. Just like Eugene, she now has to relearn who she is, and she no longer knows how to be what people want.

[thisbelongsto-nohbodys]

So any future Hilda HCs?

I’d probably best to send this again, maybe more focused on certain characters at a later date. I’m currently doing a rewatch of the whole series (I’ve just finished the movie atm) so that should help but off the top of my head here’s a few since S3 is somewhat fresh.

Due to Hilda’s fairy background, Frida is able to siphon some essence and cast certain spells that require it (it’s like donating blood…without the blood, it’s safe). This however led Kaisa to inquire on how she was able to cast those old spells. Frida spilled the beans on Hilda and Johanna being part fairy and Kaisa wondered if getting essence from a half-fairy would be more potent and so she and Frida went to Hilda’s place. When Kaisa saw Johanna it was love-at-first-sight and she completely forgot about y she came over at first. Johanna was hesitant on what Kaisa wanted but offered to go get some tea at a cafe sometime and discuss it. This led to their first date, then their second and so on. Eventually Hilda got a witch step-mom.

After her time as a Troll, Hilda developed a slight fear of bells. While not as painful as it was when she was a troll but she can’t stand the noise.

David became an entomologist due to his strange magnetism of insects and general fascination. Louise helps take pictures of whatever bug he’s studying for his research papers. The most annoying bug he’s dealt with was the Mothman during a research trip to America alongside Hilda.

Louise became a photographer, she helps David and Hilda with their research but she is also an award winning photographer.

Alfur with a continued note-taking partnership with Adeline eventually after a few years presented her with “Engagement to be Married” papers and she signed gleefully. After a few months of planning and revisions, the wedding was both tiny and had all of the proper paperwork filed in order (Bartell was Alfur’s best elf).

Eugene eventually made it to the sea but after he saw the Trolburg harbor he makes it a point to come by and try out new material with the sailors. This annoys the freaky friends since they still don’t find him funny but the sailors do.

Frida was given a witch’s cloak as a gift from Tilde. Similar to the one Kaisa wears. It was made from Witches’ Wool, an ancient recipe lost to all but a few witches in that dimension. She explained its origins being from a demon realm where witches live on a Titan’s rotting corpse but all portals there have dryed up over the centuries.

Deputy (now Chief) Gerda while a more “by the books” chief of the safety patrol, was more understanding towards magical creatures and issues and preferred to listen first before making decisions. This has led to a number of new rules within Trolburg to accommodate its more mystical citizens as she worked to get humans more comfortable with their strange neighbors.

Wood Man slowly rebuilt the cabin Hilda and her mom lived in. He says it’s so he can have a second home away from home but secretly it’s so his old neighbors would visit more often, which they do.

Aunt Astrid helped teach Johanna and Hilda a bit of fairy magic. While it’s not as strong as it was back at fairy country and because they’re part human but there’s still a few spells that they can perform, mostly minor things (think Cantrips in D&D)

Johanna and Astrid made Hilda a new sweater with fairy magic and charms woven into it. She wears it always (washing it often of course)

That’s just a few off the top of my head atm. Hopefully after rewatching S3 I can think of some more

[caliburn-the-sword]

first cress thoughts!!! and reactions!!! and everything else!!!

i am so sorry that it's literally the first paragraph of the first page but "It was a prison that came with an endlessly breathtaking view" literally no view is breathtaking once you get used to it enough why would a CHILD be banished

omg this poor girl is named after the MOON?? the irony. she literally hides from the moon when she sees it. i would go on about the symbolism and stuff but i'm not going to because my brain is too tired to function rn

cress IS a shell. but then why isn't she dead?? they're meant to be killed. erland mentioned that he lost his daughter and would be about cinder's age, but did he actually SEE it happen?? if not then i reckon she's his daughter (again cause i'm braindead obsessed with ouat not because i'm serious. i'm only 25% sure of this). but i also reckon that she's VERY valuable if she HASN'T been killed. link it to rich people having one rule for themselves and one for everyone else. so either she's useful. or someone wants her alive and is bending the rules for her. otherwise they would not be going to ALL this effort of the satellite

looks like my spy theory in the eastern fed is null - but to be fair cress might just not know about it yet. it's not exactly like she would be trusted with all state secrets and what not

"felt almost like a mother's approval" metaphorically or is sybil ACTUALLY her mother???

i love that despite the stress of having to face off against the queen, figure out how to deal with genetically engineered soldiers and all the weight they have on their soldiers they're still able to act their age and tease each other - except poor cinder

omg does cress have a little crush on thorne??? she is LITERALLY the same as those braindead gen z's on tiktok that simp for killers and stuff

OMG CRESS WAS THE ONE THAT CLOAKED THE SHIP ALL ALONG HOW DIDN'T I REALISE THAT

"Cress was convinced that she knew more about Carswell Thorne than anyone else alive" stalker alert!!! lines are blurred tho because this is literally war

oh no. scarlet has a french accent. jail. (but then is everyone speaking the same language?? or does everyone have a universal translator chip inserted???)

"said Cinder, and Scarlet could have kissed her" i KNOW it's figurative language but also i like diagnosing characters with bisexual/too damn hot disease so scarlet is now bi. if it was wolf that i called bi as well then they're bi4bi. but also i don't want to reread the entire first half of scarlet to try and remember which guy it was i decided was bi and for what reason

between cress playing like 10 different video games at once she's basically an ipad kid. her attention span has been fucked up by tiktok (just like me fr) she can't read or watch anything without subway surfers playing beneath it

also something i haven't said before now: i LOVE how all the girls of tlc have noun names. they're just like me fr. it's so gnc of them. i love their names SO much. it's giving nonbinary. evocative but like in a whimsical way~ it's somehow so fantasy but so futuristic at the same time and i live for it

DAMMIT I FUCKING DELETED AN ENTIRE PARAGRAPH OF THOUGHT. gonna paraphrase here cause i'm too lazy. i'm very curious that cress calls the people of the moon lunars, mainly because she's lunar herself. like imagine i pass by a car and unironically think "oh there go the humans". it's strange. maybe it's her separation?? or is she part human and thus doesn't see herself as fully lunar??? i don't think it's because she's a shell. since the whole shell eugenics thing is a stand in for the lunar equivalent of poc, people with disabilities, minority religions, queer people etc who are all STILL human beings, hence the shells are still LUNAR. i'm sticking with my partial human theory until proven otherwise.

how FUNNY would it be if cress was completely wrong about thorne and he was just a douchebag and he was just lying after all that for sympathy. however given the textual evidence from scarlet, it would completely explain how he was completely open minded and down to support a lunar cyborg. honestly it makes him a lot more three dimensional. that said cress is still delulu

YES after what happened in scarlet i'm GLAD to see scarlet's mixed feelings towards wolf and his place in what happened to granny. forgiveness doesn't come easy!! love is hard. and yes, he has a dark side!! and she's just a normal girl. she's having one of the most human reactions i've ever seen to that kind of thing in fiction. i would have lost so much respect for her if she just ran back into his arms after all that, even tho i don't fully blame him. thanks miss marissa meyer for not just writing idiot lovesick teenagers. i can't wait to see him earn that trust back

@eddisfargo @francforever @winterrhayle @winterpinetrees

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (30 Jun-6 Jul 2024)

d20: nsbu asking the real questions

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

🥰 The Long Hangover (CoffioCake) - 55K of SuperBat identity porn goodness

😊 Cloaked in Gold (kaistrex (weishen)) - 57K, sterek soulbites/soulmate AU - enjoyable, esp the worldbuilding details

😍 the other side of this wide night (mellyflori) - 50K, kaysanova modern mortal AU - accidental pocket dial of a bathroom graffiti'd phone number - great set up, great execution, highly enjoyable read

🙂 pull apart the dark (togina) - 78K, stucky, Steve gets de-aged while the WS still in a pretty feral stage of recovery - read for stucky bookclub

💖💖 +182K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

jpl!buck series (middyblue (daisyblaine)) - 9-1-1: buck/tommy, 25K - absolutely delightful AU where Buck is a technical engineer at JPL

The Street Food Jobs (SwordAndStars (SwordAndStarsWriting)) - Leverage: Gen (but with definite ot3 overtones), 17K - Five times street food played a role in a job, and one time the street food WAS the job. Featuring pretzels, shawarma, bao, Scotch Eggs, breakfast burritos, paletas, pizza, and Eliot Spencer frequently questioning his life choices.

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

QI - series U, e5-11

Um, Actually - s9, e10

Independence Day (1996)

2024 AKC Diving Dogs Challenge

The Martian (2015)

Smartypants - s1, e6

D20: Never Stop Blowing Up - "And That's Whirred Up" (s22, e2)

D20: Adventuring Party - "When You're Here, You're La Familia" (s17, e2)

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

Re: Dracula - June 30: Devils of the Pit

Re: Dracula - July 1: Strong Life

Consider This - The evolution of Pride

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Gilbert Baker Mural

⭐ The Atlas Obscura Podcast - New York City’s Black Oyster King

WikiHole - Aunts (with Brandon Scott Jones, Mary Holland and Eugene Cordero)

⭐ Vibe Check - The Ultimate Dom featuring ALOK

It's Been a Minute - Defining 2024 so far; plus, why brands 'de-woked'

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Big Duck

Inheriting - Carol & the Los Angeles Uprising: Part 1

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Megan Thee Stallion sheds her skin on Megan

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Shaun Cassidy Radio • 1970s

The Partridge Family Radio • Popular

Relaxing '80s Rock

[popcorn-plots]

Day 1: Helpless | 100 words | Wong reflects on being sick. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 2: Solitary confinement | 100 words | Stephen Strange laments. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 3: "Bit down on this" | 689 words | Sherlo-- Stephen gets injured on a casemission. Watson Wong to the rescue. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 4/5: Obedience/Rope burns | 932 words | Stephen and Wong are held captive in their own home in a robbery gone wrong (mostly). | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 6: "You lied to me." | 500 words | Tony confronts Stephen about a choice he made. A choice that ruined both their lives. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 7: Suffering in silence. | 150 words | Stephen Strange was fine. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 8: "Why won't it stop?" | 200 words | Stephen Strange breaks after using Atlantean Black Magic. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 9: Bees | 1128 words | America gets stung by a bee. Stephen comforts her when she admits her biggest fear. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 10: Killing in self-defense | 100 words | Stephen Strange is found guilty. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 11: Time loop | 100 words | Tony Stark is stuck in a time loop. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 12: Semi-conscious | 741 words | Stephen has a nightmare in the library, one he didn't quite wake up from until he was safe in Wong's arms. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 13: "You weren't supposed to get hurt." | 176 words | Stephen watches his daughter grow up. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 14: Blood-stained tiles | 59 words | Wong reflects on his husbands death. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 15: "Who did this to you?" | 150 words | Stephen visits a grave. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 16: Alt -- "I love you." | 903 words | Stephen plays the bait in a mission to take out a group of rogue sorcerers. Wong intervenes and feelings are felt. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 17: Hostage situation | 694 words | Strange or the people of New York. Tough decision. Who lives, who dies…. You are playing a delicate game, Sorcerer Supreme. You decide who survives. Play God, just for a second, or we destroy your planet. Your choice, Sorcerer Supreme. You have 24 hours to decide. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 18: Alt -- Found footage | 756 words | A video is posted about Stephen Strange and the death of his sister, Donna. Stephen watches his old high school bullies vandalize his locker -- and his well-being. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 19: "Please don't." | 100 words | Stephen and Eugene’s relationship is all but healthy. So when Stephen gets home and finds his father drinking, he tries to avoid him at all costs... but avoiding Eugene is near impossible when you’re the one he’s angry at. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 20: Truth serum | 367 words | Stephen ingests a truth serum. The students of Kamar-Taj are curious, but some take it a bit too far. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 21: Unresponsive | 567 words | Tony finds Stephen nearly dead, barely breathing, an empty bottle of painkillers just out of reach. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 22: Alt -- CPR | 866 words | Tony Stark has a heart attack during an event. Peter performs CPR with the help of a mysterious stranger. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 23: Presumed dead | 200 words | With the cloak returning from the fight alone and radiating sadness, one could only assume the worst. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 24: "I'm doing this because I care about you." | 261 words | Wong is not the person he once was. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 25: Waterboarding | 1110 words | Stephen Strange is part of the .1% of the world's population that can see their soulmate's experiences. Great for Tony Stark, not so great for Stephen when his soulmate gets waterboarded in the middle of Stephen's shift. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 26: "Help them." | 375 words | Stephen knows he's going to die. Why waste time on him when others need it more? | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 27: Left for dead | 455 words | The Illuminati on Earth-838 don't kill Stephen Strange. They maroon him on Titan, alone and stripped of his magic.

Stephen doesn't believe this is punishment enough for his crimes. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 28: "No... not like this."/Alt -- last words | 500 words | Wong finally confesses his feelings for Stephen... just as he's dying in the man's arms. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Day 29: Not allowed to die/Alt -- immortality | 682 words | Stephen Strange is cursed. | Ao3 | Tumblr

Guys we did it. We finished Febuwhump!

[nerdasaurus1200]

Slight theory about the mechanics of the cloak.

I think the way to…I guess activate the magic is mostly mental. Cause all the forms Cass takes trying to fix the cloak seems like it could be this vague mishmash for all that she’s thinking in the moment.

Along with the gopher pulling on it I think part of the reason the cloak temporarily turns off is because she’s no longer focused on keeping the illusion up.

As hilarious as Frederic in the lady in waiting uniform is, I think that’s probably a reflection of how to Cass, Frederic kinda represents the societal and political pressure forced upon her as a lady in waiting. She’s probably thinking about how she didn’t want to be a LIW and finally resolving that in her head a bit, or how this whole thing all started because she was chosen to be a LIW. And even if Frederic didn’t want it he serves as a manifestation of that.

Adira’s form could be a reflection of how Cass is thinking about not just the Great Tree incident, but season 2 in general. Cause that whole season was the catalyst for Cass feeling the way she does now and although it wasn’t intentional Adira winded up being a big part of that because of how much she overshadowed Cass whenever a decision had to be made.

And of course, Eugene. Granted he’s standing right in front of her, of course she’s be thinking about him. But there’s also a lot of really complicated emotions there. They’ve both bullied each other, he took her dream job and killed her mom and she tried to kill him and his loved ones and is still dormantly mind controlling his dad. So I think Eugene showing up is kind of a manifestation of the present problems and feelings Cass is having. The thought process that she and her friends have hurt each other very deeply and both need to apologize.

And finally, she’s able to concentrate again and reverts back to Faith. The handmaiden focused on duty.

[twotangledsisters]

Rapunzel’s vest looks so cute!! Is that inspired by her cloak?

(The design being discussed)

Aw, thank you so much!

And yeah! I love Rapunzel's cloak from Before Ever After! (and other episodes)

I always assumed Rapunzel painted those twirly lines on herself so I knew I wanted to have her painting little twirls and flowers onto these outfits too!

In the original text of the fic it said cloak... I did take some creative liberties and do a hooded cape because it worked better for the excited gesture, plus, they're just more practical for hiding behind XD

But yeah, clearly heavily inspired in the show's cloak!

The little thrills on her top are also inspired from her original dress!

Plus the satchel a nod to Eugene from the original Tangled!

A huge thanks to @the-writer1988 for writing the AU and entrusting me to design stuff cause it was sooo much fun!

And thanks for the ask! :D I got carries away talking about small details, sorry!

[trapitouwulove]

AU (Games of Throne) Wenclair

This story does exist but with ship Daensa, I only grabbed some dialogues to see what a story like that was like xd all rights to the author who is on wattpad as Luthor_Black

Xavier Thorpe goes to Dragonstone for help against the Night King.

Wednesday's advisers think that a marriage to the North would forge an unbreakable alliance, of course, Wednesday agrees… On the condition that his marriage takes place with a woman.

-And why that, his Grace? -Eugene asks confused.

-People continue with ancient ideals, my Lord, if they see me married to a just and honorable man like Xavier Thorpe they would not see me as his queen, they would see me only as the king's consort. In this world, men still have power over everything and I want to break that ideology- he answered, fixing his gaze on the king in the North. -You want my help, you will have it, in return I want an alliance where you swear loyalty for me, this time, pledging perpetual loyalty for real. And, with a marriage between Lady Sinclair that makes me see that your people will truly be mine to rule.

....

"My siblings, Your Grace, Love Sinclair, Tayler Sinclair, and," Xavier paused, looking at her wistfully. — Enid Sinclair, Lady of Winterfell

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my Lady, the North is as beautiful as her brother claimed…" He extended a hand from her to her, palm up. He quickly unwrapped his hands from under her cloak to take her hand. A gesture as simple as a delicate kiss on the back of her gloved hand. - Like you.

She heard a mock gagging little voice next to her, then a groan from what must have been Xavier's elbow making contact with Love's arm.

If the earth could swallow her at that moment, she would pray to the gods again who had abandoned her.

The moment she released her hand she returned it to hide under her cloak. Everyone was silent waiting for him to say something. Her eyes returned to the queen, she lowered a little seeing the dragon pin on her coat, right on her chest on the right side. He had to look up from her looking closely into the violet eyes as strange as the hair of the woman in front of her.

Sansa couldn't help but think that this woman was an incestuous product between brothers. A completely inappropriate practice for the North, as well as the union between two women. frowned upon Is it one of the Sinclair women who has a story in her grave to be the wife of another woman? Or would she, would she not even have a proper burial in the North?

“Winterfell is his, Grace hers.

That seemed to please her, as she smiled wider showing her dimples.

“As promised, my Lady, I have brought supplies from the South for her people. The king in the North told me of his concern about the scarcity of food, so I have brought salt-cured meats to keep them cool. And a gift for you that I'd like to share later, if I may.

Truly, she would be delighted to be swallowed up by the earth now. Would it be easier to accept courtship coming from a man?

"I allow it, his Grace." She—she He tried not to force her smile. She really tried.

[such-a-fellow]

in the spirit of @keepthisholykiss ‘s post ranking the homoeroticism of Hamlet Graveyard Scene paintings

here is my ranking of the

Hamlet Illustrations I’ve Found on Google

that i personally think posess the most homoeroticism and/or gender between hamlet and horatio

first up at no. 8 we have this one by Adam Vogler; it’s a classic pose, pretty gay; the automatic hand Horatio has on Hamlet’s arm? the determined look towards the ghost? lovely. decent helping of gender as well since for some reason he drew both hamlet and horatio to look like a young orlando bloom.

Next at #7 is this one by Gordon Browne. I LOVE Browne’s Shakespeare illustrations; his stuff is so evocative and he’s drawn some of my favorite Romeo and Juliet illustrations to date. This graveyard scene is subtle but wonderfully gay; look at them leaning into each other! Hamlet’s arm resting on Horatio’s shoulder so that his cloak covers them both slightly! delightful.

#6 is a classic! This drawing by Robert Thew is very well-known, and why wouldn’t it be! Such a fun style! Such a spooky ghost! The movement is so intense! And the Horatio is so in love with Hamlet! Just LOOK at how he’s holding onto him. The terrified concern?? It’s wonderful.

5: Now for some absolute GENDER! These are both by John Masey Wright, and frankly I’m obsessed. I love when people draw Horatio so he looks almost like Hamlet but in color. Also, of course, who could ignore how feminine they both look here? [how did he draw these characters so androgynous when he drew Romeo to look like he was 45 years old? it’s a mystery.] Love this though 10/10.

Eugene Delacroix was famously wild about Hamlet, he drew like 10 bajillion sketches, paintings, engravings, etc. to illustrate it. This is my personal favorites of the ones he drew featuring Horatio, because it makes me DEATHLY sad. This drawing of Hamlet’s death is at #4 because look at it.

For no. 3 we have Victor Müller’s painting of Hamlet and Horatio in the graveyard, which is heartrending and sombre with a heavy helping of gentle pining. It’s all in how Horatio is looking at Hamlet; he looks so heartbroken to see how tired and sad Hamlet looks. Crushes my heart into a million pieces. 20000/10.

W. G. Simmonds gets #2 purely for going to the trouble to draw the “thou art e’en such a man (etc.)” scene at all. Who DOES that? Why would you? Look at the way they’re LOOKING at each other! Look at their hands!! I’m supposed to just act normal about this???

Charles Taylor did engravings based on some drawings by Robert Smirke for an illustrated edition of Shakespeare in the year of our lord 1783 and frankly how dare he. what can I even say about these?? oh my god. the gender of it all. the PINING of it all. The death one in particular could make me cry. Number one in MY heart of hearts.

[schmooplesboop]

Perfect Gift

Pairing(s): Clive X Gav, Byron X Eugen, Joshua X ???

Ratings and warnings: Teen, bc there's implied sexy times

My brain has the Big Sad right now so I wrote some Christmas schmoop to cheer myself up. Hope y'all enjoy :)

---

Byron was all in a dither today. Truth be told, he’d been in a dither for the last two weeks, ever since he and Eugen decided to spend Yule together… and introduce their families to each other.

Eugen was bringing his sister and her children, all of whom Byron knew well. He’d been friends with Eudora for some time before she’d introduced him to Eugen all those years ago. They’d remained friends even after young Byron and Eugen had drifted apart, and Eudora and her children had spent many summers in Port Isolde over the years. Byron had invited his nephews, Gav, and Jill, none of whom Eugen knew.

Usually, his Yule parties were loud, noisy, and very crowded affairs with every available friend, colleague, and even some rivals invited. This year’s would be small and quiet, he and Eugen deciding that a more subdued party would be the best setting for everyone to get to know each other.

Byron fussed with the decorations on one of the many Yule trees dotted around the parlor for around the one hundredth time. Usually, these things didn’t bother him, but this was his first Yule with his own family in over two decades and his first Yule with Eugen ever. He wanted everything to be… not perfect, but wonderful, at least.

He probably would’ve driven himself, Rutherford, and the rest of his staff to drink ages ago if Joshua, Clive, Gav, and Torgal hadn’t arrived half a week early to help. Joshua and Torgal kept him distracted, his nephew with conversation, Torgal with demands for scratches behind the ears and rubs for his belly. And though Jill couldn’t attend the Yule celebrations, as she was spending her holiday with her brother and his husband, she also helped distract Byron in her own way. She’d sent a lovely letter and an even lovelier wine, which Byron finished off within a few days. At the manor, Clive assisted Rutherford in ironing out all the little details, and Gav was helping with the ongoing effort to decorate the estate.

And when Byron discovered that the boar he’d procured, the centerpiece of the feast, had spoiled, it’d also been Gav who’d vanished into the forest outside Port Isolde with Torgal in tow, returning nearly eight hours later, both of them splattered in blood and Gav dragging the largest boar Byron had ever seen on a sledge behind him. Even offered to butcher it if the kitchen staff proved too squeamish to do it.

“Hope you’re planning to hold onto that one,” he’d muttered to his nephew as they watched Gav pulling his sledge across the main yard, making Clive’s cheeks turn pink.

“For as long as he’ll have me, Uncle.” Clive muttered back as Gav waved at them enthusiastically, a grin on his bloody face.

Byron flitted from the Yule tree to the fireplace, arranging and rearranging and re-rearranging the festive statues of snow moogles on the mantle. Tomorrow evening. Twenty-four short hours before the Yule celebration, even less before Eugen and his family would arrive. He bustled out of the parlor to make sure the guest rooms were still in order.

❆ ❆ ❆

Despite the dusting of snow they were getting, the main marketplace in Port Isolde was packed with people. Joshua rubbed his cold, gloved hands together and shook the snow from his hair before pulling the hood of his cloak up. He followed along as Clive darted from stall to stall, reminding him very much of their dear uncle. His brother was frantically looking for a Yule gift for Gav.

He hadn’t forgotten, in fact Clive had already bought four different gifts for Gav before they even left for Port Isolde, stashing them all in Byron’s bedchamber after they’d arrived. Now it seemed he was going to buy four more, or perhaps the whole market.

“After everything we’ve survived, you’re going to fret yourself into an early grave, brother.” He teased lightly.

Clive shot him a dark look then hurried to another stall, scrutinizing their wares so intensely the poor vendor started to look concerned, as though Clive was going to wreck the stall or steal everything.

“It has to be perfect. It has to show him how I feel…”

Joshua gave his brother a smile that was both incredulous and amused, “Right, because Gav has no idea how you feel about him. You’ve only told him that you love him, gave him grandfather’s ring to wear, made eyes at him the entire time we were journeying to Port Isolde—”

Clive shot him another look and Joshua raised his hands in mock surrender, holding in laughter. He supposed he could understand why Clive was worked up. They all sorely needed this brief moment of respite, wanting it to go smoothly wasn’t unreasonable. Though he still thought his brother was placing too large a burden on himself. He could give Gav an apple for Yule and the man would love it simply because it was a gift from Clive.

And it isn’t as though the perfect gift even exis—oh. His eye fell on a rather handsome set of silver hairbrushes. Well. Never mind. Those would be perfect for—

“Phoenix’s flaming ass!” Clive exclaimed in frustration before turning a sheepish smile on him. “Sorry, that’s one of Gav’s more innovative curses. He must be rubbing off on me.”

Joshua picked up the hairbrushes, handing some gil over to the vendor. “Better my flaming ass than Ifrit’s bountiful bosom.”

Clive snorted out a laugh, all apprehension over finding a gift momentarily forgotten, “Gav did not say that.”

“Oh, he absolutely did. Granted, he was intoxicated at the time, but he did indeed say it.”

His brother sighed fondly, “I love that man.”

❆ ❆ ❆

Byron had seen Clive and Joshua coming down the lane from his bedroom window, returning from the marketplace no doubt, and went down to the kitchen to make some hot cocoa. It was snowing steadily now and his nephews were likely to be damp and cold.

He’d just finished arranging four wooden mugs of steaming hot cocoa and a plate of cookies on a tray when he heard Torgal barking a happy greeting to Clive and Joshua. He picked the tray up and walked down the hall, peeking into the entrance hall.

Both of his nephews were covered in a powdering of snow. Joshua was looking excited, carrying a set of silver hairbrushes tucked under his arm. Poor Clive looked wet and beleaguered. Byron smiled softly. He had a hunch what was bothering his oldest nephew and had just the solution.

“Welcome back, you two!” He called, holding up the tray as he entered the foyer. “Care to join me for a nosh?”

“We’d be delighted, uncle,” Joshua said brightly as he and Clive removed their cloaks and boots.

Byron held the tray out to Joshua, “Could you take this to the parlor please? Oh, and coax Gav out of the library while you’re passing by, he’s been decorating all afternoon. Clive, could you come with me for a moment? I need you for something.”

Clive nodded distractedly; Byron wouldn’t be surprised if his nephew hadn’t heard a single word he said.

Joshua went off with the tray of goodies and his mission to lure Gav away from his work. Torgal followed closely at Joshua’s heels, likely with his own mission to acquire some cookies. Byron led Clive upstairs to his bedchamber.

He gestured vaguely at the cushy chair in the corner of the room, “Have a seat, my boy. This won’t take long.”

Clive sat, still looking like a lost, sad puppy and Byron dug through his wardrobe, “Having trouble finding a suitable gift for Gav?” He asked as he rifled through his clothes.

That got Clive’s attention, head snapping up as Byron found what he’d been looking for and walked over to him with a bundle in his arms.

“Might I make a suggestion?” When Clive nodded, he placed a fine outdoor cloak, thick black leather and lined with dark silver fur, in his lap. This was one of the many gifts Clive had already bought for Gav and hid in his room upon arriving. It’d sparked this idea the moment he saw it, “I think you should give him this. And… this as well.”

He set a heavy, metal cloak pin on Clive’s knee. It’d been forged in the symbol of his, Byron’s, house. He’d given similar ones to Clive and Joshua nearly the moment after finding out that they still lived. The only difference was this pin was the first one he ever had forged when he had the money to do so. It’d been a little personal celebration… and a thumb of his nose to Father, he’d made his house’s symbol as flamboyant as possible. This particular pin was of great significance to him.

Clive must’ve had an inkling of this, because he looked up at him uncertainly. “Uncle, are you sure?”

He waved an airy hand, “Of course I am, my boy! Let him know he’s part of this family. That’s what you’ve really been fretting about since you got here, is it not?” Byron bounced on the balls of his feet, proud of himself. “I can be observant when I really put my mind to it, you know.”

Byron started a bit as Clive’s arms wrapped around his waist, hugging him tightly. “Thank-you, Uncle Byron. For everything.”

Byron laughed too, patting his nephew on the head. “It’s the least I could do.”

❆ ❆ ❆

Yule was here and the estate was nearly decorated from top to bottom, only a few last-minute touches were needed here and there. Gav was helping the house staff hang clusters of winterberry in nearly every important entranceway, standing on tiptoe atop a slightly rickety wooden stool, tongue pinched between his teeth. He knew how bizarre this would look to Port Isolde’s fancy folk, doing menial tasks, but the thought of just sitting back and letting people wait on him, and do all the work, turned his stomach. He would be as tightly wound as Byron.

Frankly, he only felt truly at ease when he was with Clive and when he'd been out in forest boar hunting. That’d brought back memories of his childhood Yules, waking before the sun was even a peek on the horizon and going hunting with his father for the Yule dinner he and his older brothers would help their mother cook later.

The winterberry, bunches of green frilly leaves and berries like large fat pearls, was tied into a little bouquet with a length of golden twine. He finally got the loop knotted at one end of the twine over the hook suspended overhead, hanging up the last winterberry. He was gazing up at it, making sure it didn’t look crooked, when he felt a familiar hand paw at the curve of his ass before squeezing firmly.

“Clive,” He scolded, failing spectacularly at keeping the smile off his lips and the laughter out of his voice, “That isn’t what you do under the winterberry.”

“Oh?” Clive’s innocent tone was belied by the sly smirk on his face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve celebrated Yule. My memory needs to be refreshed…”

Gav hummed out a quiet laugh, nimbly hopping down from the stool. “Well, first you get beneath it with someone…”

Clive’s hands settled on his hips, pulling him forward a bit so they were both squarely under the little hanging plant. “Done. And then what?”

He traced his fingers lightly over Clive’s jawline before cupping his face, “Then, you plant one on ‘em.”

Gav leaned in, kissing Clive soft and slow and thorough, with a flick of cheeky tongue to cap it off.

Clive’s hands squeezed his hips when he made to draw back, “Show me that last part again, Gav…”

There was a tiny, awkward cough and a high voice interrupted them, “U-um. Sorry, excuse me.” One of Byron’s housekeepers had come up on them as quiet as a mouse, cheeks pink and eyes darting everywhere except in their direction. “Lord Rosfield. Sir Gav. Lord Byron’s guests are coming down the lane. He wishes for you all to greet them in the main yard.”

Clive’s face had gone a brilliant shade of red, amusing Gav to no end. Here was the man who’d been so boldly grabbing his ass just a few minutes ago, blushing like a shy lad about to slip into his First Night bed.

“Thank-you,” he said to the housekeeper, as Clive seemed to have lost his tongue. “We’ll be along right quick.”

The housekeeper gave a nod and hurried off. Alone once more, Gav quickly covered Clive’s warm, flushed face with kisses.

“Memory chugging along yet?” He asked with a grin.

Plainly recovered from his embarrassment, Clive’s arms wrapped tight around his waist, “Getting there. Perhaps just once more…”

❆ ❆ ❆

His palms were sweating. Eugen and his family were still a ways away, but Byron surreptitiously wiped his hands on his trousers. Joshua, Clive, and Gav stood with him, all of them looking on with interest. Torgal was the only one who seemed bored with their approaching guests, having a nap curled up in the newly fallen snow.

Eugen and his nephew reached them first, mounted on massive brown-feathered chocobos. His sister and twin nieces were a little ways back, concealed inside a carriage being pulled by two more chocobos and steered by one of Eugen’s men. A handful of Eugen’s soldiers walked behind the carriage; the roads weren’t safe for travelers these days.

“Eugen!” Byron raised his arms then paused, not entirely sure how Eugen would want to be greeted. He was rather passionate when they were alone, but with their families looking on…

Thankfully, he didn’t have to decide what to do. Eugen approached him, hugged him, and kissed his cheek.

“Byron, you old bastard, I missed you.”

Byron laughed, that was the man he loved alright. “And I missed you, Eugen. I was buzzing like a frantic bee all over the manor this morning.” He gestured to the trio beside him, “Allow me to introduce you—”

It really wasn’t necessary for him to do this, most of Valisthea and certainly all of Rosaria knew these three by now, Clive and Joshua especially, but Byron wanted this evening to be a little slice of normalcy for them. They’d earned—no, they deserved it.

“—These are my nephews, Clive and Joshua Rosfield. And this is Clive’s companion, Gav.”

Clive promptly made sure they understood what sort of companion Byron was talking about by twining his fingers with Gav’s. Byron smiled a little.

Eugen shook each of their hands. “Eugen Havel. Enchanted to finally meet you, boys. Although I think I met you once when you were just a babe,” he said to Clive. “I doubt you remember that, though.”

“Not at all, sir,” Clive replied. “I’m delighted to meet you again all the same.”

Eugen chuckled then looked at Gav, “No second name?”

The lad’s cheeks went a little red, “Common born, sir. We don’t have those. ‘M just Gav from Snowbird Hollow.”

“Ah, the North.”

“Aye.”

Clive was frowning, giving Eugen the eye, like he wasn’t sure if Eugen was judging Gav or not. Byron didn’t blame him. Clive didn’t know Eugen. The man could be brusque but he was far from a snob, just endlessly curious.

The slightly sticky moment passed as the rest of Eugen’s party strolled in through the gate. Both Joshua and Clive tensed slightly when Eugen’s sister emerged from the carriage and Byron immediately understood why. She wore a Yule dress very like the ones their mother once favored and had her hair styled similarly as well.

But Byron knew this woman well and there was no one further from Anabella Rosfield than her. Plump, soft, and round where Anabella was all razor thin sharpness and bony angles. Dark where Anabella was fair. Kind where Anabella was cruel.

She didn’t wait for her brother to make introductions.

“Byron!” She thew her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug that smelled of powdered sugar and vanilla. “It’s been so long, old friend! I’ve missed you so!” She cast a kind eye over the other three, Clive and Joshua both visibly relaxing. “I’m Eugen’s sister, Eudora. Charmed to meet you, gentlemen!”

“I’ve missed you too, Eudora!” Byron laughed as his nephews and Gav murmured their own polite greetings.

The woman released Byron and grabbed her son by the elbow, pulling him forward so vigorously the poor lad nearly tripped, “This is my son Kasir.”

Kasir was near Joshua’s age, if Byron remembered correctly, perhaps a year younger. Handsome and tall, he had his mother’s golden-brown skin, but his amber eyes were his father’s, Eudora’s first husband.

Kasir had his mother’s charming, roguish smile though, “Enchanted.”

“And these are my twin daughters, Chiara and Melia.”

She brought the sisters forward. The twins would be twenty-two now… again, if his memory wasn’t misleading him. Their father was Eudora’s second husband. Eudora insisted that they could be differentiated, but Byron hadn’t been able to yet. Their skin was a shade lighter than their mother’s, but they had her dark eyes and hair, though their curls were free of the silver strands starting to creep their way into Eudora’s. The twins wore perfectly matching traveler’s dresses and had perfectly matching hairstyles. Byron inwardly shrugged. He still couldn’t tell them apart.

“I call them Chaos and Menace.” Kasir said with his roguish grin, making his sisters squawk in protest.

Byron silently agreed, lips twitching as he suppressed a smile. No one had been safe from the twins and their pranks when they were children. When they’d stayed at the manor one long ago summer Byron finally had to scold them for driving poor Rutherford around the bend.

“Well, isn’t this one pretty,” Chiara murmured as Joshua kissed the back of her hand.

“This one isn’t so bad either,” Melia added, eyeing Clive up and down. Gav seemed amused rather than annoyed by this.

Eudora’s sigh was both loving and long-suffering, “Where are your manners, young ladies? We’re guests here. Behave like it.”

“Told you. Chaos and Menace,” Kasir laughed.

The twins gave perfectly matching long-suffering sighs of their own and curtsied.

“Pleased to meet you all.” They chimed out in unison.

“I hope I’m dressed appropriately,” Eudora said to Byron as she smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “I got this from that shop you recommended. I bought Yule clothes for my children too, but they’ve refused to wear them until dinner.”

Yule wasn’t widely celebrated in Dhalmekia. Eugen had been to Yule parties thrown by associates and friends before, but this would be a first-time celebration for Eudora and her brood.

“You look resplendent as always, Eudora.”

“Oh, Byron, stop,” She cackled, playfully smacking him on the arm. “My brother is right there. What will he think of you flirting with me?”

“He’ll think that you two haven’t changed a lick in the last thirty years.” Eugen said dryly, making both Byron and Eudora cackle this time. “Shall we head inside?”

“Hold on a moment, dearest Uncle. I’ve been reading all about Yule on the journey here.” Chiara said, dark eyes glittering with a cheerful mischief Byron was all too familiar with. “Is it true that once the families come together the younger generation has a mock battle with snowballs?”

“That custom is usually reserved for young children.” Eugen replied. “But I’ve no issue with you partaking if our host doesn’t.”

“None at all!” Byron said jovially.

Chiara clapped her hands in glee, looking over at his nephews and Gav. “You three game?”

Kasir gave his sister a withering look, “Seriously?”

“Oh, big brother,” Melia sighed, bending down to scoop up some snow. “Where is your sense of wonder?”

“Ah hell, why not. I’m in.” Gav said with a shrug.

Joshua still looked uncertain, but Clive nodded, which surprised Byron not at all. If Gav was in, Clive was in.

“This is ridiculous,” Kasir muttered, still bending down to cup some snow in his gloved hands.

Byron didn’t see who threw the first snowball, but it hit Kasir square in the face. And just like that, the years melted away before Byron’s eyes. They were no longer a group of world-weary adults, but totally unrestrained youth.

Gav and the twins took off running, laughing wildly as they pelted each other with snowballs and tossed a few more Kasir’s way.

“Oh… it’s on,” Kasir spat out a mouthful of snow and chased after them, aiming a snowball at the back of Gav’s head.

Clive immediately charged off to defend his love, shaping a snowball the size of a pumpkin in his large hands. Torgal, awakened from his nap, charged into the fray too, yipping like a puppy and tail wagging madly. With a kind of resigned anxiety on his face, Joshua followed along to make sure no one died by snowball.

“Well,” Byron grinned, watching Clive dunk his massive snowball on Kasir’s head before he could hit Gav. “Shall we leave them to it and have a pre-dinner drink in the parlor?”

Eugen and Eudora did an inadvertent but spot-on impression of the twins, answering in unison, “Excellent idea.”

❆ ❆ ❆

“Don’t laugh,” Gav’s voice said from behind the changing screen.

Dinner would be served soon, and the Yule party would follow immediately after. Clive and Gav were in the guest room they shared, changing into what Gav called their “Lord Fancy Pants outfits.” Soon after they’d first arrived at the manor, they’d spent an uncomfortable afternoon allowing Byron’s tailor to measure them for their Yule clothes. Clive could tell that Gav hated the whole process, but the blonde had endured it for Byron’s sake.

“I would never.” The sincerity in his voice must’ve convinced Gav, because the blonde emerged from behind the screen, tugging uncomfortably at his clothes.

Clive suppressed the urge to let out a low, appreciative whistle. Byron’s seamster had done a splendid job, despite Gav squirming the whole time. Snug, dark trousers accentuated Gav’s long legs and his long-sleeved shirt had a plunging neckline that rivaled Clive’s own. But it was the velvet waistcoat that did it for him. The dark royal blue really brought out the green in Gav’s eye and the cut flattered his trim waist and other… assets.

He licked his lips, “You look…”

“Like Farmer Lord Gav from Snowbird Hollow?”

The way he said it hurt Clive’s heart. He moved close, one hand reaching out to cup Gav’s cheek. “Handsome. Breathtaking. And yes, like Farmer Lord Gav from Snowbird Hollow, because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

Gav’s mouth opened then closed, cheeks turning pink. He leaned into Clive’s hand, “M’sorry. Being silly, huh.”

“Not at all,” He drew Gav close, kissing him gently. He’d been born into this privileged existence and still felt out of place in it. He had a healthy appreciation for how much more overwhelming it’d be for someone born outside of it.

After they parted, Gav’s deft fingers swiftly closed the brass buttons on Clive’s own waistcoat, also velvet but a deep red instead of blue. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine yourself, Clive.”

They kissed again, this time with a little more heat. Clive was just starting to fancy skipping dinner and having Gav instead when the blonde pulled away, wringing a little whimper from Clive’s lips.

Gav laughed softly, thumb tracing over Clive’s lower lip, “Later, love. We’ll have all night.”

Clive sighed but nodded his head. Gav was right, of course. Damn it all.

“…Clive?” Gav was hesitant again.

“Mmn?”

“I know we’re supposed t’ wait until the party for gifts, but your gift is kind of… unwieldy. Byron gonna mind if I give it to you now?”

“Of course not, my boy!” Clive heard Byron’s jovial response so clearly in his mind it was like his uncle was standing in the room with them, “He won’t mind at all.”

Wondering what this unwieldy gift could be, Clive watched as Gav crossed the room and pulled what looked like something very long and very heavy wrapped in green fabric and tied with gold ribbon from the closet.

“Where—” Clive spluttered as Gav sauntered over, depositing his gift on the bed. It was so heavy it made the mattress bounce. “You didn’t bring that with us, did you…!?” It been hard enough keeping his considerably smaller gifts out of Gav’s sight the entire journey. Where had he been hiding this?

Gav was looking proud of himself, “When you told me Byron invited us to Port Isolde for Yule I had it sent here after it was finished. Told Byron it was coming and it arrived by chocobo cart a few days before we did.”

Clive groaned faintly, he wished he’d thought of that.

“Go on, then,” Gav chirped. “Open it.”

Clive undid the ribbon and unwrapped the fabric.

Father’s greatsword!? Was his first confused thought. But no, his father’s blade was long gone. He knew that. This greatsword was newly forged. It just looked exactly like—

“Had Joshua sketch it from memory,” Gav said softly. “Blackthorne forged it, of course.”

Clive swallowed hard. His chest suddenly tight. He ran his fingers reverently down the hilt and over the flat side of the shining blade.

“Gav, I—” His tongue felt heavy. An overwhelming wave of tenderness toward Gav rolled over him. Tears began to spill down his cheeks.

Vaguely through the barrage of his emotions, he heard Gav frantically apologizing and moved quickly to reassure him.

“No, Gav, don’t apologize…” He took Gav’s hands in his, kissing the backs, his knuckles, the long fingers, “I love it. Thank-you.”

Gav’s arms wrapped securely around him, but his expression was still uncertain, “You sure? If I overstepped—"

“I love it,” He repeated firmly, nuzzling into Gav’s neck, kissing it. “I love you,” He nipped at the skin beneath his lips.

“Love you too, but don’t you leave a mark on me right now, Clive Rosfield.” Gav chuckled weakly, still a little shaken by Clive’s reaction to his gift.

Thwarted again. Clive contented himself with pressing another kiss to Gav’s neck before releasing him. He propped his new blade against the wall in the corner of the room, admiring it briefly before taking Gav by the hand. It was time for dinner.

❆ ❆ ❆

There were only nine of them present, ten including Torgal fervently chewing on a bone in the corner, but dinner was still going to be a noisy affair. Joshua could scarcely hear his own thoughts. Eudora and Byron were the loudest by far, followed by the twins, who Joshua suspected were already a bit tipsy. The wine had been flowing freely. Clive was the quietest, murmuring to Gav, who was looking overwhelmed by the sheer amount of cutlery around his plate.

“Dinner is courtesy of Gav!” Byron announced as the staff began to file in carrying dishes and platters. “Saved the whole Yule feast, he did!”

Gav’s cheeks flushed bright red and he took a hasty gulp of wine. Joshua gave him a smile and his knee an encouraging pat. His brother, sitting on Gav’s other side, did the same.

The food flowed in faster than the wine. Heaps of garlic roasted potatoes, mashed parsnips, tossed gysahl greens, glazed carrots (contrary to popular belief, no longer Joshua’s mortal enemy), thick slices of freshly baked bread, dressed eggs, peas and onions swimming in butter, and of course the boar, roasted to crackling perfection.

Joshua’s mouth watered. Molly, the Hideaway’s cook, did a fine enough job when she put her mind to it, but it’d been a long time since he’d had anything that wasn’t some type of stew or soup. He piled his plate with a bit of everything and asked for a refill on his wine. Clive tossed a generous slice of boar meat to Torgal.

Gav accidentally used the wrong fork for the boar. Joshua and Clive used a randomly chosen fork in solidarity. Joshua chose the dessert fork, imagining the look on his mother’s face if she could see him now.

No. Joshua’s lips pressed firmly together. He was enjoying this evening. He wasn’t going to sour it with thoughts of her.

A foot nudged at Joshua’s under the table and he couldn’t decide if it was Kasir, Chiara, or Melia. All three were giving him the eye from across the table. If he’d been a betting man, he’d put his gil on one of the twins. They had already ambushed him beneath the winterberry hung over the entranceway to the dining hall, sandwiching him between them as they each pressed a kiss to one cheek. Chaos and Menace indeed.

❆ ❆ ❆

Dinner had been for family only, but Byron and Eugen had decided to invite a handful of people to the Yule party. Some of their oldest friends who could be trusted not to harass Clive and Joshua and a few musicians to play, as the twins at the very least would want to dance.

Byron lips twitched in a sympathetic smile as Chiara twirled Joshua around the parlor. His poor nephew was one of the youngest, eligible (at least, Byron thought so, though he did wonder who the hairbrushes were for…) lads there, thus he’d been called upon to dance with Chiara, her sister, and even Kasir time and again. Even some of Byron and Eugen’s friends had coaxed a dance out of him.

Clive remained as tightly coiled as was appropriate in public around Gav, his grim expression meant to scare off anyone who wanted to dance. He’d only consented to dance with Eudora earlier in the evening.

A hand slid into his and Byron looked over to see Eugen standing beside him, smiling as Joshua bowed politely to Chiara and excused himself to hide in a shadowy nook with a cup of wine for a moment.

“This has been wonderful,” he said.

Byron’s heart swelled. That was exactly what he’d been hoping for, “It has.”

“…Would you care to dance?” Eugen asked quietly, gruffly, looking for all the world like the embarrassed teenager who’d asked Byron to kiss him in the garden once many years ago.

“I’d love to, darling.”

Eugen’s hand found the small of his back and he put his own hand Eugen’s shoulder as they slowly glided about the room. Melia walked by them, her gaze firmly set upon Joshua, when Gav smoothly intercepted her, holding one hand out.

“A dance, m’lady?” He asked with a grin.

“I’d be delighted, sir!” She giggled, taking Gav’s hand.

Byron chuckled when he saw his nephew mouth “thank-you” with a grateful sigh.

❆ ❆ ❆

Clive sat on one of the lounge sofas watching Gav dance with Melia, his stomach twisting. It wasn’t jealousy, but nerves making him squirm. He’d retrieved his gift for Gav from under one of the Yule trees, anxiously twisting the ribbon tied about the package around and around his finger as he waited.

Gav had recruited Joshua and Blackthorne to forge his father’s greatsword for him. It seemed they were on the same page in regard to their relationship. So, his gift, wanting to show Gav he was part of their family, wasn’t too much, right?

He turned his gaze and his mind to his uncle instead, trying to distract himself. He smiled as he watched Byron and Eugen dance by the musicians. He hadn’t been sure about Eugen at first, but as the day went on he saw the man beneath the brisk surface. The man who loved Byron dearly. The man Byron had waited decades for.

Clive looked back at Gav, his nerves softening into adoration, relieved he hadn’t had to wait as long for Gav. He would’ve, if he had to, but glad he hadn’t needed to.

The musicians changed to something a little more upbeat. Byron and Eugen continued to dance, and a few of their friends and Eudora joined, but Melia and Gav parted, her curtsying and him giving her a deep bow.

“Had to give poor Joshua a breather. Looked like the lad was going t’ pass out.” Gav said as he rejoined Clive on the lounge, stealing a sip of Clive’s wine.

“Better you than me,” Clive chuckled.

“I thought you were my shield, brother.” Joshua teased as he stepped up behind the lounge.

“You’re not in danger, Joshua.”

“Easy for you to say,” His brother replied. Chiara was now eyeing him from across the parlor. “Your feet aren’t at risk of being danced right off, and you’ve Gav to protect you.”

“He protected you, too.”

“True. Thank-you, Gav.”

The blonde chuckled, “Ah, don’t mention it.”

It was then that Joshua noticed the gift his older brother was clutching in his hands, “Well, I’m going to refill my wine and hide in the library for a while. Wish me luck, gentlemen.”

“Luck,” Gav and Clive said in unison as Joshua walked off.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sharing sips from Clive’s wine, before he finally worked up the courage to set the gift in Gav’s lap.

“Happy Yule, Gav.”

“Aw, Clive,” Gav pulled the ribbon off and unfolded the fabric. He let out a quiet, appreciative whistle when he saw the cloak inside. “No more freezing my arse off on watch—” His eye fell upon the cloak pin and picked it up as though it was made of glass.

Clive held his breath. Waited. He knew Gav, clever and observant, would understand the significance of the pin. He would’ve seen the matching pins on his and Joshua’s cloaks before.

“…This revenge for me makin’ you cry earlier?” Gav asked softly.

Clive huffed an equally soft laugh, moving close to wrap his arm around the blonde’s waist. “No. It’s an offer, and a promise.”

Gav looked at him, his face unreadable. Clive’s heart skipped a beat.

Then he leaned in, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to his lips, making Clive all but melt with relief. “Thank-you, love,” He fastened the pin to his new cloak, smoothing the leather around it. “It’ll look good on me.”

“It will,” Clive agreed, heart soaring. He felt like he could float right off the lounge.

Gav smiled thoughtfully, “Y’know, when I first joined the Hideaway all I wanted was a family. Now I’ve got two. I’m spoiled, me.”

“But I’ll spoil you more than Otto will,” Byron stage whispered as he and Eugen danced by.

“Don’t be rude, dear. They’re having a moment.” Eugen lightly admonished.

“It was not rude—”

Clive and Gav chuckled together as Byron and Eugen danced away again, bickering in the loving way they did.

“And I’ll spoil you more than Otto or Byron will,” Clive murmured. “There’s three more gifts waiting for you…”

“Hells, Clive, you weren’t kidding.” Gav laughed.

No one was looking. Clive snuck in a quick line of kisses up the side of Gav’s neck, his gaze still on Byron and Eugen.

“I want that to be us.” The words just popped out and Clive blushed, realizing what he’d said, but he didn’t take it back. He meant it.

Gav looked at him, smirking slightly. “The bickering or the dancing?”

“Older… together.”

The blonde’s expression softened and he looked down at his gift, fingers tracing the design on the pin. “…I like the sound of that.”

Oh, if only they weren’t in a room full of his uncle’s guests. He wanted to kiss every last inch of Gav.

“Would you like to dance while we’re growing old together?” He asked. It’d have to do until he had Gav to himself.

Gav smiled and stood up, holding his hand out to him, “Love to.”

❆ ❆ ❆

The party was over. Byron and Eugen bundled their friends, all in various stages of inebriation, into their carriages to send them safely home. Clive had to help Kasir carry Chiara and Melia to bed, both sisters too drunk and exhausted to walk. Eudora, also a little tipsy, affectionately pinched Clive on the cheek as thanks before tottering off to bed herself. Byron and Eugen followed soon after. Gav lightly ruffled Joshua’s hair and planted a kiss on the top of Clive’s head before he also sleepily weaved away, leaving Clive and Joshua in the parlor.

The brothers sat together in a couple of wooden chairs facing toward the fireplace. The flames were low but provided enough light and heat that neither of them bothered to move to add more wood. Torgal lay on the rug in front of the hearth, gnawing on what was left of his bone.

Clive was tired, but not as tired as Joshua had to be. Hiding in the library had granted him a small reprieve, but it’d only been half an hour before the twins had found him again. He and Gav had taken a few turns diverting their attention with dances, but it seemed their appetite for Joshua was insatiable.

“I believe my toes have fallen off…” Joshua groaned, pulling one of his boots off so he could massage his foot. “I can’t remember the last time I danced…”

“I can’t remember the last time I celebrated Yule.”

Silence fell between them as they realized the answer together. Before the Night of Flames, of course. A night that simultaneously felt like it was yesterday and centuries ago.

Joshua pulled his other boot off, fingers working at his calf muscle. “How different things could have been if—" He cut himself off, sharply shaking his head, massaging his lower leg a little more aggressively than necessary.

Clive’s mouth twisted bitterly. He knew what Joshua was thinking, because he’d thought it himself a time or two that evening. If only their mother had been someone like Eudora, a woman they’d known for considerably less time, but already adored so much more.

“No,” His younger brother said, more to himself than Clive. “I promised I wouldn’t sour this night.”

“You haven’t—”

Joshua cut him off this time, “For you, dear brother.”

He stood from his chair and dragged a large wooden trunk over to Clive. It seemed Gav hadn’t been the only one with the foresight to send a cumbersome gift ahead of time. He’d have to remember that for next year…

Joshua sat down again with an exhausted sigh as Clive lifted the trunk’s lid to peer inside.

“I know many will consider it a sin, to cover up your chest, but I’ll sleep better knowing your heart is better protected.”

New armor lay within the trunk. Greaves and gauntlets made from dark metal. A chest piece with thick black leather cut in the shape of flames and layered over a metal bodice that glimmered red here and there. It would indeed cover his chest.

“You and Gav have been keeping Blackthorne busy, I see…” Clive murmured, lifting the chest piece out of the trunk, looking it over wonderingly.

“An unfortunate side effect of caring about you.” Joshua replied with a tired chuckle.

“Thank-you, Joshua.”

“You’re most welcome, brother.”

Joshua drained the last of his wine, head lolling back against the chair behind him. Clive didn’t think his brother even heard him get up as he retrieved a bundle from beneath the nearest Yule tree.

“This is from both Gav and I,” Clive set Joshua’s gift in his lap, startling him out of his half-asleep state.

Stifling a yawn, Joshua untied the ribbon and opened the package. Inside he found four thick stacks of bound, blank paper, three ink pots, and three chocobo-feather quills.

He brightened, picking up one of the quills and admiring the tiny, intricate carvings in the wooden shaft. “Gav made these! I’ve been wanting to ask him to make me one ever since I saw the quill he made for Harpocrates.”

Clive nodded, “Ambrosia donated the feathers. Voluntarily, mind you.”

“Thank-you, Clive. This is a fine gift. Thank Gav, too.”

“I will.”

Joshua yawned again and pulled his boots back on, taking a few tries to do it in his exhaustion. Gathering his gift in his arms, he stood from his chair.

“…I am going to bed. If I never see another musician again it will be too soon. Come along, Torgal.”

Clive chuckled, “Goodnight, Joshua.” He rubbed Torgal behind his ears, “Goodnight, boy.”

“Until tomorrow, Clive.”

Joshua left the parlor with Torgal trailing close behind and Clive stretched, his back creaking faintly, before standing up as well. He tucked his gift from Joshua safely beside a Yule tree and made sure the flames in the fireplace were out before heading down the hall to the guest room he shared with Gav.

Clive was mid-yawn when he entered, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. All thoughts of sleep instantly fled from his mind. Gav was posed on the bed, stark naked, with a ribbon delicately wrapped and tied with a neat little bow around his—

“Surprise,” Gav looked very pleased with himself. “Got you more than one gift, too.”

Clive locked the door and beelined for the bed, shedding his clothes as fast as he could.

---

I'll let y'all decide who Joshua bought the hairbrushes for, and if they're platonic or romantic lol

[tangledbea]

I genuinely thought at first glance that your Adira as a European knight was supposed to be her when she was younger, before the Dark Kingdom was abandoned. It would've been interesting if King Edmund and the brotherhood had slightly different designs in the past than they do in the present. You know, to show that they aged in the 25+ years. But i understand why they just looked the same, it was probably both budget reasons and just too much effort for them to design younger versions of them for a couple small scenes.

That's not my art, it's @moltenhair's from a few years ago. I just reblog it every Halloween because I love it.

More budget than effort. After all, they went through the effort of designing an old face for Eugene for a gag that lasted a few seconds. From what I understand, the series got more and more budget as it went on, so they could do more things, and more extravagant ones. But in season two, they had to allocate budget for several locations (Vardaros, the Forest of No Return, Mother and Father's cottage in the woods (which included a set with bioluminescent mushrooms), Madame Canardist and Vigor's wagon, Fortuna (where the Daylight Thieves were hiding), the Spire, Terapi Island, the prison barge, Lombard's Pass (with the teetering rock spires), Pincosta, Virtuous St. Goodberry's camp, the Great Tree, the interior of Hook Hand's caravan, Trevor Jr and Lucille's wedding venue, the forest where Cassandra and an amnesiac Rapunzel were stranded, the House of Yesterday's Tomorrow, Demanitus' maze, and, last but not least, the Dark Kingdom), a handful of new outfits (Rapunzel and Eugene each had two, with the addition of Rapunzel's pink cloak for one episode, and Cassandra had three), plus many new characters. Adding slightly younger character designs for a handful of new people who were only seen younger for less then a minute of screentime apiece just wasn't in the budget.

[asexual-hugger]

*The lights in the room suddenly flicker for a moment, interrupting Rapunzel and Eugene’s private moment with their sonogram. The ultrasound machine beeps, and the monitor turns on and then off. A familiar, powerful chill spreads through the room for a few seconds, and then it fades as a cloaked figure appears in a puff of shadowy smoke, the lights going off*

Eugene: What in the world?

Rapunzel: Tito.

Eugene: What??

Rapunzel: It’s Tito. I know it is. I’d feel that cold anywhere. *She stands up firmly and glares at the shadowy figure, a faint streak of light glimmering over her body* Come out, Tito; I know you’re there!

*There’s a rush of speed, and the cloaked figure now stands right in front of them. Eugene stands up angrily to deal with him, but Rapunzel puts an arm out to stop him*

Tito: I should have known you’d figure me out, love. *He removes his hood, and she recognizes the red eyes, white hair, and vampiric grin*

Rapunzel: ‘Love?’ You have no right to call me that!

Tito: Oh, don’t I? And why not? I have every right, especially since you are my soulmate!

Rapunzel: I am not your soulmate! I already have my soulmate, and he is right here!

Eugene: Back off, Del Tagglia, or I’ll throw you out myself! You are not taking Rapunzel away from me!

Tito: Rider. I should have known. You’re really a fan of making things hard, aren’t you? You want to fight me for Rapunzel? Bring it. Seems like you don’t have your trusty frying pan this time to hold me down. Foolish mortal.

Eugene: You think I need a frying pan to fight you? I can fight you without ammunition. Rapunzel is mine!

Tito: Oh, no, my boy. Rapunzel is MINE. I’M the Moon Prince. I was fated to the Sun Princess since the day I was born. Rapunzel and I have the same birthday. When that drop of sunlight fell from the heavens, so did a drop of moonlight. You can’t fight destiny. A mere mortal thief has no place in the world of magic. Your life with Rapunzel is supposed to be my life, and I am going to fight to win her back!

Rapunzel: Win me back? I was never yours in the first place!

Tito: That’s where you’re wrong, Rapunzel. You were always mine, and I’m going to remind you of that!

Eugene: Not with me around, you’re not! I will fight to keep Rapunzel with me, as long as I have to!

Tito: Then you are more foolish than I thought. You have no powers, Rider. How do you expect to clash with the likes of me, someone with shadow magic on his side? The outcome will be obvious.

Eugene: *gripping Rapunzel tightly and moving in front of her to protect her* I will not let you take her. You can take your shadow magic and fly back to your dark Moon kingdom. Stay away from her!

Tito: I’m sorry; you won’t ‘let’ me? I don’t recall you calling the shots for me, Rider. I can just snatch her up whenever I want to. The only reason I’m not is because I’m going easy on you. I have more power than you will ever imagine. Flynn Rider, a simple commoner, taking on the wrath of the Moon Prince. You got guts, I’ll give you that.

Rapunzel: What do you want, Tito?

Tito: Is it obvious? I want you, Rapunzel. I finally broke free of the dark prison I was trapped in and searched for you. I searched for years. The Sun and Moon kingdoms have been in chaos. Without proper balance with their two rulers, it’s only gotten worse. We are destined to be together. Why is it hard for you to understand?

Rapunzel: I don’t understand! You’re not making any sense! I’ve literally never met you until that day we announced our future child to Corona! I don’t know you! Everything you’re telling me is a bunch of gibberish! I’m not ‘fated’ to you! I’m not ‘destined’ to be with you! My heart and soul belong to Eugene!

Tito: That’s what you think. You’re made of magic, Rapunzel! You are the Sun Princess! Your hair glows when you sing. You have healing powers. Why would you have all that if you weren’t magical? You’ve made a horrible mistake. You are supposed to be ruling the Sun and Moon kingdoms with me, not galloping around some mortal realm! Flynn Rider is just a commoner. What did you ever see in him?

Eugene: What exactly are you implying, Del Tagglia? Are you saying I’m not good enough for Rapunzel because I don’t have any magical abilities? Is that what you’re saying? I’m not a suitable match for her? Tell me! What are you implying??

Tito: Figure it out, Rider. It’s not that hard. I’m only here to take what is rightfully mine.

*He walks towards Rapunzel, but Eugene pulls her out of his grip, shielding her*

Eugene: Stay back! I’m warning you!

Tito: You want to take this outside, pretty boy? Because I’m not leaving without my princess. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, I win.

Eugene: *glaring daggers and speaking in a low, dangerous voice* Oh, we can take this outside, shadow boy. Then I can kick your butt out in the open, and we’ll see whose princess Rapunzel really is! She will never belong to you. EVER.

Rapunzel: You may be the Moon Prince, Tito, but I’m still the Sun Princess. And I think you’ve forgotten, but it is daytime outside, which means I currently rule.

*She grabs up a handful of her magical golden hair and swirls it like a lasso, letting it fly and rope itself around Tito’s body. She yanks on it to tighten it, and black smoke begins rising up from where it touches him, burning his cloak. He cackles, loudly*

Tito: Hahahahahahaha!

Rapunzel: What is so funny??

Tito: Please. Did you really think I’d show up in broad daylight, unprepared? I’m not about to be weakened by SUNLIGHT just because I rule the night!

*He clenches his fists at his side, and the smoke disappears. He grunts, and a streak of light flies across the room, striking Rapunzel*

Rapunzel: *crying out in surprise and pain* Ow! *Her hair uncoils from Tito in a second*

Eugene: *horrified* Rapunzel! *He is at her side in an instant, checking her over, and the look he gives Tito is so dangerous and full of fury that the room feels much colder* What did you do, you snake?? What did you do?? If you hurt her, I swear I’ll—!

Tito: Relax, Rider. She’s the Sun Princess. I simply reversed her own powers back on to her. Harmless, really. I only showed her that even her magic hair can’t bind me. I wear a Sun Shield. It protects me from growing weak in the daytime. I never leave the Moon Kingdom without it. And I will be taking this!

*He moves in another rush of speed, snatching the sonogram photo off the bed*

Rapunzel: Hey! Give that back!

Eugene: No, you don’t! That’s ours!

*He rushes at Tito with full adrenaline, jumping at him and knocking him to the ground. The photo flies out of the Moon Prince’s hand and lands on the floor. Rapunzel quickly gathers up her long hair, the parts of it singed where it had bound Tito, and grabs up the photo before Tito can take it back. Eugene furiously pins Tito to the floor, seething, and Tito returns his glare with an expression of indifference*

Rapunzel: Think you can take our sonogram picture with you, huh? Nice try.

Tito: You know that baby was supposed to be mine, Rapunzel. Think about it.

Eugene: Enough! I warned you, shadow boy! I warned you! Get your dirty hands off Rapunzel! I mean it!

Tito: Sure. I’ll get my ‘dirty hands’ off Rapunzel. Whatever you want, Rider. Just know: I won’t stop coming back. I won’t stop until destiny is sealed. Rapunzel will come back with me, and she will marry me. *He looks up at Rapunzel* You will marry me, Rapunzel! You are mine!

[fatesdesign-archive]

Dear Rapunzel, Happy Holidays! I don’t know if it snows in Corona, but I wanted to send you this cloak and glove set anyway. It’s made right here in Arendelle, so I’m hoping it’ll definitely be warm enough where you are! I hope the colors are alright, I just thought you’d look so lovely in a darker green, kind of like that dress you once wore to visit Elsa and I. Oh, speaking of Elsa, she helped with the design as well — and added a bit of magic to it, too. So it should be as snow-proof as a magical Fifth Spirit can make it! I hope you like it! P.S I also wanted to add something for Sirs Eugene and Pascal, as well, so I also added two matching hats, too! Hoping you are well and are finding time to stay creative this winter! Lots of love, Anna of Arendelle ✨✨✨✨💖💖💖

@spareisms || an unexpected letter <3

Your highness, a package and letter have arrived for your attention. The butler announced at doorway. Her eyes widened as she jumped out of her chair, the chess game with Pascal had fallen over in her haste. It would be okay, he loves letters as much as she does.

With a rushed thank you, Rapunzel sat at her desk, looking at the envelope she already knew who had written to her. "It's from Anna!" she grinned as Pascal took his place on her arm ready to read along with her. The package was placed to the side, ready to be opened after.

"You read that Pascal! You got a gift too" she laughed, finding it cute that Anna had thought about her green friend, calling him a sir alongside Eugene. Placing the letter aside, Rapunzel took the package, opening it up and taking in a breath, "Oh it's stunning" she whispered, standing up and letting it fall out of the wrapping. Holding it up, the brunette looked over the details, running her fingers over the delicate designs.

Rapunzel put it over her shoulders, clasping it in place before looking for the hat for Pascal, "Your gift, sir" she hummed, fixing it properly. "You look so cute! I'll have to draw you so she can see you in it! I don't think we're due to see them for a while now" she sighed, it was always a good time when they did come together.

"For now though, we should write one back? Maybe we should give Eugene his gift first. What do you think Pascal?"

[lilpunkrock]

where you go (i will go) — part xii

Summary: When new events transpire in both your unconscious and the Waking World, you’re forced to confront that which you’ve been running from.

Words: 7.1k+

AN: I can honestly say this was my favorite part to write yet. I hope that feeling translates to all of you. Enjoy. x . . .

“Meet me where the lines blur together, it’s 4 AM and I can’t sleep…

I’m love sick, love sober; you left the light on when I had a broken heart.

I was free in the fall, now I’m lost in the moment;

I can breathe through the night even when it is hopeless;

You make me feel homesick."

Homesick, Dayseeker

. . . The honey-gold sand of the beach feels soft and fine between your toes. As a new wave of tide pulls toward you, you stretch your sun-kissed feet toward it, eager to dip them in the clear blue water.

Though your thick copy of Le Morte d’Arthur lays open in your hands, your attention is directed elsewhere. Mere feet away, Fake Dream sits on the beach, one long leg extended in front of him, the other drawn close to his chest. It provides the perfect perch for his arm and the well-worn copy of Eugene Onegin he holds in one hand. His sharp chin is dipped in concentration, his pink lips pursed as if to read the words aloud. His ocean eyes devote each word rapt attention, lingering thoughtfully on some pages before pulling slowly to others.

With each page his nimble fingers turn, a fuzzy warmth settles in your chest, swaddling your heart like cashmere. You suspect you could sit here like this forever. Given that none of this is real, you suppose you could.

As your eyes pull from his studious face, you can’t help but smile at the way his black cloak spills around him, rippling over the sand. A tiny sand crab scuttles over it, stopping to tug at his hem with one minuscule claw. You laugh through your nose at the sight, trying to be quiet, but the sound does not escape Fake Dream. His eyes are upon you instantly, wide and alert. “You are judging me,” he says, brow quirked and voice underlaid with mirth.

You shake your head at him, biting back your grin. “No, no, I’m not. It’s just nice to see you reading something other than a record of dreams, that’s all.” Your eyes settle on the slight curl at the corners of Eugene Onegin’s cover, the faded color of its well-worn paperback spine. “You know, if anyone had asked me before today, I definitely would have pegged you as an old Russian literature kind of guy. I know they say not to judge a book by its cover, but yours is pretty worn. I assume this isn’t your first time reading it?”

Dream cocks his head slightly, considering your words. “I appreciate literature from all cultures, though this piece is one I often come back to.” He pauses, blue eyes studying you thoughtfully. “Have you read it?”

“I haven’t.” You look down at the hefty copy of Le Morte d’Arthur in your hands, the cover faded slightly from the ghost of your own past readings. “Have you read mine?” you ask.

“I have.”

You roll your eyes at him with a chuckle. Of course he has. He probably planted the idea in Sir Thomas Malory’s mind himself. “What makes you keep coming back to that one?” you inquire, curious.

Fake Dream pauses, lowering his pale gaze to the novel in his hands. His thumb traces the edge of one page slowly, almost caringly. Reverent. A shiver trails down your spine in spite of the warm sun above. “I suppose I have never fully grasped the theme at the heart of it, though I suspect I am starting to.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Regardless of how many times I read it, there is always more to learn.”

Your fingertips press into the hardback in your hands a little tighter. “Yes, yes there is.” . . . The crisp chill of winter nips at your cheeks affectionately as you emerge from Cliff’s coffee shop. The coffee in your hand is warm against your skin, the heat of the liquid seeping easily through the thin paper to-go cup. It reminds you of the searing of Desire’s thread against your palm, a memory that burns bright and fresh in your brain.

The thread of desire you’d encountered in the diner by the sea had only been the beginning. In the couple of weeks since you’d attempted to break it, you’d spent a portion of each morning finding another thread of Desire’s to attempt to destroy. It was painful work, a pursuit that demanded patience and persistence. Though you’d been unsuccessful in breaking one so far, you’d noticed a shift in the power within you. With each attempt, you found yourself capable of holding on to the threads for longer and longer.

Unfortunately, as your power seemed to intensify, so too did the bond’s resistance to you. The last thread you’d tried to break had resulted in a lash of pain through your abdomen so jarring that you’d dropped to your knees. A couple hours-worth of rest in bed were required before you’d been able to travel to the Dreaming that day. Convincing yourself that injury was a figment of your imagination had been harder than the rest.

As you weave through the weekday morning throng, making your way back to your townhome, a familiar head of blonde hair approaches you through the crowd. Speak of the devil. Your heartbeat quickens as Desire of the Endless falls into step beside you effortlessly. Besides for Death, you imagine that Desire spends the greatest amount of time walking amongst mortals. Their experience allows them to blend into the crowd seamlessly. Only you are aware of the predator that lurks in their midst.

Purposefully avoiding Desire’s golden gaze, you rack your brain for reasons why the Endless would approach you today. A jolt of fear spikes through you at the thought that they might know about your attempts to destroy their handiwork. Determined to hold your ground, you focus on the memory of the pain in your hand. Harnessing your anger, crowding out the fear. “Hello, Desire,” you say, your voice firm and monotone.

“Ah, she speaks. I was wondering when you’d stop giving me the cold shoulder.”

Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup at Desire’s exaggerated, saccharine tone. When they lean forward, trying to capture your attention, you keep your eyes trained forward. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since I was last in your insufferable presence. My apologies if I don’t have much to say.”

“Ooo, touchy, touchy,” Desire sings, their voice pitching with glee. “I must say, I like this new ‘bad bitch’ look on you, darling. Tail-tucked, woe-is-me Love was growing so boring.”

You grind your teeth as anger and embarrassment flare through you in equal measure. The familiar green door of your townhome is within sight now. Your feet move quickly beneath you. “What do you want, Desire?”

“Oh, you know, darling. Just wanted to check in on my dear old friend.” Sensing your haste, Desire quickens their pace, spinning flamboyantly to walk backwards in front of you. When your stride falters, a wide grin splits their face, all sharp teeth and sweet malice. “I sense a shift in you, little goddess. Perhaps there is something I can help you with. Something you desire?”

Their words send every muscle in your body tensing, instantly on edge. Could they know about the thread between you and Dream? Surely not. Desire had no reason to assume such a thing might be possible and no cause for investigating it. Even you still didn’t know whether the philia attachment between yourself and the Dream Lord was platonic or romantic. The thought of checking was a constant presence in the back of your mind, a curiosity that made you equally excited and nauseous. You’d refused to indulge it thus far.

A master of deception, determining whether Desire was lying or not was nearly impossible. Biting the inside or your cheek, you quicken your pace and slip around them. “Perhaps you should take a page from your brother’s book and cease meddling in the affairs of other deities,” you retort, calling their bluff.

Desire slips into step beside you once again, their eyes wide pools of molten gold. Your townhome door draws closer by the second. Just a little farther. You’re almost there. “Ah, yes, Dream. You two have been spending a lot of time together lately, have you not?” Desire presses toward you, demanding your attention. “How’s that going for you?”

You fish into your pocket for your keys with haste, taking the final steps to your front door in a rush. “Goodbye, Desire,” you call with feigned nonchalance. Heart in your throat, you unlock the door and slip through the crack, slamming it in the Endless’s face before they have the chance to protest.

The silence that greets you on the other side of the door feels heaven-sent. You draw in a deep breath, allowing the stillness of the air to fill your lungs, holding it there. Hoping to clear Desire’s words from your frantic mind.

Perhaps there is something I can help you with. Something you desire?

You give a rough shake of your head, as if doing so might dispel the thought once and for all. As you step into the living room, a flash of red from the kitchen catches your attention. The voicemail light on your landline blinks quickly, indicating a new message awaits you.

Your eyebrows furrow as you walk to the kitchen. The landline was more of a formality than anything. It wasn’t as if you gave the number out to many people, mostly just mortal companies that promised you ten-percent-off coupons if you registered with a phone number. You rarely got calls that weren’t spam. You certainly never got messages.

As you lift the phone from its holder and navigate to the voicemail section, your eyes settle on a familiar-looking number. Deja vu washes over you as you stare at it. Some distant part of your brain recognizes the number as significant, yet you can’t remember where you’ve seen it before.

It’s not until you click ‘play’ and hear a familiar female voice that realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Your heart drops to your stomach like a stone. . . . Today, there are no mix-ups, no accidental appearing in one part of the Dreaming when you meant to travel to another. When the Dream Lord’s sand pours from your hand, it’s as if it reads your very heart, as if it knows exactly where to go. It carries you to the throne room in a flurry of pale grains, depositing you mere yards away from Dream himself. He stands at the foot of the throne room staircase, speaking quietly with Abel of the House of Secrets.

A soft sniffle escapes you as your sneakers pad across the throne room floor, carrying you toward them. In your arms, Theo nuzzles his nose against the underside of your chin, licking a stray tear from your skin.

“Dream.” The call comes out more like a croak, your throat tight with emotion. When the Dream Lord’s star-lit gaze snaps to you, his pale eyes wide and expression taken aback, you feel you can’t breathe for an entirely different reason. You stop in your tracks instantly, holding Theo close to your chest. “Come with me. Please.” . . . Small flecks of snow drift from the gray sky above, clinging delicately to your hair and cheeks. You draw Theo’s warm body into the folds of your winter coat, seeking to shield him from the cold. His favorite toy, a stuffing-less fox, is gripped tightly in your free hand. A lifeline.

As your eyes settle on the familiar sign of the animal shelter in front of you, a dizzying concoction of anxiety, sorrow, and excitement rolls through you. You swallow thickly, fighting back the nausea that comes along with it. “Thank you for coming with me,” your voice comes out as a whisper.

Beside you, Dream of the Endless stands with his hands in his coat pockets, still as the winter air. When he inclines his head toward you, there are snowflakes nesting in his wild hair, clinging to his dark eyelashes. When you draw in another breath, it comes a little easier than the last. “You need not thank me,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft.

“I want to.” Your eyes fall to where you hold Theo with one arm, pressed against your chest like a toddler. He gazes up at you with childlike wonder, all rose-colored glasses and curiosity. You press a warm kiss to the tip of his cold, leathery nose, a feeling you’d recognize anywhere. As another wave of nausea rolls through you, you bury your swollen eyes in his fur. “I don’t know, Dream. I don’t know if I can do this.”

For a moment, all is still. And then, the soft jingle of a bell pierces the air. When you lift your face from Theo’s neck, the Dream Lord stands at the shelter’s entrance, holding the door open with one pale hand. Though he speaks no words, his blue eyes hold yours steadily. Staring at him, a small voice whispers from the back of your mind, Yes, you can.

Warmth floods your cheeks as you step over the threshold and into the familiar lobby of the shelter. The dark-skinned woman working the front desk is instantly recognizable to you–she was the one who helped you fill out your paperwork the day you chose to foster Theo. No amount of time could ever erase the memory of his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time, of the warmth that had flooded your heart when his furry head slipped into your palm. It had fit like a glove, and still did. In spite of the fact that his leash is looped over your shoulder, you hold tightly to him, eager to keep him in your arms as long as you can.

As you and Dream approach the front desk, the receptionist raises her head, appraising Dream’s lithe, dark form with curious eyes. You wonder if she can sense an otherworldliness about him, some aura that you have grown accustomed to. You draw a step closer to him instinctively.

“Hello,” you greet the woman quietly. At the appearance of this new friend, Theo begins to wag his tail. You adjust your hold to keep him comfortable. “I’m here with Theo. I got a call that he’s ready to be adopted?”

The dark-skinned woman’s eyes pull from Dream to you, lighting up at your words. “Ah, yes! Love. It’s great to see you again. It looks as if sweet Theo has been very well cared for.” She rises from her chair with a smile. “The family is in the back getting his records and starter kit now. I’ll go grab them.”

Your throat spasms, wanting to protest. You bite back the urge as she slips through a door behind her desk. For a moment, you’re ashamed at your selfish heart, ashamed of the fact that you are so hesitant to let him go. When you had returned the voicemail, the worker at the shelter had told you about Theo’s new family. A husband and wife with two young boys and another dog similar in age to Theo. The wife even worked from home. He would have multiple playmates and receive endless love and attention. More than you could ever offer him, especially now that you spent time in both your Realm and the Dreaming. It was a perfect match.

And yet, as you tilt your chin to gaze down at your beloved friend, your heart still aches. Would they accept his mouth kisses with glee like you have? Would they trace that precious dip between his eyes, stroke loving fingers over his furry cheeks like you have? Would they kiss his paws every morning, hold him close until he falls asleep at night, give him their whole heart, just like you have? You could only hope and pray.

Pressing your nose into his fur once again, you inhale his familiar scent deeply–the perfect concoction of puppy musk and freshly laundered cotton. You can still remember the first time you’d found him burrowed into your bed sheets, not even a week after you’d first brought him home. Closing your eyes, you commit the scent to memory. Though you feel Dream’s eyes on you, you sense no judgment from him. You’re grateful he’s here, his familiar presence comforting.

When the door to the back of the shelter opens, your head lifts immediately. You’re greeted by two dark-haired young boys and a middle-aged woman whom they are a clear spitting image of. The boys come toward you in a rush, their grins wide and eager, proudly displaying several missing teeth. You wonder if they’re still young enough to believe in the tooth fairy.

When one of the boys reaches out to pet Theo’s head, you crouch down to his level. As his small hand finds the sweet spot behind Theo’s ear, Theo’s tail begins to swish against the front of your coat. Your heart swells with delight and breaks into a million pieces all at once.

“Mom, he’s perfect,” the little boy petting Theo’s head says. His smile is as radiant as the sun, warming the whole room. “Milo’s gonna get along so great with him.”

You smile at him kindly, then shift your gaze to the young boy who has yet to pet Theo. With a reluctant heart, you take a crouched step closer to him, asking, “Would you like to hold him?”

Wide-eyed and grinning, the child nods eagerly. You instruct him on how to hold Theo just so, looping your furry friend’s front paws around the boy’s neck, showing him how to slip one arm under Theo’s tail. When Theo gazes adoringly at the child, placing a tentative, exploratory lick to the underside of his chin, a wave of relief and bittersweetness washes through you.

When you rise to your feet, your eyes turn to the mother. Her emerald eyes regard you kindly. “Thank you for caring for this sweet pup all this time. I’m sure today isn’t easy,” she says, offering you a warm smile.

Something about her words, the thoughtful empathy that underlays them, forms a pit at the base of your throat. A familiar prickling begins to surface behind your eyes. You blink quickly, trying to clear it away. “He loves Cheez-Its.” The words escape you in a rush, impassioned. “And licking the cream cheese from your fingers when you make your morning bagel. He loves to eat dead leaves, but don’t let him eat too many, because he has a really sensitive stomach. If he throws up on your carpet, and he definitely will, a little all-purpose cleaner and Shout will clean it right up. He makes this adorable squeaking sound when he yawns, like an old door hinge, and he loves morning cuddles. He’ll let you hold him just like a baby.” You swallow thickly, fighting to keep your mouth from contorting, to keep the tears from falling. “He’ll be your best friend.”

The woman’s smile turns wistful as she studies you, soaking in your words. When she takes her children into her arms, the four of them look like a picture-perfect family. Your saddened heart lifts at the sight. “I promise you we will take the very best care of him. He won’t want for anything,” she assures you.

You nod once, stiffly. When your gaze falls to Theo, you find him already looking up at you, doe-eyes wide and gleaming. You drop to your knees in front of him. The child holding him turns slightly, affording you a better look at his sweet, furry face.

“Well, I guess this is it, little love,” you whisper, your voice warbled and tight. Leaning forward, you press a trembling kiss to the tip of his leathery nose. Theo quickly returns the gesture, licking you full on the lips. You couldn’t hold back the peal of laughter that springs from you if you tried. “I love you so much, buddy. Please don’t forget me. I promise I won’t forget you.” You give him a final loving scratch behind his ears, then bury your mouth against his cheek, whispering, “I’ll see you again. I promise.”

When you walk out of the shelter’s doors minutes later, the cold that pricks at your face is a welcome feeling. It nips at your tear-rimmed eyes, soothing them, calming you. Your thoughts are already on the future, on your intention to travel to the Realm of Attachment later today. You’ll pluck the threads of storge between Theo and his new family until they light their entire home.

The Dream Lord follows behind you like a shadow. He hasn’t said a word since you first arrived at the shelter. When you pause on the sidewalk outside, he stops beside you. Finally, he breaks his silence, his low voice gently inquiring, “If you care for him so deeply, why not keep him? Why did you choose to let him go?”

The corners of your lips lift ever so slightly at his question. It was one you’d asked yourself countless times in the months you’d fostered Theo, knowing full well that this day would one day come. Hell, you’d even pondered it earlier when you’d received that voicemail. Should I adopt him myself, or should I let him go? In the end, the answer, bittersweet as it was, had come quickly to you. “As much as I love Theo, I couldn’t give him all he deserved. I’ve been away a lot, especially in these last few months. This family…they’ll be able to give him more than I can. The utmost happiness is all I want for him. I want it more than I want happiness for myself.”

When you turn your head, you find Dream watching you quietly, eyes bright and keen. Despite the weight his gaze carries, you force yourself to hold it, to give him a small, wistful smile. “Sometimes, if you love something, Dream, the best thing you can do is let it go.” . . . As you slip into the soft embrace of unconsciousness, the familiar whisper of waves is not the only sensation that greets you. A gentle, repetitive pressure coaxes you into alertness, a bizarre sensation that feels like soft, wet sandpaper. Familiar. You know this feeling…

In an instant, your eyes snap open. “Theo?”

Theo’s furry face is bent over where you lie in the sand, all sloppy, wet tongue and dark, gleaming eyes. You sit up with a start, eagerly taking him in your arms, running your hands over his warm, squirmy body. You know this can’t be real. You gave him to his new family just earlier today. And you’re sitting on that honey-gold beach by the Tiffany blue sea, which tells you you’re steeped deep in your unconsciousness.

And yet, Theo’s form feels so real beneath your hands. His ears are as floppy as ever, his curls as soft as silk under your palms. Once again, your unconscious ability to commit physical characteristics to memory has astounded you.

But there’s one familiar figure you haven’t seen yet. As Theo buries himself in your arms, eagerly lapping at your chin, your eyes sweep across the beach. And there he is, standing only a few feet away. The radiant sun frames Fake Dream’s tall, slender form in white gold. As you stare at him, something seems off to you. It takes a moment to register the difference, but when you do, the realization steals the breath straight from your lungs. Because Fake Dream’s lips are not downturned in a scowl, or flattened in indifference. No, one corner of those rosebud lips is ever so slightly upturned into the faintest ghost of a smile.

It’s a gesture that carries significance, a deviation from his normal stoicism that you’ve only seen directed toward Hob, Matthew, or Lucienne. That gesture, so sparingly given, has never been directed at you before. Heart caught in the base of your throat, the realization that you would do anything to hold it there, to see it again and again, hits you like a ton of bricks. To see it in real life. Because that’s how you know this is fake. Real Dream has never offered you such a display.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter that any of this is fake. All that matters is Theo’s kisses on your face, his furry body in your arms, and Fake Dream’s quirked lips. All that matters is that it feels real, even if it’s not.

Once, you had dreaded slipping into unconsciousness at night. Now, you feel yourself hesitating to leave it with the dawn. . . . When you step out of the vortex of sand and into the open grove of Fiddler’s Green, the lush flora and fauna seem to reach to greet you. Blades of grass sprout beneath your feet with each step, framing your sneakers in brilliant green. Dandelions crane their necks to graze your ankles, while golden Russell lupine incline to brush against your knuckles.

You caress them in kind, a soft smile gracing your lips. I missed you, too, you think fondly, bending to enjoy the sweet scent emanating from the delicate petals. And it was true. Ever since Theo had gone to his new family a few days prior, you’d been spending more and more of your hours in the Dreaming. The silence of your townhome felt too quiet, the stillness too empty. While you’d been slipping away to perform your duties and snag a few hours of rest, even a short period away from Dream Country left you eager to return as of late.

That familiar pull takes up in your chest as you walk through the grove, coaxing you toward the palace, toward the Dream Lord. With a smile, you pull the pouch of Dream’s sand from your pocket. A fresh handful spirits you from the open fields of Fiddler’s Green to the familiar warmth and clutter of the Library of Dreams. You spot Lucienne immediately, her regal, coat-tailed silhouette pacing in front of the colossal doors to the throne room.

“Lucienne!” you call as you approach her. She swivels instantly at your exclamation, pausing in her incessant pacing to look at you. You immediately catch the furrow in her brow, the tight clasp of her hands behind her back. Your lips mirror her frown as you come to a slow stop before her. “Is something wrong?”

Lucienne’s full lips part and close several times, as if seeking the right words to say. Her hesitation makes your heart stutter in your chest. Finally, she bows her head apologetically at you. “Forgive me, Miss Love, for my frazzled state. All is well in the Dreaming. It is just that Lord Morpheus has welcomed a rather…unexpected guest to the palace today.”

Your eyebrows shoot up at her words, your interest thoroughly piqued. What kind of guest would leave Lucienne frazzled? “A guest? Who?”

Lucienne lowers her gaze to the floor. You get the impression that she’s mulling over whether to divulge the identity of this mysterious guest. Perhaps it’s someone Dream wishes to keep a secret. Just as you’re about to reassure her that she doesn’t have to tell you, she lifts her gaze to yours. “It is Lord Morpheus’s former spouse. The Muse, Calliope.”

There is a distinctly bottomless sensation as the floor of the library is ripped out from underneath you, sending you plummeting down, down, down.

Oh.

“Oh.” The word is out of your mouth without contemplation. It hangs in the air between you, awkward and plain, making the heavy silence heavier. Clearing your throat, you scramble for some kind of coherent thought to add on to it. “And that is concerning…why?”

“After their…separation, Lord Morpheus became bitter and angry. Their parting was steeped in loss, and it darkened him.” She pauses, turning to glance at the closed doors behind her. The pull in your chest thrums as she does, urging you to walk through them, to go where Dream lies on the other side. “His countenance seems much improved today, I must say. Still, I’m a little nervous. It has been a long time since the Lady Calliope has been in the Dreaming.”

His countenance is much improved. The Lady Calliope. A tight knot tangles itself at the base of your throat, making it difficult to breathe. Your mind turns to the red eros and green storge attachments that had linked Dream and Calliope’s names in his book in your library. The book could not tell you what was current and what was not. It was a record, and nothing more. Still, Lucienne’s description of Dream’s ‘improved countenance’ leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. “Any idea what they’re talking about?” you ask, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“I haven't a clue.”

Your lips tighten into a hard line as your stomach turns. You suspect you know exactly what they’re talking about. In spite of the unease pooling in your gut, you smile at Lucienne. “Okay. Well, I, uh…I guess I’ll just wait, then. Read some books until they’re done. Will you come find me when they’re finished?”

“I will, Miss Love.”

You turn on your heel without a farewell, acutely aware of the fact that you’re acting totally out of character. Acutely aware of the fact that this deviation will not slip past Lucienne, as astute as she is. You dive into the aisles of bookshelves swiftly, eyes ignoring the signposts displaying years and letters above you, instead trained only on what is in front of you. Adrenaline propels you forward, away from others and their prying eyes, eager to be alone with your thoughts.

After several minutes of twisting and turning, you find yourself among the first-century ‘Z’s.’ A relatively sparse collection in the grand scheme of the universe, and a spot you feel others are unlikely to journey to. It’s here that you press your back against the bookshelves and sink to the floor with a bone-deep sigh. Only here do you allow the mask to slip aside and the dam to break as the full weight of your emotions washes through you.

First comes the disbelief, hollow and cold. One of the Dream Lord’s former lovers–no, his ex-wife, the mother of his child–was here in the Dreaming. The mere thought sends your head spinning so wildly that you cradle it in your hands. Though you had heard the stories and seen the names in his book with your very own eyes, the Dream Lord’s past lovers had always felt like distant figments to you, almost more like myths than reality. You had never suspected that a day like this might come.

Anger comes next, taking you off-guard. It boils up from a place deep within you, coiling tightly in your stomach, simmering in your veins. Anger at what, you’re not sure. Perhaps at yourself for acting a fool, for not being able to control your emotions? You had no right to be angry with anyone else. Fingernails drag across your scalp as you comb anxious fingers through your hair. In spite of the deep breaths you try to calm yourself with, the relentless hammering of your heart doesn’t stop.

It’s from that hammering heart that the next emotion swells, clouding your thoughts, making you dizzy. Panic. Panic over what the two of them could be talking about. Though Lucienne claimed to have no clue, the answer seemed obvious in your mind. Dream’s sentiments from that night on the dock, his apparent dismay at not understanding why his past relationships had ended in ruin, burns in your memory like a brand. ‘Love is as much about sacrifice as it is about reward.’ That’s what you’d told him. He must have found his answer within that sentence. Must have learned his lesson.

And now, he was reuniting with his former wife, the mother of his lost child, with the intention of getting things right.

As you curl your knees to your chest, resting your forehead against them, a new sensation sweeps through you. Or rather, the absence of sensation. As the heat of your anger and the turmoil of your panic drain away, a numbness takes their place. It’s familiar, this bone-deep emptiness, this feeling of being carved out and left unfilled. You fold into yourself tightly, making yourself as small as possible. As if doing so might grant reprieve from this feeling that has plagued you so many times in your long, long existence. Sorrow.

What reason do you have to be sad? that incessant voice of logic hisses in the back of your mind. You should be happy for him.

Shame rides on the coattails of the voice’s words, thick and nauseating. Still, it’s a welcome relief from the sorrow, and you hold tightly to it. Indeed, why were you sad? Dream was reuniting with his lost love. They were getting a second chance at happiness. He deserved to be happy. Plus, with Dream and Calliope’s relationship rekindled, you wouldn’t have to worry about the philia attachment between you anymore. It was as good as platonic.

You draw in slow, deep breaths, waiting for the emptiness in your bones to fade. Waiting for it to be replaced with that overwhelming feeling of radiant rightness that filled your soul every time you fulfilled an attachment, every time a love match found its way.

Still, the sorrow remains.

Hoping to outwait the feeling, you remain where you are, tightly folded in on yourself amid the aisles of the Library of Dreams. When you hear quiet footsteps approaching you, you’re unsure of how long you’ve been sitting here. The only thing you’re sure of is that you haven’t outwaited anything.

“Miss Love.” The soft tone of Lucienne’s voice coaxes your head upwards, unfurling you from within yourself. She stands a few feet away at the edge of the aisle. You can spot the concern in her dark eyes from here. “Are you alright?”

You offer her a small, crooked smile. Rising to your feet, you lie, “Yes, I’m fine, Lucienne. Just tired, is all. Is he ready for me?”

Lucienne draws in a breath to speak, then hesitates. She clearly doesn’t believe you. Indecision wages war in her brown eyes. You can practically see her weighing the scales, contemplating whether to cling to formality and proceed forward, or potentially overstep a boundary by prying further. You’re not sure which option terrifies you more.

After a long moment of silence, Lucienne gives a brief nod. She speaks no words as she beckons you to follow, and you trail after her in silence. As you weave through the labyrinth of bookshelves, a part of you wonders what made her choose silence over inquiry. Perhaps a lifetime of trying to provide emotional support to Dream, only to often be rebuffed, has made her believe that some individuals simply do not want to be helped. The thought makes your heart ache.

When you walk into the main corridor of the library, you find that the towering throne room doors are now wide open. Two forms stand on the other side of the doorway, their silhouettes outlined in emerald, ruby, and sapphire from the stained glass windows behind them.

Though Lucienne stops at the edge of the bookshelves, your feet carry you forward, unbidden. Dream’s dark, lithe form is leaned over, whispering something in the ear of the dark-haired woman facing him. Your cheeks flush as you come to a stop outside the throne room doors. Calliope.

When the Muse turns away from Dream, toward you, you go still as a stone. It’s instantly evident why Dream fell for her. Her ethereal form seems almost weightless as she glides toward the library, her sandaled feet barely touching the floor. Her brilliant white peplos floats about her like foam on the sea. Ringlets of dark-brown hair spill over her shoulders, framing the soft features of her kind face. There is a grace and freedom in her movements that you’ve never seen in another being, an effervescence that she carries effortlessly.

The King of Dreams and Nightmares and a Muse of divine inspiration. The perfect pair. You swallow thickly.

As Calliope exits the throne room, you expect her to dissipate into feathers, or at least bypass you entirely. When her warm brown eyes settle on you, you hold your breath. Or, rather, your breath holds you.

Calliope approaches you silently, coming to a stop within arm’s reach. You’re certain she must hear the pounding of your heart in your chest. If she does, she doesn’t show it. Slowly, she reaches out, taking your hands in both of her own. Frozen in place, you allow her to do so, halfway convinced that you must have spontaneously developed the ability to dream. Halfway certain that none of this is real.

When Calliope gives your hands a gentle squeeze, however, you’re assured that this is no dream.

“Watch over him. Please,” she says softly, her voice as sweet as wine and honey.

Your lips part in awe. Your mind tailspins, caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay, wanting to ask her questions and wanting to question nothing.

“Yeah,” you breathe. It’s the only coherent thought you’re able to articulate.

Calliope’s plush lips draw into a warm, pleased smile. She gives your fingers one last squeeze. And then she slips away, gone like a petal in the wind.

You find that you can’t watch as she drifts away to exit the Dreaming. As weightless as she seemed, the weight of this moment feels all too heavy. Your gaze remains affixed on your hands, still extended from where she held them. Your mind struggles to wrestle with her simple words, the complex implication behind them.

The quiet clearing of a throat snaps you out of your thoughts. When your eyes dart upward, you find that Dream has crossed the throne room to stand before you in Calliope’s place. The proximity of his body to yours makes your skin hum. The way his ocean eyes regard you with a palpable gentleness makes your stomach flip.

“Are you ready?” Dream asks, his rosebud lips caressing each word with care.

At first, you’re not sure what he means. Then, the realization dawns on you. Work. Of course. You offer him a small, tentative smile, shoving down the tempest of emotions storming within you.

But only temporarily. You know now what you have to do. “Yes.” . . . Hours later, after all your work with Dream is done, you slip into the Dreaming under cover of night with a palmful of sand. Unlike normal, you don’t immediately go in search of Matthew, Lucienne, or even Dream.

No, your first stop is Mervyn Pumpkinhead’s personal quarters within the palace. You slip through the door in silence, like a dream in the night. A featherlight touch to his quietly snoring chest is all it takes to step into the Realm of Attachment from there.

The transition to the radiance of your Realm from the nighttime shadows of the Dreaming is jarring. The only thing that doesn’t catch you off-guard is the brilliant white thread you find unfurling from your chest. Philia.

Though its presence comes as no surprise to you, the sight of it still takes your breath away. It’s the first time you’ve ever laid eyes on it, the first time you’ve ever seen any attachment originate from within yourself. Its white glow brightens and dims in time with your heartbeat, a pattern that quickens the longer you stare at it. You exit Mervyn’s room swiftly, before you can change your mind.

The white thread guides you out of the living quarters, through the palace’s long, wide halls and winding staircases, into the Library of Dreams. The attachment leads straight across the main corridor, stretching over the reading tables before disappearing into the colossal doors at the opposite end. With a deep, calming breath, you slip through the throne room doors like a ghost.

Dream of the Endless stands on the other side, his solitary form a dark run of ink in the center of the throne room. Hands clasped behind his back, his black cloak spills around him, pooling at his feet. You approach his still form with slow, careful steps, in spite of the fact that you know he can’t see you. With each step you take, the thread between you grows shorter and shorter. With each inch you lose, your heart flutters faster.

You step in front of him, seeking his face, only to find it turned toward the open ceiling above. While you know he is staring at the star-speckled cosmos that lie above the palace’s trusses, the Realm of Attachment affords you no cosmos. Instead, a kaleidoscope of colors is reflected in his pale blue eyes, a mirror image of the rainbow threads above.

A soft smile pulls at your lips at the sight of him here, pondering the night sky after a long day of work. You suddenly realize that you’ve never asked him if he has his own resting hours to retreat into. While other deities remain dreamless, does the Dream Lord himself ever dream?

In any other realm, you’d be wary of staring too long, worried that his keen gaze might take notice. The knowledge that he can’t see you now is…comforting. Allowing yourself the simple pleasure of studying his features, unhurried and unabashed, feels like a gift. Your eyes trace the perpetual disarray of his raven hair, the stray strands that fall over his forehead. They brush against the lush, dark lashes that frame his ocean eyes–ever bright, ever pondering. The light of the rainbow sky above casts his alabaster skin in an array of colors, accentuating the proud bridge of his nose, the faint dimple at its tip. Tilted upwards in thought, that sharp jaw could cut your heart out. The faint ghost of a shadow along it, creeping down to the top of this throat, sends a delicious warmth spreading from the top of your scalp to the tips of your toes.

And his lips. Maker, his lips. Pink as a rosebud, they part softly as he ponders the heavens above, as if searching for answers. Answers to what, you don’t know. Standing this close, you notice for the first time that his bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top. The urge to draw the pad of your thumb over it, to test its softness, its fullness, is sudden and overwhelming. Not a curiosity, or a want, but a need.

He’s beautiful, you admit to yourself for the very first time. Warmth blooms inside your chest, caressing your heart in gentle hands. The philia attachment between you beams in kind, illuminating both of your faces in its radiant glow.

You swallow, nerves stealing the grin from your lips, turning your mouth to sandpaper. It’s time. Time to do it now, before you lose whatever courage you have left.

The hammer of your heart is all you know as you wrap your hand around the thread with conviction.

Show me. . . . AN: Sneak peek content for anyone who sends me theories about Eugene Onegin and Le Morte d’Arthur. x