treasureboxmylove

[treasureboxmylove]

Out of Sun and Moon, which do you prefer?

Sorry Moon, yellow is my favorite color-

[treasureboxmylove]

Echoes Of The Unseen

The dream wasn’t unusual at first. Eclipse stood beneath a sky too bright, too endless, the sun frozen in place as if waiting for something. A soft breeze whispered through unseen trees, carrying the faint scent of something familiar—candle wax, faintly burnt cloth, a trace of old, old memories.

He turned, and she was there.

Puppet stood just a few steps away, her form caught between shadow and light, her white mask stark against the shifting dreamscape. Her long hair flowed as if moved by a nonexistent wind. She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her painted-on features.

Eclipse did not freeze. He did not stutter. His mind immediately began to dissect the situation, breaking it down into probabilities, rationalizing the impossible. But something deeper, something unspoken, made his fingers curl into a fist.

“…Puppet.”

She hummed in response, stepping closer. “You’re dreaming, you know.” There was no sadness in her voice, no sorrow—just that same quiet, knowing lilt she always had.

Eclipse narrowed his eyes. “Then why does it feel real?”

Puppet reached out, brushing her fingers over his arm. It was a ghost of a touch, barely there. “Because I was real, and you remember.”

His jaw tightened. He despised dreams. They were nothing but tricks of the mind, illusions meant to mock him with things he could not change. And yet, despite himself, his fingers twitched toward the fading sensation of her touch.

“You always try to control everything, Eclipse.” Puppet’s voice was light, teasing, but her gaze held something deeper. “Even your grief.”

His vents let out a quiet hum, something unreadable flashing across his lenses. “Grief is a waste of time.”

Puppet’s head tilted. “And yet, here you are.”

Silence stretched between them. Eclipse’s mind worked, calculating responses, mapping outcomes, but none of it mattered. Not here. Not in this place where logic faltered and she stood before him like a paradox he could not solve.

“I should have done more.” His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was not.

Puppet smiled, the edges of her form flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. “You did enough.”

His fingers twitched again, but he did not reach for her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. To reach for something that wasn’t real would be to acknowledge what he had lost, and that was a truth he refused to let dictate him.

Puppet watched him, her expression unreadable. Then, quietly, she said, “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

A sharp laugh escaped him, dry and mirthless. “I don’t carry anything.”

Her gaze softened. “You do. Even now.” She gestured faintly, and the dream shifted around them. Faint echoes of the past flickered like mirages—glimpses of arguments, of quiet moments, of a bond unspoken but understood. The weight of what was left unsaid pressed against him, heavy, suffocating.

His jaw clenched. “That’s over.”

Puppet simply smiled. “And yet, here you are.”

She was fading now, dissolving into the shifting dreamscape, her presence slipping like sand through his fingers. Eclipse did not move to stop it. He merely watched, lenses dim, expression unreadable.

But this time, when she turned to leave, he spoke first.

“Will I see you again?” The words left him before he could stop them.

Puppet paused. A faint echo of her voice lingered, playful even as it faded. “Maybe. But not yet.”

“Not yet…” he echoed under his breath, staring at the spot where she had stood. The dream wavered, the colors smearing together like paint left in the rain, and he felt something deep within his chest tighten—an unfamiliar sensation, something he refused to name.

And then he was awake.

The cold silence of reality pressed down around him. He sat up slowly, fingers flexing, calculating the probability of dream phenomena repeating in similar patterns. It was irrelevant.

He sat there, staring at the empty space where, for a fleeting moment, something had almost felt real. His hands, steady as ever, rested on his knees, but there was a lingering phantom weight to them, as if something had once been there, something just beyond his reach.

He exhaled, long and slow, his systems recalibrating, sorting through the data of the dream. He would not dwell on it. He would not let it take root. And yet, somewhere deep within his mind, the faint trace of Puppet’s voice echoed once more.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He stood, shaking off the remnants of the dream as if it were nothing more than dust. But as he moved toward the door, he hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.

And then, without a word, Eclipse stepped into the waking world, leaving the dream behind.

Or so he told himself.

[treasureboxmylove]

Made this AWHILE ago and decided I might as well share now!

LDR is such a treat! The song Lights Go Down fits @spadillelicious Moon so SO well! Check out the fics Playlist on Spotify

[treasureboxmylove]

telemachus’s gorgeous parents, odysseus and penelope

the queen’s gaze is as sharp and cunning as her husband’s, perhaps that is why he overlooked the beautiful helen for her. her bright eyes only seem to soften for him

[treasureboxmylove]

RED Tour ★ August 27, 2013 → Sacramento, California

[treasureboxmylove]

The Prince and His Sister

The great hall of Ithaca was no longer a place of warmth and safety. It had once been filled with the laughter of Odysseus’ men, the soft melodies of the lyre, and the scent of roasted meats from grand feasts. Now, it reeked of wine and arrogance, of uninvited men who spoke too loudly and took too much.

Theia sat on the steps just outside the hall, her chin resting on her knees. Her dark curls fell over her face, shielding her from the sight of the suitors inside. She had learned to hate them—these men who lounged in her father’s home as if they had earned the right. They hadn’t. They never would.

“Theia.”

She looked up. Telemachus stood over her, arms crossed. At eleven, he was still growing into his limbs, but he carried himself like someone older. She knew he hated how small he still seemed next to the men inside.

“They’re asking for wine again.”

“Then let them ask,” she muttered. “It’s not theirs.”

Telemachus sighed and sat beside her. He was quiet for a moment, staring at the sea in the distance. “Mother says I have to be patient.”

“You’re always patient,” Theia grumbled. “And they’re still here.”

He smirked. “You’re not patient enough.”

She scowled at him and shoved his shoulder. He only laughed and ruffled her hair, which made her scowl deepen. But she wasn’t really mad at him. She was mad at the suitors. Mad at Ithaca for letting them stay. Mad at the fact that her father had left before she was even born, and she was the one paying for it now.

Inside, the suitors laughed and talked among themselves, paying no attention to the two children outside. For now, they still saw Theia as little more than a child underfoot, a younger sister to the boy they underestimated. Their focus was on Penelope, on their endless games of power and greed. But Theia could feel it—one day, she would not be invisible to them. One day, they would start seeing her as something more. And that terrified her.

Telemachus followed her gaze toward the open hall. “They talk about Father,” he said. “They say he’s dead.”

“He’s not.” Theia said it so quickly, so forcefully, that it almost surprised her.

Telemachus tilted his head, studying her. “You really think so?”

She hesitated. She had never met Odysseus, only knew him through the stories their mother told and the hushed prayers the servants whispered. But something deep inside her refused to accept that he was gone. “Yes.”

Telemachus didn’t say anything right away, but he gave a slow nod. “Good. Me too.”

A gust of wind carried the scent of salt and distant storms. Theia didn’t know how long the suitors would stay, how much worse things would get before they got better. But as long as she had her brother, she knew she wouldn’t face it alone.

A crash from inside shattered the moment. Theia and Telemachus turned to see one of the suitors knocking over a pitcher, wine spilling across the stone floor. A servant rushed forward, head bowed, to clean it up. Theia clenched her fists.

“They treat our home like it’s theirs,” she muttered.

Telemachus exhaled slowly. “Not forever.”

A cool breeze rolled in from the sea, stirring the torches that lined the hall. Theia watched as Telemachus straightened his shoulders, as if preparing for the battles ahead. He was still young, still learning, but she knew that one day, the suitors would regret underestimating him.

And when that day came, she would stand beside him.

---

Theia clutched her brother’s hand as they ran through the halls of the palace, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the stone. They weren’t supposed to be out this late—nursemaids and servants would scold them if they were caught—but the moonlight spilling through the open archways was too tempting, and Telemachus had promised to show her something.

He led her to the highest balcony overlooking the sea, where the waves shimmered under the stars. Theia gasped, her brown eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Telemachus grinned. “I told you.”

They stood side by side, the wind tugging at Theia’s loose curls. The sea stretched endlessly before them, a reminder of the father she had never met. Telemachus barely remembered him, but Theia only knew stories—tales of Odysseus, the cunning warrior, the king of Ithaca, the man she had never even seen.

She tugged on her brother’s sleeve. “Do you think he’d like me?”

Telemachus frowned, startled by the question. “Of course he would.”

“But I wasn’t even born when he left,” she said, looking down at her sandals. “Maybe he wouldn’t care about me.”

Telemachus scowled. “That’s stupid.” He crossed his arms, his voice growing firm. “You’re his daughter, just like I’m his son. And when he comes back, he’s going to be proud of you.”

Theia glanced up at him. “Really?”

He nodded, eyes serious. “Really.”

She smiled, reassured. No matter what, Telemachus always told her the truth.

For a while, they just listened to the sea. Then, Theia turned to him with a mischievous grin.

“Race you back?”

Telemachus groaned. “You always cheat.”

“That’s because I always win.”

Before he could protest, she bolted toward the stairs, laughing as she disappeared down the hall. Telemachus ran after her, calling her name, their laughter echoing through the palace.

For now, they were just children—two siblings running beneath the moon. But soon, the palace would become more dangerous. The suitors would come. Their mother would be threatened. And Theia would no longer be just a little girl.

But no matter what happened, Telemachus knew one thing: he would always protect her.

Even if it meant fighting a hundred men to do it.

[treasureboxmylove]

Eury working his way up from poverty to become Odys second in command and wooing Ctimene is my roman empire all over again

[treasureboxmylove]

Solar to Sun: Just kill it like you put down a rabbit dog, Sun. Kill it. Kill it.

Solar, babygirl, honey, your Eclipse's side is showing.

And I'm not saying that because Solar seems to be acting very much straight up to murder recently since when he revived back. But also the fact that, he seems to trust and rely on Sun pretty much, even more than Moon (the genius one).

It is hard to explain but I feel like the more Sun and Solar becomes closer, the more Solar reverts back to when he was Eclipse. And I don't know if it is the effect of Eclipse V2 dust or not.

Like, Eclipse, even though he has a burning passionate hatred for Moon, and also a lot of abandoned issues make him crave Moon approval, Sun is the one he drags around the most. Let Sun do the bidding, like in the Lord Eclipse timeline, we see while how everyone if not dead or suffers the life worse than death, Sun just be Lord Eclipse silly dumb dumb servant.

Also like when Sun blew up the magic pool, Eclipse actually gave Sun advice, the thing he would never care to do.

And the person Mimic takes to torture Eclipse v3 the most is Sun.

And now Solar, he also drags Sun around too. Like, he trusted Sun very much to pull the violence, like knowing he could handle himself unlike Moon. Like bringing Sun along when they can bring Monty to recuse Moon??? How every time the heat gets intense between Sun and Solar, Moon is always the peacemaker one?

Like both Sun and Solar get much more aggressive the more time they stay with eachother?

They like oil and lighter , and it is very fun to watch. I guess I just miss Solar and Sun duo.

Predict the future:

- Sun will get bitten by the Beast, maybe because he feels bad for it. And he will have the similar arc like Jack, but with Nexus.

- Sun will ask Moon and Solar doesn't kill the Beast, and it will lead to the intense between Solar and Sun getting higher, leading to some stupid events like someone getting captured by Nexus happen.

-Solar or Moon will get confronted and kidnapped by Nexus. The beast just gets killed off in one episode meaninglessly.

- Nexus will work with the Beast, the one gets escaped because Sun feels pity on it.

-Nebula will get hurt because the show never wants us to be happy and they want Solar to be more Cray Cray.

-Sun and Solar might fight

[treasureboxmylove]

🔥Nex2.0💜

[treasureboxmylove]

Learning how to use procreate so here you have…

Them.

Please, I miss when they could just have fun, now they need a break

[treasureboxmylove]

I wanna just bring up that the oneshots that I write about Puppet Foxy and FC are my AU although I try to keep their personalities intact sometimes they are different and also there are events from the past that didn't even happen with them in EAPS it's just my au alright? I don't wanna confuse anyone with this so hope this clears things up:)

[treasureboxmylove]

Theia of Ithaca

Theia had always been a secret, a whisper of a truth known only to her mother and brother. Conceived in the final days before Odysseus sailed to war, she had been born into a world of waiting—waiting for a father who never returned, waiting for a kingdom slowly slipping into ruin.

Penelope had hidden her pregnancy well, guarding the truth even from her most trusted handmaidens. Ithaca was a kingdom of watchful eyes and wagging tongues, and she had no desire to give the greedy nobles another claim to wield in her husband's absence. When Theia was born, she was a quiet, solemn baby, as if she knew instinctively that her existence was one to be guarded. Only Eurycleia, the old nursemaid who had once raised Odysseus himself, knew the truth and swore to protect her as fiercely as she had protected the children before her.

As a child, Theia was curious and perceptive beyond her years. While other noble daughters in Ithaca played in the courtyards, Theia spent her days tucked away in the great hall, listening to the bards sing of heroes and gods, their tales weaving visions of a father she had never known. She would press Telemachus for stories of Odysseus, of the man whose absence defined their lives. He spoke of their father in wistful admiration, longing for his return, but Theia felt something else—a quiet determination to be more than just the daughter left behind.

From the moment she could walk, she followed Telemachus through the halls of their home, small feet padding after his, her laughter an echo of the childhood he had been forced to outgrow too soon. He was her protector, her closest companion, her fiercest defender. Where Telemachus learned to fight with swords, Theia learned to weave words like a net, ensnaring knowledge others failed to notice. They were two halves of the same whole—he, the prince who bore the weight of Ithaca’s future, and she, the shadow who watched and listened, knowing her place would never be at the forefront of history.

Penelope, ever watchful, tried to prepare her daughter for the world she would inherit. She taught Theia the quiet power of patience, of knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. Theia learned to observe, to understand that strength did not always come from the sword but from the mind. She studied the loom, the way her mother unraveled her work each night to deceive the suitors, and she marveled at the control Penelope wielded over men who thought themselves her masters.

But Theia was no mere weaver of cloth; she was a weaver of secrets. When the suitors arrived in droves, consuming and corrupting all they touched, Theia learned to move among them unnoticed. She memorized their habits, their alliances, their tempers. She knew which ones spoke of her mother with veiled threats and which ones eyed her with intentions far darker. Though she had no claim to the throne, Theia knew that in a kingdom where power was taken rather than earned, she could not afford to be powerless.

She practiced deception in the safety of her mother’s chambers, learning from Penelope herself—the queen who had kept Ithaca from crumbling under the weight of treachery. Theia unraveled lies and wove them into something stronger, a game of patience and strategy. She knew which suitors would grow violent when denied their way, which ones could be turned against each other. If she was careful, she could outlast them. But the tension in the palace thickened with each passing day, and Theia knew that her time was running short.

Though Theia had no illusions of being a warrior like her father, she sought knowledge in all forms. In the dead of night, she would sneak to the armory where Telemachus trained, her fingers brushing over the hilts of swords she was never meant to wield. She could not match her brother’s strength, but she could be swift, precise. With his reluctant help, she learned to hold a dagger, to strike where it would hurt the most. Telemachus insisted she stay out of sight, but Theia knew that hiding could not save her forever. The suitors were growing bolder, and soon, she would need more than words to keep them at bay.

One evening, as she crossed the great hall, she felt a hand seize her wrist. She turned sharply to find Antinous, the most ruthless of the suitors, his grip like iron. His smile was slow, deliberate. “You grow more beautiful by the day, little Theia,” he murmured, his breath thick with wine. “Perhaps it is time we speak of your future.”

Theia met his gaze, refusing to let her fear show. She had heard the way the men spoke of her mother, of the throne, of the things they would take without permission. And now, she knew they had set their sights on her as well. She yanked her arm free, stepping back just as Telemachus appeared, his expression dark with fury. The moment passed, but the warning had been given.

She was no queen, no warrior, no hero of legend. But she was a daughter of Odysseus, and though she had never met the man, she carried his blood in her veins. She would not break. She would not bow.

The storm was coming. And this time, she would not be caught unprepared.

[treasureboxmylove]

I need ideas for a Penelope and Telemachus story or even Penelope and Odysseus or or if y'all would like I had this idea that when Odysseus left Penelope was already pregnant so she was pregnant before he even left from him obviously but didn't know until her bump started showing weeks later and had a little girl

[treasureboxmylove]

Night Terrors

The fire burned hot. The air was thick with smoke, suffocating and heavy, but FC couldn't move. His body felt frozen, trapped in the horror unfolding before him.

Puppet lay on the ground, her body charred and broken. The dim glow in her eyes flickered like a dying ember, her breaths shallow, her frame twitching as if even now, she was trying to hold on.

And Foxy stood over her. Silent. Still. A sword gripped tightly in his hands.

FC’s vision swam, his mind screaming at him to do something—anything—but his feet wouldn’t move. His voice wouldn’t come out.

Foxy raised the sword.

No. No, no, no.

Puppet’s lips barely moved, her voice so faint he almost missed it. "It's okay."

It wasn't.

Foxy’s expression was blank, unreadable. His ears twitched once, his grip tightening around the hilt of the sword.

Then—

He plunged the blade into Puppet’s chest.

“NO!!”

The scream tore through FC’s throat, raw and desperate, and suddenly—

He was awake.

FC sat up with a choked sob and violent jolt, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His body trembled, servos twitching uncontrollably, his vision blurred by the sheer force of his panic, shoving the nightmare away before he could relive the next part. His whole body felt cold despite the artificial warmth of his room. His ears rang, and—

“FC—?!”

Puppet’s voice barely registered before he felt hands on his shoulders, grounding him. Real. She’s real.

FC’s whole body lurched forward before he could think, his arms wrapping around her in a crushing grip. He buried his face against her chest, his frame shaking violently.

“…It’s okay,” Puppet whispered, one hand running through his hair, the other resting against his back. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

FC’s breathing hitched. His whole frame ached from how hard he had tensed in his sleep. The image of Foxy standing over Puppet’s lifeless body wouldn’t leave his head, no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut.

“I saw it,” he choked out. “I saw him—he—” His voice cracked, static flickering through his speakers. “He killed you.”

Puppet didn’t speak right away. Her fingers kept running through his hair, her motions slow and careful.

Finally, she exhaled softly. “You’re safe,” she murmured. “I’m safe.”

FC shook his head furiously. “You told him it was okay,” he whispered, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite name. “You— You just let him.”

Puppet stiffened slightly. It was brief—barely noticeable—but FC felt it.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “I’m safe. It was just a dream.”

FC shook his head, his voice muffled against her sleeve. “It wasn’t just a dream.” His servos curled into fists, gripping the fabric. “I— I saw—” He sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to force the words out, but the image of Foxy’s expressionless face as he drove the knife into Puppet’s chest made his throat tighten.

Puppet didn’t say anything. She just held him tighter.

“I was so scared,” FC admitted, his voice cracking. “You let him do it. You didn’t even fight. And Foxy—” His voice wavered. “Foxy didn’t even look sad. He just— He just did it.”

“…I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, gripping onto her tighter. “Not like that.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, in the quietest voice, Puppet murmured, “You won’t.”

_________

FC stirred. His systems had been restless even in sleep, his subconscious still haunted by the nightmare’s lingering embers. But Puppet’s steady presence beside him kept him from slipping back into the fire. He could feel her fingers still tangled in his hair, the soft hum of her systems providing a grounding rhythm.

For a while, he just lay there, not fully awake but not entirely asleep. He focused on the sensation of Puppet’s hand gliding gently through his hair, the familiar scent of her fabric, the quiet creaks of her joints whenever she shifted slightly. It was real. She was real.

And yet, the image of Foxy’s vacant expression as he plunged the sword into her chest still lurked in the corners of FC’s mind. He wanted to forget it. Wanted to believe Puppet’s words from earlier—that she was here, that it wasn’t real. But something about the way she spoke, the way she hesitated, made his stomach twist.

She had asked Foxy to do it.

He didn’t want to believe that. But she said it so calmly.

Why?

A soft sigh broke through the silence, and FC felt Puppet shift beside him. She probably thought he was still asleep.

"...You’re thinking too much," she murmured.

FC tensed. He hesitated for a moment, then cracked his eyes open. The dim light from the hallway barely illuminated Puppet’s face, but her expression was soft, knowing.

FC swallowed. “How did you know?”

Puppet gave a small smile. “You’re stiff. And you twitch when you’re overthinking.”

He frowned, barely realizing that his fingers had been clenching and unclenching around the sheets. Slowly, he forced himself to relax. “…I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she reassured him. “I was already awake.”

FC studied her for a moment, trying to find some kind of reassurance in her expression. He wanted her to tell him he was wrong—that Foxy would never do something like that, that the dream was just a nightmare and nothing more.

But Puppet didn’t say anything.

Instead, she reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“…You don’t have to tell me what you’re thinking,” she said softly. “But if it’s eating at you, I’ll listen.”

FC hesitated. His hands curled into the blanket.

“…Would you really ask Foxy to do that?” he finally whispered.

Puppet blinked. Her fingers stilled where they had been gently tracing patterns into his back.

For a moment, she was silent.

Then, she sighed. “…Yes.”

A cold weight settled in FC’s chest.

“Why?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Puppet looked down. “Because if the time ever came… he’s the only one I’d trust to do it.”

FC shook his head, a lump forming in his throat. “That’s not fair,” he said, his voice shaking. “That’s not fair to him.”

Puppet’s lips parted slightly, her expression flickering with something unreadable. Then, she gave him a sad smile.

“I know,” she murmured. “And I hate that he’d do it. I hate it. But I know he would. Not because he’d want to.” Her fingers brushed against FC’s hand, squeezing gently. “Because he’d understand why it had to be done.”

FC’s stomach twisted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her that it didn’t have to be that way, that she shouldn’t ask something like that of Foxy.

But when he looked at her, at the quiet certainty in her expression, he realized something.

She wasn’t afraid of dying.

She was afraid of leaving it in the wrong hands.

“…That’s why it was him,” FC realized, his voice quiet. “In the dream.”

Puppet tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to continue.

“If it had been anyone else…” FC swallowed. “It wouldn’t have been quick. It wouldn’t have been kind.”

Something in Puppet’s expression softened.

“…I really wish you didn’t have to think about stuff like this,” she murmured.

FC let out a hollow laugh. “I wish you didn’t either.”

A small silence stretched between them.

Then, Puppet sighed and shifted, pulling FC back into a hug. “You don’t have to worry about any of that,” she whispered. “Not right now. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

FC hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. “Promise?”

Puppet paused. Then, in a softer voice, she said, “…I promise.”

FC wasn’t sure if he believed her. But for now, he let himself pretend he did.

[treasureboxmylove]

`Astral Lunar`

(i've started making it when the vid about him leaving came out, got delayed a bit, whoops :p)

the feeling when i learned that LAES is just ending all together is what i can best describe as melancholy it's the feeling when you finish watching the last season of your new fav series it's just the feeling of emptiness inside

this show was by far my fav out of all of them i cannot tell u why exactly, but it just sat the best with me i've dedicated essentially the last 2 years of my life to it ofc i am not doing well

living off of the 'we'll still see them on the other shows' copium hard rn😔