dusklune

[dusklune]

The great emperor does not find her eyes, instead locking his gaze on the distant horizon, watching light illuminate the land which is all but his. There is a silence between them, so thick it stretches taut as he stays motionless, save for the tilt of the goblet in his hand. “I told you not to be late,” he repeats, his voice low and deliberate, carrying none of the warmth she remembers. It cuts through the stillness like the edge of a blade, cold and measured. “You thought I might like company,” he echoes, and there’s something in his tone, like the tip of a sharp knife, the spear landing with a thud against its mark. His fingers drum once against the table, a sound too soft to be anything but deliberate. “Do you think me lonely, Clarissa?” Finally, his gaze drifts toward her. Slowly. Heavy as the crown he wears and just as merciless. His eyes rake over her, lingering on the plate she set down, the figs glistening with honey in the morning light. His lips twist, a faint, humorless smirk. "Figs and honey." The words drip with something unreadable as he leans back, the rings on his fingers catching the morning light. He gestures lazily at the plate. "How quaint. Did you think I’d thank you for remembering?" He leans forward suddenly, elbows settling against the marble table, his gaze locking onto hers like a blade. "Do you think it matters?" His voice drops, low and steady, but it cuts just the same. "The comfort of figs and honey, when my hands are already stained red?"

the morning is still and cold, the kind of quiet that stretches across the terrace like a held breath. clarissa steps onto the marble, her sandals scuffing faintly, the plate in her hands trembling just enough for her to notice. figs and honey—something he once liked, though she can’t imagine the boy who used to chase her through the vineyards caring for such things anymore. not with the empire heavy on his shoulders. icarus sits at the head of the table, draped in gold and white, the rising sun catching in his hair, in the rings on his fingers, in the goblet he holds lazily in one hand. his gaze is sharp, cutting toward the horizon as if daring the world to challenge him. even in the soft light of morning, he looks every inch the emperor. cruel. resplendent. untouchable. clarissa sets the plate down carefully, her movements deliberate. ❝ you told me not to be late. ❞ she hesitates, standing by the chair. her fingers curl at her sides, but her voice stays steady. ❝ i thought you might like company this morning. ❞

@dusklune clarissa & icarus.

[dusklune]

The rain clings to everything—stone, steel, skin. It slides down the back of his neck, pooling in the grooves of his armor. Cold. Unrelenting. Atlas doesn’t care. He’s waiting. Boots planted firm against the slick cobblestones, shoulders stiff beneath the weight of something heavier than the rain. He sees her before she sees him. Clarissa, moving through the haze like a shadow, the silk of her cloak already drenched, dragging her down. Her head is low, her steps uneven, as though the entire city presses against her. She’s always carried too much. He knows that. He’s always known that. “You look like hell,” he says, his voice steady, low. A tease, soft enough to hide the ache in his chest. “You’ll catch your death.” He steps closer, his hand brushing her shoulder, grounding her like he always does. His fingers find hers, barely grazing the edges of the parchment pressed to her chest. The ink is bleeding. (Fragile. Like her).

the rain felt colder than it should have, seeping through the thin fabric of clarissa's silk cloak, dripping down the back of her neck. (she's always hated the rain in rome—it feels too heavy, like the skies are mourning something no one remembers, mourning a person she once was) she knows atlas will laugh at her for it. he always does. you belong in the sun, princess, he’ll say, his voice that perfect blend of teasing and sincere. not skulking through alleys like some tragic lost dove. ❝ don’t be late,❞ she mutters under her breath, imagining him already waiting at the fountain. her words fog up in the cold air, vanishing as quickly as they come. she's never minded waiting for him, not really, but tonight feels different. like the world is holding its breath. ❝ just one night,❞ she whispers to herself, a soft vow that no one else will hear. ❝ just one night without visions. without prophecies.❞ i don’t need them tonight. not when atlas is waiting.

@dusklune atlas & clarissa.

[dusklune]

Sasuke muses if the great Uchiha name still means anything, or if its vanished into just a hollow echo. The blood that once stained his hands is fading, turning into a myth, something whispered on the lips of those too afraid to speak truth. He wonders, too, what it means to betray—if the weight of it is heavy enough to crush the heart, if it turns one’s bones to ash. Does it burn through every fiber of his being like this? Can you feel it? Can you feel it, Kakashi? His eyes are cold when they meet his old teacher's, but it’s not anger that fuels them. It’s something darker. It’s the shattering of a boy who thought he knew loyalty, who thought he understood family. But the clan? The clan is nothing but a shattered mirror now, and he’s the only one left standing, alone, staring at the pieces.

“I asked you once,” Sasuke’s voice trembles on the edge of something sharp, something close to breaking. “Did you ever understand me? Did you ever see what they did to me?” His chest tightens, a quiet scream clawing its way up his throat. He forces it back down. He doesn’t need pity. Not anymore. “I have found a new path. One I intend to stay on. ” A flash of something in his eyes, something painfully human, and it’s gone, swallowed by the emptiness in him. His chest feels hollow, like a space carved out by everything he’s lost, everything that’s been taken from him. “You failed me, Kakashi.” The words are final, like the final page of a book meant to be forgotten. Never opened again. A hidden scroll left to burn. “You didn’t see it. You didn’t understand. And now there’s nothing left but ashes.”

His eyes close for a moment, and when they open again, it’s as if they are seeing the world for the last time—one final glance before it all falls away. There’s nothing here for him anymore. Not the village. Not the bonds. Not the promises. "Tell Sakura I will not be coming back. Tell her to stop coming after me. Tell Naruto to give up. This chase grows weary. Their attempts futile. Tell them how you failed me."

@senascence

[dusklune]

y'all. who want a starter i got muse.

[dusklune]

a little bit of a revamp! my request list will be updated but omg these ocs me and mara cooked up are crazy

[dusklune]

leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe. a very selective multimuse. written by demetrius. he/him only. 22. [ slow reply — black & bst ] my canon is explicably linked to @royialty & @versusdecay

original characters.

emperor icarus of rome. historical fiction & fantasy.

icarus, the emperor's son, born into the weight of a kingdom's ambition, carries the lineage of power like a crown too heavy for his youth. sheltered in marble halls, he dreams of flight—of soaring above the constraints of his bloodline, tasting freedom in the wind. yet, his wings are forged not of wax, but of expectations, and his every move is watched by eyes both loving and calculating. trapped between a legacy carved in stone and a desire to escape its shadow, he is the son of the empire—slowly growing mad and unkind.

general atlas of rome. historical fiction & fantasy.

atlas, a figure of endless strength and quiet resolve, carries the weight of the world not on his shoulders, but in the depths of his gaze. bound by an ancient promise, he stands as both protector and prisoner to the very forces he strives to defy. his name is etched into the fabric of myth, yet he is no god, but a man carved by loss and survival. with hands calloused from battles fought in silence, atlas knows the cost of standing tall beneath the crushing pressure of fate. but within him stirs something more than endurance—a yearning for a freedom he fears he may never touch.

eren verdan. fantasy.

prince eren, born in the shadows of society’s crumbling foundations, he chooses to tear it all down rather than rebuild. his words cut deeper than any weapon, a sharpened blade of defiance in a world that no longer makes sense. but beneath the chaos he stirs lies a deeper truth—eren is not just fighting for destruction, but for a new birth, a world reborn from the wreckage of old hopes.

characters.

t'challa. black panther.

lucerys velaryon. house of the dragon.

anakin skywalker. star wars.

sasuke uchiha. naruto.

howl pendragon. howl's moving castle.

lord sesshomaru. inuyasha.

owen grady. jurassic world franchise.

[dusklune]

They've got the power of love and anime on their side!

[dusklune]

hey! here's a coupe gofundmes from palestine. please help these mutuals rebuild their homes and seek aid.

help a dentist from gaza and his family seek aid (62% goal)

a second year interior design study with a father with heart disease and mother with kidney problems --> urgent medical aid (61% goal)

mounir albordan and three children, aged 8, 5, and 3. 26% goal

help 5 year old abdallah leave gaza. 5% of goal.

[dusklune]

The rain falls steadily outside, a soft, constant patter against the window. Idris eyes are half-closed, the sound of it a gentle backdrop to the warmth of Noor's lap beneath his head. He lets his body sink into the couch, the world outside blurring into nothing but the sound of the storm and the rhythm of her fingers running through his hair. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t feel the urge to move, to think, to do anything. It’s just the two of them, wrapped in the quiet of her apartment, her touch grounding him in a way he didn’t know he needed. His heartbeat slows, hitting bradycardia levels as he just takes a deep breath next to him. "Right now, this is perfect." Idris shifts in his position, sighing contently as he stares into Noor's crystal glowing brown eyes.

@royialty short and sweet

[dusklune]

* COLOURING PSDS BY NEORPH !

to celebrate the opening of my ko-fi shop i decided to release a new colouring as well as revamp and polish up my two existing colourings to be better organised, in addition to cross-posting them over on ko-fi. while i am still working on transferring the bulk of my resources over onto ko-fi, your support in following, sharing or dropping me a tip if you are able to would mean the world to me !

*   LIMBO  (NEW!) :  a vibrant colouring psd that highlights greens, oranges and reds.  this psd is POC-FRIENDLY with adjustments and includes five different adjustment options.  this colouring is for non-commercial and PERSONAL USE ONLY.   CREDIT IS MANDATORY and should be linked to neorph on either tumblr, ko-fi or payhip.   

THIS IS A PAID RESOURCE & CAN BE PURCHASED ON KO-FI OR PAYHIP FOR £1.50 GBP .

*   SUNKISSED  :  a vibrant all-rounder colouring psd that highlights yellows and reds.  this psd is POC-FRIENDLY with adjustments and includes four different adjustment options.  this colouring is for non-commercial and PERSONAL USE ONLY.   CREDIT IS MANDATORY and should be linked to neorph on either tumblr, ko-fi or payhip.   

THIS IS A PAID RESOURCE & CAN BE PURCHASED ON KO-FI OR PAYHIP FOR £1.50 GBP .

*   BLUEPRINT  :  a vibrant colouring psd that highlights cyans and reds.  this psd is POC-FRIENDLY with adjustments and includes options to decrease orange.  this colouring is for non-commercial and PERSONAL USE ONLY.   CREDIT IS MANDATORY and should be linked to neorph on either tumblr, ko-fi or payhip.   

THIS IS A PAID RESOURCE & CAN BE PURCHASED ON KO-FI OR PAYHIP FOR £1.50 GBP .

[dusklune]

He stands in the thick silence, each word she speaks cutting deeper than the last, each one a reminder of how far they’ve fallen. Her anger, raw and bitter, fills the space between them, pushing him farther away, eroding the remnants of everything he thought they shared. The love they once had together. He tries to speak, but the words crumble before they can reach his lips. What could he say? She’s right—he has no defense. He destroyed what was left of them, and now there’s nothing to hold onto but the weight of her gaze, the truth in her eyes, the finality in the way she looks at him as if he’s a stranger. As she takes a step back, each movement becomes another fracture in the skeleton of the body that was once them, and he feels the distance between them grow, an ocean of mistakes and regrets that he can’t cross. The anger in her voice, the hurt, it’s all too familiar, but now it’s something new—something cold with a hint of finality. “You’re right,” he finally manages, his voice weak and raw. “I don’t know what love is anymore. And I don’t know who I am without you. Without us.” Her eyes, fierce and unforgiving, only reinforce the realization. She’s been trapped, too, in the prison he built around them, but she’s ready to break free. The last of her hope for him is gone. “I thought… I thought I was saving you,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the admission. But even he can hear how pathetic it sounds, how wrong. He wasn’t saving her—he was keeping her, and for all the wrong reasons. “You are everything to me. I did this all for you. When you saw the visions that said you were to die here, I made the choice to save you. To protect you from your fate even if it meant ruining everything you knew. Don't you see? You were always worth more than anyone else to me. I may not know what love is, but I took an oath. To save you. And I did just that.”

her laughter cuts through the stillness between them, sharp and bitter, nothing like the warmth he once knew. it echoes in the space where his words land, ricocheting off the walls of her disbelief. she shakes her head, a slow, deliberate motion, as though trying to dislodge the very idea of his love, his claim on her. her arms cross over her chest, a barrier as much as a gesture, her body pulling inward, away from him, away from everything he is.

❝ love? ❞ she spits the word, her voice trembling, not with fear but with fury, with the sheer audacity of his confession. ❝ you don’t know what that is, atlas. not anymore. what have you become? i loved you and you loved me. but you've gone mad, you've ruined your legacy.❞ her eyes are dark, wild, as though they’ve seen something he refuses to acknowledge. ❝ love isn’t this. it’s not a prison. it’s not a leash you hold tight enough to strangle. it's not forgetting your own wife time and time again. you make the same mistakes, over and over again. ❞

she steps back, her movements jagged, restless, the tension in her frame crackling like a storm on the verge of breaking. she doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to see him like this, and yet, she stays. as much as she hates it, she stays. her voice lowers, softer now, but no less cutting. ❝ you didn’t save me. you saved yourself. because you couldn’t let go, because you couldn’t stand to lose the one thing that made you feel whole. ❞ the words strike, but she doesn’t stop. can’t stop. her hands drop to her sides, trembling, fingers curling into fists as though to keep herself steady. ❝ i don’t belong to you. i never did. i belonged to the hope of something better, something real. and you…❞ clara exhales sharply, her gaze piercing as it meets his. ❝ you took that from me. ❞ her voice cracks on the last word, and she hates herself for it. hates the way her chest heaves with the weight of everything she’s held back, hates the way his presence drags it all out of her. the truth, raw and bleeding, lies between them, too vast to cross, too jagged to smooth over.

❝ you say you’re not free of me. ❞ her voice is a whisper now, sharp and relentless. not afraid. ❝ but atlas, i will be free of you. even if it kills us both. ❞

[dusklune]

The castle air is heavy, a thickness he cannot name. He's dressed princely, the very hidden figure of the unnamed enemy clad in all the black and gold of the rivals. The ballroom is packed with figures, a sea of silk meant to shine brightly but instead it acts like a cage. Under the facade, Eren can see straight. He sees through the rose colored glasses, and once he can get her to understand, the two of them will make everything else fall into place. He's supposed to go unseen, pretending to be yet a figure in the crowd when her eyes land on him squarely. For a moment he thinks to approach, wondering if it's worth breaking the oh so beautiful plan he's created to catch but a glimmer of her time. She's drawn to me, is she not? To me. . . It's a bit of pride, a bit of an ache to know what her gaze holds. Two souls, intertwined. You don’t know what you’re asking for. He thinks to himself. He knows how he looks in the night, how he holds the weight of the world on his shoulders. The Verdan family does not forget and it does not forgive. He lets her look, lets her feel the pull, the magnetism that draws her in, that cracks through her calm, through the facade she wears so tightly. He can see the way she swallows the discomfort, the uncertainty, how the air around her grows heavier the longer she stares. Right on time, the spy he's sent pulls her back, calling Clara back to her duty, an untouchable future queen to all but him. He slips away, like a ghost.

the ballroom is a sea of silk and whispers, where the air feels too thick with perfume and fragile smiles. the sound of strings lingers in the space, a soft, endless hum that calls to her—a melody that isn’t quite familiar, but beckons her nonetheless. clara stands at the edge of it all, her gaze drifting over the sea of faces. she watches them, these strangers who wear their titles like masks, who smile like everything is still whole. but there’s something in the way the room moves, something off in the rhythms of their laughter. all of them wear something they cannot name.

then she sees him.

he stands with a quiet power, his posture rigid but relaxed in a way that makes her ache to know him, to understand what lies beneath that sharp edge of authority. the light from the chandeliers catches his hair just so, casting shadows that make him seem other, something out of reach. his expression is distant, thoughtful, as though he carries a weight that no one else sees. why does he look so familiar? she doesn’t know his name, and yet, there is an undeniable pull toward him, a force she cannot explain. the way he stands, the way his eyes seem to trace something just beyond her reach—it draws her in like a moth to the flame, too quickly, too sharply. the moment stretches, the distance between them too vast, too untouchable, and yet, she cannot look away.

❝ your highness, ❞ a voice interrupts her thoughts, sharp and quick.

clara blinks, torn from her reverie, and for a moment, the world is nothing but a blur of whispers and music, the weight of it pressing against her. but the man remains, standing across the room, a shadow among many, just out of reach. and for a moment, she swears she sees something flicker in his eyes—a fleeting recognition. but it’s gone before she can understand it, leaving only the haunting echo of a truth she’s not yet ready to hear.

@versusnight <3

[dusklune]

He watches her, her movements sharp, calculated, the same polished confidence she wears like armor, yet he sees through it—always sees through it. There’s a tension in her, the way her eyes flicker toward the glass, the way her breath hitches at the sound of the distant call. A shiver runs down his spine, the same unease that gnaws at the edges of his thoughts, the same nagging feeling that something here is wrong. but it's too late for that. Her heels click against the polished floor, too precise, too perfect—she doesn't belong here—not yet, not until she sees what this place can do, what he can do. He straightens as she steps closer, her presence suddenly filling the room like a tide. Her hand extends, warm, professional, the gesture too rehearsed, too practiced. and still, something about it pulls at him, like a string he doesn't want to follow, like a question he can’t answer. An honor—the words taste bitter on her tongue, polite, controlled, but there’s something else beneath it. It makes him want to laugh, to twist the irony of it. does she know?

“Thank you for coming,” He says, his voice quiet but sharp, like the edge of a blade. You don’t understand it yet, he wants to say, but the words sit heavy in his throat. She’s too close. They’re all too close. Her smile is a mask. he knows it, feels it in the air between them. how long will you keep up the act?

"Yes," he continues, his gaze shifting, colder now, more calculating. "It is beautiful. Magical," he repeats the word with a hollow smile, as if tasting it, like it’s something foreign on his tongue. He doesn’t see the park the way she does—he never has. Not when everything here is a trap, a cage of glass and iron. Her eyes flicker to the outside, to the creatures, their silhouettes moving in the distance like ghosts, and for a moment, just a moment, she looks small, uncertain. You should be terrified, he thinks, and his voice is a low murmur as he steps forward, his gaze narrowing slightly. "You don’t understand yet, but you will." The words hang in the air between them, thick with unspoken truths. "This place... it doesn't belong to us." Her pulse quickens, and for a moment, he wonders if she feels it too—that same thing gnawing at him from the inside out, the same unease that rises in his chest every time he watches the walls close in, every time he feels the weight of what’s coming. He doesn’t offer his hand. he doesn’t need to. Instead, he watches her, studies her, as though waiting for her to realize what she’s stepped into, what she’s about to lose. He doesn’t give her the comfort of certainty, doesn’t let her believe she’s safe here. Not yet. Not ever.

the first step onto the island feels surreal—like stepping into a dream crafted from brochures and corporate branding. clara’s heels click against the polished concrete of the arrivals terminal, the sound swallowed by the buzz of activity around her. employees in crisp uniforms move with purpose, and beyond the glass walls, lush greenery spills into view. the air smells different here. humid and alive, carrying the faint, earthy scent of soil and something... primal. she adjusts the collar of her blazer, a perfectly tailored piece chosen to exude confidence, and reminds herself to breathe. this is what she worked for.

the monorail hums as it carries her deeper into the heart of the park, sleek and modern against a backdrop of untamed jungle. towering ferns sway in the breeze, their emerald leaves catching the sun like fragments of stained glass. beyond them, the shadow of a paddock looms, and her pulse quickens. everything here feels larger than life, almost impossibly so. she catches glimpses of creatures in the distance—long necks stretching toward the canopy, tails swaying lazily. her heart stirs with a mixture of awe and unease. this is the future, she tells herself. her future.

inside the visitor center, she barely has time to register the sound of boots against the sleek floor before footsteps catch her attention. her head turns, and there he is. eren hoffman, his posture as tense and jagged as the jagged cliffs beyond the park. his gaze is sharp, and for a fleeting moment, the polished smile she’d been wearing feels even more forced. she's heard the rumors of the playboy investor of the elusive jurassic park reborn, and she's well aware that he could kick her out as the face of the company if she were to anger him.

❝ — thank you for the invitation. it's an honor to be here and my entire crew is ecstatic to be here. ❞ she steps forward, her tone warm. clara extends a hand to him, thinking how her friends couldn't believe the twist of fate they've fallen into. the adventure to be here first. ❝ it's a beautiful park sir, truly. magical. ❞ beyond the glass, one of the dinosaurs lets out a low, rumbling call, and for the briefest second, her breath catches. she feels both incredibly small and unmistakably significant, standing at the crossroads of the impossible and the inevitable.

@versusnight

[dusklune]

so she says it again, that bitter thing. the words fall like stones from her mouth, heavy, jagged, their edges meant to wound. and yet, they have no weight on him, not the way they should. not anymore. she speaks of love, of loyalty, of things once believed to be true, but it all feels like ash between his fingers. Her voice, sharp as the edge of a blade, cuts deeper than it ever has. The truth of her words hangs in the air, too real, too honest to ignore, but still he stands, unmoved, unyielding. She pulls away—again. It’s the same dance, the same steps, the same silence after the storm of words. Let me die, She says. You should have let me die. His fingers twitch, as though reaching for something, anything, to break the tension between them. if you could see it, he thinks, the way I try to save you, how I carry this weight for both of us— but her words shatter the thought, each one breaking him just a little more. the silence stretches, and all he can do is stand in it. “You think you want that?” He mutters, his voice rough with something between anger and regret. Hatred, she calls it. I only know hatred, she says. But she doesn’t see the way it festers in him, the way every promise he made to her, every vow, is slowly poisoning him. Not with love—never love—but with guilt. Her ghostly face, her words—you should have let me die—they echo in him. you think I don’t feel it? He wants to say, but his throat tightens, and the words don't come. Instead, he steps closer, the weight of everything between them crashing like waves, unforgiving, unrelenting.

"Do you think this is easy for me?" He says, his voice a low rasp, almost a growl. "You think I want to see you like this? That I wanted you stuck here? Alone?" His eyes narrow, a storm brewing in them, but there’s something else behind it—something raw, something that trembles beneath his anger. "I never wanted to be your prison, Clarissa." the man you thought you loved? He wants to laugh, but the sound dies before it reaches his lips. The man I was? He wants to say, but no, that was long gone. That was a man she never really knew, not the one standing before her now, broken and bitter and far too far gone to save. She watches him, all sharp edges and hidden truths, and he almost feels the weight of it—the way she sees him now, the way she can never truly know him. "You think I didn't see it?” He says, his voice trembling for a moment, soft with something unspoken. "I saw what we were, Clarissa. I saw what you were to me… but that man is gone now." if I truly loved you… He repeats the thought to himself, you would have been free of me by now. free of all this. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near her, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of her presence. He doesn’t deserve to touch her, not now, not after everything.

why didn’t I let you die?

The question lingers in the air like a ghost, haunting, inevitable. "Because I love you and you're mine." he says, his words low, guttural. "And I am not free of you, either." He stands there, waiting, hoping she sees it—the weight of everything between them, the one truth neither of them will ever escape.

in her youth, her father told stories. the great king's storybook a revered object, embellished in gold and made for her. it was one of her favorite memories, but now clarissa can only look back at her father and see a fool. to trust a man like atlas was a mistake, to let him into their guarded city, to let her fall for him. the mistakes build a tower, a cage she now resides in. she shudders at her touch, catching the flash of what looks like regret in his eyes. [ as if he could ever feel remorse. as if he could ever feel anything but hatred. ] she pulls from his grip, looking away. he doesn't deserve to see her vulnerabilities. ❝  you hold that over my head so often i've come to wish you let me die.  ❞      her words cut deeper, her own hatred growing.    [ the truth is she knows she could never stop loving him, she knows that this is a facade. she knows. but for once, the great princess pretends that if not for her love for him, this would have ended years ago.  ]     she exhales, the heavy silence between them   —   a single moment where she wishes to go back in time.      ❝  you want honesty? loyalty? ❞   her ghost features become ghastly, her golden hair once an angel's halo now dipped into darkness, now shrouded in misery. how could she watch as the man she thought she loved burn her palace to the ground? how could she sit idly by when her whispers of a fall of the empire came to nothing? the city burned to ash yet she is untouchable to the flame, kept like a prize in atlas's home.     ❝ — why didn't you let me die? if you truly loved me, you should have.  ❞

[dusklune]

please consider donating to the lebanese red cross to support victims of the terrorist attack. they are working tirelessly to provide lifesaving care to the hundreds of injured innocent people.

[dusklune]

When he was a child, he dreamed of glory. The sun would set on an empire that he built from his own hands, the bastard son of an emperor cast aside until his brother's death. Atlas mourned for Jason like a true brother, but where one kingdom falls, another must sprout in its place. The palace paraded from disarray to conquest, as the charge led by one mournful brother became one king-warrior. The new seafearer they called him, the one to cross the channel unopposed and bring the head of those that killed his family. Atlas had done the impossible, had braved the seas and won the loyalty of his people in one attack. The years have passed, but the glory never truly left. It's a shame that the princess fails to see it, that their rushed union to join two warring states has left nothing but bitterness in a girl he had once dreamt of. The night meetings are a bore, same cautious strategies that have gone nowhere, same guidance from seers who know nothing. He is quick to dismiss, quick to find her in the moonlight of their balcony, a sanctuary. (She acts as though she's locked in a tower, but Atlas knows the princess has failed to even attempt to leave her unlocked chambers.) It is his curiosity that seeks her company, his insistence on speaking rarely breeds anything but animosity, but every now and then Atlas indulges in a verbal spar. " Your riddles do not frighten me. "

Had he been truly concerned over her prophetic falsehoods, Atlas would have given up months ago. There is little truth to her ramblings, but great loyalty to her people. His bemused expression falters, extending a hand to her. " come — it's getting late. " Atlas expects her to take it, unconcerned with both the depth of what she says nor with the empty promises Clarrisa is inclined to make. No matter what riddles she tells, she would always save him. The distasteful facade of hatred between them is always nothing but a game, two lovers in a spat with fate that they always will. He steps closer to her, practically towering over her. " you wouldn't save me? the one who saved you? " He tsks, a finger going up to her chin, bringing her to look into his eyes. " we owe each other honesty, don't you think? "

in another world,  she’d implore him to listen.    the rose colored glasses she once employed at his actions are crushed under the heel of responsibility.   the once alluring mystery of a man as wondrous as him is nothing now,   not when he's drowned them in his pride .   a man who loved the throne more than he loved his wife. a man keeping a trophy, a prophet hidden among his round table in plain sight.    does he know the depth of fate?  that each memory sings a new hymn,  another promise.  [ this is all temporary, this crown you bare is nothing compared to whats set to pass, this blood is nothing compared to what should be shed —    be afraid.   clarissa bites her tongue — silences the words,   burns the prophecies on her tongue.    he wanted a war. he will have one. ]     so when he faces her,   in the middle of the night against the balcony covered in darkness :   it’s too much.  it’s wrong.  it’s a mockery of everything she's ever been taught to believe.

Q: WILL I BE KING? A: YOU WILL DIE LONG BEFORE THE CROWN TOUCHES YOUR FOREHEAD.

❝  you're making a mistake.  ❞      her voice shakes ever so slightly ,  suddenly nervous around him.    [ earlier,  she would have said it was the nerves of being around the man she loved.   the sense of intimacy in their every interaction,   but now it’s budding resentment.  ]     she turns away,  avoiding him.   avoiding his eyes that expect answers or forgiveness, neither of which will come to fruition in front of her,    the same eyes that haunt her dreams       —   but she can’t forgive and she will never forget.      ❝  you've rushed into things, like always.  ❞   moonlight paints her silk features, illuminating a pale glow until she's transfixed into a phantom of a woman, the haunting of a ghost meant to lay lament upon lament on an army of fools. lead by the man she thought she loved. clarissa spares him a single forlorn look, a glance as eyes gloss over.     ❝ you're going to die here & i won't be there to save you.  ❞

selected impromptu spur.  post-war invasion. atlas & clarrisa.  ♡  @versusnight

[dusklune]

The BLACK PANTHER/T’CHALLA In Black Panther (2021) #3 — “A Tall Tale of Tricks”, art by Juni Ba