#saintsknight

[withgreat]

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fabric tightens around his clenched fist, a heavy sigh soon follows. " how many times have we been through this song & dance, harry? we can't keep doing this. " he finds himself unclenching his fist, the futility of all this dawning on him for the first time in years. how many times can he bring himself to fight his best friend, the first real friend he ever had? he lowers his fist, his head falling slightly down. " i want my friend back, harry. "

[ioracle-arc1]

dude your writing and graphics are top tier it's crazy

me rn if you care … seriously though demetrius this is so so kind. thank you thank you thank you! you’ve seriously made my day 💚

[satanless]

Pale lilacs and greys flutter as a gust of winds shakes through her balcony door; he is always alone, even around others, and his solemnity is a hardship she wishes he didn't have to face. “ What's wrong, Ani? ” Cheeks lose colour as shivers spliner her body which is thinly wrapped in satin, and Padme comes into the light of the moon. “ What is it? ” @saintsknight––

[saintsplanet-old]

@saintsknight 16 — three to five non-sexual acts of intimacy. johnny and raya. otp prompts : accepting.

sharing warmth johnny runs hot, literally. raya runs cold. it’s an easy thing, a natural excuse, the kind of intimacy no one would think twice about. but to her, slipping her hands into his jacket pockets while they’re walking, or pressing her palms against his chest when the winter air bites, is more than comfort. it’s trust. it’s letting herself lean into the flame without fear of burning.

the way he listens people assume johnny only half-pays attention, that he’s too wrapped up in the flash of his own charm to sit still. but when soraya talks, really talks, about her family, about the weight of her name, about the expectations pressing into her skin — he quiets. he sets his phone down. he asks questions. he makes her laugh in the middle of things that aren’t funny. [ intimacy, she’s learned, can be someone remembering the little things you said once and holding onto them like they mattered. ]

touch without performance everyone sees johnny put an arm around her shoulder in public. that’s easy. expected. but it’s when the crowds are gone that it matters: his hand brushing over the back of hers on the couch, his head dropping onto her lap when exhaustion finally overtakes him, the absent-minded way he tangles their fingers when they’re both half-asleep. quiet, unpracticed, not for show.

her care in return soraya doesn’t say it out loud, she’s not always good at that, but she shows it in the little things. she keeps a bottle of aloe in her bag even though he swears he doesn’t need it. she nags him about eating actual food instead of just caffeine and sugar. she makes sure his lighter jackets get mended when he burns through them. johnny teases her for it, but there’s a softness in his grin each time she fusses.

letting each other in for both of them, intimacy has never been about grand gestures. it’s the nights they stay in, music low, city humming outside, when soraya curls against him an doesn't have to be a grand historian or anything but herself. it’s johnny showing her the scars he laughs off to everyone else, trusting her to trace them without pity. [ intimacy, she realizes, is less about fire and spectacle, and more about the quiet permission to simply be. ]

[anoffering-a]

his last search of konoha was fruitless, setting itachi on the road once more without setting his failing eyes on his little brother. sometimes, he wondered if he should have just killed sasuke with everyone else. most times, he wished he could just come out and say it. their dad was worse than they both could imagine. the things they were planning, there would be no konoha to return to. although, it appeared sasuke already felt that there was no konoha to return to.

it was a chance encounter, really, and a huge blessing that kisame hadn't opted to venture out with itachi that day. but what would bring his brother this far away from civilization? he was taller than the last time he saw him, presumably stronger. if he wanted to get away relatively unscathed, he'd have to use his stronger genjutsu. forgive me, sasuke. “ you're a long way from home. ” he says in a rather cool tone, a blank expression resting on his features. “ were you hoping to find the secret to killing me in the wilderness? ”

@saintsknight, for sasuke.

[saintsplanet-old]

a thousand voices drown out the gallery, a cascading room of sycophants and art freaks. too many people, too much champagne, and too many hands reaching toward canvases worth more than their penthouses. raya stands in the corner beneath the fractured light of a crystal chandelier, the stem of her wine glass balanced between two fingers. the noise slides over her like water over marble. she’s here because she has to be, the curator’s duty to make the donors feel important, to smile at the press, to pretend she cares about the endless small talk. in truth, she’s already counting the hours until she can lock the doors and return to the quiet hum of the restoration room. the air shifts before she sees him. heat rolls into the space like a careless wave, cutting through the gallery’s over-chilled air. and then he’s there, all grin and golden edges, moving through the crowd like he owns the place without having to try. [ of course he heads straight for her. ] his quip about not having fun is noted, a scoff escaping her lips. ❝ i'm not having fun. ❞ she replies, her tone as smooth and cool as the glass in her hand. she lets her gaze flick over him — tailored suit, still somehow too casual; that spark in his eyes like he knows he’s already won. ❝ — aren't you supposed to be at least pretend to care about art mr. storm? you're not very convincing. ❞

@saintsknight johnny & raya :3

[saintsplanet-old]

restlessness coils off him like smoke,   familiar, constant, suffocating.    aegon cannot sit still,    cannot breathe still,    cannot let the silence settle without tearing through it with a laugh too sharp or a gesture too loud.    he drowns himself in wine and women and distraction,   as if the stillness itself would reveal something he cannot bear to face.

alicent watches.    she always has.

[ since his first cry,     there was never peace in him.     even in the cradle,     he twisted and kicked until the nurses cursed under their breath, until she took him into her arms herself,    pressing her palm against his tiny chest,     whispering until his breaths slowed.     she remembers pacing endless corridors in the dark,     his small weight pressed against her shoulder,     rocking him as if she could soothe away the storm already brewing inside him.    the truth she has never spoken aloud is simple: she has been carrying his restlessness all her life,   absorbing it into her bones,    and she would rather break beneath it than let him break alone. ]     ❝ you never stop moving, ❞ she murmurs,    not unkind, but heavy with recognition.      it is not a criticism, though others would name it so.     it is a truth she has borne witness to since he was born.

he smirks, careless,    too quick.     but she sees through it,   always    . to the fear beneath,    to the ache of never feeling enough.    ❝ you think stillness is weakness, ❞      alicent continues, stepping closer,        her hand brushing his arm,     grounding, d      eliberate.       ❝ but it is not. it is where strength gathers.       if you cannot be still, aegon,     then let me be it for you. ❞   her voice softens further, almost breaking on the words.       ❝ the realm will not wait for you.     the dragons will not wait. they will tear you apart and crown you in the same breath,        whether you are ready or not. ❞ her eyes shine, steady but desperate. ❝ but i will wait.    i always will. ❞

[    she does not say the rest:        that she has lived too long surrounded by men who only took and demanded,     who called love a duty and duty a burden.   but with him,  her boy,   her first, her flawed, wounded child . . .   it has never been duty.   it is something deeper,    older.   she will fight the realm,    the gods,   the dragons themselves if it means he can breathe without choking on his crown. ]     she lingers there, her hand resting firm against his sleeve,     willing her steadiness into him, as if her touch could still the ceaseless motion in his veins. her lips part again, softer now, a whisper only for him:   ❝ you are not alone,    aegon.      not ever.      not while i still draw breath. ❞ 

  @saintsknight alicent & aegon.

[saintsplanet-old]

lateness is a habit she wore like a second skin,      stitched not of carelessness but of calculation.    time bent differently for her,     in operating rooms,     in shadowed alleys,    in the pauses where life ended and silence took its place   . if johnny marked her for it,     he did so with a grin too sharp, the kind meant to sting and charm all at once.       ❝ you’re always late, ❞      his voice cut through the hum of fluorescent light, warm where hers was all frost.     she did not bristle.     she never does.    instead, she slipped her bag from her shoulder with the same ease she might shed a scalpel after surgery, deliberate, unhurried.       [ lateness was not flaw, it was control. she arrived when she decided to, and the fact he noticed only meant he had been waiting.]        letting her things aside, she lifted her gaze to him at last, the weight of her eyes as steady and cold as any blade.

❛ and you’re always waiting. ❜                 words softened with the faintest tilt of her mouth, a smile not quite kind, not quite cruel.          she let the space between them charge with unspoken truth,       the way static clings before a storm.          ❛ if you wanted me earlier, you should have proven worth the time. ❜              the barb lingered, polished and precise.        yet beneath it, something warmer stirred, the faintest trace of amusement at his persistence,        the dangerous recognition that he would always come back,         no matter how long she kept him waiting.       her coat slipped from her shoulders in one practiced motion,        white fabric pooling against the chair like snow. she stepped into the space between them,        unhurried,        the click of her heels sharp as a scalpel on tile. [ let him think she was careless, distracted, worth teasing.             let him never see that she watched the lines of his face the way a surgeon traced anatomy,        already knowing where to cut deepest. ]

❛ maybe i just like keeping you waiting. ❜           her voice was low, soft, designed to catch on the grin still plastered across his lips.       she let her fingers brush his sleeve as though by accident, though nothing she did was ever accidental.            ❛ you burn brighter when you’re restless. ❜         for a moment she let the silence hang, leaning just close enough that the warmth radiating off him curled against her skin.     a dangerous orbit, one she pretended not to care about.         then, with a glance that was all ice and invitation, she tilted her head, lashes catching the light.       ❛ besides (...) ❜      she paused, a smile flickering across her mouth,            ❛ you like me better when i make you wait. ❜ @saintsknight johnny&margot.