#the one piece is real and it lives in my heart

[wow-thisismylifeiguess]

Sentient Gotham

- Bruce regularly chats w her. Like, full blown conversations. He can see a physical manifestation of her like she’s right in front of him, but completely invisible to everyone else

- Zatanna does not believe him. She’s Gotham born and bred and a powerful magician, but she cannot sense a living breathing Gotham the way Bruce claims he can

- Constantine does believe him, but it’s mostly to spite Zatanna

- Gotham calls herself Bruce’s mom and frequently whines about him not calling her that

> “I had a mother. And a father. They’re both dead.” > “WHEN WILL YOU STOP BLAMING ME FOR THAT?!” > “When I’m convinced it’s not true.”

- Bruce’s kids also don’t believe him about the whole ‘I talk to Gotham’ thing for a long time and think he’s either lost his mind, he’s schizophrenic, or that he’s fucking w them

- they do eventually see and speak to her themselves

- Jason first sees her right before his death, which was an incredibly difficult task for her. It’s a combination of reasons. 1) like Bruce, Jason is a Gotham City native and has deep ties to the city, 2) he has deep ties to Bruce, 3) she was also there to comfort Bruce because she knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. But Jason sees this gorgeous woman who cradles his cheek and murmurs soft words to him that he’ll only end up remembering many years later

> “Your father loves you. He tried. So please don’t hate him. It’s my fault, not his.”

- Bruce frequently wonders why it’s him who can see her and no one else, to which she always just says it’s because he’s her son

- Bruce’s connection to Gotham…changes him. He is human, at least…mostly. But there’s an otherworldliness to him that grows over the years which he’s stupidly oblivious to for a very long time

- Gotham has beef w Alfred purely because he’s British

> “I could’ve raised you better than that man!” > “I do not tolerate disrespect for Alfred.” > whining, “But babyyyyyy. He’s an outsider!”

- she adores Bruce’s kids and frequently whines about how they don’t believe she’s real. But at the same time, Bruce is her absolute beloved

- after Jason’s death, she’s the one who basically sends Tim Bruce’s way to stop his self destructive behavior. Tim had been taking pictures of Batman and Robin for a while, but Gotham had fogged over his mind just a little bit to prevent him from putting the pieces together about their identity. When she stops, it finally clicks for Tim and it’s what leads him to becoming Robin

- the kids all have their moment when they finally can see and speak to her. It happens at different times, but the important reason as to why they’re able to do so is due to their relationship to Bruce and the length of time they’ve been around him. It comes at the moment where they’ve reached optimal and absolute trust in Bruce

- Bruce does actually call her ‘mom’, but it happened once and she will never let him forget it

> Bruce getting worked up during a conversation w Gotham in front of Dick and Tim > “Dick….who is he talking to?” > “You don’t want to know.” > “My mom won’t stop badgering me- No. No. I didn’t say that. I didn’t call you that! You can’t prove anything!”

- Gotham comforts Bruce often when he feels like he’s not enough. His failures weigh heavy in his heart, but she’s always there to talk him through it

> “Why me? Why am I the one you picked? I’m not enough. I never will be.” > “You are and you always will be. Bruce, you do so much for this city. For me. For your family.” > “It’s not enough.” > “You are only mostly human, Bruce Wayne. You have done things no one else could ever hope to do. If any one else were in your position, they would not have nearly enough strength as you do.”

- several months later, after Bruce is just idly going over case files, he remembers the ‘mostly human’ part of what Gotham said to him. He’d glossed over it before in his depressive spiral, but now he’s like !?

> “Gotham….” > “Yes, my dear?” > “‘Mostly human’. Care to explain what that means?” > awkward laugh, “Uh…..” > “Gotham.” > “I didn’t do it on purpose! I had no control!” > “Gotham.”

- order of who sees Gotham:

Bruce (obviously)

Jason (first time)

Tim

Duke

Jason (second time)

Steph

Dick

Cass

Damian

- the last three take a while but mostly because they’re not Gotham natives. Dick’s a little bitter about it because he practically spent his entire life in Gotham

> “You’re a traitor.” > “WHAT DID I DO?” > disgust, “Blüdhaven.” > “Oh. Whoops.”

- While Gotham is Bruce’s #1 Supporter™️, she is at times critical of his behavior and decisions. Particularly about things that damage his relationship w loved ones and things that he chooses to do in order to hurt himself

- she finds ‘Brucie’ to be distasteful

> “I didn’t raise you to be a whore.” > “You didn’t raise me to begin with.” > “STOP DENYING ME PARENTAL RIGHTS!”

- Gotham is, obviously, restricted to only appear within Gotham City’s borders. She’s only able to break through that restriction a handful of times, w the first being when Jason dies. There are a few other instances and she’s popped up on the Watchtower and jumpscared Bruce by accident. The JL were very confused and incredibly amused

- She’s able to take on the form of anyone, but sticks to a unique appearance of a woman w long black hair and pale skin. Her eyes are white and she’s typically dressed in a suit

> young Bruce, in awe, “You kind of look like me if I were cooler.” > “You’re plenty cool, Bruce.” > adult Bruce, tired, “Why are you in a suit?” > “Because I look cool, Bruce. You said so yourself.” > “I was ten!”

- she once offered to take on the appearance of his mother and Bruce shot it down so fast. She never brought it up again

- when Clark found out about her, he believed Bruce immediately. He’s the only one Bruce ever told who believed him right off the bat

> “You…don’t think I’m insane?” > “I do.” > “Then why would you lie and say you believe me?” > “Because I do. You’re insane about a lot of things, Bruce. But you sounded too serious when you told me about this, so why would I ever think you’re lying?”

- Gotham begrudgingly likes Clark

> “You hate Alfred for being an outsider, but Clark is in your good graces?” > “He’s an alien. It’s different.” > “He’s also from Metropolis.” > “Shhhhhh, don’t remind me. I’m trying to be blissfully ignorant.”

[theformulaimagines]

Look at that woman (breaking my heart) | Part 11

Summary: For one and a half years Lewis and y/n managed to keep their relationship a secret, until it blew up in their faces. Now, they're trying their hardest to pick up the pieces...

Warnings: age gap (reader is 27), major angst, fluff inbetween, my first time doing smau

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x fem Vettel!Reader

masterlist

f1 has made a post

liked by y/nvettel, lando and 729,928 others

f1: We saw 10 gorgeous liveries at F1 75 LIVE... but which one was your fave? 😍

#F1 #Formula1 #F175LIVE

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user 1: VCARB >>>>>>>>>

user 2: obsessed with everyone booing the FIA 😩🙏🏻

user 3: y/n tbh 🫡

user 4: @/user 3 you’re actually so real for that

y/nvettel has made a post

liked by sebastianvettel, lewishamilton and 2,482.818 others

y/nvettel: tonight was so humbling! thank you @/f1 and everyone involved for trusting me to host and present such an incredible and exciting event! forever grateful!!!

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f1: stunning, spectacular give me 4000 of them

user 1: @/f1 😭😭😭😭

user 2: you looked amazing

user 3: the nepo baby of f1 gooood lord keep her off my screens

sebastianvettel: proud is an understatement ❤️

ham44_supporter has made a post

liked by 34,928 people

ham44_supporter: my princess diana

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user 1: now take a big guess WHO mentioned him

user 2: @/user 1 „i know im technically not allowed to be biased tonight but well…you know the rumors“ GAGGED

user 3: @/user 2 the way you could HEAR people GASP

user 3: god he’s stunning

A few weeks later.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Formula 1 testing week. The cars will be back on track in a few moments."; David Croft declares, looking over at Martin Brundle:" There is so much to look forward to and I am so thankful that Nico Rosberg is going to join us as well in a couple of minutes.“

Martin nods at the screen:“ And looks like Hamilton has just got into his car. I cannot lie to you, I am so excited to finally be able to look over some official data. After all those rumors of potential leaks were flooding the internet.“

„Red suits him amazingly.“, his colleague adds, making him laugh. „Looks like someone else is also amazed by him in-.“

„Good morning, guys!“, a voice cuts him off:“ Can you see me?“ The two men both turn their heads to the screen, catching sight of a grinning Nico. „Yes, hi!“, David says:“ It‘s so good to see you! How are you?“

„I‘m doing good.“, The blonde answers:“ But I fear, I interrupted you, Martin.“ He chuckles. „No, you didn't. I just wanted to point out that Y/N Vettel is in Hamilton's garage this morning as well.“ The image on the screen changes to the outside of Hamilton's garage, where Y/N is standing next to a couple of engineers. She’s wearing the signature red Ferrari jacket, while looking around the site.

„The last few months must’ve been tough.“

„Well, Nico. You know both personally. What’s your opinion?“

The blonde man sighs:“ Well, it’s important to remember that this isn’t really any of our business. Plus Y/N has a great relationship with her brother, and his opinion means everything to her. We all know how highly he speaks about him, so I believe if anything he’s happy she’s with a guy like Lewis. If they‘re both happy, I‘m happy. Everyone else should think the same about them.“

[winchesterwild78]

The Actor’s Secret 

Master list 

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Just a fluff piece. 

A/N: Springboarding off of @jackles010378  story. Jensen is single in this. No mention of divorce, but he’s single.

Reader is an actress on the set of Countdown and is enamored with Jensen. Can she keep her feelings to herself? Is her secret crush unrequited? 

Minors DNI 18+

The clapper snapped, a sharp, decisive sound that echoed through the cavernous soundstage. "Cut!" The director's voice boomed, and the tension that had been thick during the intense scene dissipated. I exhaled, finally able to release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Countdown," a new show on Amazon, was my big break, and playing opposite Jensen Ackles, well, that was like winning the lottery twice. For years, he'd been the face on my bedroom wall, the star I secretly admired from afar. Now, I was playing his co-star, and the fantasy was rapidly turning into something... more.

Months on set had turned admiration into a full-blown, undeniable crush. I'd become a master of the stolen glance, the lingering touch during a scene, the nervous flutter in my stomach whenever he was near. I lived for the moments our characters interacted, the charged energy between us that felt achingly real.

Today, there was a lull in filming. The crew was resetting a complex prop, and Jensen, ever the easygoing one, pulled out a battered acoustic guitar. He settled into a director's chair, and the first chords resonated through the bustling set.

He started to sing, his voice a low, warm rumble that sent shivers down my spine. It was a soulful melody, a raw, emotional piece that seemed to pour directly from his heart. I sat across from him, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my eyes were glued to him. I nervously chewed my lip, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, especially when he’d look up, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment.

When the last note faded, a hush fell over the set. My heart was a frantic drumbeat in my ears. I needed to get out of there, to escape the overwhelming intensity of the moment. I stood up, my legs feeling a little shaky.

Jensen stood and followed me. 

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, "What did you think?"

I turned, my cheeks flushed. "It was... amazing," I stammered, "Just like you."

He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that made my stomach flip. He stepped closer, his hand gently brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. "You're beautiful," he murmured.

My breath hitched. The boldness, fueled by months of suppressed feelings, surged through me. I leaned in, closing the distance between us, and softly pressed my lips to his.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his lips met mine with a surprising tenderness, a gentle pressure that sent a wave of pure, unadulterated joy through me. The kiss deepened, a silent confirmation of a feeling I'd only dared to dream about.

When we finally broke apart, his eyes were searching mine, a mixture of surprise and something else, something that looked suspiciously like...relief.

"I... I didn't think you felt the same way," he whispered, his voice husky.

A wave of giddy happiness washed over me. "You didn't?" I asked, a smile spreading across my face.

He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping his lips. "I've been trying to find the right moment for weeks," he admitted, his hand gently cupping my cheek. "I thought I was the only one with a secret crush."

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[jane-the-good]

Wander In Wonder: CALEB

WORD COUNT: 3.7 K

SUMMARY: Fantasy AU! You escape the confines of your life in search of one that is your own choosing. Caleb finds you along the path he was destined to keep and offers to guide you to live a life of safety and peace

AN: Caleb wasn’t here for Wander in Wonder, so I made it happen ◡̈ I love piecing the tiny details of the Caleb we know and love into things like this. I really wish this was real for him!!

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut, oral sex, mentions of explosions, combat fighting, death ♡

AO3

The cold is a living thing, curling around your skin, creeping into your bones, burrowing deep. It does not simply cling—it seeps, sinking past flesh and sinew, winding itself through your ribs with roots breaking through it’s cracked stone. You press your back against the rough bark of a tree, but there is no shelter here, no warmth. The wind howls through the trees, a mournful, unrelenting thing, whispering through the hollows of your ears, stealing what little breath you have left.

Your limbs are leaden, heavy with exhaustion, your breath thin as if the air itself refuses to fill your lungs. Every step that brought you here was a battle—against the waves, against the cold, against the weight of your own survival. You left the island behind, the place you once called a sanctuary. Now, with distance stretching between you and that lonely shore, you see it for what it truly was.

Not a refuge, but a cage.

Not safety, but solitude.

In the vast, endless dark of this unfamiliar land, you wonder which was worse.

The night presses close, the wind a whispering thing, threading through the trees. You clutch at your chest, fingers digging into the skin above your heart. The sacred gem pulses beneath your ribs, its light faint against the cold that has turned your body to ice. Someone is coming. Someone who will carve it from your flesh, who will steal its power and leave your corpse in the dirt.

Your vision wavers, your eyelids too heavy to hold open. The cold is a tide, dragging you under. You let it take you.

Firelight flickers, carving shapes into the dark. Warmth surrounds you, strange yet soothing, pressing against the cold that had seeped into your bones. The scent of burning wood curls through the air, and the dull ache in your limbs is softened by a heat that is not your own. You shift, barely, and realize—your body is pressed against bare skin.

Your eyes snap open. A man sits beside you, his chest bare, his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to the present with his warmth. His grip is steady, his touch so careful. He does not flinch when you meet his gaze. He only watches, calm and unreadable, his dark eyes deep as an ocean.

“You were close to death,” he says, voice low releasing embers still holding heat. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—not pity, not fear, but understanding.

You do not fear him. There is no greed in his expression, no shadow of the hunger that has chased you across land and sea. The gift within your heart reveals truths, and in him, you see something rare—something safe.

“Who are you?”

He exhales through his nose, as if already tired of the question. “My title is Protector of the Sacred Path.” The words come out stiff, almost begrudging, in a role he never truly chose, “But my name is Caleb.” His voice softens, as if that’s the part that actually matters. “And you?”

You hesitate. The question shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. You’ve spent so long being something to someone else—a runaway, a target, a vessel for the thing inside you—that you never stopped to consider who you might be if given the choice.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit.

Caleb studies you, and for a moment, you think he might press further. But he smiles—small, understanding. “Fair enough.”

A silence settles between you, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire. He speaks again.

“If you’re running from something, you’ll always have an eye looking over your shoulder.”

You let out a breath. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

His expression flickers in thought but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods. “Okay. I’ll help where I can.” His voice carries a quiet certainty, holding a promise he doesn’t expect gratitude for.

Gentler, “Where can I take you?”

You swallow, feeling the weight of your answer. You are exhausted, frayed at the edges. Your entire life has been spent fleeing, surviving. Safety has always been an illusion, a concept dangled just out of reach.

And yet, when you look at him, the thought doesn’t feel so impossible.

“To safety,” you whisper at last.

His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, something knowing in his eyes. He nods.

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips, not mocking, not dismissive—just quiet, understanding exactly what you mean. "I know the perfect place. A place to live a life. one that’s yours.”

You study him, searching for deception, but there is none. Only patience. Only quiet resolve. The fire crackles between you, warmth reaching into the empty spaces you had long stopped trying to fill.

“And what do you call this place?" you ask, tilting your head slightly.

His smile deepens, though it still holds something wistful, something you cannot yet name. "You'll see."

A beat of silence stretches between you, but it is not uncomfortable. It is something else entirely—something fragile, gasping for the first breath after nearly drowning. Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you have to.

Instead, he stands. A pause, a breath, a choice. He offers you a hand, and you take it.

Through tangled forests and winding roads. Through ruined cities swallowed by ivy and the bones of bridges long since collapsed. He moves as a shadow at your side—constant and unwavering. He is sharp edges and quiet loyalty, a presence carved inbetween heartbeats. He does not ask for explanations. He does not flinch from the weight you carry. When danger rises, he meets it with steel and certainty. When the cold creeps in, he presses closer. He is a promise of warmth.

At first, it is survival. A necessary truce. Two souls moving in the same direction simply because neither has anywhere else to go. But the road is long, and silence is a fragile thing. It breaks in small, stolen moments.

Awoken so thirsty in the middle of the, you feel him shuffle from beside you. The cold winds slipping between the gaps of what was, just a moment ago, guarded by his chest. He hands you your shared vessel of water. “There’s not very much left, but it’s warm.” Your fingers brush his as you take it. You both still, as if waiting for something unspoken to surface. But it does not. Not yet.

A day beneath a sky stretched wide and endless, the hush of wind through empty fields. He finds an overgrown orchard and plucks a piece of fruit, tossing it to you with a half-smile. “They taste ancient, in a really bad way.” You take a bite. It tastes like dust. He was right. But it also tastes like laughter held too long behind teeth.

A moment at dusk, when the world is painted in shades of dying light. The fire between you flickers low, casting long shadows, stretching time thin. You remember the first moment you saw him. The silence is not heavy, but fragile glass on the verge of breaking.

You feel his gaze before you meet it, a pull as inevitable as the tide drawn to the shore. He’s watching you—not like a question, but like an answer he hasn’t yet learned how to say.

“Didn’t know you hummed,” he says, voice quiet, rough from the long day of hiking.

You blink, caught off guard. “I didn’t either.”

His lips twitch—almost in a smile, but something softer. “Why?”

You hesitate, fingers curling around the worn fabric of your stolen cloak. “I think…” You exhale, shaking your head. “Maybe —for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel like I have to be quiet.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let you fold into yourself the way you usually do when words feel like too much. Instead, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the short depth between you shrinking with each breath.

“I really like it,” he murmurs.

The words settle deep, an unexpected warmth blooming in your chest. It’s terrifying, how easily he gets past your walls—how his presence has become something steady, something certain, and necessary.

The fire crackles. The wind stirs the trees. And still, neither of you move.

When he reaches out, you’re not surprised, you know he isn’t either, yet he is still slow and careful, as if giving you time to pull away. He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, tracing a path so light it could be mistaken for hesitation. But there is no hesitation. Only the unbearable tension of something long overdue.

You tilt your head, barely a breath between you now. His eyes search yours, and you don’t know if he’s asking for permission or waiting for you to break first.

You break.

The moment your lips meet, the world exhales. It is not desperate, not rushed. It is quiet, steady—the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand, but simply is. His fingers tighten against your skin, as if grounding himself, as if making sure you’re real. You thread your hand into his shirt, holding onto him using the weight of the moment as an anchor.

When you part, the absence is almost unbearable. He lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath unsteady.

“Seizing what’s yours looks gorgeous on you.” He speaks without even thinking about processing his words. “I’m so proud.”

You climb on to his lap, to make him more proud. Enjoying how the sounds of the leaves fade when his mouth is on yours. His arms hold you with treasure and care, not wanting to let you go but giving you the freedom to move as your please. The rock under your bent knees scrapes each time you grind on his lap, but he will take of any wounds later.

You pull away from his lips to better worship is jaw and his neck and his collarbone and his chest.

“It was very kind of you to save me that day.” Your hands caress the sides of his torso with care before you guide his blouse over his head. “I thanked you many times, but I don’t really know if you felt it yet”

You pull at the laces on his pants.

He exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s something raw in his expression, something that flickers between restraint and surrender. “Should we slow down?” he asks, and there’s no reluctance in his voice—only care. One of his hands finds yours, stopping your movements with a featherlight touch.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I really don’t want to.”

You both know how hard he is, the inevitability of it, the way you’ve been circling each other for so long that stopping now would feel like denying gravity.

“We don’t have to go to the stars,” you murmur. “We can just explore the path.”

You shift his hand from yours, guiding it to rest at the crown of your head, before resuming the deliberate task of unlacing his pants.

His fingers curl at the nape of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I can never deny you,” he breathes.

The sound that escapes him when he’s finally freed from the constraint of his pants is nothing short of beautiful—raw, helpless, edged with relief and want. It ripples through you, sinking deep, settling low. And in that moment, you understand—this must be how he felt when he told you he liked your humming. Like hearing something so unexpectedly intimate, so undeniably yours, that it becomes a song he never wants to forget.

You gently grasp his base with both of your hands so you can kitten lick the tip, trying to discover what he likes the best. You lift your gaze to meet his eyes, searching for a flicker of reaction. He stands frozen, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. You slide one long lick along the underside of the base before wrapping your lips around him.

“Darling, you are an other worldly treasure.” His head falls back.

You hum in response while sliding him in and out of your mouth. His hand on your hair tightens when you swirl your tounge around his tip. His moan settles between your thighs and climbs up your spine.

You glide one hand to cradle his balls and he involuntarily thrusts forward, sending him to the back of your throat, forcing you choke.

“I’m sorry, love, are you alright?” And when he pulls away just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing against your cheek, his voice is nothing but devotion.

You swirl your tongue again and his head leans forward in blissed defeat. His breathing picks up and you feel him pulse against your tongue. His moans are so encouraging, you feel them in your own core. He is so close.

and just when you think you have him in the palm of your hand,

His hand pulls—swift, sure—from your hair to your shoulder, guiding you away with a touch that is both careful and desperate. And then he is on you, over you, pressing you down beneath him. The tide pulling the shore into its depths.

His lips find yours in a hunger that has been simmering beneath the surface, now set free. It is not a question. It is not hesitation. It is the inevitability of gravity, of two bodies drawn together, of something too long restrained finally breaking loose.

“I have never actually thanked you, for falling into my life” He grinds against you

His hand slides up your thigh, a slow, deliberate ascent, before guiding your leg around his back—anchoring you to him, as if you could ever drift away. His mouth maps its way down, pressing reverence into fabric, into skin, into the space between breaths. And when he finally stops, his breath is warm against your pulse, against the place where need and anticipation blur into something electric. Your leg drapes over his shoulder in a claim.

His voice is barely a whisper, but it hums through you like a vow.

“Please, let me make it up to you.”

You would do anything for him.

“Anything you desire.”

His mouth finds you almost instantly, a breath, a press, a kiss through fabric that leaves you unraveling beneath him. The sensation is so consuming, you barely register the hand ghosting up your hip, the slow, practiced tug of your underwear slipping lower, lower. Only when he pulls back do you realize—he’s peeling them from your legs, his gaze dark, reverent. Drawn by instinct alone, he lifts them to his nose, breathing you in like something sacred before leaning down once more, intent on finishing what he started.

You already knew his tongue is divine at teasing you with words, this is so different.

“Caleb.” You arch in bliss.

One hand finds your clit, teasing, circling, setting you alight, while the other wraps around himself, stroking in time with the rhythm he’s building between you. His moans are a melody against your skin, low and reverent, vibrating through you until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. When you breathe, it barely feels like breathing at all—just a sharp, shattered thing, like air caught between want and oblivion.

“Come with me darling.” He is desperate and demanding.

You see the stars—but not just the ones you expected. There are infinitely more, stretching vast and endless, and for the first time, you’re not just looking at them. You’re feeling them. You’re part of them. And the only thing more breathtaking than their glow is the quiet, steady presence of him with you.

You return to earth in gasping breaths, your body still singing with the echoes of him. He shifts, gathering you into his arms, pressing you, cherishing how precious and irreplaceable he has known you to be.

“I’m so grateful for you,” he murmurs, his voice rugged with something deeper than exhaustion.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He hums, pulling you onto him, wrapping the cloak from beneath you around both of your bodies, cocooning you in warmth. His hand moves in slow, absent strokes along your back, grounding you, soothing you. The weight of the day settles over you both, but for once, it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels safe. Because you are here. Because he is holding you.

It would be easier to call this survival. Easier to blame the loneliness, the way time and distance have frayed you both down to something raw, and searching. But the thought lingers, soft and certain between words. Was it not someplace I left for, and instead someone? What if it was always meant to be this?

You do not know the answer. Perhaps you never will. But as you walk beside him, step for step, heartbeat for heartbeat, you know this: you are not alone. Not anymore. And for the first time in a long, long time—maybe never again.

The sanctuary is within reach when they come for you.

They strike as wraiths in the dark, wrenching you from Caleb’s grasp before you can scream. His warmth vanishes in an instant, replaced by the crushing grip of your captors. Rough hands pin you down, the cold press of steel against your chest. Then—pain. White-hot, searing, as they carve toward the gem buried within you. You thrash, but their hold is unyielding. Your own screams rip through the night, swallowed by the clash of steel, the guttural cries of men falling—falling to him.

Caleb fights as a man possessed. His voice cuts through the chaos, raw with fury, desperation—his only focus is you. He carves a path through them, reaching for you. He’s almost there. Just a little more—just a moment longer—

Then—an explosion. The world tilts. A shockwave tears through the field, slamming into you in a tidal wave. Sound collapses into a void. The night turns to ruin.

When your vision clears, the world is unrecognizable. Ash hangs in the air, thick as fog. The ground is littered with bodies—lifeless. Your stomach twists as you search for him. The second you see his body, the breath is stolen from your lungs.

Caleb.

He lies amidst the fallen, a broken thing in a world still reeling from battle. His body—too still. His arm—mangled, ruined, the ruin of it staining the earth beneath him. No, no, no— The word thrums through you, a desperate, useless plea. Your limbs barely obey as you pull yourself toward him, the ground unsteady, your breath shattering in your chest. Your hands find his face, trembling violently, as if trying to will him back, as if trying to anchor him here—here, with you.

"Caleb," you whisper, in a voice that is barely there.

His skin is so cold. You didn’t know that was even possible for him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were so close. For the first time in centuries, you let yourself believe—truly, foolishly believe—that you could have something safe, something real. That you could be more than a shadow passing through time. Caleb made you feel like a person, like you could live, not just endure. Like you deserved to. And now—now he’s slipping away.

The cruelest part is that you can’t follow.

And now he’s gone.

Tears blur your vision as you clutch him. You should have been the one to fall. You should have saved him. But you weren’t given that choice. You were cursed to endure, to outlast everyone—no matter how much it destroyed you.

A sob rips from your chest as you press your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper. "Please, don’t leave me."

But the night gives no answer.

“No,” you whisper. “Not you. Not after everything.”

Your vision wavers, grief turning the world to nothing but shadow and ruin. You press your forehead to his, breath unsteady, heart aching in a way no magic, no curse, no wound has ever made it ache before. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words fractured, breaking apart as they leave you. “For everything. I never would have have experienced what living could be, without you.”

A sob tears through you more jagged than his broken dagger. Only one regret lingers—one thing left undone before fate rips him away. Your hands shake as they cradle his face, as you press your lips to his, soft and lingering, a farewell etched in sorrow.

Your heart clenches.

And then, it beats.

Once. Twice.

A pulse tears through your chest—light, warmth, and something else. Something ancient. Something eternal. The gem hums, its vibrations spilling outward, threading into his skin like tendrils of life. They wrap around his still form, caressing, binding, as if pulling him from the abyss with unseen hands that have always known him.

A gasp shatters the silence.

Caleb jerks upright, breath torn from his lungs as though ripped back from the brink. His fingers dig into your arms, grounding himself in the shock of existence. His eyes—wild, disoriented—lock onto yours.

"Why are you crying?" Are you hurt?” he asks, voice thick, oblivious.

A breathless laugh shakes through you, disbelief and relief tangling in your ribs. He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t realize he was gone. That you are the reason for his living.

Your heart beats again, but this time, not just for survival.

This time, it beats for him.

He pulls you into his arms, as if to shield you from a danger already past. Concern flickers in his gaze, as if the tears in your eyes are the only thing that matters..

The protector of the sacred path was destined to protect this path that you walked upon to seek understanding.

The power within you—the eternal blessing of the gem—was never meant to be stolen. Never meant to be wielded through blood and sacrifice.

Amplifying the reason it beats through unwavering, selfless, boundless, tender and unconditional devotion.

A heart cannot be ripped out, and divided to be shared.

It can only be given freely.

[humaling]

What I Needed was You.

summary: after years of a cat-and-mouse chase, Finnick is done waiting—but will you really let him walk away?

pairings: finnick odair x reader

warnings: angst. happy ending? cursing.

note: first time writing and posting. plz dont bite me

word count: 2.3k

The storm rolls in before sunset, casting dark shadows over the ocean. Rain lashes against the windows, the wind howling through the streets of District 4 like a wounded animal. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the door, heart pounding against your ribs like it already knows what’s coming.

And then, like clockwork, there’s a knock.

You don’t move at first. You tell yourself not to. You should pretend to be asleep, let him turn away. But your body betrays you, just like it always does. Your fingers tighten around the blanket, and before you can stop yourself, you’re on your feet, crossing the room.

You open the door.

Finnick stands there, rain-soaked and exhausted, his sea-green eyes dark with something unreadable. He doesn’t say anything at first. Neither do you.

“Tell me to go,” he says finally, his voice barely above the wind. “And I will.”

The words cut through you like a blade. You should say it. You should send him away. The war is over. The rebellion is done. You both survived, but survival doesn’t mean freedom. Not from the memories. Not from each other.

Finnick shifts, his jaw tightening like he’s already bracing for the inevitable. He’s always been beautiful, but now it’s a different kind of beauty—sharper, hollowed-out. The Capitol took so much from him, carved pieces of him away until there was almost nothing left. And you? You’re no better. Just two ghosts pretending to be whole.

“Say the word,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move.

You swallow hard, your throat burning. You should. But when you part your lips, the words don’t come. Because the truth is, you don’t want him to go. And maybe that’s the worst thing of all.

Instead, you step back. A silent invitation.

Finnick exhales shakily, running a hand through his damp hair before stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind him, locking the storm outside. But the real storm—the one that lives inside you both—rages on, unrelenting.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is thick with everything left unsaid, with the weight of the war and the scars it left on both of you. Finnick moves first, peeling off his soaked jacket, the fabric heavy with rain. His hands tremble slightly as he sets it over the chair by the window.

“You shouldn’t keep doing this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the rain hammering against the roof.

He lets out a hollow laugh. “Neither should you.”

You both know what he means,this, whatever this is between you. The seeking, the silent longing, the way you always find each other when the nights are too heavy to bear alone. It’s a habit neither of you can seem to break, no matter how much it hurts.

Finnick sinks onto the edge of your bed, running a hand over his face. His fingers brush through his damp hair, pushing it back, and for a moment, he just stares at the floor. “I thought it’d get easier,” he admits, voice rough with exhaustion. “Coming home. Living like none of it happened.”

You kneel down on the floor, tucking your feet underneath you. “It doesn’t, does it?”

He shakes his head. “No. It just...changes. Some days, it’s quiet. And other days, I wake up expecting to be somewhere else. Expecting someone else to be in control of my life.”

You nod, because you understand. Because you’ve woken up gasping for air more nights than you can count, your mind trapped in a place you can never truly leave.

Finnick tilts his head dkwn slightly, looking at you. His gaze lingers, searching. “Why do you let me in?”

You exhale, staring at your hands. The answer is simple, but saying it aloud feels impossible. Because you can’t imagine him not being here. Because even in the wreckage of what you both have become, there’s still something that keeps pulling you together. Because even broken, even haunted, he’s still Finnick. And you still don’t know how to let him go.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. But it’s a lie, and you both know it.

Finnick watches you for a moment longer, then sighs, leaning back on his palms. The rain hasn’t let up, and neither of you seem to be in a hurry to fill the silence.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever be okay,” he admits finally. “If I’ll ever be okay.”

You look at him then, the way the stormlight casts shadows over his face, the way exhaustion and grief linger in his expression. You reach for his hand before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing over his.

“You don’t have to be,” you say. “Not tonight.”

Finnick doesn’t pull away. His fingers tighten around yours, and for the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

The storm rages on outside, but here, in this moment, you are not alone.

You stood up from your position and moved to sit beside him. Your shoulders brush against each other and you could feel his body heat radiating off him. Finnick watches you for a moment longer, then sighs, leaning back on his palms. The rain hasn’t let up, and neither of you seem to be in a hurry to fill the silence.

After a while, he moves. He shifts onto his side, resting his head against your shoulder. It’s tentative at first, the way his body leans into yours, like he’s still unsure if he should. If he deserves to. But when you don’t pull away, when you let yourself lean back just the slightest bit, he exhales shakily.

You don’t say anything, and neither does he. The war took words from you both, left you with only touch and silence and longing that never quite finds an answer.

After a moment, you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He stiffens slightly, then sighs, his grip tightening like he’s afraid to let go. You squeeze back, a silent promise. You’re here. He’s not alone.

“I hate the quiet,” he admits. “Some nights, it feels like it’s waiting for me to fall apart.”

You shift, turning so you can look at him properly. His face is tired, drawn with the weight of things he never speaks about. You lift your free hand, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. He leans into your touch without hesitation, eyes slipping shut.

“You don’t have to hold it together with me,” you murmur. “Not all the time.”

Finnick exhales, something fragile in the way his shoulders drop. You don’t push him to say more, don’t force him to unpack the pain he carries. Instead, you let him be, let him exist in this space where neither of you has to be strong.

Slowly, he shifts, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you in. You let him, resting your forehead against his temple. The storm outside rages on, but inside, in this fragile moment, there’s warmth. there’s him and you and nothing matters more than that.

“I liked you,” you mutter, eyes fluttering shut as you listen to the rain outside, steady and relentless. “Liked you so much that I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.”

Finnick frowns. “Why?” he asks, even though he knows he shouldn’t—because deep down, he already knows the answer. And it will undo him.

You swallow hard. “Because that wasn’t what you needed back then.”

His sea-green eyes search yours, desperate—pleading. Looking for something to hold onto. Looking for hope.

“You needed a friend,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Someone to rely on. So that’s what I gave you. Someone to share your burden.”

Finnick exhales sharply. “But I didn’t need that. I needed you.”

The words slip out faster than an avalanche, raw and unfiltered, years of longing condensed into a single breath.

“All I ever wanted was you.” His voice trembles, thick with something you don’t know how to name. His eyes tell the story of a man who has spent years yearning—for someone, for something. For you.

“But you were so busy trying to pick up the pieces—my pieces—that you didn’t even see it.” His voice cracks, frustration bleeding into every syllable.

You open your mouth, but he pulls away before you can even say his name. His brows furrow, bottom lip jutting out as it quivers.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “God, do you even know what it’s like? To watch the person you love put every part of themselves into fixing you, while you’re just standing there, screaming inside because all you want is for them to see you?”

“Finnick—”

“No.” His voice is sharp, but his hands are shaking. His eyes shine under the glow of the lamp, and you realize, with a painful clarity, that he’s been holding this in for so long.

“I spent years—not months, years—asking you to love me,” he says, voice breaking. “Not whatever the fuck this was. You. Like before. Like when we’d play by the shore and pretend to be a knight and a princess. When we’d eat Mags’ horrible homemade cookies, swim in the sea every morning, talk about our future like we actually had one.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, like he’s trying to steady himself.

“But we didn’t,” he whispers. “Because they took it from us. And all I wanted—all I fucking wanted—was for something to stay the same.”

He lifts his head then, looking at you like you are the only thing in the world that has ever made sense.

“But I lost you, too.”

Silence swallows the room.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Because what do you say to that? To him? To the boy you once knew and the man standing before you now, heart bleeding, waiting for an answer you should’ve given years ago?

His breath shudders. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Not this time.

“I should go,” he murmurs. His voice is quieter now, like the fight is leaving him, like he’s run out of things to give.

And you realize, with a sinking dread, that this might be it. That if he walks away now, he might not come back.

Finnick halts in his tracks when he feels something warm wrap around his wrist, gripping onto him like he’s the lifeline. He turns his head to see you standing behind him, eyes glossy under the dim light.

“Don’t,” you whisper. Your voice is barely there, but it holds him in place better than your grip ever could.

His throat works, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “Don’t what?” he asks, though his voice lacks the bite it had moments ago.

You don’t answer right away, and Finnick swallows against the thick silence.

“Don’t walk away,” you finally say, voice small. “Not like this.”

He exhales sharply, closing his eyes for a second like he’s trying to collect himself. “What do you want from me?” His voice is tired when he speaks your name, frayed at the edges. “I can’t keep doing this—being halfway to loving you and halfway to losing you.

Your grip tightens around his wrist, like you’re afraid he’ll slip away if you let go. “Then don’t,” you say, and your voice cracks at the end.

Finnick turns fully now, facing you, and the moment his eyes meet yours, something inside him breaks all over again.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done to me?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “For years, I’ve wanted nothing but you. And I thought—God, I thought you wanted me too. But every time I got close, you pulled away. And I let you. Because I thought… maybe if I was patient enough, you’d see me the way I saw you.”

Tears burn in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “Finnick, I—”

“I loved you,” he says, cutting you off, his voice rough. “I love you.”

The confession is not soft. Not romantic. It’s raw, scraped bare, ripped from somewhere deep inside him. And it hangs between you, heavy and unshakable.

His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, eyes locked onto yours like they hold his last hope. “Tell me the truth,” he whispers. “Did you ever love me?”

The words slam into you, breaking down every wall you’ve built. And suddenly, it all spills out.

“Of course I did,” you breathe, your voice cracking. “I always did. But you—you were hurting, Finnick. You were drowning, and I thought if I reached for you, I’d just pull you under with me.”

His face twists, eyes dark with something unreadable. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t get to choose how much of myself I give to you.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know. And I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought…” You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling shakily. “I thought if I stayed close enough to keep you safe, but far enough to not make things worse, then maybe… maybe we’d be okay.”

Finnick lets out a quiet, broken laugh, running a hand through his hair. “And how did that work out for us?”

You press your lips together, looking away. It didn’t. It never did.

Another beat of silence.

“What now?” he asks, and it’s not a challenge. Just a question.

Your fingers twitch around his wrist. “I don’t want to keep hurting you,” you whisper. “I don’t want to be another thing you have to survive.”

Finnick studies you for a long moment before he gently pries your fingers from his wrist, only to intertwine them with his own. His grip is firm. Grounding.

“You never were,” he murmurs. “You were the only thing keeping me afloat.”

Your throat tightens, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. “I–”

He shushes you softly, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “Just… be here now,” he says, voice softer than it’s been all night. “With me.”

And for the first time in years, you do.

You stay.

[caffinedragon]

Dante Ingelvar's LI is Emmerich.

Emmerich and his relationship is one of those actual true love relationships that come with knowing someone so completely that they know full well what they are getting into and they are perfectly fine with it.

The romantic and Sexual aspects of their relationship didn't fully developed until later in their lives but ever since they were young the two men loved each other very deeply and became eachother's safe space over the years.

Due to them essentally both becomeing teacher's at teh necropolis, Emmerich being a professot of the necromatic arts and Dante being the Martial Arts trainer, they don't get out on dates very often but when they do, Emmerich is the one who usually who plans it, mostly because DAnte knows how much he loves to go all out in romantic gestures and Dante is not very good at such things. Or at least not grand ones.

He tends to stick to more simple straight forward things, like going to the cafe they both like or spending a night in and cooking dinner, or buying a new book Emmerich was looking forward to reading.

When it comes to romantic gestures, Dante's only frame of reference is Emmerich the grand gestures he pulls and so, due to struggling with such things a.k.a. his attempts never working out, he is always worried that he won't be remoantic enough for Emmerich.

However, Emmerich only sets a high standard of romance for himself when ity come to gestures and often finds that he enjoys Dante's much more accidental and organic version of the same.

Which means, Dante is often romantic by accident.

For example, Dante is a man with his heart on his sleeve and will gush about Emmerich if given the oppurtunity. There isn't a person in or outside the necropolis that doesn't know they are together because of this. Not that Emmerich minds.

Secondary example is that Dante is very crow(as in the bird) like and often is a big gift giver. And so it is not unsual for Dante to come home from shopping, running excitedly up to Emmerich and go, "Hey, Babe, look what i got for you!" and then proceeding to go on a long explanation as to exactly why he bought it, reason inculding but not limited too...

You mentioned it in a conversation two weeks ago.

The color matches your eyes, hair, skintone, etc.

It reminded me of this time when...

And so on.

Every time he does this, despite Dante's own worries, never fails to make Emmerich melt into a puddle.

If they had unlimited time and money and no obligations, i believe the two of them would take a real sabbatical and then just not do a damn thing except each other and maybe go shopping or on a walk for a while.

They are both in their 50's and have lead very busy lives up to this point, they deserve it.

As for saying things, I can't really think of anything because Dante isn't one to hide his feelings unless he has reason. *Cough* Johanna *Cough*. Not too mention, Emmerich pretty much knows everything about Dante's life and he about his so, accept for the insecurities brought up in the game, there isn't anything.

As for family, they already did through Manfred.

My HC is that Dante helped find the pieces Emmerich ultimately built Manfred from and was his biggest hype man through the process. Even thoguh he couldn't help much on the magic side of things, his ability to sing wisps and spirits into bodies helped a great deal in tranfering the little curiosity wisp into the body they built.

Dante love Manfred as if he was his kid, just as Emmerich does and was often the only person Emmerich trusted to look after him when he had to go somewhere Manfred couldn't.

Beyond that, Dante himself is often responsible for more abandoned children to survive and over the years became a surrogate dad in the same way Vorgoth was to him.

So between them and Manfred, they already have one.

My HC for stuff they did that wasn't in the game?

Dante just completely crashing and using Emmerich's lap as a pillow, at every opportunity at the lighthouse.

All the naps. Always cuddled up to Emmerich in one way shape or form. Just all the snoozing.

Dante had very little sleep during the first section of the game due to a near constant state of overstimulation and stress. So, when Emmerich joins, one of the few people he feels safe being that vulnerable around, he constantly falls asleep on him like a cat.

And when he does, Emmerich makes sure that he isn't disturbed and often will not move until he wakes up on his own or there is an emergency.

Manfred is a very dutiful guard when this happens.

This is my Fav shot so far. I call it "Proud Dad's watching their son have the time of his life."

But since you can only see the back of my Rook i give you this one too for reference of what Dante looks like:

Rook Introduction Hour 2/14/25

Happy Valentine's Day! I hope everyone celebrating is having a wonderful time! 💞💖❣️🧑🏾‍❤️‍💋‍🧑🏿👩🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏽👨🏾‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏼💌🩵🫶🏼🥰💝💘❣️

How it works: I ask you a question about your Rook(s) and you answer it with as much brevity or verbosity as you desire. You can do this whenever you want, and I’ll reblog it + add some comments! There’s no time limit— if you want to do the older ones, they are collected here! (The post is updated on Fridays!)

🎶 L is for the way you look at me /O is for the only one I see /V is very, very extraordinary /E is even more than anyone that you adore! 🎶

Today's Question(s): NOW it's all about 💕Romantic love💕! Who is/are your Rook's LI(s)? Do they go on dates together frequently? Where do they like to go together? What's the most romantic thing that Rook's ever done for them? That they've ever done for Rook? If they had unlimited time and money, and no obligations, what would they do for each other? Is there anything Rook or their LI(s) want to say to each other that they haven't yet, for some reason? If they were to settle down together, would they want to start a family? Do you have any headcanons about anything they did together during the game that wasn't shown? And lastly, do you have any pictures of Rook and their LI(s) that you want to share?

Hopefully there are enough questions for everyone to find something they're excited about! Have fun, and thanks for sharing!

(Also, if you are looking for more DA themed Valentine's day content, taamlok made a new romance themed ask game, and corvus-frugilegus is sending silly valentines! And those of you playing on PC can also download the Veilguard of Love mod that metamancer-io made, and turn your Veilguard romantic! Hope you have fun!)

[karnaxa]

The way I am about to absolutely lose it about one piece

[nihilismtrcit]

did nora clean or unpack anything today? no. did she write? also no. she did have beer for breakfast, though

[bleeding-hart]

some sketches

based on @theicarusconstellation's writing

I keep thinking of details I left out and stuff I need to fix but if I let myself do that I'm going to go insane so we're leaving it at this

Also some Sirius because they're a fucking king and we love them (I very strongly hc them as genderqueer and using any pronouns, but specifically he/they/she/it)

The dress was a bit of a failure but hey it looks like fabric at least I think maybe

[turquoisefleur]

Haunted Puzzle Mansion AU - "Will" of D

(just idea -- I'm no good at fanfics...)

(dead characters are alive -- place whenever in the timeline u want)

A mysterious Great Grandfather left in his Will that whoever of his descendants completed his puzzle (on his mansion) would win his treasure, the One Missing Piece.

You, the reader, is one of them, a bunch of weirdos, all gathered at Laughing Tale mansion, but... was the mansion.... HAUNTED?!

You could sleep there, if you wanted, or even DARED, but nevertheless all your friends/detective teams were stationed near by, on a small town at the end of the Grand Line railroad.

Will the government, or evil capitalist cooperatives owners, (such as Doffy, CEO of a Toy and Fruticulture Corp.), be able to prove the Will is illegal and the mansion should be teared down for profit other purposes??

Is up to you and your distant cousins to figure everything out and save the mansion! Or not, visit the near by town, fall in love with NPCs, taste Sanji's cooking, raise a farm and make it into a cozy video game life!

thas the AU. thnk u fo coming to my TedTalk :,)

[beanghostprincess]

I don’t mean it in shippy way, but I’ve been rewatching my childhood shows and

Me, age 8, watching my little pony: wow those two sisters really are so adorable, it’s so sad the younger one felt so unshined by the other. But I like Luna more, since she is an underdog and was kinda right to feel this way, even if it wasn’t her sister fault

Me, age 22, reading one piece 1082: I really didn’t change at all didn’t I

Literally me fr fr I've always liked this type of character and it hasn't changed ever since! Maybe it's the complexity in which they're written. Perhaps it's that I relate to them just a lil bit too much. Whatever it is, misunderstood characters who have all the right to feel envy towards their specific loved ones my beloveds.

[revasserium]

i just want to say that in un-certainly, the way you wrote luffy is SOOO IÑAKI, tight down to his wording that i can just HEAR him, AND IT’S SO NICE TO READ bc the comedic beats fell perfectly within the fic 😆

omg BLESS THANK YOU!! i do think that i hear luffy's voice the strongest when i'm writing opla fic. and then sanji the next strongest, bc their accents are just so... nice???? not to say that i don't ADORE zoro or nami's voices but it's a bit harder for me to hear their voices as i'm writing. i have to like reach for it a bit. where as luffy is just...... there.

like inaki!luffy is on my fucking shoulder speaking and i'm just writing down what he says LOL

[whats-her-quirk]

Watched the first 6 episodes of one piece live action

y’all it’s so good

[musiquesduciel]

I, a Maxwell stan, had to be at work the day Australia played against Afghanistan in that legendary match so a moment of silence for me, kids.

[echoesofadream]

backtracks are so weird. like yes I can hear you singing live wow so good of you but literally the studio version is playing if not over you than at least with you as loudly like? two people singing at once? when and why did this become so normalized like. did bts use to do this on their concert I cant remember id be so disappointed if they did but I cant remember that they did and pang in my chest I miss them

[animamii]

"Fushiguro, that's your girl?" One of Toji's block mates asks, eyeing one of the many pictures Toji had of you taped to the slate gray brick wall. It was a simple picture, your hair was wavy in this one, a cute dimply smile, lashes curled as you looked all natural. But god, were you still stunning. Toji looks up from the thing he was doing, sitting in the steel chair that was bolted down to the floor.

"Yup, that's my ol' lady," looking up at the picture he can't help but proudly smile. Toji's wall is covered in pictures. Of you, of Megumi. The whole family. Cute pictures you took with each other before he got locked up. It was his motivation to stay straight while being inside. To remind him of what's waiting for him when he gets out.

The block mate lets out a low whistle, nodding approvingly as he leans back against the cold wall. “Damn. She bad.” His celly's eyes roam over the pictures. Ones where you're dressed up all pretty, makeup done perfectly. Ones where you're wrapped around one of Toji's arms, looking up at him with all the adoration in the world. Even the ones that show just a little too much, which Toji keeps right next to where he lays his head.

Toji chuckles, shaking his head. “Watch it.” There’s no real threat in his voice, but there’s an edge of warning that makes the other guy hold his hands up in surrender.

“Ain’t mean no disrespect, Fushiguro,” he says, still looking at the pictures. “Just sayin’. You lucky.”

Toji doesn’t need to be told that. He already knows. It’s what gets him through the long nights, the endless hum of fluorescent lights, the hostility of the barbed wire that separates him from the outside. Knowing you're out there, waiting, is the only thing that keeps him from losing his damn mind.

He leans back against the desk he sits in front of, arms folding across his broad chest, eyes fixed on the pictures. His ol’ lady. His girl. His anchor in a life that never gave him much stability.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. He can still hear your voice, that soft, teasing lilt whenever you’d call him by his full name just to mess with him. “Toji Fushiguro,” you’d say, dragging it out, pretending to scold him, even though your eyes always gave you away. He lived for those moments.

“Bet she writin’ you, huh?” the block mate asks. “You get letters?”

Toji nods. “Every week.” And he does. Neatly folded pages that smell like you, inked with words that remind him that he’s still human. That he’s still yours. That he still has something waiting for him beyond these walls. But god, does he miss you.

“Damn,” the block mate mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Every week? That’s real love right there.”

Toji just smirks again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, edges worn from being opened and closed too many times. He doesn’t even need to read it again—he’s already memorized every damn word—but still, he unfolds it, running a calloused thumb over the handwriting. Your handwriting.

Hey, baby. I know you hate when I get all mushy, but I don’t care. I miss you. I miss you so much it drives me crazy sometimes. But I’ll wait. However long it takes, I’ll wait. You better be eating, staying out of trouble, and keeping that smart-ass mouth in check. (Okay, maybe not too much. You know I love that about you.)

Toji chuckles to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, you knew him too damn well.

Megumi misses you too, even if he acts all tough about it. You should’ve seen his face when I told him your letter came. He’s just like you, y’know? Won’t say how he really feels, but it’s all there in his eyes.

Toji swallows hard, jaw clenching. Megumi. His kid. Another reason for pushing through this hellhole. He pictures him—too serious for his own good, but with those same sharp blue eyes. His boy.

“Yo, Fushiguro,” another voice calls out, snapping him from his thoughts. One of the guards. “Mail just came in.”

Toji is already up before the guy even finishes his sentence, heart pounding just a little faster. The guard hands the baby pink envelope with a lazy flick of the wrist, and Toji snatches it up quick, already recognizing the familiar scrawl of his name across the front.

His block mate lets out a laugh. “Man, look at you. Actin’ like a kid on Christmas.” Toji was always stoic, kept to himself and never showed much emotion. But hey, you always brought it out of him and he wasn't gonna front or hold a facade when it came to how he felt about you.

Toji doesn’t respond. He just sits back down, thumbs sliding under the flap of the envelope, tearing it open like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing in this godforsaken place. The first thing that falls out is a polaroid. His breath catches. It’s you.

You're sitting by a window, sunlight spilling over your skin, that soft, gentle smile on your lips. His girl. His sweetheart. Looking at him like she sees something in him that even he has trouble believing in sometimes. And just like that, the walls of the prison don’t feel so damn suffocating. He’s got something to hold onto.

Toji runs a thumb over the polaroid, like he could somehow feel you through it. The picture is warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold steel and concrete around him. He exhales through his nose, staring at it for a long moment before finally unfolding the letter.

Your words hit him like they always do—gentle, teasing, but full of something deeper. Something that reminds him why he’s still holding on.

Hey, baby. I hope you’re not making the guards’ lives too hard. (Who am I kidding? I know you are.) It’s been getting colder here. I keep stealing your hoodie, the one you always say is yours but smells like me now. Tough luck, Fushiguro, it’s mine until you come back and take it from me.

Toji smirks, shaking his head. She’s gonna pay for that one.

Megumi’s been doing good in school, but I had to threaten to ground him just to get him to eat something other than instant ramen. He’s stubborn, just like his old man.

His smirk fades a little. He can picture it—Megumi sitting at the dinner table, arms crossed, trying to act like he doesn’t care. Just like Toji used to. The guilt settles in his chest, heavy and unshakable. He just wishes he could be there. For the both of you.

We miss you. I miss you.

He stops, lingering on that line. Simple, but enough to send a slow ache through his ribs.

I don’t care how long it takes. You come back to me, Toji. We’re waiting.

Toji exhales sharply, pressing the paper between his fingers, his grip a little too tight.

“Damn,” his block mate mutters, watching him. “She really ridin’ for you, huh?”

Toji just nods. He doesn’t need to say anything. He folds the letter carefully, tucking it away with the others. Getting up, he sticks some tape of the back of the polaroid, putting it up next to the rest of the pictures. Then he leans back in his chair, looking up at the mosaic of pictures you send him.

Yeah. She’s waiting. And he sure as hell isn’t gonna let her down.