#Reading Tips and Tricks for Kids

[purringpearl]

Day #14 of convincing Taylor Swift that I can be one of her songwriters

Can you stay for a little while

Tell me why you think you can't put back that smile?

'Cause I've got you like a dream

All the jumbled words in my book are aligned

Too good for this world

You die with simple words

I might can't see you cry

But I always see you try

Heal my heart and weep my tears

Leave all your comfort here

Light up my dark room

Your face isn't less than the cherry blossom

You think a lot, not just once

But trust me you're more than enough

Bring meaning to my life

You're so much more than what I can ever write

Being in your arms here

It is a privilege I can't let anyone access

Without you, a second is like an hour

And a day like that can make my life sour

I'll tell you how this world's not for you

I'll say it again, you're just too good

I still wonder how I got you

Your presence itself is rare and so true

I've got a home in you

And you're my world too

Do you still think you aren't enough?

If yes, I'll list down many more reasons

But for me, there's only one

That you are here with me my love

[hayatheauthor]

10 Non-Lethal Injuries to Add Pain to Your Writing

New Part: 10 Lethal Injury Ideas

If you need a simple way to make your characters feel pain, here are some ideas: 

1. Sprained Ankle

A common injury that can severely limit mobility. This is useful because your characters will have to experience a mild struggle and adapt their plans to their new lack of mobiliy. Perfect to add tension to a chase scene.

2. Rib Contusion

A painful bruise on the ribs can make breathing difficult, helping you sneak in those ragged wheezes during a fight scene. Could also be used for something sport-related! It's impactful enough to leave a lingering pain but not enough to hinder their overall movement.

3. Concussions

This common brain injury can lead to confusion, dizziness, and mood swings, affecting a character’s judgment heavily. It can also cause mild amnesia.

I enjoy using concussions when you need another character to subtly take over the fight/scene, it's an easy way to switch POVs. You could also use it if you need a 'cute' recovery moment with A and B.

4. Fractured Finger

A broken finger can complicate tasks that require fine motor skills. This would be perfect for characters like artists, writers, etc. Or, a fighter who brushes it off as nothing till they try to throw a punch and are hit with pain.

5. Road Rash

Road rash is an abrasion caused by friction. Aka scraping skin. The raw, painful sting resulting from a fall can be a quick but effective way to add pain to your writing. Tip: it's great if you need a mild injury for a child.

6. Shoulder Dislocation

This injury can be excruciating and often leads to an inability to use one arm, forcing characters to confront their limitations while adding urgency to their situation. Good for torture scenes.

7. Deep Laceration

A deep laceration is a cut that requires stitches. As someone who got stitches as a kid, they really aren't that bad! A 2-3 inch wound (in length) provides just enough pain and blood to add that dramatic flair to your writing while not severely deterring your character.

This is also a great wound to look back on since it often scars. Note: the deeper and wider the cut the worse your character's condition. Don't give them a 5 inch deep gash and call that mild.

8. Burns

Whether from fire, chemicals, or hot surfaces, burns can cause intense suffering and lingering trauma. Like the previous injury, the lasting physical and emotional trauma of a burn is a great wound for characters to look back on.

If you want to explore writing burns, read here.

9. Pulled Muscle

This can create ongoing pain and restrict movement, offering a window to force your character to lean on another. Note: I personally use muscle related injuries when I want to focus more on the pain and sprains to focus on a lack of mobility.

10. Tendonitis

Inflammation of a tendon can cause chronic pain and limit a character's ability to perform tasks they usually take for granted. When exploring tendonitis make sure you research well as this can easily turn into a more severe injury.

This is a quick, brief list of ideas to provide writers inspiration. Since it is a shorter blog, I have not covered the injuries in detail. This is inspiration, not a thorough guide. Happy writing! :)

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

Instagram Tiktok

[ittybittyave]

The Nevada County Library is crushing summer again with free crafts, storytimes, movie nights, D&D, and even reading prizes (because bribery works). Sign up for Beanstack and let the “Mom, I’m bored” crisis be someone else’s problem. Learn more below! #nevadacounty #summerlearningchallenge #libraryevents #communityevents #grassvalley #nevadacity #books #reading #learning #beanstacktracker #kids #children #summerevents

[presswoodterryryan]

Ariel’s Super Duper Math-tastic Adventure! ➕➖🤯

By Alice Hey, hey, hey! It’s me, Alice! 🐰✨ And guess what? My super-smart big sister, Ariel, just wrote another AMAZING paper, and this time, it’s all about BIG NUMBERS! Like, numbers SO BIG they could fill an entire castle! 🏰🔢 At first, I was like, “Wait, isn’t math just counting cookies and making sure Poppy doesn’t steal mine?” 🍪😆 But Ariel showed me that math is EVERYWHERE! From the number…

[carebearbussy]

ᥫ᭡ imagining heian era! sukuna tending to his pregnant wife, and slowly warming up to having a child.

౨ৎ when he finds out you are pregnant, he goes full 'nonchalant, but worried husband' mode. he did not want kids. he thought they were lousy and annoying, and they would not bring any use to his bloodline. he told you that this would just get in his way, and that you should find a way to get rid of it. but the way you looked up at him with your adorable dazzling eyes? eh, he could make it work, just for you. but he found it hard to warm up to the idea of having children.

౨ৎ hires the best of the best to guarantee your health is in tact. doctors? you will have daily checkups, which included the doctor coming to the estate, and keeping track of your daily prgress while you are bedside. such as seeing if the baby is kicking, how large your stomach grows, and even recommending you a special diet to hold the nutrients for your baby. he is doing all of this for you, not that pesky baby. handmaidens? they will double in number. you are more fragile than ever, and in his eyes, you need all of the female support you can get that he cannot provide.

౨ৎ would host a grand babyshower. there would be hundreds, even thousands of guests at your babyshower. it would be hosted somewhere with a large, outside venue, bustling with people coming to support you. people would give you their blessings, hoping the best for the newcoming ryomen. gifts for the baby such as clothes, furniture, etc. and for you? people will gift you a plethora of things. jewelry, trinkets, and everything under the sun. the citizens of the nearby villages will bow to your feet, wishing you the best. your pregnancy will be treated as an event. around the villages, it will be talked about.

౨ৎ makes a extravagant nursery for your child. it will be in a large room, making extra space for your baby. sukuna will notice you spend alot of time there, watching you decorate the nursery to your pleasing day by day. liked seeing you struggle to put the furniture together, as you are forced to ask him for help, as you watch his assemble a bassinette. you could tell he was starting to get used to the idea of having a child around the estate. as you list off all of your ideas for how you would decorate, he liked to think you might be a suitable mother.

౨ৎ you held a giant journal of names, keeping track of each one as time goes by. you wrote in the journal with an ink pen, sometimes even letting sukuna in on the name choosing. as you sat on his lap in his large office, he would suggest 'little roach', or 'annoying brat' for some of the names, which was quickly shut down. you will think intently upon each name, asking sukuna on his opinion. sukuna thinks he should be the one naming the child, but with his suggestions, that will not be happening. you'd be better off asking some of your handmaidens for advice.

౨ৎ would ask any ladies in the estate for advice as well. this is something he thought he would never have to do. but he finds it difficult to ajust to your pregnancy, due to your influx in hormones, making you seem emotional all the time. would ask your handmaidens why you become so emotional, but they seem offended with the way he worded it. but they realize that sukuna is naturally brash, so they help him by giving him tips and tricks for fatherhood. he tries his best, mostly caring about what he thinks is best for you, not so much your child.

౨ৎ liked looking at your stomach more often than he thought he would. he never knew you would look so goddamn cute swollen with his child, but here he was, watching as you lay in bed, reading a book of poems, as he sees his future child kicking inside your uterus. you child was larger than an average one, he noticed, due to his abnormal genes. placing his large hand over your stomach, he could feel every single kick, asking you questions as it happens. "why does this brat kick so much? tell him to stop." "kuna, hes a baby..." "i do not care, he needs to learn to stop being so restless."

౨ৎ your delivery will send him into internal panic. he demands that he is in the room with you, holding your hand. but your large group of handmaidens by your side strongly disagree, reccomending that he let you be. but making sure you were okay was his top priority, so he stayed in the large bedroom where you gave birth. your head and body would be covered in towels, your hands tightly cuffing your handmaidens. it was extremely painful, as your screams could be heard from afar. but with the way sukuna had rubbed his thumb on your cheek, it made you feel slightly better. after you, he would be the first to hold your child, demanding so himself.

౨ৎ he wants a boy, 100%. he is hoping for a strong heir that can add onto his legacy, even though it isnt entirely necessary. if he ends up having a son, he will teach him the ways of manhood. teaching him how to hunt his own humans, how to properly court a lady (in his mind), and how to become as strong as him someday. and most of all, how to take care of his mother. he will not tolerate any disrespect towards you. he will call his son names like 'ryomen 2.0', or 'annoying rat'.

౨ৎ but if he gets a girl? he will be upset when he finds out. but he will come around to love her after quite a while. will go from calling her a nuisance, to hosting mini tea parties with her stuffed animals which were gifted by her auntie handmaidens, squeezing himself into a small chair at a small dining table with fake tea and pastries. he will truly care for his daughter, and will become extremely overprotective over her. he will call her 'little princess', or 'spoiled brat'.

౨ৎ enjoys watching you tend to your children. he secretly enjoyed the fact that he could call you 'the mother of his children'. being domestic with you is something he had never imagined in his life, but here he was, burping your small newborn over his shoulder with one hand. he likes to see the way your eyes light up when your child walks for the first time, or when they say their first words. he doesnt think it is important, but since its you, he doesnt say anything. "woman, what are you freaking out over?" "come quick! he just said 'papa'!" "i knew it, thats my child alright."

౨ৎ but he will absolutely refuse to change the babys diapers. do not ever ask him to do that, he will very rudely decline. bu dont worry. like everything else, he will come around to do so.

[08luvmailz]

★ ﾟ๑ PARTY ON YOU ୧ ⊹ ࣪

ᡴꪫ which yeon sieun shuts you after he transferred schools ୧ ⊹ ࣪ second part ／console me, and then i'll leave without a trace ୧ ⊹ ࣪ third part ／ I'd do anything just for me to see you again ──⠀ angst / no comfort , set before ep1 of s2 ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ i just read some fanfics on wattpad and some are just with sieun after the events of season 1... i just have a feeling that he can push someone away from his life.. even if it hurts him too.

There was a time when she thought, what happened to us? where did it all go wrong?

In sixteen years of living, love had always felt like a distant star — something warm and beautiful, yet always out of reach. To love was a risk. To be loved, a miracle. And in between, she simply learned how to live without expecting either.

Her love for taekwondo had been constant, unwavering. It was a language she was taught at a ripe age of 4 with her father, trophies made him happy. It was a bond that she shared with him, to make him feel proud, strong, and it feeds his ego. She was the best, she had to be—for him. But as she grows it withers slowly, so is her dad, until what once felt like an unbreakable connection became fragile, like a leaf caught in a fading breeze.

Ballet was a profound hope — the kind that stretched her limbs and lifted her heart, a yearning for her mother's approval that she could never quite grasp. Each pirouette, each graceful leap, was a silent plea for validation. But the nagging, the expectations that came with it, only weighed her down, turning what was once her sanctuary into a cage.

Her mother had once been a prima ballerina, graceful and untouchable, a star that shone brightly in the world of dance. But then she had given birth to her — and with that, the light dimmed. Seventeen years of her life felt like a constant shadow, as if she, the daughter, was the mistake that interrupted her mother’s prime.

In her, eyes. She is the reflection of what she could be.

But alas, in all of this, it was hardest to be loved. Her peers, so quick to judge, had no room for the simple truth of her heart. To boast was to be called egoistic, to stand tall in her own strength was a crime of arrogance. Yet, if she became humble, they whispered that she sought validation — attention, as if her quiet steps were nothing more than a plea for free applause.

Her personality was a mere bubble— shiny, radiant, reflecting the world around her with a brilliance that caught the light. She became what they wanted to see, a mirror of their expectations, fitting in. But beneath the facade, emptiness, hollow. The reflection wasn't hers to begin with, she wore a mask to survive, as soon as it pops, she was nothing.

She had once been bubbly. Loud in the most sincere way — laughing with her whole chest, arms always outstretched as if the world was waiting to be hugged. But the world didn't hug back. It recoiled. Her light became too much, her joy became annoying, and slowly, quietly, she folded in on herself.

Then there was him, Suho.

That haul ass, he actually did.

He saw her like no one does, not some attention seeker, threat or whatever her classmates called her. But, some lonely kid who accidently trips on his desk and apologize meekly for waking him up. It's like at the snap of his fingers — they were friends, it felt so strange on the tip of her tongue. It wasn't on her vocabulary to call someone 'a friend', she smiled at the thought, she could finally say "mom, im with a friend. oh, im hanging out with my friend. Dad, i'll be late. Im with suho, he's the delivery kid"

He was there for her, vice versa. They share drinks, he taught her some tricks. Rode his mop of a motorcycle and helps him sometimes (she begs to help) in his deliveries, taught her to ride his motorcycle but was banned from ever driving it because they almost crashed, gifted him on his birthday that pig like arm-rest pillow because he sleeps during class, anytime—anywhere.

After Suho, came Sieun — the boy with a mind like steel and a heart he kept under lock. She hadn’t meant to break in. She just smiled at him one day, really smiled, all softness and quiet light. And instead of turning away, he looked at her — really looked — but he quickly turned away and do what he always do, study.

It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

After that, they became closer (she and suho forced themselves in his, peaceful life and made it their profound home). He didn’t speak much, but she learned to read the pauses between his words, the silence that carried more weight than most voices ever could. And in those small, strange moments, something unspoken bloomed — not loud like laughter, but steady like breath.

Beomseok joined last — hesitant and unsure, the quiet space-filler who stood at the edge of the light until he learned how to laugh without apology. With them, he found a version of himself that didn’t have to shrink. And she noticed — the way he kept things to himself, always smiling, always deflecting. But underneath it all, he was alone. Like her. And she respected him for that — for surviving in silence, for fighting battles no one could see. It was like they spoke a secret language, stitched together by glances and almosts. If Suho hadn’t been the first to crack her open, to teach her that loud kindness could feel safe — it might’ve been Beomseok.

They were alike, it felt like it. She never asked for more than he could give. He would treat her to milk tea without a word, and she would tag him in her stories like a quiet thank-you — ‘he bought this for us today’. His presence was constant, and sometimes, constancy felt close enough to love.

The four of them never made sense, heck their personalities mixed in a wheel. But together, it felt like home, peace. They make it— make sense.

She remembered that day, where Beomseok invited them in a fancy cafe, the three of them were underdressed in hoodies and jackets and and scuffed shoes, while she had worn something a little too nice — something she thought might match the place. Suho took one look at them and laughed, nudging her playfully. ‘We look like your bodyguards,’ he said, grinning. ‘Or your butlers,’ Beomseok added with a rare, easy laugh, raising his brow. ‘Maybe you’re the one who’ll be paying, princess.’ She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest was real, golden.

And Sieun, he said nothing. Just watching the scene as it played across the table that ever-neutral mask on his face. But then, for just a second, the corner of his mouth curved. A small, tipped smile — fleeting, quiet, but it was there. And she held onto it like a pressed flower in the pages of her memory.

Or when she invited them to her house to make shakes she shared at the group chat. Chaos, and wasted ingredients lingered on her mind.

She remembered nights they spent on rooftops eating instant noodles. Suho would tell dumb jokes, Beomseok would laugh too hard, and Sieun would roll his eyes but never leave. She remembered the market stall — her and Sieun, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a hot bowl of doenjang jjigae on a cold day, pinky fingers brushing as they both reached for the last piece of tofu. He didn’t pull away.

They had made a promise that day.

"Next time, we'll get our own bowls"

"No, let's keep sharing. Its more delicious to share with... friends"

He nodded at her and the promised was sealed.

There was the photobooth too — that cramped, blinking little box on the corner of a busy arcade. She and Beomseok had practically dragged Suho and Sieun inside, laughter already bubbling before the first flash. Suho’s long legs stuck out from under the curtain, his face half-covered as the fabric kept hitting him. He grumbled through a smile, ever dramatic. Sieun sat stiffly in the corner, back too straight, unsure what to do with his hands, his expression tight but his presence willing. And Beomseok — sweet, ridiculous Beomseok — came back with an armful of props. Sunglasses too big, fake mustaches, and a tiara that she insisted Suho to wear.

They argued over poses, switched hats mid-frame, and by the time the countdown hit one, they had given up on perfection. They just laughed. Uncoordinated and chaotic, but real.

She kept the strip, in a frame to look at. To reminisce.

At that point, she felt like on the cloud. It felt like she was dreaming, its too good, she dreamt of this before where she would have friends who are there for her and she would be too. But every dream turns to be a nightmare when she woke.

She wished to never woke up.

She wished it will just be the same as it was before.

She wished she helped, noticed, talk.

She wished it all.

She just wished, but she never acted.

She never did, she watched it all happen.

In a snap, it all crumbled down.

And it crumbled them apart, them. The 4 of them, nothing.

But then came the fight. The blood. The hospital room with fluorescent lights that never flickered off. Suho, broken and still. Beomseok, shattered in ways they didn’t see until it was too late. And Sieun — closed off tighter than ever, fists clenched, eyes wild with a grief he refused to name.

It all fell apart, the shared laughter, the whispers during class bothering Sieun. Everything falling apart.

She held him when he broke down in that sterile hallway, her arms around his trembling body. She thought they were in this together.

Then he left.

He left, without a goodbye.

Not even a glance, not a word.

No messages, calls.

Just absence, his lingering precense, silence.

She waited for him, days turns to weeks, to months.

She called. Texted. Wrote long, tearful messages and erased them. She even waited outside the hospital, hoping he’d come back. Sometimes she’d fall asleep in the hallway chair, cold noodles beside her, unread texts blinking on her phone screen like a cruel joke.

He never replied.

She scoffed and chuckled softly. It was all typical.

Of course, It's Sieun after all.

In the end, she had to bribe a teacher. Just a little. Nothing serious. Just a favor passed in whispers, the gentle weight of desperation folded inside an envelope. A name. A connection. A sliver of a chance.

She hadn’t meant to go this far, but silence was starting to rot in her chest, and she couldn’t take another unanswered message blinking cold on her screen. By some cruel or kind miracle, her homeroom teacher — warm, a little nosy, but always kind — happened to know the man who owned the building Sieun now lived in.

And that was her signal. To go and visit him.

She packed carefully. His favorite brand of milk, chilled and sweating in her bag. A container of doenjang jjigae — just like the one they shared at that tiny market stall, the day they had laughed, just the two of them, broth steaming between them, future humming on their tongues and a bouquet of asters and pink camellias — for longing, for the soft, aching kind of love that tiptoes around the edge of confession.

She took two rides.

Two painful rides.

Two long, aching rides through the city’s breathless gray sky as her head leaning against cold windows, eyes tracking strangers who passed too fast to remember.

She didn't mind the wait.

It made her relentless, muttering softly the words she memorize to say.

Hi, its been a long time

Hi, you hungr- no scratch that it's too casual.

Hey, its been a long time. It sounded like the first one though...

Hey, Sieun. How are you? I bought some doenjang jjigae...

Her legs ached from waiting, her bag was heavier than usual — not from weight, but from meaning.

Still, she clutched it like a promise.

The milk. The stew. The flowers.

The shared memories.

She imagined what must be his reaction, would he smile, say sorry. But she couldn't imagine anything...its been too long since she last saw him, talked to him.

The building stood tall, too tall, like a giant of cold stone and glass. She glanced up, and her nerves betrayed her, sending her heart into a rapid dance at each step she took felt like a dream, her body moving on its own while her mind stayed behind, watching — detached, unsure.

The doors loomed ahead, distant yet close, a threshold she couldn't cross fast enough. Her breath was shallow, a quiet tremor in her hands, but she continued as her fingers brushed the buzzer, cold and sharp against her skin.

She rang the doorbell with a trembling hand, rehearsing her lines in her head.

“Hey, it’s been a while… I brought dinner.”

All of the memorized scriptures all felt crumbling as the door opened.

To her dismay.

Not him.

It was his mother.

She never bowed that fast, “Annyeonghaseyo,” she said, bowing deeply. “Is Sieun here?” As the silence crept as she waited for her answer as she stood infront of her timidly like a twig.

“I’m his mother,” the woman replied warmly. “Who are you?”

But before she could reply, at the corner of her eye.

Its him.

Its really him, Sieun-ah.

Her breath caught. Her pulse slowed and quickened all at once.

Yeon Sieun.

Same cold eyes, same unreadable mouth. He paused when he saw her. She waited for something to soften. Anything.

Nothing, pure silence on words but just footsteps.

“Oh, Sieun-ah,” his mother turned to him, surprised. “Is she your friend? You didn’t tell me she was coming.” His mother waited for his reply and that was it.

He said it. And all she could hear was emptiness.

Her world crumbled, all of it.

“I don’t have any friends. I don’t know her.”

He said it so softly, but why does it hurt when its supposed to be soft— his tone.

The silence after was suffocating.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

She smiled instead — bitter and tight, her lips trembling at the edges. “Oh. I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s not the Sieun I knew. I must have the wrong floor.” She bowed again, lower this time, a goodbye written in the bend of her back. Her eyes closed to let her tears inside.

And, she turned away. Without a word.

The hallway stretched like a punishment. She kept her head high, but her hands shook. The elevator dinged too loudly.

At the trash bin, she paused. She looked at her hand was the flowers, a bouquet of asters and pink camellias — longing a person my ass. Carefully, she placed the flowers inside — the petals already wilting, the ribbon curling like regret.

She rode the elevator down in silence.

She walked in silence, the food swinging rapidly as she walked, she don't care anymore if it spilled.

She was so hungry, so tired.

She sat on the bench of the bus stop, its 7 already.

She sat down, opened the container, and let the scent of doenjang jjigae wash over her. Her stomach clenched. She took a bite. And then another.

And then she cried — not softly, not prettily. Just full, shaking sobs into the sleeve of her coat, stew forgotten on her lap.

She ate alone.

She sobbed alone. She ate while sobbing, its so pathetic.

She felt like its all junior high all over again, eating on the bathroom. Alone.

The warmth of the soup was gone, and so was their friendship.

She remembered the photograph of the photobooth, she remembered it, every detail even if it wasn't with her.

He looked at her, like he almost could have loved her.

All of it was just a mere joke.

And all she had left was the taste of something they once shared — now hers, now hollow.

♡ note ───── party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you party on you

[luveline]

hey love! first of all: i have to admit i started watching criminal minds for the first time earlier this year only bc of your spencer fics! can we get more stripper!reader and spencer? love your writing!!!

thank you!! It’s a slow routine. You begin in a crouch in your underwear, just like at the club. Chest to your knees, arms twisted with the backs of your hands touching. But, unlike at the club, this underwear is comfortable. There’s nobody watching, and you won’t make any tips. You don’t have a pole nor a stage. 

You run through the routine but forgo any pole tricks. You stretch for long, slow minutes, dancing from one space to another. The music in your head isn’t anything you’d play at home, but it works to keep time. You end on your knees again. 

It’s not fun. 

You stretch toward your phone and pick it up. Spencer’s texted you twice in the ten minutes you weren’t on it. 

Hi gorgeous, the first begins, do you want to sleep over? I can make you dinner. 

The second, Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever called you gorgeous before, is that weird? Please come over and pretend I didn’t say that if it was weird

A third pops up while you’re reading. Can I come get you? 

You text him back with pleasure. He’s the only guy in your life who talks to you just to talk, without thinking he could fuck you if he says enough right things, even though he has fucked you. Hi babe you can call me anything it’s not weird, I’ll come over! Not working this week, maybe I can stay two days(?) let me know so I can pack enough clothes 

You can stay all week, if you want to. I miss you 

You imagine him holding his phone, his cheeks pink with blush. 

I miss you too, you text back. 

Just bring what you want to and we can work it out later

Working it out later could mean anything with Spencer. He’s silly enough to try and put you in his clothes, and generous enough to take you shopping if it saves the time it takes to drive you home. 

You’ve packed a bag of clothes and shower things when your phone rings. Spencer’s contact photo covers the whole screen, the two of you together with your face cut out, his smile wide. You were both a teeny bit tipsy. 

“Hello?” you answer, bringing the phone to your ear. 

“Hi!” He sounds nervous. “I’m outside. Am I gonna get towed?” 

“Not if you stay in the car. I’m on my way down right now.” 

“Okay, see you in a second,” he says. 

He never looks comfortable behind a steering wheel. You aren’t sure why he doesn’t sell his car, maybe because it’s dirt cheap to maintain. He never seems happy to be driving is all. 

He smiles when you approach his door, which is better. He rolls down the window. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. You bend at the knees to see him better. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I had a weird feeling about you, like you weren’t alright.” 

You lean down further. “I’m okay.” 

He grins. You’re waiting for a kiss he doesn’t give, finding yourself a subject for his staring, completely still as his gaze follows around your face. He makes no move to kiss you, and for a moment insecurity blossoms. 

“Well, you look okay. Are you getting in? It’s cold,” he says, nodding toward the passenger side.

“No help with my bags?” you ask, closing the door when he tries to open it. “Kidding.” 

You round the hood and climb inside. Then Spencer kisses you, polite but emphatic, one on your lips and another just under your jaw as he squeezes your shoulder. You feed into them lovingly.

“Maybe you can stay at my place forever? That way I can stop missing you all the time,” he says, pulling away slowly. 

“And when the mystery is gone?” you ask. 

“I don’t want mystery with you.” 

Spencer takes your bag from your lap and shoves it into the back seat. You drop the smaller one on your shoes. 

“Do you wanna get pizza or something?” he asks. 

You hold your jaw where he’d kissed you. “Sure,” you say, tingles of his kiss lingering under your hand. 

“Or Chinese? What do you want?” 

You want more kisses, but you love that he always gives you options. “Pizza for sure. Curly fries, too. Hold my hand?” 

Spencer takes it with gusto over the gearstick, and whatever felt like it was missing earlier fills itself in. “Wait,” you say softly, before he can take the car out of park, “just…” You grab his side and drag him toward you for a hug. Holding hands wasn’t gonna be enough —Spencer doesn’t know it yet, but you love him, love how safe he makes you feel, love how fun he makes your life. You can be yourself with him, no matter who that really is.

Spencer holds you, his hand across your shoulder blade rubbing soft lines. 

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

tense

Pairing: Patrick Zweig x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 2.5K

Warnings: Set after the movie; kid's tennis coach Patrick; single mom reader; fingering; oral sex ; vaginal sex; safe sex

Summary: You'd realized within a few meetings that Patrick wasn't exactly like a big kid—he was more like a frat boy that had never gone to college. He'd asked for an advance on his fee, but had agreed to an all-cash payment at the end of the first lesson. He palled around with your son, teased him about school, about the girls that he had a crush on. He didn't fill the role of a father where your son didn't have one, but he was more like an older, cooler schoolmate.

He was funny, he was knowledgeable, and he never missed an opportunity to flirt with you.

"You nail this kid's dick to the wall, I'll teach you that trick shot."

You know that the outward show of your disapproval for your eleven-year-old son's tennis coach's is necessary, but you're biting back a laugh, too. You know that it's the motivation that your son needs going into his final match, but there's gotta be a better way to say it, right?

Still, your son is nodding enthusiastically, and Patrick is turning to look at you. You tip your head to the side, purse your lips, and try not to crack a smile at the guilty, almost dopey smile that Patrick gives you, accompanied by a little shrug. You shake your head and reach for your coffee, using the sip to cover the smile you've been fighting.

Well, Patrick's methods have always been...A little unorthodox.

You'd been warned that he was a little different when you'd gotten his information. Your contact at the Mark Rebellato Academy had recommended him when your son hadn't qualified for a scholarship.

"He needs to get his game up," Your contact had said, "And Zweig's the one to do it. He'll write him a recommendation, too. He's a good guy, good coach. He's not on the level with the kids, but he can get there, you know. He's good with kids 'cause he kinda...Sometimes acts like a big kid."

You'd realized within a few meetings that Patrick wasn't exactly like a big kid—he was more like a frat boy that had never gone to college. He'd asked for an advance on his fee, but had agreed to an all-cash payment at the end of the first lesson. He palled around with your son, teased him about school, about the girls that he had a crush on. He didn't fill the role of a father where your son didn't have one, but he was more like an older, cooler schoolmate.

He was funny, he was knowledgeable, and he never missed an opportunity to flirt with you.

The first time, you'd figured that it was just his way of trying to secure his place as your son's coach, but after the fifth time, you got the sense that he was sort of just...Like that. Every hello and goodbye came with a less-than-subtle elevator gaze—a slow sweep up and down over your body before he gave you a little wave and sent you and your son on your way.

For as surprising as flirting had been, it wasn't totally unwelcome. Your dating life had basically been nonexistent since you'd had your son, and Patrick's advances were kinda...Flattering, even when you weren't completely sure that he meant them.

But the truth of it had been driven home when you'd been driving your son home from practice.

"Patrick asked about you."

"Oh?" You'd responded distractedly, figuring it would be something related—whether or not you'd ever played tennis, if you enjoyed it—but your son went on:

"He asked if you're single."

Your brain stalled for a moment, not fully taking it in as you pulled the car into your driveway.

"...He what?" You finally asked, twisting to look at him.

"Uh-huh. And if you date."

"What'd you say?"

"I dunno. That you're busy."

It was a fair answer, and the truth, but there shouldn't have been a world in which your son was getting that question in the first place. You stewed on it for a few hours before you ultimately called Patrick. You eyed your son a room away where he was doing his homework, listening to the brrrrr....brrrrr as you waited for Patrick to pick up.

"Hey—"

"What the hell are you doing, asking my son if I'm single?"

Patrick doesn't answer for a moment, and it gives you a chance to imagine where he must be, what he must be doing. You can hear the murmur of a tv in the background. Is he in a house, an apartment? Alone, or with someone that's trying to pin him down? You can imagine the cracked screen of his phone pressed up against his beard.

"...It just came up."

"How the hell did something like that just come up?"

"I asked him if he ever practiced with his dad."

Your hand flexes around your phone, irritation rising.

"We don't have contact with his father."

"Yeah, I uh. I got that."

"What's that have to do with me dating?"

"That was just pure curiosity."

You close your eyes, trying to quell your annoyance.

"Well if you have a question about that sort of thing, you ask me, not my son."

"Okay."

"Do not cross that line again, Zweig."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I won't."

"I'm serious—"

"I am, too. I won't ask him about that stuff."

"Good."

"So when's the last time you got fucked?"

Your jaw dropped, face going hot as you tried to parse where the hell this man got the audacity to ask you that kind of thing.

"Excuse me?"

"Thought it seemed like a pretty straightforward question."

"It's a stupid one."

"...Yeah, you're right."

It should end there, but before you can wrap the conversation up, he adds—"It's pretty clear that you haven't gotten any in a while."

"Is it."

"Very obvious, yeah. You're really tense."

"This is just how I am naturally."

"I doubt that."

"Doubt all you want, but you're wrong."

"I don't mind. It's kinda hot," He adds, "You've got that grumpy milf thing goin' on."

Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment before you managed, "Okay, I—I am hanging up on you now."

"Sure. Think'a me when you're rubbing one out later."

You hang up without another word, your face hot with embarrassment. You take in a deep breath, dampening the appeal of the curse words that bubble up in your throat. You're fine. You're not worked up. Patrick Zweig did not get to you.

But despite your best efforts, you did, in fact, think of him as you rubbed one out.

--

His flirting hasn't lessened since then. If anything, it's become more overt. Patrick never says anything untoward when your son is around, but he teases you when the two of you are waiting for your son to get his things together, or over text between lessons. You never take it too seriously. You're sure he's coaching other kids, flirting with their moms just as much. Part of his personality, part of his business model—whatever it is, it's pure Patrick, so you don't begrudge him.

You look at Patrick again as he sits beside you in the stands.

"Nail his dick to the wall?" You repeat.

"With points. Obviously."

"Right."

"You look unconvinced."

"I just don't think that that's necessarily the right way to motivate my son."

"Really?"

"Really."

"...Huh."

You try to ignore his mock curiosity as he leans back in his seat, propping his elbows up on the chairs behind you. When your son serves, hitting a solid ace, and crowing in excitement as the ref declares the point his, you feel Patrick preening beside you, and feel his arm curl around the back of your chair. You can't even bring yourself to be truly annoyed, but you make a point of sighing anyway.

"What were you saying?"

"Can it, Zweig."

--

"So a trick shot isn't a way to motivate him, but this is?" Patrick waves his arm toward the array of flashing, screeching games, the children zipping back and forth, their pockets bursting with tokens and prize tickets.

"I promised him a month ago that if he won his tournament, he could pick two friends and come to Chuck E. Cheese. I just..." You trail off, "I didn't think that...He'd be pick you as one of the friends."

"Am I not his friend? I'm wounded."

"You are—Kinda, I just mean that I figured he'd pick two of his friends from school. You know, kids his own age?"

"Ah," Patrick nods. "Well, I'm flattered."

"I'm sure."

"...I am."

You hesitate before you turn to look at Patrick, and are stunned to find a small, sincere smile on his lips. You can't help but smile a bit, too.

"He appreciates you," You admit. "Your guidance, you know. You've totally changed his game."

"Eh," Patrick looks around. "He would've gotten there without me."

"Not on his own."

"...Not without you, either," Patrick meets your eye again. And while you're certain that everything else he's ever said about you has been a joke, you can tell that he means this. But you can't help but deflect:

"Yeah, well. I'm his mom. There are most places he can't get without me. School, for example."

Patrick huffs a soft laugh, and you smile—really smile. You see something in Patrick's eyes that you haven't seen before, something warm and wanting. You don't let yourself read too much into it as you turn to look around the Chuck E. Cheese again—but before you know it, Patrick is scooching closer, curling his arm around the back of your chair.

"So," He presses his thigh against yours, and you try not to think about the hard, steady muscle, "You still haven't gotten any, huh?"

You bite the inside of your cheek as you fold your arms across your chest.

"Do you have any idea how inappropriate that question is?"

"I know exactly how inappropriate it is."

"And how uncalled for?"

"I think it's very called for."

"Really."

"Very."

"I can't say I agree with you."

"Well it's a good thing I'm not asking you to agree, I'm just asking you to answer."

"You seem to think you know the answer."

"I dare you to tell me I'm wrong." You feel his breath brush against your jaw as he leans closer, lowers his voice to a husky murmur: "And even if I am somehow wrong, whoever it was did not do it right."

"The hell makes you say that?"

"You're still tense."

"I'm always tense. I'm naturally tense."

"I still don't believe that."

"I don't care what you think, and you know what else?"

"What."

"I don't think you could make me cum." You make the mistake of looking at Patrick when you say it. You hope that you've wounded him, but his knowing smile just widens.

"Really."

You can hear his slick smugness, and you know that he doesn't believe you at all. But you force yourself to hold his gaze, nodding.

"Really."

He pouts just a little, nodding.

"I think we should test that hypothesis. Make sure you really are just that tense."

"Even if I did agree to that, I don't exactly have a ton of time.

"What about when he's at school?"

"I have a job."

"Right."

"Mhm. It 's how I'm able to pay you for the lessons?"

"That makes sense. I'll work something out."

"Will you."

"Sure."

"I'd like to see you try."

Patrick grins, leaning back in his seat again.

"You're gonna like a lot more than that."

--

When you get the text, you realize that he must know that you're not—that your son must have told him about his friend's birthday party, that you'd have a free afternoon. You're tempted to tell him that you're occupied—that you have a date, that you've found someone else to fuck you.

But as you stare down at Patrick's text—Busy?—you can't help but lean into your curiosity.

--

It's supposed to be different from this. It's supposed to be awkward, and weird, and not nearly as good, but you can't help it. Your thighs are tense; your fingers are curled in the sheets; your arms are shaking as you hold yourself up, pushing back against Patrick's cock. He groans against your shoulder, his arm hooked around your middle as he fucks you from behind.

His breath pushes hotly against your shoulder, a groan pushing between his lips with each thrust. His hand slides up to grasp your breast, squeezing and teasing in a way that makes you shiver.

Goddamn, but it shouldn't be so good. He shouldn't have been able to make you cum on his tongue and fingers with that dopey grin on his face. He shouldn't have covered your body in kisses in a way that made you feel cherished and wanted and special in a way that you haven't felt in a long time. And now, he shouldn't be able to make you want to press back, to chase down the stretch of his cock as he picks up his pace.

You reach back, grasping his thick curls as he nuzzles against your neck, chasing the scrape his beard with a soothing, slick kiss.

"Patrick," You breathe, "Fuck, I—Oh, God."

"Cum for me again," He urges, sliding his hand down to toy with your tingling clit. "Fuck, tighten up on me, baby—Fuck, that's it, that's it—"

You cry out as you cum, hips rabbiting back against his as your orgasm swells. Patrick groans, pulling out as you're still cumming. He crawls up over you, yanking off the condom and jacking his cock over your parted lips. You lean up, taking the head of his cock in and swirling your tongue. The first spurt of his cum catches you off-guard as much as the feeling of his cock pressing more deeply into your mouth as he thrusts. You draw back just enough to let go of his cock, jerking it as his cum sprays across your neck and shoulder.

Patrick finally lowers himself to lay beside you, panting as the two of you settle. You glance over, taking in his hairy chest, his muscled physique. You watch the rise and fall of his chest as he calms his breathing, and feel his hand smoothing over your thigh. You smile a little bit at the feeling, giving his hand a pat before you push yourself off of the bed to go to the bathroom and grab a washcloth. You rinse your mouth out while you're able, cleaning his cum off of your skin before returning to the bedroom, passing the washcloth to Patrick. He mutters his thanks, wiping himself down beside he tosses it away.

"C'mere," He urges.

You climb back into bed with a narrowed, speculative gaze as Patrick takes your hand, drawing you closer.

"Hey," He laughs, "What's that face for?"

"Nothing."

"You still tense?"

"Told you I would be."

"I think you're faking it. And that better be all you're faking."

"What if it isn't?"

"Oh, it is."

"How can you know that?"

"I know." He doesn't let you keep your distance long, curling his arms around your middle and drawing you into his lap. You wobble a little, tucking your legs beneath yourself and steadying your hands on his shoulders. Patrick's hands slip down to cup your ass, giving it a playful squeeze and grinning when you smile. Patrick tips his head up, dotting your neck with kisses as you tip your head to the side, giving him a bit more room.

"What time's the party over?" He mumbles against your skin.

"Of all things, he didn't tell you that?"

"Said you might let him sleep over at his friend's place, but you hadn't decided yet."

You smile, nodding.

"I did tell him that."

"What'd you decide?"

"...He can sleep over."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Can I sleep over?"

"You gonna be on your best behavior?"

Patrick leans back, grinning up at you.

"Not a chance."

[mikaylathenerd5]

Somewhere Between Silence | Roman Reigns

Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

Summary: Over two years after a breakup neither of them recovered from, Roman runs into Nalani at a quiet grocery store—with a toddler who has his eyes. Grief, guilt, and the weight of silence crack open everything he thought he buried. Now he’s faced with a truth he never expected and a second chance he might not deserve.

Word Count: ~5.8k

Content Warnings: This story contains emotional tension, mentions of absent fatherhood, off-screen breakup and heartbreak, and grief related to missed time with a child. Nothing explicitly graphic, but the tone is heavy and introspective. Please take care of yourselves while reading.

Author’s Note: This one’s close to my heart. I wanted to explore what it feels like to come face-to-face with everything you missed—and still choose to try anyway. This is Part 1 of what’s looking like a slow-burn second chance fic, full of silence, softness, and hope that isn’t easy.

Thank you for reading—likes, reblogs, comments, or even just making it to the end means everything to me.

💌 Feel free to join the taglist or scream in the inbox. Let me know if you want a Pt. 2 🩵✨

“A man can miss a thousand moments and still choose to show up for the next one.”

The doors chimed low—barely a whisper—but Roman heard it.

He always heard the small things now—how silence could stretch and pull at you in ways noise never could. Grief warped his hearing—like a second pulse beneath his skin, tightening everything inside until he could barely think. You could be surrounded by people and still feel the absence of just one, sharp and unforgiving, echoing just beneath the surface. It was like a sixth sense he never wanted—tightening around his ribs, creeping in when he least expected it.

He didn’t know why he came in. He hated grocery shopping. Usually had someone do it for him. But this spot was tucked off a side street in the quiet part of Atlanta. No fans. No cameras. Just jazz playing low and light through the speakers and oranges stacked like sunshine in every corner. The kind of place with handwritten signs and employees who smiled with their eyes. It was the first time in weeks he felt like a man again, not a brand. Something simple. Something still.

And then he heard it.

A laugh—familiar, soft, round.

His spine went stiff.

His head turned on instinct, breath caught halfway in his chest. For a second, he thought he was wrong. That his mind was playing tricks again. That the universe wasn’t cruel enough to play this kind of game.

But then—

Her.

Nalani.

She stood in profile near a basket of strawberries, bent slightly as she steadied a toddler’s reach. Her hair was longer now, thicker curls tumbling over her shoulders, catching the light like strands of ink tipped in gold. No makeup. Gold hoops. Skin that still looked like honey beneath soft morning light. The sight of her hit like muscle memory—familiar, intimate, disarming. His body swayed forward a step before he could think better of it, as if the past had physically pulled him into its orbit. Roman’s grip tightened around the cart handle instinctively, a jolt running through his body like his nerves misfired all at once. His mouth dried, his hands freezing on the cart handle, as if time itself had stalled around his grip.

And beside her—gripping the hem of her dress with one chubby hand—was a little boy.

A chill spidered up Roman’s spine, the kind that made his fingertips go numb and his ears ring like he’d stepped into a different dimension.

The child was small. Maybe no more than two years old. Thick dark curls. Soft golden-brown skin. And something else. Something deeper.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The boy held a green toy truck in one hand and pointed with the other.

"Mama!" he chirped, voice still sweet and round. "Red ones! I want red ones!"

Mama.

Roman’s stomach twisted. Her kid?

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

He just looked like her. That was all. That had to be it. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his cheek—those could be hers, right? Roman’s brain scrambled for denial, for logic, for anything to explain away what his gut already knew. But it unraveled fast. Too fast. His thoughts spun, grabbing at any excuse—maybe she was babysitting. Maybe he was someone else’s child. Maybe this wasn’t what it looked like.

Except… he didn’t. Not entirely.

There was a shape to the boy’s mouth, a weight in his eyes.

The kind Roman saw in the mirror every morning.

He laughed softly, rocking on his feet. He furrowed his brow in a familiar, deeply embedded way.

A sharp inhale scraped his throat, like the air had turned to glass in his lungs.

"No," he muttered under his breath. "No way."

The kid bent down with his little knees and stuck his tongue out while trying to reach a loose berry.

Roman felt the air shift. His jaw clenched before he could stop it, throat bobbing around a breath that never made it out.

That was his look. His mother had teased him for doing that as a toddler. A habit he never outgrew.

And suddenly—he couldn’t breathe.

The apple slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. In that moment, Roman felt just as bruised—something soft and broken rolling out of reach. It rolled to a stop near the boy’s sneaker, soft and bruised.

Nalani turned first to the apple, then slowly lifted her gaze to him.

Time stalled.

She didn’t gasp. Didn’t stumble. But her fingers tensed, a flicker of something passing across her face—maybe shock, maybe something more. But her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her tote, the only crack in her otherwise flawless composure.

Just… stillness.

Her eyes locked on his like a switchblade snapping open.

She stood slowly, one hand adjusting the tote strap on her shoulder.

Roman’s knees nearly buckled. His chest moved like he’d forgotten how to breathe. He’d taken hits in the ring that hurt less than this.

He stepped forward.

"That’s…" His voice cracked. "That’s your son?"

She blinked. Once. Calm.

"No," she said quietly. "He’s your son."

Silence dropped like a blade.

Then, softer—after a long, almost cruel pause—she added:

"Roman."

The name landed like a punch to the gut—silent, wind-stealing, final.

His throat dried instantly. His jaw worked, trying to form words he no longer owned.

"You were…" he managed. "You were pregnant?"

"Yes."

"And you didn’t tell me?"

"No."

"Why would you—"

"You were already gone," she said. "You just hadn’t walked out yet."

The words hit him harder than a punch. Roman flinched, the breath catching in his throat, the ache rising so fast he had to lock his jaw to keep it from trembling. It wasn’t just a line—it was a truth he hadn’t been brave enough to admit until now.

The boy—Maleko—stooped to pick up the bruised apple. It was soft in his hand, damp from the floor. Roman’s chest squeezed watching him cradle it so gently—like even something hurt was still worth holding onto.

"I got it, Mama," he said, wobbling a little as he held it up.

Nalani crouched to take it. "Thank you, baby," she murmured, brushing his curls out of his face.

Her hand lingered there, on his tiny shoulder, and Roman’s throat went tight. A sharp ache bloomed beneath his ribs, like watching something sacred he no longer had a right to touch. Roman’s chest clenched, the weight of helplessness pressing into him like the grocery bag strap digging into his palm, unnoticed until now. Steadying. Grounding. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against his shirt, like if she let go—even for a second—she might crack open. Like she had to hold her own body together with that single touch.

Roman stood frozen.

He looked at her. Then at the boy. Then back.

"He has my name," he whispered. "My blood. And I didn’t even know he existed."

"You didn’t care to know," she said.

"I didn’t get the chance."

She raised her brow. For half a second—just a flicker—her lip trembled. But it was gone before it could mean anything.

"I gave you every chance, Roman. You didn’t take any of them."

"What’s his name?"

"Maleko."

His breath stuttered.

She’d given him a Samoan name.

Even when she hadn’t given him a single word.

Maleko looked up at Roman then, blinking. Curious. Small. The world seemed to pause in that breath—Roman’s heart thudding louder in his ears, the weight of recognition thick in the air—before the boy moved again. He squinted at him like he was trying to place a memory, and Roman’s breath hitched, a sudden sharp pull like someone had yanked the air out of his chest before he could even take the breath, then gave a shy, crooked smile—the kind that lit up his whole face without warning. He tilted his head slightly and rested one hand on his hip—exactly like Roman had just done. The echo of Roman’s stance in that tiny body gutted him.

Roman’s heart shattered in silence. In Maleko’s tilted head and crooked smile, he saw a thousand moments he’d never get back—sippy cups, scraped knees, sleepy yawns—and something deeper: a resemblance that left no room for doubt, only grief and fragile hope.

"Who dat?" the boy asked, pointing the toy truck.

Nalani crouched again, voice low.

"Just someone Mama used to know, baby."

The words split him open.

Roman’s guilt twisted into something sharp. Anger flared—not at her, but at the ache of everything he missed.

"You didn’t even try," he said, voice breaking. "You just decided for both of us."

Nalani stood, slow and deliberate. "I decided for him," she said. "And I’d do it again."

He wanted to fight it. To argue. To demand something back. But the memory of her walking away that night—her hoodie too big on her, her voice too small to stay—rose like smoke in his chest. He’d already lost that fight before he even noticed it was happening. But he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew—he would’ve made it worse back then. He wasn’t who Maleko needed. Not then.

"I want to know him," Roman rasped. "Please."

She looked at him long and hard.

"I don’t know if I want that yet," she said. "He doesn’t know you. And I’ve spent two years keeping his world safe."

He swallowed hard.

She reached down and took Maleko’s hand.

"Come on, baby," she said. "We’ll get you a smoothie before we go home."

Roman didn’t follow.

He didn’t speak.

He just watched her walk away—her son in tow, his curls bouncing as he skipped beside her, the toy truck now dragging along the edge of the cart.

And when he finally looked down, the apple was still on the floor.

Soft. Bruised. Just like the piece of him lying on that floor—unseen, left behind. The silence that greeted him now echoed like the one he carried in his chest, sharp with grief, the same silence that had followed him in and never let go. Birthdays, first words, first steps. A lifetime’s worth of memories he’d never even been invited to. And the silence she’d left in her wake? He was still sitting in it, long after the door closed.

Roman didn’t remember leaving the store.

One second, he was standing over the bruised apple. The next, he was outside, leaning against the hood of his truck, sun beating down on him like it had a personal grudge.

His shirt stuck to his back. Not from heat. From nerves. From shame. His pulse thudded behind his eyes. Too hard. Too loud.

He couldn’t feel his hands. His fingers were curled so tight into his palms they’d gone numb, but he hadn’t noticed until he looked down and realized he was trembling.

The air didn’t help. It was warm—early spring heat with a breeze—but it might as well have been ice.

He had a son.

A son.

Two years of moments. Two years of tiny shoes and teething cries. Of midnight feedings and first steps. All of it—gone. Erased from his hands like he was never meant to hold any of it.

"He doesn’t know you."

That line repeated over and over. It throbbed. Like it lived under his skin now.

Roman scrubbed a hand over his face, then over his beard, like the pressure might make something real. But it didn’t. It just left him feeling rawer than before.

He could still hear Maleko’s voice.

"Who dat?"

He hadn’t even said Dada. Had never said it to him.

Roman’s stomach turned.

He sat down on the edge of the truck bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He hadn’t cried in years.

But now?

His throat felt tight. His vision blurred. The kind of grief that didn’t roar—it sank. Quiet. Heavy. Unrelenting.

He remembered her barefoot in his kitchen, months before the end. Wearing his hoodie. Laughing. He’d kissed her temple. Said something about "someday." The same someday she’d once believed in—the same word she threw back at him in the last message she ever sent.

Somewhere behind him, a car alarm chirped. A kid laughed across the street. Life went on, oblivious.

But for Roman, time had stopped the second Nalani looked him in the face and said, "He’s your son."

A smashed grape on the pavement near the front tire caught his eye. He stared at it too long, chest tight. Everything was soft and ruined now.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there.

Didn’t know if it was minutes or an hour before the ache moved to rage—at himself. At what he lost. At how little he could do now.

"You should’ve known," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You should’ve fucking known."

He’d missed everything.

But maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t missed it all. And if she gave him even half a chance… what kind of man would he have to become to deserve it?

Over Two Years Ago

It started with a fork.

She’d left it in the sink, and Roman, half-distracted on a conference call, had tossed it in the dishwasher with the rest of the dishes. Just another thing to cross off the list.

But when she came home, she saw it. The silver tine bent slightly. The kind of detail only someone who cared too much would notice.

And she didn’t say a word.

The silence had weight. Not tension. Not anger. Just absence.

Roman stood at the end of the hallway, watching the shape of her through the cracked bedroom door. Nalani sat on the edge of their bed, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing. She wasn’t crying. That almost made it worse.

“I ordered Thai,” he said. His voice felt too loud.

She didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed her thumb over the edge of her ring finger—bare, for weeks now.

“I’m not hungry,” she finally replied.

Roman leaned against the frame. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

Nalani shrugged.

The TV was on in the bedroom. One of those home renovation shows she used to love. The volume was low, just enough to distract, not entertain. Paint colors, crown molding—none of it made a dent in the air between them.

“Do you wanna talk?” he asked, more out of guilt than intention.

She turned her head slightly. Not to face him—just enough to acknowledge she heard. “No point.”

That landed harder than anything else that night.

He walked in. Sat at the far edge of the bed, like the space between them had always been there. The distance wasn’t just physical—it had settled into the sheets, the floorboards, the walls.

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “You think I haven’t been trying?”

Nalani didn’t laugh, but he heard the breath she held back. “You’ve been reacting. Not trying.”

He said nothing.

“You show up when it’s convenient. You talk when it’s easy. You love me like I’m a job you forgot you signed up for.”

That one hurt.

And maybe she meant it to. But the worst part was—it wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even a fight. It was exhaustion. Finality.

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” Roman said quietly.

“You didn’t have to mean it.” Her voice was small now. “You just did.”

They sat in silence.

The show on the TV changed. A new couple came on, smiling wide, holding hands. Roman watched it for a second. Then looked at her again.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Nalani nodded once. “Then you should’ve held on before I started slipping.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“I—” he started, but the words jammed in his throat. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. Sorry? Stay? Please?

And she didn’t wait for him to figure it out.

She stood up, crossed the room, and picked up a throw blanket from the chair. She wrapped it around her shoulders—not to leave, but to close herself off.

“I’ll stay on the couch,” she said.

Roman blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired, Roman. I’m tired of sleeping beside someone who feels so far away.”

Then she turned the volume up just a little, pulled the blanket tighter, and walked out of the room.

Not out of his life.

Not yet.

But close.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the remote abandoned beside him. He stared at the muted glow of the screen, at the couple smiling through drywall dust and fresh paint, and wondered how the hell everything had turned so cold.

Cold sheets. Cold air. The faint scent of her shampoo still on the pillow next to him.

He didn’t chase her that night. He thought about it—rising, saying something, anything—but the weight of it all kept him frozen in place.

Didn’t say what he should’ve said.

The hoodie she wore that night would still be in her closet over two years later, untouched. It still smelled faintly like him—warm cotton, a hint of cedar and smoke—and every time she opened the door, she pretended not to see it folded neatly on the shelf like a memory she couldn’t quite throw away.

And in the quiet, Nalani’s absence filled the room louder than any goodbye.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the wall like it might give him back what he’d just lost. She used to pull him closer in the middle of the night—just to feel his heartbeat. And it was always the hoodie she wore when she did. That same one folded neat on a shelf now, holding memories he never deserved to forget. Now, she could barely stand to share the same room.

He thought silence meant peace. He knew better now.

He hadn’t touched his dinner.

The takeout box sat unopened on the kitchen island, condensation pooling around the edge like sweat. The house was dark except for the glow of the TV playing on mute.

Roman sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a contact he hadn’t called in over two years.

He hadn’t saved her under a name. Just the emoji she used to sign off with: 🌙

It was still there.

He didn’t know what he thought would happen. That maybe the number would’ve changed. That time would’ve deleted it for him.

But it hadn’t.

He opened their old message thread, his thumb hesitating midair as if touching the screen might set off a landmine. His hands felt unsteady—too big, too clumsy for something this delicate. His shoulders hunched in toward the phone like the walls were closing in, breath tight in his chest as he scrolled.

The last message was hers.

“You said someday. That’s not a real date.” Delivered.

He read it over and over.

Then scrolled up. Through a hundred messages. Through photos. A blurry picture of her holding a grocery bag up like a trophy. A mirror selfie of her in his hoodie. A timestamped text from 2AM that just read: “Come home.”

He locked the phone and dropped it beside him.

He couldn’t reach out yet.

Not without something more than guilt.

He walked into the guest room. The one she’d used sometimes when they fought. Opened the closet. She hadn’t taken everything when she left. A few books. A sweater. A small drawstring bag with a cracked bottle of hair oil.

At the back of the shelf—folded too neatly to be ignored—was the hoodie.

His.

Hers.

He sat on the bed with it in his lap. Ran his hands over the fabric like it might speak.

Maleko’s smile lived in his mind now. The way he tilted his head. That voice.

“Who dat?”

Roman exhaled shakily.

He didn’t know if Nalani would let him back in.

But he knew this:

He wasn’t going to vanish again.

He got up and grabbed his keys.

Thirty minutes later, he was parked outside a familiar door—Jey’s place. He sat for a full minute, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, breath shallow. What was he even going to say? How do you open your mouth and admit you missed your own child? Eventually, he got out, walked up, and knocked.

Jey opened it in sweats, hair twisted up, one brow raised. “Yo. You good?”

Roman didn’t answer right away. Just stepped in, shut the door, and pressed a hand to his chest like he was trying to hold something in.

“Talk to me,” Jey said, already switching the TV off.

Roman sat down heavily. “I saw her today.”

Jey didn’t need to ask who.

“With a little boy,” Roman said. Voice flat. “A toddler.”

Jey’s jaw tightened.

“He’s mine.”

Jey sat down across from him. “Shit.”

Roman laughed—harsh, humorless. “She named him Maleko.”

Jey looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You sure?”

“I don’t need a test. I saw his eyes. His stance. He held himself like me, Jey. He even mimicked me.”

Jey exhaled slowly. “Damn, Uce.”

“I missed everything.”

They sat in silence.

Then Jey said, “So what now? Because I can see it’s tearing you up, and I’m not just asking for you—I’m asking for that little boy too. He didn’t ask for any of this, but now you know he’s yours. So what are you gonna do about it, Uce?”

Roman looked at him. Really looked at him. His shoulders sank slightly, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipping out slow and shaky. “I think I need to earn a chance to know him. To know her. I don’t think I get to ask for it. Not yet.”

Jey nodded slowly. “That’s true. But you do get to show her you’re not the same man you were. Start there.”

Roman rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t even know what that looks like. I don’t even know who I am to that kid.”

“You’re his father,” Jey said. “Not because you made him. But because you show up. Now you show up, Uce.”

Roman’s chest tightened. “What if it’s not enough?”

Jey leaned forward. “Then you keep showing up until it is.”

Roman didn’t answer. Because that he could do. Even if it broke him open in the process. Even if it meant starting small—showing up at the library’s toddler hour, researching parenting classes, or quietly googling therapists who specialized in fatherhood and reconciliation. He didn’t know what she’d allow. But he’d be ready when she did. Ready with the hoodie in his lap and Maleko’s voice in his ears—haunting him, guiding him, reminding him of everything he still had a chance to be.

Nalani hadn’t slept.

The kind of not-sleep that clings to your bones. That plays memories behind your eyes like a projector reel with no off switch. Roman’s face. His voice. That fractured expression when he saw Maleko. It haunted her in a way she hated—because it wasn’t anger that lingered.

It was ache.

She sat at the edge of the bed, Maleko’s monitor soft and green beside her, heart ticking too loud in her ears. She’d meant what she said—she had protected their son. Had done everything alone. Had been enough. She’d rocked him through fevers, cried quietly in the bathroom while he slept, held her breath through first milestones with no one to share them with. And yet…

Seeing Roman had cracked something open. Not because she needed him. But because, for a second, she saw the man he might’ve been—still could be—if he chose right. She hated that a part of her wanted him to show up. That part was still soft. Still stupid. Still his.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a number she still hadn’t deleted. One she couldn’t.

Roman: Would it be okay if I came to the library this week? Just to watch storytime. No pressure. No expectations.

Roman: Only if you’re okay with it.

He remembered once—back when they still shared Sunday mornings—how she’d talked about the little library on Peachtree. How it had beanbag chairs and soft carpets. How she used to dream of taking their future baby to storytime there. He hadn’t said much back then. Just nodded. Maybe kissed her shoulder.

But apparently, he’d remembered enough.

She typed “No.” Then erased it. Tried “Not ready.” Deleted that too. Her chest felt too tight for something as simple as a reply.

It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about safety. About making sure her son only saw love—never its collapse.

She stared at the screen. Thumb hovered. Then, finally—

Nalani: Thursday. 10:30.

She didn’t send anything else. But when she tucked Maleko’s jacket into his little bag the night before, she added an extra granola bar.

Just in case someone else was hungry.

She zipped the bag shut like a decision. Quiet. Small. But not nothing. A hush against the noise of doubt still swirling in her chest. Like a whisper in a storm—a yes she hadn’t spoken aloud yet.

Just in case he really came.

The first thing he noticed was how loud the quiet was.

Not the kind that haunted him. Not anymore. This quiet was stitched with whispers, giggles, and the low rustle of pages. The soft squeak of sneakers on carpet. Crayons clicking in little fists. A dragon puppet swaying in the hands of a librarian with kind eyes and a lilting voice.

And there—dead center on the rug—was Maleko.

Cross-legged. Focused. Unaware.

Roman stood near the back of the children’s section. Hat low. Hands deep in his Nike hoodie. Trying to slow his breathing.

He didn’t look at Nalani right away.

Didn’t need to.

He could feel her watching him from across the room. Guarded. Tense. The kind of look that warned him she remembered everything.

He kept his eyes on the felt board. On the soft shapes and smiling faces. On anything but her.

Maleko laughed. High and full and wide-mouthed. The puppet had just mispronounced 'banana'—'blanana'—and the kids lost it.

Roman bit back his own smile.

He didn’t move. Didn’t step forward. Just stayed where he was, soaking it in. Every second. Every sound. And for a moment, he doubted whether he had any right to be here—to witness this softness, this safety—when he hadn’t earned it.

This was what he’d missed.

Not just milestones.

The rhythm. The everyday joy. The quiet miracles.

A little girl near him dropped a crayon. Roman crouched and picked it up before her mom could react. Handed it over with a quiet nod.

He didn’t realize Nalani had noticed.

She had.

Her arms were folded, but her expression had shifted—barely. But enough. She watched him crouch to hand the crayon to the little girl—a small, quiet act—but there was a softness in his smile that caught her off guard, a warmth she hadn’t seen in years. Her grip loosened. Her jaw clenched. And then Roman handed a book to a child too shy to ask for one, and she saw it again—that flicker of softness. Like she didn’t know whether to fold or brace.

Her arms were folded, but her expression had shifted—barely. But enough.

Roman looked at his son again.

He watched another dad lean in and whisper something to his daughter. She giggled, her fingers tangled in his beard. Roman looked down. He’d never even held Maleko’s hand.

He blinked hard, throat dry. His feet itched with the urge to leave—to not ruin it. But Maleko laughed again, and Roman stayed.

Then Maleko glanced over his shoulder mid-story. Brief. Innocent. A flicker of curiosity in his small face. He watched Roman adjust how he stood—and without thinking, Maleko mirrored it.

Nalani saw it. Her breath caught.

And Roman just gave the tiniest nod.

Nothing more.

Nothing yet.

But he’d come.

He was here.

And for the first time in years, maybe that was enough to begin.

They locked eyes—Nalani and Roman—just once. Sharp, unintentional, and unspoken.

That tilt of Maleko’s head—Roman had seen it in mirrors. But the calm in his eyes? That was all Nalani.

A page turned. A child yawned. And somewhere between the silence, a second chance took root.

Nalani didn’t know what scared her more—that he came, or that part of her had hoped he would.

Roman caught up with them in the parking lot. Not too close. Just enough to be helpful.

Maleko had run ahead with a burst of post-storytime energy, nearly tripping over his own feet as he made for the car. Nalani caught up just in time to steady him, murmuring soft reprimands as she adjusted the strap of his little backpack.

Roman didn’t speak at first. Just bent down and opened the car door for her.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but the words never made it out. She saw the effort. She looked away before it could mean anything.

“Thanks,” she said cautiously, not looking at him.

He nodded.

“Let me help,” he offered, and she hesitated—but didn’t say no.

Together, they buckled Maleko into his seat. Nalani remembered him once carrying both grocery bags and her purse after a long day, cracking a dumb joke just to see her smile. His hands had always been careful, even when his words weren’t. Now, Roman’s hands moved carefully, like he was afraid to touch anything too long. When Maleko yawned, Roman smiled and tapped the crown still perched on his curls.

“Looks good on you, little man.”

Maleko grinned sleepily. Then leaned back with his hands behind his head, mimicking a pose Roman used to take on lazy Sundays. Nalani noticed. Her jaw tightened.

Nalani watched them both. Watched the way Roman pulled back slowly, giving her space even while his eyes lingered.

She didn’t invite him in.

But she didn’t rush him away either.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, started the car, and pulled her door shut with a soft thunk.

Roman stepped back.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, as she backed out of the space and turned toward home.

The car was quiet.

Not heavy like it had been two nights ago—but soft. Muffled. The kind of quiet where peace didn’t mean comfort, just distance waiting to be crossed.

Maleko was in his car seat, swinging his legs and humming. His curls bounced with each kick against the fabric, and he was still clutching the red paper crown the librarian gave out after storytime.

Nalani kept her hands at ten and two, knuckles pale. The light changed, and she turned left out of the parking lot like muscle memory. They always took the long way home on Thursdays.

She glanced at him in the rearview.

He was still humming.

Still content.

He hadn’t even noticed how hard she was breathing.

“What did you think of storytime today, mi amor?” she asked softly, voice breaking the air like a ripple in still water.

Maleko nodded. “I liked it,” he said, bouncing the crown in his hands. “The lady was funny.”

“She was,” Nalani agreed. She swallowed hard. “Did you see anyone else you liked?”

Maleko’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head, mirroring the way he had in the library.

“The man,” he said.

Nalani’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“What man?” she asked, even though she already knew.

Maleko looked out the window. “The one who helped the girl. He was big.”

A beat.

Then: “He looked nice.”

She wished it didn’t matter. Wished her son didn’t already know how to spot goodness in a man he hadn’t even met.

Nalani didn’t answer.

She kept driving. Past the diner. Past the park. Past the place Roman used to get his hair cut every third Friday like clockwork.

Maleko yawned, dragging the crown over his face like a superhero mask.

“He smiled at me,” he mumbled.

Nalani blinked.

The light ahead turned yellow. She didn’t speed up.

She pulled into their driveway minutes later. Didn’t kill the engine.

Maleko was already nodding off, the crown slipping off his head.

Nalani sat with her hands still on the wheel.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak.

She just stared out the windshield and let the silence press in again—soft, uncertain, and not entirely unwelcome. She stared out the windshield, breath held tight in her chest, like she was waiting for the quiet to decide what came next.

Roman sat on the edge of his bed, the hoodie still folded across the back of a chair. The house was quiet, the kind that used to settle him—now it just echoed. Too wide. Too still.

His phone sat screen-up on the nightstand. He stared at it. Picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.

He opened a blank message thread. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Roman: I know I don’t get to ask for anything. But I’m going to try anyway.

He paused. Backspaced. Started again.

Roman: If there’s ever a day Maleko has a checkup, or a preschool visit, or even a park trip… I’d like to come. Just to be near. I won’t say anything. I won’t cross your line. You set the pace. I’ll follow it.

He exhaled through his nose. Deleted the whole thing.

Typed again.

Roman: I started seeing someone. A therapist. Just so you know. I want to learn how to do this right.

Another pause.

Roman: If you ever need help—with him, with anything—I’m here. No pressure. No expectations.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then hit send.

The message flew off like a confession, like a promise written in digital air.

He tossed the phone on the bed and pressed both hands to his face, breathing deep. Not in regret—but in weight.

This was step one.

But actions had to follow. He thought of the birthdays that had come and gone, the milestones unmarked, the hundreds of days where Maleko had gone to bed without ever knowing his name. That weight couldn’t be undone by a single message. But it could be the first crack in the wall he’d built himself into.

That weekend, Roman showed up to his first fatherhood support group. Sat in the back, hoodie pulled low, heart pounding in his chest like a damn drum. He didn’t talk much—just listened. To men who’d lost time, fumbled love, missed too many milestones. Men trying to do better. Be better.

“I missed everything,” Roman finally said when it was his turn. “But I don’t want to miss him, too.”

Later that night, he mailed a package.

Inside: a worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are. His own name scrawled on the inside cover from when he was a kid. Tucked beneath the front flap, a note written in his stiff, careful handwriting:

Thought maybe he’d like this one. Used to be my favorite. No pressure. —R

He changed his phone wallpaper that night. Deleted numbers that didn’t matter. Installed a co-parenting app, even if she never added him. Set reminders for pediatrician timelines. Milestone tracking.

And then he sat back on the edge of his bed.

The hoodie was still on the chair.

But for once, he didn’t reach for it.

Because this was still step one.

And if it took a hundred more just to earn a conversation, he’d take every one of them.

📝 Author’s Note

This one… cracked me open. I wanted to explore what happens after silence—after the missed calls, the unread texts, the words we should’ve said but didn’t. Roman didn’t just lose time. He lost moments. And sometimes, the most devastating part of healing is realizing the clock never stopped. It just kept ticking without you.

If you made it to the end, thank you—truly. For holding space for this story, for Roman’s unraveling, for Nalani’s guarded softness, and for Maleko’s quiet, everyday magic.

I don’t know what comes next for them just yet.

🩵 If this moved you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Comments, reblogs, tags, or even just quiet feelings you’re still holding—I see you, and I appreciate you more than I can say.

✨ I love interacting with y’all. Truly. Some of the coolest, most thoughtful people I know are right here, and I’m constantly in awe of the energy you bring. Never be shy in my comments or inbox.

📌 If you’re on the Somewhere Between Silence series taglist and would like to join my main taglist for all updates, let me know in the comments or fill out my Google Form. There are so many more stories on my masterlist if you're in the mood for more heartbreak, healing, smut, or softness.

Thank you for being here. — Kayla 🩵✨

🏷️ @star017 @sheaabuttaababyy @tribalqueen20 @trippinsorrows @mamis-girly

@pittieprincess22 @zoeroxiie @beccalynns-world @keyera-jackson @li-da-savage

@sharmelasworld @jaded-human @lov3rla03 @justazzi @fearlesschimera

@skyesthebomb @chrissyxcxox @reginawhorge01 @purplementalitybluebird @jeyusosqueen

@brianochka @diamondlifeee @perksofbeingbeautifulyetsobroken @cyberdejos2 @transparentphantomface

@sayyestoheav3nn @kianaleani @sxvual @vebner37 @sexyblacksimper

@dopematicdiamondz @behavior619 @annfg8 @ayeeeitsmiracle @romanreignsbae

@therealh18 @ariiaellbtheedonn @sweetpeainadysfunctionalpod @tribalchief2112 @marababyyyy

@romanreignsluver1

[sxorpiomooon]

How will your fs family or ancestors react to you? A pac reading

Paid readings

$5 reading

Tip me

Check out my other readings!!

Pile 1-

This is HILARIOUS bc I see them stressing out so bad there will probably be issues in you guys getting married or together something about being unconventional I am suddenly reminded of nobody wants this the new netflix show? The story is basically of how a woman who runs her sex podcast gets together with a guys who's rabi. I see their ancestors panicking bc they will be like omL tHiS IS TERRIBLE THR WORST THING THAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED to .... Um wait..... It's actually not that bad? I see them panicking then finally catching their breath like oh.. oooohhh it's not that deep I heard "we're fine, we are fine" lmaao it's gonna be so hilarious. Do watch that show guys

Pile 2-

This is extremely rude and outrageous but they might feel as if their son has wasted his potential I heard "years of hard work going into the drain" there will be a lot of drama I also feel like this is possibly mainly the mother of your fs very dramatic and doing all that for no reason sort of lady. She will probably be causing issues and trying to bring you down every chance she gets. Instead of they i keep thinking of a she again and again it's def their mother. They will feel as if they have lost and will be extremely disappointed. Oml so much drama lord I can hear an old woman crying for no fucking reason. She might give alot of taunts such as "oh irs mt fault I raised you wrong this is my failure" blahblahblah I heard old hag LMAOO so yes, don't listen to that old hag my pile 2<3

Pile 3-

Finally a good pile🙏

I think they'll be quite stressed I got Italy for some reason I also think you'll be randomly revealed to them so it might take them as a surprise like huh? They might have not been aware of you before which will cause them stress. But later on I see them loving you so much especially the mother. I see the mother being the most stressed first and then ending up loving you the most. One of the parties might travel to meet the other? They will welcome you in their home very warmly. I see them treating you like their own never making you feel like an outsider lmao very close it's like they are your parents now too. "I'm coming home I'm coming home tell the world I'm coming home" i keep hearing this song again and again I'm also hearing stand by you by rachel platten. I'm even seeing wings for some reason haha. Something that I see is that they will also admire the love that you are your fs will share. Very beautiful family lord I'm seeing orange colour sunset too. Suddenly saw that super famous cute kid rustyn too.

Pile 4-

Hell naww, they will 100% try to persuade their son/daughter to leave your behind. I see them pulling dirty tricks😭 They might even manage to cause a rift between the two of you but I see y'all coming back together eventually again. I keep seeing someone travelling via boat in the water maybe they will quite literally try to separate you by sending them to some foreign lands but I do see both of you getting together again and them realising that they won't succeed. There might be this financial or class divide between the two of you which is why they'll do it. This reminds me of this webtoon that I was reading recently "the child that looks just like me" give it a read if you wish to.

Thankyou!!

[batfam-enjoyer]

PTSD | Jason Todd x GN! Reader

CW: Jason’s PTSD, Death, Murder, there’s comfort and silliness tho!!!

I started writing this and realized it also has something to do with making dinner like the Cass fanfic I just wrote- i guess it’s because I really like food. Oh ya also inspired by one of the chapters of the Batfam Webcomic. Also sorry if this is kinda crappy, my attention span for reading things over and over again to edit kinda sucks.

I headcanon that Jason tends to joke about his death or when he feels hurt or upset he’ll begin to joke to feel better. He can be a bit dry about it though and sometimes ppl will get uncomfortable about it.

“What should I make for dinner?” You ask Jason as you two cuddle on the couch watching TV. Letting out a low hm he jokes, “I don’t know Chef, why not make it a surprise?”. “How helpful Todd”, you respond sarcastically as you jump up to go over to your kitchen to figure out something to eat. “Nooo my warmth” Jason complains reaching out at you as you walk away. “And we’ll starve if I don’t cook hun”. “Maybe that’s fine with me doll, as long as I get to die in your arms”. You scoff at his dramatics, “dramatic much”. “And I’ve already died once, so let me joke” he yells over to you in the kitchen. Looking around for what to make you continue the light hearted banter, “ok joke about your death if that makes you feel better Jay”. Having decided you go to grab a pan and, CRASH, you accidentally dropped it before picking it up with a SCHREE. Within seconds you hear Jason rushing into the bathroom and shutting the door. Right then you realized what happened. “fuck” you mumble under your breath and felt guilty for not having been more careful after you dropped the pan, you tip toeing over over to the bathroom you slowly open the door.

It’s stupid, he feels so stupid but can’t get himself to calm down. Considering his job you’d think loud sounds wouldn’t trigger him so why now when he’s very much in a safe environment. Suddenly he’s a kid and back in the warehouse again, the sound of the Joker scraping a crowbar across the floor.

The cold concrete, broken ribs, his laughter.

Unable to breath his legs take him to the bathroom without him even noticing. Sliding down the wall he curls up and begins to sob and hyperventilate. The cold tile reminds him of the concrete. He feels like he’s there forever.

He thinks he might here your muffled voice but he can’t tell, the ringing in his ears too loud.

He thinks he sees a figure in front of him but he can’t tell, his eyes are blurred from the tears.

His brain plays tricks on him and he begins to see the silhouette of the Joker.

“Jason”

“Jason it’s me”

“You’re safe”

It’s you.

Looking up at you slightly he whimpers out your name.

With a gentle hand you touch his hair. Finally he can make out your voice, being sure to keep yourself very calm, “Jason deep breaths, I’m here with you, it’s not real.”

It’s not real

It’s not real

It’s not real

He repeats rapidly in his head to drown out the joker’s laughter in his head.

In the madness he hears your soothing voice again, “Ground yourself, what is something you feel, or something you smell, or see, or hear”

He feels the pressure of your hand in his hair. Not the emptiness of no one there to help him.

He can smell the cinnamon candle you have burning in the bathroom. Not of filth or the metallic smell of his own blood.

He can see the soft kneeled figure of you in front of him. Not the menacing figure of the joker approaching.

Lastly he can hear your soothing voice. Not the manic laughter of that mad man.

leveling out his breathing it’s now shaky and labored as he still has to fight to control his panic. Crawling over you sit next to Jason he rests his head in your lap as you begin you run your fingers through his hair. Sitting in that silence he continues to ground himself and letting out shaky breaths.

After a little while he finds the power to joke, “hey n/n I think I can now attest that I’d be fine with dying in your arms”. You let out a laugh, what he’s been through breaks you heart but you can’t help but laugh about his humor over it, plus if you don’t laugh he might get mopey. “I’m glad I can be of comfort Jay”, he lets out a hum and sits up sniffles and whipping his now puffy eyes, “we should go get takeout cause fuck cooking man, I kinda thought that already before you got up earlier but I didn’t say it”. You push his head (with love) in reaction to what he admitted “you should’ve just said that earlier doof! and maybe could’ve saved us from from this!” you joke. Jason fake gasps, “y/n are you victim blaming me?!?” Alarmed you look at him “what no?!?!”. Jason decided to continue the dramatics, “my own partner is victim blaming me I absolutely can’t believe it… because of that you have to let me drive us to go get something to eat.” Shooting up you begin to run out of the bathroom for the car keys, “You drive and we are both dying, so no thanks!!!!”. You hear his deep chuckle as he stands up and walks up after you and meeting you at the front door. “You know I’m a great driver doll”, glaring at him you respond, “one scary one though so I’ll pass 💕”

Later that night when y’all are about to sleep

“I still can’t believe you victim blamed me 😔”

“Oh my god Jason please let it go 😭”

[iphyslitterator]

@cecilyv, perhaps accidentally, requested "fluffy kid fic where the kids never get to meet Grandpa Bobby"; I think this qualifies.

810 words, a Roseverse ficlet (set not too long before the drabbles, which you don't have to read first)

Content warning: major character death (but set years later)

It's a challenge to wrangle three kids into the car — well, Rose is an angel, of course, buckled in and holding the flower arrangement as big as her whole torso in her lap while Evan's still trying to coax Benjy out of the desert willow and Tommy's running out of tricks to make Lily stop crying. But they get everyone in the backseat eventually, the toddler enlisted to play with the five-month-old until she's giggling instead of wailing, and they arrive at the grave just as sunset starts to touch the horizon and a cool breeze picks up, the tops of the palm trees swaying overhead.

Rose remembers coming last year, but Benjy doesn't, and he looks around curiously, holding Evan's hand. Evan sits on the ground and pulls Benjy into his lap as Rose somberly places the flowers in front of the headstone and sits next to him. Lily looks fretful again; Tommy paces, bouncing her gently in his arms, moving to where he can watch the kids' (and Evan's) faces.

"What are… what are we doing?" Benjy asks brightly.

Before Evan can answer, Rose says, "This is Grandpa Bobby," and Tommy blinks. Evan catches his eye, just as surprised; so she didn't get Grandpa from him either. "He's dead like Baba and Mama. May I have the pictures?" Evan fishes out his phone, taps a few times, and hands it to her. Tommy knows the first photo in the album: the two of them at Evan's shield ceremony, Evan beaming, Bobby with his hand on Evan's shoulder, smiling at him with pride.

Rose angles the phone so Benjy can see it. "He ran Papa's fire station before you were born," Rose explains, and she starts swiping through the photos, telling surprisingly well-remembered bits of stories she got from Evan and at least one from Tommy, while Benjy listens raptly and Evan discreetly wipes at his eyes. Soon Benjy gets squirmy again, and Rose hands the phone back.

Evan clears his throat and looks straight at the headstone. "Hi, Bobby," he says. "You remember Rose and Benjy. We—"

"Hi!" Benjy shouts.

Evan breaks into a grin and looks down at him. "Oh, do you want to say something?"

Benjy hums. "Say what?"

"Anything. You could tell him something you did this week."

Benjy stands up with gusto, then immediately turns shy and buries his face in Evan's shoulder. Evan ruffles his hair.

"Why don't you tell him what you found yesterday?"

Benjy twists around so he can eye the headstone sidelong, clinging to Evan's shirt. "I found a rock," he whispers.

"Yeah? What did it look like?"

Benjy perks up a bit. "It had stripes," he says.

"Yeah, it was really cool," Evan agrees. "Then what did you do with it?"

Benjy, revived by the ecstasy of his geological adventure, straightens up and faces forward. "I, I threw it…," he begins, then starts laughing at the memory. "I threw it in the river!" he gets out. "And, and it made a splash!" He plops back down in Evan's lap, satisfied, and Evan gives him a squeeze.

"We're doing really good, Bobby," Evan says, clear-eyed and smiling again, that calm strength in his voice that Tommy's watched blossom as Evan's become a leader, a husband, a father. "Just wish you were here to see it."

Evan looks at Rose. "Do you want to say anything?" She presses her lips together and shakes her head, leaning into his side. Evan puts his arm around her, holding both kids close.

It's quiet for a while. Benjy wriggles out of Evan's lap and starts running around the nearby graves; Tommy keeps an eye on him. Once Lily settles, Tommy kneels beside the headstone. "That's Lily," Evan introduces softly. She reaches for the flowers, and Tommy tips her forward to clutch a white petal in her tiny fist.

Evan tilts his head in invitation. Tommy opens his mouth, then closes it. Silence feels right.

He thinks about Bobby, what he meant to Evan, to both of them, everything he set in motion that led to this family he never got to meet. He takes in Evan's face, Rose's, Lily's with her sleepy yawns. And then he doesn't think at all — just feels the world around him, the breeze, the gathering dusk, the steady sound of breathing. It might be what people mean by prayer.

When he's ready, he nods at Evan, and they all pick themselves up. Tommy transfers Lily to Evan's arms and goes to collect Benjy, who's tired himself out by now and easily lets Tommy tow him back. Tommy kisses Evan's birthmark when he reaches him.

"Do you want a minute alone?" Tommy murmurs.

Evan shakes his head, one arm cradling their sleeping baby, his other hand resting on Rose's shoulder. "No," he says, smiling softly. "I got what I need."

[pr1ncessar1]

Gyaru Animes and Mangas to watch/read

Super Gals

Okay!! OKAYY!! Starting off with an strong one!! We all know and love her. Ofc its Super Gals. If you were to ask any gal of what anime to watch when starting off your gyaru journey, its most likely going to be Super Gals.

A lighthearted anime following the adventures and life lessons with Ran and her friends. A confident gal who knows what she wants and will not let anything stop her from getting it. Throughout the show you’ll see her defending her turf in Shibuya, battling rivals, trying to make through school, and even find true love fufu~

But, most importantly I cannot forget the classic “Gal Lingo Class For Good Kids” Its a bunch of fun lingo and vocabulary to add in your sentences. Every gal should know it!

“Buzz off Carried!!!”

“Big surprise ,she was dressed all Mat Gal! Wild huh?”

“She’s way Crushed On Otohata”

(A common one that eveyone should know but still felt like adding it)

Every gyaru(o) should watch Super Gals, thats an Iron Clad Rule!!

🌺

Hime Gal Paradise

This one is for all my hime Gals!! This beauty starts off with a “Plain Jane” named Himeko. A quiet girl who doesn’t fit in with all the other girls at her school (which is filled with majority gyarus along with being an all girls school) . Then all of a sudden a beautiful and bodacious Hime Gal appears, but suprise surprise, its a boy!??? Whaaaa??

Tochiotome, who believes gender should not hold back on fashion and that anyone should be wear what they want, helps Himeko become the princess she truly is (even though her own attempts look a lil silly sometimes).

He is absolutely gorgeous in his outffits and is very creative, a trendsetter even! Even when out of gal, he looks charming and everyone knows that! Chō Shibuya High School is filled with such fun characters and funny moments.

It evens give lil tips and tricks to upgrade an outffit from an flat zero to a HUNDRED. Who knew who can turn a simple cute lil hair tie to a ring.

But of course, there cant be only ONE gorgeous gal in this town. Everyone LOE AND BEHOLD, MASUMII!!! Yes, I am being biased BUT to be fair she is Tochio’s rival when it comes down to fashion contests and who can decoden a hamburger better.

Idk if its the lack of subtitles on youtube but I really do enjoy when rivals can sometimes get along and dance parapara together. Like yeah were totally going to see who has the better co*de but not before we dance to Suspira first!!

Anywayss!! The first four eps can be found on youtube, theyre short too. I have noo idea where to find the rest, so im warning you now. BUT dont let that stop you from watching this goldmine of an anime.

☕️

Super Baby

AUGHH THIS MANGA IS SO CUTE!! A heartwarming story of a country side Yamamba gal, Tamao, who moves to tokyo to pursue her dreams. Strapped for cash, she finds a job at Machido 109. Not only did she find a place to work but she also finds her lover!! An unappealing boring looking guy at first glace, but hey! Looks arnt everything people.

Its honestly adorable of how much effort these two put into a relationship. While reading it I deff was angry at some characters , especially a certain sister cough cough.

I forgot to mention that Tamao style changes from Yamanba to more of an Onee gyaru. Dont fret! She still has her long nails, lavish lashes and her tan skin.I wish I can show you her fits along side her bestie, but ya gorl can only show so many pics. (＃`Д´)

I havent finished reading it, as you can tell by the shorter description, but its def worth to read if you want to get cozy somewhere. Im pretty sure I reposted somee stuff on this manga too.

Ughh their relationship makes me so jelly

＼（Ｔ∇Ｔ）／

🛍️

Temptation of Shiro Gal and Kuro Gal

WAITTT!!I KNOW THE COVER IMAGE LOOK REALLYY WEIRD BUT I PROMISE ITS NOT. Trust me please

(゜ロ゜)

The manga mainly follow three people. Rei, the shiro gal and Naro, the kuro gal. Along with their classmate “Otaku-kun” whose always involved in one thing or another. When first reading you would think that Rei and Naro would be seducing OtakuKun, surprisingly not. If anything, he seems more like a wing man.

The situation is the complete opposite of what you might think. Naro actually has a crush on Rei! Woww!! So if you enjoy YURI OR ANYTHING SAPPHIC, Im pretty sure youll enjoy this read. Naro is soo cute whenver she interacts with Rei. All three of them are such cuties.

Throughout the manga so far, Naro trys many ways and overcomes obstacles to get closer to Rei. Its funny how OtakuKun approaches the situations too. He totally the type to be like “hey I cant do this event with you right now BUT I KNOW WHO CANN” and then just pulls out Naro.

📔

HONORABLE MENTION

ChocoMimi

A comic about two fashionable besties expanding their friendship, funny stories and develop crushes too! I wanted to add this adorable comic here because I feel like it help someone.

The two girls, Choco and Mimi. Choco who is more serious and reliable and Mimi who is silly and spoiled. Its not mainly focused on fashion but it does play a role in the comic.

Choco who likes to wear American fashion. I feel like her outfits would help someone who likes to wear amekagi and Choco with hime gyaru. Im pretty sure you can get some good inspo off their outffits, because I know I did.

Theyre not gyaru but It felt needed 💖

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Animorphs #12: The Reaction thoughts (pt. 2):

Cassie points out that Rachel is good at being rich (knowing her way around a credit card and tip form) but terrible at being famous ("'Do you have any advice for other kids like yourself?'/'Um, yes. My advice is don't fall into crocodile pits'"). In a world with no war, she should be... an investment banker? An anesthesiologist? A pilot?

"Chapman": I noticed you seem to be suicidal, and I know just the nonprofit to fix that! This series is fridge horror all the way down.

Rachel and Tobias have the most situationship ever. They spend all their free time together, they tell each other things they can't tell anyone else, they have an open mutual crush, they send each other constant longing looks... they insist they're just friends. I love that one book from now Tobias is going to get his morphing back and immediately panic at the thought that this means he has to have a conversation with Rachel about what they want.

«No, it's much better to find out [about the allergy] this way, Rachel. You know - when you could get us all killed,» Jake said" (p. 123). I love sarcastic pissed-off Jake. Quite possibly the best Jake.

Rachel: Watching Cassie morph is so cool! Jeremy Jason McCole [the next day]: Watching Visser Three morph is so cool! Rachel: What a loser.

"The next day I told Jake and Cassie that it had happened.... But if I had tried to trick Ax, he would have asked the one question neither Jake nor Cassie thought to ask: What did you do with the extra crocodile?" (p. 148) Jake: Yeah, I talked to Rachel, sounds like she took care of it. Ax: Took... care... of...? Jake: Yep, all handled. Ax [picturing the crocodile he saw yesterday]: I guess if anyone could, it's Rachel...

I love that Cassie tries to impress their crush on Rachel's behalf. I love that said attempt consists of "That's not all she did! She also had her house fall in on her" (p. 161).

"'I'm Falling Girl's partner, Dropping Chick,' Cassie said" (p. 170). Not to be dramatic but I would die for her.

Animorphs books can be read here | Book Club schedule is here