rozodejanerowrites

[rozodejanerowrites]

I am fascinated in how people can self insert with readers who are not like them at all and are in situations that they would really never be in. So this argument that they can't relate to a reader from an underrepresented minority is interesting.

Like in general, if you had a fully generic reader they would be like...nothing? So some level of distinction has to happen, right? And it's always informed by the author let be real. So reading any reader fic involves some suspension of disbelief - e.g ' I am and would never be in the military or actually want to be with a man like this in real life' but being Vietnamese is a step too far?

Also does every reader fic need to be as general as possible? I find that boring and I don't think it's true in practice (see earlier point about author informing story)

Anyway, realise it's not a 1-1 correlation but I think a lot about reader fic and how it works haha

Keep being awesome kk-iki 😎

Ok so i like your writing but my question is why does lotus reader have to be vietnamese? (I think she's vietnamese.) I feel like it's kind of restricting to have the reader be one specific race/ethnicity/etc but idk maybe that's just me. Keep it up 👍

hi baby. lotus!reader is indeed vietnamese, and i personally don't really see how it's restricting to represent my own culture in a fandom that is notoriously eurocentric, both regarding the characters and the readers. i have yet to see a vietnamese reader. . .anywhere, really, not just in the cod fandom.

i also didn't want her to be just, like. . .generically asian, because there are so many different nuances and specificities within each culture that an 'umbrella' reader, so to speak, wouldn't have been able to encapsulate. i haven't lived that experience, which does a lot more for my writing process than secondhand research.

overall, i just think it's kind of weird to see me writing about my own severely underrepresented culture and ask me to make it more digestible for people who cannot understand it. it doesn't have to apply to you for you to be able to appreciate it, i think.

hm. i don't know how i feel about this ask! i really don't know. but thank you for asking anyway, and for giving me the chance to clear this up with anyone else who might have been thinking this way. hope you're well x

[rozodejanerowrites]

gunslinger ghost

[rozodejanerowrites]

[rozodejanerowrites]

Hi, i'm Rozo

Started this tumblr for mostly CoD, but may post other works

Ongoing fics

Ninety Seconds to Midnight (PriceXOC) - Masterlist Long form character study

Modern Parenting (nanny!readerxPrice) - Plot worm | 1 | 2 Drabbles for fun

Tags

My writing - random bits

My art

Kelli Purcell (CoD oc)

[rozodejanerowrites]

dayum boi he thicc

[rozodejanerowrites]

WIP Wednesday

I've reworked this bleeding chapter so many time but I think it's finally hitting the right notes. Definitely an exercise in writing yourself into a corner and having to be creative in making it work. Just got to finish it now...

Ninety Seconds to Midnight - masterlist

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He’s halfway to the bar when Johnny catches up beside him.

“You alright?” he asks, “You looked like you were about to punch him in the face.”

John shakes his head. “’m fine.”

He really needs to get it together. Being affected by Kelli so much is one thing, but messing up Black and Emma’s wedding because hes being affected by Kelli is a whole other thing. It’s just so fucking hard when Kelli has apparently found herself another Mullen. Christ, the prick reminds John so much of that fucker, it’s uncanny. Where does she find these assholes?

He signals to the bartender.

“Beer thanks.”

He can tell Johnny wants to ask him more and decides to preempt the questioning. “We just worked together okay. We had a falling out.”

Johnny nods slowly. “Right.”

John glances to his other side as Black wheels up next to him. “You planning on acting like a prick all night? Or am I gonna have to cut you off early.”

John looks away.

“Didn’t start it.”

“Yeah, well. You didn’t stop anything either.”

John turns to look down at Black.

“You heard that prick.” He says. “I was trying to defend her.”

“Oh is that what you think you did?” Black says with raised brows,” because it really just seems like you pushed things just to get your word in.”

John opens his mouth to retort.

Black holds up a hand.

“No. I knew this would happen. You had eight years to deal with whatevers going on up in that munted head of yours and you didn’t. So you can keep it together just for tonight. Kelli’s a big girl, she can fuck whatever asshole she wants. What I want is for this wedding to end happy.”

There’s no anger on Black’s face, just that same calm exasperation he’s always had when John’s about to say something very stupid in a high-stakes situation. John feels that sudden urge to tell Black that it’s because he wants Kelli to fuck him, he is an asshole after all - it would be very on brand. But the realisation that that is something that he still wants, sits heavy in his stomach. So instead he says, “Wasn’t planning to say anything at all.”

Black looks at him for a long moment.

“You never do.” He says finally, “That’s the problem. Honestly for someone so competent at your job, you really are remarkably incompetent at being like, a human being.”

John flexes his jaw.

“You know that's why I’m so good at the job.”

"I know."

John stiffens when his phone starts buzzing.

Black looks down at his pocket. He sighs quietly and raises an eyebrow.

“You gonna get that?

The way he says it makes it sound like a test. Unfair, John thinks, because there is no way to pass - he has to answer, he can’t not answer. “You know I am.”

Black sighs. “Like I said before: tell Halford to fuck off. You’re on leave.”

John waves him off and grabs his beer. He retreats to the beach end of the deck and pulls out his phone.

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"90% of my bodily fluid composition is ceremonial grade", what a turn of phrase 🔥

i need it to be known very explicitly that i do not drink matcha performatively. i am drinking it because i am asian and have been drinking it since people were saying it tastes like grass. i don't drink it because it's trendy i drink it because i'm fairly sure 90% of my bodily fluid composition is ceremonial grade

[rozodejanerowrites]

Modern Parenting pt.2

nanny!Reader x singleDad!Price - Plot worm | Part 1

John is bamboozled by his own child's infinite capacity for mess, Reader aces her practical interview. 2.8k Tags: femReader, slow burn, opinionated reader, pet war criminal, business partners to friends to lovers, eventual smut Warnings: None

John Price’s house is more or less in line with what you’d expect from a married-to-his-work man in his late thirties; a semi-detached two-story brick thing - grass a touch too long, garden non-existent, a battered Toyota Hilux in the driveway. Not run down, by any means, just bare bones.

It’s giving you problem child in a cul-de-sac of well-manicured lawns, flowering gardens and carefully curated box hedges.

It could be lovely, looks pre-war. The estate looks like one of those that grew out of the inter war housing boom, built within sneezing distance of Hereford and you can almost hear the shouts of the soldiers. Your eyes catch on the neighbouring house - 24b. Equally as bare, the driveway empty.

You can’t say the same about the rest of the street.

An elderly neighbour waves at you from their sun room across the way. You wave back. Hesitant. You really don’t want to get stuck in small talk with the local rotary vice-president, and she looks chatty. So you scurry up the path to the front door while double checking the address on your phone.

You’re in the right place.

Before you can even raise your fist to knock, the door opens. John stands there. He’s in socks, dressed in a blue t-shirt with the Hereford Heelers FC logo over his heart, and a pair of faded jeans.

“Hi,” he greets. His eyes flick over you for a brief moment, like he’s assessing you.

You’re heart picks up, just a touch. Everything else being equal, you’d prefer your client to be less attractive. But as it is, that feeling of quiet, simmering anticipation has stayed with you ever since your first meeting at Market Garden. John doesn’t make it at all easy either.

For starters, the t-shirt must be at least a size too small, surely? It digs into his bicep as he grips the door open with one hand, flexing and leaning to one side like a goddamn Peregrine model. And then theres the fact that his cheeks are a little flushed, as if he’s been flustered. His hair a little mussed, like he’s been running his hand through it.

You can make a pretty good guess as to why that might be - there’s a large purple stain covering the bottom half of the shirt. And yet. It detracts from his whole physically honed, serious man persona by exactly zero.

Sharpens it even.

The bastard doesn’t even have to try.

You smile, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’ve got a bit of Ribena on you there.”

John makes a face, glancing down at his shirtfront. “More fool me for trusting a two-year old with their own hydration.”

He says it as if he really believes it - like he truly believed a two-year-old could drink Ribena neatly.

You immediately note the lack of a child, either in his arms or by his side. You are sure that John Price is a brave man, but leaving a two-year old unattended seems like an oversight. You can’t hear any childlike sounds from inside the house either.

Trouble.

Foolish man.

Nevertheless, he beckons you inside.

If the outside is what you expected, the inside isn’t much different.

John closes the door behind you. “Sorry ‘bout the mess.”

You can’t really see the mess he’s referring to. The house is bare, almost too bare - no pictures, no decorations. There’s a mildly battered side table with a keyring bowl and a collection of random caps with different logos hanging on the coat rack. But otherwise, the hallway is spotless.

It almost looks like no one lives there.

By way of explanation, at least to you, John bends down and picks up a small plushy bunny. He sighs. “Not used to having a kid around.”

He’s not wrong, that much is clear. You clock the sharp edges of the side table, the staircase with no baby gate and nod slowly.

“You don’t say.” You don’t think John is a careless man, certainly not intentionally but you can immediately see his problem - why he’s hiring you. “Where has she been living since you got custody?”

He looks at you, then glances away. He’d mentioned that the mother was in no uncertain terms ‘out of the picture’. You’re not sure if that means she’s dead, or just gone AWOL - you’re not about to ask and John doesn’t seem like the kind of man to elaborate needlessly. You are burning up with curiosity, but all that matters is the job.

“Shes been staying with my parents, they’re up in Kington.”

He gestures for your coat, an old fashioned gesture that you are not sure is born out of chivalry or a desire for control. You try not to shiver when his finger tips brush against your shirt as he catches it from your shoulders.

“That’s good of them.”

He nods, carefully hanging your coat up on the rack, “it is,” then gestures to your shoes, “do you mind taking off your shoes?”

You hesitate for half a second, more out of surprise than any real apprehension. It suddenly dawns on you that the bareness of the house may be as down to cleanliness as it is him being away most of the time. It would explain his apologetics as to the nonexistent mess.

“Of course.”

You toe off your white sneakers and tuck them under the side table. He watches you, maybe too closely, as you do. When you straighten, a movement further down the hallways catches your eye.

Even from here, Ada Hobbs-Price is one of the cutest children you have ever seen, and you have seen a lot of children. She peeks out from behind the door frame with large eyes the colour of the ocean at Tenby. The same shade as her fathers, you note, but coloured with caution and curiosity.

John follows your gaze.

You wouldn’t say he starts at the sight of his own child, but you can certainly better appreciate his earlier comment of not being used to having a kid around.

He recovers quickly though, crouches and coaxes her over with a large hand. Like shes a skittish cat and he wants to show her off to his guest. Its not the worst way you’ve been introduced to a client’s child, but it certainly drives home the reality that John Price has no idea how to interact with his own child. Still. It could be worse - clueless is a lot better than unloving.

“C’mere love,” he says a little stiffly.

You smile at Ada as she peers at you, ignoring her father completely. After a moment she sticks her tongue out as if concentrating very hard on something and toddles toward you both.

John sighs and you don’t think he means it to sound so relieved. As if he’d been scared she was going to run away from them - which to be fair, is a valid fear. The sigh turns to a sound of mild indignation as Ada toddles past his open arms and makes a beeline for you.

She stops, wobbling on her chubby legs and stares up at you.

Shes even cuter up close - dark, curly hair and olive skin. A mix of John’s British features and something else you can’t put your finger on.

You squat and smile. “Hello Ada,” you say brightly, introducing yourself. “What have you got there?”

You point down to the toy block in her tiny hands - a bright orange wooden square with the letter J painted onto it.

Ada peers down at the block, looks up at you, studies you for a few seconds then holds out her hands.

You place a finger on the block. “Is this for me?”

Ada pulls it away. “No.”

“Oh,” you say, you know this game, and pout. “Not for me.”

Ada holds it out again, says nothing. You rest a finger on it again. She pulls it back and giggles.

“Ine!”

You press both fists into your hips and pout again, more pronounced, more theatrical. Ada laughs in your face, bobbling up and down in that unsteady delighted dance.

“Ine!” she giggles, then wobbles forward to grab your hand. “Carm!”

You grin, pleased with how quickly she’d taken to you and scramble to follow her.

You glance over at John. He’s looking at you with something akin to bemused amazement on his face.

“Well that’s me told them.” He mutters and follows you both into the living room.

The sight that greets you almost makes you laugh, but when you look back at John, the expression of dismay on his face stops any levity from leaking through; what was left of the cup of Ribena has been spilt on a light green rug and is dribbling across the hardwood floor. The rest of the block alphabet is strewn around the room, and there is a plate of fruit upended on the couch.

You honestly can’t say you’re surprised.

People think two year olds are unpredictable, hard to interpret, but they’re really not - they are simple and the rule is both straightforward and golden; never leave them unsupervised.

John sighs, he runs a hand through his hair. “Ada.”

Ada, for her part, doesn’t even blink as she drags you over to the pile of blocks next to the coffee table. Her small bare feet track through the spilt Ribena, spread it across the rug in a series of tiny purple footprints. Before either of you can move, she stomps on an errant blueberry.

John lets out a strangled noise.

You crouch, tug on her arm before she can stamp on any more fruit.

“Alright, trouble,” you say lightly, scooping her up under the arms. She’s warm and wriggly, heavier than you expect, smelling faintly of Ribena and biscuits.

“Nooooo,” she protests, half-hearted, but theres a hint of wateriness. Then, as if remembering, she grins and announces, “Juice!” like she’s unveiling a masterpiece.

“Yes, I see the juice.” You hitch her on your hip. “We’re going to sort those feet before they glue themselves to the floor.”

You look over at John. “Kitchen?”

Concern still pinches at his brow but he doesn’t look angry, not like some of the parents you’ve worked for - he mostly just looks overwhelmed.

A father who probably never meant to become a father.

“Second door on your right.” He hesitates. “Should I…?”

You smile up at him. Shake your head. “I’ll sort her out, why don’t you sort out the spill.”

He nods at you and mutters something about ‘stains setting in wool’ as he steps neatly aside so you can pass without even looking - like he’s used to people moving through tight spaces with him.

You carry Ada toward the kitchen, narrating the mission to the wiggly child as you go. “Step one: clean the juice monster. Step two: make sure the juice monster doesn’t escape.”

Ada beats your shoulder with her small fists.

“I not monster,” she says seriously, before pausing, then resting her head against your shoulder for exactly two seconds before popping back up to point at the counter. “Bisc’t!”

The kitchen is surprisingly light, bare still, but populated with a series of good quality appliances.

“Feet first,” you counter, setting Ada on the countertop. She swings her legs, watching you run a cloth under warm water.

“Hot?” she asks.

“Warm.”

“Warm hot,” she repeats, nodding like that’s settled.

You lift one little foot, wiping away the purple stickiness. She squirms.

“Tickle,” she accuses, her voice watering again.

You poke your tongue out at her.

“Occupational hazard,” you tell her, flipping the cloth to get between her toes.

Behind you, John’s presence is quiet but tangible - the sound of him on the floorboards in the hall, another quiet sigh as he enters the kitchen behind you, the squeak of a cupboard door being opened. When you glance over your shoulder to check what he’s doing, you catch him watching you instead. Just a beat too long before his gaze drops back to the well organised interior of what appears to be his cleaning cupboard.

Ada immediately points toward the doorway. “Daddy!”

“He’s busy,” you say, moving on to the other foot. “Almost done.”

“Daddy! Daaaddy!” she yells.

John hesitates, as if he’s not sure if she actually needs him or if she’s just testing out the acoustics in the kitchen.

You nod for him to get out.

By the time you’ve got her feet and hands wiped and patted dry with a tea towel, John reappears in the doorway, holding the empty Ribena cup between two fingers like it’s hazardous waste.

“She didn’t drink all of it,” he says.

“Well she got a fair amount on her,” you reply, lifting Ada down. “The rest in your rug, on your floorboards, and on you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. The moment lands and you feel that if you hadn’t gotten the job before, you certainly have now. He looks at you with a sense of both relief and awe in his face - like hes finally solved a problem that’s been hanging over his head for months.

Ada, clean now, trots over to him - pausing to pat his leg and declare, “Daddy messy.”

He nods down at her.

“Yes, daddy very messy.”

He picks at the bottom of his shirt, still sopping, and holds it out to observe the stain.

Heat licks up your neck as if gives you a tantalisingly good view of his very well defined abdomen, thick with muscle and dusty with the trail of dark hair that disappears below his jeans.

By the time you regain control over your eyes you can tell he’s caught you looking. His face is impassive, inscrutable.

“Mind watching her while I change shirts.”

You shake your head and it takes a moment for your mouth to begin working, “no, of course not.”

Part of you hopes he might just take it off right there and then, but he doesn’t and you think that’s probably for the best.

Fucking hell.

You need to get a grip.

You follow him out, shepherding Ada back into the living room as John goes upstairs. She really is a well-behaved child all things considered. Her life before living with her father must have been loving. Perhaps that’s from his parents or her mother, either way it makes you smile.

You sit down next to her, avoiding the still-damp spot on the rug. You have no idea how he managed to get the stain out so well. He might be kid-clueless but he’s apparently domesticated.

It paints a curious picture.

The whole room does - now you have time to register all of it. Clean and simple, sure. But theres also an oddly cozy assortment of furniture, two bookshelves full of books that actually look like they’ve been read and an expensive looking sound system. You suppose that even soldiers have hobbies.

You turn you attention back to Ada. Her small hands are busy now, stacking blocks together with great concentration. You coax her along - “That’s it. Good job.” She giggles, grins at you then promptly topples the tower, delighted at her own destruction.

You glance back as John comes back down the stairs.

He lingers in the doorway, clean white shirt. The man is confident, you’ll give him that. His arms are loosely folded. He doesn’t step in, just watches. There’s something about the way he does it - quiet, assessing, but softer than when he first looked at you.

Ada gets tired of her tower of destruction and toddles over, clambering in your lap uninvited. John’s brow furrows like he can’t quite believe it. He pushes off the door frame and comes to sit opposite you, sinking into the navy lounge chair.

Ada makes a nonsense sound and presses the chewed corner of her block into your palm with solemn generosity.

You take it from her and nod solemnly, ignoring the slobber. “Thankyou Ada.”

“Well,” John says after a moment, voice low, “suppose she’s made her mind up.”

You glance up at him. His mouth is twitching again, like he’s holding something back.

There’s a beat of silence before he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “Listen. What I said at the cafe. About you being…” He hesitates, scratching at the back of his neck. “Overqualified.”

You let him dangle for a moment. Then raise an eyebrow, “Mm. I remember.”

His eyes meet yours, steady, but with a faint hint of sheepishness. “I-clearly you know what you’re doing.” He lets out a huff of a laugh. “Y’ like a bloody kid-whisperer. Never seen her take to someone so quickly.”

Ada interrupts by patting your cheek. She makes a sound that vaguely sounds like your name.

When you look back up, John’s still watching you, quieter this time. The moment stretches - just long enough to register before he clears his throat and shifts his weight, breaking it.

“Guess that’s settled, then.” He says, “if you’re happy that is.”

You nod. “I’m happy.”

[rozodejanerowrites]

[rozodejanerowrites]

"I love you but you're doing wrong in a way I cannot condone" and "I hate you but you're being wronged in a way I cannot stomach" are top tier and I need more of them.

[rozodejanerowrites]

WIP whatever day

This wedding chapter is killing me - its going to be longer than the midpoint chapter where they fall out and that was a beast. Definitely going to post in two parts, but i want to finish it first to make sure its cohesive. Doesn't help that I'm also trying to write a thesis at the same time so my brain is just a bundle of diametrically opposing words haha

In the meantime, here's another snippet:

Johnny claps him on the back as John sits down.

“Holy shit Cap,” he says, “Can I get you to speak at my wedding?”

John looks sideways at him.

“You planning on finding a girl any time soon?”

Johnny grins. He nods over at one of Emma’s bridesmaids, trying, and failing, to be subtle. “Reckon Eve’s been giving me looks all night,” he says, “Once the music starts, it’ll be a done deal. No one can resist these moves.” John goes to look. “No, don’t fuckin’-”

At that, John rotates his entire body to look over at her. Eve is the last of Emma’s three bridesmaids, a slight thing with black hair, ambiguous south Asian features and a thick Liverpudlian accent.

“Isn’t she the lesbian?”

“No, Alice is the lesbian,” Johnny says, “Eve’s bi.” He frowns, the bravado suddenly cracking. “I think? Maybe. Hm.”

Eve looks up and smiles at them both. Gives a small wave. John nods. She seems friendly. Cute, a little crazy based on what John observed during the wedding photos - Johnny’s type.

He points at Johnny, raises an eyebrow, then gives a double thumbs up.

He can feel Johnny slink back into his seat. “Jesus Christ.”

“You said she was giving you the eye,” John says, “I’m just moving things along. Look. She’s coming over.”

[rozodejanerowrites]

Hear me out: Semi-realistic smut where you're stressed and tired and you're so fucking into him, you want it so bad - to the point of tears.

But it just doesn't come that easy - never has.

John has to coax it out if you. But Christ he's oh so attentive. He doesn't get impatient, he asks you what you need and he gives it to you, no hesitation, no complaint. So when you finally reach that zenith it hits like nothing else.

Intimacy.

[rozodejanerowrites]

Have we considered the idea of like writing about these men and we follow their lives after a mission that goes so horribly wrong that they all deserted the military. Like they come across a conspiracy that even they can't justify and then boom they are disillusioned?

Walk with me here, yall.

Price has always been like "we get dirty and blah blah blah" but this time they accidentally uncovered a trafficking ring that's pretty bad and the government is aware of it. Men, women, and children all moved around under in various ways. Price finds it weird that the latest job they are on, the enemy is confused on why another S.A.S team is there and why they aren't in on the trafficking job and cover up.

Price and his team bring it up to Kate, and suddenly Kate is dismissed from her position. Things don't make sense, and Price is told to leave it the fuck alone.

Johnny can't leave it alone because "Price we went there and they had people in shipping containers? These people were expecting us to help them cover this up?"

Kyle is disturbed because he heard that a few operations are being coordinated to sew chaos and remote communities or communities where there is constant violence.

Simon while nothing much really shocks him much these days, he can't sleep because on that weird mission that wasn't a mission and was a strange cover up, it unnerved him.

It all comes to a head when Price is pulled into a conference, asked to turn off his phone, take out the battery and offered a once in a life time offer. He and his team can get paid off to never speak about the mix up and everything they've seen or they can buy in and be set for life with money and resources.

Idk 😕 🤷🏾‍♀️ if we are being dead ass, Price and co. wouldn't be open to illegal war crimes and trafficking on western country civilians... after those are the people they are tasked with keeping safe.

[rozodejanerowrites]

Gaz has such potent character exploration potential

Being known as a Kyle "Pretty Boy" Garrick blog is high key a flex. 💁🏾‍♀️

Like Kyle has such potential he can be explored in so many ways such as

He's a black man who is often tasked with destabilizing communities of people that look like him.

This man could be a non practicing Muslim/Christian (maybe AME) and lost his faith due to his job and/or the subsequent issues that come with that. (Can you say cognitive dissonance if he still practices?)

I know we all talk about him being "uwu nice and sweet" but he is pretty and has light brown eyes...idk about you but guys like that that I have known are the biggest fuck boys!!! Add in being in the military I'm sure he is insufferable.

He could have daddy issues and not the "Dad left and didn't come back" issues, but "my biological dad was withholding of emotional connection and Price gives me that validation and connection." Like speaking from seeing it first hand black dads treat their sons incredibly different. (And God help him and the work 2x as hard for half the reward talk he hates it.)

Have we also thought about him being a mommy's boy? Black moms are known to enable their son's behaviors in a "that's my baby boy/ boy mom" way

Also, have we also thought about the head canon that one of his parents is African American? Like he could have dual citizenship, and he gives ATL, DC, and Chicago vibes.

Also low key fr fr Kyle is like unhinged. Because he was like "Let's go do war crimes" and went to do the war crimes with Price. Like what? Lol he didn't even think about it!!!

Say whatever you want, but Kyle is so versatile!

NOW LISTEN TO THIS QUEEN RIGHT HERE, Y'ALL, BECAUSE SHE IS PREACHING 🗣

[rozodejanerowrites]

one day, you’ll never see me again

simon riley fic.

ᝰ.ᐟ shoutout to my ex who couldn’t change for me. i went ahead and wrote this lol

Simon was hard to love. No, he wasn’t the kind of guy who would randomly buy you flowers. He wasn’t the kind of guy that held you with such care and love that made you feel safe. He wasn’t the kind of guy that cupped your face and told you everything was going to be okay.

He was cold. Harsh. Emotionless. He lacked communication skills, compassion and empathy. But you know he doesn’t mean to. You’ve learned to adjust living by noticing his way his tone changes and how he processes feelings. He’s the kind to ignore you for the whole day and then lay in bed, awkwardly wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you in closer. The kind that takes about ten minutes to finally open his mouth and let out a “look— I’m sorry.”

And all you could do was face away from him, staring at the blank wall to prevent yourself from tearing up and creating a headache. You knew he was trying, really. He grew up differently than you and never learned how to express himself without being ridiculed. You were patient— every expression, every look, every bitter words that came out of his mouth, you knew that he didn’t mean it.

You were hard to love.

Simon knew from the jump that you were too kind for the world. Too sensitive. Too soft. He tiptoed around your feelings to prevent a screaming match but oftentimes, that resulted in a worse outcome. He tried to love you, truly. You were his light to his draining world. You opened up new possibilities for him. You showed him that maybe, just maybe, he was loved and could learn to love. You held him with such care, tendering to his every need. The way your hands ran through his hair, the way your eyes soften when you gaze into his eyes. You opened up his chest and looked into his heart, capturing every little detail about him that he never knew someone could learn to love about him.

The concept of love was different between you two. You both realized it along the way. It wasn’t the love language that was learned, but really: love.

You kept the place clean, your lips planted on almost every inch of his face, tell him that you love him every day without an ounce of hesitation. You held his hand, your thumb caressing all of the scars that deeply wounded his soul. Simon did things around the house. A man, he truly was indeed. He fixed things when you couldn’t bother to deal with them. He made you feel like you were his, special and important. You rarely saw it in his eyes but when he’s laying besides you, his gaze softens just ever so slightly and his face relaxes. His callous hands would caress your hair, smoothing it down as he slips out an “I love you.”

And yet… It was like two broken souls just trying to put the pieces together knowing full well that the scattered glass could never be glued back together.

Now, you’re sitting behind him on the shared bed, tears blurring your vision. Your breathing was uneven, your heart clenched as it begged for you to breathe properly. Your mouth moved but you weren’t even sure what you were begging him for anymore. It was like playing a record player; constantly begging for the same thing. Constantly playing the same words that Simon heard so often. It always started small. Something minor that could’ve been fixed with a few simple words. But when Simon gives you the cold shoulder, your anger breaks into little pieces and those pieces turn into sadness as you wish for him to just look at you and tell you that he still loves you. That he cares. That his previous words meant nothing and that he was just mad. “Simon, please.”

He couldn’t even look at you. Instead, he was on his phone, scrolling mindlessly with his back turned towards you in bed. He knew you were hurting. He knew this was a bad situation. He knew.

“Please just say that you love me.”

He knew.

“Simon, please. Can you please talk to me? I’m sorry, can you just please hold me. I won’t ever talk about it again. I’ll forget about it, I’ll never cry about it again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He knew.

Simon knew you were hurting. And yet, he couldn’t face you.

And that’s how it usually went until you had finally given it your all and gave up. When you finally felt so exhausted that you were laying in bed, back facing him while you hid the side of your face in the pillow. You couldn’t breathe, your snot clogging up your nose. But you didn’t care. You’re starting to realize that you don’t care about much nowadays.

You begged. Begged so much that his wrong doings made you apologize for crying so much. You hated how pathetic and miserable you sounded when you begged to be loved and held by the same man that hurt you.

Just when you were about to sleep, you heard Simon shifting positions behind you. Then his arm pulled you in. Then he’d stuff his face in your hair. Silence.

That’s how it usually goes. And that’s always how it’s going to go until the day you learn to finally have some self respect and leave a man who couldn’t learn to love you. But for now, you’ll dry your own tears and wish that your father was holding you and told you that everything was going to be okay.

[rozodejanerowrites]