Jel

deceptively emo? i miss writing help

[jellychannie]

☆ Jel's Masterlist ☆

Requests: open! feel free to send an ask

Fandoms: Suits, House MD, Yakuza (RGG), Dead Poets Society, Blue Lock, Initial D, LnD, Jujutsu Kaisen, Tears of Themis, Obey Me, Mystic Messenger, ZZZ, HSR, COD (MW reboot mainly)

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*.・゜゜・

works by jel

Honkai: Star Rail

Veritas Ratio and His Vegetables.

(modern AU) Professor! Ratio x Vendor! GN Reader. 367 wc

Blue Lock

How they'd be on your birthday

jel's birthday special! ft. barou shoei, yukimiya kenyu, rin itoshi, reo mikage, zantetsu tsurugi, ego jinpachi. 1364 wc

Love Is In The Air...!

valentine's special. ft. nagi seishiro, michael kaiser, yukimiya kenyu, otoya eita, barou shoei. 1012 wc

Your Silly Crush on Nagi Seishiro

blue lock doesn't exist! au, stem student reader x stem student nagi, f! reader, 656wc

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*.・゜゜・

[rawme-price]

Thinking about single parent!reader and ghost accidentally bonding with your two kids...

He knows of you vaguely as the apartment two doors down from his that's always toeing the line of some sort of noise complaint. two small kids, four and five respectively. Cute things he sometimes passes in the stairwell since the elevator broke.

"Ewwww!!! What is that!!"

Like now, for example. Arms full of grocery bags, ghost turns the corner to the next flight and finds the wee ones crouched in a corner pointing at something. You sit a few steps up, bags next to you and seemingly taking a breather from the multiple flights.

"Morning, Mr riley." You smile, exhausted. Ghost nods back, then curiously glances over the kid's shoulders when they beging loudly pondering.

"It's an alien!!" Your little girl says, poking at it. "Alien–"

"That's a proper millipede, innit." Ghost grunts above them. He knees down between the two, and lets the long insect crawl onto his hand, holding it up for your kids. "S' the flat face? An' the multiple legs on each segment? Millipede."

You daughter gasps in amazement at the same time your son asks "does it bite?"

"Only kids who don't do their chores." Ghost snorts, then holds it out and gently strokes a single finger along its back "you can pet it."

Which is how your tiny ones end up asking ghost what seems lile a hundred questions about millipedes, then centipedes, and bugs in general.

He answers each one, and after some time sets the bug back down and says "I'll show you more bugs if you help carry groceries in, yeah?"

While your kids grab one bag each, ghost insists on carrying the rest in addition to his own, has the audacity to glare at you when you reach for some.

That night, your kids beg to go to the library to pick out books about bugs, wanting to impress their new friend mr simon.

Of all the people they could like...they chose the weird silent scary guy....at least they're learning stuff, you suppose.

[backtoarkansas]

sitting with husband! phillip graves on the wrap around porch of your house in houston, texas. the kids are running around on the lush green lawn; murphy and commander, the golden retrievers you two have had since graduating college chase them aimlessly.

he’d promised you this house, long long ago. consoled you through tears after his first deployment in the marines that he’d get you that pretty white house on the corner of brooks and west you’d loved since middle school. he was stationed in okinawa, one of three US marines bases not in america— you were inconsolable.

that was over a decade now, though. he’d left the marines and formed shadow company— along the way having given you three little babies with golden hair like him. he was a simple man, the american flag flew on the flag post off the front porch. secret garden by bruce springsteen plays from an old busted up radio on little tray table between your rocking chairs.

he turns to, patting his warm, heavy palm against your rounded belly. “number four, huh?” he hums, voice gravelly. you smile, cheeks burning hot at the tired growl in his voice.

“four.” you smile, “and here i thought our hands were already full.” your fingers lace with his; phillip’s calloused thumb traces over the back of your hand. the boy’s are screaming at eachother, shrieking and giggling.

he was proud; he gave you the life you wanted, the rock on your finger, a beautiful home and beautiful children. you went to bed each night beside him, safe. with a full belly. he was still as handsome as your wedding night, hands bracketing your face as he hovered over you.

“you w’me, peach?” phillip grins, waving his freehand infront of your face. “been zonin’ out on me.”

you smile softly, nodding. “just thinking, baby. no biggie.” absentmindedly, your palm rubs over your baby bump. you were five months now, due in october.

“that’s never good. c’mon, what’re you thinkin’ that pretty head about? tell daddy.” the name makes you laugh, and you pretend to gag—

“yuck. don’t call yourself that, p.” you giggle, shoving at his shoulder. “i’m just thinkin’ about you n’ the boys. how much i love you.” his eyes soften, and his grin turns from teasing to genuine— eyes crinkling at the sides.

“you deserve it, mama.” he hums, turning to look at the kids before you. “s’all for you— every single thing i do.” phillip presses a kiss to your knuckles, before standing up, calling to the children:

“c’mon, boys— time to wash up!” he hollers. their little heads dart up, and the race up the steps. charlie dashes past phillip first, a few inches from the threshold of the house. “not so fast— give your mama a kiss.”

you chuckle, and one by one accepting kisses on the cheek from each of your boys. charlie, jack then little wells. they dash inside and race to the bathroom.

phillip helps you stand, throwing his arm around your shoulders. “go on in, mama. i got bath time tonight.” he mutters against your temple— patting your ass on your way in.

[shayinstarlight]

Hi, I saw that you had open requests. I was wondering if we could get a continuation on the “Chunky Baby” stories for COD. Specifically I was thinking of one with Graves if at all possible, no worries if you can’t or don’t want to. Thank you!

COD | Phillip Graves: Having a chunky baby

Main Masterlist | COD Main Masterlist @shayinstarlight୨୧ | ©shayinstarlight

Phillip Graves takes one look at his baby and immediately decides they're the most well-fed, healthiest baby in the entire state of Texas.

The baby has those ridiculous cheeks that make everyone want to squish them. Graves is no exception. Every single day he grabs those little cheeks and goes, "Now THAT is quality American engineering right there."

He calls the baby every nickname except their actual name. "Butterball." "Porkchop." "Chunk Commander." "Captain Chubbs." "My little tactical marshmallow."

And somehow the baby responds to all of them.

He loves carrying them on his hip because of the weight. Not because it's practical because he likes feeling that solid little baby against his side. Makes him feel grounded.

The first time somebody says, "Wow, that's a chunky baby."

Graves immediately puffs up with pride.

"Damn right they are."

Like he personally manufactured every baby roll.

You know those babies with the neck rolls that smell faintly of milk and baby lotion?

Yeah.

This man is constantly shoving his face into them.

"Look at this little neck. Ain't got a single military regulation in sight."

The baby absolutely uses his stomach as a trampoline.

Graves will be lying on the couch and suddenly there's twenty pounds of determined baby climbing all over him like they're scaling a mountain.

He encourages it.You tell him to stop.He encourages it harder.

The baby learns very quickly that Daddy is the weak link in parental discipline. "Can they have another cookie?" "No." "What if it's a tactical cookie?" "Phillip." "Worth a shot."

Bath time is hilarious.

The baby sits there looking like a little dumpling while Graves is trying to wash under all the rolls.

"Where do these keep coming from? We cleaned this one already."

The baby laughs.

Graves laughs.

Nobody's getting cleaned.

He buys clothes too big because he refuses to believe how fast the baby grows.

Then one day he's trying to button a tiny onesie and realizes the baby has somehow become even chunkier.

"What do you MEAN this fit last week?"

The baby absolutely falls asleep on his chest.

And Graves secretly adores the weight.

The warm little body. The tiny snores. The soft baby breath.

You'll find him sitting in a recliner at 2 AM with a sleeping baby sprawled across him, television muted, one big hand covering the baby's back.

Not moving.

Not even reaching for his phone.

Just holding them.

Because one day those little rolls are gonna disappear.

And Graves already knows he's going to miss every single one of them.

[fuckit-meme-time]

Does Phil have a good relationship with his parents? Would he introduce reader to them? Would his mother embarrass him with baby pictures? Instantly dote on her grandson? The wedding? What would happen after the divorce omg the brain worms are worming

Or would he have left the second he could? Decided to do his own thing after one too many arguments and drunken punches thrown by his father? Doesn't care what they say, don't care that they hold more "traditional values", he loves reader as they are

I had wayyyy too much fun writing this and dreaming this up. If anyone wants more fics based on this stuff PLEASE send me an ask because I am eating this up. I could rant about family dynamics for hours. With what we see from Graves, it’s tricky thinking about where he came from, but boy do I have feelings.

I don’t think Phillip comes from some perfectly soft, Hallmark Southern family where everyone hugs in the kitchen and his mama is pulling out baby pictures while his dad claps him on the shoulder and calls him son.

But I also don’t think, for my version of Phillip, that he came from some violently awful home he had to run from the second he turned eighteen.

I think it is more complicated than that.

In my head, Phillip is Texas born and raised. His family is from Texas. His roots are there, even if he eventually outgrew the life people expected him to have.

And I do think his mother is sweet.

Not fake sweet. Not pageant sweet. Not “bless your heart” with a knife behind it.

I think she is genuinely warm. Practical. Proud. The kind of woman who knows how to make a house feel lived-in. The kind who has sweet tea in the fridge, a casserole recipe she does not need to look at anymore, and a way of touching Phillip’s cheek that makes him go very still because he is not twelve years old anymore but apparently his mama can still get away with it.

She loves him. She is proud of him. She probably worries about him more than he knows what to do with.

And yes, she would absolutely dote on her grandson.

That baby would have a whole drawer at her house. Extra pajamas. Little socks. Snacks he likes. Books he only reads with Grandma. Some ugly toy Phillip complains about every single time and she keeps specifically because it annoys him.

“Ma, he does not need that thing.”

“Oh, hush now, Philly.”

And Phillip would just stand there, mouth shut, jaw tight, while you try not to laugh.

I’ve kind of implied this before in other fics, but I do see Phillip’s mom being involved. Like, if your son is at Grandma’s house, that is normal. It is not weird. It is not a big dramatic thing. She loves that baby. She loves having him over. She loves sending him home with more snacks than you packed and pretending she has no idea how that happened.

And I think she loves you too.

Not in a fake “you’re my daughter now” way where it becomes too much too fast, but in a real way. A steady way.

Because you were the first woman Phillip brought home seriously. The one he married. The mother of her grandson.

The woman who got past all that polish and charm and command voice and actually built a life with him.

That would mean something to her.

So yes, after the divorce, I do not think she just vanishes from your life.

I also do not think she stays close in a messy, boundaryless, “I’m choosing you over my son” way. It is not that. She loves Phillip. That is her son. But she also knows you. She knows the baby. She knows that whatever happened between you and Phillip, you are still family in the way that matters to a child.

So she calls you directly. Not always through Phillip.

“Hey, honey, I was thinking I could take him Saturday if you need a break.”

“I made too much soup. I’m dropping some off.”

“Does he still like those little crackers, or is he mad at those now?”

Very grandma. Very practical. Very sweet.

And Phillip would pretend that does not get to him. But it absolutely does.

Because after the divorce, it is one more reminder that you are still woven into his life even where the marriage tore. His mother still has your number saved. His mother still asks how you are. Still calls on your birthday. His mother still loves the baby through you, not around you.

That would hurt him more than he would ever admit.

As for his father, I’m still a little mixed, but I lean toward him being gone by the time Phillip has his son.

Not because I want Phillip’s dad to be some cartoon villain. I do not think Phillip needs a full “drunken punches thrown every night” backstory to explain why he is the way he is. Honestly, I think it is more interesting if Phillip was raised in a house where love existed, but it was not always soft.

His father, to me, feels like the kind of man who believed boys became men through pressure.

Traditional. Proud. Damn hard to impress.

The kind of father where “you’ll live” counted as comfort and “not bad” counted as praise.

Not evil, just emotionally limited.

A man who worked hard, provided, expected the same from his son, and probably loved Phillip in ways Phillip had to learn how to translate.

That explains Phillip really well to me. Because Phillip is charming, but not vulnerable. Decisive, because hesitation probably did not get rewarded. Bossy, because being in control feels safer than waiting for someone else to decide. Confident, because he learned early that if you act like you know what you’re doing, people are more likely to believe you. And polished, because Southern manners can hide a lot of tension if you know how to use them right.

I think his mother gave him the charm. His father gave him the pressure. The Marine Corps gave him the structure. And Shadow Company gave him the freedom to finally build something in his own image.

I also kind of love the idea that Phillip has older sisters. A boy raised by his sisters.

I have not fully decided how many, but there is something so funny and perfect to me about Phillip Graves being the baby boy in a house full of women and still somehow growing up convinced he is in charge.

Like maybe he has two older sisters. Both opinionated. Both capable. Both fully immune to his bullshit.

That would explain a lot.

It would explain why he is so comfortable around women who have a mouth on them. A woman with opinions does not scare him. A woman who pushes back does not confuse him. He grew up at a kitchen table where women talked over each other, corrected him, fussed at him, loved him, and humbled him constantly.

So when you get snippy with him? When you roll your eyes? When you tell him he is being impossible?

He does not hear that and think, oh no, disobedience.

He thinks, home.

But being the youngest and the only boy would also come with pressure. His sisters could be loved and capable, but he was the son. The Graves boy. The one carrying the name. The one his father looked at like he was supposed to become something just because of his last name.

So yes, I think Phillip was loved.

I just do not think he was always loved gently.

And I think that matters.

Now, why did he enlist at eighteen?

I don’t think it was just to run away. I think it was because Phillip was hungry.

Hungry to prove himself. Hungry to get out into the world. Hungry for structure, challenge, and something bigger than being the Graves boy with a hard-to-impress father and a future everyone else thought they could predict.

That feels important to me, because I don’t think his father had to be cruel for Phillip to spend his whole life chasing proof. Sometimes “not bad” being the highest praise you ever get is enough to make a boy decide he is going to become undeniable.

So Phillip joins the Marine Corps, and I think he takes to it fast.

Not because it is easy.

Because it makes sense to him.

Rank makes sense. Standards make sense. Pressure makes sense. 

Do the job. Be better. Prove it. Again.

And I can absolutely see him starting in something technical, maybe a comms MOS or something adjacent. He has that field-smart, tech-capable, systems-minded thing about him. Smart enough for the equipment, physical enough for the field, charming enough to work people when he needs to.

Which is probably what made him dangerous.

He was not just strong. He was not just smart. He was not just good with his mouth.

He was all three, and he knew it.

So no, I do not think Phillip enlisted and coasted through a contract just waiting to get out. Absolutely not. He would learn the system fast, learn who mattered, learn how to get noticed, and then once he had the time in and the right to try for something harder, of course he would look at MARSOC and think, yeah, that.

Because regular Marine Corps would not be enough once Raider was on the table.

That ties back to his father too, I think. Not in a simple “I need Dad’s approval” way, but in the deeper way. Phillip was raised to believe competence mattered. Toughness mattered. Being useful mattered. So he kept climbing until he was not just good, but exceptional.

And then, eventually, even that system became too small.

That is very Phillip to me.

He masters the structure, outgrows it, and builds his own.

Now, would he introduce you to his family?

Yes.

But I do not think he would do it casually.

Not because he is ashamed of you. Absolutely the fuck not. Phillip would be obnoxiously proud of you. But I think bringing you home would mean something because his family is not a place he brings every woman.

You are not some casual girlfriend he is letting meet Mama over Sunday lunch.

You are the one. And his mother would know that immediately.

She would see the way he watches you when you are not looking. The way his hand goes to your lower back without thought. The way his voice changes when he says your name. The way he acts cocky and unbothered, but still keeps checking your face to make sure you are comfortable.

His mother would embarrass him, but not cruelly. Just in that soft mother way.

“Oh, he was such a serious little thing. Always thought he was grown.”

“Mama.”

“Had that same little frown too.”

“Mama.”

“And Lord above, he hated being told no.”

You would be trying not to laugh, and Phillip would be sitting there with his jaw tight, pretending he is annoyed, but secretly pleased because you and his mother are getting along.

And baby pictures? Yes, but not a giant dramatic album moment unless you asked.

I think she would have a few tucked away. Maybe one on the wall, one in a frame, one old photo of Phillip as a little boy in his Dad’s cowboy hat with a pacifier in his mouth, wide blue eyes and that bright blond hair only seen in youth.

You would point at it immediately, hand over your heart as you coo. Phillip would sigh.

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting.”

His mother would be thrilled.

As for his dad, I think you meet him. Maybe only a few times.

And I do not think he is awful to you. I think he is polite. Reserved. Observant. The kind of man who does not gush, does not perform warmth, does not waste words.

He shakes your hand. Calls you honey or sweetheart in that old Texas way. Asks practical questions. Watches Phillip watch you.

And you notice Phillip is different around him.

Not scared. Just measured. Still.

Like some part of him remembers being seventeen and trying not to look too eager for approval.

Maybe his father catches him alone at some point. Maybe out on the porch, or near the truck, or in that quiet space after dinner when everyone else is inside.

His father looks toward the house, where you are laughing with his mother. Crickets singing in the long grass around the patio stones as the Texas heat starts to settle down.

Then he says simply, “You serious about this one?”

And Phillip does not joke. Does not smirk. Does not say something cocky.

He just looks through the window at you laughing with his mother and sisters, then back at his father.

“Yes, sir.”

And that “sir” sounds different coming from Phillip.

Not sexy. Not playful. 

Loaded.

Because underneath all that confidence, all that swagger, all that command, there is still a son standing in front of his father and saying, yes, this is the woman.

Yes, I chose her. Yes, I mean it.

Then I think his dad dies before the baby is born. Something tragically simple.

A heart attack. Stroke. 

And that leaves Phillip with unfinished business he has no idea what to do with.

Because becoming a father makes him feel like a son again.

He thought he had outgrown that. He thought he had built himself into Commander Graves, into the man with the company and the money and the name and the control. Then his son is born, and suddenly he is standing in the dark wondering whether his dad would have thought he was doing it right.

I can see it so clearly.

Two in the morning.

The nursery is quiet except for the soft little sounds of the baby sleeping. You are exhausted in bed, finally resting, and Phillip should be asleep too. He has every reason to be. But he is standing barefoot in a pair of sweatpants beside the crib, one hand curled around the rail, staring down at his son.

The baby is impossibly small. Red-cheeked. Fisted hands. Little mouth opening and closing like he is dreaming about milk.

Phillip should go back to bed.

He does not.

Because every time he looks at him, something in his chest shifts.

Pride, mostly. Terror, if he is being honest.

And something else he does not like naming.

He wonders what his father would have said.

Not out loud. Never out loud.

Just thinks it once, mean and unwanted.

What would you think of him?

Then, worse:

What would you think of me?

His jaw tightens.

Ridiculous.

He is a grown ass man. A father. A husband. A commander. He has stood in rooms with men twice as dangerous as his father ever was and made them blink first.

Still, there he is.

Barefoot in the nursery, waiting on praise from a dead man.

And maybe you find him there. Half-asleep, wrapped in a robe, hair messy, voice soft.

“Phil?”

He does not turn right away.

You step closer, careful not to wake the baby, and slide your arm around his waist.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

A lie.

You know it. He knows you know it.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Phillip’s voice comes low in the dark.

“He’s so little.”

You rest your cheek against his shoulder, “Not for long.”

Phillip looks down at his son.

No.

Not if he does this right.

That is the kind of father I think Phillip becomes.

Not perfect. Not magically healed.

But intentional.

A man who looks at his son and thinks, I will not make you earn softness from me.

He might not always know how to say it. He might still be too stern sometimes. Too protective. Too sure he knows best. He might still have to learn that love does not have to sound like instruction.

But he would try.

God, he would try.

After the baby is born, his mother would be gone. Fully gone. Instant grandma mode.

That baby is getting rocked, snuggled, spoiled, fed, and told every story about Daddy when he was little.

Phillip would act like she is doing too much while standing in the doorway watching his mother hold his son with this quiet, complicated look on his face.

Because his father is gone. Because his mother is still here. Because his son will know softness from her that Phillip sometimes only learned how to receive in pieces.

And then the divorce.

Oh, the divorce would break his mother’s heart.

But not in a way where she makes it about herself.

She would not call you sobbing, asking what happened, begging you to reconsider, making you comfort her.

I think she would be quiet about it. Practical.

Devastated in that restrained Southern way where you can hear the grief in the pauses more than the words. Because she knows enough about marriage and men and her son to know there are probably things she does not get to ask.

And she stays kind. She still watches the baby. She still calls you directly.

She does not gossip. She does not pry. She does not make you explain the private wreckage of your marriage to earn her help.

Maybe one day she drops off soup because she “made too much,” even though you both know she did not. She sees you standing in the doorway, exhausted, trying to smile like you have not been crying.

And she just says, “You don’t have to tell me a thing. But I can sit here a while.”

That would mean more than either of you could say.

Phillip’s reaction to that would be messy. He would not hate that his mother still loves you. He would be grateful, probably.

But it would hurt like hell.

Because his mother was supposed to be your mother-in-law forever. His family was supposed to stay intact around you. And now his mom is still bringing soup to the woman he failed to stay married to.

That is a very specific kind of pain.

And I think if anyone in his family ever tried to talk down about you after the divorce, he would shut it down immediately. Even if he was angry. Even if he was heartbroken. Even if he had just come from another awful custody conversation and felt like he was bleeding out from the inside.

No one gets to make you small in front of him.

Not his sisters. Not his mother. Not some aunt with too many opinions.

No one.

Because Phillip may have been raised around traditional values, but he is not his father. He does not want a woman who disappears beside him. He wants a wife with a spine. A mouth. Opinions. Fire. Someone who challenges him and still chooses him.

So if anyone ever suggested you were too difficult, too stubborn, too independent, too much?

Phillip would go cold. Polite first. Always polite first.

“Careful how you talk about my wife.”

And if they pushed?

“I said careful.”

Because even after the divorce, I do not think that instinct disappears cleanly. Maybe he corrects himself later. Maybe he says ex-wife and hates the taste of it.

But in his head? In that first flash of anger?

You are still his wife.

You are still the woman he brought home. Still the woman his mother loved. Still the woman his father asked if he was serious about. Still the mother of his son.

So yes, I think his mother is sweet.

Yes, I think she loves you. Yes, I think she adores her grandson. Yes, I think Phillip probably has older sisters who made him better with women and worse about being told what to do.

Yes, I think his father was complicated and hard to impress and gone before Phillip ever got to ask him what the hell you are supposed to do when you are handed a son of your own.

And yes, I think the divorce would hurt the whole family in quiet ways.

But especially Phillip.

Because Phillip Graves can survive war zones, betrayal, bullets, blood, and men trying to kill him.

But his mama still calling his ex-wife “honey” while asking about his son?

His baby sleeping in a crib under the roof his father never got to see?

Standing in the dark, wondering if a dead man would think he is doing alright?

That might actually take him out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist:

@larrytheberry2 @phillygraves @kathrynwilmot

[obsessionsnight]

I'm...perfectly... (not) fine.

His voice during these scene broke me

The fact that he is the voice of reason. Until you touch of something he cares about.

[madcrazyworld]

💅💅💅

[lu-cider]

cakes and candles to the old man 🎉🎉 using this as an opportunity to finally post these portraits cause I keep forgetting about them woopsssieeee

balloon 🎈

[s-ghost-r]

Even though he would never trade your relationship for anything, the day Rugby!Simon proposed was not his proudest moment.

Put him in front of a thousand flashing cameras that will have his face plastered on every global sports news outlet and the most intense thing he'll feel is a simmering irritation. But the feeling of that little black box sitting in his hand makes his vision start to vignette if he thinks about it too much.

(It's so small, sitting in his hand, the ring inside even smaller. Yet the weight of it, the image of it on your hand, is immeasurable.)

The day he finally decides to ask you was the product of months of agonizing over it. Should he just hand the box to you? Just ask, not even include the ring? Fuck if he knows. He never thought he'd get this far, never thought he'd find you in any lifetime let alone this one.

He's not sure he actually makes a decision, but he finds himself picking a random day on one of the morning walks you take together when the weather allows.

Simon has been so caught up in his head that he doesn't realize how weird he's been acting all day, weirder than usual at least. He especially doesn't notice the worried looks you've been shooting him.

He's spoken maybe one complete sentence all morning and has maybe blinked twice, his mind fully anchored on the black box shoved in the recesses of his pocket.

He walks beside you rigid as an ironing board, marching like he's going to war. Eventually, you hover your hand over his arm, slowing to a stop.

"Si, are you oka--"

"I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore."

Silence.

"W-what?" He can barely hear you over his pulse thundering in his ears. It's the tone of your voice that truly reaches him. Small, a little scared. It churns his gut even more and there is a moment when he's genuinely concerned he might actually hurl.

"No. I mean--" He curses so low under his breath all you hear is him growling like a dog at himself.

He turns his back to you, hands fumbling in his jacket pocket. The box gets stuck and he's there flailing around, nearly ripping his jacket trying to get the bastard thing out.

And when he turns back around, sees your precious face, sees the woman whose side he never wants to leave, he drops to his knees.

Not the one. Both of them.

He doesn't realize.

Simon opens the box so fast he nearly tears the lid clean off. The ring that has been haunting him for months glinting from the cushion inside. He looks up at you with his huge brown eyes, more anxiety in them than you've ever seen. His dry throat clicks when he swallows. His mouth opens and all he can get out is:

"Please?"

Looking back on it, Simon has absolutely no idea why you agreed to marry him after that display. But every day he sees that ring on your finger, sees the one tattooed on his, he is overcome with the certainty that he'd go through every pain and misery in his life all over again if it meant that he could call you his wife.

[mujeje320]

Happy birthday to my baby🫶😭

[manicrouge]

Extension - [Simon Riley x F!Reader] cw: n/a (I don't think so anyway) note: dog-dad Simon Riley save me

As soon as you got pregnant, Simon got a dog.

At first, you were cursing him -- calling him all the names under the sun. And it wasn't Riley's fault, the sweet pup had done no wrong, and it wasn't your husbands fault either; he was training him, taking him for walks, feeding him.

You were just emotional and the thought of being left with a German Shepherd who was growing faster than you could think if Simon were to get deployed left you feel nauseous. And no, it wasn't just the morning sickness.

And your intuition was right cause Simon got a call while the pair of you were out walking Riley. He was nearly as tall as you on his hind legs and probably weighed around the same as you did -- Riley was a tank.

Before Simon left, he ruffled the top of the dog's head and murmured something to him. Then he hissed you on the lips, crouched down to press his lips against you bump with one simple request: wait til daddy's home.

It was a couple nights down the line when you heard the creek of the front door. You were half asleep, exhausted from a long day of work and Riley was at the foot of the bed. Had he not growled, you'd have thought it was a dream.

He was off the bed in an instance, pawing at the door and your blood was ice as you threw back the covers. Opening the door, you asked, 'Who's there, boy?'

He was off like a bat out of hell. Teeth gritted, his barks resonating off the hallway as he scuttled down the steps. You followed behind him, heartbeat in your chest.

And then you heard it. Simon was chuckling.

'Good-fuckin'-boy,' he chimed. You peered over the bannister to see him pulling off his mask with one hand and petting Riley with the other. 'Keeping my girls safe.'

And suddenly, his reasoning for getting Riley made sense -- right down to the name. The dog was just an extension of Simon.

[rocketbirdie]

behold. my suite of hot dogs

[fruitviking]

Can we stop with the character development. Where's my beach episode.

[xsang]

cms

[anxietyortrust]

I NEEEEEEEEEEEEED KASHIWAGI GAIDEN I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCK KAZAMA DID TO THIS BEAUTIFUL THING

NEED TO KNOW WHY WE LOST IT

(source)

[imsupposedtobestudying-whoops]

Watching Yakuza0... boy I sure hope none of these guys turn out to be huge villains and/or die! 👹🦇🔪

[munancho]

Yeah