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sailortongue · 1 year ago

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Lima Bean

pairing: kenji sato x reader

summary: kenji makes his intentions clear and a certain reporter is a little too committed to his job

an: ik the title is kinda dumb but bear with me i have an idea (title is still subject to change if the idea falls through). also tags are being kind of silly and I don't know how to get them to act right so if you asked to be tagged but didn't get notified I swear I tried 😭

wc: 2k

navi | prev | series mlist

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“I’m pregnant.”

Those two words changed Kenji’s entire demeanor in seconds. His face dropped and his jaw hung open in complete disbelief. “. . . Are you sure?” He asked.

“Positive test, missed period, morning sickness,” you listed off. “I’m going to make an OBGYN appointment anyway just to be 100% sure, but so far yeah I’m pretty sure.”

“Ah,” was all he could say in response, his mind both blank and racing at the same time. Had he really not used protection? Was he that drunk? He tried to think back to that night, but all he could seem to remember was a flash of you under him and his lips on your neck. His face immediately flushed scarlet.

“Are you angry?” You asked, noticing the rapid shift in his complexion.

He rushed to deny your assumption. “No! No, nothing like that. I'm just . . . not sure what to make of this.”

“I know how you feel,” you said wryly. “Just thought you should know, I guess.” You shrugged your shoulders, feeling almost hollow inside with the knowledge that your life was about to undergo a drastic change.

“I appreciate it, thank you. If you don’t mind, uh,” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “I'd like to be present. To be a father.” He thought back to when he took care of Emi and how much he came to love her. He was confident in his ability to take care of his own biological child, even if these weren’t the circumstances in which he imagined he’d have one.

You looked at him as if you were meeting him for the very first time, entirely taken aback by his willingness to step up. Truthfully you'd expected him to deny any responsibility, but there he was, asking to raise the baby alongside you—to step up to the metaphorical plate and be a dad. “Really? And you’re not going to leave at the first inconvenience?”

“No. You have my word on that.” His expression was one of utmost sincerity. “I want to be a dad. Granted, this isn’t how I expected it,” he laughed awkwardly, “but it’s how it happened, and I won't run away from it.”

You gave him a soft smile. “I'll be honest, I didn't expect you to be so noble.”

“Thought I’d tell you to get rid of it or just throw a check at you to never contact me again? I understand the concern, but I want to be there every step of the way.”

“Then, would you like to come with me for my appointment? I haven’t scheduled it yet but . . .” you trailed off, realizing you were asking a very busy man to take time out of his day to accompany you to a doctor's appointment. “Unless of course you’re busy or don’t want to,” you added quickly.

He laughed at how flustered you’d gotten. “I'll be there. No matter the weather, practice, or a game, I will be there. That’s my kid you’ve got in there after all,” he said with a broad grin on his face as he pointed to your abdomen. “And that takes priority over everything else.”

“Wow. You’re smitten with something that’s probably the size of a lima bean right now,” you teased.

“Woah now, that’s our lima bean and I’m going to be the best dad a bean could wish for,” he asserted, imagining teaching his future son or daughter to play baseball with him or helping with homework, even what it would be like to do his daughter’s hair, or perhaps teaching his son how to tie a tie.

He was snapped from his thoughts when you slid your phone towards him from across the table, the screen displaying a new contact. “If we're going to be coparenting we should have each other's numbers.”

He picked up the device to input his number and then checked his own phone. He showed you the screen, a message from your own number displayed there.

It was only when he handed your phone back to you that you noticed how late it had already become. “Oh wow, I didn’t realize the time. I didn't mean to keep you so late,” you apologized.

“No no, it’s fine. I'm glad you, or, Ami, I guess, insisted we have this conversation in person. Think if I had been told over text I’d still be sitting on the couch reading it over and over again,” he laughed.

“That was how I felt looking at the test. It didn’t feel real.” You had a smile that mirrored his own, and you couldn’t believe how fortunate you were that Kenji wasn’t the douche you expected he’d be when he found out. Quite the opposite, to your pleasant surprise.

“Do you need a ride back home?” He asked earnestly, not quite ready to say bye. After all, you hadn’t allowed him the chance the last time you had met.

You shook your head as you stood from the table. “No, I drove here, but thanks anyway. I guess I'll keep in touch?”

He hummed in affirmation, standing from his chair, his impressive height towering over you. He gestured for you to walk first, following close behind you, his hand lightly pressed to your lower back as he walked with you to your car. While the two of you were wishing each other good night, another patron of the cafe was typing furiously into his phone, notifying his boss that he had just overheard the sport's world's juiciest scandal in months.

-❀-

The first thing you did the following day was schedule an appointment with an obstetrician. There had been a recent cancellation so you were able to get a slot in just a few days. You sent Kenji a text to notify him when and where, a small part of you looking forward to seeing him again. He responded quickly, saying he would definitely be there.

When the day came, he called you to ask if you wanted to go together, rather than take two cars. You agreed and told him your address, choosing to wait for him inside due to the biting cold of December. When you heard a car pull up, you exited your home, and it took all of your willpower not to gawk at his car, which was probably worth more than your entire house. You saw the driver's door begin to open, and he stepped out, breathtakingly handsome as usual. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and waved, greeting you with a jovial “Morning!”

“Good morning, Kenji,” you returned, a smile gracing your features.

As you approached the car, he slid back into the driver's seat and looked over at you, taking in the sight of the mother of his future child. He'd lain awake all night, playing with the idea over and over in his mind. He was really going to be a dad. How different could it be to raise a human baby if he’d already done so with a 20-foot-tall kaiju baby?

You noticed his gaze in your peripheral vision, but as you turned to look at him he snapped his attention forward and made himself busy with inputting the name of the doctor’s office you’d given him into the GPS.

The ride was filled with pleasant small talk, asking each other how you had been since last time, basically avoiding the elephant in the room and talking about everything except the new life between you. After parking, he made sure to open the door to the office for you and entered after you, a rush of cold air enveloping you as you approached the front desk. You confirmed your appointment with the receptionist, and she directed the two of you to sit in the waiting room and told you your name would be called when the doctor was ready.

As you were waiting, you noticed Kenji’s leg bouncing up and down rapidly, showing his nerves despite it not even being his appointment. You took the opportunity that had presented itself and placed your hand atop his knee. He looked over at you, his brown eyes wide and his lips pressed into a thin line. “You can wait in the car if you’d prefer—“

“No!” He all but shouted, refusing to let you believe for even one second that he would run out. “I said I would be here for you and I will,” he said adamantly, placing his hand over yours where it was still on his knee and squeezing tightly, a physical reassurance that we was staying put.

“y/n l/n.” You heard your name called. You and Kenji stood together, his hand not releasing yours. Instead, he rubbed calming circles on the skin as you were escorted into the patient rooms, though you weren’t entirely sure if it was meant to ease his nerves or yours. Either way, it was a sweet gesture.

-❀-

The gel was cold as it was spread across your exposed skin, sending shivers up your spine. A grainy black and white image showed up on the screen, and the doctor pointed to a small grey object depicted on it, surrounded by a sea of black. “This,” she started, “is the fetus.” You looked at the screen in awe before glancing over at Kenji. He was seated in a chair against the wall, his elbows braced on his knees as he leaned forward, his attention rapt on the screen and his lips open in a small “o” shape.

The doctor chuckled at your amazed reactions. “Excited to be parents?” She asked.

You don’t think Kenji even heard her, so you answered. “To be totally honest, this was unexpected, but I think we can make it work. Kenji here made it very clear that he wants to be a dad.”

“That's wonderful to hear. Well, looking at the scan I'd say you’re about 7 weeks along and you can expect to welcome the baby around August 11.

Kenji was practically bubbling as you each took your seats in the car, and he kept stealing glances at your tummy even if you weren’t showing any visible change yet.

-❀-

These past few days of tailing the nation's sweetheart baseball player were so worth it, thought the man sitting in his car while browsing through the photos of Kenji Sato and a woman he’d never been seen with before entering and leaving an OBGYN facility together. Interesting. Very interesting. With those photos there was no denying that Kenji Sato, baseball heartthrob, was a soon-to-be father.

-❀-

Kenji put the car in park in your driveway. You made to get out of the car until he exclaimed “Wait!” You re-situated yourself on the seat, angling yourself towards him. He seemed almost at war with himself, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to actually say what had prompted him to stop you from leaving. “Would you, uh,” he faltered, chuckling awkwardly. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” He gave you a hopeful look.

Heat flushed across your face and ears, and you beamed at him. “Doing things way out of order aren’t we?” You joked.

He laughed mirthfully as well. “Way out of order,” he agreed. “So, was that a yes? To go out?”

“Yes, that was a yes,” you giggled, finding his eagerness endearingly sweet.

He nodded his head. “Ok. Ok, great. Are you free this Saturday? I'll pick you up?”

“I’ll see you then,” you agreed cheerfully, and, deciding to take another risk since you were doing things all out of order anyway, you leaned over and placed a quick peck against his cheek before hopping out of the car and waving goodbye. He continued to wait in the car until he saw you safely enter your home, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest and his face crimson red, one hand placed lightly against where your lips had touched his skin.

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taglist: @mochminnie @lovingyeet @sassy-cat-in-town @hanachiiii @aise-30 @reivelmin @fcheung750 @breaddippedinorangejuice @lunaryasha @imsimping4life @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @f1uveryysblog @random-3455 @b3e-sat0 @retaaaa56 @casualburning

#ken sato x reader #kenji sato x reader #ken sato #kenji sato #ultraman rising #ultraman rising x reader

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cerusee · 1 month ago

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Soups and Stews from Cerusee: a masterpost

(by request)

Brunswick Stew (American chicken stew with lima beans, corn, and tomatoes)

Chicken and Rice Soup

Avgolemono (Greek chicken and rice soup with eggs and lemon)

Cheesy Ham and Potato Soup

Cream of Avocado Soup

Pork Noodle Soup with Garlic and Ginger

Curried Lamb and Chickpea Soup

Chicken and Sausage Gumbo

Chicken Groundnut Stew (African chicken stew with peanut butter)

Fesenjen (Persian chicken and walnut stew with pomegranate molasses)

Lemony White Bean and Ground Turkey Stew

Scafata (Roman-style vegetable stew)

Pasta e Ceci (Pasta and chickpea soup with rosemary and tomatoes)

Graziella's Beef and Green Bean Stew

My tumblr braggadocio a couple of weeks ago re: my top-notch soup game netted me a couple of requests for suggestions/recipes, and when I sent a long list of possibilities to a pal, they asked for the ones linked above. I thought I’d just put them all on tumblr in case anyone else is interested. I’m going to do these each as standalone posts and link them back here, for ease of navigability, and because I’m going to comment on them a lot probably lol.

But first: eleven hundred words on chicken broth:

Chicken broth/stock is one of the staple elements of my home cooking. I use a LOT of it, and in almost any recipe that has the flexibility to give the cook her choice of meat stocks, vegetable stock, or water, I’ll use chicken stock. You do not need to do this. Follow your heart! And your dietary and needs and/or preferences! That said, I can’t swear by the results if you use vegetable stock or water (or beef or another meat stock, I guess, if you’re not vegetarian but you’re specifically avoiding chicken) in any recipe here that calls for chicken broth, as it may change the flavor profile.

I use two kinds of chicken stock pretty exclusively, for a combination of flavor, convenience, and cost:

Better Than Bouillon (Roasted Chicken Flavor), which is a concentrated chicken stock base pretty widely sold in most American supermarkets that I’ve visited (it’s usually in the soup aisle). It’s a sort of a thick paste that’s meant to be diluted with 1 teaspoon of the base to 1 cup of water (ideally hot or boiling water, so it dissolves faster). There are other iterations of the paste-style soup bases besides this brand (I know Penzey’s sells one, and I think I’ve seen some other supermarket brands as well, although I stick with this one because it is a known quantity and I love it). Please note that the paste-style stock bases are pretty salty. I love salty foods, so this is fine with me, but it’s something to be mindful of when you’re seasoning a soup that’s based on this…maybe hold off on adding salt until closer to the end of cooking, and taste as you go. It is very, VERY easy to end up with an accidentally over-salted soup, and it’s difficult to course-correct once you do.

Homemade chicken and/or turkey stock. This is a habit/technique I inherited from my father, who started doing this in ye olde days before much nicer stock bases were a thing you could buy in a supermarket. It involves taking all your leftover chicken or turkey scraps/carcasses (some of which might have been stashed in the freezer for a while as they amounted), and simmering them in water for up to a few days, until the bones fall apart at the poke of a wooden spoon, then vigorously boiling it down to an extremely rich, thick stock (probably something closer to a glacé than stock, if I’m being honest), straining it, and storing in the fridge in jars. This was partly thrift, partly because holy shit this stuff is delicious and just a has a real intensity and depth and sort of umami flavor it’s hard to get anywhere else.

As a single adult, I never cook entire turkeys for myself, so I tend to hoard my chicken scraps, and then go buy a couple of pounds of the cheapest turkey cuts I can get (turkey necks are GREAT for this, although I’ll get turkey drumsticks if that’s all they have, or even just chicken backs—I’m aiming for as cheap as possible, because this not about the meat) and fill up a stock pot with all of that, and then as much water as I can get into the pot. A stockpot full of turkey necks will give you an incredibly rich stock within an hour; the longer you cook it, the more intense it will be, and the more you might want to dilute the end product of this with water.

(These days I depart from my dad in the whole process of this: I try to use a lot of the first flush of chicken stock after getting the pot going to make specific recipes that need a lot of broth in them, and top the stock pot up with water as I go along (handy tip: ladle broth directly from the pot into a measuring cup through a fine mesh sieve spoon, if you have one; this means you don't get any solids in there). And then, eventually, when all the meat/bones/cartilage have given up their virtue and the liquid in the pot is starting to look milky white and even a little viscous from all the collagen in the poultry bones, I fish out and toss the solids, filter the stock carefully to remove any remaining residue, and, if necessary, boil it all down a little more until I can fit it into some specially designated ice cube trays I use just for this, and then I freeze it.)

Once again, you do not need to do any of this! You can just use other stock, etc. I personally love how much depth this iteration of chicken stock adds to things I cook with it, and I think it’s well-worth it alongside of just being kind of fun (although it will make your entire house smell like chicken for a week), but you don’t need to do this. If you do do this, please note that this stuff will be a lot less salty than any commercial chicken stock, so you may want to adjust the salt to taste on anything you cook with this.

You can also just do a way, way faster and less intense and more traditional version of homemade chicken stock, which is taking a chicken carcass or other substantial poultry leavings, and simmering that for 20-60 minutes, with or without some vegetables (typically onions, carrots, celery) roughly chopped and cooked with, and everything then drained and strained (and not reduced). Personally, I never saw the point, because it takes a lot of resources and effort for minimal output and it will take up so much of your freezer if you’re not using most of it right away, but lots of people do it this way, and it’s definitely better than buying canned stock (blech, see below).

Other stock/broth possibilities you can use but I won’t:

Old style bouillon cubes! You typically use one cube per cup of boiling water (it super duper does need to be boiling water; these things are shelf stable and will not dissolve in anything less, plus vigorous whisking). I sort of grew up on these in the 1980s and 90s in America, particularly on camping trips, where they were ideal, specifically because they’re shelf-stable. They taste like preservatives with a chicken aftertaste, and sometimes the foil wrapping sticks to the damn things and you have to scrape it off with a fingernail/knife. They’re also kind of annoying because it’s hard to use less than one whole cube at a time. They exist, they will give you a chicken broth, but jesus christ no wonder my dad took to boiling turkey carcasses as a non-camping alternative form of stock.

Canned or boxed chicken broth: if you like this, you like this, but this tastes even worse to me than bouillon cubes. It’s so thin and acidic and chemical and it’s just yuck. It’s also so expensive! You’re mostly paying for water in a can/box! But if you do in fact like this kind of chicken stock, and almost more importantly, already normally keep it around, I am not going to try to talk you out of using this. You should make the food you want to eat. Sometimes the food we want to eat tastes vaguely of the preservative techniques of our childhood. (See: my iteration of Brunswick Stew.) Please adjust for seasoning, though. This stuff is simultaneously very salty but also very bland.

@yutaan - sorry this took me so long! I decided to make a PROJECT out of it. I hope some of these are winners.

#recipes #soups and stews

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lethalchiralium · 7 months ago

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Seasons Change ⋆⭒ Part One

Retired!Cowboy!John Price x F!Reader, “arranged” marriage AU - Series Masterlist

summary: You’ve responded to the ad, traveling for days to a secluded farm in Montana to marry a man who would free you from the loneliness that infested your life back home - at the cost of your freedom. Or so you think.

Are you truly sure about this?

Your coach wasn’t extravagant by any means, wood splintered off of its wall and the cushions almost as old as you. You were sure that if you placed your Mama’s suitcase onto the floor, it would fall through. Your nicest shoes were on your feet, tied tightly and uncomfortable as they ghosted the top of the rotting wood floorboards.

Your hands were settled in a pair of your finest gloves, which shielded away the nicks you got from farming at your parent’s small ranch; lima beans, beets, sugar peas, radishes and tomatoes. The ground was tough in Illinois, trying to learn how to farm behind your mother’s back was essential - for you to be able to have freedom when you leave for the West, you had to have a source of income. Unless, God gives you a little ad from Montana on a Sunday afternoon.

Your nails hurt every time you scraped off the top soil from your radishes, the hot sun boiled your back through your stifling dress. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand before you pulled out the last one, a sore hand wiped away dirt to show a deep violet color. There was a smirk on your face, the vegetable settled in your small basket. Your Pa was to be back by noon, taking his horse to town for some supplies and a new sewing kit for Mama. Her time was spent inside, usually under the watchful eye of a needle and feeder as her brand new sewing machine droned on. Pa spent the better part of the money from last year’s harvest for that, she took it with a soft smile.

Mama’s clothes were good, she can sew four shirts by noon and sell them by two o’clock, her blankets still have a waitlist from last winter. You were lucky to have her sew you a new dress with how busy she’s gotten - it’s good for you, it means you can learn how to tend a farm from Pa. Independent living always intrigued you, wanting to live off the land in a quiet house with a shepherd dog. People weren’t interesting enough for you - you got that from Mama - but romance was. Wanting to be loved without the hassle of courting was a dream of yours, but it wasn’t feasible. No good man would want a woman with cuts on her hands, your Mama always said, a lady doing a man’s work insults God. That and you didn’t go to town much, never going without your Pa for fear of being harassed by men like you had been before. You were always escorted through town by your Pa, he always had a smile and a swift draw with his revolver.

You twisted a tomato from the vine, a decent size yet still not big enough - it seemed the soil was beginning to lose its strength of growing your crops bigger than the palm of your hand. Every year they kept growing smaller, every year it seemed that Mama’s sewing hobby was looking more profitable than the cornfields Pa tended to alone. Even your contribution of an array of vegetables wouldn’t bring four dollars to the table; when it used to bring seven.

There were footsteps along the side of the house, heavy and with a gentle huff as he walked on the solid Earth. It wasn’t hard to recognize your Pa by sound, your hands kept twisting off undersized tomatoes as he approached from the side.

“I’ve got something for you, Sugar Pea.”

You shook your head. “If it’s one of those Seed boys’ letters, I don’t want it.”

“It’s somethin’ you oughta consider.”

The trail began to grow bumpy, your hands held onto your small suitcase as you gazed out the window. The fields expanded as far as your eye could see, mountains clustered in the distance made you excited. You had never seen mountains before - Illinois was flatter than most states. It had taken you a day by coach then three days by train from busy Chicago to reach the calm Montana landscape, excitement bubbled in your skin. This is where you would be living the rest of your life, you hoped. You prayed this ad your father had given you wasn’t a trick for the man you had been corresponding with for the past two months.

The coach was stuffy, you already tried to open the windows in the doors but they were sealed shut, your hand waved your fan to try and keep cool in the brand new dress you sewed just for this occasion.

“No daughter of mine is leaving to go to Montana by herself!”

“Ellen, she wants to go! I won’t stop her.”

“And how did she get this ad? She certainly doesn’t have the penny to pay the damn clerk for the newspaper.”

“If she wants to go to Montana to marry a farmhand, let her. None of these boys here are worth the scum on my shoe.”

You laid in your bed, you watched as your curtain billowed from the night time breeze - moonlight dancing along with the thin fabric as the only sound you heard was your parents arguing.

“What if we need her? What if the soil runs dry?”

“I’ll learn to sew.”

“It’s a woman’s job.”

“It’s also her job to be married by now. She’s 20 for God’s sake, Ellen, she needs to have her own freedom.”

“And it’s a world’s away from us?”

Your fingers tapped your nightgown, tears running down the side of your face. You hated that you would be so far from them, but this was your chance. Romance without courting, hopefully. You were naive enough to not understand that romance is nothing without courting.

“She’s not a child anymore. She just wants to be wed.”

“And not have her husband love her?! Courting is how she should be doing it, that Joseph is a fine boy-“

“Not again with that preacher’s son-“

“-that would treat her right!”

“She doesn’t want to be here! She just wants to be wed and to be left alone, this man promised us a cash amount if she replies. All she would need to do is wed him, give him a child-“

“Gerald-“

“-then shoot him if she likes, just like I taught ‘er.”

Pa’s silver revolver was smothered by an old scarf in the deepest part of your suitcase, just in case this man in the ad turned out to have lied about his identity. A 35 year old man in need of a wife to start a family with. Payment to family if wed. You had written to him four times during the winter, spring had come in full bloom to welcome you to your new home. He had promised a warm house and a dog in his lengthy letters, detailing where he lived and where his family came from. Said he was a farmhand, tending to horses and a farm he partially owned. You didn’t have much to say back, only that you lived on flat farm land your whole life, you know how to garden, cook, and sew. And to your surprise, he found that knowing how to garden was great. You always had the idea that men hated women doing any of the dirty work, but that always came from Mama’s mouth. He wrote in detail that he found your hobbies interesting and would be more than happy to let them continue, if you agreed to marry him.

“You’re set on meeting this man. Are ya sure you want to go?”

“I am.”

“Get up. Pack quickly before your Mama hears ya.”

“Pa-“

“Hurry. The train leaves soon and the carriage can only go so fast.”

And here you were, in a coach this mysterious John Price had rented to bring you from the center of Missoula to his farm an hour away. You had enough money to get you to him, but he insisted on paying the train ticket and for you to be promptly delivered to him. Perhaps you should have considered if he was truly lying and was a one-eyed bald man named Bob. That or it was that crazy preacher’s son trying to get you to marry him again. You silently prayed that this seemingly sweet man you had been writing to all winter was actually kind and respectful.

The coach stopped abruptly, it jerked you forwards and forced you to press your shoes into the withered floorboards - yet nothing happened; you were surprised. Your gaze fell to the window, gazing out to see beautiful fields and dozens of trees. Even in the early spring with the remaining spray of snow on the ground, it was gorgeous. You could hear talking, the horse neighed at the front and all you could do was gaze out the window to the massive farm.

There was talking, a deep voice who initiated the conversation with the coach driver - your heart rose into your throat. Was this where you were going to live the rest of your life? Sprawling countryside with whinnying horses, barking dogs, lush trees and dark mountains as far as the eye could see? If it was, you were content - it was better than the flat farmland you lived on your entire life. You spotted a dark brown horse, coming into your view - a nice saddle sat on its back, deep brown hair combed and black spots dotted its belly. You would have spent the next hour admiring the gorgeous horse if it wasn’t for the coach door opening. Your eyes settled on the man who held open the door, covered by a long brown coat and brown shirt. He then held his hand out, you handed him your suitcase.

The man held out his free hand to you with a smile, eyes blue like a stormy sky. It shocked you just how gentle his gaze was, every man who ever looked at you always seemed like they would rip you apart at the seams.

Not this one.

He set your suitcase down, still holding your hand in his calloused one.

Oh. He is pretty.

Dark brown beard with mutton chops somewhat kept neat, teeth a light yellow - better than most men you’ve seen.

“What if he’s mean, Papa?”

“Then you leave.”

“If I can’t?”

“Shoot him in the head. You know how.”

His hold was gentle, better than any man who had grabbed at you when you were a teenager. Disgusting men laying hands on a young girl in the streets, but scrambling back like cats when Pa snapped at them.

“You’re prettier than what I imagined.”

Your jaw almost went slack with shock - he was British? He never disclaimed that to you in his letters, but his subtle drawl of his accent made your stomach quiver. Your lips pulled a smile.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“She speaks.” He chuckled a little. “Thank you, Miss.”

The coachman closed the door behind you, John then began to lead you towards the horse you were admiring earlier - now noticing the cart attached to it. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something to pull heavy items around. Your trunk already sat on it, he led you towards the seats.

You gazed at his face, the jawline that faded into his neat beard - the way his brown hair seemed to glitter in the sunshine. He was perfect - like the daydreams you had for years.

“It’s a small ride to the house,” John turned to you, holding up your hand to help you into the seat. You stepped up onto the cart, settling down and letting go of his gentle hand so he could set your suitcase beside your trunk. You looked down at your powder blue dress, one you spent all winter making by hand - Mama wasn’t fond of you using her machine. You were proud of this dress, even if it was meant to wear for one day, you’d always be so proud of how nicely it came together, how your first meeting with the man you were to spend the rest of your life with was perfect. Being optimistic is a good trait, Papa always said.

You spent your time watching the landscape as if it moved with you, the short journey felt centuries long as your heart beat faster than a race horse. Life here would certainly be harder than home, seeing that neither of your parents allowed you to help them most days - you were left on your own. Always alone, always doing what was needed without overstepping. This was a whole new challenge; learning where to push and where to pull boundaries with one John Price.

“Have you eaten?”

You glanced to John, noting his one hand on the reigns and the other resting on his leg. Your eyes flickered up to his face, his eyes kept on the trail in front of the horse.

“I have not.”

“I will make you dinner when we arrive. Won’t be long.”

You nodded to yourself, your own hands settling in your lap, squeezing tightly together. You gazed down at your hands, the blue of your dress meant to calm you. What you missed was a soft smile from your betrothed, his gaze memorizing your face for a few seconds before looking ahead.

This is a good choice. New scenery. New people. Far, far away from that damned pastor’s son and Mama’s snide remarks.

I have faith in John. But I hold no trust yet.

Use the gun if you’re ever scared.

Dinner was quiet. He was a good cook, much better than what you were used to and you were secretly delighted. Just a simple pork and potato dinner was better than the porridge your mother barely made edible. You stood like an awkward stranger in the small living room of the one bedroom home, unsure of what to do as John had not asked anything of you yet after dinner. In fact, he was silent the moment you stepped foot into his home.

Were you doing this wrong? What had you done to make him suddenly grow quiet?

There was a dusty couch, a dirt covered rug and a barely used fireplace in the room, your hands clasped together as a way to ease your nerves. He hasn’t opened the door to the bedroom yet, that was the most nerve wracking part. You haven’t shared a bed with a man, not since you were a toddler in your Mama’s bed. It was a terrifying prospect - especially to a quiet and reserved lady, having been chased by many men back home.

At least you won’t have to worry about those leeches anymore. You have a… husband now. You will be a wife. He can protect you. Right?

“I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You jumped a little, turning to look at John as he stood a few feet away - hands settled in his pockets. The awkwardness clung to your clothes, worry brewing deep in your belly. Does he not like you now?

John settled back on his heels, to your eye he seemed calm - what you couldn’t see was the tensing of his muscles, trying to not be as nervous as you were. The way he forced his jaw open to speak wouldn’t be noticed by you either. “I wanted to uh… thank you. For agreeing.”

You curtly nodded, you fought the urge to pick at your nail beds - a nervous habit. Silence befell the room again, your gaze didn’t disconnect from John for more than a few moments, where he held his hand towards the closed door - what you assumed was the bedroom. Your stomach dropped unexpectedly, your blood grew cold and you could only watch him with a nervous glare. He gazed back at you for just a moment before he spoke to himself, seeming to chastise his previous gesture, before he opened the door. He nodded towards it again.

“I’ll bring your chest in if you want to have a look around.”

Your legs felt like they could give way at any moment, but you still walked silently towards the room - John moved out of your way, making sure there was no chance to accidentally touch you. Acting as if you were made of thin porcelain, one wrong move and you would shatter on the floor. He turned away as soon as you passed, you didn’t miss the near-silent wince he made as soon as he started walking. You looked to him, a fleeting moment, just to memorize his figure before ducking into the quaint bedroom.

A large bed was pushed into the corner, only able to crawl onto the bed on one side. A fireplace across from there, connected to the one in the living room. The floor was bare hardwood, your shoes most likely shielded you from miniature splinters. There was a mirror in the corner, reflecting the entire room from where you stood. Only a few pictures adorned cleaned spaces, photographs of places that you’ve never seen before. A bay, with ships sailing in and out. One with snow covered trees. Another with a decrepit looking house.

You were quick to change. Your eyes watched John through the mirror, his back completely to you. You threw off your nice dress as soon as you untied it - not without a little struggle - before you pulled on a long nightgown, sleeves down to your wrists and hem grazing the top of your feet. You pulled the pins from your hair,

You pulled your quilt from your trunk, your hands gripped it tightly as you turned to face your… fiancé. His back was to you, showing many light pink scars. Some were the size of your pinky, others the size of your palm. If you were brave, you would walk up to him and trace the edges of them - but you weren’t. You waited for John to finish the bed, nerves swirled in your belly. You hadn’t shared a bed with someone since your Mama stopped letting you in hers when you were six. You’re a lady, she said, ladies don’t sleep in beds with men if they’re not wed.

“We’re not married yet.” Your voice was soft, John’s hands halted as they set a pillow on the far side of the bed.

“We are not.”

“We can’t sleep in the same bed.”

The man chuckled a little before he took the pillow closest to him, tossing it onto the floor beside the bed. “I forgot you wrote about that.”

Your grip tightened on the quilt. “About what?”

He yanked off the blanket from the bed, leaving the brown sheets before he dropped the blanket onto the floor next to the pillow. He turned around, it was hard not to try and gaze at his bare chest but you still kept his gaze. “Not sleeping beside each other until we were married. I meant to make my sleeping arrangements earlier but a man’s work is never done.” He shrugged, his smile softened as he nodded towards the bed. “Go on.”

You stood there for a moment, contemplating if you should sleep in his bed when he was to work the farm in the morning, but he held out his hand, the smile never fading.

“You’ll sleep alone just for the week, love.” He nodded again towards the bed. “I promise I’ll be fine on the floor.”

You silently made your way to the bed, hoisting yourself onto it before you spread your quilt over your body and the bed. It was cold, comfortable but not inviting. You supposed it wouldn’t be - you had been in this house for less than a day and the only thing comforting you was your belongings from home.

Home, you chuckled in your head. I suppose home is here now.

John fluffed his pillow on the floor, you didn’t hear an ounce of complaint as he pulled the worn blanket over himself. Your fingers traced the stitching of Mama’s sewing machine, your quilt sheltered you from the scratchy sheets on John’s bed. You could hear your mother droning on about marrying a farmhand, that you needed to go for someone with more money like a politician or a Christian - you didn’t like any man she chose, you shook your thoughts of that away. The first man you had chosen for yourself was far better than any lowlife scoundrel your Mama could find, and she would find ones that couldn’t have kindness anywhere near their greedy hides.

You slightly jumped when John spoke your name.

“Yes, John?”

He cleared his throat. “We’ll marry by the end of the week. I’ll sleep on the floor ‘til you decide you want me up there.”

“Okay.”

The stitching reminded you of home, of your cozy room with as many blankets as your Mama could make. It reminded you of quiet nights sitting with Pa on the porch, letting your mother stew inside after she made a comment that made Pa defend you. It reminded you of being little and standing outside Mama’s sewing room, hands holding your stuffed toy while you watched her sew by hand - one footstep into her room was ten minutes worth of scolding.

As you closed your eyes, you pressed your hands into your sternum. John was to be your husband, which meant children sooner or later. You promised yourself you would never scold your children for wanting to love you.

You hoped John would hold the same value.

#seasons change series #captain john price #lethalchiralium #john price #captain john price x reader #captain John price x f!reader #john price x reader #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x f!reader #lethal chiralium #john price x f!reader #john price x female reader #captain John price x female reader

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mommyownsmee · 5 months ago

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100 WAYS TO GET BACK AT AN UNWANTED DICKPIC — HAVE FUN! x

1. That’s adorable. Does it come in a size for adults?

2. I’ve seen worms on the sidewalk after it rains that look more impressive.

3. Wow, I didn’t realize you were doing charity work for guys with disappointing anatomy.

4. Ah, a dick pic. Here we go again. The male equivalent of a participation trophy. Completely unnecessary and nobody here asked for it.

5. Bold of you to assume I was desperate enough to be impressed by that.

6. I was having a good day before you sent me that, and now I have to cleanse my phone with fire. Thanks.

7. Is this supposed to be a threat or a cry for help?

8. Sorry, I do not accept unsolicited junk mail :)

9. I hope you didn’t mean for this to be sexy because it just made me laugh out loud😂

10. This looks like something I’d have to scrape off my shoe.

11. Bless your heart, I really didn’t know they made them in travel sizes👀

12. I’ve seen bigger clits.

13. You sent me this like it was supposed to be a treat, but it’s giving medical anomaly.

14. I’d be more impressed if you sent me a credit score over 700

15. Imagine thinking this was the move. Tragic.

16. This is why women fake orgasms.

17. Bro, fr, this is the digital equivalent of flashing someone on a subway—except no one gasped, they just laughed!

18. That’s crazy! Thanks! Anyway, what’s it like living life as a disappointment?

19. Your dick looks like it’s about to deliver bad news in a Disney movie😂

20. You sent this expecting what? Me to be turned on? Sweetie, I’ve seen sexier things in biology textbooks👀

21. You should try OnlyFans. Not for money; just to learn what a decent dick actually looks like!

22. I’d roast it, but it looks like life already did😂

23. Is this a dick pic or a cry for help? Blink twice if you need a hug, bro… (not help because they could say we should help get them off)

24. Your poor mother carried you for nine months for this?

25. Sorry, I don’t accept coupons for disappointment😂

26. Why are you holding a lima bean?

27. If I wanted to see something this pathetic, I’d look at your bank account❤️‍🩹

28. Do you have health insurance? Because that looks concerning😭

29. I’ve seen bachelorette party straws that were more impressive :)

30. Sweetie, I’m gonna need binoculars…

31. Your dick looks like it has performance anxiety😂

32. My vibrator is laughing at you right now.

33. Are you the guy that got the mouse dick transplant? I can tell!

34. Your dick has the same energy as an unseasoned chicken breast.

35. It looks like it’s trying to apologize for existing!😭

36. Bro, did you crop out the ruler because it was too humiliating?😂

37. No wonder you’re single. Even your dick looks like it doesn’t want to be with you.

38. If I had a nickel for every time I saw an unimpressive dick, I’d be richer than you🤑

39. Your dick looks like it’s on probation!?

40. Did you scare it before taking the picture?

41: You‘re just proving my point by showing me how disappointing your dick is!

42: You should frame this as a warning to other men about the dangers of inbreeding!

43. This belongs in a museum exhibit called „Why She Faked It.“

44: Your dick looks like it gives out WiFi signals in the 1800s☹️

45: Do you have to jack off with tweezers?

46: Sir, that’s not a dick, that’s an overconfident skin tag.

47: I zoomed in as much as I can but I still can’t see anything?

48: This should come with a disclaimer: „Objects in picture are even smaller than they appear.“

49: I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but based on this, I don’t think you’d even feel it????

50. If I wanted to see something this pathetic and underwhelming, I’d watch a nature documentary on endangered worms.

51: Deep throating isn’t even option for you is it? The best you got is teeth tapping and even that’s just a maybe…

52: Your dick looks like it apologizes before it even gets hard😂

53: It looks like it came with a participation ribbon.

54. Your dick should come with a warning label „Caution: May cause depression“.

55: Your dick has the same energy as a flat soda—sad, disappointing, and nobody wants it.♥️

56: You should get that checked, like—medically…

57: Did you take this picture with a microscope, or is that actually it?????

58: Soooo… Where is it? 👀

59: This looks like something an archaeologist would dig up and struggle to identify👀

60: I’d offer constructive criticism, but I don’t think there’s enough material to work with🤷🏻

61: This looks like it would give up after 30 seconds and need a nap😭

62: This is you

63: Are you sure you sent me a dick pic? Because this looks more like an unfortunate birth defect?!😵‍💫

64: You know I have your moms number, right?

65: That thing has the same energy as a man who says „nice guys finish last.“

66: I’d call it ‘cute,’ but I don’t want to insult babies and small animals.🥺

67: Who ever told you your dick is „amazing“ is a liar and probably faked their orgasm🥰

68: This looks like something that legally shouldn’t be exposed to direct sunlight☹️

69: That’s practically an innie at this point.

70: I would file a report but its really not even worth doing the paperwork.

71: Your dick looks like it’s in a permanent state of stage fright.

72: Does it only come out when it rains?

73: Your dick looks like it would ghost me before I even had the chance to block you.

74: It looks like it suffers from low self-esteem, and honestly, it should.

75: Oh wow, I love puzzles! This one is called „find the dick“, right??

76: What ever rock your dick crawled out from under, it needs to go back.

77: Are you sure this isn’t a „spot the difference“ challenge? Because I’m struggling to see one between this and a raw baby carrot?!

78: I’ve seen crayons in kindergarten classrooms with more length and stamina.

79: I think I found your lookalike! looked up tardigrade. The resemblance is uncanny.

80: This looks like a rejected emoji😒

81: Did you have a circumcision or a castration?♥️

82: You should consider doing drag, you wouldn’t even have to tuck with that.

83: Wow, you must have really low standards if that’s your best shot. Good luck with that.

84: Your dick looks like it would ask me to „lower my standards“ in a dating app bio.

85: Is this your way of saying 'I'm compensating for something,' or are you just really into abstract art?

86: Sending this is like offering someone a burnt slice of toast and expecting a „thank you“.

87: You really saw that in your camera roll and thought, „Yes, this is the one“??

88: I’d tell you to grow up, but I see you’re struggling to grow anything at all.

89: Your dick looks like it’s been buffering since birth.

90: Dial up moved faster than your dick.

91: You sent this like it was a gift. Babe, I’d rather receive a parking ticket.

92: If I wanted to see something this sad and underwhelming, I’d watch a sloth try to use an escalator.

93: Is this a „before“ photo for a shrinkage study, or did you just forget to send the „after“ one?

94: Why did you send this to me? Your dick is so tiny I can’t even roast it.

95: Ah, I see you’re auditioning for „Small Parts: The Movie.“ Best of luck with the casting!

96: I’m not into feet, so I can’t figure out for the life of me why you sent me a photo of a pinky toe.

97: Does your mom make you pay rent to stay in the basement or does she keep you there for free so the rest of us don’t have to see you?

98: You should probably go try catching fish and not women with that little bait worm you got there.

99: If i show this to a straight woman she’ll probably become a lesbian.

100: Naked mole rats carry a lot of diseases. You should probably go wash your hands.

A BIG THANK YOU GOES OUT TO ALL OF MY MEMBERS OF MY SAPPHIC GROUP CHAT WHO HELPED AND PUSHED ME TO DO THIS! I LOVE YOU GUYS!!♥️

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timetohealit · 8 months ago

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For some reason, I’m always smiling big while watching videos of the boys singing Olly Murs songs. Probably because it sends me back to UAN tour or because it’s just crazy to me that they saw him in txf just before the whole madness started for them.

Anyways. Here’s one of my fav videos because Liam sings on them.

youtube

#my absolute favourite is the one where Niall cameos from that hotel room bathroom #there’s one from a twitcam Harry and Liam did but Liam is only beatboxing in the back #I love you Lima bean #Youtube

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callsignmagnolia · 2 months ago

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Pain & Joy

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x f!reader, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n, just petnames

synopsis: Holidays can bring up ghosts that we forget are haunting us.

warnings: 18+, pregnancy, tears, loss of parent/mother, a sad bradley bradshaw (this is absolutely a warning okay? but he is loved, don't worry)- I think that is it but please let me know if I need to tag anything else!

I do not consent to my work be posted elsewhere or translated but please reblog, comment, and like to your hearts content!

word count: 3.3 k

Hello Friends! This my first fic I am sharing (yay!) so please be kind but offer constructive advice- I would so appreciate it! I do not have a beta reader so forgive any mistakes. Anyway, the weekend before Mothers Day is so heavy for so many for so many reasons- I thought of Bradley and was inspired to write. I love you all and are sending you all of the kindness! <3

Zach Bryan's "Sweet DeAnn" is central to the story so I would suggest giving it a listen before you read!

The weather was awful today- Bradley had felt it in his bones when while his jet was loaded into the catapult. He knew it was going to be a rainy, stormy ride as he practiced dogfighting over the California desert. His neck tightened with each jerk of the stick, feeling tension build as he forced himself to not think and let instinct take over his mind. Visibility worsened by the hour. Hangman became snarkier by the minute. Rooster grew more unnerved with every passing second. When Mav grounded everyone, relief fled through his body as he made the turn back towards Fightertown.

As the wheels touched down and Mav started assigning ground duties, Bradley couldn’t shake this feeling that he just needed to be home, in soft clothes, not in a flight suit or in a ridged metal seat. He is a good solider and would never leave the rest of his crew to do his job. When Hangman grows as he stands after crouching by his engine for all of fifteen minutes, Rooster’s back tenses, bracing for whatever excuse will pour out.

“Hey, Mav, not that I am trying to get out of maintenance runs, but I do have a flight home to Texas later this evening,” Jake’s southern drawl deepens as he gets to his point through a flashed smile, “and I would not want to disappoint my niece by showing up late to her dance recital without flowers in my arm.” Well the man does live up to his name.

Phoenix and Bob share a look before rolling their eyes but Bradley is just too exhausted to even throw a half-hearted look his way. He just simply wants to go home and watching Jake Seresin walk out early emphasizes that. The tension in his neck is blooming into a full on migraine- it’s just a maintenance run and then he’s home. That is what he focuses on for the next hour and half until Mav finally sends them all packing for the weekend.

The next thing Rooster remembers is walking up the stairs to the house with his keys in hand to unlock the door. The smell of supper hits him as he steps in, carefully removing his boots. The air is warm, the soft light welcoming, the quiet music curling around his heart and he is more grateful than normal to be home.

“Honey, is that you?” his wife calls from the kitchen. He tries to answer but it feels too heavy in his throat. Soft clothes, her. I’ll feel better once I have both, he tells himself as he rounds the corner to find her stirring the sides on the stove. He slots himself in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, letting his frame rest on her. She readjusts her stance to support the weight of his body. “Rough day?”

“It was just long. Bad Weather. Tight flying. Tension headache. And Jake Seresin,” he groans into her shoulder, hiding his eyes from the heat of lima beans floating up into the air.

“Go put on your pajamas from Christmas and I’ll come rub your neck before we eat, hmm?” She shoves him in the direction of their bedroom, tangling her finger tips with his. He discards his uniform and his dirty flight suit in the utility room as the song changes to a familiar tune. The soft flannel smooths over his inflamed skin from a much too hot shower on post. He lets out a sigh as he grabs the jar of lavender beef tallow that his girl says solves everything.

“Do you only listen to Zach Bryan while I am at work?”

“He motivates me. You wouldn’t have baked spaghetti tonight if it wasn’t for him. I wouldn’t be complaining,” she winks towards him as she settles him between her legs on the couch.

Her warm fingers dance along his neck as she lets the cream melt on his skin before she starts to work out the knots.

“Oh darling, you just don’t know how good that feels,” he almost moans as her knuckles dig into his taut muscles. This everything he had dreamed of all day. His girl, soft pjs, a hot meal coming soon, and a warm house. She spends almost half an hour meticulously rubbing each tension point and whispering sweet nothings to him. He almost feels a tear shed as she goes to fetch supper as they had silently agreed that it would be an eat on the couch night. The heaviness in his heart isn’t fading as fast as he thought it would, but he hasn’t eaten yet either so he shoves off the thought as a biological need.

Rooster is running his fingers through the hair of his personal angel as she nearly drifts to sleep curled up next to him with her head on his chest. Their couch is honestly too small for these antics these days but she cannot give up the position she claimed just a few weeks into their relationship. She’d been called to North Island because he had injured himself and found an exhausted, bloodied Bradley laying passed out in a hospital bed. She climbed up there with him and slept for another eight hours until he woke. After that, it was just tradition.

To think about how long ago that was is somewhat incomprehensible to the pilot now. She has been the cornerstone of his life for so long, he can barely remember life before her. Some things are ingrained in his memory, however. Glimpses of his parents fill the happy moments but much of what he remembers is the pain that life hands to you. He used to pack it away- now he tries to analyze it carefully so he can keep it far away from his daughter. His rough hand rests on his wife’s growing belly- if only his little girl would kick right now. The heaviness in his body is still present despite his whole world being perfect at the moment. Sleep will let me shake this.

When he comes to, Rooster sees the clock on the mantel is blinking 1:00 am. Zach Bryan is still playing softly and his wife is still fast asleep next to him. He treats her like crystal as he slides carefully out of her grasp to make his way to the kitchen for something, anything, to get rid of the vice-like tension throughout his whole body. He doesn’t want to have to go to sick call over a general complaint of feeling awful- Hangman and Coyote would never let him live it down- but something had to give. Sunday was his beautiful wife’s first Mother’s Day and he wanted her to be cared for like she deserved. She was growing his baby while still loving him and he didn’t have enough ways to show her how much gratefulness he has in his heart.

He’s shuffling through the cabinet where his angel keeps all the remedies she offers him to keep him up and running, from NyQuil to homegrown herbs, when the lyrics stop him dead in his tracks.

I’d be calling you right about now Tell you stories of a pretty fine gal Remind you of the things that your boy's into How he looks and he acts and he talks like you

He wants to pick up the phone and call his mom. Ask her what she did when he was restless like this as a child. Tell her about how he’s learning about how to be a girl dad so he can be the very best.

This world's not meant for showin' mercy I got pictures of us that hurt me 'Cause I'm squeezin' you and you're smilin' through That flash up on the wall

He glances up the wall to see the picture of infant him in his dad’s arm with his mother hugging them both on a tarmac in Florida after her graduated from flight school. The first tears start to run down his face as he thinks about how he had always planned to recreate that photo for his mom when he graduated, but she had been stolen from him too.

His heart clinches and the top of his shirt sticks to his skin as the song plays through the quiet house. He always misses his parents. It’s become a permanent fixture in his life, but tonight? Standing alone in the kitchen, the loss of his mother is front and center, crushing the air out of his lungs like 10 G climb.

Then I think about the moments It's a shame you'll have to miss My wife and I's first kiss And your baby raisin' kids

His wife stirs on the couch, pulled from her slumber by a muffled wail from her kitchen. Cold from where Bradley isn’t laying next to her, she wanders through the house to find him. As she turns the corner to the kitchen, the sight of her husband curled up in tears on the floor breaks her heart in two.

“Oh Honey,” she breathes as she kneels next to him on the floor. Her arms wrap around him and she pulls his head to her chest, humming softly to calm his nerves. His skin is flush against hers, hands shaking as they grasp at hers. The last lines of the song float through the air and she realizes what happened. “Sweet DeAnn,” she whispers as she presses soft kisses to his hairline. His tears are soaking her t-shirt- she can feel the sorrow washing over him like waves as he shivers in her arms. She squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to offer him enough peace to get through.

The thing about love is pain comes along with it. His pain is hers, she feels it in her chest. The weight of not being able to fix it accompanies the pain, as if she was drug down to the bottom of the ocean. His grip on her tightens as new tears wash over him, afraid he will wake up to find out that her, that his daughter, are all just figments of a grief strained mind. As her fingers card through his damp hair, he considers if this is how it will end for his own unborn child: crying in the kitchen over the loss of her dad who couldn’t learn from what hurt him.

Suddenly, he wrenches back from his wife’s embrace, frantically wiping away the streams on his cheeks. “Sorry, angel,” he chokes out, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to bed so y’all can sleep.” He musters the smallest, tight lipped smile, holding back a new round of tears.

She stares at him for a moment in disbelief as she tries to process the sharp change in behavior. He is distancing himself from her, closing up on himself. The Navy told her about this in the spousal support classes she had been taking- tears, vulnerability, pain, was consider weaknesses and sailors don’t want to be weak. They don’t want to burden their families with their own fears and sorrow.

“Honey, there is no need to apologize. This is what it means to be loved by someone.” She speaks softly, with gentleness lacing her every word. Her arms reach out in the dark to pull him back in to her chest but he evades her carefully.

“Just go to bed. I love you both.”

“Bradley,” she says with caution, placing her hand on his thigh, desperately trying to comfort him, “Just let me hold you for a while longer.”

“No. You need to sleep.” He bites.

“We’re a team. You’re awake. I’m awake.” There is a beat of silence as he struggles to find his words.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying except that dumb song and there is no man who should have his pregnant wife on the floor at all hours of the morning,” he whispers, a tremble in his words. The house is near silent now, the music almost tuned out of both their minds. She doesn’t dare to move her hand any further. As each of them waits for the other to move, her own tears roll silently down her face. She has never seen him this distraught and all she wants to do it hold him and make the pain go away.

She is the first one to move. She pushes herself back until her shoulders meet the cabinets, her hand leaving his thigh. She rolls up her shirt to expose her stomach to the cold air. “Come tell your best girl about it, Daddy,” she whispers as she reaches out for his hand. His lip quivers as he looks toward her. His heartbeat is loud in his ears. This feels wrong to a naval aviator- to be vulnerable for such a long period- but talking to his daughter has become his favorite pastime. He caves after a few minutes, settling his head in her lap where his little girl could hear him. His wife ran her hand carefully through his hair, keeping the other firmly planted against his chest to feel his beating heart.

“Hi baby,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to where her head was at her last ultrasound. “I’m sorry to wake you. I know you and mama need sleep. You’re both doing such big things right now.” He pauses as he rests his forehead against her stomach. “I always wonder who you are going to be. What your eyes will look like, how your laugh will sound, whose personality you will inherit. Let’s just hope it’s not Uncle Jake’s- I don’t know if I could handle both of you.”

His wife laughs lightly above him. Rooster and Hangman may not see eye to eye on many things, but one thing is clear: Jake Seresin will never leave you hanging when it counts the most. Rooster stood terrified before he climbed in his jet for the first time since he saw those two little pink lines and it was Jake that told him: “I’ll always protect you for your family.”

“I’ve been thinking about your mama so much more this week. Because of you, sweet girl,” his voice catches as he tries to continue, “this is her first Mother’s Day and I want it to be perfect for her. I’ve been so tired today. I thought coming home to you two would make it all wash away so I could focus on my girls. But here I am laid out on the floor with no energy.” Falling to whisper, “I don’t even know if I remember how to celebrate Mother’s Day. It has been so long since your Nana was alive.” His tears cloud his voice, his body involuntarily curling in closer. “She would have loved to meet you both, my Bradshaw girls.”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks, running into his hair as she begs herself to stay quiet and give him the moment he needs with his daughter. She should have known- the tension that was building in his body all week was his body remembering something his brain wouldn’t allow him to dwell on yet. The weight he couldn’t shake wasn’t an illness- it was grief. Whilst it may be her first Mother’s Day, it was his first one where he had to celebrate someone else. His first that he was not a child, but a father. And there would never be one that he was both.

Life marches forward, regardless of whether we are ready for it or not. Pain and joy are often commingled together like a knot that can never be undone. The joy of celebrating this new season was juxtaposed by the pain of loss. Hearing Sweet DeAnn triggered memories in his bones that he hadn’t even considered yet. He had no mother to call and ask what she would have wanted for Mother’s Day when she was pregnant with him. He felt as if he was flying blind into a storm, searching for home.

“Truth be told, baby, I don’t know if I can do this without her. I don’t know how to take care of your mama or how I’ll do at being your daddy,” Bradley whispers to his daughter, but his wife overhears, her fingers tightening slightly in his hair, a tear splashing onto his temple. He turns to glance up at her splotchy face and his heart seizes at seeing her in pain because of him.

“Bradley Bradshaw, you are the very best daddy in the world. You take phenomenal care of me, always have and always will,” she coos, trying to wipe the heat away from his cheeks. “I couldn’t think of a more honorable and loving man to be my husband and the father of my babygirl.” Her eyes are glossy but they are rich in sincerity. They are silent for a while, focusing their attention on each other until she pulls him up and leads him to the new vintage clawfoot tub he installed for her two weekends ago. She had been complaining about how in a week or so, their old tub wouldn’t be deep enough to cover her belly so he took it upon himself (and voluntold the Daggers that they would be assisting) to get her the tub of her dreams.

Under dim light and reeling thoughts, he doesn’t realize that she had filled the tub, nor that she had pulled him out of his damp pajamas until her hand is guiding him to sink down in between her legs.

“It’s two am, angel. You and the baby need to sleep,” he protested lightly as she pulled him near to her chest.

“No, we are exactly where we are supposed to be,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his neck, “Please tell us about Nana, Daddy. Your girls want to know about the woman that raised you.”

With a deep sigh, Bradley begins to talk about his mother, his father, what their life was like after they lost him, everything she had ever taught him. With each memory, each laugh, each tear, the tension he has been suffering under begins to release from his muscles. His wife draws circles on his thighs as she listens intently and never once chastises him. Each passing moment brings a bit more relief as he tells his girls about his mother until sleep takes over his body, his head tucking gently in the crook of his wife’s neck where he sought solace nearly 10 hours ago when he first walked in the door.

On Sunday morning, as he brings breakfast in bed with flowers to his own Mrs. Bradshaw, he feels more settled- as if he can learn to balance this new season with the grief of what is no longer. As she eats her pancakes, she presses a small, wrapped book into Bradley’s hands.

“It’s not my day for presents, angel.”

“I was going to wait until Father’s Day but I think you need this now. I found it in the storage container a few weeks ago while looking for your baby pictures for the nursery” she smiles. His hands begin to shake as he carefully tears back to the paper to reveal an old journal. On the front he recognizes his mother’s handwriting, instantly tears springing to his eyes as he reads:

For my baby, when he has a baby.

Authors Note:

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! Gosh the way he breaks my heart and i just want him to be happy. Please direct any advice or notes or requets to the ask box!

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun fandom #bradley rooster x reader #top gun 1986 #dispatches from maggie #top gun maverick #dagger squad #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #fanfiction #mothers day

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atarathegreat · 1 year ago

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Hello! May request a Draken sibling!Reader x Mikey. Any scenario and/or headcanons will do! Thx♡

No one knew what the hell was wrong with the commander. For weeks on end Mikey had been acting weird, not acting as childish or as ruthless. Even in fights, he was more inclined to let people at least have the ability to walk away, which was a little concerning to Draken. All the founders and captains were used to Mikey absolutely destroying his opponent, and he just suddenly...stopped.

Draken leaned back on his bed, watching his friend. "The hell is up with you recently, man?" Kenny couldn't take it. Especially when Mikey was over to hang out, he wasn't acting like himself. "What do you mean, Ken-chin?" Mikey looked up from the comic book in his hand. "Dude, you've been acting strange as hell." Draken threw a pillow at him. Mikey was the only one who hadn't noticed this change. He thought he was the same as always.

"Kenny!" Mikey straightened up at the cute voice, "I brought you and Mikey some drinks." Draken's little sister came in and set down a couple of drinks. She was only a few months older than Emma, and Mikey figured that if Kenny had a crush on Emma, then he could have a crush on Y/n. Dark eyes watched as she plopped down next to her brother, "And the ladies said that, when you have time, they need help moving a couple boxes."

"I'll get to it when I get to it. Damn." Draken rolled his eyes, "Don't they know I'm busy?"

Y/n giggled, and Mikey felt like his heart was going to implode. She was adorable. Unlike Emma, she had no desire to grow up fast, be more mature, or even dress like she had something to show. Mikey loved his sister, of course, but this girl... she was everything he wanted, and he couldn't help but compare and contrast the two the same way he did to himself and Kenny. Draken was mature and careful where Mikey was childish and impulsive. Was Y/n the same as him? He really hoped so.

"What about you, Mikey? Can you help?" Y/n turned to the shorter blonde.

Draken tugged on her ponytail, "Hey, don't start asking my friends to do your chores!"

"I'm asking for help, you overgrown lima bean!"

"Watch your mouth, you underdeveloped mouse!"

It was always weird when the two argued, hurling meaningless insults at each other that Draken would apologize for later.

For a second, Mikey wondered if she'd even be into a short guy. He was just around below average, but she grew up staring at the ceiling to talk to her brother. What if she couldn't stand looking eye level at him? Or what if she wanted someone with a deeper voice? Mikey wasn't exactly...gruff.

"Stop being a brat!" Y/n was pinning Draken down and jerking on his shirt, "I'm only asking for help, not for him to do everything for me!" Kenny could've easily thrown her off, but she was his baby sister. So, he yelled to Mikey for help. "Mikey, grab this deranged dust bunny!"

Mikey was careful to grab around her waist, no higher and no lower, to pull her away from her brother. He liked carrying Y/n, but he didn't want to hold on for too long and risk Draken seeing that he had a crush. "We should bring her along to our next fight and set her loose on the guys!" Mikey laughed, though he wouldn't actually let her anywhere near a fight. "I'll help you with whatever it is." Mikey smiled, ignoring the way Draken groaned and told him not to bother.

Despite her brothers' warnings to not help, Mikey followed her through the brothel and to her own little room. "I just need help moving these boxes to the room across from Kenny's." She crouched down and picked up a box, a box that Mikey quickly grabbed from her. "Alright." He grabbed another box underneath it, "Lead the way."

Maybe he would just confess to Y/n when Kenny confessed to Emma...

yes, the parallel is on purpose :)

Part 2

#anime #manga #x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyo rev x reader #mikey #mikey x reader #manjiro sano #manjiro sano x reader #asks #send asks #anon ask #ask away #inbox #answered

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julietsbody · 1 year ago

Text

now lick it — academy ! coriolanus + reader : coriolanus was quick to take a liking to the capitol’s newest it girl, along with her leather prada kitten heels.

tags : 18+!! MDNI virgin ! coryo, sub ! coryo ( yk i had to do it for my sub coryo bbs ), dom ! fem reader, shoe humping, i think coryo likes leather… or heels… not sure, coryo is just a bitchboy in this idk what else to say.. THIS IS NOT A FEET KINK FIC BTW 😭coriolanus is just obsessed w/ rich things and u happen to have designer heels… HEAVYYYYYYYY MOMMY KINK / ISSUES, degradation

a / n : do i know how to write dom ! fem.. no…. did i try… yes……

you’d known coriolanus snow for as long as you could remember, watched his trials and tribulations, watched him continuously come on top albeit being so low. he was poor, hardly had enough money to feed the two others he lived with, always eating those damned lima beans. and you?

you were just perfect! you had everything and anything you could ever want, the most expensive five course meals, designer outfits, shoes made from only the best. those shoes… a sleek black leather with red painted on the bottom of the shoe, sling - back kitten heels.

they were utterly captivating, the effort put into making them, the richness it oozes with every step you take as you strut down the hallways without a single worry in the world, paying no mind to the blonde staring you down.

“he’s so fucking weird,” arachne comments as she walks alongside you, more likely to pay attention to the gazes of those around you.

“who?” you snap your head to her, brows furrowing together ever so slightly, albeit not much.

“that snow kid,” arachne glances back at him, and he’s still staring, as sejanus, his district best friend, yaps his ear off, “coriolanus.”

“is that so?” you can’t help the way you smile, following her gaze back to him, a knowing smile curving your glossed lips as he awkwardly looks away, trying to look like he’s engaging in a conversation with sejanus now, despite the evident nervousness that reeks from him even across the room.

from that day on, you soon began to realize coriolanus snow was not a phoenix rising from the ashes of his potential, but rather a cockroach that you couldn’t wait to squish. he had become insufferably obsessed with you, always asking your opinion on things, offering to do your homework, asking if you’d like to be his partner for projects, complimenting your hair, outfit, makeup— does he ever shut the fuck up?

you never even considered taking up any of his offers, until it all got to be too much, and you decided it would be the only thing to finally quiet him down. you glare at him as he approaches you, “yes?”

“would you like to—..” he pauses, nervously looking around, then shuffling his feet and looking back at you, “to.. be my partner on the project..?”

he’s so shy, a roach caught in the manicured hands of a raven, claws pushing into it’s shell. he’s surprised when your eyes soften at him, “of course.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

so that’s how he’s here now, awkwardly sitting across from you, lashes fluttering at his page. he can feel the sensation of your burning gaze, it never left him from the second you opened your door to him, watching his eyes widen as he admires your house, the way his cheeks flush ever so slightly when you compliment his button up.

it was a hand - me - down, you could tell.

your jaw ticks ever so slightly, pencil tapping against the table, “coriolanus?”

he immediately perks up, as if expecting you to speak, “yes..?”

you smile sweetly at him, “come here.”

come here, he’s immediately flustered, shifting in his seat, “what do you—“

“come here,” your voice is firmer now, making him gulp.

and of course he listens, how could he not? ever so slowly standing up, trying to be slick as he ‘naturally’ drops his hands to cover his bulge, assuming you hadn’t seen it as he takes hesitant steps to you. your eyes glisten up at him, head tilting to the side ever so slightly, “why are you here, coriolanus?”

he inhales sharply, “i don’t know what you’re talking about..”

“you do,” you respond quickly, red nails trailing down his arm, all the way to his wrist, and yanking it away from his hardened cock. you immediately scoff at the sight, making him want to curl up in a ball and die right on spot, “did you just want to fuck me, snow?”

“no..— no, no, nonono—“ he immediately pulls all the stops, raising his hands in a universal innocent pose, “i would never—“

“oh really?” your shoe moves to pass along his right ankle, feeling him shiver underneath your touch, “you know.. i would have never assumed a guy like you would be such a desperate little bitch.”

to your surprise, he whimpers. it’s quiet, but loud enough for you to hear, loud enough for you to smile at, watching his cheeks heat up as your shoe trails up his shin. your eyes stay on his face, watching him struggle against his restraint, trying so hard to just not move your shoe to his crotch and hump on it himself.

he needed the expensiveness searing on his skin, to feel the richness stain onto him.

he had to have it, he truly was so, so desperate.

he had thought about this many times, humping against the corner of his desk in his room, imagining it’s the leather of your shoe, the chair you sit on, the desk you tap your nails on, the side of the bed that you sleep on. god, it was so dirty, imagining you sleeping in the bed, so peaceful, as he humps the side of it for dear life, biting on the delicate skin of his hand to mask his whimpers.

his blonde curls fall in his vision as his head tips down to watch your heel as it moves up his thigh, then finally it pushes against his bulge. his knees immediately buckle, hips moving to lower himself against the heel as he tries to hump into it. you hold back your laugh, moving your foot away, “are you a fucking virgin?”

he quickly moves to nod, “yes.. yes— please.. please..”

you scoff at him, “please what?”

“need it— so bad..” he whimpers out, pathetic.

your molars press together, contemplating it for a second before your lips finally part, “take off your pants, and your boxers.”

he swiftly follows your every request, tugging down his slacks and boxers, his huge, hardened cock springing out, tip red like he’s been hard for hours, precum beading off his slit. he was eight inches, at least, girthy as well, but not much compared to the length. how could a man so submissive and pathetic have such a huge cock?

you squint at his approval - seeking gaze, not giving him any of it as you hum, moving your shoe to move against his cock, admiring the way precum smears on the rich leather. he pulls his lips together for a second, “mm—.. mmph— feels so fuckin’ good..”

you were seconds in, and it already seemed like his sanity was shattering, hips worthlessly bucking against your shoe, whimpering at any form of friction. his lashes flutter evidently at the feeling of the money spent on your shoes coating his cock, making him feel rich.

now he’s everything he’s ever wanted to be, a rich man, doused in money, able to spend it on all the riches the world could offer. diamond encrusted watches, pearls extracted from pure oysters, real leather, rich satin, deep maroon. he envisions it all in his mind as he humps against your shoe, whimpering out nonsensical mumbles that you couldn’t even begin to decipher.

“al—always.. wanted to do.. this— ah, ah..—“ he moans out, hand moving to clasp onto the table next to him.

and suddenly, he starts groaning out a name you could never imagine being called.

mommy.

it comes so natural to him in this moment, and it makes heat ignite between your legs. you can’t help but play into it, “mommy, huh? gonna cum for mommy? yeah?”

he desperately nods, gripping the table like it was his lifeline as his hips move faster against your heel, white beading at his stressed knuckles, “mm— mph.. mommy— please.. can i.. can i— can i can i…”

your head tips up to meet his gaze again, “can you what?”

“cum..—“ his nails dig into the expensive wood, garnished with a sleek gloss, tears nearly welling in his eyes from desperation, “..need to.. so s-so bad— please, mommy.. ‘ll be good— p-promise..”

“you won’t tell anyone about this?”

he shakes his head rapidly.

“you will leave me alone?”

“mm—..” his tip catches on to the leather of your shoe again, making his nose scrunch up, “mhmhmhm—“

“gonna be my good boy?”

his lips fall apart, desperately trying to hold back his rushing orgasm for as long as you’re putting it off for but god— when you’re calling him good boy, he just can’t. his eyes meet yours, pupils completely blown out, “y-yes.. mommy.. pleaseplease—“

he just wanted your approval, just wanted you to appreciate the effort he is putting into you, for you to smile at him and say he did a good job.

you put it off for another few seconds of silence, before finally tipping your chin to watch his dick slide against your shoe, “you can cum.”

and good lord, he does. thick white spurts of cum drip onto the expensive leather of your shoe, his legs trembling from the awaited release, lips moving around incoherent words. he starts mumbling out thank you’s and you can’t help but chuckle at him, did he think it was over?

you put on a faux pout, “you ruined my shoes.. can you clean them for me, coryo?”

coriolanus, albeit his pathetic showcase seconds later, would never, ever get on his knees to lick anyone's shoe. it was humiliating, disturbing, concerning, even— wait. he’s on his knees. his tender skin pushes against the hardened floor as you lower the shoe to align with his mouth, and much to his own surprise, his lips part, tongue snaking out to provide kitten licks onto the shoe.

his own cum is salty against his tongue, slimy and disgusting, but it also tastes like.. money. it tastes like your approval, like your love. his tongue starts to lap it up now like it was his last meal, fingers gripping the heal of your shoe to have a sturdier hold on cleaning it up.

“good boy,” you eventually mumble out to him, watching his tongue slip under the underside of your shoe to really clean it up. god, didn’t he know you were walking in these all day? what a disgusting, freakish animal.

well.. you did clean them after school, intending for them to be to this use.

but he didn’t have to know that, now did he?

he still licked it, even without knowing, and that is the best part.

he immediately nods, licking his lips to make sure he didn’t miss any other cum. his eyes move up to meet yours again, “thank you..”

“who?”

“mommy.”

that’s right.

coriolanus snow was completely and utterly your bitch now.

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