Here’s To Philippa (Featherington) Finch, Who Married Her First Season To A Man That Worships The Ground

literally anyone: what is this place

Dean: welcome to my mojo dojo casa house

are you going to continue bad moon rising? Love it 🤞

I promise I’m going to continue Bad moon rising 😭 I just have no motivation right now and I can’t think of anymore excuses of why I’m putting it off. I promise I will pick it back up soon. 🙏

for @pinkumiilku, hope you enjoy!

kawaii sanji pixels

requests are open!

please keep in mind I have never watched one piece, so sorry if this is inaccurate!

🤔Stranger things theories🤔

ok, ok, ok hear me out alright. ok so every night Before Eddie would go to sleep on his filthy ass mattress, he would braid his hair.

Alright I know how it sounds but just think Eddie takes about ten minutes out of his nightly routine to braid his hair and that’s why it is so curly and wavy. And better yet when he meets Max he asked her to braid his hair so that Max can take her mind off of Vecna and shit.

Now I know what you guys maybe thinking, what no any Munson does not braid his hair his hair is naturally curly you’re you’re a lying you’re making things up. Well I may but that’s the fun of this. This is just theories it’s not really what’s happening it’s just me putting my loose ideas into a little folder for other people to read my loose ideas as well.

so let me have my moment with Eddie Munson with braided hair at night you guys so that his hair can be extra bouncy from mama Steve.

I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

STRAWBERRY AND CIGARETTES

strawberry chapstick, cigarette smoke.

cw. reader wears strawberry chapstick, inexperienced!reader, a little bit of peer pressure, don't smoke kids no matter how sexy men are, not proofread

"smoking is bad for you."

your colleague looks up as he removes a pack from his right pocket, shifting it into his left hand as he takes out a lighter from the inside of his other pocket. you're frowning in disappointment, your arm leaning on the counter next to you as you stare.

"didn't know i had a babysitter on my hands—" he mumbles as he fishes a cigarette out, shoving the pack into the inside pocket of his blazer, "did they pay you extra for that?"

"very funny," you smile as your eyes shift between the lighter and the cigarette he holds, "just make sure to invite me to your funeral when you die of lung cancer."

"if i'm dying at an early age it definitely won't be from lung cancer." he laughs dryly, his fingers fiddle with the lighter; the cap is already hinged up, and you watch as his thumb scrapes the gear across the other, sending flames lighting on and off again, and he glances up at you, "wanna try one?"

you blink. it was all light teasing up to this point, but this actually makes you nervous, apprehensive even. it's dark outside, and it's only the two of you in this building; that fact makes you startlingly aware of every action, every rustle of his clothes, every clang of the machines around you.

"c'mon, babysitter," he chides, the teasing lilt at the edge of his voice sending shivers up your spine, "give it a spin."

"this counts as peer pressure, you know."

"i think we're a little bit more than just 'peers', but whatever makes you feel better."

you feel the heat on the back of your neck, tensing as you debate the action of smoking a highly addictive cancer stick that you've been warned your entire life not to touch. you know he won't actually care or berate you if you don't end up taking it, but you think that he might be just as addicting as the cigarette. he lights the end, and you can smell the burnt tobacco already—it smells rich and masculine, much like him.

"here, i'll go first so you don't have to." he helps himself, his lips wrapping around the paper. you don't think you've ever seen anything as attractive as the man in front of you inhaling, the muscle in his neck tensing for just a second before he exhales, blowing the smoke out of his lungs into the air that surrounds you.

well, shit.

your fingertips graze against his as he hands the cigarette over to you, your fingers tingling from his touch, your heart beating out of your chest as you bring it to your mouth. you inhale sharply, the nicotine making its way down your lungs before you end up coughing, a dry hack escaping your puffy lips as you cover your mouth. he has the decency to turn away while a hint of a smile plays on his lips, leaving you swallowing to gather the saliva down your esophagus; it helps, but your windpipe still feels bare and dirty, and you shake your head, laughing.

"get this thing out of my hands," you smile, embarrassed as you give the stupid thing back to him, "i dunno how you do it."

"it's probably better that you don't enjoy it," he affirms, before his eyes catch the edges of the top of the cigarette. there are wet streaks that line where your mouth was— they're wet, but not wet enough to be saliva, and he tilts his head, his tongue peeking out to his teeth, "you're not wearing gloss by any chance?"

"chapstick." you flush slightly, pressing your lips together, "strawberry-scented."

he hums, breathing out a puff of smoke playfully into your face—you wrinkle your nose, waving your hand to blow the smoke away but it stings your eyes anyways, and he laughs, taking another hit.

"wanna try something else?" his mouth says the words but he doesn't look at you, his eyes staring ahead to the moon that shines above you, the buildings whose lights slowly begin to flicker off as the day comes to an end.

"you don't think you've influenced me enough?"

"it's called shotgun smoking," his eyes flit towards yours, completely ignoring your question, "i breathe the smoke to you— just for fun of course."

"...of course." you echo his words blankly, your heart thundering in your chest as he shifts closer, his body domineering over yours. your hands grip the railing of the deck you stand on, watching as he maneuvers his hand right next to yours, turning his body so that he's right in front of you, you can't help but laugh, "isn't this just forced secondhand smoking?"

his lips quirk up into a smirk. "whatever helps you feel better."

with that, he lifts the cigarette, inhaling another puff of smoke. the butt of the cigarette faces you, and you think it might be the sun as it glows a fiery, angry orange, the bits of paper crisping up to black as they float down onto your clothes. he leans in closer, his lips only inches away from yours, and he softly exhales.

oh.

the scent of him is addicting, his arms trapping you against the edge as you breathe in the smoke, you don't cough this time, but you honestly think you might've disliked it if it weren't for him muddling all of your senses. the gray smoke overwhelms your nerves, it's dizzyingly bad how good it feels spasming in your chest, settling into your stomach. his hands lay flush against your own, heat emanating from every part of his body, and you're fleetingly aware of how close he is to you.

fuck it.

your hands grasp the collar of his shirt, and he lets out a muffled gasp of surprise as your lips connect with his. his lips are hot—it's actually warm— moving fluidly against yours. they're chapped, his bottom lip more than his top lip, but you don't really mind, not with the way his hand cups your neck and his head tilts to the side, his jaw flexing as he kisses you deeper.

his lips feel like liquid fire on yours, wreaking havoc where they spread, burning up your will to not consume him. you've always known he was a dangerous man, but this feels so much better than you could've imagined; he's greedy and needy as he kisses you, and you smile when his right hand drops the cigarette to reach for your waist instead, the burning smoke long forgotten when you're right there.

you separate your lips from his, a dazed grin on your face, as he moves his head with yours, breathing heavily under hushed tones. "wasn't that more enjoyable than a cigarette?" your thumb reaches up to his mouth, smearing the little bit of your chapstick to the rest of his lips. he can smell the sickeningly saccharine scent of strawberry invade his brain. it smells like you.

"can we do that again?" his voice is lower and huskier, staring unabashedly at your lips. they're so smooth compared to his, pillowy and soft, the taste of your chapstick lingers on his tongue—fuck, he can barely think straight.

you smile, crossing your arms. "no cigarettes for two weeks."

he doesn't need to be told twice. 

— aki hayakawa, shizuo heiwajima, geto suguru, keishin ukai, shikamaru nara, hirotaka nifuji, sniper mask, gray fullbuster, loid forger, simon 'ghost' riley, plus your other faves!

a/n: yeah i know half of these are ooc but i just wanted to include my fave smokers in one thing ugh i would destroy my lungs (among other things) for them

also genderbent shoko is definitely on this list

keishin finally (finally) gets you into bed with him—well, onto couch with him, in his little one-room apartment in the back of sakanoshita mart—and he thinks all his prayers have finally been answered. thinks he's found some sort of cosmic apology for every misfortune he's ever suffered in how soft your lips are against his and how sweet you taste.

he knows he doesn't deserve this; that he hasn't done anything in his unremarkable life to merit how good you feel underneath his hands, or how dizzying those little noises you're making when he touches you are. but, against all odds, you're really here, you really want him, and he's determined not to fuck this up.

"keishin."

every time you say his name he feels like he's hearing it for the first time. like he's being blessed by it. it takes him a moment to process the way you've called for his attention as he suckles a little bruise against your throat, using every modicum of will he has left in him to pull away and meet your gaze.

you look so good underneath him on his ugly, ancient couch that it makes him ache. your lips glossy and swollen, your eyes heavy-lidded and yearning. you reach up and touch his cheek, and he can't tell if your hand is cool or his face is burning.

"do you have a condom?"

and all at once keishin comes crashing—violently, disastrously, crushingly—back to earth.

he blinks at you, wide-eyed, in the wake of your question. you seem to understand his answer even though he can't bring himself to say it.

"are there any in the shop?" you ask him, optimistic and gentle, with an encouraging smile.

keishin perks up—visibly brightening at your moment of genius—but as quickly as the hope uplifts him, he's deflating again. he pinches his bottom lip between his teeth.

"we're out right now," he murmurs sheepishly, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

he only keeps a couple of boxes of condoms behind the counter at a time, since so few people ever come in asking for them. last week takinoue had showed up half-hammered two hours after closing, and banged on the shop door until keishin grumpily answered it. his drunk friend went on to explain that he'd gone out drinking with his colleague from work and she'd invited him home with her, but he desperately needed condoms. keishin chucked the last box at his stupid face, and yusuke swore up and down their next night out drinking would be his treat before skittering off into the night again with a grin from ear to ear.

he was going to kill yusuke with his bare hands the next time he saw him.

"keishin, it's okay," you say with a light laugh at the positively crestfallen look on his face. "we don't have to—"

"no!" keishin interrupts you before you can say the words he just cant bear to hear. not right now. not from you.

even if you promise him that this could happen again another time—that you don't have to go all the way tonight, that there will be other opportunities—he has no way of knowing if that's true. no way of guaranteeing it.

he's got a taste for you now. he knows what you sound like. he knows how you feel.

and he refuses to let this opportunity pass him by.

keishin pulls himself upright so quickly from where he'd been hovering overtop of you on his lumpy sofa that he almost gives himself whiplash. he stumbles up to his feet, brushing his bleached hair back from his eyes—he's not sure where or when he'd lost his hairband, but the strands are hanging freely now and falling into his gaze. he grabs his jacket from the floor where he'd hastily shucked it when the two of you stumbled through the door in the throes of passion.

"I'm just gonna run to shimada mart!" he says to you as he stuffs his arms ungracefully into the sleeves of his jacket, his words so frantic they're almost bleeding together. "it's only about 10 minutes away, if you just wait right here—"

"keishin."

"shouldn't be longer than 25 minutes! 20, even! i might even be able to get macchan to drive me back if—"

"keishin, wait."

your laughter makes him stop dead in his tracks, halfway to the door. he's only got one slide on his foot, the other still sock-clad, and in his haste he realizes he'd grabbed his television remote instead of his cellphone to shove into his coat pocket.

you've caught him by the sleeve of his jacket, holding the material pinched between your thumb and forefinger as you stare up at him from the sofa with the sweetest smile on your face. he's frozen as he peers down at you, his lips parted, his dick still half-hard in his jeans.

"don't go," you say to him, tugging him back towards you by your grip on his cuff. he moves easily, gravitating back into your orbit in spite of how gentle the actual pull had been.

"b-but,"—keishin casts a forlorn glance back in the direction of his apartment door—"what about the condoms?"

his voice cracks a little on the question and he has genuinely never wished so ardently for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

you release his sleeve in favour of twining your fingers with his now that he's near to you again, your soft hand slipping easily into his own. that same dull ache in the pit of his core (and between his legs) throbs again as you blink up at him.

"i've been trying to tell you," you begin, a bit exasperated but not without its own fondness. you hesitate a little, looking away shyly before adding, "we don't... need one."

keishin thinks he might die.

really, genuinely die.

he wonders if maybe this is what the old man felt like when he almost keeled over from that heart attack last year, because keishin's pulse is pounding so violently in his head he feels like his vision is going a bit spotty around the edges—like when you stand up too fast after a night of drinking.

he's brought back to the moment as your hand squeezes his own—a gentle, questioning gesture.

your lashes flutter as you blink up at him, your head tilting slightly to the side. you smile a little at the dumbfounded look on his face.

"...if that's okay with you?"

(keishin pays for takinoue's drinks for the next six months, but never explains why.)

Welcome to my master list :) This will hold all of my works from all of my fandoms

A/n: Any art that is made is made by me, so please be kind and do not take them. Images come from Pinterest, I do make them on Canva if anyone wonders.

Supernatural masterlist

Mavel masterlist

The lost boys (1987) Bad moon rising masterlist

Obx Masterlist

Stranger things Masterlist

One Piece live action Masterlist

Haikyuu! Masterlist

A/a/n: Please feel free to make requests from any of these fandoms. I try to write for as many characters as I can; romantic, platonic, etc. I also have many more fandoms, so if yall have any other fandoms yall would like me to write then by all means don’t be afraid to message me. Because I really need something to do in my spare time. ;)

Sometimes he likes to daydream about you