Dreaming Of You

via stovenrogers on twitter

No bc I’ve been so haunted lately by shanks and prone bone…….. he’s so huge and all-encompassing pressed against your back, breath hot at your ear, scruffy chin rough against the softness of your jaw. He shoves his face into your nape and licks, heavy and wet, desperate for the salty taste of your sweat beading there. His arm is a vise around your waist that only grows tighter when he drags another release from you and it all becomes too much and you try to squirm away on instinct, drawing a breathy yelp from you and an unintelligible growling protest from him in return each time.

But when you finally pry your arm free enough to fling it backwards and grip his hair, he falters just barely. Your hand tightens, nails digging into his scalp as you yank, and he melts against you with a sound entirely unbecoming for a man of his stature—his hips stutter, then press against you and grind, sending white-hot sparks of warm, seeping pleasure through your core as he finally cums.

Whovian Language

Dudududun Dudududun Dudududun Du du du Dudududun Dudududun DudududunDOOWEEEEOOOOOOOOO WEEEDOOOODOOOOOOOOOO BUMM BUMM BUMMMM BUUM BUM BUM- Bum bumm -bumbumbudadadadummm DOOWEEEEOOOOO00ooo fwa fwa wooosh

after the finale of the mandalorian i cannot stop thinking about all the little fucking faces Din makes bc that bitch was on the brink of death and managed to make a face at IG’s joke, do not tell me he doesn’t make the littlest fuckin faces when someone says smth rude or dumb. no i will not take any criticism

Dear Chris Evans…

Thank

You

For

Being

Our

Hero

And

Our

Captain!!

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Stay the Night (Smoker x Reader)

Synopsis: Smoker is surprisingly, bafflingly competent at taking care of you while you're drunk.

Word Count: 2.4k

Tags/Warnings: Alcohol, Intoxication, Alcohol Sickness, Vomiting, Fluff, No Reader Pronouns Explicitly Mentioned (Reader Wears Heels, Makeup, and a Wig), Language, Mildly Suggestive, Two Longtime Friends and Peers who are Clearly in Love with Each Other

Notes: I felt like Smoker was the kind of guy to reluctantly hold your hair back while you're throwing up.

Unlike the rest of his present company, Smoker usually avoided overindulging in elaborately planned social events, especially those with an open bar. It was best to stay out of the way. 

The Marines rarely allocated funds to such frivolous occasions, and so most officers and honored guests took it upon themselves to find the bottom of the generously offered bottomless champagne. While the hangovers were never worth it, that didn’t stop even the highest leadership from stumbling out of the ballroom doors with hair tousled and neckties hanging across their shoulders. 

Smoker preferred to sit at a table out of the way: a sanctuary among the chaos, away from the main path of foot traffic, with a clear view of the door. That’s where he nursed his single glass of whisky. If he were feeling especially celebratory, he would have two. 

You, on the other hand… were already standing on top of a table. Your stilettos were positioned on either side of the floral centerpiece in the middle, and the tiny point of your heels barely allowed you to balance as the bottle in your hands exploded in a loud, crisp pop. 

Smoker watched how the sea of Marines that gathered around you in disheveled formalwear cheered, and your hypnotized face admired the bubbles pouring from the bottle's neck. 

A group of newly trained officers jumped up and down together in time with the music on the opposite side of the circular table in celebration, knocking some tall glasses over onto the white cloth below. Smoker nearly leaped out of his chair as your knees began to buckle. But even despite your tiny shoes and even tinier dress, you managed to catch yourself. Your laughter resounded loudly among the voices around you.

Smoker heaved a deep sigh, sitting back down, swirling his drink with a flick of his wrist. 

He didn’t even need to see that stunt to predict what would come later that night. 

The streets were utterly empty. Aside from the glow of the street lamps, the only light that shone was from the venue as the staff hurried their clean up. Smoker strolled out of the double doors, tie loosened around his neck and suit jacket draped neatly over his arm.

He barely had to make it outside before he saw you. Hell, he’d be able to spot that glittery ass anywhere, even without your blinding choice of attire. 

You were bent over on your weak knees as you hurled your guts out into a bush. Smoker let out a low, resigned grumble, swiping a hand over his fatigued face as he approached you. You barely registered the large shadow that overtook you, let alone the hands that gingerly and neatly gathered your hair away from your face. 

You sputtered, coughing as a few tears streamed from your eyes. The insides of your cheeks were wet and bitter, and your throat burned. You spat onto the ground to get more foul-tasting mucus out of your mouth. 

You were a Marine, dammit, and a few too many took you out quicker than any pirate ever did. 

“Koby?” you whined. Tears continued to stream from your eyes at the pressure in your sinuses. You spat again. God, something was in your nose.

“Sorry to disappoint, Lieutenant Commander,” Smoker gruffed from where he squatted next to you. 

“Don’t call me that,” you whimpered, not wanting to be reminded of your rank during such a state of weakness. Your stomach convulsed, causing your sickness to start again. Smoker’s gaze drifted to the still street like another weekday night. “I’m never gonna drink again.”

“Mh-hmm” was about the only noise you got out of Smoker. He sat patiently and wordless, not one to croon words of assurance at you as you paid for your night of over-indulgence. But for his silence, he continued to pull your hair back, meticulously smoothing the bundle back as best as he could so as not to knot or tug at your stands. 

In a moment of relief, you finally turned over to sit on the curb. Despite the extra alcohol emptied from your stomach, you were far from sober. Smoker knelt on one knee in front of you. You could hardly get his face to focus, let alone register the warm jacket he hung across your shoulders. 

He took the pocket square from the left breast pocket and unfurled it with a snap of his wrist. Smoker swiped the fabric over your mouth, clearing away saliva and slime. The backs of your fingers knocked against his wrist belatedly as you shook your head.

“‘M gonna fuck up your hankie, Smokey,” you sighed, even though he had already wiped your mouth. He shoved the square roughly into his pocket, paying no mind to you as he heaved you onto your feet. “‘M alright. I can make it home.”

“Like hell, you can.” You stumbled as you tried to step forward, but Smoker caught you around the waist. “These, too. You know the whole street’s cobblestone, right?.” His movements felt incredibly fast to you as he bent down again to slide your shoes off, and with two large fingers hooked around the pinch of your stilettos, Smoker moved to throw you over his shoulder. 

“Whoa, whoa, wait…” Your hand flew over your mouth, and the other splayed across Smoker’s right shoulder. He held you at length, studying your face and movements carefully. 

“What’s goin’ on?”

You shook your head in small but rapid swivels.

“Can’t do that.” You heaved a deep breath, slowly removing your hand from your mouth. 

Smoker grumbled a hum of acknowledgment, pulling his jacket closed over your chest before shepherding you down the street toward your apartment. 

You barely remembered the walk, although you were sure your drunken meandering was more than a test of Smoker’s patience. Even so, he hardly said a word, only breaking his silence to ask you where your keys were when you reached your doorstep. 

They were in your clutch, which Smoker was holding with your shoes, of course. 

As soon as the door opened, you nearly collapsed into your apartment. With Smoker's help, you fell neatly onto the couch by the entrance. He slipped off his boots— no matter how formal the event, Smoker was wearing his combat boots— and disappeared somewhere into your apartment. 

You didn’t even care. Your head was so heavy that all you wanted to do was sleep as you slowly sank into your couch cushions. 

“Sit back up.” You heard Smoker call sternly from the other room. You didn’t think you could obey him if you wanted to. 

In a second, you were being repositioned. The light from the lamp in the corner of the room was sobering and borderline upsetting, but it allowed you to see the small trashcan Smoker brought for you on the floor to your right and the bottle of make-up remover on the coffee table in front of you. Smoker sat beside you, tilting your chin to delicately rub your make-up away with a prepped, textured cotton pad. 

It caught you off guard, to say the least. Even in your drunken haze, Smoker still didn’t seem like the type to have patience for tender acts of service. Hell, you didn’t even know he knew what make-up remover looked like. 

But despite your judgments, Smoker sat on the couch next to you, one elbow resting against the back cushion as he held your chin while his other hand swiped away your perfect contour. 

“Who taught you this?” you giggled. Smoker, make sure to get the creases around your nose. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Where do you want your lashes?”

“What?—” 

Smoker had already pulled your left eyelash off, the entire strip. 

“I’ll put ‘em back in the book I saw.” Before you could protest, Smoker had already pulled off your right lash. He stood quickly, stuffing the solution-soaked pad into your hand as he pivoted to carry your lashes to the other room. “Work on the rest of the glue.”

He turned back to you slightly, leaning over you just a bit to grasp your wrist and manipulate your hand to move in a circular motion on your face before you slapped him away. Smoker disappeared once again into your apartment. 

You finally noticed the plastic cup of water on your coffee table and mustered up the energy to take it. The outside was wet with condensation. It was cold. You couldn’t remember the last time you drank water. 

“What do you wanna do with your unit?” Smoker appeared from around the corner again; some linens balled in a wad under his arm. He held a pillow in his opposite grip as if he were holding a stray dog by the scruff. 

His white collared shirt had been pulled from the waistband of his dress pants sometime during the night. The black tie that was already draped over his shoulders drooped to one side, making one side longer than the other. The first three buttons of his shirt sat on his chest untethered. A dampened towel rested over his shoulder.

You blinked at him between sips of water. Your stomach was handling rehydration so far, but you were about to push it.

“You’re not touching my hair, Smokey.”

“Though I’d offer.” He set the pillow down to take the towel off his shoulder. Smoker wadded it in a ball before throwing it your way. You somehow still had the dexterity to catch it out of the air. A generous amount of adhesive remover had already been applied to it. 

Smoker pulled the coffee table out of the way, and as you stared at the towel he threw to you, Smoker began arranging blankets and pillows around you. You supposed he was trying to get you to sleep somewhere you could sit up. He draped a fuzzy throw blanket on your lap and moved two large decorative pillows to your right and left.

As your eyes moved from the remover-soaked towel to Smoker and back, you couldn’t help but laugh. The sensation moved through you before tearing out of your chest. Unrestrained by the liquor, it probably came out louder and more shrill than it would have usually, but if Smoker had any comments, he kept them to himself. 

He knelt before you, both his wrists resting on his bent knee. He shook his head as if regretting the question he was about to ask in advance.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

You swayed forward, racked with trembles, as you continued to laugh. The back of your heels knocked against the bottom of the couch. Smoker didn’t move, even as your face inched gradually towards his. Your cheek settled into your palm, allowing you to sit folded over to meet his eye. He waited as your laughter gradually subsided.

“What are you doing here, Smoker?” 

He stared directly into your irises, and you didn’t know if his expressionlessness or the intensity of his gaze made your smug smile waver. Intending to tease him, Smoker didn’t humor you with an expression. Nothing you had done that night—nor anything you would do—could sober you up faster than the sharp and sudden twinge in your chest that came with simply meeting Smoker’s dark brown eyes. 

What the hell?

“Your girlfriend’ll be pissed.” You sharply recoiled, kicking your legs over Smoker’s bent knee to swiftly stand. You made a beeline deeper into the apartment. 

Smoker only wavered a moment, his eyebrows creasing for a second in confusion before he stood and followed you.

“What girlfriend?” he shouted. He nearly ran into you as you closed a small cabinet by the bathroom. The side of your lip drooped downward in an acute pout. Smoker, never one to enjoy feeling left out of the loop, hovered over you expectantly. You entered the bathroom without a second thought. Smoker found himself in the doorway.

“Weren’t you with that…” You snapped your fingers as you tried to recall her name. You didn’t have to wait.

“Six months ago… and we only went on a few dates,” Smoker defended, although he wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to defend himself to you in the first place. The two of you had known each other for longer than he recalled knowing anyone else, and more prominently, the two of you were peers. Why should it matter if he took some petty officer out for a few drinks a few months back? His eyes narrowed at the back of your head. “Why?”

You shrugged. You seemed far less worried about the whole thing; your face practically pressed against the mirror to remove the remaining patches of product Smoker missed. He did a more than adequate job. He hardly missed anything regarding your makeup, but the pointed glance you stole in the mirror escaped him. 

“Now I know I’m pretty wasted—” You met his gaze through the mirror. You cocked your head, and your hands gripped the side of the sink in pure bafflement. “But you said ‘lash book’—?”

“Got it. Got it.” Smoker crossed his arms as he tore his attention away. Steam filled the air. He hardly noticed the shower running, and he most definitely didn’t realize that you were standing in front of him, presenting your back, until you started speaking again.

“So, you’re just kind of a—" You glanced over your shoulder at him, and for as off as your judgment was, you knew you probably shouldn’t finish your sentence—even if his reaction would have been hilarious. You turned back around. “Get my dress for me?”  

You could have noticed Smoker’s single beat of hesitation if you were any less intoxicated. But for yet another instance that night, Smoker went quiet as he slowly tugged down the back zipper of your dress. The invisible zipper was thin and difficult to grip, but it slid down your spine like butter regardless, revealing the soft skin underneath.

“I have a pair of your shorts in the bottom left drawer of my dresser. The couch is yours.” You pivoted again on your heel, one hand holding your dress up on your chest and the other pushing Smoker back through the doorway. “Now get out.” 

You shut the door. Smoker sighed and resigned himself to rifle through your dresser, wondering why he had clothes at your place at all. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: Based off my personal headcanon that Smoker has a surprisingly extensive dating history and an equally surprising library of knowledge about girly stuff because he's an extremely involved boyfriend. I'd say most of his previous relationships had amicable break ups. Reader was also going to say "so you're kind of a whore" but decided against it.

What do op men's hands are like part 1

Red haired Shanks

Shank's hands aren't the softest or the smoothest. He is a swordsman, a pirate, and a sailor, so his hands are dry as fuck. His skin will scratch at your skin when he runs them over your skin.

He has a habit of running his fingers through his hair, which is usually a little on the greasy side. Unfortunately it's pretty much the closest thing to moisturizing them that he gets. It also usually makes his hangnails significantly worst. Which he ends up biting them off when they start to bother him, or when he's bored, or he's finished biting his nails.

And yes, he does bite his nails. Shanks has always chewed his nails down to the nail bed ever since he was a child. Both Benn and Rayleigh have tried and failed multiple times to get him to stop.

You might think that all of this makes Shanks's hands very unpleasant to the touch. And as long as he's not giving you a massage for a prolonged period of time without using oil or lotion, it is very pleasant.

Law

Law is a surgeon, so he's very careful with his hands. He uses lotions and goes as far as as to oil his cuticles and around his fingers. However, he is still a swordsman, so he has calluses on the pads of his hands. Law usually keeps his nails short, but not down to the nail bed. He lets there be like an eighth of an inch to his nails.

Law's hands are unfortunately kind of clammy most of the time. It's something he'll be self-conscious about early on in your relationship. But as it progresses he'll sink into being comfortable running his hands along your body, he'll still wipe his hands off before doing so.

Law has a habit of twiddling thumbs when he's deep in thought. It isn't uncommon to find him hunched over in the polar tang and resting his elbows on his knees with his hands clutched together and his thumbs rubbing together against his pursed lips as he's deep in thought. You don't understand how he can have his hands so close to his face, especially considering that his hands reek of disinfectant.

Mihawk

Mihawk is a world-class swordsman, a solo sailor, and he farms his own food. So his hands are so callused that they're smooth. His skin isn't dry, he regularly rubs various oils and moisturizers into his hand. Granted it's usually the stuff he uses for his face, but it works.

Mihawk's hands are amazing to hold, they're the perfect temperature. They're warm during the winter and cool during the summer. He's aware that you will often hold his hand as an excuse to warm up or cool down your own hands. So when the two of you are out in the elements for prolonged periods of time, he'll cup your cheeks, so you can take advantage of his own body temperature. Mihawk likes to give you sweet little kisses on your forehead when he does this.

He doesn't bother trimming his nails, they usually wear down as he goes about his life. They're usually short, but long enough that dirt gets under them quite often, but he's meticulous about cleaning them one's he's finished doing the dirty work. Mihawk will sometimes use them to scratch along your head, neck and spine, when the two of you are snuggle up together at bedtime.

It's practically a part of both of your nighttime routines. He'll come inside after the sun set, for either training, farming, or fixing up the castle. He'll take off his work boots before coming into the house, he'll go take a shower, while you cook dinner. After you'll eat alone together, unless Zorro and Perona are home. Then the two of you lounge around in the same room, doing different activities, just sharing space and enjoying the tranquility. Then he'll get settled down in bed as you shower, and once you're done, and dressed he'll pull you into bed. As you rest your head against his chest, you drift off into a peaceful sleep as his nails rhythmically scratch from your head, down to your tail bone and back while you listen to his heart beat.

Katakuri

Despite the fact Katakuri is an amazing fighter, he spends most of his days doing paper work and wearing gloves. He is also a mochi man, so his hands are smooth, soft, cool, and they smell nice, except his knuckles are rough from punching. And because of his devil fruit, he doesn't need to use any moisturizer, and he doesn't get permanent wrinkles either.

Katakuri also keeps his nails short, but he doesn't use clippers, he just peels them off t the margins. Which is why he wears the gloves, to try and stop him from wrecking his nails. But the moment the gloves come off he's breaking them and pulling them off. So the edge of his nails are kind of uneven, and wildly jagged.

The temperature of his hands depends on the temperature of his environment. They get warm and sticky when it's warm out, and cold and stiff when it's cold, another reason he wears the gloves. Katakuri will put his hands on you to annoy you when they get bad, but only when you're. His hands are still soft, and cushy, so when his hand engulfs yours, and he kisses your knuckles during sweet moments together, it's always very tender for the both of you.

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Julius can't afford for his reputation to be tainted but what's wrong for letting you suck his dick beneath his desk and covering you with his soft dazzling and fluffy robe while he's doing his paperwork. Marx can't get his ass off doing his job? then Marx should call you to get in the office and stimulate him.

He likes himself shaking holding his quill and maintaining his firm posture while talking to some captains. Excitement? Yes.

“Have you ever removed your helmet?”

“No.”

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Never.”

“This is the way.”

bonus “I am not a living thing”