I love to read, I love to write. Currently, I'm writing Henry Cavill smut. I'm having a great deal of fun. I read all manner of things, so send it to me and I'll read it. If you took the time to write it, I'll read it. I love Star Wars and Marvel and Lord of the Rings... I love Maul smut and Stephen Strange smut and Cap smut and Bucky smut and of COURSE I ship Stucky
MIning for Unobtanium ( and now other things) Master List
Well it appears that this really MIGHT kill me. I got all the way to 23, and then the fecking thing vanished.
Ok, Kids. here we go, AGAIN
This is the very first part
and part two is here
Three is right over here
and here’s the fourth part
I had actually put comments in, about the nice people who encouraged me but I guess I’ll save that... lest this fecking thing disappear AGAIN.
Five is here
Six , present and accounted for
Six is where it told me it’s name. Here’s the link to Seven
Eight is here
Nine of course one of my favorite pictures but he’s so YOUNG
Ten is right here
Eleven, I think there’s smut in eleven
Or maybe there’s smut in Twelve?
Thirsteen. There’s smut there, right?
Fourteen. Here you go , loves
Fifteen is right over here
aaaaaaaaaaaaaand the emergency exits are here, here and here
Chapter sixteen It’s short. Seventeen is here
and Eighteen lives here where I got to 50 followers and @whyyoudothistomecavill asked for a request they will sadly never get, because a) I’m a loser and b ) I just cannot get the character correct.
Nineteen. Holy Carp
Twenty is here
Twenty one Twenty two twenty three which I had to re-create...
Twenty four Twentyfive Twenty six Twenty seven
Twenty eight Twenty nine Thirty
Thirtyone
Thirty Two
and here’s 33 chock full of angst and advice
so I added to it...here
and I just COULDN’T LEAVE IT ALONE
thirty six ( because I couldn’t stop)
Thirty seven ( and I don’t know WHERE this is going)
ZOMG thirty eight ( what is WRONG with me?)
here is where you shall find chapter 39
Here’s ch 40
Aaaaaaaaaaaaand 41 ( WHY won’t these imaginary people leave me be????)
forty two is here
( and it looks like I’ll have to rewrite the end now, won’t it? )
and this? this is the end
You know, it occurs to me, I have no idea how many of these there will be. I guess I should have planned better, hmm?
well NOW what?
Well here’s now what.
I started a new fic.
Yeah. I didn’t think I’d get a life either.
and here’s the second part
Here’s the third chapter
and four
Five is here
Six, featuring our very own @fishcustardandclintbarton
Chapter SEVEN and I still don’t have any idea what I’m doing...
the one for eight is gonna go here except I can’t FIND eight.
Holy carp. did I lose one or just number incorrectly them because I’m a twat?
Aaaand here’s nine
Original story rewrites part one Mining for Unobtanium
Original story rewrites part the second Mining for Unobtanium
Original story rewrites part three Mining for Unobtanium
Original story rewrites part FOUR Mining for unobtanium
OMG it’s part five of the original story rewrites for Mining for Unobtanium
The last bit, the big finish, Mining for Unobtanium
passenger princess? No, I’m the passenger knight. I’ve sworn an oath of homoerotic loyalty to the driver and will protect them until my last breath. I will carry out her road rage. I’m why the front passenger seat is called shotgun
a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4
PART 5.
“I really hate this building,” he grouses as you push through the security door without challenge. He sounds grumpy, and it’s almost…cute. You’re not used to having anyone worrying after you like this.
“I’ve never had a problem here,” you try to assure him.
He gives one last hostile look over the street like he expects a horde of marauders to come charging after you. But there’s just streetlights, and the few harmless hipsters who are still out and about on a Friday night. This city never really sleeps.
“Do you at least have protection in your apartment?”
You reckon he doesn’t mean condoms.
“What, like a gun?”
“Yes.”
“No,” you laugh. “I have a bat under my bed?”
He makes a sound through his teeth that indicates that is not the answer he wanted to hear. Again, you stumble on that stupid odd riser, and again he grabs for you, holding your waist with an arm that feels like steel, practically carrying you up the next three steps. He is tense, on edge after the fight, his eyes sweeping the shadows of your stairwell.
You hope that once you get him inside your apartment, he might calm down. For once the tumblers yield without a fight, and you pull him inside, locking the deadbolt again behind you. “Come sit down. Let me look at you.”
Instead he strides to the window, looking out over the street with a suspicious glare. He is manic, going to every window that faces the street and closing blinds and curtains. Then he stands vigil again, looking out through a crack in the blinds, his jaw clenched. He stands like that for a good minute before you insist, “John.”
He reminds you of a hawk, the way he turns his head to look at you without moving the rest of his body.
“It’s ok, honey. Do you want a drink?”
He lets out a deep breath, maybe relaxing a tad, though he’s still grinding his bottom teeth. “Sure.”
You know his poison of choice now. It’s possible you picked up a nicer bottle of bourbon than what you had on offer last time, a small batch vintage.
“Sit,” you insist, pointing at one of your chairs in the living room. You know it sounds like a command, but it seems like the only way to get through to him in this hyper-fixated state. After a long moment he finally obeys, lowering himself down into the cushioned seat with the weariness of a man ten years his elder. He seems as though he has done this all before—and he doesn’t like it anymore.
“You’re taking all this rather well,” he remarks, gratefully accepting the cut crystal glass from you, slugging back half of it.
“Well...that guy was an asshole.” You shudder as your think about what Sasha intended to do to you, and how he’d undoubtedly treated other women before you who didn’t have someone like John on their side. “A knife in the leg was the least he deserved. You taught him a lesson he won't forget.”
“Yeah. Too bad these guys aren't big on self-reflection. They prefer revenge.”
“You think they’ll come after you?”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
You digest this, chewing on your bottom lip. “I can’t imagine how they could even find me,” you try to assure him. “It’s a huge city.”
The look he pays you isn’t exactly condescending, but it definitely makes you feel like he finds you naïve.
“Did you pay for your first round of drinks with cash?”
“No, credit card.”
He nods, like that’s all they would need.
“Seriously?”
“They have their ways.”
“Who are they, exactly?”
“I feel like it would be better if you didn’t know.”
“Oh no, we’re not doing that,” you say with your hands on your hips. “If someone’s coming after me, you’re going to tell me who.”
The wistful smile that twists his lips unexpected. “What?” you ask, unable to mask your annoyance.
“It’s just…I feel like I’ve had this conversation before.”
You realize you must remind him of Helen, with your no-male-bullshit attitude. It makes your heart ache at the same time it fills with pride. “Well, I learned from the best.”
You stare at each other for a long moment, and you feel your annoyance melt away as you study this man, so forbidding and yet beneath it all, a little fragile. You see it in his eyes, and there’s still blood on his brow, and you decide you want to patch him up more than you want to argue with him.
For now.
Maybe he feels some obligation to take care of you because of Helen, but it goes both ways. You know Helen would want you to make sure he’s taken care of too. You feel a little guilty that it’s taken this long.
“I’m going to go get my first aid kit. We’ll clean you up, then you can decide what you want to tell me. FYI, the less you know the better is not acceptable tonight.”
“Yes ma’am.”
You cannot tell if he is amused, exasperated, or maybe both.
You return from the bathroom with your medicine chest, thunking it down on the coffee table. “Want another?” you ask, gesturing at his empty glass.
“Yes, but I shouldn’t. Good stuff.” You smile to yourself, wondering if your previous offering had been closer on the scale to paint thinner, remembering how he’d drank it anyway because he was a sweetheart. He was a conundrum, was what he was. This man was dangerous, and after what you’d seen earlier, you suspected he was possibly a killer. And yet, he was sweet. So sweet, at least to you, and those he considered friends. The warmth that bloomed in your chest for him was alarmingly not exactly—or not exclusively—lust related.
“Ouch,” you sigh, inspecting his brow. It’s a deep cut, and might actually require a butterfly. You won’t know until you clean it up.
You actually possess a passable first aid kit. Sometimes, art projects involving blades go awry, and you are in the habit of taking care of your ailments yourself. The cost of healthcare is utterly obscene, and until recently, out of your budget.
John lets you fuss over him, sitting still as a statue as you cleanse his wounds with saline solution then slather him with some antibacterial goop. Though you still feel a bit sick, and a bit giddy from the adrenaline, luckily your hands have stopped shaking. You do affix one butterfly closure to his noble brow, just in case. His eyes are closed, almost as though he is enjoying your ministrations, even though you know it can’t actually feel good.
“I’m not sure what else to do for this,” you say, touching his split lip lightly with a gauze pad, dabbing away the blood.
“It’s fine,” he sighs. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” you say.
This could be an excellent window for him to really tell you what’s going on. You suspect he’s purposely distracting you when he reaches for you, tracing the line of your waist before his large hands settle on your hips, pulling you closer between his manspread legs.
“I’m feeling better now.” He looks up at you with those soulful dark eyes, and goddammit they should be considered an illegal weapon.
You know you should insist on answers before giving in, but your resolve utterly dissolves under his touch and that longing look, replaced with heady desire. This thing between you is a force to be reckoned with; it obliterates your good sense, your sense of propriety, your loyalty to your late sister. Anything that might have stopped you with anyone else ceased to matter with this beautiful man.
You are not sure if he pulls you, or if you just melt down into his lap, straddling him. His long fingers splay on your legs, pushing your skirts up your thighs, sliding higher and higher until he cups your ass with only your panties between you.
“My knight in shining black armor,” you sigh, touching his cheek lightly, wary of causing him pain. You think you see a bruise forming beneath the scruff of his beard.
“Hmm. It’s nice to be the hero, for once.”
“Are you usually the bad guy, John?”
His touch is feather light down your legs again, then up your spine and the backs of your arms, causing you to shudder uncontrollably. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”
“I think I’m forming an idea,” you admit breathily.
“My clever girl. What ever shall I do with you?” You’re not sure why his praise makes heat and slick pool between your legs, as though you are melting from the inside for this man. His hands are in your hair now, his touch still so gentle, but oh so maddening. Your skin feels like its on fire.
You kiss him gently, because of the split lip. He is the one who deepens it, with a growing desperation and a disregard for his own pain that you find insanely titillating. His mouth travels down your neck, trailing kisses and grazing with teeth as though he means to eat you alive.
You would let him, gladly, and you writhe against him, grinding on the length of his hard cock beneath you. You didn’t even get to see it last time. Tonight, you determine you will remedy that.
Fingers hooked in the straps of your dress pull down, down and down until you are bared before him. His hand in your hair pulls, gentle but exacting, guiding you to arch your back, offering up your breasts for his delectation. His mouth on your nipples is pure magic, sucking and biting and flicks of tongue that drive you to the absolute brink. He could make you cum just like this, you think, with his mouth on your tits and riding his rock-hard cock through his pants.
It hardly seems fair, considering last time, you somehow manage to think through the fog of desire that has you so tied up in knots. You push against him, sliding down his body until you are on your knees before him. He watches you with such blatantly raw hunger it makes your legs weak; he knows exactly what you’re doing, and doesn’t have the will to tell you no. He watches you intensely as you reach for his belt, flipping it open. There is a weight on the belt that confuses you for a moment, until his hand goes behind his back, catching something.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says, and you can’t think straight enough to even entertain it. He pulls out a small black blocky object—it takes you a moment to realize it’s a gun. You've never really seen one in real life until tonight, just in the movies. You are more curious than fearful as he sets it gingerly on the table. The possibility does not even register that he could be a threat to you. After everything you’ve seen tonight, this is just par for the course, and you return to your task with gusto, whipping his belt from their loops with a satisfying snap.
You cannot hide the fact that you are utterly pleased with yourself, and the corners of his mouth twitch, his hand caressing your cheek. You finish undoing his pants with your eyes half closed, so entranced by his light touch, until his manhood springs free into your hand, hot and velvety and oh my he is large. You roll your eyes up to meet his before descending upon him, slowly taking his swollen glans between your lips, swirling him with your tongue.
“Fuck, baby…”
The hand in your hair is not so gentle now; you don’t think he realizes he’s pulling, as you slowly take his length into the back of your throat, toying with the vein with your tongue. You slide more of him into your mouth, knowing you'll never be able to fit it all, but so willing to try. You bob up and down slowly, grazing him very carefully with your teeth, winning the most delicious moan from this man who is usually such a bastion of self-control.
His fingers comb through your hair, sending chills all down your body as you work him up and down. The tips of your bare breasts brushing his tautly muscled thighs sends spears of longing to your loins, and you press your legs for some relief.
It doesn’t work, but you are enjoying this, and you want to treat him, the way he treated you so generously before. He’s taken a beating for you, fought and bled for you, protected you, and you want to thank him in the most primal way you know how. You take him deeper into the back of your throat, as deep as you can go, savoring every thick inch of this magnificent cock. What a thing of beauty. He groans, and you would have smiled if not for the mouthful.
“Baby...so good to me.” His hips rock against you of their own volition, his grip tightening in your hair. “Touch yourself for me. I want to feel you cum with your mouth sucking my cock.”
He doesn't have to invite you twice. Your fingers find your weeping slit, toying with your clit while you go down on him. You find a rhythm like this, sucking him in time to touching yourself. Maybe it’s a little self serving, but then again...there is something cosmic in this. Something timeless and primal and he seems to be enjoying it all the more with your participation, the vibration of your moans teasing his hard shaft.
You feel that scintillating pleasure gathering in your loins, know you are close. Your pleasure almost takes you by surprise, it is so swift and violent, your body spasming with the mindnumbing explosion inside you. After last time, it’s almost the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. You take him into your throat fully and he cums with you, no warning, just the hot spill of his seed down your throat, filling your mouth. You swallow it greedily, only withdrawing when he stills beneath you.
You nearly collapse against his lean legs, your cheek resting on his lean thigh. This man is made of muscle and sinew. Through hooded eyes he caresses your face, toying with your hair. You shudder with aftershocks that are almost as pleasurable as the orgasm itself. You feel triumph as those burning dark eyes slide closed, overcome by afterglow, and maybe something else you don't care to name now.
“My sweet girl. You...are a marvel."
Something inside you blooms at hearing those soft words from him.
Slowly you sit up, stretching against him, using his hard body to help push you to your feet. Without a word you step out of your lacy pink panties and stick them in his jacket like a pocket square. He glances down with a lifted eyebrow, a small smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.
He’s so beautiful you could scream.
“Something to add to your collection,” you quip, alluding to the fact that even though he practically fled last time, you know he took your undies with him.
“I will treasure them as much as the last pair,” he admits with a woebegone smile that crushes your heart.
Your legs are trembling beneath you, and you hold out a hand to him, inviting him to follow you. “Snuggle with me?”
A few long moments pass, until you think he might reject the idea, but then he takes your smaller mitt in his and tugs you down into his lap. It is silly, how secure you feel curled up in this man’s arms, your head finding the warm crook of his neck. His masculine smell is utterly divine, and you could fall asleep there, with his long fingers stroking your hair. You snuggle in the quiet aftermath, spent and ever so content.
This might be what heaven feels like.
You’re not sure how much time has passed, when he brushes his lips against the top of your head and asks, “What would you say to packing a bag and coming to my place for the weekend?”
The suggestion takes you aback. Heat floods you as you think about just what you would get up to on a long weekend away at Casa Wick.
It certainly wouldn't be innocent.
Your little bubble of carnal pleasure bursts when you think of everything that happened outside your apartment, before you pleasured each other into a mind-numbed stupor.
“I would say I feel like you have an ulterior motive besides enjoying my company.”
“I do enjoy your company.”
“And I think you think I'm in danger. Are you ready to talk about that?”
“Am I allowed to say no?”
“No.”
He huffs with laughter, clearly amused with you. But behind it all, you see the shadow of worry in his eyes, a tension at the corners of his mouth. “Come home with me, and we can talk about there.”
You tilt your head, wondering if he would be so diabolical as to fuck you into a blissfully complacent stupor so he didn’t have to answer your questions the whole weekend. You’ve never been good at taking orders—or hell, even advice—at face value. You like to make decisions—read mistakes—for yourself. But maybe, just this once, you could have faith that someone has your best interests at heart. He’s older than you, maybe wiser, and seems to know a little something you don’t about the workings of the underworld of New York City. As surreal as it seems...you could actually be in serious danger.
Seeing that you are still thinking, he sweetens the pot, nuzzling the shell of your ear with his nose. “I will cook for you and spoil you rotten.”
You can only imagine what carnal delights spoiling implies with this man.
Well…fuck.
“Fine. I’ll pack a bag. But we are just postponing this Q & A.”
“Fair enough.” You extricate yourself from his lap with a stretch, and he gives you a light smack on your rear as you make your way for your bedroom. When you turn to look at him with a raised eyebrow he pays you a panty-melting (if you’d been wearing any) smirk that turns your brain to mush.
This man.
It occurs to you that this man is, in fact, dangerous to you. Not in terms of violence, but…you sense in yourself that if he asked nicely, you just might give him anything. You understand more than ever how and why Helen fell so quickly for John Wick, as you find yourself surrendering to your addiction to him with a secret smile.
nobody warns you this but addiction happens without you noticing and one of the first things that it attacks is your ability to care. if you find yourself using recreational drugs every day, stop and take one day a week sober. if you struggle with this or if you don't see the point of the exercise, you are likely already addicted and you need help.
nobody ever taught me the warning signs for drug addiction, only that "it costs lots of money and destroys your life!!!1" which is not helpful if you can't recognize a developing addiction in yourself.
so here's some things to watch out for with recreational drug use:
planning your day around drugs e.g "i'll give myself an extra half hour before heading out so i can get high first"
rapidly switching emotions around drugs. you love them but you hate that you love them so much. you hate the way you feel on them but you hate being sober. feeling guilty after using even when you didn't give a crap beforehand.
caring less about spending money. if you are budgeting for drugs like they are food, you are likely prioritizing them more than is healthy.
getting high to do household chores and other unpleasant things because it would suck less and be more bearable on drugs
feeling anxious or restless while sober, not knowing what to do with oneself, feeling lost or ungrounded.
thinking about doing drugs constantly even while sober. maybe it's the first thing you think of when you wake up. maybe when you're bored or otherwise have free time, drugs are one of the first things you can think of to occupy yourself with.
going to work or school while under the influence, especially if it happens regularly and if you're seeing your performance suffer as a result.
the idea of taking a 'tolerance break' sounds good to you until it's actually break time, at which point you can come up with 20 very reasonable sounding points to explain why it wouldn't benefit you actually and you should just keep doing drugs regardless.
even if you succeed at quitting the drug, you keep your dealer's number on your phone "just in case"
you pretend to be sober when you aren't. you worry about other people noticing how much time you spend high. you make efforts to hide your drug use or minimize how much other people think you're using. you're scared of other people's judgement if they were to find out.
you have mood swings laced with self-hatred, regret, financial worries, and guilt. these mood swings are then very quickly wiped away by feelings of "but it doesn't matter, i can do what i want, and clearly i'm doing just fine while using drugs frequently". news flash, if you are rapidly switching between feeling numb-ok and hating yourself more than anything because of your drug use, you are mentally ill.
yes this applies to weed. weed is a drug and you can get addicted to it like any other substance. addiction is not the same as physical dependence; it is psychological and it can happen to anyone. you are not immune to addiction.
So... Chris Evans married Alba Baptista ( and if I misspelled her name I'm so sorry)
I wish them gobs of happiness and a house full of kids. I shall now take to my bed, because in the time zone I am in, it's my bedtime, and because even if Chris Evans knew I existed; which he assuredly does not, the chance I had would have been in the IMAGINARY set of numbers.
Summary: You just discovered that your boyfriend has never had a blowjob before and that’s a travesty. Good thing you’re about to blow his mind.
Pairing: Chubby!Baker Bucky x Reader
Word Count: 3.6K
Warnings: Smut, Oral (m. rec.), Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Bit of Dirty talk.
A/N: Beta’d by the wonderful @late-to-the-party-81 and @cwbucky. Comments and reblogs are golden.
Gif credit. Banners by@maysdigitalarts
|Masterlist|Chubby Bucky Masterlist| Library|
This is not what you were expecting him to say when you asked him if you could go down on him, eager to finally taste him.
It doesn’t make sense.
His softly spoken confession lingering in the air like wisps of smoke.
You almost don’t believe him. Bucky is many things, but he’s not a liar.
Which means…
“You’ve never had a blowjob?” Honestly, you don’t mean to sound so astonished, but you can’t help the way the words scrape out of your throat, thick with disbelief and confusion.
You are, though.
Surprised.
Baffled.
Who in the right mind would have this Adonis of a man in their bed and not want to wrap their lips around that gorgeous cock of his?
Naturally, he turns several shades of red when you say that aloud as you pace in front of him.
“I don’t, it’s not that-” he stammers endearingly, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. Looking up from his perch on the end of the bed, he cringes, brows cinched together. “Can we forget I said anything? It’s not a big deal and I-” He inhales, nipping at his bottom lip, searching for a way to get out of this conversation. “I can eat you out if you want?”
There’s a hopeful tint to his baritone voice, not that you notice, your eyes locked on his long, nimble fingers plucking at a wayward thread along the seam of his sweatpants. His very grey sweatpants. Showcasing a large, detailed outline of his pretty cock staring at you.
I've already seen posts like this but I wanna make another one. to everyone saying things like "can we please bring back [fashion trend] it's so pretty and I want to wear these again", you don't have to wait until a style starts trending to wear it. you are not chained to the social norm of whatever is in ""season"" or ""style"", whatever that means. if you wanna wear an embroidered fantasy cloak everywhere then buy one and wear it there's nothing stopping you except your own cowardice
i have tshirts that i still wear that i have been continuously wearing since the 80s, life is too fucking short to not put the things on your body that you want to have on your body, damn.
being on tumblr has taught me that girls see men's hands the same way men see tits, therefore from now on i will be constantly covering my hands with gloves to protect them from the horny female gaze
Sorry but a man stumbling in from the cold and removing a clunky, snow-covered mitten with his teeth only to reveal the perfectly sculpted hand underneath is not a solution to this problem
This is the best Elvis movie in my opinion. Storyline was a little blah, but he looked so good. He’s so funny. The love-lead was so adorable and quirky and not a bombshell. THIS SCENE IS THE BEST! And it’s just so much amazing
