It was a wonderful party. Goodnight, all," but when he turned for the door, Natasha trailed after him. He didn't know why he thought she would give up; Natasha never gave up. Steve didn't turn around, just kept walking resolutely—down two flights of stairs, toward his suite of rooms.
Her tulle underskirt rustled against her legs as she followed him, and she knew he could hear her, but he didn't stop. She'd thought she was in control of herself, and found she wasn't. Steve's pale skin was mottling. Did you leave me any contact infor—".
He went inside but she was right behind him, palms up and slamming the door open when he tried to close it again. He looked surprised; hell, he probably still thought it was improper for a lady to be in a man's rooms unaccompanied.
Well, fuck him. She kicked off her heels. It was all in motion before I—" and suddenly she had Barnes's distracted voice in her head; it wasn't me, I would never She lifted her feet, stared down at her painted toes, let them drop again. Steve didn't argue; he'd let anger slip off his shoulders like a robe.
He couldn't. Even after everything they did to him, he wouldn't have been able to—". Her eyes found the shield; he'd hung it up on the wall like a decoration. Steve hesitated, and then said, "Yeah," and he leaned in when she kissed him, let her cup his cheeks and draw his face down close.
And it was weird, but he was sexually alive in a way that he hadn't been the last time they kissed: he was coming alive for Barnes, she thought.
But there was a spark in him that hadn't been there before, and the kiss flared hot between them. She felt his breath catch, and she knew then that if she pushed him back onto the sofa and unbuckled his belt, he would let her—because he was leaving, and because it would make things easier between them to pour what they were to each other into a more conventionally-shaped bottle.
He would let her take him, grope him and ride him and reduce him to a notch on her bedpost—and part of her really wanted to do it, especially because she was almost sure that he'd never been with a woman before.
But she couldn't—he was so much more to her than that. She changed the kiss, dampening it, and let him pull away from her. His expression was serious, tender. I picked Sam. He couldn't sleep after she left.
She hadn't said goodbye, which didn't surprise him: he didn't know how to say goodbye either, and she was just him turned inside out. Inside, he was five foot nothing and sick all the time, but Natasha was five foot nothing and colossal inside. She'd been shocked that he'd been able to see her as she was, but he knew better than anyone what it was like to have your insides not match your outsides.
They had the mutual sympathy of the constantly misjudged; she'd been an unexpected friend, almost a sister; an oddly twinned soul. It hurt to lose her, but that was the worst of it. He'd braced himself for more loss and she was the worst of it.
Come the next morning, he found he was wrong. He'd planned to leave with only his compass and his dogtags and the clothes on his back, but then, like Lot's wife, he'd looked back from the door and seen his shield reflected in the mirror. He'd hung it on the wall as a gift for Tony—it was Howard's legacy as much as anyone's—but now he couldn't bear to leave it behind. That piece of metal was a part of him: it had survived Bucky's death and all the years in the ice with him.
Steve froze in an agony of indecision. Talk about conspicuous—it could jeopardize the whole—. The canvas bag had a thick, padded strap, and so he slung it over his shoulder as he headed down into Grand Central Station. The place was a madhouse, jammed with commuters, and the line at Whole Bean was longer than he'd ever seen it, though it was moving.
The station was always busy—even at 4 a. It was electrifying, and Steve found himself rocking onto his toes as he waited on line: maybe this explained Tony, he thought; maybe Tony drew his energy up from the place. It was wall-to-wall people, constant movement: a beehive. Even if they put on extra agents, Steve thought wildly, good luck tracking anyone though this mess.
It was like Grand Central Station in here. God, he missed Bucky so hard his teeth ached. Smart, Natasha thought. The whole bit with the coffee was smart: establishing the routine of it, the waiting in line.
She watched Steve stand there, shuffle forward, stand, and anyone who needed reassurance could get it: there he was, getting coffee. She felt it herself, the urge to relax, even though she knew better—Barnes because it was Barnes; this was the plan of someone who understood the psychology of waiting had made them read the line as a timeline. The brain couldn't help but estimate—it was going to take him at least six minutes to get to the front, order, and pay—so you could stand down a little, blink your eyes, file your report: SGR on line at Whole Bean Coffee.
She resisted the urge to look at her watch—and even with her eyes fixed on him she nearly missed it, because it happened so fast and he was so graceful about it: he just stepped out of the line and disappeared behind the counter.
He'd darted into Whole Bean's employee—only area and out the back door before anyone could question him, emerging on the loading dock for Tracks And then he was running for his life, taking the metal steps at the end of the platform four at a time and then racing down a series of corridors, because there were eight stories and five doors between him and Bucky Barnes and the whole rest of his life.
Agent 86, Seburn, still hadn't noticed Steve was gone. Natasha could see that he had segmented the room in his mind and was methodically scanning it for the Winter Soldier, just like he'd been trained to do, because he thought Rogers was in pocket. She saw his attention go inward and his eyes jerk back to the line: his earpiece had gone off, probably. But the area in front of the counter was dense; impossible to see at a glance if Rogers was there or not.
She moved closer, not yet wanting to be noticed. Even the Chitauri attack hadn't closed down Grand Central. Their whole protocol had been designed for D. But Grand Central? Were they going to stop every train, every subway, every cab, seal off every exit, tunnel, elevator or shaft under midtown because Steve Rogers wanted some alone time?
It would be a political nightmare for somebody —if angry commuters didn't kill them first. Dammit ," and then he paled as Natasha strode up to him, all business. I don't think Cap's in any danger, ma'am; I think the guy just—" He hesitated, perhaps remembering who he was talking to.
But we've always managed to—" Seburn cut off, listening intently to his earpiece. Then he shook his head. But if he's hurt —if the Winter Soldier's lured him away or picked him off—then we've failed our mission. Steve ran into trouble at the second to last door, which wouldn't open. He knew that Bucky would have gone through and checked everything, but someone must have come through afterward and locked it again.
He tried forcing it first with his hands, then with his shoulder, and he hadn't realized how much adrenaline he'd built up until he practically kicked the door off its hinges and burst through, panting. But it sat atop what had once been Grand Central's cab stop, and Steve emerged into a narrow tunnel, filthy but beautiful, with an arched Guastavino ceiling that matched Grand Central's architecture.
There was only one car there—a beat-up black livery cab with its trunk popped—and one person, Bucky Barnes. He was leaning against the fender with familiar stillness—a stillness that Hydra had perverted and made terrifying by turning him into the Winter Soldier. The team did well, actually—tracing Steve from the back of Whole Bean, across Tracks and , up the stairs and through two turns before losing him.
Seburn thought about it; he wasn't dumb. It had all started to seem just a little bit fascist. One of the arriving agents—55, Natasha marked the number—announced that she had triangulated the nearest trains and exits and sent teams to cover them, which was exactly what Natasha didn't want her to do, but you couldn't keep a good woman down. Clint arrived while she was on the line with Director Cooper. Probably just went walkabout, but there's a strong possibility that the Winter Soldier has lured him into some sort of—".
Novaya Zemlya," he said, and then added: "The Soviets had bases there, top secret scientific research facilities; it's likely the Winter Soldier's home base. They drove for a long time—first in stop-and-go traffic that had Steve braced inside the trunk, then in a steady, rocking rhythm.
It was hell finding even a semi-comfortable position pretzeled up like he was, but he focused on breathing and let his mind drift: it was odd not to know where he was going, odder still not to care. Finally, the car glided off the highway onto a stretch of rough road, and then turned onto gravel. They pulled to a stop, and he heard the car door slam and then a metal chain rattling: a garage door, he thought after a moment, coming down.
The trunk opened and Bucky peered down at him worriedly. Steve took it and let Bucky haul him out of the trunk. There was a workbench on one side and tools hung on the wall. A dusty white van was parked next to them, ladders hooked onto its side, but the third bay was empty. A grimy window beyond showed trees.
It's safe here—isolated, no cameras," and Steve felt relief and a kind of exhaustion rolling over him: he and Bucky were finally alone , with no mission , no one to report to, nobody trying to kill them—and he let his shoulders drop and tilted forward until his forehead thunked down on Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky cupped the back of his neck. He thought he could sleep for a year. Bucky's whole arm came around him and then they were squeezing each other, tight tight.
But Bucky's voice, when he spoke, sounded normal enough. And change cars. And eat. And this," and Bucky's flesh hand was slid up into Steve's hair, affectionately fingering the strands and then tugging gently.
It's too distinctive," Bucky said regretfully. He touched Steve's face and said, "And you should grow a beard, maybe. Anything," Steve said, but Bucky jerked back when Steve moved to kiss him, his metal hand coming up between them. They had sandwiches and Cokes, and then Bucky took Steve into the garage's tiny little john and helped him dye his hair a nondescript brown with some smelly stuff out of a box.
Then he made Steve strip down and black-bagged everything he was wearing, giving him a pile of heavy duty work clothes to put on instead: work pants, a heavy canvas jacket, a worn pair of construction boots. Then Bucky pulled a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses out of his breast pocket and handed them to Steve, who turned them over before hooking them over his ears.
He'd seen officers wearing glasses like these in D. Bucky stepped back, surveying his work, and then nodded, satisfied. He'd brought a second set of work clothes for himself, and he began to change into them, shucking his black jacket, kicking off his sneakers—Steve was guessing that they'd be driving the work van out of here—and yanking his shirt off—and suddenly Steve was breathless, suckerpunched, ambushed by tears at the ropey scars streaking down Bucky's shoulder, the seared flesh around the metal, the skin grafts.
They'd cut into the beautiful envelope that was Bucky's body—and suddenly it was and Italy and it was raining, and there were wounded men everywhere, groaning on stretchers with their arms and legs blown off—but this was Bucky.
His Bucky. Everyone else should be sorry. Not you ," and then, feeling wild and heartbroken: "No, I take it back: you should be sorry. But not for this. You know what for," and Bucky knew him better than anyone, Bucky'd known him his whole life. Because it was wrong what you did.
We don't have to talk about it anymore, because it's not just water under the bridge—the whole bridge is gone, and the whole world with it—but we were—well, you know what we were. Well," Bucky said. I don't do that anymore. I always did, too," Bucky said, and roughly yanked on a pair of gloves. Should we burn it down anyway? Bucky took them back to New York the long way, down into Jersey and across Staten Island over roads and bridges that hadn't existed when they were kids.
There was construction—it was Brooklyn, there was always construction—the road narrowing down to one lane, and so it was dark when Bucky pulled the van onto Ocean Parkway. Steve peered out the front window: he didn't recognize the neighborhood—wasn't Ocean Parkway much further south?
Other side of the park. This part of Coney Island Avenue was commercial—a series of two and three story brick buildings, industrial: a plumbing warehouse, a tile company, auto glass, a couple of places that installed car alarms. Bucky slowed, then pressed a button on his sun visor, and one of the garage doors began to go up. The lights inside came on automatically, and Bucky drove in slowly—this garage was something else entirely from the one they'd just left.
It was obviously a functioning business, and it was crammed with stuff: tools, building supplies, drywall, bags of concrete, a welding station. The whole back of the garage was a workroom: Steve saw a wheelbarrow, sawhorses. There was a rough wood counter on the side with pens and a phone and an invoice book and a calculator.
Steve got out of the van to look around as the garage door rattled down behind them; he turned and saw that there was a smaller door beside it that led out to the street while other doors around the interior lead deeper into the building. The slam of the van door echoed in the space, and then Bucky came around the hood, watching Steve warily. There's good food around here, actually—deli and pizza down the block, an Indian place. The hipsters haven't reached us yet, though they're coming—there's all these fancy restaurants down Cortelyou.
A whole shop for muffins—crazy. Give me an order of sausages. Steve followed Bucky through a door and up a battered flight of wooden stairs. Two doors faced each other on the landing, both closed.
Bucky pointed to one of them and said, "This is for tomorrow. It's a surprise; you'll like it," and Steve's felt his throat closing up, because for the first time in a long time, that was likely to be true: Bucky actually knew him, and knew what he liked, so he might actually like it.
Bucky unlocked the door on the other side and opened it; inside was a small apartment, just two rooms, and so—he walked in—achingly, achingly familiar. Steve couldn't even have said why that was, at first: something about the plainness of the furniture. Table, bookcase, a small kitchen—everything old but real, made of real things: wood, metal, glass. He stepped into the bedroom.
There was a plain wool blanket on the bed and—somehow this was what did it—a pair of battered leather shoes kicked into the corner. Bucky's shoes—and suddenly he could hear Bucky's mother's exasperated voice in his head, because Bucky was always kicking off his shoes and she wanted everybody's shoes lined up neatly beneath the bed.
To his surprise, Bucky let out a laugh, a real one, loud and strong. Steve stared; it had been such a long time since he'd heard Bucky's laugh.
Bucky didn't push him away this time; instead he slid his arms around Steve's waist and opened his mouth, and the kiss became searingly hot. Steve helplessly rubbed his hard-on against Bucky's hip—he missed sex; he missed it so much —and felt Bucky's hands stroking up his back and then down over his ass. He remembered—God—that first time, when Bucky had been kissing him and rubbing off against him and his cock had accidentally slipped, slickly, nearly into Steve's ass, and suddenly that had seemed like a really great idea, and Bucky'd barely had time to choke out, "oh, God—please," before Steve was rolling over and pushing back and God, it had been a really good idea, so good that Steve thought he might die of it—having Bucky inside him and Bucky's hand on him, Bucky's other hand cupping his inner thigh and Bucky sobbing and losing his mind behind him.
Now, they broke apart, panting. Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky's. Give it to me," he murmured, "let me hold it," and Bucky smothered a soft, hurt sound against Steve's mouth.
Steve muscled him back onto the bed, and then they were trying to get their clothes off while still sucking on each other's tongues, and suddenly Bucky twisted away, pressed his cheek into Steve's palm like a cat and groaned, "I have to get the goddamned pizza. Steve slid his thumb across Bucky's full lower lip, and Bucky opened his mouth. After," he said. I'm waiting for them to pay me," and in fact he was standing out on the lawn in the sunshine, having just packed up the van.
That's an hour minimum—see, this why we shouldn't take jobs in Jersey, I told you we shouldn't—". Markov looked up from her checkbook, surprised, as Steve went to the flatscreen in her sunny kitchen and said, "I'm sorry, may I just look at your television for a—" He switched it on and then they were both staring at the shaky helicopter footage of giant bats strung out like birds on a wire across the Brooklyn bridge.
Others circled in the air above the river, occasionally swooping down to attack cars or bite fleeing pedestrians. Below the bats, a giant man in a helmet and a cape was waving his arms in the air. He was superhuman—had to be—or maybe an alien; Steve had never seen him before. He looked like he was giving a speech. It ain't the Gettysburg address, I can tell you that," and even as Steve watched, he saw the first streak of red and gold across the sky: Tony'd gotten there anyway.
I told you we shouldn't take jobs in Jersey," he said, and hung up. Natasha and Clint reached the bridge maybe seven minutes after Tony did, pulling up in an open-top Jeep. Clint began firing arrows, and the air was filled with a terrible screeching as wounded bats began swooping unevenly through the air, their wings flapping wildly.
Somewhere out over the river, Tony was blasting them out of the sky—she could hear them crashing into the water. Natasha ran around the cars on the bridge—most were empty, doors open, but a few, she saw, had people cowering in them; she was trying to find a good strategic position to take this madman—Chiroptera, he styled himself, and they had all had a good eyeroll over that—down.
He was at least ten feet tall—some lab experiment gone wrong, Natasha supposed. Well, weren't they all—but you didn't have to be an asshole about it, she thought, and hunkered down behind a Porsche to try and get a bead on him. Between the splashing and the screeching and the whup-whup of the news helicopters flying overhead, she didn't hear the roar of the motorcycle until it was practically right on top of her—speeding up onto the bridge and then falling onto its side, wheels still spinning, because Cap had already leapt off it and onto the top of a minivan, and the shield was out and zinging across the bridge.
It smashed into Chiroptera's chest and sent him careening backwards—and Cap ran forward, leaping from car to car, and snatched the shield out of the air when it rebounded to him. Buy one, get one free," and Cap took a flying jump onto Chiroptera's back and crooked his arm—the left one, Natasha noted—around his throat in a stranglehold. Chiroptera let out a roar and began to stagger around the bridge with Cap on his shoulders. Cap rode the collapsing Chiroptera down to the ground, then landed gracefully and kicked him with his boot to see if he moved.
Tony," she said tentatively, "you don't think you could maybe—". There were cars pulled up on the sidewalk along this stretch of Coney Island Avenue, and so she had to walk around and between them. Two guys who were installing a car stereo looked up at her as she passed, then nudged at each other and muttered in Spanish; at the auto glass store, they were Russian, and so she was able to tell them that sorry, no, she had no interest in marrying any of them.
They laughed and clutched their hearts, miming devastation. The garage door was open at Coney Island Design and Construction, and she skirted the dirty white van parked there and made her way, carefully, toward the back of the shop. James Barnes was bent over the counter, taking notes in a spiral notebook as he talked on an ancient, corded phone, and then he looked up and saw her and immediately became someone else; eyes sharpening, nerves going taut.
Barnes didn't say anything, just nodded slowly, and so she went up to the counter and pulled out the pocket-watch. She'd had it since she was a child: one of her handlers had given it to her, saying it had belonged to her father. She hadn't believed him, but she had kept the watch anyway—the lie itself had been a kindness she wanted to remember. Barnes frowned down at the watch in surprise—he obviously hadn't expected her to commit to her pretext of being a customer—and then picked it up.
He turned it over in his gloved hands, and then popped the gold back off with obvious skill—and now it was her turn to be surprised, because he reached down under the counter and pulled out a little velvet bag of watchmakers tools: thin and silver, with different points and textured grips. Barnes's mouth pulled up at the corner.
They heard the tumble of Steve's feet on the stairs, and they looked at each other. There was an alcove behind the counter, and in wordless agreement, Barnes yanked the curtain aside and Natasha ducked behind it, turning and positioning herself to peer through the crack. Barnes quickly turned back to his notebook and picked up his pen.
It was the whole way he carried himself. He looked—younger, slimmer, happier; a little rumpled and distracted, like his shirt maybe was one button off, brown hair standing up in tufts, like he'd finally come unstarched.
Can you remember to take it out in ten? I thought I'd take the dogs out and then pick us up a pizza on the way back," Steve said. Steve grinned. I don't know; I'm dying for something salty. Is there something special you want, or—". Bucky put his elbows on the counter. I mean, were you asking , or was that, like, a formality?
What kind of—never mind, I know. Natasha froze as one of the dogs sniffed the floor and made a beeline for her, but Barnes said sharply, "Gracie," and the dog immediately whirled around and went back to Steve.
Barnes stiffened self-consciously, aware of her where Rogers clearly wasn't, but he didn't hesitate for long before opening his mouth and giving himself over to it. Even that small hesitation must not have been characteristic, because Steve pulled away, frowning quizzically, and asked, "Everything all right?
He waited until Steve was out of sight before turning back to Natasha and yanking the curtain open. There were two doors on the landing, and she had a quick glimpse into their apartment—a small square table and chairs, a tiny kitchen and a beat-up sofa beyond—before Barnes yanked that door shut; our life, not yours.
He opened the other door and she took a surprised breath: the studio had a curved glass roof like a greenhouse and was full of easels and paint cans. It was bright and smelled like turpentine. There was a picture in progress on the nearest easel—a girl on a barstool, lips curving as she smiled into her pint glass—but Barnes waved her away from that—"Commercial," he said. Here there were other paintings, lots of them; paintings she didn't understand, canvases covered with thick layers of paint in jagged lines of blue and black and white.
She looked at them one after another and slowly began to feel a kind of violence coming off them; violence of feeling anyway. Clouds; or smoke, she thought. Barnes was staring at them, too, and nodding to himself. Sometimes he can't I told him he should put a show together. He's worried they're too retro—not conceptual enough—but I think people have had it with that conceptual shit. You have an idea, write it down: you don't need paint for that.
Such garbage in the museums, I can't tell you. He gave her a sharp look, but whatever he saw on her face seemed to satisfy him. Nobody needs to know that Captain America lives here," Natasha said. Feedback highly appreciated - come talk to me! Plain text with limited HTML? Main Content While we've done our best to make the core functionality of this site accessible without javascript, it will work better with it enabled. Get an Invitation. He ran on, turning at the looming white of the Lincoln Memorial.
Do you—" Bucky's eyes met his. Steve, I'm sorry —" "It's all right," Steve said helplessly. I, it's—we have to explain —" "We can't explain. Steve reached for it without thinking.
They shook hands like strangers. Tell me the plan," Steve said, low and urgent. Bucky hesitated. Shut the hell —I'm coming with you. He couldn't do it.
He— "Keep your eyes open. I won't take chances. One ghost would attract another, she thought. Agent Romanov, are you sure — " "I'm sure," Natasha said. In—an hour? That would be great. I think—Peggy, I think I have a chance to be alive again," and now Peggy's face was intent and serious and full of love, and how could he leave her, she was his best girl, how could he ever— "Then go.
You have to go," Peggy said. Go and don't look back. The big city? Natasha frowned down at the phone, then pressed the button and brought it to her ear. He might be trying to level the playing field, change the terms of engagement—" "You've seen him? But if you see any danger signs—" "Yeah, okay," Sam said, and disconnected.
Steve is a really good person. Natasha took a breath before answering. But—" Clint was already nodding. That's what she said—and she was Cap's girl, I figure she ought to know. That was an agent who'd been made. He smiled. He saluted —" All right; yes. He bought a latte and went upstairs—" Natasha frowned.
Chai latte with a shot of espresso—I heard the guy call it in. Clint thought about it. I don't," Steve said. Inflation ," Tony said, eyebrows flying up. But this time Steve couldn't help himself.
Has he? Here, there was hardly any: a tiny Hispanic woman had wedged herself under his armpit, and his knees were bumping those of the kid sitting in front of him, and some guy behind him was pressed so close that— It was Bucky, he knew it was. He had no idea what he was looking for. He knew it the second he found it. Her phone rang. So he's playing games, leading us around town like a tourist—" "Was he ever out of sight?
Or on the radio—" Pepper's face lit up. Tony blinked. I want to do Sesame Street! It was, too. Her phone beeped. NAT, Clint had texted. SGR going to Queens to do Sesame Street She stared at the message and then went out to the street and waited until Pepper's limo turned out of Stark's garage, as if seeing the limo could answer all her questions, could make this make sense.
But that was— —and fuck her for letting this distract her, because he was on her, metal arm tight across her throat and dragging her through a door into a boarded-up Chinese restaurant.
Leave him the fuck— " "No! I've miscalculated, she thought. Except— Except Rogers had gone to Sesame Street, she thought, and frowned. The gold double doors leading to the platform were closed, but he'd bet they weren't locked. Christ, he missed Bucky, he missed sex , he missed—and Steve was gasping, dragging his fingers through Bucky's hair and pulling him closer, tasting his— His watch let out a series of piercing metallic beeps. Please , Buck—you've done so much, you've been so strong—and we're so close now—" "Steve," Bucky's expression was agonized.
I never wanted to—" "Stop it. He'd have two…no, three jellys, two glazed, and what were those over there, crullers?
Clint kept walking, raising his hands a little higher. I just want to talk! Captain Rogers has friends who'll—" The Winter Soldier put up a black-gloved hand, and Clint stopped, obliging him: close enough. He jumped in front of the train—" "I need you," Natasha said. He's James Barnes. I bought donuts," Steve said. What can I do for you? You wouldn't have to stay long—" Tony had come up behind her.
There'd been more uniforms, of course, but he felt that any moment, he might turn around and see Peggy looking ravishing in a red dress, or maybe— "More champagne, Cap? It was Tony of course.
Steve shook his head and covered his glass. He knew that Bucky wouldn't have said anything: Bucky confided in no one. It tasted like— They didn't talk about it; they never talked about it.
Steve didn't answer. Afterwards, they had their longest conversation ever on the matter. Why are you doing this to me? Sure, your metabolism's sped up, but if you pounded it, if I handed you the bottle , couldn't you—" "When Bucky died, I—" Steve stopped; it felt like sacrilege to say it out loud. Did you leave me any contact infor—" "Did you even tell Sam? Even after everything they did to him, he wouldn't have been able to—" She tightened her jaw.
I— " Natasha rolled her eyes. Talk about conspicuous—it could jeopardize the whole— "Damn it," Steve breathed, and then he was rummaging on the floor of his closet and pulling out the round black cymbal case he sometimes carried the shield in, and shoving it and his uniform inside. Just disappeared. Natasha tilted her head at him. Probably just went walkabout, but there's a strong possibility that the Winter Soldier has lured him into some sort of—" "No, I don't think so," Cooper interrupted, and Natasha bit her lip.
Bucky jerked a nod. Maybe two dogs. Coney Island's miles south of here. Bucky lives here, Steve thought. We live here. I'm home. The album is full of fresh, scrumptious and susceptible tracks.
Apr 21, - KGF 2 full movie,tamil movie,bollywood movie,hollywood movie Clicp Download,4 minute new sex clip,Top sex beauty,nice tamil ,nice hindi hot, youtube, Upload a Thing! Customize a Thing. Download All Files. Select a Collection. Save to Collection. Tip Designer. Share this thing. As with last year, my goal is to do a bit of story every day knock wood between the Immaculate Conception and Christmas.
Explicit eventually, the rest as it comes. Feel free to send me your hopes and dreams and I'll see what I can do. Hope you enjoy! This is the 4 Minute Window Advent calendar for can you believe it?
As always, my goal is to do a bit of the story every day knock wood between the Immaculate Conception and Christmas. Feel free to send me your hopes and dreams if there's something you want to see in this 'verse and I'll do what I can if it fits and makes sense. Hope you enjoy: buckle up! This is the 4 Minute Window Advent calendar for !
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