May I Stand Unshaken @caroleannx - Tumblr Blog

𝑩𝑳𝑰𝒁𝒁𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑩𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑹 When a blizzard traps Bucky Barnes, your dad’s longtime Army friend at your home, nostalgia turns into a dangerous spark. As tension builds and secrets surface, one stormy night blurs the line between protector and temptation.

dad’s bestfriend!bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count : 7,3k

warnings 18+ : explicit age-gap (18–22/106) dad’s-best-friend trope, sneaking around the house, risk of getting caught, multiple creampies, rough-to-tender sex, filthy praise, cockwarming, voyeurism, uprotected sex, heavy dirty talk, guilt, semi-public teasing, oral sex (f recieving), handjob, face riding, teasing

author’s note : my brain’s been absolute mush lately over dbf!bucky barnes so… here you go lmao. hope it doesn’t suck <333

The sun is a goddamn animal today, pressing down on the backyard like it wants to lick every inch of exposed skin. Neon bikinis flash around the pool, shrieks and splashes everywhere, but you’re burning up for a completely different reason. Eighteen. Legal. And yet you feel like you’re sneaking contraband just by breathing.

You drift away from the chaos, Mom’s fussing over candles, Dad’s yelling about “medium-rare, not charcoal, people!” and tell yourself you’re just finding shade. Liar.

You hear him before you see him: the soft thud of sneakers on gravel, the low exhale of someone who’s been running hard. Bucky Barnes, late as always, strolling up the driveway like he owns summer itself.

Gray joggers soaked dark at the thighs, white tank plastered to his chest, metal arm catching sunlight like liquid sin. He nods at your parents, cracks open a beer with his teeth, who even does that? and you duck behind the fence before those blue eyes can find you.

Stupid heart, racing like you’re fifteen again.

Then he disappears around the corner, heading for the old jungle gym nobody’s touched in years. You follow like a moth, quiet, barefoot on the hot grass, until you’re crouched behind the wooden slats, peeking through a knothole like a perv.

And holy fuck.

He’s peeled the tank off and hooked it over the swing chain. Bare torso gleaming, dog tags swinging between his pecs, he grips the bar with both hands and starts pulling himself up. Slow. Dirty-slow. Every rep is a flex, a ripple, a quiet grunt that slides straight between your legs and parks there.

Up. Veins popping.

Down. Abs clenching.

Up again. Sweat rolling down the center of his chest, tracing the line that disappears beneath the waistband riding way too low.

You’re wet. You are actually, shamefully wet in your brand-new red bikini bottoms just from watching your dad’s best friend do pull-ups like porn was invented for him.

You shift, thighs pressing together, and the wood creaks.

He freezes mid-air, chin over the bar, muscles locked. Turns his head just enough to catch your reflection in the shed window. Busted.

For three whole heartbeats he just hangs there, staring at you staring at him, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his jaw. Then he drops, silent, lethal, lands in a crouch, and straightens up like a predator who just scented prey.

He doesn’t grab the shirt. He walks straight to the fence, slow, shirtless, dog tags clinking, until he’s right on the other side of the slats. Close enough you can smell heat and salt and whatever cologne he wore before the pull ups turned it filthy.

“Enjoyin’ the show, birthday girl?” Voice low, rough, amused. Brooklyn dragged over gravel and sex.

Your mouth is sand. “Just… checking you’re not breaking my old swing set, Uncle Buck.”

The nickname comes out shaky, half tease, half plea. His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide.

He braces his forearms on the top of the fence, leaning in until you can see the bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “That ‘uncle’ shit ain’t gonna work much longer, sweetheart.”

His gaze drags down, slow, deliberate, over your flushed face, the swell of your chest under the thin red triangles, the way you’re squeezing your thighs together like that’ll hide what he’s doing to you. “You’re eighteen now. All grown.” The last two words come out almost pained.

Your breath hitches. Audible. Embarrassing.

He smirks, soft and dangerous. “Better get back to your party before I do somethin’ your daddy’ll shoot me for.”

He pushes off the fence, grabs his tank, and slings it over one shoulder without putting it on. Walks away like he didn’t just leave you wrecked and dripping behind a childhood jungle gym.

You stay there a second longer, hand pressed between your legs just to stop the ache, cheeks on fire, pulse hammering in every filthy place.

It’s nothing, you lie to yourself as you finally stumble back to the pool. Just a stupid, fleeting spark.

If only I’d known how deep that pull went, you think now, years later, the memory still taunting you like his smirk in the sun.

The old house smells exactly the same: lemon polish, Dad’s aftershave, and the faint ghost of cinnamon from Mom’s candles. The hallway light flickers once when you drag your duffel over the threshold, wallpaper curling like it’s trying to whisper every filthy thing this place has seen.

Early winter. A few weeks before the blizzard that will finally rip the hinges off everything.

You’re twenty-two and your body is a live wire: hips fuller, thighs thick from squats that leave you trembling, embarrassingly wet in the gym mirror; tits high and heavy under the thinnest cropped hoodie you own, nipples already peaked because you knew he was coming.

Your hair is damp from the cold, loose waves brushing the bare strip of skin above your waistband every time you move. You smell like vanilla and the faint bite of your own arousal riding under it, because you’ve been thinking about this all damn day.

The doorbell is a gunshot.

You open it and Bucky is violence in a leather jacket. Snowflakes melt in his dark hair, stubble glittering with them like crushed diamonds. His jacket is unzipped just enough for you to see the black thermal clinging to his chest, damp at the collar from the wind. Cold air rolls off him, but his body heat slams into you anyway, gun oil, pine, sweat, something darker that makes your mouth water.

He looks at your dad first, polite, but his eyes snap to you like magnets. “Hey, kid.”

The hug is illegal.

Metal arm low on your spine, flesh hand sliding under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat against naked skin, thumb stroking once, slow, deliberate, right above the waistband of your leggings. You feel the calluses, the heat, the microscopic ridges dragging across your flesh. Your nipples tighten so hard it hurts. You press closer on instinct, tits crushed to his chest, inhaling him until your lungs burn. Your hips rock forward a fraction and you feel him: thick, half-hard already, trapped against your stomach. His fingers flex, digging in for one greedy second before he remembers where he is and lets go.

Dad claps him on the shoulder. The spell fractures, but the ache stays.

Dinner is foreplay disguised as spaghetti.

You sit across from him and the table is too small. Your knee finds the rough denim of his thigh instantly. You leave it there. He lets you. When you slide your foot up his calf, slow, teasing the seam of his jeans, his fork stops moving. You watch his throat work, watch the muscle in his jaw jump. He retaliates by spreading his legs wider, trapping your ankle between both of his, pressing the hard line of his shin against your inner thigh until the pressure kisses your clit through thin fabric. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning into your pasta.

Every time he lifts his beer, the cords in his forearm flex. You imagine licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat. You imagine his stubble scraping the inside of your thigh. You imagine his metal fingers spreading you open.

You’re soaked. Actually soaked. You can feel it when you shift, slick coating the gusset of your panties, thighs sliding together under the table like a secret.

Dad starts snoring on the couch before the credits roll on his fishing show.

The living room shrinks to the two of you and the low crackle of the fireplace. You pull out the photo album like a loaded gun. Flip to the diaper picture and watch a soft smile creep across his face

“Handful even then,” he mutters, voice gravel scraped raw.

You move closer until your thigh burns against his, skin on skin where your leggings rode up. The heat rolling off him is obscene. You can smell yourself on the air now, sweet, sharp, desperate, and you wonder if he can too.

His vibranium hand rests on the cushion between you, close enough that the faint hum vibrates up your leg. You drag one finger across the back of his metal hand, just a whisper, and the plates shift under your touch like a shiver. His breath stutters.

“Gets lonely out there,” you say, barely above a whisper. “No one waiting when you come home bloody.”

His eyes flick to yours, haunted, hungry. “Gets real quiet.”

You lean in until your lips almost brush his ear. “College boys talk big, Buck. But they’ve never made me wet just sitting across a dinner table.”

The growl that rumbles out of him is animal. His flesh hand lifts, slow enough to stop, but you don’t move. Knuckles graze your forearm, trace the inside of your elbow, thumb stroking the thin skin there like he’s memorizing the pulse hammering under it. Goosebumps explode down your arms. Your nipples are so hard they ache against the hoodie, and you know he can see them. You want him to see them.

You tilt your face up. One inch. Half an inch. Your bottom lip brushes the stubble along his jaw and you feel the shudder all the way to your cunt.

“We can’t,” he rasps against your mouth, but his hand slides to the nape of your neck, thumb pressing just under your hairline, metal fingers curling around your thigh now, cold, perfect, possessive.

Dad snorts in his sleep like a fucking air-raid siren.

Bucky jerks back, chair legs screeching. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes black with want and fury at himself.

“I gotta go.”

You walk him to the door on legs that don’t feel like yours. At the threshold you can’t resist. “Night, Uncle Buck.”

He turns, crowds you against the doorframe without touching, leather creaking, voice so low it scrapes your bones.

“Drop the uncle, sweetheart. Doesn’t fit anymore. And you fuckin’ know it.”

Then he’s gone, cold air flooding in, snowflakes melting on the floor where his boots stood.

You lock the door, lean back against it, and drag in a breath that still tastes like him.

Upstairs you don’t bother with the light. Hoodie hits the floor, leggings shoved down, panties soaked through and clinging. You fall back on the bed and spread your thighs wide, two fingers sliding through the mess he made of you without even trying. You’re swollen, dripping, clit throbbing so hard it hurts. You fuck yourself slow at first, then frantic, imagining him.

You come so hard your back arches off the mattress, his name a broken sob against your pillow, thighs shaking, slick coating your fingers and running down to the sheets.

Downstairs, the house creaks like it’s holding its breath.

The cracks are spider-webbing.

And you both know exactly how loud it’s going to be when the whole thing finally shatters.

The snow doesn’t fall. It attacks.

It slams sideways against the windshield in wet, heavy sheets, each flake the size of a quarter, exploding against the glass like tiny fists. The wipers groan, fighting, losing.

Bucky’s world narrows to the faint red glow of his taillights reflecting back at him and the low growl of the engine. Cold seeps through the door seals, sneaks under his collar, but it does nothing to cool the heat already crawling under his skin. His truck rattled along the salted pavement, wipers beating a steady rhythm as he called your dad on speaker.

“Hey, man. How about one last beer before these roads turn to shit? Storm's moving in quick.”

Your dad's voice crackled through, warm but edged with that parental worry he never shook. “Yeah, come on by. But if it gets bad, pull in the driveway. No heroics tonight, Barnes. You're not invincible.”

Bucky snorted, glancing at the darkening sky. “Speak for yourself. Be there in ten.”

He shouldn’t be driving toward you. He knows it. But the words slip out of his mouth before his brain catches up.

The porch light is a blurred gold halo when he finally skids into the driveway. He kills the engine and sits there a second, breath fogging, watching snow pile on the hood like the storm’s trying to bury him alive for what he’s about to walk into.

He knocks hard. Metal knuckles on wood. Once. Twice.

You open the door and the heat rolls out like a living thing: woodsmoke, cinnamon, your skin.

You’re barefoot, legs bare, wearing the tiniest black sleep shorts he’s ever seen, cotton so worn it’s almost see-through, riding high enough that the lower curve of your ass peeks out every time you shift your weight.

The oversized tee is his old Army one, the hem brushing mid-thigh, neck stretched so it slips off one shoulder and shows the delicate line of your collarbone. No bra. Your nipples are tight, dark shadows under thin gray fabric, and the cold blast that follows him in makes them pull even tighter. You smell like warm vanilla, dryer sheets, and the faint, unmistakable musk of a woman who’s already aching.

He steps inside and the door shuts out the howl. Snow melts off his jacket in fat drops, hitting the mat with soft plops. His boots are soaked; water squelches between his toes. You toss him a towel and he catches it against his chest, the terry cloth rough against his chilled skin. He drags it over his face, through his hair, and water streams down his neck, under the collar of the henley that’s glued to every ridge of muscle like it was painted on.

Your dad saves him for exactly forty-seven minutes.

You watch him sway a little as he pushes up from the armchair, the empty glass still dangling from his fingers. The fire crackles low behind him, painting long shadows across the worn rug.

“Alright… I’m done,” he mutters, voice thick with whiskey and exhaustion. He sets the glass on the mantel with a soft clink, rubs a rough hand over his face, and turns toward the stairs.

Each step is heavier than the last. The old wood groans under his feet as he climbs, slow and deliberate, shoulders sagging like the long week is finally winning. You hear the hallway floorboards creak once… twice… then the bedroom door clicks shut.

Silence settles, thick and golden in the firelight.

You count to ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Nothing. No footsteps. No grumbling. Just the soft pop of burning pine and the low tick of the clock above the mantel.

He’s out cold upstairs, sprawled across the bed still in his flannel and jeans, mouth open, snoring before his head even hits the pillow.

The TV spits red warnings: BLIZZARD WARNING. 30-40 INCHES. WIDESPREAD POWER OUTAGES.

The room shrinks until it’s just firelight licking over your skin, the crackle of logs, the wind screaming like it wants in to watch.

You pull the blanket over both of you and it’s a lie you both pretend to believe. Your bare thigh slides against the wet denim of his jeans, skin on cold fabric, then skin on skin when he shifts and the denim rides higher. His body heat is insane: radiating through the henley, through the blanket, into your bones. You can feel the thump of his pulse in his thigh where it presses against yours.

He stretches his flesh arm along the back of the couch. His fingertips brush the slope of your bare shoulder, just a graze, but the tiny hairs on your neck stand up like they’ve been electrocuted. His metal hand rests on his own thigh, plates shifting with a faint, hungry whir every time you breathe.

“Stuck with me ’til morning,” he says, voice scraped raw, whiskey and snow and restraint. “Hope that ain’t a problem, kid.”

Your answer is barely air. “Only if you snore louder than Dad.”

But your nipples are diamonds against his old shirt and your thighs are pressed so tight together he can probably smell how wet you are.

You stand and the blanket falls away like a confession. The shorts ride higher when you walk; he gets a heartbeat-long flash of the soft crease where thigh meets ass before you disappear into the kitchen. He follows because his body is no longer taking orders from his brain.

The fridge light paints you gold and obscene. You bend for a beer and the fabric pulls tight, seam disappearing between your cheeks, cotton going dark where you’ve soaked through. He’s behind you before he can stop himself, metal arm caging left, flesh right, chest to your back. The henley is cold and wet against your bare shoulders; his belt buckle bites into the small of your back.

He doesn’t mean to grind forward. His hips do it anyway.

You feel him instantly: thick, brutally hard, trapped behind soaked denim, pressing right into the cleft of your ass like he’s already imagining splitting you open. A shudder rolls through him so violent the plates in his metal arm click. His breath is scalding against your ear, stubble scraping the shell.

“Grew up nice, didn’t ya?” The words tear out of him, wrecked. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you.”

You push back, slow, filthy roll of your hips, dragging a broken sound from his throat that he swallows too late. The ridge of his cock slides between your cheeks through two pathetic layers of fabric and you both feel how soaked you are, cotton clinging, slick coating the inside of your thighs.

His flesh hand hovers over your hip, trembling. Metal fingers curl against the counter so hard the granite creaks. He can smell you, sweet, sharp, flooding his lungs like oxygen he doesn’t deserve.

You turn in the trap of his arms and it’s worse.

Your tits brush his chest, nipples dragging across wet fabric, and the friction makes you gasp, soft, open, right against his mouth. Your lips are swollen from biting them all night. Your eyes are black with want.

He cups your jaw with his flesh hand, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, spreading it, pressing just inside so he feels your tongue flick hot and wet against the pad of his thumb and his cock jerks so hard his vision tunnels.

He groans, low, animal, forehead dropping to yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You arch into him instead, tits crushing against his chest, hips rolling so the seam of your shorts rides your clit and you whimper, tiny, desperate sound that spears straight through him.

The guilt hits like a bullet between the eyes.

He jerks back, hands up, palms open like he’s surrendering to a firing squad. Chest heaving, lips wet from almost kissing you, eyes feral.

“No. Fuck. No.” His voice cracks clean in half. “He’s upstairs asleep. I was at your kindergarten graduation. I taught you how to ride a bike. I can’t-”

The words taste like rust and ash, but he forces them out anyway, backing up until his spine slams into the opposite counter, metal fingers digging into his back like punishment.

You’re trembling, thighs clenched, lips parted and glistening, the air thick with the scent of your arousal and the snow melting off his skin.

“Go to bed,” he says, voice shredded. “Please, baby. Before I do something I’ll never forgive myself for.”

You stand there a second longer, chest rising and falling, looking like every sin he’s never let himself have.

Then you nod once, grab a water instead of the beer, and walk away, hips swaying like a threat, bare feet silent on the cold tile.

He stays in the dark kitchen long after your door clicks shut upstairs, forehead pressed to the freezer door, breath fogging the stainless steel, cock throbbing so hard it hurts to breathe.

Outside, the storm screams like it knows exactly what almost happened.

Inside, he’s louder.

And the guilt is a living thing clawing at his ribs, but underneath it, hotter, hungrier, is the truth:

He’s not sure he’s strong enough to stop it next time.

The storm was a monster, wind howling like it wanted to tear the house apart, snow piling against the windows in thick, unforgiving drifts. Midnight had come and gone, the power flickering once or twice but holding steady, for now.

Downstairs, the fire had died to embers, and your dad was dead to the world, snoring upstairs through the chaos. You couldn't sleep, though. Not after that kitchen standoff, Bucky's body pinning you against the counter, his breath hot on your neck, guilt and want warring in his eyes. The pull was too strong, raw and insistent, like the storm itself had trapped more than just the roads.

You slip into the bathroom because your body is on fire and the only thing that might put it out is scalding water. You leave the door unlocked because you’re a liar who’s praying.

The shower is already a furnace when you step in. Steam billows, thick and white, swallowing the mirror, turning the air into soup. You strip bare and let the water hit like punishment, needle-hot, pounding your shoulders, your breasts, running in burning rivers down your stomach. It does nothing for the ache between your legs. If anything, it makes it worse.

You brace one hand on the tile, head falling forward, and let the other slide down your body. You trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the soft place low on your belly that still remembers the press of his belt buckle.

Your fingers dip lower, parting slick folds, and you bite your lip to keep quiet when you find yourself drenched, swollen, pulsing. You circle your clit once, twice, thighs trembling, and the image behind your eyes is always him: the way his jaw clenched in the kitchen, the tremor in his metal fingers when they hovered an inch from your skin, the raw guilt in his voice when he said we can’t.

You’re so lost in it you don’t hear the soft creak of the door.

Bucky steps in and the world tilts.

He thought the room was empty. He freezes with one hand still on the knob, steam curling around him like cigarette smoke. His eyes go wide, then black, pupils swallowing every trace of blue.

You, naked, water cascading over every inch of you, skin flushed pink from heat, nipples tight and beaded, one hand braced on the wall, the other buried between your thighs.

Guilt slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle.

He sees two versions of you at once: the chubby-legged toddler he used to bounce on his knee while your dad laughed about diaper explosions, and the woman in front of him now, grown, soft and strong and dripping and looking at him like she’s starving.

His cock jerks hard against his sweatpants, a wet spot spreading instantly. He should back out. He should apologise, slam the door, go sleep in the fucking snow.

Instead he whispers, voice gravel and ruin, “Door wasn’t locked, sweetheart.”

You spin, heart exploding, hands flying up to cover yourself, but too late. You see the obscene tent in his sweats, the way his breath catches, the way his metal hand curls into a fist like he’s trying to crush the want.

“Buck, shit, get out-”

He doesn’t move. His throat works. “I thought… you were upstairs.”

But his eyes betray him. They drag down your body, slow, helpless, drinking in water-slick skin, the curve of your waist, the tremble in your thighs. The diaper memory hits him like a bullet, tiny you giggling while he wiped ice-cream off your chin, and the shame is acid in his throat.

You see it. You see all of it.

And instead of screaming, you let your arms fall.

You let him look.

A reckless, wicked smirk curves your mouth. “Save water, old man?” you murmur, voice trembling with nerves and power. “Shower with a friend?”

The growl that tears out of him is broken.

He steps in, shuts the door, and the lock clicks like a starting gun.

“Old man, huh?” His voice cracks on the last word. “Keep pushin’, baby. See what happens.”

He peels his shirt off in one violent motion, muscles rippling under steam and old scars. Sweatpants follow, kicked aside, and he’s bare, thick, flushed, veins standing out like the ones you’ve dreamt about for years. The head of his cock is slick with precome, bobbing heavy between you.

He steps under the spray and the water turns his hair black, sends rivers down his chest, over the dog tags that clink softly. He stops an inch away, hands hovering, flesh and metal trembling.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the word tearing out like a confession, eyes locked on yours, stormy, shattered, raw with a torment that claws at his throat.

“You’ve… you’ve grown up, doll. You’re a woman now. Christ, not that little kid anymore, not my best friend’s baby girl. How the hell am I supposed to fight this when you look at me like that?”

The confession sounds like it’s being ripped out of his chest.

His hands finally land on your hips, reverent, shaking, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist like he’s reading braille. Metal fingers press cool against the small of your back and you arch into the contrast, gasping.

He pulls you flush against him.

His cock brands your belly, hot, velvet-hard, pulsing. You feel his heart hammering against your breasts.

“Then treat me like one,” you whisper, voice cracking with the weight of it.

He makes a wounded sound and drops his forehead to yours.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he rasps, voice cracking like glass under pressure, his forehead pressed to yours as if the weight of it might crush him.

“Your dad’s right upstairs, trustin’ me to look out for you like always. He’d fuckin’ kill me for this, for touchin’ you, for wantin’ you like I do. And God help me baby, I’d let him. I’d go down swingin’ if it meant one more minute gettin’ to see you like this.”

But his hips roll forward anyway, seeking friction, sliding his length along your stomach. You wrap your fingers around him, slow, firm, and he jerks in your grip, a broken groan vibrating against your lips.

“Christ, the way you touch me…” His voice splinters. “Like you know exactly what you do to me.”

You stroke him root to tip, twisting gently at the head, watching his face contort with pleasure and agony.

“Your dad’s gonna bury me for this,” he chokes out, but he’s thrusting into your fist now, metal arm tightening around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

You pull his mouth to yours.

The kiss is messy, starving, years of almost collapsing into teeth and tongue and shared breath. His flesh hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, not quite claiming, just worshipping the fact that he’s allowed to touch.

You pump him faster, slick with water and precome, and he breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck, biting down gently, muffling the sounds he can’t hold back.

“Fuck… gonna make me lose it-”

He spins you gently this time, back to his chest, metal arm banding under your breasts, holding you like something precious. His other hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding you soaked, circling your clit with devastating precision.

You moan, head falling back against his shoulder, hips rocking shamelessly into his touch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice cracking with awe and guilt and love. “Take what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

The intimacy of it, his voice, the way he’s shaking with restraint and devotion, undoes you.

You come with a muffled cry against his neck, thighs clenching around his hand, waves crashing so strong your vision sparks white. He follows seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts, spilling hot over your lower back, hips jerking helplessly as the water washes it away.

You sag together, panting, water cooling around you.

He turns off the faucet with a trembling hand. Steam lingers like a confession.

He wraps you in a towel, hands gentle now, reverent, drying your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, like he’s terrified he’ll break you, like he can’t believe he gets to touch you at all.

You lean into him, towel loose around your hips, and whisper, soft, taunting, loving:

“Admit it. You’ve thought about this since the pull-ups. That day behind the fence.”

He stills, towel knotted at his waist, water dripping from his lashes. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, eyes dark with truth and shame and something that won’t quit.

“Every damn mission,” he whispers, voice raw. “Every night I couldn’t sleep. Thought about you grown, thought about you wantin’ me back. Kept me sane.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking. “This… this is better than any fantasy. And it’s gonna destroy me. But fuck if I care right now.”

You kiss him, slow, soft, tasting the guilt he’s drowning in and the love he can’t hide.

“Take me to bed,” you breathe against his mouth.“Please, Bucky, we’re not done. I need you inside me, need you to wreck me until I can’t think straight.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, arms shaking not from effort but from the weight of what he’s just done, and carries you out of the steam like a man walking straight into the fire he’s always known was waiting.

He carries you naked down the dark hallway, water still dripping from his hair, from your skin, leaving cold little trails on the hardwood that make you shiver against his chest. His metal arm is locked under your thighs, vibranium plates humming faintly against the backs of your knees; his flesh hand cradles your spine like you’re spun glass. Every footstep is deliberate, trying not to let the floorboards scream and wake the house.

The guest-room door shuts with the softest click. He turns the lock so slowly the mechanism barely breathes.

Moonlight through frost-laced windows turns the whole room blue-white. Snow-light. It catches on the sweat still clinging to his collarbones, on the dog tags resting between his pecs, on the wet ends of his hair.

He lowers you to the bed like he’s laying down something sacred. The comforter is cool against your overheated back; the sheets smell like cedar and the faint gun-oil that always clings to him. You sink into it and he just stares, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes glassy with something between worship and terror.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, doll…” His voice is shredded velvet. “Look at you. Spread out on my bed like every filthy dream I never let myself finish.”

You try for a bratty little smirk, want to tease him about finally growing a pair, but the words die when he drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress and spreads your thighs with his shoulders.

The first touch of his mouth is soft, almost chaste, just his lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip, stubble scraping tender skin, breath scalding. You feel it everywhere.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, looking up the length of your body, blue eyes dark and worried even while his cock jerks against the sheets. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me anything. Always.”

You nod, throat too tight for words, and he rewards you by dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, filthy stripe that ends with the flat of it pressed hard against your clit.

Your back bows off the bed.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls low against your slick heat, the rumble of his voice making your thighs tremble. “Spread those gorgeous legs wider for me, sweetheart… don’t get shy on me now.”

His tongue drags slow and deliberate up your center again, just to watch you jerk, then he pulls back barely an inch, hot breath ghosting over you as he smirks.

“Uh-uh. Wider. Show me how desperate my pretty little thing is to have her pussy devoured. Go on… beg me with those thighs, baby. Let me see just how soaked you are for my mouth.”

He eats you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on earth to do. Slow, thorough, obscene. Long licks, soft sucks, the gentle scrape of teeth. His tongue fucks deep inside you, curling, retreating, curling again, while his nose grinds your clit in perfect, maddening circles. Metal fingers slide in beside his tongue, two thick vibranium digits curling up to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.

He feels you tighten, hears that broken little gasp that means you’re right there, and he stops. Just lifts his mouth an inch, lets the cool air hit your dripping cunt while you whine and try to chase him.

“Mmm-no, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive crease where thigh meets pussy, voice velvet-rough. “Not yet. I’m nowhere near done playing.”

He drags his tongue in one slow, lazy stripe that deliberately misses your clit, then chuckles when your hips buck in frustration.

“Aw, listen to that needy sound. You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? Dripping down my chin and still begging for more.” He nips the soft skin of your inner thigh, soothing it with a kiss. “Greedy girl. I could live between these legs for days… lick you open nice and slow until you’re crying for mercy.”

Another feather-light flick, gone before you can grind against it.

“Hours, sweetheart,” he promises, voice dark and filthy as he spreads you wider with his thumbs, blowing a cool breath over your throbbing clit just to watch you shudder. “I’m gonna keep you shaking on the edge ‘til you forget your own name. Only thing you’ll remember is how to beg me to let you come.”

When you finally come it’s with his name torn out of your throat and muffled against the pillow, thighs clamped so tight around his head you’re scared you’ll hurt him. He just moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, licking you through it until you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch, murmuring praise like a litany.

“Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me. Taste yourself on my tongue, baby, go on.”

He kisses you deep, filthy, letting you lick into his mouth and taste how wet you made him.

Then he sinks into you from behind in one long, slow glide that punches the air from your lungs. You feel every inch, every thick vein, every throb, the flared head dragging along your walls until he bottoms out and you both groan like dying men, raw and desperate.

He stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed hot and sweaty between your shoulder blades, metal hand sliding under you to lace tight with yours on the mattress, vibranium cool against your fingers.

“Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice cracked wide open, forehead pressed to yours while his breath stutters against your lips. “You good? Please… tell me you’re good.”

His hands are shaking, thumbs stroking gentle little circles like he’s trying to soothe both of you. He pulls back just enough to search your eyes, wide and glassy with something that looks a lot like fear.

“I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice trembling harder than his body. “Just… breathe with me, sweetheart. Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop, I swear I’ll stop, I just-”

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale when you clench around him involuntarily, a broken groan ripping out of his chest. His eyes squeeze shut for a second like he’s in pain.

“God, you feel so fucking perfect I’m scared I’m gonna lose it,” he confesses, raw and quiet, pressing his face into your neck. “Need to hear you say it, baby. Need to know you’re with me… that you can take me. Please.”

You shove your hips back hard, slamming yourself onto him with a filthy, wet sound that makes his breath hitch.

“Please,” you sob, voice shredded, forehead pressed to the sheets as you fuck yourself on his cock in frantic little jerks. “Please, bucky, I need it so bad-”

Every desperate push back forces him deeper, your ass slapping against his hips, greedy and shameless. You can’t stop; you’re shaking, dripping, clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him in and never let go.

“Fuck, fuck, I can take it,” you cry out, reaching one hand back to claw at his thigh, dragging him closer. “I’m so full and it’s still not enough, please move, please ruin me, I’m begging you-”

Your whole body jolts with every backward thrust you give yourself, thighs trembling, back arched so deep it hurts, tears soaking the pillow as you choke on another broken moan.

“I’m so close already,” you confess in a rush, voice cracking open. “I’m right there and you’re not even moving, I’ll die if you don’t move, please, I’ll be so good for you, I swear, just, fuck, please-”

He does.

Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, dragging out until just the tip kisses your entrance, then slamming back in until his hips meet your ass with a wet, filthy slap that echoes in the quiet room. Every thrust nudges your clit against his heavy balls, the pressure perfect, relentless, building that burn low in your belly until you’re trembling.

His mouth never leaves your skin, lips and teeth and tongue worshiping every inch he can reach.

“Listen to you,” he growls against your spine, teeth grazing the sensitive spot between your shoulder blades. “Hear how fuckin’ wet you are for me? That’s all you, baby. All for me. My perfect girl takin’ every inch like you were born for it, like this pussy was made to be wrapped around my cock.”

You whimper, fingers squeezing his metal ones hard enough that the plates whir faintly.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice rough with awe and hunger. “Squeeze me just like that. Fuck, you’re so tight, so hot- gonna ruin me, baby. You’re ruinin’ me, and I’d let you do it every goddamn day.”

He flips you suddenly, needing your face, needing to see you take him. Missionary now, your legs thrown over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, cock hitting so deep you feel him in your throat with every brutal thrust, the angle making you sob.

“Look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the universe, like he’s memorizing every flicker across your face. “Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come around my cock again. Wanna watch my girl fall apart on me. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this, baby- so gorgeous takin’ me deep.”

“Bucky-” you sob, nails digging into his back, leaving red trails down scarred skin.

“Yeah, say my name,” he groans, hips snapping harder, faster, the headboard starting to thump against the wall. “Love hearin’ my name in that sweet voice while I’m buried inside you. You’re takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ good. Never felt anything like this pussy- never gonna want anything else. You’re it for me, baby. You’re everything.”

Against the wall next, your back scraping painted drywall, his metal arm hooked under your ass, holding all your weight like it’s nothing while his flesh hand braces beside your head. He thrusts up into you slow and filthy, grinding on every stroke, the head of his cock dragging over that spot that makes you see stars, makes your toes curl.

“Legs okay, baby?” he whispers, voice ragged and trembling with restraint, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if they’re shaking too hard… I’ve got you, I’ll hold you up, always.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, and he groans at the way you clench around him in response.

“That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he praises, low and reverent, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. “Wrap those pretty thighs tighter around me, yeah, perfect. God, look at you, taking me so fucking deep, so greedy and gorgeous.”

His hand slips down to lace with yours, squeezing gently as he rolls his hips in that slow, grinding rhythm that makes you sob.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice cracking with awe. “So perfect for me. My beautiful girl, glowing, trembling, letting me all the way in like you were made for this, made for me. I’ve never felt anything as safe as I do right now, buried inside you. You’re everything, baby. Every fucking thing.”

You barely manage to get the words out between broken gasps, voice shaky and wrecked as you push against him just to feel him throb inside you.

“Thought… thought you were gonna wreck me, old man-” you rasp, trying for bratty, but it comes out breathless, trembling, more plea than taunt.

He freezes for half a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, then lets out the lowest, darkest chuckle you’ve ever heard. It vibrates straight through your spine.

“Callin’ me old man again, huh?” he murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous, one hand sliding up your sweat-slick back to fist gently in your hair. He tugs your head back just enough for you to feel it, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Careful what you ask for, baby.”

Then he pulls out slow, agonizingly slow, until you’re empty and whining, and slams back in with one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“That wrecking enough for you, princess?” he growls, setting a punishing rhythm, hips snapping hard enough to jolt your whole body up the bed. “Or should this old man really ruin that pretty little pussy till you can’t walk tomorrow?”

Another deep, filthy stroke, grinding against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Go ahead,” he taunts, breathless but merciless, “keep talking shit. I’ve got all night to teach you manners, sweetheart.”

On the floor because the bed is too far and he can’t wait another second, him flat on his back, you’re straddling his face, knees burning against the hardwood, thighs trembling so hard they’re practically vibrating around his ears. His big hands are locked on your ass, fingers digging in possessively, spreading you open and dragging you down until his mouth seals over your cunt like he’s starving.

“Use me, sweetheart,” he groans into you, voice muffled, wrecked, tongue fucking deep and greedy. “Please, fuck my face. I need your taste in my throat for days.”

His nose grinds against your clit with every roll of your hips, perfect, relentless pressure, while his metal fingers slip lower, cool and slick, gathering the mess dripping out of you and teasing your empty, fluttering hole like he’s thinking about sliding them in later.

You hesitate, thighs shaking harder, a little scared of how fast it’s building, how loud you already are, and he feels it instantly. His grip softens, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the dimples of your ass.

“Hey, hey, baby, look at me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough that his breath fans hot over your swollen clit. His eyes are blown black, glassy with want and something achingly tender. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Nothing bad’s gonna happen, I swear.”

He presses the softest kiss to your clit, then another, coaxing.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Drippin’ all over my face, shaking for me… my perfect girl. Could stay right here forever.”

His hands slide up to guide your hips again, gentle but insistent, rocking you down onto his waiting tongue.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he begs, raw and desperate. “Ride me. Grind that pretty pussy on my mouth, use me however you need. I want it. Want you to fall apart and soak me. Please, baby… let me have it. I’m dying for it.”

Bent over the dresser, mirror fogged from your breath, his chest plastered to your back, eyes locked in the reflection, sweat-slick skin sliding together.

“Look how gorgeous you are takin’ me,” he rasps, voice hoarse from hours of praise, hips snapping hard and fast now, animal, relentless, the dresser rattling with every thrust. “Look at you. My girl. Mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you sob, nails scrabbling for purchase on the wood, tears pricking your eyes from how good it hurts, how deep he is.

“That’s right,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to wrap gently around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse like he’s counting your heartbeats. “All mine. Takin’ my cock like a fuckin’ dream. Never gonna get enough of you, doll. Never. You’re perfect, so fuckin’ perfect, squeezin’ me, cryin’ for me, lettin’ me ruin you. My beautiful girl.”

He finishes inside you the first time with your name broken on his lips, hips stuttering, metal fingers laced so tight with yours the plates leave faint crescents in your skin. He stays buried, forehead against your spine, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you,” like the words are being ripped out of his soul, voice shaking with the weight of it.

The second time is slow, face-to-face, moonlight painting silver stripes across your bodies. He’s crying a little, you realize, tears mixing with sweat when he kisses you, thrusts deep and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re everything,” he chokes on every thrust, voice raw and reverent. “Everything I never thought I’d get to have. My perfect, beautiful girl. Love how you feel around me, love how you look at me, love every fuckin’ sound you make. You’re ruin’ me, baby, and I’d let you do it a thousand times. You’re mine, my heart, my girl, my everything.”

When he comes again he buries his face in your neck, whole body shaking, spilling deep with a sound like it hurts how good it feels, whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes against your skin, voice raw, holding you close like he’ll never let go. “So fuckin’ perfect I don’t deserve you. But I’m keepin’ you anyway.”

Finally, 4:07 am, he collapses beside you, metal arm draped cool across your stomach, flesh hand tangled in your hair, both of you slick with sweat and each other.

“Tomorrow he’s gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice raw, wrecked, happy. A pause. “Worth it.”

You smile into his chest, fingers tracing the raised skin of an old scar, voice soft and sleepy and absolutely certain:

“Then make it worth it again before sunrise.”

He exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for decades, pulls you tighter, and starts all over again.

He rearranges you like you’re made of silk and sin.

Big, careful hands slide under your thighs, lifting your top leg higher, draping it back over his hip so you’re completely open to him. He’s still buried deep, thick, half-hard, and slick with both of you, but now he can spoon you flush against his chest, metal arm curled under your neck and breasts like a cradle, flesh arm wrapped low across your hips, fingers splayed wide over the soft swell of your lower belly so he can feel himself inside you every time he breathes.

“Stay right here, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice cracked open with exhaustion and wonder. “Gonna keep my cock nice and warm inside this perfect little pussy while you fall asleep, yeah? Gonna keep you full of me all night.”

He rocks, slow, syrupy, barely a thrust, more like a heartbeat. Just enough to remind your body he’s there, stretching you, owning you, loving you.

You make a sleepy, needy sound and push back against him, trying to get closer even though there’s no space left. He groans, low and wrecked, hips stuttering for a second before he forces himself still.

“Shhh, shh, I’ve got you,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear that makes you melt. “Greedy girl. Already took three loads outta me tonight and you still want more, huh?”

His metal hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb rolling your nipple slow and gentle, like he’s petting you to sleep. Flesh hand slips lower, two fingers spreading your folds so he can feel where he’s splitting you open, feel the slick mess leaking out around his cock every time he gives that tiny, sleepy thrust.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he breathes, voice filthy and adoring. “Hear how wet my baby is? That’s me inside you. That’s us. Never gonna pull out, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here, keep you plugged and dripping and mine.”

You whimper, half-asleep, hips rolling back on instinct, chasing the gentle pressure. He hushes you closer, metal arm tightening just enough that the cool plates press deliciously against your nipples.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he croons, lips against your pulse. “Let me take care of you. Let me love on this sweet pussy till you pass out on my cock. You’ve been so good for me, taken everything I gave you, still clenchin’ around me like you can’t get enough.”

Another slow, lazy glide in and out, just an inch, just enough to make you sigh and flutter around him. He moans softly, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that. Fall asleep on me, baby. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you full. Dream about me stretchin’ you open, yeah?”

Your body goes liquid, melting back into him, head lolling against his metal bicep. The last thing you feel is his mouth pressing soft, endless kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hair, and the gentle, steady throb of him inside you, like a second heartbeat.

“Aww, listen to you,” he whispers, voice thick with sleepy, possessive love when your breathing finally evens out. “My sweet girl, falling asleep with my cock buried to the hilt. Never lettin’ you go. Never.”

His own eyes flutter shut, arms locking tighter, metal fingers laced with yours over your belly, keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.

Outside, the storm screams itself hoarse. Inside, the only sound is the soft, wet pulse of two bodies refusing to separate, and the quiet, reverent whisper he breathes into your hair just before he drifts off.

“Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts, baby. Sleep tight. I’ve got you.”

And you both slip under, still joined, still dripping, wrapped in steel and skin and the kind of filthy, desperate tenderness that only comes after everything has already burned down.

The kitchen smells like bacon, burnt coffee, and the kind of tension that could power a small city.

Dad’s at the stove, spatula in hand, humming “Fortunate Son” like he’s in a different decade entirely. You’re perched on a stool in Bucky’s stolen shirt, legs swinging, trying to look like a normal daughter who definitely did not spend the night tangled up with her dad’s best friend.

Bucky is shirtless, because of course, leaning against the counter with his “World’s Okayest Sergeant” mug, pretending to read the cereal box while his eyes keep darting to you like he’s checking you’re still real.

Dad flips a strip of bacon with flair. “So, Buck. That guest bed treat you alright? I peeked in around six to see if the power had come back on. You were dead to the world, man. Didn’t even twitch.”

You and Bucky both freeze solid.

Your coffee mug stops halfway to your mouth. Bucky’s metal hand tightens on his mug so hard you hear the ceramic creak.

Because at six am, you were definitely in that guest bed. Wrapped around Bucky like a koala, one of his thighs between yours, his metal arm locked around your waist, your face buried in his neck, both of you dead asleep and very, very naked under the tangled sheets.

You thank every god you don’t believe in that Dad only saw Bucky’s side of the bed. That the blanket was pulled high enough. That you were on the inside, hidden against the wall. That Bucky sleeps like a damn statue when he finally crashes.

Bucky recovers first, voice suspiciously calm. “Yeah… uh, slept like a rock. Deep. Real deep.”

You nearly choke on air. “Yeah, Dad. He was out cold. Didn’t move an inch all night.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at you over the rim of his mug. “Funny. I seem to remember someone doing a whole lot of moving.”

Dad turns, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Bucky shrugs, smooth as gravel. “Nothin’. Just said the bed was surprisingly comfortable.”

You hide your grin behind your mug. Bucky’s foot finds your ankle under the counter and gives it a light kick. You kick back, harder. He pinches your calf with his toes. Game on.

Dad sets down plates with a clatter. “You two are weirdly chipper for people who almost turned into popsicles.”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time. “Adrenaline.” “Good cardio.”

Dead silence.

Dad blinks slowly, like he’s buffering. You both sip coffee like it’s the last drink on death row.

Dad finally shrugs and sits. “Whatever. Eat before it gets cold.”

Bucky slides into the seat next to you, thigh pressing yours like it’s an accident. It’s not. You “accidentally” elbow him reaching for the salt. He steals two pieces of your bacon. You flick a tiny piece of eggshell onto his plate.

Bucky mutters under his breath, “Real mature, trouble.”

You whisper back, “Says the guy who begged ‘please, doll, don’t stop’ at three in the morning.”

He inhales bacon wrong and starts coughing. Dad reaches over and thumps his back. “Easy there, pal. Chew.”

You pat Bucky’s back with way too much enthusiasm. “There ya go, old man. Small bites.”

Bucky glares through watering eyes, mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing or strangling you. “Keep it up. See what happens when your dad leaves for five seconds.”

You grin. “Promises, promises.”

Dad, chewing thoughtfully, waves his fork in a circle. “You know, you two are actin’ weird. Like… weird-weird. Like you’re speakin’ in code or somethin’. And Buck, where the hell is your shirt?”

Bucky freezes mid-chew. You freeze mid-sip. You both glance at your chest at the same time.

You recover first, sweet as pie. “Laundry mix-up?”

Bucky nods way too fast. “Yeah. Mine shrank. She borrowed it. Charity.”

Dad squints harder. “It’s three sizes too big on her.”

You chime in, “Fashion, Dad. Oversized is in.”

Bucky adds, “Very trendy.”

Dad stares for a long beat, then shrugs. “Kids these days. And old men pretending to be kids.”

Under the table, Bucky’s foot slides up your calf again, slow and deliberate. You retaliate by pressing your bare foot right against the inside of his thigh, inching dangerously close to territory that would get you both grounded for life.

His hand clamps down on your ankle like a vice. He mouths, “Behave.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

Dad looks up. “You two are awfully quiet again. Everything okay?”

You and Bucky answer in perfect unison, “Yep!”

Dad eyes you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing, then shrugs and goes back to his eggs.

Bucky leans in, voice barely a breath. “You’re lucky your dad’s here, or I’d have you bent over this counter before the bacon grease cooled.”

You grin, all teeth. “Big talk for a guy who begged so pretty last night.”

His metal fingers tighten on your ankle, just enough pressure to promise payback. You wiggle your toes against his inner thigh in victory.

Dad stands up, plate in hand. “Alright, I’m gonna go fight the driveway before the next wave hits. You two want anything from the garage?”

You answer quickly, “We’re good!”

Bucky echoes, “Real good.”

Dad pauses at the door, gives you one last suspicious look. “You sure? You’re both actin’ like you drank Red Bull instead of coffee.”

Bucky shrugs. “Just the bacon high.”

Dad mutters something about “weirdos” and heads out.

The second the back door shuts, Bucky’s on his feet, crowding you against the counter, hands braced on either side of your hips.

“You,” he growls, nose brushing yours, “are a goddamn menace.”

You tilt your chin, smirking. “And you’re a terrible liar. ‘Best sleep in years’? Please.”

He huffs a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Fine. Worst sleep of my life. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you sound when-”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Dad’s literally thirty feet away!”

He licks your palm. You yank it back with a squeak.

“Animal,” you hiss.

He grins, all teeth. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

You shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. “Go put a shirt on before Dad thinks we’re running a nudist colony.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “I’d put a shirt on, but someone’s wearing my favorite one. And looks way better in it than I ever did.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are on fire. “Flattery won’t save you when Dad notices the hickey on my-”

He kisses you quick and dirty to shut you up, then pulls back just as fast.

“Gotta go before I do something stupid,” he mutters, adjusting himself with zero subtlety. “Like bend you over this counter and give your old man a heart attack.”

You pat his cheek. “Poor baby. Blue balls again?”

He groans, backing toward the door. “You’re evil.”

“Text me when you get home safe, Grandpa.”

He points a metal finger at you. “Keep that shirt. And lock your window next time there’s a storm. I’m not asking twice.”

You grin, sweet as poison. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

He pauses at the door, eyes dark. “Keep telling yourself that, trouble.”

Then he’s gone, boots crunching through snow.

Dad yells from the driveway, “Buck! You forgot your damn shirt again!”

You look down at the stolen tee, hug it to yourself, and yell back, “Finders keepers, dad!”

Dad’s muffled grumble floats in: “You kids are so weird…”

You sip your coffee, grinning like an idiot, already counting down to the next blizzard.

Because yeah. There’s definitely gonna be a next time.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @babygirlxos @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @lovelyygirl8 @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse

Trending Blogs

Last Seen Blogs

May I Stand Unshaken