Where are we going, and why am I in a handbasket?

Buttons moves over to your discarded robe and begins to fold it. “I’ve never found humans to be all that handsome myself, but I suppose you’re a better judge of that.”

A hint of a smile pulls at your lips, and you sit up. “Well, guess it’s time we found out.”

Before entering the formal throne room you glance around from the threshold. Buttons runs into your back, urging you forward.

“Hey,” you squeak as you take a falling step inside.

“There you are,” your father says, giving you a fake smile.

Your eyes dart from side to side, searching for your new bodyguard but all you see is your father’s guards.

“And where is he?” you ask, holding your chin high and your shoulders back. “I thought you said we were meeting promptly after dinner.”

Footsteps echo behind you and you turn at the sound of a deep and gravelly voice.

“Forgive me princess,” the bounty hunter says when he walks in. “I was…preoccupied.”

You narrow your eyes, your gaze sweeping over his body. A body completely covered in Mandalorian armor. At the hint of sarcasm in his voice you scoff.

“Hmm. Well…now that we’ve met I’d like to retire to my rooms.”

You start to turn on your heel, but your father clears his throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, silently cursing him before you relent and stay put.

“This is Din Djarin. The Mandalorian I’ve assigned to protect you.”

“You mean paid,” you grit out.

Your father ignores your jab. “He’ll be with you wherever you go.”

“Even my bathing chambers?” you answer back, a wry but saccharine smile lifting your lips.

Again, you’re ignored by your father, but you don’t miss the way Djarin steps closer to you, hands seated comfortably on his hips, his shoulders relaxed when he whispers, “only if you want me to Princess.”

Your blood heats and you lift your finger to point it at his chest, both distracted by his armor and what might be hidden beneath.

“First of all, don’t call me Princess. I have a name. And secondly, you’ll stay as far away from me…and my bathing chambers…as possible.”

His head cocks to the side as he seemingly studies you. You hate that you can’t see his face.

“As your protector I can’t make any promises. I have a job to do…Princess.”

Before you can speak again your father dismisses you and Djarin. “Very well then,” your father says. “On your way.”

The feel of him at your back makes your shoulders tense and when you get your room you startle when he reaches around you to open the door.

“Let me do a sweep.”

“I’ve been gone for half an hour!” you say with an eye roll.

“Wait here.”

His gruff command leaves no room for argument, and you cross your arms over your chest, huffing out your frustration. Button’s stands beside you, her metal fingers resting gently on your shoulder in a supportive pat.

Suddenly, you hear some commotion from inside and you reach for the doorknob.

“I wouldn’t my lady,” Buttons says.

“He’s probably rifling through my underwear drawer!”

A second later the door opens and you see Djarin standing with a smoking and broken spy droid dangling from his gloved hand.

If you could see his face you’d be sure he was wearing a smug look. “Next time don’t fight me when I need to do my job.”

You lift your chin defiantly but don’t answer back.

“You’re all clear,” he says before stationing himself just outside the door. “Yell if you need anything.”

“I won’t,” you state and slam the door.

The next day passes and you only leave your room when absolutely necessary. Your defiance is all you have to hang on to, and you refuse to give in easily. Djarin stands guard day and night, though you wonder if he ever sleeps because even when you do leave your room he’s right behind you.

And today, he decides you both need to get outside.

“Would you be willing to show me around the palace a bit more? Maybe the gardens?” he asks, now striding right next to you as you head for the library.

“I was going to read.”

You don’t elaborate and start to walk faster.

“Please,” he says quietly and it stops you in your tracks.

“So he does have manners,” you muse, raising your brows.

He sighs and waits. And you drag out the moment, enjoying his suffering.

“Fine. Let’s go for a walk,” you finally agree.

He extends his elbow for you, and you narrow your eyes, reluctantly taking it.

“Lead the way Princess.”

You bring him out to the gardens, sighing when you feel the warm sun on your face.

“Sorry you kept yourself locked away for so long?” he asks, tone snarky.

You don’t bother glancing his way and continue walking toward the seating area, making yourself comfortable on a bench.

“Feel free to go where you like,” you tell him, motioning to the expanse of the gardens.

He inclines his head in thanks and turns on his heel, seeming to wander aimlessly until he turns a corner around some bushes and disappears.

At first, you pay him and his absence no mind, enjoying the warm air and the faint floral scent carried on it. But then you start to hear his voice, muffled but raised and a small series of something akin to squeaks.

“What in the….?” You mutter and stand in the direction he went.

When you turn the corner you are not expecting to see him kneeling in front of a small green alien, arguing with it.

“You can’t have anymore. You’ll get sick,” he says as he pulls a cookie out of its little hand.

The alien’s big dark eyes look up at you, blinking slowly as he coos.

Djarin turns quickly and tries to block your view.

“He’s so cute. Why can’t he have more cookies?” you ask, stepping around him to see the alien again.

“Shit,” Djarin says and rests a hand on his helmet.

“What?” you ask before kneeling to say hi to the alien.

You say your name and point to yourself, and the alien’s small hand reaches out toward your face.

“His name is Grogu,” Djarin says. “He’s in my care.”

With a smile you fish inside your dress pocket and pull a snack free, handing it to Grogu. He takes it with a happy squeal and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

“That’s not helping,” Djarin says with a sigh, hands now resting with resignation on his hips.

“Have you been keeping him out here?” you ask, suddenly angry at the thought.

“Well…” Djarin starts, holding his palms up.

“That’s terrible! It’s not safe and it gets cold and…”

“Will you just listen for a minute” Djarin interrupts.

Stomping your foot you start to walk off but he grabs your arm, stopping you and spinning you gently back to face him. He leans in closer and you hold perfectly still.

You shiver and he looks down at your arm, watching the goosebumps erupt over the expanse of your exposed skin. He releases you and reaches for the small cloak secured around his neck.

He drapes it around your shoulders, and you press your lips into a thin line.

“Relax Princess. Just being a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes. “Not very gentlemanly to leave that sweet little guy out here all alone.” When you bump his shoulder and go to storm by him he hooks an arm around your waist and twists, pinning you against the bushes. You look up at him with murder in your eyes.

“Still being a gentleman?” you ask, tone cheeky.

Even through the material of his gloves you can feel the warmth of his skin and then you feel a traitorous shiver crawling up your spine- and not from the cold. You squirm in this grip, causing the edge of your skirt to catch on one of the branches of the bush.

He looks down, his body tensing at the sliver of exposed skin that’s now revealed, then he slowly lowers his hand, eyes staying focused on the spot, clearly waiting for you to protest. His fingertips brush along your thigh, knuckles grazing something hard.

“Planning to use this?” he asks as his fingers toy with the dagger secured to your leg.

“Are you going to give me a reason to?” you counter, furious that you can’t see his face as you hope to keep your own features schooled.

“You can’t tell anyone about Grogu.”

Your chin lifts and he presses harder against you.

“For his safety,” he pauses, “please.”

That one word catches you off guard and for a second you forget how frustrating this whole situation is. You gather yourself, hoping your emotions are as hidden as his.

“Then you have to let him stay with me. Inside the palace.”

He sighs and you add, “for his safety.”

“Fine,” Djarin says. “But no one can know.”

“Don’t worry. I’m very good at keeping secrets,” you assure him, giving him a light shove to release you.

He does but you don’t let him get far. “As long as you tell me why he’s in your care and why it’s so important he stays hidden.”

He hangs his head with a slight shake. “You’re a pain the ass, you know that.”

His comment makes you laugh. It’s the first real laugh you’ve had in days, and it feels good and Djarin’s never been more thankful to have his face hidden. The sight of your smile takes his breath away.

“Oh you have no idea!” you say as you reach for Grogu’s hand.

When Djarin follows you and Grogu into your chambers you don’t refuse his presence, noting the urgency in his voice as he explained the situation to you during your walk back to the palace.

 “I can make him a place to sleep here and bring him food after meals,” you say as you flit around the room and gather blankets.

Once you’ve set up the space you take a deep breath, turning to find Djarin filling your space. He grabs your wrist, and you freeze, looking from his large, gloved hand to where you imagine his eyes would be.

You try to pull away but he pulls you closer, seemingly holding your gaze as he slides his fingers gently up and over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says in a whisper.

You’re imagining he’d brush his lips across your hand if his face weren’t forever hidden behind his helmet. Heat rushes through you at the contact and the thought and you nod your head.

“Forgetting you can’t stand me?” you say to break the spell, the corners of your mouth tilted up.

He drops your hand and steps back. “Wouldn’t dream of it Princess,” he says but you hear the smile in his voice.

The palace has been bustling with activity over the last week due to tonight’s wedding of your cousin. Your father offered to host in the hopes of keeping the family in a positive light. You’ve stayed as far away from it all as possible, enjoying your time with Grogu.

He’s playful and adorable and doting on him has taken your mind off the constant presence of Djarin, who on the other hand is distracting. Just the sound of his voice makes your traitorous body react and you’re dying to find out what’s beneath all that armor.

Just as your imagination is drifting to the wide set of his shoulders and the way his hand so easily wrapped around your wrist there’s a knock at your door.

“Come in.”

Djarin steps through the door with Buttons right behind him.

“My lady we need to prepare you for the wedding,” Buttons says as she walks to your closet.

Djarin checks on Grogu, speaking softly to him before he turns your way.

“When you’re ready I’ll be waiting outside to escort you to the festivities.”

“Shouldn’t you be in more formal attire?” you ask as you look over your shoulder. “Surely for one night you can wear something else.”

He clasps his hands in front of him. “As much as I’d love to be your date for the evening Princess, I can’t risk your safety just to look good.”

The playfulness in his voice takes you off guard and you smile softly.

“Hm. Too bad.”

Taking that as his dismissal he leaves the room and Buttons holds up a dress. “How about this one my lady.”

You look it over, your eyes lighting up in delight before you say, “actually…I know exactly which dress I want to wear.”

As you exit your room you’re purposefully placed cloak swishes behind you, cascading over the floor as you walk to meet Djarin. He bows his head slightly and ushers you toward the ballroom. When you reach the entrance Buttons fusses with the hem of your cloak, but you hastily remove it, revealing your dress beneath.

If it weren’t for the music playing in the next room you’d be sure you heard his quick intake of breath. You hand the cloak to Buttons. “It’s warm enough tonight. I don’t think I’ll need this.”

You feel his gaze immediately even though you can’t see his eyes. You smile and lift your brows.

“Staring is rude you know.”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t staring.”

You trail your fingers along the neckline of your dress, pretending to adjust the pendant resting against your skin before you step into the room.

He grabs your arm. “Let me go first.”

You roll your eyes with a scoff, stepping to the side to allow him to pass. At first you watch him to a sweep of the room but once you lose him in the crowd you turn toward the ornate and elaborate decorations near the doorway.

“How much do you think these cost?” you say more to yourself than Buttons, who as usual, is standing diligently at your side.

Suddenly, warmth fills the space at your back, and you feel Djarin behind you, his body pressed to yours. Your heart kicks into a faster rhythm as his gloved fingers skim your arm.

“Everything appears to be safe,” he whispers, low and gruff, “but…”

You stop breathing when he dips his head lower, not even the helmet blocking the caress of his words against your skin. “There’s a man here…there’s something about him. He’s wearing a purple cloak. Stay away from him.”

“Ok.”

Your voice is too breathy, but you can’t stop it with him this close. He hums against your neck, and you clench your thighs together involuntarily. Trying to deny your attraction to him would be ridiculous at this point but it doesn’t make you any less angry.

You’ve never even seen his face. The illusion can shatter with just a glimpse.

He moves away and you feel the loss like a punch to the gut. It steals your breath and you turn to find him tucked behind you, leaning along one of the pillars in the ballroom. Even as you walk away in search of a drink you can feel the weight of his gaze.

The rest of the evening goes by without much excitement. You’re asked to dance several times, noting the way Djarin is always in your line of sight. When you finally get free of the dance floor and find some sanctuary by the outdoor balcony you’re not surprised when that familiar deep voice greets you.

“Why do you dance with them if you don’t want to?” he asks.

“Who says I wasn’t enjoying every minute of it?” you counter, turning your face to the light breeze.

“You hated every minute of it,” he says, his tone so sure if makes your fists clench.

“And how would you know,” you grit out.

The slight tilt of his helmet is all you get in response and you have to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then a slow smile spreads across your lips.

“Or maybe…you’re just jealous.”

“Wouldn’t that make you happy Princess,” he chuckles.

A commotion on the dance floor pulls you both from the moment and he instantly has you secured behind him as he assesses the situation. With his hand on the gun at his hip he slowly moves forward but the instant there’s a space between the people on the dance floor you let out a barely contained snort.

“Oh don’t worry. That’s just my father pretending to make a drunken scene. He’s really laying it on thick,” you drawl.

Djarin continues to study what unfolds before him, not letting you pass and not removing his hand from his blaster.

“And it’s also my signal to go to bed,” you add.

“Not interested in seeing how this plays out?” Djarin asks with a light tone.

“I’ve seen it a million times. He does this just to try to win people over. It’s total bullshit.”

You wave a dismissive hand and start to head for your room. Djarin falls in step beside you.

“You’re not going to stay and enjoy the party?” you ask. “I’m sure there’s some beautiful lady who’d love to get that helmet off you.”

Ignoring your comment he responds with, “where you go I go Princess.”

“I’m aware,” you reply wryly.

“Would you mind if I check on Grogu before you retire for the night?” he asks softly.

“Be my guest,” you say as you wait by your door, knowing he’s going to go in first for a security sweep anyway.

Once it’s clear there are no safety breeches he calls you inside. He’s leaning against the wall near your bed, looking down at Grogu who’s snuggled into his blankets with a cookie.

“I don’t know where he keeps finding these snacks,” Djarin tsks with a shake of his head.

You clear your throat. “Oh, I have no idea either. But he’s cute enough to get away with a lot.”

Grogu looks at you, blinking slowly and making  a soft cooing sound. You smile and wink.

“I’m going to have a bath. You can see yourself out.”

With that you head into your bathing room and shut the door, quickly testing the bath water that Buttons had set up for you. It’s warm and inviting and you let your dress slip from your shoulders, sliding your undergarments off then stepping into the large tub.

You’re not sure how long you spend submerged in the bath but as you stand and retrieve your towel you hear the door creak open. It startles you at first and you quickly cover yourself with the towel, peering through the low light to see who’s at the door.

Grogu waddles through, his ears bent backward and his eyes bigger than usual. He holds out the small sack you gave him to hold his cookies, showing you it’s empty.

“Did you eat them all?” you ask with a smile.

He nods and his expression turns solemn.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you more.”

After hearing that he starts to chirp and coo excitedly, making far too much noise for the time of night it is. You try to quiet him down but before you can Djarin barges into the bathing room, poised and ready to attack.

You let out a scream and nearly drop your towel.

“What the….?” you start, your fingers in a vice grip on the material as you stand there still dripping water.

“I heard…something,” Djarin says. “Are you ok?”

“We’re fine,” you say in a whoosh of breath. “He just got excited over...”

“Cookies?” Djarin finishes for you.

“Yeah,” you laugh. “And what is that?” you ask, pointing to the large gun looking thing slung over his shoulder.

He relaxes his stance but doesn’t pull his gaze away from you. “A flamethrower.”

“Oh. Bigger than I thought,” you muse.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he shoots back.

You place a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Did you just make a…joke?”

He scoffs and lowers the flame thrower. For a moment you think he’s going to engage but he just seems to be staring at you, although you can never quite tell with his helmet on. You suddenly remember you’re standing there in your towel, and you swallow hard, all the built of tension rushing back in a flash.

The time stretches taut with heated anticipation, and you sway closer, the urge to drop the towel taking over.

Grogu interrupts with a whistle and you’re released from your daze, looking down at him slowly.

 “Come on Grogu,” Djarin say as he turns to leave. “And no more cookies,” he shoots over his shoulder.

Your exhale is long and slow as you watch him leave, Grogu following slowly behind with disappointed look.

The next day you’re thrumming with energy, the need to leave the palace and find some solace from this ever-growing tension between you and the Mandalorian becoming overwhelming.

The problem is, wherever you go, he goes.

As you’re sitting on your bed watching Grogu munch on a cookie your eyes light up with an idea. You smile mischievously at him, and his ears instantly flatten to the back of his head.

After you’ve explained your plan to Grogu, going over it several times until he was nodding in what you hope is agreement you grab your pack and change into something less conspicuous than your usual regal garments.

You give Grogu the signal and he heads toward the door of your bedroom, sneaking out into the hallway to get Djarin’s attention. You peek out of the door and see Djarin turned the other way and reaching for Grogu to take him back inside.

It’s now or never. You slip away with silent footsteps and once you’re out of sight you sneak toward the stables. You make quick work of saddling your Kaadu, ignoring its light protests to you riding out unescorted.

You soothe the creature with soft touches and words until you’re picking up speed, and the palace grows smaller behind you.

The city of Theed is alive with the thrum of people coming and going, the marketplace full of vendors shouting to every person who passes by and you’re thankful for the hood you pull up and over your face.

Your Kaadu waits impatiently at the stables, and you know you don’t have much time. The energy of the freedom of the city keeps your feet moving forward and after a few minutes you start to relax.

When you pass a particular vendor selling sweets your nose stops you in your tracks, the smell a familiar one that brings back a flood of childhood memories. You stop and eye the treats, knowing you’re not the only one who will enjoy them.

You reach for your bag of money and realize that you forgot to take some. Your stomach sinks at the thought of going home empty handed. You look around the marketplace, checking for anything that seems out of place then look to the stall owner, noting that his focus is on the customer ahead of you.

Your movements are slow and careful as you reach for a handful of the treats…

“HEY! YOU!” the vendor in the stall next to you yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Your hand flies back and you quickly look around, noticing that you now have the attention of several people, including the owner of sweets stall.

“Uhh…” you start, eyes darting from side to side.

Then without thinking you make a grab for the treats, taking a large handful and stuffing them in your bag before turning and dashing off into the crowd. You can hear the commotion behind you, the vendors yelling, other patrons shouting as they get knocked into and pushed aside.

You don’t look back, just continue running as fast as you can until you reach one of the large cylindrical buildings and it’s many arches. You disappear into the shadows and plaster yourself against the wall, listening as the small group that was chasing you passes by in a flurry of agitation.

Releasing a breath you smile to yourself, feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline moving through you and the triumph of escape. You check your bag one last time, happy to see the treats are intact and check around the pillars before starting to make your way back to your Kaadu.

Just when you think you’re out of harms way you turn the corner and walk straight into the solid white armor of a storm trooper.

“And just where do you think you’re going…Princess.”

“Shit,” you mutter before another pair of hands grabs your wrists from behind you and secures them.

“Let’s go,” the second Stormtrooper says. “And don’t make a scene or we’ll be forced to silence you.”

“Where is she?” Djarin hisses, slamming the door to the bathroom shut as he stares at Buttons.

“Sir, I have no idea where she could have gone. I was tending to the laundry and when I came back the only one here was the little alien…covered in crumbs.”

“Do you know where she is?” Djarin asks, spinning to face Grogu.

Grogu’s ears go back, his dark eyes wide, telling Djarin exactly what he needs to know.

“Shit!” Djarin growls. “You’re not supposed to make my job harder!”

Grogu makes a soft squeak, lowering his head at the admonishment.

“Don’t move!” Djarin commands and then looks at Buttons. “And you either. Keep an eye on him!”

He storms for the door, steps heavy and purposeful before he turns to face Grogu again. “And no tricks!”

You’re practically dragged into the underground passage, your feet tripping over each other as you try to keep up and the damp smell of Earth assaults your senses.

“Where are you taking me?” you huff out, defiant still in the face of danger.

“You’ll find out,” answers the Stormtrooper who’s pushing you forward.

The loud rush of falling water grows louder until you’re shoved through a high archway that brings you to an opening with a waterfall at the back. Two other tunnels lead off from the center, but both are blocked by guards.

You look around, trying to measure your surroundings as quickly and efficiently as possible before you hear the distinct gruff voice of Moff Gideon. Your lip curls in a sneer as you meet his eyes.

“And what a lovely surprise it is to see you Princess,” he drawls.

You scoff and don’t offer him a greeting instead shooting back with, “whatever it is you want I won’t do it. You’ve made a grave mistake.”

He smiles. “And why is that? We know you’ve had contact with the alien child, and you will tell us where he’s hiding.”

You lift your chin. “I will tell you nothing.”

One of the dark troopers barring a tunnel entrance takes a step in your direction. Your heart drops into your stomach but you school your features.

“Always so uncooperative,” Gideon sighs.

The stormtrooper pushes you forward as the dark trooper advances. You brace for pain, your body tense but instead you feel the whoosh of a blaster shot, the storm trooper crumpling at your feet right before the dark trooper does the same.

Instinctively you duck and rush away from the chaos, backing yourself into the wall and seeing Djarin blaze through the farthest tunnel, shots firing and several enemies falling to the ground.

He’s just about to end the last of the troopers when you hear Grogu’s squeal, his small body appearing at the opening of the other tunnel. You lunge for him, only to have one of the remaining dark troopers grab you. Gideon slips through the shots being fired, using the commotion as his shiel to scoop up Grogu.

Djarin advances, his gun now poised at Moff Gideon.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mandalorian,” Gideon sneers. “I have what I want and you’re going to let me go.”

You struggle against the dark troopers hold and Djarin’s head turns your way.

“Let them go,” he growls. “Now.”

Gideon laughs. “No. Surrender and they will be remain intact.”

Gideon pulls out a small blade and holds it against Grogu’s throat before he looks to the dark trooper who then pulls out a blaster and aims it at you.

Gideon presses the blade closer to Grogu’s skin, and he lets out a small whimper. You see Djarin go completely still and you hold your breath.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Djarin hisses as he lowers his blaster and raises his hands in surrender.

You struggle again and the dark trooper tightens his hold, shoving the blaster into your side.

“Seize him,” Gideon states, motioning to the last dark trooper. “And remove his helmet.”

You suck in a gasp of air, frantically trying to come up with something to do. The dark trooper takes Djarin’s hands and wrenches them behind his back, dropping him to his knees. He secures his wrists with a binder and then places his hand on Djarin’s helmet.

Grogu releases a series of agitated squeaks and squeals just before the dark trooper pulls the helmet from Djarin’s head.

Your eyes instantly lock with his, their dark brown color warm despite the situation as he stares back at you. His equally dark hair is mussed, some soft pieces falling over his forehead as his plush lips lift into a small smirk.

“Hi Princess,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” you say, the effect of the reveal clearly apparent in your breathy tone.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, drinking you in with a sweep of his gaze from your head to toes.

Gideon’s overexaggerated laugh drags your eyes away from each other. “Isn’t this just grand,” he says. “Now I have two things that are important to you.”

Djarin grunts and tests the binders at his wrists. The dark trooper gives him a hard shove, and you struggle again in the your own restraints. Gideon laughs and starts to back up.

“Once I’m free of these tunnels kill them both,” he says with a sinister smile.

Then he turns and starts to run with Grogu toward the exit. In the seconds between your scream and the next breath you hear a loud thud from the tunnel, the sound of Gideon’s voice suddenly muffled before Grogu waddles back into the center room, his arm outstretched and aimed at the dark trooper who has a hold on Djarin.

The trooper flies backward into the wall, slamming into the stone hard before it falls to the floor in a heap. The next few seconds happen so quickly you barely register anything. Djarin stands and turns his wrists toward Grogu, who instantly breaks the binders then he has his blaster in his hand and the dark trooper holding you falls backward slowly, the hole in it’s head still smoking.

Djarin rushes for you, grabbing your hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”

You stare at him, closer now so that you can see the shadow of stubble along his cheeks, and the long dark lashes that frame his eyes.

His gaze holds yours before dropping to your lips and impulsively your tongue darts out to trace their shape. He groans but urges you behind him before putting his helmet back on.

“We don’t have time,” he says, signaling for Grogu. “Let’s get to safety.”

Your escape back to the palace is a blur of movement and urgency and it isn’t until you’re secured back in your room, legs cramping and breathing ragged that he unleashes his anger.

“What were you thinking?” he shouts. “You could have been killed!”

Before you can answer, he whirls on Grogu. “And you!”

Grogu’s ears fall back and he lowers his head with a sad whistle. He retreats to his bed area looking thoroughly chastised and you watch the anger in Djarin deflate with a sag of his shoulders.

But still you shoot back, “don’t yell at him,” throwing your finger out and crowding Djarin’s space. “It was my fault. I put him up to it. I…I just wanted to get out of here for a little while.”

Your last words soften as the air leaves your body and you start to sway forward with the weight of everything that has transpired.

He catches you easily, one arm around your waist, as your breathing starts to even out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He removes one glove and then the other, placing his fingers under your chin to lift your face to his. Your body comes alive at the feel of his skin against yours, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw.

His lips tenderly brush your cheek, his nose gently bumping yours before he kisses you. It’s not just some quick affection. This is a kiss you feel everywhere. You’re hyperaware of all the places your bodies touch, of the way, even through his armor, you fit together perfectly. He holds you to him, his large hands softly cupping your face.

When you pull away you’re breathless and Djarin’s eyes wander deliberately over the features of your face, his head dipping to kiss you again.

“Careful Mandalorian,” you whisper against his lips when he retreats just enough to hold your gaze. “You’re looking at me like you’re forgetting you can’t stand me.”

The corner of his lips tilt upward into a smile and the lines around his eyes deepen, sending a rush of warmth through your body.

“I could say the same for you,” he murmurs.

He leans in, skimming his nose from the junction of your shoulder up your neck, breathing you in.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” He whispers the words into your skin before inhaling again.

A shiver runs along your spine as his breath ghosts over the rapid pulse in your neck. He hums appreciatively, groaning before he kisses you again. When he pulls back, he searches your face for any sign of hesitation and when you give him none he drops his hand between your bodies, searching for the hem of your shirt and slipping his hand beneath, calloused fingertips gliding over your soft skin.

One of your hands thrusts into his hair, yanking his head closer to kiss him, and his barely controlled restraint snaps, his free hand curling around your thigh to lift you into his arms. He walks you backward toward the bed, spinning until he’s seated and you’re straddling his lap. He never breaks the kiss, his hands steady but urgent in their exploration of every curve of your body.

He shifts, trying to ease the strain of the hardness between his legs.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing.” The words are a challenge against his lips, and his eyes snap up to meet yours.

His hand slides up to your neck, and his grip tightens on your throat, the feel of your pulse beating harder and harder against his fingers.

“You are temptation,” he whispers, “and I want to take my time…”

“But…”you purr.

“It’s been torture since the moment I laid eyes on you. I need you to be mine.”

Your lips spread into a smile against his. “Then make me yours.”

Bucky caught your eye from across the room where you were tucked into the armchair. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knew he was being absolutely played by a toddler and didn't mind one bit. His gaze dropped momentarily to the curve of your stomach, visible beneath your soft shirt, and his expression softened into something so profoundly tender it was almost ache-inducing.

"I think I’m plenty pretty already, Clara," Bucky teased, though he didn't pull away when she reached for a glittery purple clip.

"No," she sighed, exasperated in the way only a toddler can be. "You need more. For the baby."

Bucky’s hand—the warm, human one—reached out to steady Clara as she leaned a bit too far forward. His touch was light, seasoned by a lifetime of knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to keep something from breaking. He wasn't the kind of dad who did "baby talk"; he spoke to her with a grounded, calm respect, treating her like the most important person in the room.

"The baby can't see the clips yet, Peanut," he reminded her gently.

"But she knows!" Clara insisted, patting his metal shoulder before turning her attention back to her handiwork.

Bucky let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning his head back against the cushions. He looked content, his frame relaxed in a way that had taken years to achieve. In this light, with his daughter decorating his arm and his wife resting nearby, the Winter Soldier felt like a ghost from a different lifetime. Here, he was just Bucky—the man who made sure the house was warm, the man who read bedtime stories with a tired but devoted patience, and the man who was currently becoming a very shiny, very decorated canvas for his favorite girl.

Bucky shifted his weight, being careful not to jostle Clara's "workstation" as she started trying to weave a stray ribbon through his thumb joint. His gaze drifted back to you, settling on the way you were resting your hand over the baby. There was a quiet, heavy groundedness to him—the kind of presence that made the whole room feel sturdier just because he was in it.

"You're awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice dropping into that private, intimate register meant only for you. "You okay? Need another pillow?"

Before you could answer, Clara stood up, admiring the metallic arm now covered in a chaotic array of neon plastic and silk bows. "All done! Daddy is a princess."

Bucky looked down at his arm, then back at his daughter with a perfectly deadpan expression. "A princess, huh? Do I get a crown, or is the butterfly clip on my wrist enough for the royal title?"

"You need a wand," Clara decided, already scouting the room for a suitable substitute.

Bucky caught your hand as you moved to get up, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle but firm pressure. "Stay put," he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. "I've got the wand-finding under control."

He stood up with a slow, fluid grace, the clips on his arm jingling slightly. He didn't look ridiculous to himself; he looked like a man who finally had something worth protecting. He scooped Clara up into the crook of his human arm, settled her against his hip, and leaned over to press a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead.

"Go back to your book," he said softly, his eyes reflecting the late afternoon sun. "The princess and his advisor are going to go find a wand in the kitchen. Probably one that looks suspiciously like a wooden spoon."

Clara giggled, burying her face in his neck, and Bucky's smile was small, private, and entirely whole as he carried her out of the room.

The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic clatter of Bucky opening drawers, his movements steady and purposeful even as Clara directed him with the authority of a tiny commander. You followed the sound, leaning against the doorframe while folding your arms over the top of your stomach.

"I don’t know, Clara," you teased, watching Bucky hold up a silicone spatula with a look of extreme skepticism. "A princess usually has something with a bit more... sparkle. That looks like it's for pancakes."

Bucky turned his head, a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes as he took in your expression. "Listen to your mother, Clara. The Queen has spoken. This is a culinary tool, not a magical one."

Clara huffed, squirming down from his hip to begin her own frantic search through the lower cabinets. Bucky took the opportunity to close the distance between you. He didn't say much—he never needed many words to get his point across—but he stepped into your space, his presence warm and grounding. He reached out with his human hand, his palm coming to rest gently over the curve of your belly. He waited, his breath hitching just a fraction, until he felt that familiar, sharp little kick against his skin.

"She’s active today," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that always felt like a secret shared between just the two of you. "Must have heard us talking about her."

"She’s probably just protesting the 'princess' title," you joked, though you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a long breath. "She’s been doing gymnastics in there since breakfast."

Bucky’s thumb traced a slow, soothing circle against the fabric of your shirt. His focus was entirely on you, his brow furrowed in that characteristic way that showed he was checking in, cataloging your comfort the same way he used to catalog threats. He wasn't hovering, but he was there, a constant and unwavering anchor.

"Are you tired?" he asked, his gaze searching yours. "I can take Clara to the park for an hour. Give you some actual quiet."

"And leave you alone with a toddler who thinks your arm is a jewelry box?" You laughed, reaching up to adjust one of the butterfly clips that was hanging precariously from his wrist. "I think I'd rather stay and watch the chaos. Besides, you're doing a great job, Your Highness."

Bucky caught your hand, holding it against his chest for a second. The metal of his other arm was still adorned with pink and purple plastic, a stark contrast to the man who had survived more wars than he cared to count.

"I found it!" Clara shrieked, emerging from the pantry with a long, wooden pasta spoon. She brandished it toward Bucky's knees. "Daddy, kneel! I have to make you magic."

Bucky looked from the spoon to you, a resigned but soft smile playing on his lips. "Duty calls," he sighed, though he didn't move to let go of your hand just yet. He leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips—one that tasted like home and the promise of a future he was finally allowed to keep. "Don't get up. I'll handle the knighting ceremony."

He moved away, dropping to one knee on the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, bowing his head as Clara tapped the wooden spoon against his shoulders with all the solemnity of a true coronation.

Bucky took the "blow" of the wooden spoon to his shoulder with more grace than he’d ever taken a hit in the field. He kept his head bowed as Clara moved the "wand" to his other side with a look of extreme concentration.

"I dub thee... Princess Daddy," Clara announced, tapping him firmly on the head.

Bucky let out a small, huffing sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh. He looked up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think that’s a promotion," he said, shifting his weight to sit back on his heels. "Though I’m not sure the guys at the gym would agree."

"I think it suits you," you said, leaning against the counter and rubbing a hand over the small of your back. "The pink butterfly clips really bring out your eyes."

He stood up, the metal plates of his arm shifting with a faint, familiar whirr. He reached out to scoop Clara up before she could find another household object to turn into a weapon. "Alright, Princess Daddy is retiring for the afternoon. I think it’s time for someone to have a snack and then maybe a nap."

"No nap!" Clara protested, though she was already leaning her head against his shoulder, her energy finally starting to flag.

"We’ll see about that," Bucky murmured. He turned back to you, his expression shifting from playful to that quiet, observant intensity he saved just for you. He noticed the way you were shifting your weight. "Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring her back in once she’s settled with some apple slices."

"I can help, Bucky, I'm just pregnant, not incapacitated," you reminded him with a small smile.

"I know what you are," he replied, his voice softening as he stepped closer, the toddler a solid weight in his arms. He used his free hand to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "But I've got this. Let me take care of my girls, okay?"

There was no arguing with that look—the one that said he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do. You nodded, giving his arm a quick squeeze—avoiding the neon clips—and headed back toward the living room, leaving him to navigate the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and his favorite little girl in the other.

A few minutes later, the quiet of the living room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of Bucky’s boots on the hardwood. He emerged from the kitchen, having successfully navigated the snack transition. Clara was trailing behind him, clutching a small bowl of apple slices like it was a prize, her focus now diverted to a picture book she’d left on the coffee table.

Bucky sank onto the sofa beside you, his presence like a warm weighted blanket. He let out a long, grounded exhale, his metal arm—still sporting a few stubborn butterfly clips—resting behind your shoulders on the cushions.

"She’s finally slowing down," he noted, watching Clara flip through pages with a look of intense concentration. "I think the knighting ceremony took a lot out of her."

"It's a lot of responsibility being the Royal Advisor," you joked, shifting your position to rest your head on his shoulder. "You handled it well, though. I think your form was excellent."

Bucky’s hand dropped to your arm, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I’ve had a lot of practice taking orders. At least these ones come with snacks."

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the baby give a gentle nudge against your side. "I was talking to Natasha earlier," you mentioned, your voice trailing off into a comfortable hum. "She called while you were in the middle of the 'hair salon' session. She said she’s dropping by tomorrow with some more baby clothes she found. Apparently, she’s convinced this one is going to be just as much of a handful as Clara."

Bucky’s lips quirked into a real, albeit tired, smile at the mention of his friend. "Natasha just likes having an excuse to teach Clara how to pick locks with hairpins. I’m still finding bobby pins in the floorboards from her last visit."

"She calls it 'essential life skills,'" you reminded him, tilting your head up to look at him. "And you know she’s probably right. Between the two of you, these girls are going to be the most over-protected, highly-skilled toddlers in Brooklyn."

Bucky didn't argue. He just pulled you a little closer, his gaze softening as it moved from Clara back to you. The weight of the world felt very far away from this living room. "As long as they're safe," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw. "They can learn whatever skills Nat wants to teach them. But for now, I think I'd settle for them just staying this small for a little bit longer."

You smiled, leaning into the solid warmth of his chest. "I don't know, Bucky. I think Nat is just excited to have more 'recruits.' She already told me she’s bringing over a tiny leather jacket that matches hers."

Bucky groaned, though the sound was fond. "A leather jacket. Great. She’ll be wanting a motorcycle next." He looked over at Clara, who had finally abandoned her book in favor of leaning her head against his knee, her eyelashes fluttering as sleep started to win the battle.

"She’s almost out," you whispered, watching the way he instinctively adjusted his posture so she’d be more comfortable.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice barely a thread of sound. He looked down at his metal arm—the one still decorated with Clara’s clips—and then at your stomach, where the baby was finally settling down for a nap of her own. "I used to think the quiet was the hardest part of being back. The silence felt... heavy."

He shifted his human hand to cover yours, his skin warm and slightly calloused. "But this? This isn't that kind of quiet. This is the first time in a hundred years I feel like I can actually hear myself think."

You squeezed his hand. "And what are you thinking, Sergeant Barnes?"

He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, grounding second. "That I'm a very lucky man," he murmured. "Even with the pink hair clips."

Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.

You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.

Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.

Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.

Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring. 

It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.

Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.

Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?

With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.

Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.

The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.

Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.

And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize. 

Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Was someone actually moving in? 

Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?

To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.

Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.

“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”

The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.

You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.

“Hey! Farmer boy!”

The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise. 

He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily. 

The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.

It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face. 

“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand. 

Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.

When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.

But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”

You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes. 

“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.

He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.

You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”

He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”

Your shoulders tensed.

You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively. 

“H-how do you know that—?”

“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”

Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.

“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”

“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”

Your eyes widened. 

Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.

When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”

But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good. 

You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”

“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”

Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.

“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”

“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”

Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.

Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench. 

That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.

“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.

Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”

And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.

You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.

“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”

Social media? 

What kind of woman did this man think you were? 

He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.

“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”

Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth. 

Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.

You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”

On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.

When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.

“Cute panties.”

Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat. 

The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.

You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.

“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”

The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.

She wasn’t scared of you at all. 

She was smitten. 

“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.

The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!

A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing. 

Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”

“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”

Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.

“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”

Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.

“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.” 

Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.” 

You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.” 

“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.” 

“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.

Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.

“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow. 

He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”

“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.

“Explain it to me, princess.”

You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”

“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”

“And what about the men?”

Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”

It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.

“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”

You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.

He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.

“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”

You let out a short, scoffing laugh. 

He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?

Was he pulling your leg?

Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house. 

“Very funny.” 

As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”

It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.

Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive. 

He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned. 

“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”

You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”

This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.

This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve. 

While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.

You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned. 

If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.

In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.

He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”

“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”

Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.

“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”

“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”

As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.

The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.

Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.

“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.

“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.

The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.

“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”

Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.

“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”

You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”

Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small. 

Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.

Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.

“What—?”

“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”

Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe. 

“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”

He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”

For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment. 

So, you obeyed. 

You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.

Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.

“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”

You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”

“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face. 

“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”

You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.

“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.

Bucky offered a small, weary smile. 

“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”

He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.

“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.

He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.

Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.

You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.

“Wait—don’t!”

“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”

“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”

Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.

“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”

He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.

“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”

He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.

“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”

“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”

You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.

“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”

After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.

“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”

Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.

“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.

Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.

Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands. 

“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.

All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck. 

He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”

Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door. 

He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.

From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth. 

You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.

But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.

That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.

As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick. 

Why had you taken a picture like that? 

Who was it for? 

Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?

Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.

“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”

“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.

As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.

“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”

Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.

You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.

“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.” 

The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.

You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.

“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”

“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”

Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.

“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”

You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”

You blinked, finally glancing at him. 

“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”

Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.

“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”

You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud. 

You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.

“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.

When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.

The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.

To him, that just meant you were already his.

“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.

You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”

Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away. 

“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”

“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”

“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.

“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”

“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.

He was dead serious.

He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”

Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.

To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.

But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside. 

Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.

He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.

It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.

He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.

Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.

It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.

As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.

You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.

Fuck.

You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.

Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.

You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.

“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.

It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.

Too fucking good.

He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”

“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”

You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”

With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.

But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.

“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”

Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before. 

Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”

“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”

He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.

“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.

“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”

The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step. 

His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.

As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him. 

“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”

God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.

Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”

He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.

He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.

From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took. 

It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to. 

His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.

A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.

He was wrong.

Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body. 

Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.

Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge. 

Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.

“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.

Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music. 

Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.

“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.

He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”

“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”

Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”

His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.

You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt. 

“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”

Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.

“Then do it,” you challenged.

“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”

Your breath hitched. His girl?

“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”

Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.

“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.

“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”

He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.

“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”

You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours. 

He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.

He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.

It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.

“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?” 

He didn’t answer.

He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either. 

His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.

Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.

You knew you should’ve stopped him.

You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.

But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue. 

How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?

Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”

You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”

He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.

“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.

With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.

“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.

His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.

The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley. 

His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.

“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.

You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.

As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.

“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.

One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.

“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.

He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices. 

Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.

You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”

“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall. 

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.

He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.

“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.

“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”

His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.

“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”

“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.

You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”

With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you. 

You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.

He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.

He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”

He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”

Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.

As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.

He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.

He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.

“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.

You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod. 

He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”

He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.

“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”

“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.

He wanted more. 

He wanted to break you.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.

“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.

He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.

“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”

He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.

Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.

As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.

“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.

Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley. 

He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.

His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.

“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.

The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”

What was he saying?

His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle. 

“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”

“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”

His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.

“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.

“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.

Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered. 

“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”

He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.

“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”

His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.” 

He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”

The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.

You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it. 

“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly. 

He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”

Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”

You felt your breath get stuck in your throat. 

He was asking for permission?

Your body tightened beneath him.

You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.

“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.” 

Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go. 

“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.

You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”

You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.

“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”

“Just cum inside, Bucky!”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.

The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.

He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.

“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”

The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.

“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”

He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.

“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”

He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again. 

He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing. 

And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier. 

“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”

He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt. 

You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.

“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.” 

He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier. 

“Bucky?” 

“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway. 

“For my growing collection.”

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!