James Bucky Barnes, the former soldier, doesn't think he's got any gentleness left in him. But Grace Juniper Cunningham, the former child prodigy, strongly disagrees.
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"𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯."
"𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴�...
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I couldn't stop thinking about Bucky that evening, then late into the night.
More specifically, I couldn't stop thinking about how he'd smelled like leather and how he'd told me to move and how he'd grabbed my hair. I wanted to touch myself. I was convinced if I could just let those thoughts flow into one, singular orgasm, then that would expel them somehow, and I could have some peace.
But I couldn't even test that hypothesis. He'd left me completely soaked, trembling in the parking garage, and I still had to attempt to focus on Wanda's car after that. And then I had to keep pushing those thoughts down deeper, even when I had nothing to distract me, because I was staying with Nat.
I was sitting on her couch, crocheting furiously. Nat was working late, past midnight. I kept thinking. Leather. Stop thinking about leather. Stop thinking about hands. Stop thinking about calluses and vibranium. Stop thinking about fingers in my mouth then knotted in my hair then—
Maybe I could just go over there and talk to him. Find out what I did wrong, how he lost interest in me so quickly. Because it hurt. I knew it was about his own issues. But some part of me felt like, if I'd been pretty enough or funny enough or whatever enough, if he'd just liked me a little more, maybe things would've been different.
I left Natasha's apartment in pink slippers, polka dot pajama shorts, and an oversized Taylor Swift shirt that I'd bought on the reputation tour. My hair was in a loose French braid, strays everywhere. I was on a mission to get answers.
Bucky didn't look surprised to see me. He opened the door right after the fourth knock, like he was waiting. He must have heard me outside.
I didn't think I could've possibly woken him up, either. He was in dark jeans and a long sleeve, cotton shirt—still dressed from the day minus the leather jacket (thank God). But his sleeves were rolled up, which was arguably more devastating than the jacket.
He looked tired, but not in a sleepy way. In a physically exhausted way.
He took in my appearance too. "You look cute."
I crossed my arms, a little timid, but also suddenly wishing I'd bothered to put on a bra. "Um, I had a dream you killed my orchid," I lied, suddenly losing the force of whatever impetus had projected me here.
"How'd I do it?" he asked mildly.
"You dug it up."
"What, like with a garden trowel? Out of the pot?"
My eyes widened. "Don't read into that. It's not a penetration thing. Don't psychoanalyze me. It doesn't mean anything. I don't want you to..." I trailed off, finishing the sentence with a regretful mumble. "Penetrate me."
"Okay. I won't," he said, completely straight faced. "I was just asking."
"How the hell else would you do it?" I pressed. "It's not like you were gonna dig it up with your bare hands."
