Longing
These days, when he’s polishing his wood, Bucky’s thoughts rarely wander to what they used to. Some past conquest, some girl with curly hair and red lips and a full bosom naked in his bed, some gal whose name he can’t remember.
Lately, more often than not, his thoughts wander to Steve. Steve smiling. Steve laughing. Steve working on a sketch, brows furrowing in concentration, those long, slim fingers working gracefully across the page. Him holding Steve, kissing his cheek, ruffling his hair. Whispering, “I love you” before kissing his lips.
He pumps harder and comes, biting his lip so as not to make any noise. As he lies recovering from his orgasm, he picturs himself and Steve tangled together in post-coital bliss. But this isn't the case, and he feels almost overcome with longing. He is alone, and painfully aware of it. He has it bad for the guy, and is painfully aware of that. He sighs and picks up a towel to clean himself.