💪
There were a good deal of situations where Bucky became distracted by Steve; in Nazi Germany when he was giving orders, voice loud and sure and so commanding that Bucky replayed it in his head later that night, dick in hand and pillow between his teeth, imagining Steve giving a different kind of order. Or when he was just walking along, smiling at something, telling a story, so caught up in what he was seeing or doing; his immersion made Bucky grin back, helpless and so fucking gone. His favorite was when Steve drew, watching each line or deliberate sweep of charcoal, completely enamored as an image began to show itself -- as if Steve were unveiling it rather than creating it.
But this? This was a new kind of torture all together. Watching the way Steve’s muscles bunched and pulled taut under the skin of his arms, his back, even through a shirt. It was obscene in the most amazing, mesmerizing way, and the Soldier was embarrassed to say that he’d lost track of what he’d been doing, just watching Steve work. There was a report in his hand, his gear already thrown on, and yet he had stopped dead in his tracks, overwhelmed by the urge to touch and taste and feel.