Chapter Text
John feels a gaze on him all night. It’s Friday, so they’re kinda hitting that newly developed tradition – lounging around the living room. Big-ass couch fitting Yelena, Ava, and Bob; Alexei and himself occupying chairs. Bucky is absent. Congressman shit or whatever keeps him busy pre-weekend night. John doesn’t really care. The bottle of beer is pleasantly cold in his hand, condensate running down the dark brown glass, and he sips it occasionally even though it does nothing for him. No low buzzing in his head, no warmth in his stomach – just a nice cold drink. It’ll do.
“Suka!” Yelena exclaims, gesturing at the TV screen. “Why these men always so stupid in the movies? Just go back and finish him off- of course he’s gonna kill him now.”
“Guess that’s why he’s a protagonist,” Bob says quietly, his gaze flicking to where John’s sprawled in his chair for probably the tenth time in the last half hour. “Good guy and everything, you know…”
John notices and looks back, raising his eyebrows. Bob nods toward the dark hole of the doorway to the corridors where the bedrooms are. John averts his gaze and sips his beer.
“We’d never make such a mistake,” Ava hums, and Yelena raises her hand to give her a five.
“Right! Always finish your work, dumbass…”
“Reminded me that one time Gorbachev himself assigned me to-“
“Dad, stup up-” Yelena interrupts, fruitlessly, because Alexei keeps yapping about the ‘good old times’.
John tunes Alexei’s nonsense out and focuses his attention on the screen, trying to shake off the feeling of being watched. He stops himself from glancing back again – it’d look weird – and gathers himself a little, his leg twitching slightly from nervousness he feels for whatever reason. There’s nothing to be nervous about – everyone on the team knows that he and Bob aren’t actually friends. To John, Bob’s like a roommate with whom he has close to nothing in common – except for the common living areas they all share here in the tower. It’s not like John doesn’t like him or treats him poorly – he cooks him breakfast if they stumble into each other in the kitchen in the morning and checks on him if needed. It’s just that they’re not friends. Not like Yelena and Bob, or her and Ava. Roommates, it is.
The barely-there knock on his door comes about half an hour after movie night is over and everyone’s back to their own business. Then comes the face, sheepish as usual, and finally Bob steps into his bedroom, closing the door behind himself.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” John responds, tossing the t-shirt he just tugged off onto the back of the chair near the desk. “Was heading to the shower,” he nods lightly toward the bathroom. “Need something?”
“Uh, n-no, I just… Sorry. Sorry for bothering you, I just…”
“Bobby, stop rambling, for fuck’s sake,” he interrupts, already annoyed by the younger man. It’s kinda obvious why Bob’s here so late, and John abandons the idea of showering now. Good thing he didn’t go a bit earlier. Bob shifts from foot to foot and bites into his lower lip, and John steps toward him – and it’s like a permission for Bob to move too, so it doesn’t take long before John has him in his arms.
“You sure that it’s okay?” Bob mumbles, fingers toying nervously with the elastic of John’s sweats as John starts to pop the buttons of his shirt open leisurely.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he reassures him. “Could use a distraction.”
“Right…” Bob nods, jerky and quick, bangs falling into his face, and steps closer, lowering his hands submissively as John tugs the shirt off him. His chest rises with the deep breath he takes as John’s fingers trail down the surprisingly toned muscles there, catching his nipple and twisting it rough enough that it makes Bob yelp.
“It’s for making eyes at me while others were here,” John reasons, smirking at the way Bob’s face reddens, and bends down to lick all the pain away, palms smoothing down the sides of his torso, squeezing his waist.
“Sorry…” Bob replies, voice trembling slightly as John circles his nipple with his tongue – it perks up instantly, the feeling pleasant.
“Yeah?” He pulls away, alternating his mouth with his fingers, squeezing again but this time gently, more like rubbing it between his fingertips. “You’re sorry?”
Bob lets out a “mhm,” his hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t quite understand what to do with them, and John drops his own hand, leaning close. Bob’s eyes widen, gaze flickering down to John’s lips when they’re almost face to face, but John ignores the look, breathing out into his ear.
“Get on your knees then, Bobby. Show me how sorry you are.”
Of course, Bob does as he’s told, so eager just to be seen and guided and praised. John’s fine with it – with all the obedience Bobby demonstrates in the bedroom. Sinking onto his knees, looking up with those blue eyes, lips parting like this is the only way he can get enough oxygen to breathe. John watches him lean forward, pressing a kiss above the hem of John’s pants, nuzzling the hair there, then trailing his lips lower, tugging the piece of clothing out of his way, leaving the elastic of John’s boxer briefs be for the moment, and John’s getting excited now. Bob feels it too, if the way he smiles says anything. He slides the sweats all the way down and glances up one more time before pressing his cheek against John’s hardening cock – then his lips, opening them wider, spit collecting on his tongue and seeping into the fabric right where it stretches over the tip of John’s cock.
John feels his own breath stutter at the gesture – hot as fuck, if he’s being honest. He strokes Bob’s hair, brushing longer strands away from his face, burrowing his fingers into it – not pushing, not forcing him into anything. Not yet.
Still, Bobby breathes out the tiniest whimper, mapping his erection with a spit-slicked mouth like he’s this desperate for it.
Maybe he is.
John is trained to endure, to restrain himself, to efficiently suppress his wants when the time demands, and he transfers it into their intercourses – never letting himself lose it completely, even if energy pulses under his skin and on his fingertips, but mostly in his cock, making him want to throw caution out the window and take as much as he can from Bob. He knows that Bob wouldn’t refuse him. But he can’t. Can’t act like he needs it that much, can’t feel that way too – shouldn’t, for it’s nothing, really. Just a means to loosen up a little bit.
Bob is oblivious to John’s efforts to stay calm and unbothered – he’s shifting on his knees, closer to John’s tense form, teeth catching the elastic of his underwear and tugging it down just enough that John’s cock springs free. Fully hard, despite the fact that John tries not to enjoy it too much, heavy, the tip flushed and damp with precome. And Bob, raising his eyes with that genuine need to be good reflecting there, laps at it, long pale fingers circling the base, tightening slightly as he guides John’s cock to rub against his lips, his cheek, leaving a wet trail on pinkish skin.
“You’re enjoying it, huh, Bobby? Putting your mouth to use like that,” John murmurs, taken by surprise by how his voice already sounds huskier than usual, his fingers tangling deeper into Bob’s hair to pull at it – not too rough, just present.
Bob makes a whiny sound, turning his head slightly to trace the velvety skin of John’s cock with his lips again, his hand stroking it slowly, fingers loosening.
“Hn… That’s- That’s kinda the point?” Unsure of what he’s saying, of himself, as ever. “Got the impression you’re enjoying me putting my mouth to use, too…”
John can’t hold back an impressed laugh at that.
Bob lets his warm breath ghost over damp skin, taking glance after glance up as he leans forward and covers the head of the cock with his mouth. Sucks just once – so soft – it makes John’s knees weaken, his breath coming out sharper, hips jerking before he stops the movement. Bob makes one of his whimpers again and bobs his head, taking more, letting it slide right in, his tongue flattening against the underside of the cock.
“Fuck-“ John rasps as a flash of twisted warmth shoots through him, making him twitch between those lips, his body pushing on reflex, betraying the way he needs it. It’s not the first time Bob’s sucked him off, and it always feels good – but the way it makes him feel this time? It’s something else. Eating at the back of his mind, making him nervous, making him care if it’s as intense for Bob, too.
It doesn’t seem like Bob’s having a crisis down there – if anything, he’s too caught up in the act, performing his best, all hollowed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. Spit seeps from the edges of his mouth while he moves steadily, taking John in just a tiny bit more with every bow of his head, breathing slowly but shakily through his nose, his face reddening further – and John feels like he has to make him slow down. He does, squeezing a fistful of his hair and pulling him away – not unkindly.
“Easy here, Bobby. Take your time.”
“Sorry,” Bob mumbles hoarsely, shame and arousal mingling in his voice, as he lets John’s cock slide out of his mouth with a wet pop. He looks used – lips swollen, hair sticking to his sweaty face here and there – and John kinda likes the look on him.
“It’s okay,” he replies, covering Bob’s fingers at the base of his cock with his own, forcing him to stroke it slowly, guiding it back to Bob’s lips. “Just try not to choke yourself.”
John could swear it’s impossible, but Bob’s face somehow burns even more when he rubs at his jaw with his free hand, looking up from under his lashes, thighs pressed together where he’s sitting on his knees.
“Open up, Bobby,” John demands softly, and Bob opens his mouth, letting out a shaking breath.
John’s body quivers at the sight – so fucking good Bob looks. So perfectly ruined.
It’s only natural to feel the need to ruin him further, John tells himself, sliding his cock back into the silken warmth of Bob’s mouth, pushing in slowly, his hand tightening in Bob’s hair so he just has to stay still while John sinks all the way in, to the back of his throat.
It’s supposed to feel mechanical – like jerking himself off just to get rid of the hard-on. No confusing feelings. No strange sensations type of shit.
But John feels anything but. His skin prickles, hips stutter, and his cock pulses as the tightness envelops him, ripping a groan from his chest. A drop of sweat runs down his face, his chest heaving with breath.
And Bob seems determined to ruin him back, because he does close to nothing – jaw slack, blue eyes darkening as he just waits for John to fuck his face. Just like that. He doesn’t need to say a word. John sees it in the way he drops his hands, folding them in his lap, looking all pristine despite the fact that his mouth is full of cock right now.
Fucking hell.
It doesn’t take long – just a series of hard thrusts into that delicious tightness before John starts to tremble, his breath quickening, moans barely suppressed as he comes down Bob’s throat, feeling it squeeze around him convulsively, Bob’s wrecked sobs reaching him through the haze of his climax.
“God…” he exhales roughly, pulling back, careful now, hand stroking Bob’s hair in an almost tender gesture, smoothing down his hot cheek.
Bob leans into the touch like he’s starving, a trembling sigh leaving his chest, and John withdraws instantly, tugging his boxers back up over his softening cock.
“I can jerk you off,” he offers, dragging his fingers through his hair, looking down at him.
But Bob shakes his head slightly, the back of his hand rubbing at his mouth. He stands up, swaying a little, and it’s just another reflex, nothing more, when John catches him by the waist, making it look like an embrace. It really isn’t.
“I’m just… I’m good,” Bob finally squeezes out, and he sounds so fucking wrecked it makes something turn in John’s stomach.
John’s still holding him close – just in case his knees are still weak – and Bob’s gaze lingers on his, making things kinda weird, before it drops to his lips. It happens every time they fuck, like a tiny ritual without which it won’t feel finalized.
For a second, John thinks that this time Bob will close the little distance between them.
But he doesn’t.