Chapter Text
John is an easy one to figure out. Been with one woman his whole life—high-school sweethearts, prom king and queen, wedding photos in some old, generic church. He never learned how to flirt, never had to figure out the chase. One option landed in his lap, and he clung to it like a guy who thinks missionary is the peak of romance.
He probably watches too much porn, the kind that doesn’t ask for any imagination, and he’s way too familiar with his own hand. His routines are still military—the same habits, same rhythm, same result. It shows in the way that he moves, holding his shoulders tight, restless energy bleeding out at the seams.
He probably tells himself it’s normal. But really, he’s overflowing with pent-up sexual frustration. Like he’s been keeping a lid on himself for so long that he doesn’t even realize the pressure’s about to split him open.
Bucky wouldn’t give two shits about it, except that he’s always catching John watching. It’s not subtle, either. In the gym, when sweat runs down his spine and his shirt rides up, John’s eyes snag like a hook. In the lounge, when Bucky stretches a little too far because he really needs the mug from the top shelf, he feels the weight of that stare.
And sometimes—when he’s feeling a bit reckless—he pulls on pants so tight they’re a borderline hazard, just to see if John will crack. Nearly losing circulation to his balls is a small price to pay for the look on John’s face.
Every time John realizes he’s been caught, he snaps his gaze away like he’s been burned, ears blazing red against his blond hair.
It’s almost funny how predictable he is. It’s like watching a man trip over the same step every single day. But Bucky doesn’t call him out on it. He just files it away, tucked into the back of his mind. A quiet kind of leverage.
And maybe, if he’s being honest with himself, Bucky likes the game. He likes seeing how far he can push before John flinches. He likes seeing John snatch his hands back at every accidental touch. He carefully measures how long those stolen glances linger before shame wrestles them down.
Remarkably, it comes to a boil when Bucky is distracted, not even paying attention. He’s on his second-to-last guess on the daily Wordle, chewing absently on the pen he’d been fiddling with. He doesn’t even realize he’s rolling it between his teeth, tongue pressed against the plastic, until a startled squeak, a few chairs down the conference table, makes him glance up from his phone.
John is staring at him, wide-eyed, frozen in his chair.
Bucky blinks at him and stares. Then deadpans, “Are you really popping a stiff one on me right now?”
Color floods hot across John’s cheeks. He scowls, like somehow Bucky’s the one being inappropriate. Like sporting a hard-on in the briefing room, while waiting for the rest of the team to stroll in, is the most normal thing in the world.
Bucky chuckles, leaning back in his chair. He throws caution to the wind. “You need some help with that?”
“What the fuck?” John sputters, half jumping out of his chair before forcing himself back down.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Relax. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
The silence that follows is thick and awkward. Not quite hostile. Then John blurts, too loud and too fast, “I’m not gay.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, his voice flat as stone.
“I’m not!”
“Okay,” Bucky repeats.
John adjusts himself in his pants, pressing a heavy palm down in a way that looks almost painful. He bites his bottom lip, looking torn between bolting out of the room to take care of his issue or staying put for a better option.
His face is still red when he stammers, “Are you… are you really offering? I mean—I’m not asking or anything, but… if you’re offering. I mean… what does that even mean?”
The air goes still. John twitches in his seat, restless, his knee bouncing. Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t press—he just watches him with that calm, unreadable stare that makes most people want to crawl out of their own skin.
A beat later, John backpedals, his words crashing over each other. “No. No, forget I said anything. This is crazy. Just, forget it. No.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, slow and deliberate, like John is the most exhausting man alive. Without another word, he turns back to Wordle on his phone.
“Okay.”
*
Bucky doesn’t keep pushing. Not on purpose anyway. There are only so many times he can watch the other man blush, stutter, and storm off before he gets bored.
But Bucky also knows what he looks like. He knows he’s got a pretty face. His mouth has brought better men than John Walker to their knees.
So when John shows up one night, cornering him in their shared lounge late at night when neither of them should be awake, Bucky figures he should have seen this coming.
John stands there, arms rigid at his sides, hands balled into fists as if the only thing keeping him steady is the pressure of his own grip. “Look, I’m not gay.”
“You don’t have to keep explaining yourself to me,” Bucky says, his voice flat.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” John snaps, too fast. “I just don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”
Bucky huffs, something between a laugh and a sigh, and then he shakes his head. “You think I don’t see you tripping over your words every time you look at me? You think I don’t know what this is? It’s not cute.” He turns, ready to walk away. He’s too tired, too old for this shit.
“Wait.” John’s voice cracks, desperate in a way that stops Bucky in his tracks. “If I was… um. Hypothetically speaking. I mean… what would we do?”
Bucky turns back slowly, eyebrows lifting. “Hypothetically, if you were into guys.” His tone is flat and unimpressed.
John swallows, his throat working. He forces himself to meet Bucky’s eyes, his ears burning red.
Bucky takes a step closer. Then another. And another, until there’s barely an inch of space between them. He tilts his head, his voice low and dry. “Hypothetically, I’d get on my knees. I’d take it real slow just for you, John.”
And then Bucky paints him a picture. He’s not shy. He’s been called utterly shameless before.
“I’d press my mouth... against the front of your sweatpants, I’d run my tongue over you. I’d moan for you, as I feel you getting harder and harder. Maybe I’d suck gently against you, until you’re desperate for it, until you’re throbbing and aching to feel my mouth. And then I’d look up at you while I’m on my knees. I’d look up and I’d beg you to let me suck your cock.”
John’s eyes widen comically. He’s clearly conflicted now. There’s pink dusting on his cheeks, and his eyes drop to Bucky’s lips. Bucky smirks when he sees him breathing heavier, like they’ve just gone a few rounds in the gym.
“And when you finally give in—hypothetically—I’d pull your pants down. I would probably just stare for a few seconds. Your cock is so big, I… I would be in shock. I’d be salivating, just desperate to have you in my mouth. I’d probably struggle to fit you all in. I’d have to take it slow, really work my way up to it, you know?”
John, the pitiful fool, actually nods like a dumbass.
“I’d moan when you hit the back of my throat. I’d slowly, slowly open up for you, John. I’d take you in all the way, running my tongue under you like I’m starving for it. I’d drive you wild. I’d make you lose control, make you fuck my throat until I’m gagging around you, just struggling to take it all.”
John makes a sound like he’s the one who’s trying not to choke on dick.
“I’d let you cum in my mouth. I’d swallow every drop, sucking it out of you until you’re dry.” Bucky tilts his head, noting that the blue of John’s eyes has nearly disappeared into black. “That’s what I’d do. Hypothetically.”
Bucky pauses, lets the silence stretch long enough to ache. Then he gives John a knowing look and a crooked grin. “But you’re not into guys, right? So.”
With a smirk, he turns on his heel and walks away—leaving John frozen in place, standing there speechless and harder than he’s ever been in his life.
Bucky’s got his own problem to deal with now, and he heads back to his apartment to take care of it.
It was worth every damn second.
*
John’s resolve finally breaks after a mission, when they come back to the tower bloodied and bruised, but not broken. The rest of the team filters out one by one, leaving only the two of them behind in the hangar.
Just two soldiers, serum rushing through their veins, burning alongside the adrenaline.
Bucky’s eyes flick over John’s wrecked state. “Was I wrong about you?” His tone is soft and dangerous. “Or do you really like making grown men beg on their knees?”
The sharp intake of breath that follows tells him everything. John’s eyes are already fixed on him, as they tend to be nowadays, his blue eyes blazing and incredulous.
Bucky smiles sweetly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He feels a little thrill when John’s eyes immediately drop to his mouth, helpless.
Bucky arches a brow, silent and waiting.
John makes a pained, guttural noise in the back of his throat.
He nods.
Bucky lets the silence stretch, savoring it as he calmly approaches. Then he slowly sinks to his knees.