#interactions ft. steve & bokketo ( rumlow. )

[entrepy]

Brock is usually a pretty sound sleeper but he’s restless under the influence of several cups of coffee that has done their job to keep him up for the duration of the op. Now that it’s over, with nothing better to do at 3:30am, he heads for the gym. It’s occupied though. For a couple minutes, he watches Steve beat up a punching bag, all those beautifully precise shield throws replaced by brutally effective fists. If Brock has any appreciation for art, he might call Steve that, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks over just before the other man punches yet another bag off its chains.

“Would you rather pummel that into oblivion or run me ragged with a good fuck instead? It’s on offer is what I mean,” by @bokketo .

The gym becomes a familiar and safe space. It’s something to do, something to work at. It’s better than laying in bed, tossing and turning. It sometimes works at distracting him, but given the strength this body carries and the fragility of the punching bags and lifting equipment, even after hours of exercise, he’s nowhere near fatigued as is needed to silence his roaming thoughts long enough for sleep to enter. The gym is usually deserted at this time of night — or rather, morning, so he’s surprised when he hears the doors down the hall open, footsteps walking in. It takes him a moment to recognise them — Brock’s usually in boots and tonight he’s in sneakers. It seems the man is content to watch him for a while, and Steve zones back into the one-two of the punching his bag . . . until the eyes on the back of his head grows too hot to ignore, and he ends the session by sending the bag flying across the room. 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting Brock to say — it certainly isn’t what actually comes out of his mouth. Steve is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin and wrinkled with moisture. For a moment he just collects his breath, squinting slightly, as if that might make what Rumlow had just said any clearer. It doesn’t. In that — it was already clear as fucking day. It’s not as jarring a thought as it might have been, because it’s not a new one. Steve had put it down to mission highs. Sometimes you just work well with teammates, and that leads to tension, and imagining them bent over with your cock buried deep in their ass while they drool all over the flat surface you’ve got them pushed against. Steve starts undoing his hand wraps, wrists twisting around and around as he walks over to the bench with his bag. He nods that way for Brock to join him. ‘ What makes you think I’m into that ? ’