Brock Rumlow/Steve Rogers
A dull bashing sent the door swinging. In came two pairs of tactical leather boots. The footwork was heavy like the hooves of a bull and downright clumsy. Neither entrants bothered to swipe the light switch on the wall. Or more accurately put, Rogers didn't know the layout well enough and Rumlow had his hands thoroughly occupied. Rough fingers grabbed and gripped at the weak seams of a shirt.
The air was muggy enough that their movements alone stirred currents in the underfurnished, one-one apartment. Rumlow pulled back to chuckle, sheepishly, unbothered, "Sorry, you know me, cheap as an old hag. Can't leave the AC runnin' while I'm off for days. Fighting the good fight, being paid shit." Right after the seemingly casual remark, he nosed into Steve's throat again, hungry mouth latching onto and gnawing at tender skin. Eliciting a wheezy groan that was very well received.
A super-soldier was still a man; he didn't taste sweet nor subtle, and that made Rumlow's stomach growl in a surge of lust. "Thought about you while I was away, Cap," he confessed feverishly, yanking at the blonde's belt, only to knock their hips together with a painful bone to bone bang. Steve whimpered and it was delicious; it was a pretty distraction from who Rumlow really wanted but could never hold onto. "Oh. Oh what, you wanna know? Haa, it ain't nuthin' good, golden boy, I promise you."
"Now go on and make some noise for me, America."