Gasped, shoved, strangled. Pushed out into the world through sheer willpower, when Steve's hand is driving madness and fire straight up his spine slamming over and over, glass shards that splinter everywhere, blinding him. "You never said, you never said anything."
Steve didn't protest when Danny dragged him up, or rolled onto his side. He didn't say anything about what they're doing, what he's doing, what he was planning. He just did it, and this is what's left, a screaming confused explosion of too much sensation, so good it's too good, lacing lightning along stripped bare nerves, burning him out, pressure and pain and pleasure all gnawing on each other and doing their best to crack him wide open.
It's a shame he can't relax and enjoy it more, but it would be like saying he can relax and enjoy being run over by a Zamboni, or by a stampede of wild animals. He has no idea if he likes it; it's too much like being caught in a wicked hurricane and whipped into the side of a building. His hand is moving erratically, and he's barely conscious of the effort or rhythm, just that it's more, it's faster, it's in tune with Steve's ragged breath and the way his hips push.
Dragging them both closer to the edge. Of something. While his body tries to decide if this is good, or bad, if it's too much, if it's not enough, and it's a little frustrating, getting dragged beneath the surface, but the white-hot molten lead ball in his stomach is sitting there, getting hotter and more insistent by the second, while he tries to ride the wave and keeps getting dragged along the sand instead.
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Gasped, shoved, strangled. Pushed out into the world through sheer willpower, when Steve's hand is driving madness and fire straight up his spine slamming over and over, glass shards that splinter everywhere, blinding him. "You never said, you never said anything."
Steve didn't protest when Danny dragged him up, or rolled onto his side. He didn't say anything about what they're doing, what he's doing, what he was planning. He just did it, and this is what's left, a screaming confused explosion of too much sensation, so good it's too good, lacing lightning along stripped bare nerves, burning him out, pressure and pain and pleasure all gnawing on each other and doing their best to crack him wide open.
It's a shame he can't relax and enjoy it more, but it would be like saying he can relax and enjoy being run over by a Zamboni, or by a stampede of wild animals. He has no idea if he likes it; it's too much like being caught in a wicked hurricane and whipped into the side of a building. His hand is moving erratically, and he's barely conscious of the effort or rhythm, just that it's more, it's faster, it's in tune with Steve's ragged breath and the way his hips push.
Dragging them both closer to the edge. Of something. While his body tries to decide if this is good, or bad, if it's too much, if it's not enough, and it's a little frustrating, getting dragged beneath the surface, but the white-hot molten lead ball in his stomach is sitting there, getting hotter and more insistent by the second, while he tries to ride the wave and keeps getting dragged along the sand instead.