Steve would groan, if there was anything left in his chest or stomach or head to groan with.
At those words, that tone, the image they shove into his head on razor blades and bloody want at the same speed as the hand shoving madness into his veins, hard and harsh into his hips, his desires. Danny's hands or his own, both, this endless loop of frantic building fire. But there isn't. There isn't air. There aren't vocal cords. There just this stutter of a breath, at Danny's words, and the feeling like something snaps.
Like a bridge giving way. Like the keystone in an arch dissolving as though it were made of sugar, caving and vanished, like an axe head cleaved straight through it and found not stone there to begin with. Steve's head, what's left his control, of the feeling of Danny's mouth and his hand, his body, goes with it. With less warning than even a whisper. Crashing through and down and out everywhere. The smallest flick, and then everything is going.
Walls like pushed over bookshelves slamming through him. His stomach, his hips, his head. Moving him, when all he feels is jerked along by it, brought up only for the next shelf, the next wave, the next wall to slam into his face. Wave on wave of white light and an inferno of heat. Sending him reeling, running, jerking into hands, stomach, the bed that gives too easy, even for as solid as it is, groaning and grinding out a noise against the floor for him.
When there isn't even enough of his head left to whisper Danny's name, or do more than catch breaths against his shoulder, against the madness toppling, crumbling, exact every inch of revenge for each slight of control. Pulling him down, down, down, the drain in his head, in his stomach, in his feet. Every born in his body turning to molten puddles of molten steel, even when he's trying to keep going.
Banging out a useless war against the tide, because Danny told him to. Danny gave him a directive. Two words in a place where words and voices aren't even registering. Two words. An order. He's not about to forget. Not about to let it be wiped out even as he's shaking, sweating.
Because he's not going anywhere. Not without Danny. Not even if he's already gone.
no subject
At those words, that tone, the image they shove into his head on razor blades and bloody want at the same speed as the hand shoving madness into his veins, hard and harsh into his hips, his desires. Danny's hands or his own, both, this endless loop of frantic building fire. But there isn't. There isn't air. There aren't vocal cords. There just this stutter of a breath, at Danny's words, and the feeling like something snaps.
Like a bridge giving way. Like the keystone in an arch dissolving as though it were made of sugar, caving and vanished, like an axe head cleaved straight through it and found not stone there to begin with. Steve's head, what's left his control, of the feeling of Danny's mouth and his hand, his body, goes with it. With less warning than even a whisper. Crashing through and down and out everywhere. The smallest flick, and then everything is going.
Walls like pushed over bookshelves slamming through him. His stomach, his hips, his head. Moving him, when all he feels is jerked along by it, brought up only for the next shelf, the next wave, the next wall to slam into his face. Wave on wave of white light and an inferno of heat. Sending him reeling, running, jerking into hands, stomach, the bed that gives too easy, even for as solid as it is, groaning and grinding out a noise against the floor for him.
When there isn't even enough of his head left to whisper Danny's name, or do more than catch breaths against his shoulder, against the madness toppling, crumbling, exact every inch of revenge for each slight of control. Pulling him down, down, down, the drain in his head, in his stomach, in his feet. Every born in his body turning to molten puddles of molten steel, even when he's trying to keep going.
Banging out a useless war against the tide, because Danny told him to. Danny gave him a directive.
Two words in a place where words and voices aren't even registering. Two words. An order.
He's not about to forget. Not about to let it be wiped out even as he's shaking, sweating.
Because he's not going anywhere. Not without Danny. Not even if he's already gone.