[ His own memories are a jumbled mess that he keeps locked down tight; it's hard to sort through Rumlow's, in addition to them. Steve sags against him when the other man finally comes, spilling hot inside him, wringing another choked noise out of him that he can't quite stifle. He ought to stop it here, ought to leave, but he can't bring his legs to work, not after this.
It's like drowning, all at once, ever bit of Rumlow's memories trickling in, first like drops of water and then sharp and overwhelming, a flood of them. Both hands go to the headboard, trying to anchor himself while he weathers the storm, feels Rumlow sink in against him.
He can't sort through it right now, it's too much, but he gets flickers, flashes of things that click, that make sense; reasons why Rumlow is the way he is. Not that it excuses it, but it makes sense. Steve shifts, finally back in his head a little more, and rolls his hips back, thighs starting to ache a little from the strain. ]
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It's like drowning, all at once, ever bit of Rumlow's memories trickling in, first like drops of water and then sharp and overwhelming, a flood of them. Both hands go to the headboard, trying to anchor himself while he weathers the storm, feels Rumlow sink in against him.
He can't sort through it right now, it's too much, but he gets flickers, flashes of things that click, that make sense; reasons why Rumlow is the way he is. Not that it excuses it, but it makes sense. Steve shifts, finally back in his head a little more, and rolls his hips back, thighs starting to ache a little from the strain. ]
Let-- let me go a second, Brock.