sometimes i blog about french musketeers, and sometimes i cry over idiot dwarf kings. sometimes i even write.
mostly, though, i like to stare at tom burke's face and pretend i don't have a problem
Title: Words Not Yet spoken
Summary: Tony’s not always wrong just as Steve’s not always right.
You know you can’t breathe because if you do he will hear the soft exhale as it grazes your lips and the perfect tableau in front of you will be broken. He will turn and in the spilled moonlit puddle of light seeping through the window his eyes, veiled now by the sweep of charcoal lashes so long they belong on a woman will open and sapphire will glitter angrily at you across the chasm that both his actions and your reaction have wrought upon your fledgling relationship. The rapid curl of his body toward you will close the parted sides of his unbuttoned shirt that is now hanging loose allowing you a glimpse of smooth, toned stomach that is rising and falling rapidly in syncopation with the curling and fisting of his hands.
Yes, you are angry still. The images in your mind may have been unwarranted but he had done nothing to deny them or to offer any other explanation for his night long absence. The words and glares you suffered earlier hurled from the dark pit of his emotions into the soft underbelly of your heart still sting, just as your hands ache from the relentless pounding of punchbags in the gym. The need to obliterate all thought of him with anyone but you is overwhelming and terrifying in it’s all encompassing, dark possessiveness. His furious words echo in your head.
“I did nothing wrong! I was alone all night.” And “How can you cheat on someone you are not even with, Rogers?!” His voice had thickened and broke. “Not once, Steve. Not once did you say anything to me.”
You want to scream back at him that he is yours, that he has been since you first laid eyes on him and why, for God’s sake can’t he just see that? No words should be necessary!
Blind rage pulses through you like a turbulent river, emotions you can’t even name needing to be thrown in his direction, but then he tips his head back exposing his neck, his lower lip fully pouting and begging to be kissed and all anger melts away and you can hold back no longer. The desire to fold him in your arms, to run your hands through the unruly tangle of dark curls on his head, grasping them forcefully, pulling his head further back until you can lick slowly up the column of his throat and suck on the spot just below his ear, the one place that you know instinctively will deliver the man to a point where he is yours for the taking is becoming as overwhelming as the throbbing need gathering in your belly and manifesting itself in the hard push of flesh against denim. You wish nothing more than to thrust yourself against the solid planes of his chest and roughly draw him in close so you can align your cock with his, palming the length of him through his clothes while biting down at the juncture where his neck and collarbone meet, to see if you can send this man to his knees for you. You can feel your arousal deepen and snake through you like a hot writhing ribbon of heat as you imagine moving in him, owning him, pushing him closer to the edge of release until you tear your name from his lips on a ragged sob.
Mostly though, seeing the hitching of his chest and the faint wetness on the lashes you so covet, a wetness that he wipes away angrily with an elegant movement of wrist and hand; you want to hold him and whisper that you were both wrong, that he should have opened up to you, that you should have listened, that you should never have left, that your heart beats on the wrong side of your chest when he is not with you and that you will never leave again. Words that you know deep down may never be said, tumble silently from your lips as your need to be with him takes over all other rational thought.
You step forward.