#Leap to Faith | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anika-ann · 18 days ago

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Leap of Faith (Into Your Arms) - S.R.

Type: one-shot, loosely canon-ish, fluff, smut, speckles of h/c, comedy-turned-feels

Pairining: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 4,6k

Summary: All you wanted was to show your wonderful precious heroic boyfriend from another time that you were enthusiastically ready for the next step in your relationship.

You had not expected it to be so hard; you had not expected it to turn into such a mess. Perhaps you should have. …scratch that, you should have definitely seen this coming.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, the smut is brief but it's there, lingerie, brief mention of terrible exes, self-deprecation hard, brief unvoluntary almost-nudity, Steve being everything, language

A/N: initial part written in 20 mins for @ronearoundblindly 2-4-6-8 sleepover celebration 💕 I just couldn't leave it at that, sorry. I needed to show love for and by the blorbo, I hope you shall enjoy. Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Your screech of terror could wake up the dead.

Clutching your chest in genuine undiluted horror, you curled up on yourself, one leg tragicomically lifted as if it could shield you – or as if you had, somehow, passively absorbed knowledge and skill from your boyfriend and his superhero friends and you were actually ready to kick your attacker – your eyes wide as they stared at the menacing figure practically filling up your doorway. Doorway now without the door, the poor remnants of it hanging off the hinges in pieces.

Because the intruder threw the door open; because he punched his way through, leaving it in splinters.

In hindsight, you should have expected this to happen. You should have known better.

You really should have thought your actions through – which said a lot, considering that had your career choices been in accordance with your nature, you would have become a professional overthinker and you’d be a star in your field – but you hadn’t. Because you had panicked.

But yes. On a second thought, maybe texting Natasha Romanoff, one of the deadliest women – and generally, people, thank you very much – on Earth, that you needed help and it was an emergency, had not been the wisest course of action. Not to mention she had got herself a boyfriend a while ago; a very ex-assassin war hero supersoldier boyfriend, who would naturally follow her to kick ass by her side.

Truly, texting any of the Earth’s mightiest heroes of that you had an emergency was not the best idea unless someone was actually dying, because that was the direction their mind usually went, because most of their emergencies were literally life-or-death.

Alas, you could not unring the sound of an incoming text.

And this was the result: you standing in your living room in a bizarre semi-cruched position, hands on your chest because Bucky goddamn Barnes was in your doorway in his whole downright terrifying glory and you were wearing mostly see-through lingerie. One of the four sets you had ordered and had been trying on, vainly hoping to convince yourself one of those could aid you in enticing Steve to take the next step and let him know you were more than ready and maybe painfully excited for it, in fact, which was honestly the least of your problems at the moment, because the enormous shoulders of your boyfriend’s best friend fell a fraction, the vibranium fist uncurling as well as his flesh one, his head cocking to side in mild confusion as his eyes scanned the space of your apartment. Including you.

The baffled hey? from behind you back had you scream bloody murder and you spun on your heels and stumbled back, nearly falling on your barely-covered ass when you came face to face with your reluctant friend of a friend, Natasha Romanoff herself.

Unlike her boyfriend, who was probably meant to be the loud distraction, she must have sneaked into the apartment in a deadly silent way.

And now she was watching you with a relieved if not amused expression on her face, clearing her throat while you turned around again, not knowing what you should be doing first: covering your ass or your breasts, trying to keep your racing heart inside your ribcage or gathering your dignity from the floor.

Or maybe explain, considering the looks the deadly duo had not stopped gracing you with. That sounded like a good idea; except you had no words.

“So,” Natasha started as Bucky walked into the space with a visible flinch as another part of the door he had smashed through fell off with a thud, both of the Avengers looking at you way too closely for several beats until Nat had the decency to sigh and reach for the throw blanket on the couch to hand it to you, only to pull it back with a smirk when you immediately tried to grab after it. “If this is a booty call, I think you really need to rethink your definition of an emergency.”

You glared at her, heat having flushed not only your face but every inch of your skin, exposed or not, making it all the more embarrassing as you snatched the blanket she most definitely let you have this time, wrapping it around your body as fast as you could with your trembling hands, Bucky gentlemanly assisting you when the hem slipped from your fingers with a positively mortified whine on your part.

You wanted to snap at Natasha that maybe they were the ones who needed to get a normal life and rethink their definition, but against all odds, a bit of warmth blossomed in your chest at the realization that they had been in your apartment in five minutes flat when they had thought someone was hurting you.

Your swallowed loudly, cocooning yourself in the blanket tighter.

“Maybe,” you admitted then, “I’m sorry. But since you’re here, I could… actually use your help for real.”

And because you remembered your manners and they were nice enough to come save your life: “Tea?”

The rise of Bucky’s eyebrow was slow and entirely deliberate; Natasha’s snort was subtle but seemed unexpected even to her.

Another piece of your door peeled off completely and joined the pile on the ground with a crack.

All in all, the date went wonderfully.

An early evening found both you and Steve in your kitchen preparing a meal together, with the sleeves of Steve’s shirt rolled up thus offering a sight as delicious as your dinner, a glass of wine for liquid courage, a dessert shared. Bodies pressed closed on the couch, under the very throw blanket you had used earlier that day, with a movie playing, soon forgotten as you got distracted by each other’s proximity. Light touch of lips to your temple, a caress of his thumb over your joined hands; a kiss to his cheek, nose nudging his as you breathed in shakily, lips blindly seeking his; shared air and warmth, a press of a thumb here and there, Steve’s hand on your hip, subtly and perhaps unwittingly leading you to move closer, hand twitching, holding, gripping.

Your heart fluttered with speed of a hummingbird’s wings and the subtlety of thunder, your hands wandering while your lips engaged in a languid kiss. Then another, and another until your lips remained pressed to Steve’s nonstop, shivers rushing down your spine, settling in your belly like a liquid heat enticing you to move closer, to roll your hips. Encouraged by Steve’s breath catching, by his fingers almost digging into your side as he kissed the corner of your mouth simply to remind you that perhaps your head spinning was not only being drunk on him, but also lack of oxygen.

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could think twice, all worries and anxiety forgotten if for a moment:

“Stay the night.”

“Okay.”

Just like that. A smile against your lips chasing after his, his face radiating heat, his movements purposeful and slower than before; no rush. No pressure. No promise.

Staying the night could mean a lot of things, a voice in the back of your mind whispered wickedly, a slimy reminder Steve might still not want you like that, despite the presented hard evidence poking at the inside of your thighs, then inside and outside as one of your legs happened to slide between his as if with a glutton for punishment. The responding silent groan was like a touch to life wire, rushing through your nerves and lighting every single inch of your body; his hand came up to your face, to your nape, holding you close as his mouth claimed yours in a torturously unhurried and unfairly toe-curling way, only to subtly keep you in place when his lips parted from yours with a silent pop.

His fingers carded through your hair to sooth the sudden loss, his thumb brushing over your cheek with tenderness that had your eyes flutter open and the fire inside you stoke and turn gentle at the same time.

God, he was the sweetest most filthy man to ever walk the Earth, you were sure. Anything he did; you wanted to jump his bones and beg him to bend you over the nearest flat surface, but also to hold him and kiss his sternum and breathe in all he was. It was unfair, truly.

You were practically lying on top of him, a force humming with life, absurdly firm and warm and real; and just the tinge of imperfect as you already felt the back of your neck and shoulder cramping with the position you had found yourself in, his elbow pressed between your bodies, his hip digging into your flesh. You did not care in the slightest, the price uncomparably low for the promise of heaven pulsing in the form of a handsome kind man under your body who did not complain a word about you pinning him to the couch.

With your breathing having turned frantic, senses hyperaware of inch of your bodies aligning, he met your gaze, pupils blown wide despite his expression all but torn between what you’d swear and hoped to be desire and longing.

“Hey… there’s no rush, right?”

Your heart fluttered at the sweet tone of his roughened just a bit; and then his words actually registered in your brain.

NO, WAIT-- YES RUSH, you wanted to scream, because you might actually combust unless he’d--- momentarily, if let like you might not survive an hour longer without some old-fashioned fucking, but even worse, you might also lose your nerve all together if you waited.

There was no rush.

Except the heat in your belly twisting in anxiety, sending your mind reeling.

What did it matter, what goddamn colour and cut of the babydoll set, the amount of lace you had picked?The black set as well as the red one perhaps too aggressive for the first time; the pink one you had picked for femininity you had hoped Steve to appreciate, now shoved to the bottom of the package the lingerie came in because you had felt absurd in it; another pink set, a different shade, a weak compromise between what you could feel relatively good in – emphasis on the relative part – and something Steve might like in a woman. Why would any of that even matter if Steve was only open to the idea of staying the night but not staying the night?

Bucky had argued – as he, too, had stayed for your emergency discussion with Natasha, much to your mortification – that Steve merely wanted you to be comfortable and feel appreciated in all different ways and that what he was showing was attempt at restraint, not lack of attraction. And that if you only told him how you felt, he’d fold like a house of cards.

But even if he had been right, one of the many issues you had was that you’d literally die before you’d forced the words ‘Please fuck me’ or any other more moderate version of that past your lips; the idea alone had your panic spiking, vivid image of Steve’s expression painted in your mind, echoes of his silence and walking away like others had before him screaming in your skull.

You were not proud of it; but you were not brave enough for that, old scars on your ego and perhaps dignity pulsing like fresh wounds. The idea of his rejection choked you and you would not utter a single word even if you’d try, only embarrassing yourself further.

So you hoped, foolishly, clinging to both Bucky’s and Natasha’s reassurance, that perhaps you could choose to speak through action.

As you tried to smile and kissed Steve’s lips lightly, his hand, having already loosened its grip on your hip, stroked over your side almost lovingly; maddeningly so, but with affection and purpose.

You hummed, gracing him with a grateful smile, your scattering thoughts gathering to plot. “Would you please pour me another glass?”

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, perking up at the chance to take care of you – god, sweet and delightful and absurd – in any other was than that, as if you could not feel that at least one of his brains, the lower one, was a hard evidence of wanting to ‘rush’ just a little bit.

He kissed your lips, your temple, your forehead, as your bodies untangled from one another and from the blanket, his smile wordless and unsuspecting as you stood up as well, heading to the bathroom.

The moment he turned to the counter, you changed direction to the bedroom, heart pounding so fast and hard – oh gods, wording – that Steve might hear it from the distance and come check on you in the middle of changing your outfit.

You closed to door with shaky hands, trying to tell yourself the weight in your ribcage was a squeezed nerve from the make-out session and not anxiety.

Well.

You had always been a better overthinker than a bullshiter, hadn’t you?

Steve did not drop yours nor his glass of wine upon seeing you.

That was good news. In truth, likely a large portion of the reason why he did drop them was that you had purposely waited long enough for him to have already placed them on the coffee table, but one must count small victories, wasn’t it? Not to mention that that would have most definitely killed the mood, considering that not just the noise and the shards, but also the fact you were drinking red tonight and you were such an upstanding adult you had a carpet.

A carpet you might need to collect Steve from, or perhaps at least his jaw which seemed to be a second from falling just that low when he saw you walk out of the bedroom, almost butt-naked; dressed in an lacey babydoll set, a miraculous shade of pink which you liked because it almost seemed to compliment you and a pair of thigh-highs, having foregone the original plan of wearing the silk robe that came with the order.

It had been a tactical decision.

If he’d seen you in the robe, you had thought, he might stop you from taking it off; and you would have lost composure and the last remnants of self-confidence. Now, you did realize that revealing yourself right away, letting him see more of you, might not have been the wisest strategy, but one could not turn back time even if they had an Avenger, a man from a different time himself even, for boyfriend.

Not all choices one made were entirely logical or rational. Sometimes, a brain just… circuited and switched off.

Steve would know all about that. Apparently.

You stood there, facing each other, mute and motionless, your body quickly growing cold, safe for the heat of anxious anticipation sweeping over your skin, contrasting sharply with the shreds of ice crystalizing in your veins with each passing second of the screaming silence of the outside world, allowing the world inside your brain to get all the louder with its mean smirks and snickers.

He doesn’t want you.

You managed to freeze him more effectively than the Arctic had.

He can’t even find the words.

You broke him. You broke you two together.

You were having a great evening and you pushed, you showed too much of yourself and he has not learned to love you for who you were yet, if that is even possible to happen. It’s too soon for him to accept that this is a part of the package that you are. His sight is enhanced, Christ, he can see all the flaws, amplified, every gross detail, his eyes are raking all over you, cataloguing every single one part of you that you hate and he will too, forever remembered by his eidetic memory to haunt the rest of his da-

STOP.

Stop, stop, STOP, Steve is better than that, Steve is---

God, Steve is too perfect for you, you cannot-

“I, uhm…” You cleared your throat, your voice small over the lump having grown in your throat and yet far too loud in the tense, deadly silent room, Steve’s eyes snapping from somewhere lower back to your eyes, almost startled, his face flushed red with what could only be deepest embarrassment that burned and burned and burned and you tried to explain anyway. “I wanted to… to look pretty for you.”

No shit.

Mission failed.

Epically.

Steve Rogers was a stoic man, you had learned – he could hold in face of monsters, in face of battles, bloody ones or those perhaps even more vicious ones led by press, he could utter a line so flatly one could not be sure if he was joking at times, had it not been for the spark in his eye. It made the moments when he allowed his emotions to show all the more intense. His exasperation, his anger. His smile, the perfect lines of his face softening with affection. His undiluted joy. In those moments he was easy to read.

Now, his expression was such a mess of emotion and blankness at the same time that you found yourself illiterate in the language of Steve. Whether that was due to the fact he wouldn’t let you see, because in his goodness, he did not want to hurt your feelings, of simply because you were a mess, you wouldn’t be able to tell.

He stood there completely still except the unnaturally slow rises and falls of his chest, hands limp by his sides, his eyes, positively darkened and lit up with something, transfixed on your face.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Another breath of his that had your own hitch, readying for the blow, your eyes instinctively flickering in the direction of the door – having been expressly changed because of course the Black Widow and Winter soldier had a guy for that – your mind screaming at you to spring forward and either escape yourself or block Steve’s path out to make him stay and let you fix this.

“I would love to draw you.”

Your jaw went slack, embarrassingly so, eyes snapping back to his face with bewilderment as wild as his own since he had clearly not expected these to be the words that would leave his lips any more than you had.

It was a knee-jerk reaction of his and yours as well, quite literal one; you winced slightly, and in your sudden shock and hurt, you nearly screamed that that really was not what you had had in mind when you had put this… this damn pink-peach-salmony thing on, with fingers so shaky you had nearly torn the lace in your hurried clumsiness.

You swallowed the remark at last second, your brain finally recognizing at least one of the emotions in Steve transfixed gaze, in alignment with his words.

Awe.

He was staring at you with awe, his hands twitching as if he wanted to grab either you should you be closer, as if he wanted to make sure you truly stood there with him – or, bless his heart and soul and talent, to grab a pencil and a sketchbook.

You shivered under his attentive gaze, now again trailing along your whole figure, a tell-tale burn of tears you quickly tried to chase away in the back of your eyes and in the bridge of your nose growing.

‘I would love to draw you’ were certainly not the words you had expected; but there were a lot worse things to be told than that one was deemed a sight worthy to be turned into a piece of art. To be a muse. Those worse things you knew well; they were your experience. This was… new.

As new as the lump growing in your throat as Steve’s body seemed to unfreeze at last at your unsteady inhale; but his mind did not seem to have left its haze as he walked to you slowly, with careful purpose.

Only to stop right in front of you smoothly, gaze flickering all over your face… and lower and back.

A beat of silence, safe for your frantic heart thundering in your ears and perhaps in his too.

He licked his lips – lord have mercy on me, the flare of hungry heat through the anxious coil in your stomach was mighty – his hand twitching by his side again, his expression yet again easier to read.

Awe and need – just a drop, carefully guarded, waiting to be unleashed.

I would love to draw you.

You could feel the slow relief surging through your veins, because he did not seem to be running any time soon – but your shoulders remained stiff, the weight of the past holding you back in an iron-solid grip.

Holding you from just taking the leap, the last step towards the freefall, just one more moment of bravery.

Your hand curled in fist as if that was how one could actually gather courage.

Maybe you could.

“And how about… touching me?” you breathed, gulping when Steve’s eyes – a beautiful storm on the blue horizon of his irises, lit up by the desire to live in the moment, darkened by desire to act, brows furrowed with restraint and control – snapped back to meet your gaze, lips parting just slightly.

Slowly, his hand rose to lay over your heated skin; large palm hot like a furnace, his thumb brushed over your collarbone, causing you to shiver from everything but cold, his fingers sliding oh so slowly down the strap of your set, brushing over the soft flimsy fabric, his intent gaze following the trail of his touch until it reach the hem; that was where his fingers slipped under, a ghost of his touch over the soft skin of your breast.

Lord have mercy on me.

“I’d love that too,” he rasped, the rough sound going straight into your core, blazing hot and wet.

Your eyes slipped shut as his other hand came to life, laying over the side of your neck, thumb caressing your jaw, a wavering breath escaping, a shudder of heat rushing down your spine.

In a very, very distant corner of your mind, Bucky’s words echoed in your mind, as you had voiced your insecurities and worries about how you could possibly actually seduce Steve, a single word from him you had thought had been a reminder not to panic but had been so much more standing out: breathe.

He did not seemed to be completely wrong. You stood here, barely having uttered a word, and Steve might have barely even touched you, but the two light points of contact were exquisitely erotic; and you were already on the verge of dying. Yet Steve seemed to be waiting. Whether he was asking for explicit permission or argued with his own set of unwritten rules, you did not know, but this was indeed how you had got here; merely breathing.

How would Steve then react if you actually asked, maybe even begged since like every inch of your skin did feel like begging to be touched more?

You licked your lips, your knees growing weaker as his fingers twitched, sliding – purposely or on a lucky accident – further under the flimsy lace, your nipples hardening from the achy proximity of his hand.

“Please touch me, Steve.”

A pet to your parted wet lips, pressure under your chin, your eyes opening to see the most delicious void of desire and indulgence.

“I will, love.”

His hand slip from the side of your breast to your waist and lower, under the see-through fabric of the gown, blazing hot touch to the flesh of your side, pulling you closer and up, forcing you on your tiptoes, your hand falling on his chest and shoulder for balance; his lips hovered but an inch from yours, a sweet torturous temptation, his eyes slipping shut almost as if he was in pain.

“Pretty, you said? I-- You look—absolutely stunning,” he whispered, the heat in his voice drawing a whimper from the depth of your chest you failed to completely hold back, his fingers on your nape flexing. “Always make me want to--- I wanted you to understand that you are so much more than--- you always look beautiful--- but this, I—can’t the right find words, sweetheart.”

All these words seem just fine, you would blurt out had there not been a lump in your throat, a raging storm in your mind and liquid fire in your veins, slowly turning your body into embers that needed him to tend to them.

Steve leaned in an inch closer, his forehead resting against yours, a ghost of brush of his lips where his thumb had pressed on your mouth.

“May I show you?”

“--please.”

And then he was kissing you, his lips a claim and a demand as much as a declaration, hands as appreciative of the soft lace as of your skin, of your body, of you, and you were everything and nothing and whole at once for what felt like the first time in your life. Taken by the storm and brought safely to shore only for your body and lust to burn and rise from the ashes again.

And while your insecurities were not consumed by the fire, they were slowly distilled in the touch of Steve’s lips wherever they could reach, tender impatient fingers exploring and memorising and indulging; and when you, already turned boneless, became one with him, your mind had only enough space for pleasure, all that was Steve, and his name falling from your lips.

His name on your lips and yours on his; a prayer, a chant, a cry, paradise and hell aligned and him with you, all you could ever want.

Sated, soothed and safe; taken care of and loved. Those were the feelings your mind and your body floated on, heavy and weightless with bliss.

Lying snuggled to Steves side, even as his body ran a little too warm, was to lie in an oasis. His fingers were running tenderly over your bare arm, his lips occasionally brushing over your hairline between whispering what could only be described as pillow talk. A tank top and a shorts and boxer briefs were the only barriers between your bodies; and you might have been one even just moments ago, but you never felt closer to him. Adored.

He was warm; but as you looked up from a comfortable place on his bicep, the movement making your neck cramp just a little, you noticed his ears burning red, something giddy curling in your stomach instead of panic, your insecurities sleeping a very deep sleep at the moment.

“What is it?”

Steve evaded your gaze for a bit, eyes falling on the sad pile of beyond-saving lace lying on the edge of the bed still – much to his embarrassment, apparently, and much to your pride.

“I’m sorry about tearing the-- you truly looked stunning in it and I would have loved to draw you wearing it,” he muttered, another muffled ‘sorry’ as he kissed your forehead, the little endearment, love, and his almost instinctive need to pull you closer stoking the warmest feeling in your chest.

A lazy blissed-out smile spread on your lips, even as your bank account cried somewhere from the depths of the Internet. You nuzzled into Steve’s his chest contently, relishing in the heat radiating off his body, affection radiating off his every touch, every word, every smallest kiss.

“Mm, was worth every penny,” you hummed, your smile widening as he winced just the slightest bit, the forties man in him perhaps crying out in lament, even as a smile passed his mouth, a too much of a temptation for you to resist when happiness with speckles of confidence tasted so good off his and your own mouth. You pecked his lips. “And if you really mean it, you should know… luckily, I just happen to have three more sets.”

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Many thanks to @stellar-solar-flare for branstorming with me. Many thanks to @ronearoundblindly for hosting and being a steady and wonderfully supporting member of the writing community and dare to say a friend, and most definitely a talented bean sharing her genius with us 💕

May June be kind to you all ✨

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