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darsynia · 2 years ago

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Hand(s) Off | Ch 4: Entropy

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

gif by @captainevans

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

Summary: Steve’s loved hearing about you from Bucky. He doesn’t want anything to derail the progress his best friend has made toward being a whole person again, which is why he’s going to use every ounce of his slowly-deteriorating willpower to resist touching you, tasting you, taking you. After all, he’s just met you, and his own integrity, not to mention Bucky’s trust, is important to him.

Neither of you are prepared for the catch.

Length | Warnings: 3,752 | male masturbation MINORS DNI

Fill: Adoptable ‘Pheremones’ from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wolfstar-marvelsfan @icequeen1371 @chibijusstuff @nekoannie-chan @brooke0297 @caplanreads

Excerpt:

Bucky’s smiling. He’s still sitting with his back to the wall as usual, but he looks relaxed, even though the place has filled up considerably since they got here. Suddenly, Steve realizes that this isn’t just about the thing between the two of you, it’s about Bucky showing he’s made progress. His friend would probably strangle himself with his metal hand than admit that’s what he’s doing, of course, but that’s what’s going on, here. Growth. It’s almost enough to make Steve choke up-- but he hears a burst of piano notes and a cymbal crash that draw his attention to the stage.

There’s a rich red curtain that angles in an oval around the stage area, and it parts in the middle right as he looks up. A woman steps through, her face obscured by the stage lights that inexpertly angle towards her. She’s wearing a stunner of a dress, a rhinestone-studded sheath that cups her breasts as tightly as everywhere else, all except for the thigh high slit that instantly sends his pulse racing. When she makes it to the microphone, Steve sees that the gown is blue, navy blue, just like his suit. She’s also wearing a delicate mesh jacket that hides nothing but adds class, its see-through sleeves extending to her wrists, collar reaching up to tease her jawline.

The spotlight’s harsh glare finally softens, and he can see her smile. Your smile.

Oh shit, Steve thinks to himself.

Entropy

Steve’s taken to jogging through the city again.

At first he told himself it was because he didn’t want to feel confined to the tower, but that’s only a small part of it. Ever since his overdose of Mistress, he’s felt a strange urgency for motion, even at night. He’s chalked it up to guilt; Steve has… fond memories of what transpired between the two of you, no matter how much he’s tried to tell himself that’s wrong. That dichotomy itches under his skin, builds up to the point where he has to physically work it off, like some strange sort of debt that must be paid.

The problem is, it’s not getting better. It might actually be getting worse-- two weeks have gone by, and still, somehow, he wants to see you. He’d thought that would pass, had counted on it to pass.

The repair work is almost finished on the apartment, meaning he won’t need to sleep on the couch anymore. Steve’s looking forward to that, beyond what it feels like to live out of laundry baskets in the living room. He misses his bed, though it won’t be the same bed. All the furniture is set to be replaced, just in case the proliferation of Mistress has left any residue behind. He suspects that’s not really necessary, but Tony and Bucky won’t tell him what happened during their confrontation. All he can see are the after effects, the way Tony is being almost embarrassingly thorough on top of apologetic.

When Steve gets in from his twenty mile run, sweat-soaked and still buzzing internally, Bucky blocks his path to the bathroom.

“You ok?”

Steve looks at his friend. He’s dressed to go out, hair in a bun-thing at the back of his neck, tight pants, leather jacket. It’s Saturday morning, so that means--

He suppresses the immediate instinct to ask about you.

“I’m fine.” The skepticism in Bucky’s expression strikes Steve like a minor version of the fist to his face he’d earned two weeks ago. He forces a shrug. “Trouble sleeping.”

One side of Bucky’s lip turns up. “Might be easier if you forgive yourself long enough to jack off right before.”

“What, are you spying on me at night? Creepy, James,” Steve grits out, shoving past Bucky to head for the bathroom. The problem is, Buck’s right. He hasn’t touched himself at all since Mistress, and it only now occurs to him that maybe that’s the source of the weird build-up/unease he’s been feeling. “Go spend time with your friend and leave me to it, then.” Crap. He hadn’t meant to say any of that out loud.

Bucky’s silence speaks volumes, and Steve risks a look over at him as he opens the bathroom door. His expression is worse.

“Not spying. I can just tell.” Bucky’s gloating, like he’s flipped a switch Steve couldn’t reach, or something. “You know, she still wants to talk to you.”

“Still no,” Steve barks back. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, probably a bit harder than he ought to have, because his friend’s laughter floats down the hallway and out the front door.

Talking to you would be a mistake, not until he can shake whatever compulsion he feels to see you again, to know what you look like happy, safe, and uninfluenced by the drug. Those thoughts are innocent enough, but that’s not all Steve wants.

He won’t even let himself think about the other things he wants. Those desires have clearly been unnaturally created by the combination of the drug itself and his natural sense of fidelity. He’s touched you in a way that gave you both pleasure. He knows what you taste like. Those are intimate things, ideally things a man shares only with someone he’s meant to cherish and protect.

Bottom line, his mind is confused, and he needs to clear that up before he sees you again.

Steve strips down and steps into the shower. It was a mistake to let his mind stray so close to those moments with you right before this, he realizes too late. The vibrating clamor in his mind that he’d tried to chase away with physical activity is back with a vengeance, and all he can think about is Bucky’s suggestion to touch himself. What he should do is put the water on cold at full blast and empty his mind… but would it be so bad to take advantage of this opportunity? It’s the first full erection he’s allowed himself to have in weeks.

He puts the water on and turns it hotter than normal.

There’s a ringing in Steve’s ears as he reaches down and sets his hand on his right thigh. The warm, welcoming water beats down on his bowed head, mere trickles making their way to the thatch of hair around his cock. He’s already too warm, every inch of his skin thrumming with the electricity of what he’s about to do. It’s not wrong, but it’s not right, either.

He tells himself he has to do this with a blank slate, no mental images, no associations. As soon as his hand closes around his cock, those high-minded ideals burn to ash. His eyes are closed; he hadn’t turned on the bathroom light, and the door has long-since shut automatically, so it’s dark, dark as his bedroom had been.

Steve strokes once, immediately bracing himself against the tile wall with his other hand, because holy hell, it feels so good it could be a medical result. He’d held off touching himself until now out of a sense of… of civic duty, and fuck, if this is his reward, he’s earned it. Steve gasps helplessly with each successive slide of his fist, powerless to stop, desperate to continue. Unbidden, he imagines you on the other side of the wall he’s holding himself up with, as though you’re once again suffering the same delicious torture as he is.

All too soon, he feels the tightening clench of his approaching orgasm, the buzzing in his chest brought to a frenzy with the promise of release-- and then the feeling plateaus and pauses. Steve spins around and shoulders up to the wall, begging and threatening in turns as he chases the suddenly elusive pleasure with his hips and hands. Behind him, the wall gives a little, and small pieces of plaster start to fall.

“Bruce, with respect, you’ll have to ask her.”

Banner’s hair is already in disarray, and at this, he runs his hand back through it, face full of distress. “You’re not really suggesting I ask this woman I’ve never met whether or not she is capable of having a--” He breaks off, obviously horrified. “Why can’t you, uh… ask Barnes to��”

“I thought of that,” Steve says.

He did. He knows that Bucky’s been very clear about whether or not his friendship with you has potential to shift away from the platonic, but he also thinks that friendship is the best groundwork for something more. He’s already undermined that foundation thanks to the calamity you two shared combined with his own closeness with Bucky. There’s no escaping either association. He’ll be damned if he weakens that friendship further.

“Bruce, the best I can tell you is to get her contact information from Bucky and get in tou--” he stops, face reddening. His next instinct is to say ‘reach out,’ which is also a no go. Somehow every reference he makes to you is tactile.

“Got it,” Bruce says quickly. “Thanks.”

Steve nods, grateful to get out of there, but Banner calls out one last time when he reaches the door.

“I’ll probably need to take more vials once a week for a while at least, so we can figure this all out.”

“Understood,” Steve says, speeding up. Blood draws he can do, but to be reminded of the whole situation every week for the foreseeable future? Not ideal, especially since he’s already thinking about it every day.

A few days later, he’s finishing up making dinner when Bucky slouches in and leans his shoulder up on the wall nearby.

“That restless thing getting worse?”

Steve just nods. He’s starting to worry, because he can’t be the only one who’s overdosed on the stuff, and just because Bruce hasn’t found any reports of similar experiences doesn’t mean they’re not happening. People could be too ashamed to say anything, but if they’re having the exact same symptoms he is…

“I need to ask--” Bucky falls silent, clearly uncomfortable.

Suddenly, Steve’s certain he knows what Bucky’s trying to say. There’s no power on Earth that could compel him to make it any easier, though. For a bright few seconds he considers doing something drastic with dinner to get out of the rest of the conversation.

“Do you want garlic bread?” he asks, instead.

“Damnit, Steve!”

“I’ll take that as ‘no.’”

Bucky shoves off from the wall and stalks past him, opening a drawer with the kind of petulance usually seen in teenagers. Steve decides it’s the exact right time to take the full garbage to the chute, and when he returns, Buck’s got a sauce-wet spoon in his hand and a disgruntled expression.

He nods to the spaghetti sauce on the stove. “That’s pretty good. It’s also proof that you don’t mind doing things the hard way, so here goes: Dee says she can’t orgasm anymore. Can you?”

Steve’s completely and utterly speechless. Bucky’s just thrown a grenade, and Steve has never in his life been an uncaring bystander. The part of his brain that has clearly imprinted on you is standing at attention, screaming that he’s culpable, that this is his battle to fight alongside you. He swallows hard and forces himself to answer.

“No.”

“Shit,” Bucky sighs. He opens a cupboard door, pulls out something, and thrusts it and the mixing spoon into Steve’s hands. “Finish up, I’m taking you with me to her show tonight.”

“I don’t think talking to her about something like this at her place of business is the best--”

“No talking, just listening,” Bucky interrupts. “You, listening to her sing. If the two of you got long-term messed up by that stuff, and that was the only time you ever spent around each other, that’s not going to help you get fixed.”

Bucky leaves without giving any time to respond, which is fine, because he’s right, and Steve doesn’t really feel like acknowledging that right now. He looks down to see that Bucky has given him a container of sugar, implying that’s what the sauce needs. It’s a testament to how worried he must be about you that he hadn’t made a joke about the juxtaposition of those two situations.

Trusting his best friend is almost always the best course of action, but that doesn’t make it easy every time. Steve tries the sauce, stirs in some sugar, and tries it again.

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters to himself.

Bucky sticks to small talk or silence as they eat their spaghetti, and after putting away the leftovers, Steve slips through the nearly-finished door to his bedroom and changes into a suit. It’s a navy blue one he bought himself with his own money, not one of the fancier ones Tony got for him for Avenger stuff. When he gets back into the living room, though, Bucky looks surprised.

“You know this is a bar, right? You look like a lawyer.”

He looks down at himself. “Isn't tonight the 40’s thing?”

Bucky’s bringing over a dusty-looking blue jacket and gesturing for Steve to take off the suit coat. “Sure it is, but we’re going for Cagney over Stewart. More Clint than Tony, yeah?”

It’s a Moment, because Bucky doesn’t usually refer to the other Avengers like that, he’s still off by himself more often than not, still adjusting. Steve covers his pleased reaction by turning away as he removes his blazer and puts on the proffered jacket. When he turns around, he’s granted a begrudging nod, and they head out.

The venue is a bar/restaurant, with a solid wall separating the two areas except for the back third. It’s already busy, with a line to enter, and Steve notes with surprise that the doorman seems to recognize Bucky. That puts his qualms about Steve’s clothing a bit more in context, especially since his friend is more defendant than prosecutor tonight, tight jeans, black leather, long hair down, the works. There are other men in suits, though, and when they walk inside, Steve even sees couples dressed in vintage wear holding cocktails.

“This is a whole thing?” he murmurs to Bucky.

“Just wait.”

They end up at a table in the back, but the place is well built, and it’s easy to see the stage from where they’re sitting. The lighting is dim but warm, and Steve feels a frisson of excitement to get a chance to hear you really sing. He can still pull up the memory of your sexy humming under his blanket-- the same one he’s been using on the couch.

He’s, uh, not going to tell you that, though. That would be even more inappropriate than showing up at a performance like he has any right to distract you with his presence.

That thought sends Steve into a spiral of concern, enough to take a few gulps of whiskey and actually feel its tingle before his metabolism evens things out.

“What is with you?” Bucky sets a heavy hand on Steve’s where he’d been drumming his fingers on their small circular table.

“You should have warned her. Did you warn her?”

“Why?”

“The-- thing that happened, it’s obviously still affecting both of us. She’s a performer, seeing me here could throw her off.” He shoves his chair back, downs the rest of his drink.

“Don’t be an idiot, she’s a professional. And you’re going to want to hear this, trust me.”

The spotlight’s harsh glare finally softens, and he can see her smile. Your smile.

Oh shit, Steve thinks to himself.

“Well, hello there, my darlings!” you purr, turning to gesture to the musicians behind you. As you do so, your left leg extends from the slit in your dress, and Steve catches his breath.

So does a significant portion of the audience.

Beside him, Bucky’s obvious throat-clear is tinged with amusement, but Steve refuses to look over.

“I’m going to start with one of our remixes. This is Lovefool, by the Cardigans-- if it had come out in ‘45.”

He doesn’t recognize the song, but that hardly matters. Your voice is just as sultry as he��d expected, and the song is as sassy as it is sexy. Steve’s completely captivated, leaning forward, eyes locked to your every move. Your stage presence is expert-level, and though he and Bucky are at the back of the room, he can tell that you’re making warm, welcoming eye contact with patrons all over the room. It’s only a matter of time before you see him.

He has a sudden, desperate wish that he’d met you the same way Bucky had, organically, without the lingerie-sporting giant Elephant in the room. As the song winds down, Steve feels like it’s his responsibility to lean back, to minimize his presence, to protect you from the knowledge that he’s there. You’ll be looking for Bucky, most likely, and that makes Steve’s presence at the same table selfish, even cruel.

Steve lifts his hand up to cover part of his face-- but it’s too late. Your eyes sweep the back of the room, face lighting up as you tip your head forward. You’ve clearly seen Bucky. Steve’s breath catches as you shift your gaze and meet his eyes. You freeze right as the music does, your smile sobering just long enough for those two actions to be clearly related.

Is there a little apologetic quirk in your eyebrows as you pull in a breath to continue singing? Surely he’s imagining it… but then you close your eyes and tip your head back, clasping the old-style microphone with both hands to support you as you start to sing again.

"So I cry, and I pray, and I beg…"

By the end of the set, Steve’s body is humming with heat and admiration. He fully understands how it is that Bucky came back to hear you, time after time. You and your band have a delightful grasp on the genre, weaving genuine 40’s hits with modern songs sung in a recognizable style. Some of the lyrics of those remixed songs feel like a stinging indictment of the intervening years, to the point where Steve’s entirely certain it’s on purpose. He’d never thought of music in that way before, especially not sung in a venue like this.

“You still breathing over there?” Bucky asks after a few minutes of silence, amused.

“Thinking about it,” Steve admits. “I see why you kept coming back.”

Bucky stands and stretches, pressing both hands to his lower back. He’s bending in a way that would get him more attention if they weren’t in the darkest corner of the place. “Yeah.” The single word carries a lot with it.

“If you want to go over and--”

“Nah, not my thing. We can go.”

Steve is offended for you by proxy. “She won’t feel like you’re, I don’t know…” he trails off instead of guessing the reactions of a woman he doesn’t know very well. You deserve attention from your best friend after a performance like that.

“I usually don’t talk to her in person after, but I can give you her number if you want to text her your compliments.” Bucky’s grin is best described as shit-eating. Steve must look confused, because after the two walk out into the night air, Buck explains, “Dee says she likes to ‘foster mystery.’ I’m one of the only people she ever came out to talk to. I looked grouchy as hell the first three of these I showed up for, according to her. She threatened to deck me.”

“She what?” Steve’s heart may have just fluttered, which is concerning.

“She said the pianist has a lot of performance anxiety, and my glowering was making it hard for him. I promised to practice my smiles.” Bucky turns and grins so maniacally that Steve cracks up. Then his friend shrugs. “Broke the ice, I guess. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

He did. Steve might go as far as to say he feels like a different person in a couple of ways, as a friend as well as a man. The former has to do with understanding one of the big reasons why Bucky’s made so much progress over the past few months. The latter is more physical.

He feels settled, somehow. The buzzing, anxious feeling that has been plaguing him for weeks is somehow gone, and its absence is palpable. It’s hard not to think that has something to do with you, but whether that’s actually true is hard to say.

His clothes have a distinct ‘spent hours at a bar’ smell to them, which means his hair and skin probably do, too, so Steve hops in the shower not long after they get back to the tower.

It isn’t until he’s finished washing his hair that he realizes there might be scientific significance to his state of contentment. The thought makes him laugh out loud, because he knows what desperation feels and tastes like, and this is indistinguishable. Still, he wants, no-- needs to come, for more than one reason, and if his analytical mind can produce such a selfless-sounding reason, who is he to argue?

Steve Rogers can’t really drink alcohol fast enough to end up drunk, not unless he really tries, but tonight, he feels drunk on multiple things. Surprise, maybe. Your music, certainly. Definitely that dress.

The first touch of his soap-slick hand on his cock is glorious. Steve adjusts the sprayer so the hot water is directly striking his chest, shuts his eyes, and sets a brutal rhythm. Soon he’s panting, the pleasure so exquisite that he can’t stop himself from moaning every few strokes. There’s a liquid fire that’s spreading from his groin all the way to his toes and the tips of his ears, and this time he just knows he’ll be able to do it, he can finish.

Steve lurches forward to brace his forehead on the wall and ruts into his fist, keening against the beauty of it. His body is rushing toward the cliff of the best orgasm he’s ever, ever had-- but no matter how perfectly he moves his hand, how fast or slow he rocks his hips, he can’t push past whatever barrier there is stopping him from coming.

He slams his hand on the tile in utter, agonized frustration.

Pain blooms in his palm, the blood bright on the white tile. Steve just stands there and watches for a long minute. The shower swirls the diluted blood around the crumbled chunks as the red liquid seeks escape down the drain.

Something is deeply wrong, and he really hopes the answer is somewhere in those cells.

Next chapter...