soo....since i was a complete IDIOT and changed blog types twice in 1 week i (understandably) lost a butt ton of followers, would anyone like to help a sister out in getting those back? :~) i post mainly marvel/captain america!
you make me feel like I'm intoxicated (steve/bucky, pg13)
prompt: “one night stand before the first day of your new job and OOPS that was your new boss you were sleeping with” au
somehow this turned into an avengers comic book office au inspired by this post with some age difference. also, bucky’s hair is beyond redemption, and clint is a mind-reader (except not really).
No FUCKING way.
He froze in his tracks, one hand still on the door handle, and squeezed his eyes shut. This was like a terrible dream, and he needed to wake up right fucking now.
The stranger — Steve. The man whose bed Bucky woke up in not even two hours ago, who he’d relentlessly hit on and whose dick he’d ridden like a mechanical bull until the early hours of the morning, was his goddamn boss. Though Steve had looked drastically different in dim lighting with his hair ruffled up, wearing an obscenely tight fitting t-shirt and jeans, than he did now in loafers and a plaid button-down. Clint was right; grandpa clothes, indeed. Who the hell shopped for this guy?
Bucky hated the universe’s sense of humor, sometimes.
It was soft around him, gentle touches and warmth, white sheets, silky hair, too-bright light. Bucky’s eyelids were still shut but the orange glow illuminating them informed him that it was early morning, sadly.
He rolled over the unfamiliar bed (this person still had a comforter, while he’d stripped his off in favor of the warming weather) away from the window and tried to crack open an eye. The light was blurred by mists of alcohol in his retina; there was a hammer against his skull and he tensed up, shuddering with a wave of nausea.
Fuck this.
Hangovers were the product of the devil’s medicine, he was sure of it.
Groaning, he sat up and ran a hand through shaggy and unshowered hair. He vaguely recalled being hired for a paid internship yesterday — to DC fucking Comics, no less — and texting Nat the news, who demanded that they immediately go out for celebratory drinks. That, of course, was when things started getting especially blurry. She’d ordered them a round of shots, because everyone knows Russians are forces of nature when it comes to alcohol… and he’d hit on a few guys at the bar. He was in an especially good mood and was a notorious flirt, anyhow. Turning up the charm came as easy as breathing to Bucky, even if most of it was fabricated. He could make the mask fit seamlessly, so who the hell cared?
The rest was a haze of flirting with a particular man and eventually bodily dragging each other out of the club. Gorgeous blue-grey eyes stood out amongst the serrated memories. He scrubbed his sleep-crusted eyes and groaned a little when he shifted, because fuck, he’s sore. Last night had been great, evidently. Better than he’d expected — this guy was strong, and Bucky could feel bruises forming in certain places.
Well, Bucky thought to himself, better get this over with. There was a strange twinge of something in his chest as he stood up, eyes slitted open, grappling the floor for scraps of fabric that might just fit him. He pulled on his boxers, jeans, and hoodie, though he couldn’t seem to find his shirt or his belt. Or his shoes. Which might be a problem.
Throughout the whole ordeal he made a point not to look at the person that he was just tangled with in those sheets. Though he occasionally caught the golden head of hair peeking out from the pile of comforter, and the impression of ridiculously broad shoulders. He almost felt like giving himself a pat on the back; nice job, Barnes. You did good.
But the temptation became too much just as he pulled on his boots. Based off the slight burn in his thighs and the depth of his sleep last night it was clearly the best one-night stand he’d had in a long time, and Bucky just wasn’t known for his self control, okay. He found his belt draped over the headboard and looped it through his jeans just as the stranger shifted in the bed and yawns. Bucky’s heart sped up and he tiptoed out the door, just as a pair of blue eyes blinked blearily awake and fixed on Bucky’s face.
"What?" the guy mumbled in an adorably sleep-scratchy voice. Bucky shut the door and made his way out of the apartment.
Yeah, no, buddy, sorry. He already had a bitch of a hangover to nurse; he wasn’t going to deal with some stranger’s bullshit on top of that, even if he was the hottest thing Bucky had ever laid eyes on.
Not to mention he’d be late to his first day at work.
-&-
After washing half a bottle of aspirin down with a pot of coffee, shrugging into a white button-down shirt, and pulling his hair into a ponytail (if he tried to brush it he would rip out half his hair; it was way past the point of saving) Bucky caught a cab to DC’s New York offices. He found himself tipping his head against the glass as they made their way through downtown traffic, a tight twist of apprehension and excitement building in his gut.
It seemed like a fantastic turn of events, for an English major about to graduate from college with no idea of what he wanted to do with his life. And the editor who’d interviewed him and later called him — Clint Barton, Bucky remembered his name being — wasn’t much older than Bucky and seemed pretty cool, though Clint said that he’d meet his real boss on his first day. The art editor, or ‘Steve’, was apparently ‘super nice and an amazing artist, don’t let the grandpa clothes fool you’. Bucky had to suppress the urge to snort.
Sure, he wasn’t crazy about comics like some people were, but he knew a thing or two about superheroes and had seen a lot of the Superman and Batman movies. He’d probably just be stuck making copies all day, or getting coffee for Clint, or whatever else bottom-tier interns did. Bucky noticed throughout the whole interview the man sipped from his mug like his life depended on it and constantly made eyes at the coffee pot in the corner.
Yeah, he’d probably be on a lot of coffee runs.
Once he got out and paid the driver, he took the elevator up to the ninth floor, where Clint said Bucky’s desk would be. Said editor’s office was right by the elevator, so Bucky navigated the semi-familiar hallway until he was face to face with glass doors. The office inside had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves full of comics and figurines, while full-color posters of DC heroes covered every inch of the other wall. To Bucky it looked like the geekiest episode of “Hoarders” ever, though Clint had assured him that most of the other editors’ offices weren’t this… extensively decorated.
Clint was talking to someone, the other person’s back facing the door. Seeing Bucky through the clear windows, he smiled and gestured for Bucky to come in. Running a hand through his hair again as he checked out his reflection in the glass — yep, definitely beyond saving — Bucky entered and the other man turned around
Oh, no.
No no no no no NO.
No FUCKING way.
He froze in his tracks, one hand still on the door handle, and squeezed his eyes shut. This was like a terrible dream, and he needed to wake up right fucking now.
The stranger — Steve. The man whose bed Bucky woke up in not even two hours ago, who he’d relentlessly hit on and whose dick he’d ridden like a mechanical bull until the early hours of the morning, was his goddamn boss. Though Steve had looked drastically different in dim lighting with his hair ruffled up, in an obscenely tight fitting t-shirt and jeans, than he did now in loafers and a plaid button-down. Clint was right; grandpa clothes, indeed. Who the hell shopped for this guy?
Bucky hated the universe’s sense of humor, sometimes.
Finally opening his eyes, he saw the same disbelief and shock mirrored in Steve’s eyes, though the rest of his expression looked infinitely more composed than Bucky. Bucky wanted to slap himself in the face. He was never one to be picky with his one night stands, and age hardly mattered to him. But Steve had to be at least in his early thirties, and Bucky was twenty one.
God fucking—
Clint cleared his throat loudly, and Bucky suddenly remembered to close the door. He shut it with a loud slam and took measured steps into the room, keeping his eyes fixed on Clint. Maybe if he could ignore the catastrophe that was currently his life, it would go away.
With a heavy heart, he realized that there was no way he could keep the internship now. Steve definitely wasn’t going to allow Bucky to work under him, not anymore. He was a little taken aback by how much this realization felt like a punch to the gut — he’d been so fucking lucky to score a paid internship as a college senior, and now?
Now it was about to be thrown away, because he literally fucked it up, and he’d end up on the street, or working in some cafe earning minimum wage like every other college graduate.
Clint could either hear the melodramatic thoughts in Bucky’s head, or was just extremely perceptive. He lifted an eyebrow as the awkward silence stretched on, eyes twinkling with… something. “You two know each other?”
Bucky chanced a look at Steve’s face. His beautiful features had hardened with determination. Bucky could see why his intoxicated self went up to Steve out of all of the people sitting at the bar. His eyes were insanely blue, and his jaw could probably cut glass, and don’t get Bucky started on his body, and his—
What the fuck was wrong with him. Now was not the time.
Steve’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at Bucky, grimacing a little. Bucky steeled himself.
"No… no, I was just. Trying to place his face. You were the guy who wrote the short story about that special ops team from World War II, right? Got published in the New York Times?"
Bucky couldn’t believe his ears. He gaped a little, still in shock, before shaking his head slightly and recovering. Steve was clearly throwing him an olive branch, but Bucky had no idea what for. He was the one who shamelessly made the first move last night. Why would Steve want him around after that? It wasn’t like they’d connected emotionally or anything. Hell, Bucky still couldn’t remember most of it.
He’d be an idiot not to grab this chance, though. Schooling his expression into a pleased half-smirk, he replied, “That’s the one.”
Steve smiled his mega-watt smile and strode up to Bucky, extending a hand. “Steve Rogers. I’m the Art Director, and you’re the new intern I’ve heard so much about?” His tone was friendly, professional, light. Worlds away from the low husk that brushed against the shell of Bucky’s ear and made him shiver with pleasure.
Clearing his throat and nodding, Bucky shook his hand firmly. “James Barnes, at your service, but call me Bucky.
He caught the barely-perceptible duck of Steve’s head, to hide a sheepish smile. They’d been in so much of a hurry last night, they hadn’t even gotten the other’s name.
"Well, Bucky," Steve led him out of Clint’s office and into the semi-crowded floor space, "Guess I better show you around."
-&-
They made their way around the entire floor. Bucky was introduced to countless new people, but the most memorable included a quiet colorist named Bruce, whose temper was apparently the stuff of legend, and a tall blond named Thor, because seriously, someone decided to name their kid Thor.
"And you’ll end up meeting the big boss soon enough," Steve concluded as they headed into his spacious office. It was slightly bigger than Clint’s and had a good number of comic paraphernalia, though significantly less than the one Bucky first stepped into. A drawing board took up most of the wall, more designs for costumes and panels hung on the walls, and a large digital drawing tablet was hooked up to a computer.
"And that would be?" Most of the professionalism Steve had managed to establish had melted away pretty fast. Despite how they were still ignoring the massive elephant in the room, Bucky found it easier to banter with Steve than he’d thought. Whatever Steve’s motives were for keeping him around at DC, at least the guy didn’t make it painfully awkward. On the contrary, Bucky found that he was easy to talk to and funny in his own dorky way. And he was still distractingly attractive, to the point where Bucky had to stop himself from openly staring several times throughout the tour. God, it was like being in high school again.
"Stark. He’s the President, but comes down on our floors all the time." Steve swung around the desk, which was littered with drawings in accordance with the rest of the room. "Mostly to steal our coffee and nitpick," he acquiesced, before giving Bucky a speculative eye. He’d been stealing looks at Bucky when he thought the brunet wasn’t looking. Like Bucky was some rare artifact in a museum he could stare at, but not touch. Bucky would think it was cute, if he hadn’t been just as pathetically ogling Steve.
"Could you close that door? And lock it." Bucky did so, and Steve sighed heavily. When Bucky turned around the blond looked more like the hungover man he’d seen a mere few hours ago, as opposed to a collected and witty art director.
Bucky would never admit it, but his heart was racing in his chest. He supposed it was time to face the music. Wiping the sweat of his palms onto his jeans, Bucky sauntered back to the desk, eyes catching on the comic-style drawings. “Guess that was a close call back there,” he eventually muttered, not really sure what else he could say.
Steve chuckled a little harshly, flipping a pen around his fingers. “You could say that. I should’ve said something else, after the way you slipped out earlier. But…” he sighed again, placing the pen down. “I just couldn’t bring myself to. You looked so young this morning,” he gritted out, as if it were painful to admit.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Bucky didn’t need his pity, or anyone else’s, for that matter. He worked to keep himself from flinching. And what did Steve mean by him ‘slipping out’? It was a one-night stand, for chrissakes. Even a geezer like Steve should’ve had the sense to know that. “‘m not that young, old man.”
Steve raised a challenging eyebrow and Bucky flapped his hand dismissively. “And that’s beside the point. Look, you don’t need to keep me around to ease your guilty conscience or whatever.” He was getting more and more irritated, his eyes narrowing and sweeping the ground. Sure, his common sense reminded him, Steve was a great fuck, but nothing else. It was a purely physical thing. It was probably better if Bucky left now, before things could get worse—
"Hey." Bucky’s head snapped up. Steve’s eyes were soft, tender, the steel from earlier melted away. "Bucky. That’s not it. Okay, I’ll admit, part of it was more of a selfish decision." He stepped around the desk separating them, until he was invading Bucky’s personal space. The brunet blinked dumbly. What?
Hesitating when they were a breath apart, Steve paused as if considering his next words. “You should know — I’m not usually that guy, the one you met last night. I’ve never done anything like that before.” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepishly, and Bucky’s mouth went completely dry because that was too fucking cute. Jesus, was there anything not unfailingly earnest about Steve? “I know we were pretty drunk, but I still remember what we talked about at the bar. You had a lot of opinions, about everything. Intelligent, sexy, a real tease — how could I turn that down?”
God, his boss was going to be the death of him.
"You don’t," Bucky breathed, grabbing Steve’s collar and pressing their lips together.
