Chapter Text
Steve cannot decide if he would take this job for free or if the sixty bucks promised on the night is nowhere near worth his current predicament.
He’s standing at the base of the stage, barely any room between him and a crowd of maybe a thousand people, just Sam there to laugh at him and make sure fans don’t make a run at the stage and trample Steve and his very expensive camera. Not that Steve could really blame the screaming people behind him. Kink Blast is a very good local punk rock band, which he knows from his current experience and the reviews he looked up when he agreed to take promotional pictures for the night. Plus the lead singer is possibly the hottest guy Steve has ever seen.
So it is incredibly awkward to be standing right in front of him between thick thighs covered in dark denim, getting what is essentially a crotch shot as the guy spreads his legs and leans into the mic stand to sing something deep and raspy that is definitely giving Steve some very vivid mental images and very visceral physical reactions when he really needs to be photographing the event.
Sixty bucks, he reminds himself. Steve needs a little extra cash after he had to cancel a shift at the tattoo shop last week for his yearly bout with bronchitis when the weather turned cold and wet, and that sixty bucks is the difference between eating ramen for a week and eating something a little healthier. Which he should probably do if he doesn’t want to get pneumonia later this year.
Steve gets a full-body shot of the singer, eyes closed, mouth against the microphone, leaning into the mic stand sensually. He adjusts and zooms in a bit, capturing his hands with – Jesus Christ – with black nail polish wrapped around the microphone and drawing attention upward to his plush pink lips and striking, half-lidded, blue-grey eyes.
Steve clicks the shutter a few times and pulls back, swallowing and licking his lips. He glances up and–
Yeah, the lead singer is staring right at Steve.
And he winks.
Who winks in real life? And who can make that hot? It feels like winking should be sleazy, but it’s really, really not.
Steve can’t really help his face at the best of times, so he’s not really surprised to feel it contorting into one of slight judgement and confusion. But it must come off as flirty judgement and confusion because the guy just smiles at Steve and throws himself back into performing. His movements are even more fluid and, well, sexual, and it’s almost like he’s showing off.
Steve manages to tear himself away for a bit to get some shots of the guitarist, a kid with dark roots and a mop of wavy platinum blond hair that sways with his movements who introduces himself as Pietro, and the drummer, a beautifully intimidating woman who is probably taller than Steve even without her chunky scarlet combat boots that match the corset she’s wearing. She stands and bows playfully when she says her name is Wanda, but Steve’s favorite picture of her is in the next song, red lights sparking off her long red hair as it flies wildly around her, like tendrils of magic. He gets wider group shots from each side of the stage, framing it so the crowd looms large in front of them, and then he’s back in the front to get full shots from head-on, putting him squarely in front of the singer – Bucky – again.
He clicks away again, paying attention to the lights and framing and trying not to focus on Bucky playing it up for the camera.
All in all, it's the longest, loudest, and possibly horniest night of Steve's life. But when the band wraps up and starts packing away things, Steve’s job is officially done for the night and he hasn’t completely embarrassed himself, so he’s counting it as a win. He has a day or two to download the photos and edit them before sending them to the club’s owner, but Natasha promised him a free drink with his camera carefully stored behind the bar before he left, so he makes his way through the crowd and manages to snag a seat.
Natasha quickly trades his camera for a drink, something red on the bottom that gradually becomes lighter until it’s almost yellow at the top, smirking the whole time. “How did you like the show?”
“Fuck off,” Steve grumbles around the straw. He thinks there’s grenadine, maybe some orange juice, and a shit ton of tequila in there.
“Just because you were working doesn't mean you can’t enjoy yourself,” Nat replies, managing to sound nonchalant and suggestive at the same time while also shaking what looks like a strawberry daiquiri without even looking. “When Sam said you were looking for some extra cash, I may have suggested tonight over any other night because Kink Blast seemed like it would fit your… tastes. James is your type.”
“Who the hell is James?”
“James Barnes,” says a very familiar voice behind him, and Steve just barely manages not to knock his drink all over himself and the bar.
He sets his drink down and swivels around to face the singer, who’s smiling and holding a hand out like this is a polite introduction and not an ambush.
“I mostly go by Bucky,” he says when Steve reaches out to shake his hand. He has nice hands, warm, though with Steve’s poor circulation, that’s not uncommon. “Natasha’s the only one besides my ma that calls me James because–”
“It’s a childish nickname, James,” Bucky and Natasha say in unison.
“Steve.”
“You do photography for the club then?” Bucky asks, leaning against the bartop. It makes his dark t-shirt stretch across his chest and the leather of his jacket strain around his biceps.
It’s patently unfair, is what it is.
“Ah, no, just filling in for the night. I usually work at Fury’s Tattoos and Piercings down on Smith Street.”
“Oh, so if I wanted to add another piece, I could go to you?” Bucky says, and Steve doesn’t think he’s reading this wrong when Bucky leans in a little more, smiling and biting at the corner of his lip. Steve is being flirted with. Not for the show, or the audience, or to get good pictures for promo, because none of those things are a factor. It’s just Steve.
That changes things. Steve can do flirting with intent.
Steve smiles and leans in a little, lowering his voice. “That depends on what you’re looking for. Might have to look at what those other pieces look like to see if my style is a fit for you. I like getting to experiment with a lot of color. Might take several sessions if you want something big done.”
“I’m a multiple session kind of guy.”
“Oh? I hope you’re also flexible. I can be a bit particular.”
Bucky smirks. “I can stretch.”
“As fascinating as this ‘tattoo’ conversation is, I am going to go ahead and say you two are down to bone and encourage you to do that elsewhere. If you fuck anywhere in this club, I will have Sam throw you out,” Natasha cuts in.
“Sam would never throw me out,” Steve replies automatically.
Natasha raises her eyebrows. “You may be his best friend, but you know you’re a little shit that he would delight in throwing out if you gave him the slightest reason to.”
Steve doesn’t have a response for that, so he huffs and takes a sip from his drink instead. Bucky laughs, and then there’s a warm hand on his side radiating heat through Steve’s shirt, dark nails standing out against the light fabric of his t-shirt.
“Didn’t hear you protest about the fucking,” Bucky murmurs into his ear. “Preferably multiple times. Also preferably over multiple days, weeks, months… just if I’m being honest here.”
“I do appreciate honesty,” Steve replies. “My place work for you?”
“Lead the way, Stevie.”
“Cute. Never heard that one before,” Steve retorts, gesturing for Natasha to hand back his camera and leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Nat. For the drink, not the meddling in my sex life.”
“Mmhmm. You sure look like you aren’t thankful for that,” she responds drily. “Neither of you fuck it up. I’d hate to have to kill one of you.”