After Bucky steals that kiss and finds Steph amenable to being robbed in such a manner on a regular basis, it's all bets off. Bucky's a man — or becoming one anyway; he's got a hair on his chest and everything — and he's got urges, but damn nobody told him about how hot girls get under their skirts and thank God for that or the first hard on he got at 12 basically never would have gone away.
Because the point is they can't keep their hands off each other after he realizes he's got Stephanie's apparent continuous permission to put them on her. He keeps getting thrown out of the Rogers' house and gets to know their fire escape real well. And even though he's dropped out of school to go do something more useful with his time, he feels like he spends more time there now than before because he's always loitering around like a desperate pervert, waiting for Stephanie to dash out after class so they can find somewhere dark and leafy and he can kiss her like he's starving and cup her tiny breasts through her button-front dresses.
And okay, they're not really subtle, but he didn't think it was so bad to warrant intervention from a higher power. Shows you how little he knows because a couple months into this new and frankly excellent turn in their relationship, he's trying to slink out of church after mass when Father O'Donnell snatches him by his shirt collar and drags him into his office.
"Barnes," says Father O'Donnell, who has a scar that bisects his eyebrow from his time in the trenches ministering to the dead and dying during the Great War. Nobody starts anything with Father O'Donnell. "I see that Rogers girl and you making eyes at each other."
"Uh," Bucky says intelligently.
"And God knows you can't say anything for taste because she should know better and you weren't born with the sense our Father gave horses — but let me be perfectly clear," O'Donnell continues. "You knock her up and that little slip of a thing is going to die trying to push out the fat head of any kid of yours."
Bucky can feel his nuts trying to crawl back up inside his body. All the blood drains out of his face.
But Father O'Donnell just keeps staring at him, unblinking. "Am I being clear?"
Bucky says, "Yessir," and because for a man of the cloth Father O'Donnell is pretty fucking suspicious and not at all likely to turn the other cheek, the man yells at Bucky for another half hour about lust and leading God's lambs astray, and more importantly, using the rhythm method and pulling out. Bucky could have gone his whole God damn life without hearing O'Donnell say the words, "pull out."
Of course when he's finally released, shaky in the knees and still chalky with horror, Stephanie's waiting for him on the church steps.
"Everthing okay, Buck?" she asks.
She's wearing a green dress the color of sea glass, and it's a hot day, her cheeks pink under the sun. Mrs. Rogers had stayed up the night before putting pin curls on her, and Stephanie's buttery gold locks are looser now, from a long service, and they sweep softly over her sloping shoulders. Bucky looks at her blue eyes and her nose, the way her eyebrows are shaped, the point of her chin, the rose pink of her mouth, and thinks, How the fuck am I going to do this?
"Yeah," he lies, swallowing hard, and he reaches out a hand for her because it's the only natural thing to do. "Yeah, everything's great."
He tries to dial it back a little, but Stephanie always gets this little wrinkle between her brows, like she's worried he's mad at her. Or then sometimes he tries to be annoying so she'll stomp off, but recently she's just started throwing stuff at him — which, hell, how's he supposed to resist that. Anyway, all of it ends in kissing, and more recently, her grinding down on the thigh he's shoved between her legs until she lets out that high pitched whimper — "Ah," she always says, like it's a surprise each time she comes, like she hasn't been chasing it since she rubbed her tits up against him — and him making an embarrassing wet mess in his pants.
It's about a month after Father O'Donnell's good effort at church they end up in Bucky's apartment on a lazy afternoon, Stephanie skipping afternoon classes so she could end up here: lounging in a golden pool of sunlight on Bucky's bed so he can kiss all the greedy noises she makes out of her mouth. He loves it, the way she tastes, the muscle of her tongue and the sharp edges of her teeth, the way she shivers when he sucks on that sweet little spot behind her ear. And they got time today, so Stephanie puts his hands on the little pearl buttons on her school dress and Bucky feels them shake and shake as he undoes them one by one, too careful, worried he'll rip the thread because he's so fucking desperate to see all the skin underneath — and Jesus Christ, it's fantastic.
He kisses the wings of her collar bones, the thin skin over her sternum — too thin, he tries not to worry — and feeling overwhelmed, unequal to the task, he runs his thumbs over the coral points of her nipples, the soft small buds of her tits. He kisses the slope of the left one, where it tilts toward the center of her, where he thinks he can hear her heart underneath, and Stephanie lets out one of those long and patient sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, whispering, "Oh — that's nice."
Bucky thinks he might laugh into her skin, but more importantly he keeps running his mouth over her, down the curved sides of her breasts and pressing closed-mouth little kisses to the crease underneath, where she tastes hot and like the sweat of a long day. Bucky thinks that all day she sat in that dress with no bra on, and that none of the fools in her class could know that she's as pale and beautiful as the moon underneath, that she'd skip math and geometry and come lie here in Bucky Barnes' bed and let him kiss her tits for hours — forever.
That thought wraps up the proceedings pretty quickly, because then it just seems like a good idea to press his face in between them and wrap her legs around him, so he's grinding the hot wet snatch of her against the crotch of his filthy jeans so desperately he imagines he can feel her slick through the denim. And as he tips over and comes all over himself Bucky's convinced that's the hottest thing in the world, except then Stephanie digs her nails into his head and screams as she tightens all over, which immediately zooms to No. 1.
And that's good for a while — that's great for a while, because sometimes Bucky gets to come, gasping, watching Stephanie with her hand stuffed into her panties rubbing herself until she screams, and Jesus, it makes him needy just thinking about it. And even better sometimes, when she gets all worked up, he can make her tell him what it feels like when she comes, what's it like, that minute when her whole body jerks into his. She gets shy about it, but she'll whisper the truth if he keeps stroking a thumb over the shaft of her clit — tender, unhurried — and then it's easy to tuck his fingers back wet and warm inside her, so he can feel it when she comes again. He feels her squeeze down around two fingers, three fingers, four, and it's his favorite thing in the world, listening to her breathy moans and feeling her body, tellingly greedy, when he's knuckle deep in her.
He doesn't remember how it happens, he must bring a hand up to his mouth by accident, but when he gets his first taste of her he goes the rest of the way crazy. She tastes like the sea and even though Steph always gasps, "Oh, Bucky, don't!" if he doesn't listen to her about staying out of fights he's not going to deny himself this.
And then one night, on one of those dying days of warmth toward the end of August when New York is about to tip over from the languid summer heat into the crisp air of fall, Bucky turns 17, and Steph puts on her prettiest cornflower blue dress for the occasion. It matches her eyes and she's brought him a picnic, spread out a blanket across the green grass of Mount Prospect Park, in a secluded corner shaded over by trees as dusk falls cotton candy pink behind the gold floss of her hair.
Probably for any other 17 year-old boy in Brooklyn, having their best girl press the crinkly paper of a — Jesus Christ, Bucky thinks bleakly — Merry Widow rubber into his hand would be worth fireworks and cartwheels. Steph picked this spot in the park for a reason: nobody would see them. All Bucky can think is about Clark Potter, who got marched to town hall by Missy Flanigan's mother after the condom had ripped and Missy Flanigan had acquired and immediate need to become Mrs. Potter. He thinks about Father O'Donnell and how even during her better seasons and months Steph's so thin and small it looks like a brisk wind could knock her over.
He must think too long, because Stephanie's going from shy and pink-cheeked to worried, and she frowns and asks, "Buck? Are you — " and he cuts her off with a kiss, a little desperate, maybe, before she can think too much about this.
Bucky's got to keep her distracted, that's his excuse for why he peels open her dress and kisses down the alabaster stretch of her sternum, to the concave of her belly, presses his tongue into the well of her belly button and listens to the way her breath hitches in her chest. He waits long enough to make sure it's not an asthma attack coming, that she's still with him and okay, and then she she whispers, "Bucky?" he keeps going, because he'd seen this once in a blue movie he'd snuck into with the Hennessy boys, and he's wanted to try it ever since he'd licked his fingers and tasted Stephanie like an undiscovered ocean on his skin.
Over his head, she tangles her hand into his hair and gasps out, "Oh, Buck, no, that's — "
Except he's already stripping her out of her polka dot panties now, nosing his way through the wiry brass curls between her thighs, and Bucky moans into her here — loves her here, where she smells like earth and sweat and the tender crease between her ass and her thigh, the flesh there is silken and damp always — especially now, and all Bucky has to do is to press his thumb down the seam of her to see the way her cunt's glistening already for him, wet through.
"Just want a taste," he mumbles, presses a kiss — just a little one — to that place where her mound peaks, but the noise she makes when he does that, the way her thighs start shaking, makes him greedy.
"Bucky, come on," she whispers, and she's tugging at his hair now, which Bucky always knew he liked before but now he fucking loves it, because now she's grabbing at his hair while he's thumbing the petals of her open.
Steph's either pale or pink all over, and here, she's a dark, bruised rose, and Bucky stares into the secret heart of her, breathes hot over her cunt for long minutes and watches another wet slick drip out of her and it makes him go crazy — completely crazy.
At this point, Steph's just panting overhead, and every gasp of breath makes everything flutter and move and Bucky can't help it, he has to do it.
He presses a kiss there, right over the opening of her pussy, and she's wet and stunningly smooth under his mouth. And then it just makes sense to press another kiss there, deeper, to dart his tongue out to lick at her — kiss her like this is another mouth that he loves so much.
Stephanie's entire body curls up, tries to roll up into herself like a pillbug, making a high exhale like she's coming and her thighs locked around Bucky's face and holy shit holy shit, he just presses his palms into her narrow hips and pushes his tongue deeper into her.
He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, only that she's salty and good on his tongue, and his face is getting soaked, her wet and his spit dripping down his chin, and every time his nose bumps up against the rosy pearl of her clit Stephanie lets out a half scream and her body judders around him.
She's got both hands in his hair now, rocking her cunt up into his face and when Bucky's jaw hurts too bad for him to keep eating at her, to keep licking into the tight pink muscle of her he stuffs three fingers as deep as he can and frigs at her desperately, listening to her sob at him.
But he doesn't want to go yet, not yet, so Bucky just holds her legs apart with his elbows and keeps his fingers working — his whole hand is soaking, there's a pearl of liquid sliding down the inside of his wrist — and closes his lips around her clit, just nursing at it, sucking gently like he does at her little tits and boom.
Stephanie doesn't just come, her whole body seizes together like a fist closing: Bucky feels her ripple around his fingers and loses whole chunks of scalp and hair to her nails, scoring across his skull.
It takes ages for her to uncurl, long enough that Bucky gets scared, suddenly guilty — she's never come like that before, did it hurt? it looks like it hurt — and he tries to kiss an apology across her clit and it just makes her shout, "God," and jerk at his hair again, adding, "Stop — stop, it's too much."
He pushes his way back up her body careful, pulls his fingers free of her carefully — she shivers anyway, says, "ah," so softly — and pulls her into him, grips her by her thigh and drags her in close, so he can anchor her as she shakes it out of her system.
Her face is a mess, red and swollen with tears, her eyes a blue well, mouth bitten almost bloody, and Bucky feels like a fucking monster, halfway to begging her for forgiveness and she just shuts him up by kissing him — he wonders if she can taste herself on his mouth.
It'll take almost an hour before she stops being clingy and quiet, and when she does it's to whisper that she feels turned inside out, to apologize for scoring bloody lines into him.
"But you liked it? It was okay?" he asks, urgent. He feels hungry for her, in a way that's more literal than he'd thought he could be — he wants to slide down her body again, to see her fall apart under his mouth.
She just smiles at him, rubbing a thumb over his mouth. "Yeah — it was good — you were good," and she presses that smile against his lips.
For lots of reasons, Steph and Bucky don't live in the Tower. Tony has a whole floor laid out for them with beautiful balconies and a massive kitchen, a resistance pool and a gym and a bedroom with a circular bed, because even Stark's acts of generosity are sleazy as hell.
But it's a house built with an AI that watches and records everything, and Bucky, given the givens, doesn't want a robot watching him take a dump. Aside from that sentiment making Stephanie sad about the magic going out of their relationship, she agrees with him, and they end up looking around for a place in their old stomping grounds for ages until they find Clint rooting around the Tower for clean shorts and hot dogs and he mumbles, "oh, yeah, I don't live here either, really, I own a building in Brooklyn."
The apartment in Clint's — "Basically condemned," Bucky says — building is a fraction of the size of their floor at Stark's. It's creaky and a bit cold, but it has big old windows and steam heat that clangs at the pipes comfortingly, and Bucky looks around the room and starts making a list of things to get at the hardware store.
He and Steph clean up the bedroom, first, fill it to brimming with a massive king sized bed with a pillow top mattress that feels like a cloud, loads it down with a white down duvet and a dozen pillows. Stephanie doesn't say how when they were first married, they couldn't have even dreamed of a bed like this. Instead, she doesn't say anything, she just drags Bucky in close to her, so that they can curl around each other like commas and sink into each other, safe in each other's hold.
Bucky says, "We gotta fix that kitchen," and Stephanie just hums and curls into his side, because it's Bucky's kitchen, not hers. So he rips out the rotting linoleum and shoddy cupboards, sands down the shelves and cabinets and swears at the vast stainless steel appliances he has delivered to the building.
Every day the apartment looks a little bit better, a little bit more like them, and over the months after they get the new kitchen they get a new bathroom, with a claw foot tub big enough they can both fit inside. Then, Bucky has to sheepishly go complete a honey-do list for the downstairs neighbors when they overflow its sides fucking in the tub and flood their bathroom.
The walls get cleaned up, the floors get redone, and one day, after Stephanie comes home from a day of fighting with everybody at SHIELD, she's got a sunlit corner in the living room, near a giant slouchy armchair, with an easel and shelves for her paints, a clever series of cabinets for her supplies and canvases.
Of course this quiet domestic comfort can't last, because for a spy, Clint is a fucking terrible gossip.
"So Birdbrain tells me Manly's almost done feathering your little house on the prairie," Stark says to Stephanie one day. "When are we getting invited over?"
"Never, Stark, never," Stephanie tells him kindly, because: no, never.
But Stark's also not wrong — the apartment's almost done, almost just right, and one night Bucky texts her, "Bring home some flowers will you?" and Steph just knows, can feel the smile wide across her face.
She buys extravagant pink peonies, a massive dozy clutch of them, and when she gets to the apartment it's all warm oranges from half light and the fireplace — the white muslin curtains waving in the brisk autumn air. She gets a lot of time to think about the fireplace after she ends up in the pile of the rug, clutching at Bucky's head as it moves between her thighs — the flowers slowly drying out on the kitchen table.
Steph always goes nonverbal when Bucky does this, when he's lavishing wet kisses at her, and today because he's a bastard, he's slicked up a thumb in her and pressed it teasingly against the tight rim of her ass as he shoves his tongue deeper and deeper inside of her.
She always remembers the first time they did this, when she'd clawed bloody marks into his skull, and she tries not to tug at his hair, but it's hard when he's hitching her more tightly against his mouth with his fucking metal arm — moving her like she weighs nothing, rubbing the nub of his nose into her clit.
She tries not to beg, she always tries not to beg because it just encourages him. Given his druthers, Bucky's spent fucking hours kissing her cunt before, licking his own come out of her and licking lazily at her clit until she's sobbing, whole body a live wire waiting desperate to come. He'll stay at it until every touch hurts and then keep at it until that pain goes transformative and she comes screaming, thighs boxing his ears and her whole body seizing up.
"Please, please," she says, and she doesn't know what she wants other than to come: does she want him to fuck her with his fingers — flesh or metal this time? it turns out she likes both — or stuff her full with cock, fill her up one way or the other.
"I know what you want, sweetheart," he says, murmurs it wetly against the inside of her thigh, leaves a bite mark there so she knows who she belongs to.
He flips her over — and Bucky's the only person in the world strong enough to do that, to just manhandle her, shove her around however he likes and it makes her hot like a chemical fire to think about it. He flips her over and pulls her ass up, to her knees, shoves Stephanie face down in the carpet, and he presses a cold, metal finger over her clit as he shoves her full of him.
Stephanie comes and comes, clawing at the rug and shouting into the fibers, with Bucky grinding into her, every roll of his hips sending another cascade through her.
God she can't think about what she looks like right now, pushing her ass back and begging, shredding their poor carpet, her whole body one extended sensation, all the oxygen abandoning her lungs.
By the time the orgasm stops shaking her, Bucky's collapsed over her back — they're pressed together into the rug and breathing like they've run a marathon. She can feel him softening, the head of his dick still tucked warm and right inside of her even as the come's drooling out of her and she has a sudden thought about her mother's poor picnic blanket, ruined forever, that night he'd proposed and she'd jumped him and bursts out laughing.
"Hey," Bucky mumbles, mouths it into her shoulder, really, too lazy to be offended.
Stephanie's about to say why she's laughing — except when she turns to whisper it to Buck's cheek, she sees their window and sees Clint fucking Barton in a purple tshirt and his boxers, bow taut and arrow notched and staring at them in blank horror.
Nora in 2B later says she heard Stephanie's scream from the bodega six blocks away, and every time she says it, Clint just moans, "I THOUGHT YOU GUYS WERE BEING MURDERED."