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Hiii Kennedy, I have another (potentially) niche request:

You’re hooking up w/ 40s!Bucky, during the war, maybe you're a civilian he met on leave, or you live on whatever base the Commandos are currently stationed, but due to the war’s uncertainty and the era’s social taboo of premarital sex, ya’ll just engage in some heavy petting...

Flashforward to after the war, where ya’ll can reunite the way you want to (and have maybe a rushed marriage ceremony @ the courthouse beforehand in case we end up contributing to the post-war Baby Boom 🤭)

(Honestly, you can cherry-pick the parts of this request that appeal to you, it’s a real “and/or” situation)

when i tell you i loved all of it then what?

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The first time Bucky kissed you, it was behind the mess hall—your back pressed to the cool brick, his dog tags warm where they swung against your chest. Brooklyn charm wrapped in a uniform, all roguish smile but trembling hands. The kind of boy who joked to hide the fear choking him in the throat.

He was on leave. You were working near the base. That’s all it should’ve been.

It wasn’t.

Because Bucky looked at you like you were the first good thing he’d seen since the world caught fire. And he touched you like he didn’t know how long he’d get to keep breathing.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours as his thumbs brushed the curve of your waist. “Tell me to stop.”

You never did.

But you both knew there were lines you couldn’t cross. Not in 1943. Not with the weight of expectation and whispered judgment. Not with uncertainty gnawing at every moment you got with him. So you learned each other in shadows instead—heat swarming between your bodies as his mouth trailed down your neck, as your fingers slid beneath the hem of his undershirt, feeling the tremble in him he tried so hard to hide.

Nights were short, breaths were shallow, and choices were careful.

But Bucky? God—he touched you like prayer.

His hands on your hips, guiding you onto his lap in the barracks when no one was around. Your skirt rucked up, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered things he’d never dare say in daylight.

“This ain’t right,” he breathed once, voice cracking as you rocked against him. “Not ‘til I can give you my name proper.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair. “Then come back to me.”

He kissed you like he was making a promise he wasn’t sure he’d survive long enough to keep.

He didn’t come back. Not right away. Not for years.

You heard rumors—Captain America’s Commandos, HYDRA bases falling, stories about a soldier who never stopped fighting. But to you, he wasn’t a headline. He was the boy who held your face in his palms and whispered I want a life with you into your mouth.

And then the war ended.

Men came home. Women cried in the streets. Flags waved. Your heart stayed clenched in a fist.

Until one morning—

A knock.

Sharp. Familiar.

Your breath stilled as you opened the door.

And there he stood.

A little thinner, a little older, a little more haunted in the eyes—but unmistakably him. Your Bucky. The one who’d touched you with trembling hands and kept your letters folded in his breast pocket like armor.

“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice broke on the word. “Hope I’m not too late.”

You didn’t even feel yourself move. One second you were standing. The next, you were in his arms, the door swinging shut behind him, his face buried in your neck like he could breathe again for the first time.

“You’re home,” you whispered, hands shaking against his jaw. “They said—you were missing. They said—”

“I know.” His lips pressed to your forehead, your cheeks, your shoulders. Everywhere he used to kiss gently, reverently. “I’m here now.”

And then he kissed you.

Not like before.

Before, he kissed you with hesitation. With restraint.

Now? Years of wanting, fearing, longing—every shred of it poured into your mouth. Bucky’s hands framed your face, then slid down, mapping the shape of you like you were something he’d dreamed of too vividly and needed to confirm was real.

“Marry me,” he whispered against your lips. “Right now. Today. Before anything else in this world tries to take me from you.”

You blinked. “Bucky—”

“I ain’t lettin’ go again.” His thumb stroked your cheekbone. “We’ll find a courthouse. Pick up a license. Hell, I’ll drag the judge out of bed if I have to.”

A breathy laugh broke through the tears in your throat. “Why the rush?”

His mouth curved, but there was honesty—raw and unfiltered—behind his next words.

“Because I’ve wanted you since the moment you said my name the first time. Because I want a home with you. A life. And if we’re lucky… maybe even a couple little Brooklyn babies runnin’ around.” His forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna give you everything I didn’t know I’d survive to promise.”

Your heart lodged itself somewhere in your ribs and refused to move.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Yes. Yes, Bucky—I’ll marry you.”

The ceremony took ten minutes. You wore the dress you’d grabbed in a hurry. Bucky wore the uniform he’d walked up your front steps in. The judge barely looked up from his paperwork. But Bucky held your hands like you were the only thing he’d ever sworn himself to.

“You can kiss her,” the judge said.

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth claimed yours—gentle at first, then deepening, hungry, years of restraint and longing snapping like overstretched seams. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush to him, like he finally had permission to touch you without the world watching.

“God,” he breathed between kisses, “I’ve been dyin’ to do this right.”

Your back hit the wall of the courthouse hallway, his body crowding yours, but it wasn’t rushed—not really. It was urgent, yes, but reverent. Worshipful.

“You’re my wife now.” His voice shook with it. “No rules anymore. No fear. No goodbyes.”

Your fingers tugged at his tie. “Take me home, Bucky.”

“Sweetheart…” He exhaled like you’d knocked air from his lungs. “I’m gonna make up for every night we didn’t have.”

And he did.

Back in your bedroom, sunlight on the sheets, his dog tags clinking softly between you—Bucky kissed down your throat, slower than he ever dared in the war. His hands explored, learned, cherished. And when he finally slid into you, it wasn’t frantic like the first time you’d nearly crossed that line in the barracks.

It was steady. Deep. A man claiming the life he’d fought tooth and nail to come home to.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered into your shoulder, voice trembling as he moved inside you. “God, I love you.”

And later—your limbs tangled, his heartbeat steady under your ear—Bucky pressed a kiss to your hairline and murmured:

“If we end up contributin’ to that baby boom they keep talking about… I won’t complain.”

You laughed into his chest.

Neither did he.