#on a crowded street in 1944...

[seonsong]

“So this is Yoo Jae-ha,” says the man under his breath, eyeing Yeon Kyung’s companion, and her cheeks turn a shade of pink as she hears him.

“Did you say something?” asks Jae-ha, turning to look at him, but the man reassumes his smile and shakes his head.

“Just talking to myself,” he grins, reaching for his coat on the rack by the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss…”

“Choi Yeon Kyung,” she answers, dipping her head slightly. “And you were…?”

“Heo Im,” he introduces himself with a similar gesture.

This gets Jae-ha’s attention. “Heo Im?” he questions, turning once again to face him. “Like the famous Joseon physician?”

He laughs shortly. “Yes, just like that.”

— excerpt from Chapter 1 of "on a crowded street in 1944..."

[finn-from-adventure-time]

Crowley and Aziraphale are so Timeless (Taylor’s Verizon) coded.

[liebgirl]

sorry but you are just going to have to let me post about my world war 2 show this is all i have right now life is bleak… actually. there’s no way you would judge me for a critically acclaimed war drama knowing damn well what i was posting about this time last year. think of that. yeah war drama looks reallllll good now huh…

[probablygayattorneys]

So as while you all know, I've been super excited that Ashley is coming to the switch, but something about it that I've kind of kept to myself because I wasn't able to describe it was also this feeling that something was off. It was just... not right. I thought maybe it was a kind of selfish apprehension, like perhaps I just was so used to this game being something it felt like only I knew about, and then it was announced in a direct with over a million people watching and it felt like my secret treasure wasn't a secret anymore, and while I am selfish and childish, I don't think it's that.

After watching this video, it seems more clear to me. This is not just remastering the game for the Switch, like the Ace Attorney games. This is a remake. This is an adaption. I understood that some changes would have to be made to change from a two screen, one of which is touch device to a single screen that technically has a touch screen but also needs to be able to be played with a controller, changes would have to be made, but not to this degree. This feels like a different game. Especially the graphics. They may be much more smooth and technically higher quality now, but the original also had a certain charm that I'll miss.

And taking into account all of this, I have a message just for Nintendo, so if you don't work at Nintendo, feel free to stop reading.

Look at me and listen closely. Do not even fucking LOOK at Kyle Hyde or anyone else at the Hotel Dusk or even the building itself unless you're going to respect it's incredible unique design and honor it for what it was. Out of the quadrinity of puzzle games I loved as a child, even now, Hotel Dusk reigns supreme in my heart. I know it's only a matter of time before you port him over but you better ONLY remaster him, not remake him like you did to Ashley. You show him and every single guest and employee at that hotel some respect or I'll show you my crossbow, got it?

[icanseeuslostinthememory]

my brain since july 7 is actually just random lyrics from timeless

[holdfastperseus]

Thinking about how many Lokis did Mobius know/remember meeting before he met his Loki. We’ve seen Loki meeting Don and different versions of Mobius throughout time but we haven’t yet seen Mobius meeting other Lokis before he met His Loki

Saw someone saying that acts of service & quality time are Loki’s love language while Mobius’ are words of affirmation and physical touch. Can I just say how perfectly they compliment each other? Loki who rarely gets any compliments and is often overlooked, is loved by Mobius who praises them, believes in them, and reminds them of who they truly are all the time. Loki who avoids physical touch suddenly meets this analyst who is very touchy but instead of shying away, Mobius’s touch became their anchor & their comfort. Mobius who is “just another analyst”, an asset for as long as he can remember, meets someone who wants to spend time with him outside of work, someone who smiles fondly at him as he rants about jet skis and nothing in particular. Mobius who eats lunch alone met a god of mischief who stormed in and destroyed his salad along with his routine, changing his life forever for the better. Mobius who suddenly has a god following him around like a lost puppy because they’re drawn to him, because these are two people who didn’t really have anyone. Who is important but never important enough. And they saw each other, and they found one another time and time again, and they’re perfect for each other.

[lamentingwclf]

❛ may i have this dance? ❜ 

&. 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬.

It wasn't as if Bucky hadn't been dancing all night - his cheeks were flushed with it, dark hair slightly damp that he'd shaken out on his way back before settling back with her, Rebecca, June, and surprisingly Steve - a rarity on these outings, but it's Bucky's last night, and the girls hadn't given him much choice. Everyone had shared a dance, except them - so it was a natural question - were it not for the penetrative gaze of his present youngest sister. Her lips formed a cherry pucker around the straw of her drink, and he knew she was poised to intervene should he say no. And say no he should.

It's the ring on her finger, the token of affection presented by another man. A promise that has given permission for a level of avoidance that has never once existed between them or any in their friend group. He doesn't laugh as quickly, doesn't exist or breathe as easily in the same space. For a while, he could beg off plans. He was busy, had to save money, behind on bills. But as time wore on, Gwen only seemed more determined to jump the chasm. She didn't know, and he didn't tell her. How melodramatic.

Now she was starting at him, face tilted upwards to compensate his height with her overly large eyes full of challenge and hope as the grin on his own face became suddenly painful to maintain. His cheek ached, and his shoulder weighed down beneath Steve's hand who was encouraging him, Go on, Buck. So he does what's expected of him. He gives in to what he wants, downing the rest of his drink and setting the tumbler back down on the table with a dramatic clang.

"Why not?" Bucky slides back into character so well, only one who really, truly knew him would have seen the mask slip in the first place. Besides, the song is upbeat, and face paced. It'll be quick, easy, full of light touches. He can ignore the way his whole body heats at the weight of her fingers against his own when he takes her hand to lead her further away from prying eyes, into the middle of the room where he's just another man in uniform. And just in time for the song to end. For something soft and slow to take its place - and they are too far out to go back now. He swallows thickly, the starched wool, too warm, but won't back down now. Raising their clasped hands, he uses his other to pull her close, consciously aware of every inch of his body that meets hers in a way he hasn't been since youth. "So..." He says after a moment, and there's so much he could say, but chooses a topic to make him wince, and to shut down his brain. "How's the wedding planning going? I'm sure your father is simply thrilled."

@chamberedbeauty

[sserajeans]

was making a playlist for the smau but half of it is taylor so now im just wondering if i should just make it yail tv 😭😭

[seonsong]

on a crowded street in 1944...

Fandom: Live Up To Your Name | Rating: Teen and up | Ship: Choi Yeon Kyung/Heo Im | AO3

It’s the end of another long and tiring day when he shows up at her doorstep with an invitation — does she want to go to a bar?

She tells him she’s not sure, she’s kind of exhausted from the train ride and moving in.

He insists. It’s no fun drinking alone, and what is she going to do in a house full of strangers anyway?

Drink some tea and go to sleep, she tells him, but he isn’t taking no for an answer. She groans and rolls her eyes, but goes inside to get her coat and purse.

“How can you want to be outside in this cold?” she asks, shivering, as they step from the courtyard of the guest house out onto the street.

“A few drinks will warm us up.”

“My blankets and the hot tea I was going to make would’ve warmed me up.”

“Come on now, the night is young,” he says to her, playfully elbowing her in the arm.

“But I’m not,” she grumbles while pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. “I’m not fit for tomfoolery like this at my age.”

“You talk as if you were a shriveled up old lady when you’re only thirty-four.”

“Well, maybe when you’re my age, Yoo Jae-ha, you’ll understand.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the reminder.”

Yeon Kyung laughs at his pouting face and shoves her hands into her coat pockets. “Where exactly are you planning on taking me, anyway?”

“Just a little place a couple blocks from here.”

“It sounds dreadful. Do they serve soju, at least?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“But enough about the bar,” says Jae-ha, quickening his pace in order to face her as they walk. “How was your train ride over?”

She shrugs. “Eh, you know. It was a train ride. Cramped. Nauseating. Frequently delayed.”

“Sounds like one of your better experiences.”

“Compared to the last one, yes. God, it was hot that time. I was sick for three days straight afterwards.”

“I know it well,” he chuckles ruefully.

She shudders at the recollection. “So compared to that, I suppose it was all right.”

They’re silent for a minute after that, focusing instead on moving as quickly as possible to their destination.

“You know,” speaks Yeon Kyung at last, “much as I hate Tokyo, it sure is infinitely better than being at the outpost.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” he agrees.

“Surrounded by all those dreadful Japanese men.”

“Yes.”

“Constantly in fear of being kidnapped and sold into the slave trade.”

“Sleeping with one eye open, I suppose.”

“With two!” she corrects him, laughing sardonically. “In Tokyo, it’s with one, but out there… oh, my. When they canceled my leave in October, I thought I was a goner for sure.”

“And yet, here you are now. Five months really is too long to be kept from your home.”

“Nearly half a year.”

Jae-ha nods. “Indeed— Though you really should be grateful for what you have. Millions of our people have no freedom whatsoever, and you get to come and go and have a paying job and live in relative peace when you're not at the outpost.”

Her pace slows at this. “That's true. Although the fear is always there, now isn't it?”

“Well, not right now,” he proclaims, quickening his pace to encourage hers. “You're in Tokyo! You're out on the town! Not a soldier for miles! You get two whole weeks to do whatever you want!”

“Yeah. I guess I'll drink to that,” she grumbles.

“That's the spirit! And perfect timing,” says Jae-ha, signaling toward a run-down building across the street. “We’re here.”

“Oh, my, it looks even more dreary than I expected.”

“Never mind that, in we go!” he cheers, gently pushing Yeon Kyung along.

The bar is dimly lit, empty save for a couple chatting quietly in the far corner, and smells faintly of water damage, but a fireplace crackling comfortingly in the back warms the whole place, and the large bartender stands polishing some glasses in front of a surprisingly large assortment of wines, beers, and sake.

“I don't see the soju you promised,” mutters Yeon Kyung.

“All right, just hang on a second. Lee Doseong, how about a bottle of soju for the lovely lady?”

The bartender looks up, and his face brightens. “Yoo Jae-ha! Welcome, welcome. Coming right up.”

Jae-ha grins at Yeon Kyung. “See? Go on, sit down.”

“Okay,” she sighs, sliding onto a barstool and smiling her thanks as Doseong the bartender hands her a shot glass and pulls a soju bottle out from under the counter.

“I'm going to stop by the washroom,” Jae-ha tells Yeon Kyung, heading for the door in the back of the bar. “Save me a glass.”

“Yep.”

She downs her first shot of soju and sighs, letting it sink in. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that the man that was in the washroom before Jae-ha has sat on the barstool next to her. He acknowledges her with a quiet “annyeong,” and she gives a tight-lipped smile in return.

Doseong notices her gloomy air. “Rough week?”

“Exhausting,” she sighs. “But at least I get to rest for two weeks now.”

He nods. “Rest is good.”

“Lee Doseong-ssi,” asks Yeon Kyung, pouring herself another glass, “how long have you lived in Japan?”

“Since the occupation began,” he answers. “Thirty-four years now.”

Her eyes widen when she hears the number. “Dear god. That’s my entire life. It must have been difficult.”

“It was at first,” he agrees. “Very difficult. It was already hard to be working at the factory — they weren’t exactly treating me well, as you can imagine — and I missed my family like you have no idea. The days and years really bear down on you, living like that.”

Yeon Kyung winces. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. But as you can see,” he answers, gesturing around at the bar, “things got better. Eventually. I suppose, in retrospect, I’ve been luckier than most.”

“Yes.” Luckier than most. The words ring in her head like an accusation as she nods slowly. “Maybe Yoo Jae-ha was right.”

“What about?”

“He says I should stop complaining about my job at the outpost and be grateful I'm not in a factory — or chained up in some camp as a ianfu.”

“Ahh. You work at the outpost?"

“Yes. I’m a nurse. Or, well, that is—” She pauses and considers. “Well, for simplicity’s sake, then yes, let’s just say that. I'm a nurse at the outpost.”

He whistles. “That’s not an easy job — even in peacetime, but much less now. You’re perfectly welcome to come here and complain anytime you feel like it.”

Yeon Kyung smiles, genuinely, for the first time that night. “Thank you, Lee Doseong-ssi.”

Two more customers enter just then, and Doseong moves to greet and attend to them, so she turns her attention back to her soju glass and lifts it to her lips.

“He's right, you know,” chimes in another voice, and Yeon Kyung stops mid-sip to look at the man sitting on her right. “What you suffer is what you suffer. No one can tell you not to feel exhausted, or sad.”

“Or scared,” she adds, almost unconsciously. “Being surrounded by men like that all the time is terrifying. It’s essentially a miracle that I haven’t been… well. You know.”

“Yes,” he answers softly.

The conversation lulls, and Yeon Kyung shifts self-consciously, her cheeks flushing red. “Ahem— sorry. That might’ve been a bit too much.”

“No need to worry,” he says reassuringly. “It seemed like you needed to let that out.”

“Yes, perhaps I did.” She offers an apologetic smile. “Thank you. It is good to talk about it. And Jae-ha isn’t the best person to complain to.”

“This Jae-ha doesn’t work at the outpost, I presume?”

“No,” she says, reaching once again for her soju. “No, he works at an oriental clinic here in the city.”

The man nods. “I see. Well, then, do tell your friend to be a little more understanding and let you talk about your troubles more freely. I dare say you’ve earned it.”

“I dare say I have,” grins Yeon Kyung from behind her glass before emptying it.

“Noona,” comes Jae-ha’s voice from behind them, “is this guy bothering you?”

Yeon Kyung jumps slightly as she turns to look at him.

“No, not at all,” she answers, pushing her hair behind her ear. “We were just talking.”

Jae-ha seems somewhat unconvinced, like he wants to say something more, but he only eyes the stranger briefly, then nods and sits down on the barstool to the left of Yeon Kyung.

“Here,” she tells him, shoving the bottle of soju into his hand. “Lee Doseong-*ssi*, can I get a glass for Yoo Jae-ha?”

As if her words are a cue, the man on her right downs what remains of his wine glass and sets it down. “I believe I’ll get going,” he says — partly to Yeon Kyung, partly to himself. She nods at him in acknowledgement.

“So this is Yoo Jae-ha,” says the man under his breath, eyeing Yeon Kyung’s companion, and her cheeks turn a shade of pink as she hears him.

“Did you say something?” asks Jae-ha, turning to look at him, but the man reassumes his smile and shakes his head.

“Just talking to myself,” he grins, reaching for his coat on the rack by the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss…”

“Choi Yeon Kyung,” she answers, dipping her head slightly. “And you were…?”

“Heo Im,” he introduces himself with a similar gesture.

This gets Jae-ha’s attention. “Heo Im?” he questions, turning once again to face him. “Like the famous Joseon physician?”

He laughs shortly. “Yes, just like that. Good night,” he bids them, ducking out the door before any more can be said.

Yeon Kyung and Jae-ha watch as the stranger leaves an empty doorframe in his wake, both uttering the same opinion — “how interesting.”

[lamentingwclf]

He doesn't want to talk about it because he doesn't want to taint it further. At this point, the memory has been his and his alone, taken out in some of the darkest of times, and turned over and over again. But that was the thing about a memory, the more you thought about it, and ran through it, the more certain details changed or were forgotten. He'd had a dream - a nightmare really - the night he'd tried to sleep after being freed by Steve. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, and he was alarmed to realize he'd forgotten the smaller details.

Alarmed, he'd woken, and rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. His next dream had the same fuzziness, the same plot holes, only this time, he couldn't remember the sound of his mother's laugh.

Bucky didn't know then that it was only the start of a larger problem to come. He also didn't know then that this was the start of his insomnia and fear of going to sleep.

"Gwen," He starts, but whatever he was going to say is cut off by two sharp knocks on the door. He can see Steve's outline and knows this is his two minute warning. He groans, runs a hand through his hair, stopping to grip the ends and tug slightly because he knows what he needs to do to survive. Whatever emotions he'd been allowing himself to feel are quickly shoved into a box and tucked away in the back of his mind. His tone now is not harsh, but it is practical. "You and I both know you're not getting on a plane and coming over here." Though the enormity of the offer is not lost on him. "Even if they were allowing civilian travel right now, not even the promise of seeing you with Captain America would sway him."

Plus he will also know Bucky is, in fact, alive tomorrow when the papers run a story about the Howling Commandos.

"I'm sorry, but we've run out of time, and I have to go. Just. Write to me, okay? You can still write to Steve, but don't cut me out, my ego can't take it." This time, he lets the humor be heard and he sounds so much like himself before all the darkness crept in, it might feel like a knife slipping between her ribs. "I love you, and don't worry, I'll see you soon." Then, because he need something to hold onto, needs that hope, he drops the receiver back on the base, severing their connection before he can hear her goodbye.

Bucky stands, and first straightens his ill fitting uniform - it's not actually his, borrowed from uncollected laundry for the time being, but it's still tight across the shoulders. Then, he runs his hands through his hair and smooths where he'd previously mussed it. When he steps out into the hall to meet Steve, he's the young man his friend always looked up to. Calm, collected, and ready for a fight. "So what's the word?" He asks, before the other can get a more pointed question in.

The grin that splits Steve's face is all the confirmation he needs.

"I'm going to need new clothes, but spare me the spandex, I think you've got enough of that for both of us."

"It's being taken care of." Steve assures him.

Bucky raises a brow, but says nothing, just falls in line beside his friend as they make their way out of the office space towards the streets of London. When he does speak, it's after he rewets his lips. "How long do we have?"

"Two days. They don't want to risk giving HYRDA more time to prepare for an attack. They figure with how well you're healing, it's enough to put the team together and get everyone supplied."

A team. Bucky stops abruptly and truly looks at his friend. It doesn't matter that Steve's slightly taller now, he can still see that spark in his eyes and there's an excitement at being able to fight. An excitement he hopes doesn't get trampled when he sees how bad it is. An excitement he'd be lying to say is not the least bit infectious. "Alright, let's get a drink, I know some guys."

He wasn't wrong. She knew why. She could hear the emotion in his voice, and while she wasn't sure if he meant those words he wrote in that letter, she did know that he needed to hear her voice just as badly as she needed to hear his. That didn't make this any easier though. "It wasn't just in your head," Gwen whispered softly. "But we don't...we don't have to talk about that. It's okay...none of it...none of it was in your head."

When he brings up her father she can't help the sad sigh that comes swiftly, her head falling forward, and suddenly it all makes sense. He'd become more distant starting around that time, she just didn't piece it together....she should have. Goddammit she should have.

Each of his words grow more distressed and all she can do is shake her head and let him go on. Her eyes close but she waits...she waits until he's completely done and if there was a way she could be right next to him, she'd do it in a second and wrap him up in her arms.

"James," Gwen finally whispers after a long moment of silence. "You are thinking too much. There's too many thoughts right now...just...just take a breath darling. Just take a breath, you're okay."

She waits a few more seconds before continuing. "Bucky....there is nothing to win. I don't want to win anything, especially at this price. This is all just...so new and I'm trying to navigate this without you here and I still haven't figured it out yet. I'm trying to adjust to life without you and...and I'm struggling. I haven't been perfect, I haven't even been good, but...but this doesn't feel good for me darling. I want you here. I want you home. I want to hug you....I want to hold your hand."

She shudders out another breath. "You said...you said you're in London for a few more days? Maybe...maybe I can will myself on a plane and can come to you....just to see you, even if it's just for a moment. All the pictures I've seen of London are so beautiful and I've wanted to go there anyways." Not in the middle of a World War of course but...beggars can't be choosers. "But you have to listen to me now. I love you. I love you and I can't bear to hear you like this. You're thinking too much, creating narratives that are...they're just not the truth. Nothing has changed as far as- as my care for you or-or my desire for you to be here. I should have....I should have done better. I know that. I should have figured it out. I know you and Steve like the back of my hand and I- I just should have known. And- and maybe I did...maybe there was a part of me that knew but was too afraid of change, of losing you, that I pushed it down. There is...there is no replacing you. I've hurt you and I hate myself for it, but my sweet darling....you are still my world. A-And I don't want you to feel like this. I want....I want to see your smile again and hear your laugh. I know it's going to take time but...but when you come home we will figure it all out. Until then...you rest...you rest and get out of your head. I love you...you're enough. Focus on that. We're okay and you-you are going to be just fine, you just need to rest your head. Let those thoughts go....I'm here....I'm always going to be here. You're okay..."

[mandoalorian]

timeless [bucky barnes x reader]

On a crowded street in 1944 And you were headed off to fight in the war You still would've been mine We would have been timeless

[w/c: 3k] [masterlist] [dedicated to @notreallythatlost ♡⟡˙⋆]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Brooklyn, 1944.

The apartment is warm with the glow of a single bedside lamp, the light flickering soft and golden against the vanity mirror. The faint sounds of a radio drift from the other room—Ella Fitzgerald’s voice lilting through the apartment, weaving through the scent of evening perfume and the distant hum of city life beyond the open window.

You stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the delicate strap of your dress, smoothing your hands down the soft fabric. The silk shimmers in the light, hugging your curves just right. It’s the nicest dress you own—something you saved for, something you pulled from the back of your closet tonight because you wanted to look perfect.

Because tonight, Bucky Barnes is taking you out.

You don’t hear him enter at first, but you feel him.

A slow, lingering gaze. A shift in the air.

Then—warm fingers tracing over your bare shoulder, featherlight.

"Christ, sweetheart." His voice is low, almost reverent. "You trying to kill me?"

A smirk tugs at your lips. "Depends."

You meet his gaze in the mirror. He’s standing just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, smell the faint hint of whiskey and honeyed cologne clinging to his shirt. He looks unfairly good—crisp navy dress shirt tucked into tailored slacks, suspenders resting over broad shoulders, dark hair perfectly combed back.

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your stomach flip.

Like he’s seeing something sacred. Like he doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve this moment, but he’s not about to waste it.

His hands slip to your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing over the silk of your dress. He dips his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"You’re beautiful, doll," he murmurs. "Always are, but tonight? Damn near stopped my heart."

Heat rises in your cheeks. "You’re laying it on thick tonight, Barnes."

"Ain’t thick if it’s true."

His lips skim over your jaw, lingering just beneath your ear, his grip on your waist tightening slightly.

"You ready to go?"

"Mhm." You exhale, shivering at the feel of his breath against your skin.

But as you turn, he catches your wrist, halting your movement. His fingers slip between yours, bringing your hand to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he’s sealing something in.

"You sure?" he asks softly, thumb stroking over your palm. "Last thing I want is to rush you."

Something about the way he says it—like he knows this might be the last perfect night before everything changes—makes your heart ache.

"I’m sure, Buck."

And then he smiles—that slow, dimpled grin that always makes your knees weak—and offers his arm.

"Then let’s go paint the town, doll."

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The bar is dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of low-hanging chandeliers and the red flicker of a neon sign outside the window. Smoke curls in the air, the scent of whiskey and old leather thick around you. A jazz trio plays in the corner—slow, syrupy notes rolling through the room like a warm summer night.

Bucky leads you inside with an easy confidence, his hand resting low on your back as he guides you through the crowd. He fits in here effortlessly, like he belongs in a place draped in velvet and shadow. You, on the other hand, are keenly aware of the eyes that follow you.

Or maybe just one pair.

"Well, aren’t you a sight," a low, unfamiliar voice purrs from the bar.

You barely have time to react before a man steps into your path. He’s tall, broad in a way that suggests he was once handsome before too many late nights and too much whiskey dulled the edges. His grin is all teeth as he looks you over, his gaze crawling across your dress like a touch you didn’t invite.

"What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

You barely get a word in before Bucky moves.

His grip on your waist tightens just slightly before he steps in front of you, his presence solid, immovable. The easy charm he wore just seconds ago is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper.

"She’s with me," Bucky says, voice smooth but firm.

The man’s gaze flicks between you and Bucky, sizing him up. He scoffs, takes a lazy sip of his drink.

"Relax, pal," he drawls. "Just paying the lady a compliment."

Bucky’s jaw tightens. You can feel the shift in him—shoulders squared, stance rooted, his hand twitching at his side like he’s resisting the urge to clench it into a fist.

"She don’t need your compliments," he says, voice low, dangerous.

The tension crackles between them, thick as the smoke hanging in the air. For a moment, you think Bucky might actually hit him, right here in the middle of the bar.

"C’mon, Buck," you murmur, slipping your fingers into his. "Let’s just get a drink."

It takes a second, but then Bucky exhales, slow and controlled. His grip tightens on your hand before he turns his back on the man, guiding you toward an empty booth.

You slide in first, and Bucky settles beside you—not across from you, but next to you, his arm draped across the back of the seat, his body angled toward yours, like he’s staking a silent claim.

"Didn’t need to do that, y’know," you tease lightly, reaching for the menu.

"Yeah, I did," he mutters, still glaring toward the bar.

You nudge his side. "You jealous, Sergeant Barnes?"

That gets his attention.

He huffs out a laugh, finally dragging his gaze back to you. His eyes flicker over your face, over the curve of your lips, the slope of your collarbone, before he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin.

"Not jealous, doll," he murmurs. "Just don’t like when men who don’t deserve to look at you think they got a chance."

Your breath hitches, pulse kicking up. "And who does deserve to look at me?"

Bucky smiles then, slow and knowing.

"Me."

And just like that, the moment shifts again—tension melting into something warmer, softer. The jazz band transitions into a slow, honeyed tune, and Bucky doesn’t waste a second before he’s on his feet, offering his hand.

"Dance with me."

You roll your eyes but take it anyway.

He pulls you into his arms, his hand settling firm at the small of your back as he sways you in slow circles. He smells like spice and whiskey, something rich and familiar, something that feels like home.

"You dance a lot, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Only with the right partner."

He twirls you, and when he pulls you back, you land flush against his chest. His fingers slip beneath your chin, tilting your face toward his.

"You’re trouble, you know that?" you whisper.

His lips brush against your temple, soft as a secret.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "But you love me anyway."

The music swells. The world fades. And for a moment, neither of you are thinking about the war.

Neither of you are thinking about what comes next.

The sound of the music follows you as you exit the jazz bar, where the evening air feels cooler, more open. The streetlights flicker, casting long shadows on the sidewalk as you walk arm in arm toward the subway. Bucky’s hand is warm on the small of your back, guiding you without a word—just the shared rhythm of the night pulling you closer together.

You’re both quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable. The kind of silence that speaks louder than words ever could. The world outside fades, and it feels like nothing exists but the two of you and the hum of the city at night.

When you reach the subway, Bucky looks down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"How about we skip the train and take a detour?"

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "A detour?"

"Coney Island," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "The fair’s still open."

You laugh, the sound light and carefree. "Isn’t it past midnight?"

"You’re with me now," he says, his voice low and teasing. "You can do anything you want."

And just like that, the subway ride feels like it takes forever, the anticipation buzzing in your chest, the night stretching out with endless possibility.

The bright lights of Coney Island greet you as the subway doors slide open, and the air smells faintly of saltwater and popcorn. The Ferris wheel looms ahead, lit up like a string of stars against the dark sky.

You can’t help but smile, the excitement bubbling up in your chest.

"Coney Island, huh?" you say, your voice teasing. "You sure you want to go here? This is where all the real trouble starts."

Bucky chuckles, his hand reaching for yours, lacing your fingers together.

"I’ve been in trouble before." His voice drops an octave, a teasing edge to it. "But I think you’re worth it."

You give him a playful look. "Flattery, Sergeant?"

"Flattery’s just honesty dressed up in pretty words," he says, squeezing your hand.

Together, you walk through the bustling fairground, the noise of the carnival rides and the excited chatter of other couples and families filling the air. There’s a certain magic here, the kind that only comes in moments like these, where everything feels timeless, like the world is holding its breath for just one more perfect moment.

And then, standing at the base of the Ferris wheel, Bucky looks at you with something serious in his eyes. It’s a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible, but you see it. The weight of everything that’s to come. The unspoken promise that hangs between you two.

“I’m going to come back.”

You smile softly, your heart catching. “I believe you.”

He turns to you, stepping closer. There’s a vulnerability to his voice now, the kind you rarely hear from him, the kind that feels like it’s just for you.

“It’s a promise, you know?” he says, his voice quieter now, full of intent.

You nod, your hand slipping into his as the Ferris wheel begins to move, lifting you higher, higher, until the lights of the fair grow smaller beneath you. Bucky’s gaze never leaves yours, and there’s a quiet understanding in the space between your breaths.

At the top of the Ferris wheel, he stops the ride with a gentle touch on the lever. The world below you seems to stretch out forever, the city lights twinkling, distant and unreal. And in that moment, it’s just the two of you, floating in the sky.

Bucky turns toward you, his expression intense.

“The thing is, sweetheart, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Soon the war will be over and we can be together for good. Nothing will tear us apart.”

And even though you know what’s coming, you can’t help but feel the weight of it—this promise that hangs in the air, bittersweet and fragile.

You smile, eyes soft. "I know."

And you wish you could believe him, wish you could hold onto this moment forever, but deep down, you both know it’s not that simple.

Bucky leans forward, his lips brushing your cheek with the gentlest kiss. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box, flipping it open with the same reverence as though it’s the most precious thing in the world. Inside is a silver ring, simple but beautiful—a band that gleams under the lights.

"I’m coming back for you," he repeats, his thumb running over the band as he holds it up to you.

You blink, momentarily caught in the overwhelming flood of emotion. You never expected this—a proposal, in the middle of a Ferris wheel ride in the heart of Coney Island, the place that felt like magic in the air.

"Bucky..." you whisper, unable to stop the tears that well up in your eyes.

He smiles, his thumb brushing your cheek softly. "Marry me, sweetheart. When I come back. I want you to be mine, always.”

"Bucky—"

"No, I mean it. I’m coming back. I swear it. And when I do, I want—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I want a life with you. A house. Kids. Sunday dinners with Ma fussing over us. I want everything."

And just like that, your world feels complete. It feels like everything is right, even knowing that the world will change in a way you can’t yet imagine.

But as the ride slowly begins its descent, the weight of what’s to come presses on your chest, and Bucky slips the ring onto your finger, the cool metal heavy with meaning. He holds you close, kissing you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, your eyes glazed with unshed tears. But you take the ring off your finger and hand it back to him. “I will marry you when you come back. Let this ring be a symbol of your promise Bucky, and I will wait for you.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” Bucky smiles, his cheeks turning a shade of rosy pink.

To you, he is worth the wait. 

Brooklyn, 2025.

The years have passed, but the weight of the promise still lingers in the air, in the very marrow of Bucky’s bones. The city looks different now—cleaner, brighter, with the gleam of modern life wrapping itself around old buildings. But some things never change. Coney Island still stands, a monument to the past, its lights flashing against the dark sky like stars in an eternal night.

Bucky stands just beyond the gates of the fair, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his tailored suit, his face shadowed with the weight of memories he can’t shake. He’s older now—rougher, harder, his once soft features now etched with the passage of time and the scars of war. His vibranium arm gleams faintly under the dim glow of the streetlamps, an ever-present reminder of the man he’s become.

The suit he wears today is expensive, a dark navy that matches the suit he wore that night all those years ago, but the man wearing it is different. The elegance of the past is gone, replaced with something sharper—something more dangerous. The years of being the Winter Soldier, of losing himself in missions and blood, have taken their toll. But there’s still a trace of the man who once promised you everything.

Bucky moves toward the entrance of the fair, his gaze fixed on the Ferris wheel, now standing still and quiet in the distance. The lights flicker, a gentle hum in the air, just as they did that night. The feeling in his chest is thick, heavy—a mixture of loss and love, nostalgia and regret.

He steps up to the Ferris wheel, his steps slow, purposeful. The sound of children’s laughter and the calls of vendors fade as he approaches, the world shrinking around him until it’s just him and that one moment he can’t ever seem to forget.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the small velvet box. The ring, the same one he had held in his palm all those years ago, rests inside. He holds it up to the light, the silver gleaming, and for a brief second, it feels like he’s back in that moment with you—standing at the top of the Ferris wheel, the promise of forever hanging in the air.

"I promised I’d come back," he mutters to himself, his voice thick with the weight of those words. "I promised..."

The wind picks up, tugging at his suit as he stares at the empty Ferris wheel, his mind lost in the echo of that night. He takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar ache in his chest as he remembers how you looked in that dress—how you smiled at him with so much hope, so much love. And for a moment, it feels like he can still hear the soft melody of the jazz band, the laughter between the two of you, the soft hum of the world outside.

But the world has moved on. And so has he.

He walks past the gates of the fair, his eyes scanning the empty rides, the once-bustling booths now quiet and forgotten. His mind drifts to the time he spent as the Winter Soldier—the bloodshed, the darkness, the missions that tore him away from everything good in his life. The life he had before.

You.

He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re gone.

His hand clenches into a fist around the ring, the metal cool against his palm. He steps up to the Ferris wheel, the memories coming back like a flood—the sound of your voice, your laugh, the promise you both made to each other.

He swallows hard, fighting the lump in his throat as he looks down at the ring.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I’m so sorry."

With a heavy heart, Bucky steps back from the Ferris wheel, walking away with the ring still in his pocket, the promise still hanging in the air—unfulfilled, unbroken, but always just out of reach.

[nameless-ken]

Since I heard "Timeless" by Taylor Swift I can't unsee Bucky Barnes as the main character from it. Can you please make something like that? I need it with all parts of me

You have no idea how badly I've wanted to write a story based on this song!! Thank you so much for requesting it and making me finally write it <3 hope you like it!

words: 4.1 K

warnings: none, mostly angst with fluff thrown in there

masterlist (requests are open!)

Antique Shop - 2025

Down the block, there's an antique shop And something in my head said, "Stop, " so I walked in On the counter was a cardboard box And the sign said, "Photos: twenty-five cents each"

The sun casts a warm, honey glow over the town as you stroll along the quiet street lined with small shops. Your steps slow when something catches your eye, a small antique shop tucked between two larger storefronts.

The narrow storefront with dust-speckled windows holds a dimmed “OPEN” sign. The door is solid, heavy wood, creaking as you push it open. Above the entrance, a hand-painted sign reads: Antique Shop.

Your hand finds the cool brass handle as you push inside, the bell above the door chimes. The moment you step inside, the musty, old-timey scent hits you. It’s a blend of aged paper, worn wood, and something else you can’t quite place, Time, maybe, or the ghost of it. 

The air is thick with history, full of forgotten things. Each piece holding a story of its own, whispering tales of lives lived and lost. Time seems to have paused here. Every corner and shelf is quietly alive with the weight of the memories.

Then, you notice a cardboard box near the main counter with a hand-scrawled sign taped against it: PHOTOS – 25¢ each.

Something in your chest stirs. Without thinking, you step closer. Your fingers graze the tops of the photos, each one different—faces from decades ago, lives captured in fleeting moments. A woman in a 1930s wedding dress. Two lovers laughing on a porch. A couple holding hands in a driveway. Each one frozen in a simple but beautiful moment.

You reach for one, the plastic sleeve crackling beneath your touch. The moment your fingers brush the edge of the photo, something shifts deep inside your chest.

You’ve always been fascinated by history, by photographs. By the way they hold so much of a person’s life in a single frame, yet leave you wondering about the story behind each face. You’ve always wanted to know who they were and what their lives looked like after the photograph.

But at this moment, it’s not their stories that haunt you. It’s your own.

You imagine what it would be like to be in one of these photos, to be in those moments. To wear a dress like the one in the picture, to laugh with someone you love, to stand beside someone whose hand you’re holding.

And you can’t help but think about one person.

Bucky Barnes.

James Buchanan Barnes. The man you’ve come to know in this lifetime, the one you’ve fallen in love with. Once the Winter Soldier, once lost to the shadows of his past, now free. A man with a kind heart, harsh memories but a future that’s just beginning.

As you stare at the photograph, you imagine how your lives could have been if you’d been there, if you’d been those people. How, in another life, maybe you and Bucky would have shared similar moments. A life in black and white, captured in a photograph that time thought it could forget.

But you and Bucky, no matter the timeline, no matter the odds, you’ve always believed you were meant to find each other.

You can see it so clearly now.

The photograph slips from your fingers. The world around you begins to dissolve. The dusty shelves, the musty scent of the antique shop is gone.

Brooklyn, NY - 1944 

On a crowded street in 1944 And you were headed off to fight in the war You still would've been mine We would have been timeless

You're standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. It’s unfamiliar and louder with the busy movements of people rushing. Horns blare. Newspapers rustle in the hands of boys shouting headlines about the war. Streetcars rattle by. The world is louder, faster — alive in a way that feels both foreign and oddly familiar.

You glance down to catch your breath. You're no longer in your usual casual jeans and t-shirt. Instead, you're wearing a knee-length wool skirt, your blouse neatly tucked in. A leather satchel rests under your arm. Every detail feels so vivid. Almost real, but you know it’s not. 

You turn your head and there, across the street, you see him.

It’s Bucky.

He’s dressed in an army uniform, olive green, crisp and tailored. Cap tucked neatly under his arm. Sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms, his left void of metal. His dark hair is tousled in that way it always is when he runs his fingers through it. He looks… untouched by the years, untouched by the pain that would one day haunt him. This is the Bucky Barnes before the Winter Soldier. Before Hydra. Before everything.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Not really. He’s speaking to a stranger on the street, laughing that easy, golden laugh you’ve only heard glimpses of back home.

And then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he turns. His eyes find yours across the street.

That’s all it takes. The city melts away. The crowd dulls to silence. In a world that never stops moving, time gives you a moment.

He grins, bright and unguarded, and starts walking straight toward you, weaving through the crowd like it doesn’t exist.

“Hey, doll,” he says, his voice warm, laced with affection. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, spinning you around, your laughter twirling in the air. When he sets you down, his hands linger at your waist.

“You look like a dream,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “But I gotta admit, you're making it really hard for me to leave on that train.”

You smile, soft but aching. “So don’t.”

He exhales with a light laugh, but there's a flicker in his eyes, something that says he’s thought about it. Maybe even wants it.

“I could,” he says quietly, forehead resting against yours. “Just say the word and we’ll vanish. Disappear to some sleepy town where no one knows our names. You, me, a porch swing, and no goddamn war.”

His voice cracks a little at the end. He tries to hide it with another smile, but you see it. You always do.

You reach up and smooth a strand of hair away from his brow, fingers lingering. “We’ll have that someday. I promise.”

He closes his eyes. He wants to believe you. The two of you stand there in the middle of a city that doesn’t see you, in a time that doesn’t feel real, and for just a moment — the war doesn’t exist. The train doesn’t wait. There’s only this.

But you feel it. In the way his fingers tighten around yours. The weight of what’s coming. The heartbreak wrapped in a uniform. The goodbye that will come too soon.

Still, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes shining.

“Even if we met like this,” he whispers, “with the world on fire and time against us… I’d still find you. I’d still love you.”

You swallow hard, trying to hold onto the moment, trying not to cry.

“I’d wait a hundred lifetimes just to hear you say that,” you whisper back.

He leans in, closing the last bit of distance. “Then let’s make this one count.”

And then, he kisses you.

Slow, sure, and filled with everything he doesn’t have the time to say. His lips are warm and steady against yours.  

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His breath mingles with yours, his fingers still gently tangled in yours.

The city, the noise, the war. They’re all still out there.

But here in his arms, none of it matters.

Here, you’re timeless.

Prom Night - 1958

I had to smile when it caught my eye There was one of a teenage couple in the driveway Holdin' hands on the way to a dance And the date on the back said 1958

The photograph fades from your fingers, and with it, the memory of a war-torn goodbye.

When the world changes again, it’s softer. The colors are richer, filtered with nostalgia. You’re standing in a driveway, porch light buzzing faintly overhead, casting a glow over the quiet street. The sky is blushing with cotton candy pinks and lilacs smeared across the horizon.

There’s music floating from a nearby radio. A slow, dreamy tune about love and moonlight.

You glance down. Your dress is powder blue with a full skirt that sways gently in the breeze. Your hair’s curled and set with pins. You keep smoothing your skirt, not because it’s wrinkled but because your hands are restless, damp with nerves you can’t explain.

A car pulls up, sleek and black, polished to a mirror finish. The engine purrs low and smooth before cutting off with a soft click.

Then the door swings open and he steps out like a scene from a movie. Bucky.

Wide-eyed and grinning, a crooked tie hanging a little askew around his neck like he gave up trying to fix it. His dark hair neatly combed and he stands for a second at the edge of the driveway, just looking at you.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s the first time. Or the hundredth.

His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. “You look…”

He pauses, eyes skimming over you with quiet awe. “You look like a dream. I mean—hell, you always do. I think.”

You laugh softly, heart skipping in your chest. “That’s not a bad start for someone trying to impress a girl on prom night.”

“Oh, I’m trying, all right,” he chuckles. “You make it kind of impossible to play it cool, y’know?”

He takes a few steps forward, then offers his hand with a little bow, playful but sincere. “Shall we, milady?”

Your fingers slide into his. “We shall.”

The dance is magic.

Paper streamers hang in arches across the school gymnasium ceiling. The punch is overly sweet, spiked with something someone definitely wasn’t supposed to bring. The air reeks of perfume and sweat, hairspray and cologne. Shoes squeak on the floor. The music spins on, soft ballads turning into swingy tunes.

But none of that matters when Bucky holds you.

His arms wrap around your waist like he’s always meant to. You sway to slow songs, his chin resting gently atop your head. Every so often, he leans back just to admire you again.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs midway through a slow song, his voice low, almost lost beneath the music.

You glance up, chin brushing against his chest. “What?”

He hesitates, then runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Have we met before?”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

He searches your face with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. “I don’t know. I keep having these flashes. Feelings. Like I’ve known you forever. But I can’t place it. It’s like…my heart remembers you before my head ever did.”

“Like déjà vu?” you ask softly.

He nods. “Yeah. But stronger. Like…” He exhales, his thumb brushing gently against your back. “Like I’ve loved you before.”

You almost stop breathing from his confession and for a moment, all you can hear is the slow sound of the band behind you and your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“I know that sounds crazy,” he adds quickly, a sheepish smile flickering across his lips. “Forget I said that. It’s just—there’s something about you. The way you looked at me when I pulled up… it felt like coming home.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy.”

He freezes, surprised by your reply.

“I’ve felt it too,” you admit. “Like we’ve known each other before. Like we’ve done this already. Maybe not this dance… but something like it. Another time. Another place.”

His hands slide to your lower back, holding you a little closer. His breath hitches like he’s trying not to say too much too fast. “If that’s true… then I hope I get to keep finding you. In every lifetime.”

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you — but your lips meet in the middle like it’s always meant to happen.

His lips brush yours, hesitant but sweet. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. You lean into him, fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket like he’s your anchor to something real and good.

When you part, your foreheads rest together, his breath warm on your skin.

“I’ve never kissed anyone like that,” he whispers.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Me neither.”

Somewhere in a Foreign Land - 1500s

In the 1500s off in a foreign land And I was forced to marry another man You still would've been mine We would have been timeless

The next world you're thrown into is sharp like a blade. Cold stone beneath your bare feet and smoke curling from iron sconces.

You wake up beneath a canopy of silk sheets. You are yourself. And yet, not at the same time.

In this timeline you are a daughter of nobility. A symbol dressed in an exquisite gown the color of a deep red wine. Your family's estate is grand and gilded for the ages. But deep in your bones, it feels more like a golden cage than a home. Every corridor echoes with gossip about your wedding, your dowry, the man who will take your hand like it’s a prize won in battle.

But it doesn’t matter to you. 

Because you’ve met him. Your Bucky. But it’s James in this timeline. 

He was never meant to be here. He’s a visiting knight, the second son of no great fortune, no estate to inherit, no grand title held. Quiet, always watching until the day your eyes met outside the chapel.

Dust drifted in the golden afternoon light and your hands brushed as you passed.

You felt the world stop at that moment. 

It began with stolen glances. Then hands grazing beneath the table at dinners. Notes tucked into the spines of poetry books left on your balcony. Midnight meetings in the walled garden beneath the moon.

James calls you by your name like it’s sacred.

One night, pressed close beneath the branches of a weeping willow tree, he held your face in his calloused, rough hands.

“I would burn this place to the ground,” he murmured, “if it meant I could take you with me.”

“Then why don’t you?”

His jaw tensed, thumb brushed your cheeks like an apology.

“Because you deserve more than ash.”

You remember that night. The way he showed you how much he loves you and you showed him what you’d sacrifice to have him forever. 

You decide that tonight is the end of your agony. No more waiting and abiding by the rules thrust upon you since birth. 

You slip away under the cover of a cloak, heart pounding. The chapel waits like a secret only the two of you know. The early morning dew clings to the hem of your cloak. Your bare feet are silent against the grass. 

He’s waiting inside for you.

By candlelight.

When you see him, you don’t hesitate. You run straight into his arms.

He holds you like you’re always made to fit there.

“I had to see you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “One more time.”

“I hoped you’d come,” he says, pressing his lips to your temple. “But I didn’t expect it. Not with—” He pauses. “Not with how close it is.”

“Two nights,” you choke back the tears. “Then I wear his name and lose mine.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His eyes are burning red with unshed tears.

“You don’t belong to him.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But belonging was never mine to choose.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his voice breaks. “I should’ve taken you away when I had the chance.”

“You still have a chance,” you reply, desperation dripping through your voice.

He shakes his head, “If I run with you, they’ll hunt you down. They’ll use your name to justify another battle. Your blood would be on every stone.”

You don’t argue. You know he’s right.

Instead, you kiss him. Softly. Slowly, like a final goodbye.

“I was yours,” you breathlessly admit. “Before I even knew what it meant to belong to someone. And I’ll be yours in every life after this one.”

He cradles your face like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

“You speak like you’ve seen the end of all things.”

Maybe I have. Maybe we both have.”

From the inside pocket of his cloak, he pulls a folded parchment, sealed in red wax. He presses it into your hand.

“If they make you marry him,” he whispers, “read this the night before. Remember me as I am now. Not as a ghost of our past.”

You grip the letter tight. “Tell me what it says.”

He smiles faintly laced with sadness. “You’ll know.”

You want to beg and scream for him to take you. But dawn is coming and so is the life you never asked for.

So instead, you memorize the curve of his mouth. The warmth of his breath. The way his hand feels pressed to your heart.

“I love you,” you say.

He kisses your forehead. “And I, you.”

You gather the courage to leave without looking back. Silent tears streaming down your cheeks, holding the sobs back until you make it to your room. 

And the next night, in your wedding chamber, you sit in cold and silence. Dressed in white lace. You light a single candle and break the wax seal.

The letter is brief.

The handwriting is unmistakably his.

If there is a place beyond this one, I will find you. In the quiet between stars, in the breath between centuries — I will find you. I will know you by the way your soul reaches for mine, like it always has. By the sound of your laughter. The way your eyes see straight through me. And even if you do not remember me… I will wait until you do. I will always find you. In every time, in every life, in every version of the universe — I will love you. Yours, always, James

You press your fingers to his name and then fold the letter gently, holding it over your heart, where it will remain for eternity. 

And the world begins to fade again.

Antique Shop - 2025 

And sometimes there's no proof, you just know You're always gonna be mine We're gonna be I'm gonna love you when our hair is turnin' gray We'll have a cardboard box of photos of the life we've made And you'll say, "Oh my, we really were timeless"

You’re back in the antique shop, like no time has passed at all. You look around, seeing if you can find anyone but you’re alone, standing in the same spot. The cardboard box of photos remains in front of you. 

Your fingers sift through the stack with trembling care. There they are. The faces you dreamed, the lives you imagined. The girl in the powder-blue dress. The woman in the gown of spilled wine. The look in his eyes that hasn’t changed in centuries.

The bell above the door doesn’t ring this time. There’s no movement behind the counter. No ticking clock.

You pick up the photo of them — of you — and hold it gently in your hands. You don’t care that they’re not yours, not really. You want to keep them anyway.

You want to remember the make believe memories of you and Bucky. 

“Whatcha got there, sweetheart?”

You freeze.

He’s standing by the counter, hands in his jean pockets, eyes on you like no time has passed. His hair is shorter now, but his eyes — God, his eyes — they’re the same. And his smile, that crooked, soft little thing, melts every version of you at once.

“I think…” your voice is quiet as you try to brush off your imagination that took over. “I was looking for you.”

He takes a step closer to you. “You found me.” He jokes, not knowing what you just went through. 

You show him the old photos, wanting to see his reaction and if it’d be the same as yours. 

“Huh,” he murmurs. “Would you look at that.”

There’s a silence — not uncomfortable, but weighted. Like something old and fragile has returned to the surface.

“I remember that kind of feeling,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What feeling?”

“Of meeting you for the first time. Our first date,” he pauses as you look up at him. “When I moved into your apartment and when we adopted Alpine. Moments of time like in these photos. It’s the same feeling I get when I look at them.” 

You smile at that because you know what he means.

“They feel like snapshots of something real,” you respond, your fingers still grazing the edges of the worn photographs. “Not posed. Just… living in the moment that someone wanted to remember forever.”

“That’s what I think when I see you some days.” He admits, brushing his hand against yours. “When you’re in the kitchen dancing around while cooking or laughing at some ridiculous video on your phone. Or sitting on the couch in my sweatshirt that’s way too big.” He shrugs. “I think, I hope I remember this exact second.”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. He says it like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

He picks up one of the black-and-white photos. “They didn’t know someone would find this years later,” he says. “But they look like they were immersed in it. Happiness, hopefulness, love or whatever it is.”

You nod. “Kind of like us.”

He looks at you then. Really looks into your eyes as if he’s remembering everything you’ve lived through together.

“Let’s take them home,” you say suddenly, gathering the photos you can’t bear to leave behind. “Even if we don’t know their names.”

Bucky stands and offers you a hand. “We’ll give them a second life.”

Later, back at your apartment, the old, beat-up shoebox sits open on the living room rug.

The photos from the antique shop now rest alongside your own. A napkin from the diner where you had your first real fight and made up over milkshakes. A polaroid from that road trip to Tony’s cabin in the woods. A dried flower from a bouquet he brought home just because.

Bucky leans against the couch, legs stretched out beside yours, both sorting through the pieces.

“This one,” he says, holding up a photo of you both on the fire escape last summer, sharing a blanket and watching the city lights blink to sleep, “this’ll be the one they find.”

You glance over. “What’ll they think?”

He pounders. “Maybe that we were lucky.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting his warmth soak into you. “We were,” you whisper. “We are.”

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Sometimes there’s no proof,” he murmurs. “Not really. Just... these pieces of time that've passed by. Other times—”

“You just know,” you finish his thought.

He nods. “Yeah. You just know.” You both fall quiet again, sifting through more memories.

“That flower’s from the night we got caught in the rain and you picked it from a stranger's yard,” you say, pulling out the wilted stem with a soft laugh. “You said it was fate. I said it was just bad weather.”

“And I said it didn’t matter, ‘cause we were already soaked,” he grins, remembering. “Then you kissed me in the middle of the street.”

“You kissed me,” you correct, nudging him with your foot.

He grins wider. “Right but you didn’t stop me.”

You smile at him, heart full.

And for just a moment, you close your eyes and remember the lives your briefly imagined.

The soldier’s goodbye. The school dance. The candlelit chapel. 

But none of them matter more than this. This quiet apartment, this shoebox, this man beside you who knows exactly how you take your coffee and when you’re lying about being fine.

All of it echoes in the way he looks at you now.

You don’t need time travel or old photographs to know what this is. You feel it in your chest, in your bones, in the way his hand finds yours without looking.

You were right all along.

You really were timeless.

thanks for reading <3 join my taglist

[maddiedrawz]

you still would’ve been mine<3

it’s canon now- they met on a crowded street in 1944

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Timeless

"And, somehow, I know that you and I would've found each other In another life, you still would've turned my head..."

Summary: It's the kind of love you find once in a lifetime, the kind of love you don't put down, and somehow, you know you would've found each other in every life.

Part 1 - An Antique Shop Part 2 - School Lovers Part 3 - On A Crowded Street in 1944 Part 4 - In The 1500's Off in A Foreign Land Part 5 - We Really Were Timeless

The Grumpy Sunshine Series | Inspired By Taylor Swift Series AnonymityIsFun Masterlist | Anon's 1K Celebration

[goldrushreid]

“even if we met on a crowded street in 1944…”

[lamentingwclf]

i don't think i'm doing fine. (Gwen)

LYRICS RP MEME PART ??

Another day, another list, another round of letters sent home.

It had become a routine around town that around sunset, mothers, lovers, fiancés, and wives all gathered around the post office in a morbid party. Some clutched handkerchiefs, others each other, or the small children that clutched their skirts. It was a stark contrast tot he men who gathered around the recruitment tents across town. Bucky tried to avoid both, taking the scenic route home from work, but today he was running late. Today he'd passed the office to see Gwen standing there amongst the women and raised a brow.

"No. I don't suppose you are." But she's not crying, or clutching a letter, so he takes it as good news. "Standing around here like this won't do you any good. Let me walk you home."

@chamberedbeauty