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chiacanwritesometimes · 4 days ago

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a soldier’s wishing star

⋆⁺₊⋆ ★ ⋆⁺₊⋆

ship: bucky barnes x oc

word count: 4.6k

author’s note: i had the pleasure of writing this for a friend’s oc! a bit of lore, her name is stella, and she was born out of a dying child’s wish. upon completion, her existence is threatened, as the universe sees no reason for her to stay. should she stay for her lover, or go through with her duty? spicy conflict 😛 if you have any questions, feel free to comment, and im sure she’ll answer any questions you might have! i had so much fun writing this, especially with my ex texting me, as that was a main motivator 🥰 without further ado, enjoy! (ps, italicized passages are flashbacks :) )

just for you, @vevanine <3

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it had been five years since he lost her; five years since his whole world ended, while the outside one moved on; five years since all that remained from her memory was a small wooden token. as he sat on his balcony, his thumb ran over the familiar grainy grooves of his star, a wishing star left by the one he loved. it was selfish, really- the way he resented the fact she sacrificed herself. his star. his wishing star.

when she died, or, rather, her body died, she exploded into a burst of light, a flash of small stars appearing everywhere. the explosion burned those who were close to her body. stars scratched his skin, branding imprints onto it; a faint reminder of the fact that she was real, she existed. her last breaths were spent explaining that to bring her back, the avengers needed to wish on their respective star, and she would appear. everyone took a vow to not use their star until absolutely necessary, due to the fact that it was a single use wish. it had been like that for years; steve was gone, tony was gone, nat was gone, thor was off planet, and everyone who had ever fought alongside her moved on- except him. it seems as if the world was wiped clean of her memory, as if all that she had given was small enough to be shrugged off. he resented that. he resented the world, the stars, the fact that she had to die.

he never failed to talk to her, though. every night, before going to sleep- that is, if he was able to get some- he would walk outside. regardless of the weather, he would sit out on his balcony, look up at the sky, and just speak. sometimes it was long paragraphs, other times it was a heavy sigh. he closed his eyes, opened his heart, and spoke.

———

on a calm and quiet evening, stella and bucky were stargazing. she knew the constellations like the back of her hand, and although he didn’t know much of what she was talking about, he always listened. on this particular evening, she seemed troubled. her sentences were short, her breath was long and calculated. as she laid next to him, she held his hand and ran her thumb across his knuckles. his hands were calloused, which upset her so. she could visualize the amount of pain needed to cause such hardened hands, and even if he never spoke of it, she knew a part of him still felt the wounds as if they were fresh. trying to get her mind out of dark thoughts, she asked him a question, interrupting the comfortable silence between them.

“do you ever think that the stars could listen?”

he took a minute to ponder her rather juvenile question.

“in what way?” he played along. she sensed he was teasing her, so she pinched his side.

“i’m being serious. do you think they look at us and, i don’t know…do something?” he paused.

“like…as if we’re their toys in a little sandbox?”

“yes.” he took a beat. he didn’t think it was all predetermined by a higher being, or rather, beings, but he did like to think there was someone up there.

“i’m sure they can listen. i don’t know if they choose to intervene, though.”

“hmm.” she hummed in response. she seemed to accept his answer, which eased him.

“if i ever become a star, i’d make sure to always listen to you.”

“doll, if you were a star, i think you would be too busy being light years away.”

“ha ha, bucky barnes.” she giggled, and leaned her head on his shoulder. it seemed like a memorized routine, a natural, comfortable one. many morning were spent gazing into each others eyes, many breakfasts spent over some silly conversation topic. though he was a man out of time, and she was, well, outside of time, it seemed only natural that it was meant to be. he held on to her smooth hands, baby soft compared to his rough hands. it calmed him to realize she didn’t experience what he has, and he felt like it was his duty to keep it that way.

suddenly, she sat up. her hand rushed to her forehead, and she winced. worried, he sat up and cradled her head.

“stardust, are you alright?” the nickname never failed to bring a smile to her face, a little pun about her origin.

“yes, i-“ she winced again. she curled up closer to his chest, as if to anchor herself from unknown pain. her hands were turning cold, seemingly out of nowhere. alarmed, he shook her from her trance. her eyes snapped back to focus on him, her eyebrows knitted in worry.

“talk to me.” he sounded scared, his usual reserved tone thrown out the window.

“it was…the council.” the council of all that was, all that had been, and all that will be. the council that put her there, the very same council that wants her out.

“no, stella. please, did you tell them no?” she wistfully smiled at him, knowing exactly what he was referring to. their time together had a limit, and that limit was approaching fast.

“my dear sargent, let’s not focus on what lies ahead.” small tears pricked at her eyes, and he tenderly wiped them away, careful not to mess with her makeup. he noticed the strap of her dress was falling, so he tentatively curled his fingers around it and fixed it for her. she hummed, a little surprised at the intimacy of his actions, and grabbed his hand. she placed a gentle kiss on it, leaving a small star impression, which glowed for a moment or two, then disappeared.

“i love it when you do that.” he smiled, his soft voice giving her butterflies.

“i don’t know what you mean.” she teased back, peppering more kisses on his hands.

———

he lost track of time. he didn’t often fall asleep outside, let alone when it’s cold. however, on this particular night, he just couldn’t bear anything. he stared at his little wooden star, his small reminder that he lost the love oh his life. angrily, he gripped the star with white knuckles, hoping to do something. break it? he wasn’t sure, all he knew is that whatever he was doing, it was working to alíviate the resentment. after he exhausted himself due to his anger, he sat down on his balcony and sighed. he leaned on his knees, blocking himself to the sights and sounds of his city.

“please…” he whispered to anybody who would listen. the star in his hand started glowing, eagerly listening to his words.

“please. i miss you.”

the star dissolved into little particles, similar to sand. he watched it slip through his hands, both metal and flesh, and watched as the only remnant of her existent fell through the rails of the fire escape. he blinked a couple times, incredulous of the fact that he just lost her, again. he waited for something to happen, he knew how much the universe loved its theatrics, but nothing happened. the sky didn’t light up, the ground didn’t shake, the stars didn’t speak. instead, he felt as if they were laughing at him.

———

after completing her glorious purpose, she grew ill, extremely ill; the kind of illness you can’t simply come back from. her body rejected food, rejected sleep, rejected the ability to stay alive. he spent every waking hour by her side, telling her about some new mission steve was embarking on, or some new recipe vision was attempting to create. he spoke and spoke about anything and everything, hoping the small increments of his life would increase hers.

in nature, the death of a star is called a supernova. supernovas are massive explosions that can outshine an entire galaxy, releasing a massive of energy and elements to space. his star, his beautiful stella, was dying in front of him- and there was nothing he could do about it.

the day came in which he realized she would not see another. she smiled to him, accepting her fate. she called upon to those who could attend, and explained what would happen after her parting. she advised them to leave her to die alone, for risk of harming them when she would pass on. of course, they didn’t oblige, which she was grateful for. it felt like time stood still when she was taking her last breaths, a smile gracing her tired features.

“ill be seeing you.” she said, a recall to one of their favorite songs.

suddenly, her body began to glow as she started to dissipate, her skin burning those who touched her. small stars started to shoot out, fizzing out on impact with the sterile, cold air. they hurt like crazy when touched, but he didn’t dare move from her side. the small stars cut his skin, leaving scars in their wake. he didn’t budge.

eventually, it all stopped. her bed was left empty, the imprint of her body still heavy on the sheets. all was gone, except for seven wooden stars and a note. the note read instructions on how to use the wishing stars, emphasizing that they were single use. he felt robbed.

“ill be seeing you, doll.”

———

frustrated, he walked inside his apartment. he shook his head, attempting to remove the foul memory of her death away. hot angry tears fell down his cheeks, but he didn’t care to supress them. he grabbed his coat, a pack of cigarettes, his house keys, and started walking out of his home, but not before giving a kiss goodbye to alpine, and telling her to guard the house. he walked and walked, reaching a small park a couple blocks away. he didn’t care to stop, but he knew he couldn’t walk too far from his home. with a heavy sigh, he sat on a bench. it was completely dark, aside from one dim lamp softly lighting the trees next to him. the small shadows cast on by the leaves left him focused on the pattern on the ground. he had stopped crying, but the pit in his stomach stayed. as if it had been ingrained into his muscle memory, he took out a cigarette and lit it. a small puff of smoke surrounded him, and he closed his eyes, lost in the trance of his poison of choice. he sucked in a breath, being mindful of the weight of the cigarette in his hand. he scanned his fingers, noting how the small scars of the stars left by her death were fading. he was gearing up to take another drag, when a small voice interrupted his train of thoughts.

“i never liked when you did that.” it was her voice, this he knew. however, as he frantically looked around, he couldn’t see her. bucky didn’t get hallucinations, but it felt that there was no other explanation for this.

“what’s it to you? you know it has no effect.” he softly spoke, scared to scare away the auditory illusion.

———

on a lazy afternoon, sometime in spring, she brought up the elephant in the room again. they were on his couch, her head leaning on his shoulder as they “watched” some random black and white movie. in reality, she was thinking very deeply about the near future, and he was thinking about her. he always thought about her, the way she felt under his touch, the way her eyes were so entrancing, the way her melodious voice could make anything sound interesting. he flippantly palmed a cigarette from the nearby table, and felt her stir as she heard the sparks from the lighter. she rarely hid her emotions, and this time was no different. her face turned into a soft frown, her delicate features turning slightly disappointed at his actions.

“i don’t like when you do that.” she spoke as he took a drag of his cigarette. of course, he thought she was talking about his smoking habits. she was, yes- but there was something else on her mind.

“star face, you know it has no effect on me.” he spoke as if his words were dancing out of his mouth, his face with a teasing expression. she rolled her eyes, but didn’t smile. his flirtatious attitude simmered, and he treaded carefully.

“stella?” there was a tension in the air. they both knew they weren’t talking about the cigarette.

“no.” she replied, firmly. he scoffed, and starting speaking.

“you promised we wouldn’t talk about it, so forgive me for thinking you were just talking about this-“ he started while motioning to the cigarette in hand, his tone trailing the thin line between frustration and betrayal.

“you have no right to judge me when you know- you know, what i have to do.”

“what if you don’t have to? what if-“

“you know there’s no other way. it’s my-“

“don’t you dare say duty. don’t say that word.” they spoke over one another, the pent up frustration over months of staying silent about this conversation suddenly bursting through their words.

“but it is.”

“there it is. you can’t force yourself to go through with this, you know. your life matters too.”

“more than everyone else’s?” he groaned as those words left her mouth. he knew there was no right way to answer that question.

“and what if i said yes? would that be so bad?”

“bucky, i can’t. it’s my duty, my obligation-“ she spoke with determination, but she knew that this decision would hurt both of them.

“am i selfish for wanting you to stay?” she clenched her jaw as he admitted his vulnerability.

“you’re not. i just…” she paused. she took a deep breath, recollecting herself.

“you and steve would say something to each other, correct?” he pressed his lips together, knowing what she was going to say next.

“i’ll be with you till the end of the line. right?” she continued as he stayed silent. he closed his eyes. he can’t hold it against her, it’s her whole reason of being alive. her ultimate sacrifice would mean the survival for everyone, including him.

“bucky, what if this-“

“don’t.” he interrupted quietly. he held her face, leaning his forehead against hers.

“please.” he begged, resigned.

“what if this is it? what if this is the end of the line?” she whispered, a small but noticeable quiver in her voice.

“you have no right to leave me, star.” there was no venom in his words, just defeat.

“you have no right to hinder my mission, soldier.” she smiled softly at him, their salty tears mixing together and staining her shirt, the damp material clinging to her skin.

“you’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he scoffed, a smile encroaching his face as well. he ran his fingers through her hair, and ran his thumb across her cheek as she leaned into his touch.

“you never fail to remind me.”

———

his tired eyes scanned his surroundings once again, trying to make her figure out of the darkness. he put out the cigarette butt with the palm of his metal hand, the hiss of the hot filter meeting the cold metal surrounding the space.

“doll, you said you’d always listen to me.”

“darling, i have been.”

he leaned his head back to the metal frame of the bench. with his eyes closed and his brows furrowed, he gently parted his lips. he exhaled a sigh, shaking his head slightly.

“you’re not real.” he managed to whisper.

“excuse me?”

“i said…” he started, opening his eyes and standing up.

“you’re not-“ he locked eyes with her. she was standing there, she was actually, genuinely, 100% there.

“real.” he added the last part in a hushed tone, his breath hitched as he took her sight in.

———

nights were spent in close proximity, usually with her curled up on top of him. without fail, he would caress her hair until she fell asleep, which never took too long. one summer night in particular was different.

he was humming to some lost melody of his past, and she was tracing the metal plates of his arm.

“darling?” she interrupted the comfortable silence. her voice was like honey to him, and his heart melted at her delicate tone.

“yes, my dear?” he let her get comfortable as she sat up, letting her hands guide his to her waist as she sat on his lap.

“when were you planning on telling me?” he blinked once, then twice. he tilted his head slightly, his parted lips showing that he was thinking over what she said.

“im sorry?”

“i was cleaning your desk today, and there was a box tucked away- terribly, might i add- in a corner.” he chuckled sheepishly at her dig of his hiding habits.

“did you…open it?” she shook her head.

“you know what’s in it.” he added, in a matter of factly tone.

“i do.”

“you weren’t supposed to see it, doll.”

“i know.” she smiled, pushing the strands of hair away from his face, his pink tinted cheeks growing warmer by the second.

“i didn’t want to scare you off…” he trailed as his eyes darted to the side.

“you wouldn’t. how long…how long have you known?”

“known?”

“that you were- um, ready.” he noticed a twing of nervousness in her voice.

“a month. or, maybe more. ive had the ring for a while.” he admitted, gaining enough courage to meet her eyes.

“right.”

“you?”

she took a moment to answer.

“a while.” she breathlessly chuckled as he took her hand, tracing her lines, her scars, and her palm.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered sweetly, placing a kiss on her hand.

“i was waiting for you to catch up.”

“right.” he chuckled as well. of course she wouldn’t make her sentiments known, she always left little clues as to what was on her mind. occasionally, it seemed as if she spoke in riddles, and he spent hours trying to piece her puzzle together.

“what now?” he locked eyes with her and asked. her cheeks were also tinted with a red hue, but she looked like she was glowing. everything about her was effervescent: her smile, her eyes, her hair. even in days where she was tired and clothed in old t-shirts, he still felt butterflies in his stomach when she would look his way.

“i think…and this is just a hunch-“ she giggled as he rolled his eyes. “i think you have to ask now.”

he took her sight in. his brain couldn’t possibly understand that someone loves him, like genuinely cares and appreciates him the way he always hoped for.

“stella…”

“yes?”

“is this real?”

———

he was frozen. the love of his life was in front of him, flesh and blood, star matter and star dust, and he was there, standing like an idiot. his breath quickened, and he dared not move, in case his hallucinations grew strong enough to become visual. she tentatively took a step forward, careful not to scare him off.

“bucky, i-“

she was cut off by him engulfing her in an overwhelming hug. sobs struck his body, and his legs gave up. he kneeled in front of her, not caring that he might be hugging her too hard.

“i didn’t- i thought- stella? i thought i would never see you again.” he managed to say through broken cries.

she hugged him back. of course, she hugged him back. five years she spent looking after him, looking after the sobs that filled the night, listening to his wants, his pains, his joys. she would respond, but he couldn’t listen to her voice. she would hold him, but he couldn’t feel her touch. occasionally, she would sing to him, songs of memories long ago. she was there, and he could touch her. she was there, and he could hear her. she was there, and he could breathe her in.

“i told you, sarg. i’d-“ she attempted to speak, but her own cries muffled her voice against his neck. “i said i’d be seeing you.”

———

bucky never wanted children. he felt that there were enough super soldiers in the world, and he didn’t want to risk adding to that population with his offspring. however, he couldn’t lie that there was a small feeling in the back of his mind when seeing fathers with their kids. he couldn’t brush off the daydream when looking at small baby clothes at a store, or seeing a mom pushing a stroller at the park. he never voiced his thoughts out loud, thinking that this topic was too…much. it wasn’t until him and stella were in bed one night that he brought up the notion.

“would you ever want-“

“kids?” she interrupted him, reading his face like a book.

“how did you know?”

“i may not be able to read your mind, bucky, but i can see the way you look at babies.” he hummed. maybe he wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought.

“well?”

“im unsure if i can have them.” she admitted. despite how serious the topic was, they seemed to be very casual in conversation.

“because…you’re a-“

“star.” she finished his sentence with him. despite her very human look, touch, and feel, she was very much not one. she chuckled a bit at the absurdity of how that sounded.

“i’m sure that i can get…you know, but i don’t know if i can…you know. carry it to term, or whatever.” she motioned as she spoke, her hands hovering over her stomach.

“i see.” he added. there was that, nothing else to add. he mentally shut that file and shoved it deep in his mind.

“do you resent that?” she asked, with a very neutral face. because of who they were, their conversations never danced around feelings, and they spoke very forward. he was grateful for this, because it seemed that they couldn’t take things the wrong way.

“pardon?”

“do you resent the fact that i can’t get…you know?” she blinked, her head tilted to her side. he noticed her eyebrows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“no, i don’t. and i mean, even if you could, i’m not sure the fetus could withstand the super soldier DNA.” he thought methodically. their terminology felt very clinical, but it seemed only appropriate.

“true, i didn’t even think of that.”

“so you have thought about it?”

“well, of course. it seemed like the natural next step.”

“mmm.” he hummed in acknowledgement. his hands naturally fell to the crook of her neck, where some strands of hair laid. he gently moved them, and started massaging that sweet spot close to her throat, noting how delicate she felt.

“if we could have them, though, i would love to have named one cass, or cassie.”

“after the constellation?”

“you know me so well.” she giggled, as he continued massaging her shoulder. she hummed in content, orienting herself close to him.

“i haven’t even thought of names, really.”

“just about having them?”

“yeah. i’m sure i would’ve just named one of them after steve.”

“one of them? how many were you thinking of having?” she chuckled, feeling grateful that this conversation was lighthearted, despite the deep sadness of not being able to have little ones.

“don’t judge?” he asked in a small voice, a smile overtaking his face as well.

“never.”

“maybe seven.”

“good lord-“ she exclaimed, smiling as he laughed gently.

“or six, you know. can’t have them getting lonely. plus if they got bullied in school, they have backup.”

“and you would know a lot about that.”

“yes, actually.” his face turned serious, which in turn, made her laugh harder. “if you thought steve needed backup, shit, i needed backup! you think it’s easy protecting some wimpy kid?”

“oh, my.” she grinned at him, taking his sight in. he was a gentle man, and a gentler lover.

“but since we can’t have them, at least we won’t have to worry about them getting beat up.”

“true.” she added, noting how there was some sadness behind his eyes.

“so…” he trailed off.

“we can get a cat.” she stated softly, taking his hand off of her shoulder and holding it. his eyes lit up.

“a cat?”

“sure! you mentioned you had a couple growing up, we can get one. or two, or-“

“seven.” he finished, chuckling with her.

“maybe just one.” she smiled, closing the space between them with a tender kiss.

———

she sat next to him on the bench. she hadn’t aged a single day, and her locks of hair fell perfectly on her shoulders, as if she was a painting of who she used to be.

“your hair is long.” she spoke, a sad smile appearing as she ran her fingers through his hair. he hadn’t been keeping up with his appearance, and he knew he looked a bit rough. however, he knew that she liked his hair long, so for years, he kept it that way.

“it is. yours isn’t.” he replied, star struck with the fact he could talk to her and have her respond in real time, in real life, in front of him.

“and i see you’ve kept the beard. you look so grown up.” she chuckled slightly, running a finger across his jaw, feeling the prickly hair tickle her.

“doll, how…how?” he interrupted her small talk.

“i don’t know. i’m just, here.” she stared wistfully at him.

“are you real?” he stared at her incredulous. there was a chance that he actually went completely off the rails, and his hallucinations grew stronger. she smiled softly.

“oh, my sargent.” she exclaimed softly, embracing him once more.

“i don’t know how long i have left.” his heart sank as she spoke.

“wait, you’re leaving again?”

“i don’t…i don’t know. i just got here, and-“

“i thought you could stay.” he added, defeatedly. she took a deep breath.

“just for tonight.” she smiled mournfully, meeting the eyes of her lover.

“and when i wake?”

———

bucky couldn’t sleep most nights. wether it be for the nightmares, or the fact that he thought that if he fell asleep and woke up, everything he had ever loved would be gone, and he would have lost 100 more years. as he stirred, she woke up.

“buck? are you alright?” sheepishly, he nodded, a bit embarrassed that he caused her to wake up.

“yeah, i just-“ he was interrupted by her wiping away a tear.

“you’re crying.”

“oh. i guess, i was. i’m sorry.” he said softly, his eyebrows furrowing. he didn’t realize he was crying, and he cleared his throat.

“nonsense. maybe it was a bad dream.”

“maybe.”

“you have a lot of bad dreams.” she wasn’t asking, merely stating. her bluntness humored him a bit, and he smiled.

“i do.”

“if you have one, i’ll make sure to wake you.”

“right. thank you, sweets.” she nodded and placed a small kiss on his cheek.

“and…” he started.

“and?” she repeated.

“and when i wake?”

———

“and when you wake, i’ll be here.” she smiled fondly, taking his hand, and placing it on her chest.

“i’ll always be here.”

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes hc #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky fanfic #chiawrites🕯️#bucky barnes x oc #oc #bucky mcu #mcu oc #bucky x oc #bucky barnes x original female character

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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im just thinking about the fact that bucky probably can’t easily text on a normal touch screen phone because of his metal hand LMFAOOOOOO

#THIS IS SO SAD #BUT SO FUCKING FUNNY TO ME #LIKE IMAGINE HIM TEXTING SAM OR SOMETHING #AND IT TAKES HIM AGES #BECAUSE HE CAN ONLY TEXT WITH HIS RIGHT HAND #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes hc #james bucky buchanan barnes

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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guess i’m writing a 65k fic now 😇

spin this wheel for a length of fic. you have to write a fic that length

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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Bucky would be such a little shit when it comes to your things.

There’s always you stealing his things but what about the other way around. Sure, you love his henleys, but what about that one shirt that you bought two years ago- three sizes too big- and it fits him so well.

He says he isn’t a thief but that would be beyond a lie, he spends his nights whilst you're asleep picking out what he can take with you minimally noticing. It starts off as a game to see how annoyed you could actually get - a box of tissues, a small hand mirror, a mug, your calendar, but it quickly evolves into him just taking all your things.

Your clothes, well, if he could wear them, then it’s great and if not, he folds everything so very neatly and puts it in a drawer- well not it’s yours.

In the beginning your confused, maybe this is some sort of a possessive type thing- he wants to take all your things, claim them and you along with them. But then you see light when you wake up in his room one day and he suggests you get ready there instead of doing the little walk of shame back to your room.

And you look at him like wtf how would you get ready if there’s nothing you have there- and then he opens the drawer. Everything’s neat and tidy, a vast difference to his clothes which are usually organised in some sort of decipherable chaos, screen up along the floor, half hanging from chairs.

You realised quickly that the toothbrush that went missing a little while ago now sits behind the tap, waiting for it’s owner. Or your comfy hoodie that went missing but you’d never seen him wear was seemingly ready for you to claim it.

Bucky had been slowly moving all your stuff into his room.

When you bring it up, he shrugs, saying it felt better to have a bit of you with him always, and he moved on quickly upon naming it ‘our’ room instead of just his. You however waited on that, freezing as his hands wrapped around your back, pulling you into his chest while you stared at the organising skills he apparently reserved for your things only.

Upon looking down, you noticed the sleeve of his shirt once again wasn’t his, but another one of yours and you couldn’t hold back your smirk.

You repeated ‘our’ back to him with a smile, voice low as he kissed your cheek. If his hair had been shorter you’d be able to spot the red tips of his ears as he hummed.

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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Reblog for a miracle to happen tonight

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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👾 Gaming Headcanons for Bucky Barnes 🎮

I feel Bucky would love to play games, like video games, card games, board games but not mind games.

Like he would play DnD for sure, I think he would definitely try a lot of the classes and races to pick his favorite. Roping Steve and Nat to play along with him, Thor and Rocket. He would totally play Baldur's Gate series as sure he could just start with BG3 like a lot of people but he felt to truly understand the game he would need to play the whole series. Though Bucky isn't one to be too snobby about the way he games, he just enjoys his hobbies to the full extent specially after all he's been through. (Totally romances Astarion or Karlach)

I think he would also like a lot of the idle games to relax and let his mind wander. He would try FPS games like Fortnite and the the such but he finds it's too triggering and just a bit too much work.

If the game has a good story line he can be drawn in, falling in love with Skyrim, Fable, Dragon Age, he'll spend hours in a good RPG. He'll spend hours in character creation for the best looking character who has the best back story as even if the game doesn't have options he always has an indepth back story.

Games like Minecraft are fine as long as he has an objective otherwise he's unsure what to do and just wanders around.

When Bucky has a game series he's a fan of he's been known to search out the rare collectibles for them. He enjoys it when games come out with trading cards and booklets of concept art.

Bucky's console choice is PC or his phone as it seemed to be the most practical choice. His PC was built by Sam, he states that even "Henry Cavill would be proud of the build." Bucky had to google why it was significant, to his computer build. Using an Xbox controller as sometimes the keyboard and mouse was a bit much.

Bucky enjoys board games he's been known to go to a gaming den and book a session. He's currently in the middle of a campain of Small World, he plays on the weekends when he has the time. Alpine always joins him curled up on his lap or on his shoulders, sharing the snacks while contemplating his next move.

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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the way i didn’t know you were following me before this 🥹 im so happy to have made mutuals through bucky 🥰

Bucky Barnes x Reader

The Stranger That Knows Me Best is a heartfelt story about connection, vulnerability, and taking chances on the unexpected. Through letters and shared experiences, two introverts discover that sometimes, the person who understands you best is the one you’ve never met.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: none really, mostly fluff and some angst

Masterlist

The first letter arrives on a Monday, stuck between a credit card offer and a pizza coupon. You stare at the plain envelope for a moment, debating whether to open it right away or let it sit on top of the unopened pile stacked up on the kitchen table. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be holding it if Wanda hadn’t forced you to sign up for this pen pal thing.

“It’ll be fun!” she exclaimed as she leaned dramatically across your desk while you tried to study. “You need to talk to someone who’s not me for a change. And how exciting to meet someone across the country!”

You rolled your eyes at her and muttered something about spam emails and book characters being more your speed. But she was insistent. “Imagine it. Getting to know someone without all the noise of social media. Just words. Just paper. It’ll be good for you.”

Now, standing in the kitchen, envelope in hand, you weren’t sure if she’d done you a favor or set you up for the most awkward exchange of your life. The return address displays Brooklyn, New York, in handwriting so neat it almost looks printed.

On the other side of the country, Bucky sits at a worn, small kitchen table in his tiny Brooklyn apartment, mouth turned down at the envelope in his hands. His roommate and best friend, Sam, somehow roped him into this, using every trick in the book to sign him up.

“You’re too serious all the time,” Sam teased. “You need to lighten up, meet new people or at least, like, write to one person.”

“I meet people,” Bucky muttered, already regretting the argument.

Sam laughed. “Right. The way you avoid everyone at parties? Sure, bud.”

And now here he is, a couple of weeks later, holding a letter from some stranger in Oregon and wondering if Sam had a point. Bucky has never been good at opening up, not even with people he knew. The idea of putting his thoughts down on paper for some stranger to read made him uneasy. But at the same time there was a comfort in only writing–no faces, no judgments, just words.

The truth is, Bucky doesn’t have a clue what to say or where to start. He agreed to this so Sam would get off his back about meeting new people. Bucky is tired of the monotonous routine of the same frat parties every week. How is he supposed to get to know someone through blasting music and dozens of beers? He’s never been a fan of crowds or casual conversations.

Maybe that’s why he’d said yes when Sam showed him the ‘Around The World’ pen pal website. To meet someone genuinely and in the most organic way his social anxiety will let him.

You sit down at your kitchen table, coffee growing cold as you carefully peel open the envelope. The paper inside is simple, lined like the kind from a spiral notebook. Nothing fancy, just a letter. The words on the page surprisingly feel honest.

Hey, I’m not sure how to start this. I guess an introduction is a good place? My name’s Bucky. Well, technically, it’s James, but no one calls me that. I signed up for this because a friend of mine said I should give it a shot. I don’t know if I’m good at writing letters, but I figure it can’t hurt to try. So, uh… hi.

Somehow Bucky’s awkward words bring a faint smile to your lips which makes you feel a little less self-conscious about your first letter.

Meanwhile, Bucky unfolds his letter in the quiet of his apartment, reading the loopy handwriting of his mystery pen pal.

Hi, I guess this is the part where I tell you about myself? My name’s Y/N, and I live in Oregon. Honestly, I signed up for this because my best friend wouldn’t let it go. She thought it would be fun, and I figured… why not? So here I am. I’m not sure what else to say yet, but I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, almost smiling. There’s something disarming about the tone, like you are just as uncertain about this as he is.

Neither of you expected much from those first letters, just a few introductory words sent across the miles. But as you sit at your table, thinking about what to write back, you start to feel something you haven’t felt in a long time: curiosity.

And across the country, Bucky feels the same.

Only a week later, the third letter arrives with something extra—a pressed flower, its petals delicate and pale blue. It slips out from the folded paper and lands softly in your lap.

I found this on a walk and thought it was too pretty to leave behind. Don’t ask me what kind it is, I’m terrible at flowers. But it made me think of something you might like.

You smile, gently picking up the flower and holding it up to the light. The sunlight streaming through your living room window turns the petals almost translucent. It feels strange, how something so small can carry so much meaning. In this moment, it wasn’t just a flower, it’s a glimpse into how Bucky sees beauty in the world.

You tuck the flower carefully into the pages of your journal, pressing it between the lines of a half-finished poem you have been struggling to complete. Somehow, it seems to fit perfectly there, like it has been waiting for you to give it a new story.

You pick up a new blank page, finding yourself writing more freely than you had before. You practically spill out everything you’re thinking at the moment. You tell him about the books piled on your desk, the way your apartment smells like coffee and your favorite hazelnut candle, how the flower petal reminds you of a poem you read recently for class. You include a few lines of said poem on a piece of homemade paper you created a few days ago (a skill you learned from a YouTube video), a small gift in return for his.

Evening light slants through Bucky’s half closed bedroom window as he opens your next letter.

A muted tone bookmark slips out first.

I thought you might need this for all your textbooks. Kinesiology sounds intense, so hopefully this will help keep your place when you’re too tired to keep going.

He turns the bookmark over in his hands, studying the intricate design—a swirl of blues and greens, almost like a wave frozen mid-motion. It’s sturdy, practical, and yet oddly personal in a way that catches him off guard. In both of your previous letters, you learned about each other's majors.

Bucky is studying Kinesiology and you, creative writing and English literature.

He glances at his own textbooks scattered across his desk, a half-empty mug of tea sitting close to the edge. The long nights spent studying, the endless diagrams of muscles and tendons, the impending need to study for an upcoming test overwhelming his mind.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but it feels nice to be thought of.

Bucky pulls out the old cigar box he keeps on his bookshelf, the one where he stashes little things that matter—ticket stubs, Polaroids, a dried four-leaf clover. Carefully, he places the bookmark inside, alongside the growing pile of letters.

Later, as he writes his reply, he mentions how the bookmark reminds him of summers at the beach when he was a kid.

My mom used to drag me and my sister there every weekend. I pretended to hate it, but I think I loved it more than I let on. The waves were calming, you know? Kind of like the way your letter felt. Thanks for that.

He hesitates for a moment before folding the letter, then slips a small photo inside, an old snapshot of his hometown beach at sunset. He doesn’t remember exactly when he took it, but it felt like the right thing to share.

As he seals the envelope, his smile grows. A private gesture that no one else besides Sam usually sees. For the first time in a long time, the act of sharing doesn’t feel so hard.

Did you ever climb trees as a kid? There was this big oak in my backyard growing up. I used to climb all the way to the top, even though my mom always yelled at me for it. There was this one branch that stuck out just right, and I’d sit there for hours. It was the one place I felt like I could breathe.

When you read his words, something clicks in your memory. The reminder of your grandmother’s magnolia tree comes flooding back. Its branches were low and sturdy, perfect for climbing, and the flowers always smelled faintly sweet, even when they were just starting to bloom. That tree had been your secret world, a place where you could escape everything else and just… be.

You respond, telling about your afternoons of sitting in the tree with a journal, scribbling drawings and stories no one else has ever seen.

It was the first place I felt like I could dream. Funny how trees do that for you too, huh?

Bucky leans back on his couch as he reads about your memory. He hasn’t thought about that tree in years, not since it was cut down after a bad storm. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the texture of the rough bark under his fingers and how the world seemed so small from up there.

That night, instead of going straight to bed, Bucky finds himself sitting by the window, staring out at the sparse trees lining the streets below. The city doesn’t have the same kind of quiet his backyard had back then, but his memory of that oak tree now feels like it was something he could reach out and touch.

Your conversations about trees continues. In your next letter, you mention how you used to take a backpack filled with snacks and book up into the magnolia tree, like you were setting off for some great adventure. You confess how you fell asleep up there one afternoon and scared your grandmother half to death when she couldn’t find you.

Bucky’s laughter fills his bedroom as he reads that part, trying to put a face to you as he imagines that scene play out.

I used to stash stuff up there too. Snacks, comics, even a pair of binoculars I borrowed from my grandpa. It felt like my own little hideout, you know? Like the world couldn’t touch me when I was up there.

As the letters went on, the conversations turned into something deeper. You start talking about the feeling of having a place to escape, a space where the world feels manageable. For Bucky, it used to be the oak tree and now the gym, where he can lose himself in the rhythm of movement and focus. For you, it’s always been words—books, notebooks, even napkins when nothing else was around.

Do you ever feel like you’re still climbing? Like you’re still looking for a branch high enough to sit on, where you can finally just… breathe?

Bucky stares at that question for a long time.

Yeah. But sometimes I wonder if I’m looking in the wrong places. Maybe the branch isn’t what I need anymore. Maybe it’s just knowing there’s someone out there who gets it.

When you read those words it’s like the miles between you two has gotten a little smaller.

You must write a lot for your classes. Creative writing sounds… intimidating, honestly. I don’t think I could do it. I’m better with structure, you know? I like knowing how things work, how muscles move, how the body functions. It feels concrete, there’s always an answer.

You giggle at his admission. It’s not the first time you’ve heard that writing seems almost impossible to accomplish but to you, it’s almost the easiest but scariest thing in the world.

Concrete sounds nice. Writing feels like a brewing storm you can see from hundreds of miles away but as it creeps closer the weight of what to do next has you frozen on the spot. It’s easy in the sense of how subjective it is and everyone always has something to say. The scary part is being brave enough to expel your own thoughts or imagination for the world to have an opinion on. But I can’t imagine kinesiology being any easier. Do you ever feel like you’re carrying too much? Like the weight of learning all this stuff about the human body just… piles up?

Bucky nods to himself as he reads, his pen pausing above the paper. He hasn’t told anyone, but sometimes, the pressure of being in his program is overwhelming—the constant exams, the endless memorization, the unshakable feeling that one mistake could mean letting someone down in the future.

Yeah, it gets heavy sometimes. But I think about what it’s all for, and it makes it easier to keep going. What about you? What keeps you writing?

When you read his question, you stop to think. What keeps you inspired? The answer seems obvious–it was just something that came naturally to you, from a young age. But the longer you sit and dive deeper into his question, the harder it is to really put it into words.

Because I don’t know who I am without it.

You didn’t expect those words to carry a weight you didn’t know you have been holding.

It’s not always easy, though. Writer’s block isn’t some fantastical word people use as an excuse. It’s brutal. Trying to put the right words in the right order drives me crazy most of the time. But even when it’s hard, it’s the only thing that makes me feel like… me, if that makes sense.

Bucky thinks about how he feels when he is at the gym, or working with the human anatomy models in class. He doesn’t always love the grind of school, but there’s something about the act of moving, of learning how things worked, that makes him feel like he is on solid ground. He taps his pen against the table, thinking before continuing his next letter.

That makes a lot of sense, actually. I don’t know if I feel the same way about kinesiology, but I get what you mean about needing something to hold on to. For me, it’s movement. It sounds weird, but when I’m working out or studying how the body works, I don’t feel as… stuck, I guess. Like I’m figuring out the puzzle one piece at a time. And yeah, sometimes the puzzle sucks, but I think that’s just part of it.

He hesitates before adding:

Do you ever feel like writing is your way of figuring yourself out? Like it’s not just about telling a story, but about finding pieces of yourself you didn’t even know were missing?

His question lingers in your mind for days. It isn’t something you’d ever admitted to yourself, let alone anyone else, but he’s right. Writing isn’t just about creating, it’s about uncovering.

You write back:

All the time. It’s like every time I write something, I leave a little piece of myself on the page, but I also find something new. It’s terrifying sometimes, to feel so exposed, but I think that’s why I can’t stop. It’s the only way I know how to make sense of the world and myself. What about you? Does movement ever feel like that for you? Like it’s not just physical, but… more?

Bucky’s next letter was slower this time, but when it arrives, it’s longer than usual.

Yeah, I think it does. I never thought about it like that before, but now that you mention it, maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to it. When I’m moving—running, lifting, even just walking—it’s like the noise in my head quiets down. I don’t have to think about everything all at once. It’s just me and my body, and for a little while, that’s enough.

He pauses, then adds:

I think that’s why I want to help people. I want to give them that same feeling, like they’re not trapped in their bodies, but free because of them. Maybe that’s the piece of myself I’m trying to figure out.

With his next letter, Bucky includes a small, fraying string bracelet. It’s clearly worn from age, some threads are thinner than others, and a few have almost completely unraveled.

I used to wear this all the time as a kid. It’s nothing special just something a friend gave me back when life was simpler. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years, but I figured maybe it’s time it meant something to someone else.

You hold the delicate bracelet, running your fingers over the worn strings. The softness of the fibers and each fray holding a story Bucky hasn’t shared yet. There’s a weight to it, not in size, but in meaning. The way he decided to pass it down to you. It makes you think of the small tokens you’ve saved over the years–notes from old friends, concert tickets, friendship bracelets–those scraps are pieces of who you are, fragments of a past you’ll never be ready to let go of.

You didn’t want to just thank him for the token. It deserves more than that.

You decide to package a worn, dog-eared paperback book, edges wrinkled from the years of being opened and reread. It’s one of many copies of Pride & Prejudice you have. The first book that made you fall in love with writing. You can remember all the late nights you spent highlighting lines, making notes in the margins.

This was the first book that made me want to be a writer. It’s been sitting on my shelf for years, and I think it’s time someone else enjoys it. Maybe it’ll mean something to you too.

You hesitate for a moment, a knot swirling in your stomach. It was something small, seemingly insignificant but also personal. The book was more than a vintage piece of writing. It’s a piece of your past, something that has shaped who you are.

Bucky opens the package carefully, turning the book over in his hands. It looks like it’s been loved, its pages soft and curling at the corners. He can tell it’s been read over and over again.

He smiles genuinely. He’s never been a huge reader—always preferred the practicality of learning from textbooks or manuals—but this book makes him grateful to have a part of your world that you’re willing to share with him.

Bucky flips to the first page, the ink of your handwriting spells out a note ‘I hope this means something to you’

With a sigh, Bucky carefully places the book beside his bed. He’ll start reading it soon, maybe later tonight. There’s something comforting about knowing that, through these letters and small tokens, you are building something real, something that isn’t defined by distance or time, but by the simple act of sharing.

I’ll start reading it tonight. I can’t promise I’ll be as into it as you are, but I think it already means something to me. That bracelet I sent you, it isn’t just a piece of string. It's a piece of me, one I wasn’t sure how to share until now. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years, but I’m glad you’re the one who has it now.

He folds the letter and slips it into the envelope, sealing it with the same quiet smile that has been creeping into his letters more often.

Over the next few weeks, your letters became less about what you both do in a day and more about the things that have shaped you. Bucky told you about him joining his school's track team and local races all the kids in the neighborhood would have every summer. You told him stories about how you would write stories for your stuffed animals and act them out alone in your childhood room.

With each letter, it’s become harder to imagine not knowing Bucky, who in so many ways, is still a stranger. But also the one person in the world you feel free enough to share parts of you that you can’t with the closest people you see daily.

Your heart clenches at Bucky’s next admission:

It’s not that I don’t like people, but it’s like there’s this invisible wall between me and them. Like I’m always watching, but never quite part of it.

You couldn’t write that feeling any better.

I guess I’ve always been more comfortable in other people’s worlds than my own. Books made sense when nothing else did. I could lose myself in them and forget everything else—even for just a little while.

One day, his letter comes with a sketch tucked between the pages. It’s rough, the kind of drawing someone might do absentmindedly, but it has this subtle energy to it. It’s a street corner in Brooklyn with buildings stacked close together, fire escapes twisting up their sides like veins.

You’d like Brooklyn. There’s something about it, almost restless but steady at the same time. The city’s always moving, but if you look close enough, there are these little pockets of stillness. I think you’d find it inspiring.

You could almost imagine it. The sounds of the city, how different the air might feel. You’ve never been to the east coast. Your finger traces over the sketch, admiring the little piece of Bucky’s city he offers you.

That night, you feel inspired. You pull out an old journal and try to put words to his drawing. Imagining what Brooklyn must feel like, blending his description with your own ideas. You aren’t sure how cohesive your stream of thoughts are but you don’t take time to edit it. You rip the page out and fold in, slipping it in with your letter.

When Bucky opens the envelope and finds your poem, he reads it twice, then a third time, trying to imagine his own city through your eyes. You make Brooklyn feel less gray and crowded. As he sits by his favorite coffee shop window, he draws another sketch of what’s in front of him, he even includes a sticker the shop sells.

Your letters have become a map of sorts. A shared exploration of places neither of you have been to but can picture so vividly because of each other’s words. You print a picture of your favorite spot back home, a cliff overlooking the ocean where you’d sit for hours.

Writing on the back of the photo: The kind of place that makes you feel small but full of light.

In his reply, Bucky describes a park in his neighborhood where he goes for runs when he needs to clear his head.

There’s this one bench under an old sycamore tree. Sometimes I stop there and just sit for a while, watching people go by. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet. Peaceful.

With every letter, the walls between you seem to shrink. And yet, there’s still so much you don’t know about each other, so many questions left unspoken, fears left unsaid. Would the connection you’d built survive outside the pages of these letters? Or was it something that only made sense in this space you’d created?

You’re sprawled across the couch in your shared apartment, a blanket draped over your legs as Wanda flips through a magazine on the other end. The soft glow of fairy lights makes the room feel cozy, even as the stack of textbooks and your half-drunk coffee mug on the table scream anything but relaxation.

“You’ve been smiling at that piece of paper for ten minutes,” Wanda says, not even looking up.

You glance down at the letter in your hands, catching yourself before you grin again. “No, I haven’t.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. “You totally have. That’s a ‘someone special wrote me something adorable’ smile if I’ve ever seen one.”

“It’s not like that,” you mumble, though your cheeks are already heating up.

Wanda scoots closer, pulling the letter out of your hands before you can stop her. She scans it, her face softening as she reads. “‘You’d like Brooklyn. There’s something about it—restless but steady at the same time.’” She looks up, her expression a mix of curiosity and teasing. “Okay, first of all, swoon. Second, who is this guy, and why haven’t you told me everything about him yet?”

You groan, snatching the letter back and holding it to your chest. “He’s just my pen pal. You know, from that website you made me sign up for.”

“I strongly encouraged you,” Wanda says with a smirk. “And clearly, I was right. You like him.”

“It’s not like that,” you repeat, but even you don't seem to believe your words. “We just… get each other. Like, in a way no one else does. It’s hard to explain.”

Wanda grins, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Oh, it’s not hard at all. You’re totally falling for him.”

You roll your eyes but can’t deny it. Because maybe, she’s right.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, the photograph of the cliffside you sent him in his hands. His thumb traces the edges of the picture absently, his eyes fixed on the jagged rocks and the expanse of sky above them. Sam sprawls in the armchair across the room, one foot lazily rests over the armrest. The faint sounds of the video he’s watching on his phone fills the room.

“Is that the photo your pen pal sent you?” Sam asks, nodding toward it.

Bucky glances up, startled slightly. “Uh, yeah.”

Sam smirks. “You’ve been staring at it for, like, twenty minutes, man. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugs, setting it carefully on the nightstand. “She said it’s her favorite spot near where she grew up. Told me she used to sit there when she needed to clear her head. I don’t know—it’s just… personal, you know?”

“Yeah, it sounds like it,” Sam sits up a little. “So, what? You’re into her now?”

“She’s just my pen pal,” Bucky sounds unconvinced by himself.

Sam laughs, leaning back again. “Don’t even try it. I know that look. It’s the same one you had when you started watching that baking show and tried to convince me it was just for the ‘techniques.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not like that,” he mutters. “She’s just… easy to talk to. Like, I don’t have to explain everything, you know? She just gets it.”

“Yeah, you sound totally detached,” Sam’s grin widens.

Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a pillow at him. “Shut up, man.”

But as he picks the photo up again, studying the way the sunlight played across the rocks and the faint edge of the ocean in the distance, he knows Sam isn’t entirely wrong.

The next morning, you’re sitting at your desk, chewing on the end of a pen as Wanda brushes her hair in the mirror.

“So, what’s his name?” she asks casually.

“Bucky,” you say before you realize.

Wanda freezes mid-brush. “Bucky? That’s his real name?”

You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “Technically James but he prefers Bucky.”

“Okay, first of all, iconic. Second of all, why aren’t you, like, booking a flight to meet him?”

You look at her shocked. “Because that’s not how this works.”

Wanda frowns, turning to face you. “That’s so stupid. What if he’s your soulmate or something?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

But later, as you reread his latest letter, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like to meet in person.

Meanwhile, Bucky is walking to class with Sam, the book tucked under his arm.

“So what’s her deal?” Sam asks.

“She’s a writer,” Bucky says. “Creative writing and English lit major.”

Sam whistles. “Damn. She sounds deep. You sure you can keep up?”

Bucky smirks. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”

But as he heads into class, flipping open the book to one of your underlined passages, he knows he’s not fooling anyone—not even himself.

I know this pen pal, letter sending thing is supposed to hold some kind of anonymity but sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to meet you. Don’t worry—I’m not suggesting anything crazy. It’s just… you’re such a big part of my life now, and it’s weird to think I wouldn’t even recognize you if I passed you on the street. I’d probably walk right by and never know.

Bucky pauses as he writes his next letter, staring at the words he’s written, debating whether to cross them out. Instead, he adds more

Have you ever thought about it? What would it be like if this wasn’t just on paper?

When you read his words, something inside you shifts. Of course you’ve thought about it too—what his voice sounds like, what kind of expression he wears when he writes to you.

Sometimes, I imagine what it’d be like to meet you too. It feels strange to think about, like breaking some kind of rule we’ve been following for three months. But if I’m honest, yeah, I’ve thought about it. More than once.

You hesitate, chewing on the end of your pen before adding:

What if we start small? Like a phone call? It’s not the same as meeting, but maybe hearing your voice wouldn’t feel so strange. What do you think?

Bucky sits with your letter in his hands, rereading your suggestion. A phone call. He’s thought about hearing your voice before, but seeing it written makes it real in a way he hadn’t expected.

A phone call sounds… terrifying, if I’m honest. But also kind of exciting? I mean, I want to hear what you sound like. I want to know if the way you talk matches the way you write. If you’re sure, let’s do it. Just don’t laugh if I sound awkward—I’m not great at this kind of thing.

You’ve never been good with phone calls. Honestly, you surprised yourself when you offered the suggestion to Bucky along with your phone number. But, knowing that Bucky feels similar, eases some of the nerves.

When the time comes, you sit on your bed with your phone clutched in your hand, nerves fluttering in your stomach. You exchanged numbers in the last letter, but staring at his name in your contacts feels surreal. After a few deep breaths, you hit the call button.

“Hello?” His voice was quiet, a little hesitant.

“Hi,” you respond, smiling even though he can’t see it. “It’s me.”

Bucky let out a small laugh. “Hey. This is… weird, right?”

“Yeah, but in a good way.”

There’s a moment of quiet, the kind that might feel awkward with anyone else, but with Bucky, it’s comfortable. Like the pauses in his letters, deliberate and thoughtful, holding space for meaning.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually call,” Bucky admits. “Not that I thought you wouldn’t. I just… I don’t know. It’s different hearing someone’s voice after reading their words for so long.”

“I know what you mean,” you reply, tucking your legs under you. “It feels like meeting you all over again, in a way.”

He hums in agreement, and you try to picture what he looks like by his voice. “So… what’s new?”

You laugh at the simplicity of the question, but it’s grounding in a way. “Not much. I’m still fighting my way through this writing project for class. I swear, my professor has a personal vendetta against me.”

“Or they just know you’re good at it and want to push you,” Bucky offers, his tone lighter now. “You ever think about that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“What’s the project about?”

“Character studies,” you reply, leaning back against the pillows. “Creating these detailed backstories for characters we’ve made up. It’s harder than I thought it’d be.”

“I bet you’re great at it,” the sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you say softly, caught off guard by his compliment.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, phone balanced against his ear, a faint smile tugging at his lips as you tell him story of the stay cat you see everyday on your way home from class. “So, what’s the cat’s name?”

“I don’t know. He’s not mine—he just hangs out around my apartment building. But I’ve been calling him Poe.”

“Poe, like the writer?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course,” Bucky chuckles. “I should’ve guessed.”

“What about you? What’s new in your world?”

“Honestly? Not much. Sam tried to make lasagna last night. I’m pretty sure he invented a new species of food poisoning instead.”

You laugh loudly, the sound hitting a spot in his chest unexpectedly. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” he says, grinning. “I think the smoke alarm’s still traumatized.”

The conversation drifts, covering everything and nothing at once. You talk about your classes, your friends, your routines. He tells you more about his favorite places in Brooklyn, the way the city feels alive even when he feels anything but.

And soon, the nerves melt away completely, replaced by the same ease you’ve always feel through his letters.

“You know,” Bucky says after a long pause, “I think I like this. Talking to you.”

Your heart skips at his words, and you’re grateful he can’t see the flush creeping up your face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “It’s nice. Like… you’re real now. Not just words on a page.”

You smile, staring up at your bedroom ceiling. “I like it too.”

When your call ends two hours later, you sit for a moment, staring at your phone. The world feels quieter, smaller, like it doesn’t quite matter as much.

And on the other side of the country, Bucky feels the same, staring at your name in his recent calls and wonders how someone so many miles away feels closer than ever.

What started as one phone call quickly became a routine.

Some nights, you call Bucky while sitting at your desk, the sound of his voice filling the quiet as you work on an assignment. He talks about his latest lecture or the annoying guy in his study group, and you share stories about your professor’s dramatic poetry readings or the characters in the story you were writing.

“You have a nice laugh,” he compliments, during a late-night call. “It’s different than I imagined, but in a good way. I like it.”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile tugging at your lips. “I think you’re the first person to ever say that.”

“Well, I mean it. You have a good laugh. It makes everything sound less… heavy, you know?”

You sit back in your chair, glancing at the screen of your laptop, but your focus is entirely on the phone now. “I guess I could use a little less heaviness. Especially with my current assignment. I swear, my professor’s idea of ‘creativity’ is to make us write the most pretentious stuff imaginable.”

“I think every professor thinks they’re shaping the next great mind,” Bucky states. “Mine’s the same. My last one made us analyze a yoga position and turn it into a thesis. Like, what is this, ��Kinesiology 101: Zen and the Art of Muscle Movement’?”

You giggle at the absurdity of it. “That’s both weird and kind of genius. Imagine doing that for one of my stories. The whole plot could be a yoga class, but with a secret mystery and forbidden love.”

“Now that’s a story I’d read,” Bucky jokes. “But seriously, I get it. It’s like they try to make everything sound deep and philosophical when sometimes… it’s just about getting through the day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you agree, tapping your pen against the desk. “But hey, at least we’re doing something we enjoy, right? Writing, studying—whatever it is, it keeps us busy.”

“Yeah, but I think what really keeps me going is knowing that there’s more to it. I’m not just learning about muscles or how to help people move. It’s like a way of understanding how everything fits together—how the body moves, how it heals, and maybe even… why it breaks down in the first place.”

“I get that. For me, it’s the stories. I want to figure out why people do what they do, what drives them. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to find the puzzle pieces and just waiting to put them together.”

“And when you do?” Bucky wonders, tone softer now.

“When I do…” You trail off, unsure of how to explain the feeling. “I think that’s when everything clicks. Like, the world makes sense, even if just for a moment.”

“I think that’s the best part of what we’re doing,” he adds thoughtfully. “Trying to understand how we all fit together in this world. You know, why we’re here.”

Another comfortable pause stretches between you.

“You know, sometimes I wish I could just leave all the work behind and go somewhere. Take a break from everything, just for a little while. Do something completely different.”

“Yeah, I get that. I think I’d like to go somewhere quiet. Maybe a cabin in the woods, or… a secluded beach. Somewhere I could just… breathe.”

“That sounds perfect,” he agrees. “No expectations. Just… space. Maybe one day we’ll both get to do it.”

You smile at the thought, imagining the peace that comes with leaving everything behind, even if just for a few days. “Maybe one day.”

Even without the ability to see one another, to meet face-to-face, you’ve found a space where you belong, right here with Bucky, in this quiet corner of the world you’ve created together.

The phone calls haven’t replaced the letters; if anything, they made them more special. You still send small items tucked into the envelopes, like pressed flowers you found on a walk or the postcard from a local bookshop with a note scribbled on the back: ‘This place feels like it belongs to you.’

Bucky sends things, too—a tiny seashell he’d found on a rare trip to the beach with Sam, one of his favorite protein bars (“I’m convinced these are the only reason I survive exams”), or a handwritten note on the back of a kinesiology diagram he thought you’d find funny.

I’m glad we started talking on the phone. It’s weird, but I don’t think I realized how much I needed it.

The next time Bucky’s name appears on your phone, you find yourself talking for hours, the way you always do. Bucky tells you about a new project he’s working on for class and you share the struggles of keeping up with your creative writing assignments. You laugh together about how you’ve both procrastinated on something important, even though you know you’re going to pull through in the end.

“You know,” Bucky says, his voice a little softer now, “I never really realized how much I needed to hear from someone like you. It’s just… easy, you know? Talking to you.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I feel the same. I didn’t know I could talk to someone this much without feeling like I’m overdoing it.”

There’s a silence for a moment, and then Bucky’s voice comes through, more vulnerable. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like if we could meet in person? Like… I don’t know, maybe take a trip or something?”

Your heart skips a beat. You hadn’t expected the question, but it feels like it’s been lingering there for a while. “Yeah,” you reply slowly. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about what it’d be like to actually meet you. Maybe we could go to that bookshop you told me about, or that café you go to all the time.”

“I think that would be nice,” Bucky agrees, mentally curating a day for you both like it might happen.

You sit on the floor of your room, your textbook open in front of you, but your mind is far away. Wanda, sprawled across your bed, scrolls through her phone.

“So, you’ve been talking to Bucky on the phone a lot lately, huh?” Wanda says casually, glancing down at you.

You look up from your book, the words of your professor blurring in your mind. “Yeah, a lot. Why?”

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Because it sounds like you two are practically a thing now. You’re sharing things that nobody else knows, stuff you haven’t even told me, and that’s… kinda big.”

You feel your cheeks warm, but you try to act nonchalant. “It’s just easier, you know? With him, it’s different.”

Wanda leans forward, setting her phone down, her expression turning serious. “So, when are you actually going to see him? I mean, for real, not just through letters and phone calls. You’re both in different states, and I get that it’s complicated, but... aren’t you curious? Don’t you think it’s time to see the real thing?”

There’s a knot in your stomach at the thought of meeting Bucky in person. “I don’t know. It feels so risky. We’ve got this thing, this connection, and I don’t want to mess it up by... meeting and finding out it’s not the same.”

Wanda sits up, her voice soft but insistent. “I get that, but listen to me, this thing you have, it’s real. I can hear it when you talk about him. You don’t have to know everything, but maybe it’s time to take that step. Meet him, see if what you feel is the same in person. If it’s worth it, you’ll know. And if not, you can go back to what you have now. But you won’t know until you try.”

You look down at your hands, the words swirling in your mind. “I don’t know if I can just... show up there, though. What if it’s too much?”

Wanda leans forward, giving you a meaningful look. “You’ll never know unless you do it. And what’s the worst that could happen? You go to Brooklyn, meet up with him, and find out if what you have is more than just letters. If it’s real. You deserve that, okay?”

You bite your lip, thoughts racing. Deep down, you know she’s right. But still, the idea of taking that leap is terrifying.

Bucky leans back against his chair as he closes the kinesiology textbook on the kitchen table. Sam is working on his own assignment, typing away across the table, though his eyes are trained on his friend, the expression on his face full of mischief.

“So, have you talked to her lately?” Sam asks, not looking up from the laptop.

Bucky shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, we’ve been texting. Calls, too. Same as always.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause every time you pick up that phone, you get this dopey grin on your face. Like, way too much of a dopey grin.”

Bucky shoots him a look, but it’s hard to keep the smile off his face. “Shut up, man. It’s just easier to talk to her than anyone else. She’s cool. It’s... nice.”

Sam stops typing and leans forward, his tone shifting. “Look, Bucky, we’ve been best friends for years, and I can tell there’s something more there. You’ve never talked about anyone like you talk about her. You’ve been sending stuff, taking time to connect with her, and now you’re talking on the phone like you’ve known each other forever. What’s holding you back from making it real?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, clearly wrestling with the idea. “I don’t know. It feels too soon. I’ve only known her for like five months, and I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to be that guy who shows up, and then everything falls apart. What if it’s different in person?”

Sam leans back, crossing his arms. “What if it’s better in person? You’re both out there, being real with each other. But you’re still holding back. Maybe meeting her, seeing her face to face, will show you something you didn’t even realize you needed.”

Bucky looks down at the table, conflicted. “I don’t know, Sam. It’s a lot to ask of her. I don’t want to make things too complicated.”

Sam smirks. “Bucky, she’s probably thinking the same thing. You’ve built something real, and now it’s time to see if it stands up in person. If you really care about her, you should at least give it a shot.”

Sam’s words weigh on him, and he can feel the pull, the desire to take that next step, to finally know what it would be like to stand face to face with you.

“You’re right,” Bucky mutters after a pause, his resolve slowly hardening. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it happen.”

Sam grins. “That’s what I like to hear, man. Just don’t wait too long, alright?”

The fall air outside is crisp. You’re favorite time of the year. You sit on your porch swing, finishing up your morning coffee. You’ve been buried in finals for the past few days, and it feels like the weight of them is starting to catch up. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, but you ignore it for the moment, reaching instead for the stack of mail that you checked this morning.

You sift through the usual bills and flyers until something catches your eye—a familiar handwriting. Your heart does a little flip when you recognize Bucky’s name on the envelope. The anticipation surges as you rip it open, the paper inside feeling heavier than usual.

A ticket slips out. A plane ticket to be exact.

You freeze for a moment, not quite able to wrap your mind around what you’re holding. You unfold his letter quickly.

Y/N, I’m not sure how to even begin this, so I’ll just say it plainly: I’m sending you a plane ticket. I know this is sudden, and I completely understand if you think this is too much or too soon. I don’t want to pressure you into anything, and if it’s not something you’re comfortable with, I won’t be offended in the slightest. It’s a refundable ticket, so no pressure, I promise. But if you’re open to it... I’d love for you to come visit me in Brooklyn. I remember you telling me your Fall break is coming up, and I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to show you everything here—the parks, the food spots, the places that always make me feel like I’m home. I’ve even made a little map of things I thought you’d enjoy. It’s not the grandest of plans, but I think it could be a good start. I’m giving you the time to decide, but if you do decide you want to take this leap... I’ll be waiting for you at the arrival gate, next Saturday. I’ll make sure I’m there early, just in case. And if not, I completely understand. You’ve been amazing, and I wouldn’t want to ruin what we’ve got, whatever it is. I hope to see you soon —Bucky

You blink, the words blurring together for a moment. The excitement is a bit overwhelming. He’s giving you space, no pressure, just an invitation. The ticket, the map—he’s really thought all of this through. And the idea of being in Brooklyn, of standing face-to-face with the person who’s been your constant for months now, feels... possible.

You glance down at the ticket again, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace the flight details. You take a deep breath, setting the ticket down beside you and run your fingers over the map he made, the carefully marked spots where he hopes to take you. You smile at his gesture. It’s simple, thoughtful... real.

You think of Wanda’s voice, urging you to take the leap.

Are you ready for this?

part two

Thank you so much reading <3 Please let me know what you think and reblogs always help!!

#bucky barnes

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chiacanwritesometimes · 3 months ago

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please check out this author and their work, ive been obsessively rereading 💟