Sebastian Stan Imagines

Soulmate | James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

Where you and your soulmate write on your hand, and it shows up on each other's arm.

Warning: Bucky Barnes. Need I say more?




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It was that fateful day, on Steve's tenth birthday, and also the Fourth of July, that the swirls of pen and intricately drawn fireworks appeared on his arm. It wasn't the first time something like this happened, however. Sometimes, there would be small pen marks on his hands when he hadn't even touched a stationary that day, or a paint splatter when he didn't even know how to paint.

But this was the first time a drawing had appeared. He knew immediately who it was. Only your soulmate could do this, and by the looks of it, his soulmate was artistic.

He watched as the lines grew and met, and curved and cornered all along his arm. Then, lines were bolded as his soulmate ran over the important lines once more.

When he inspected his hand, it truly was his soulmate. The pen marks were practically engraved in his skin, and wouldn't come out until his soulmate washed them off.

When he woke up the next day, all the marks were gone.

He stole a pen from his mama's stationery, carefully writing,

"What happened to the drawing? I quite liked it."

"Thanks. Had to wash it off. Ma got mad at me."

"Pity. It was really beautiful."

"I'll do another one on the train to school."

And then the words that his soulmate wrote washed off.

He scurried to the washroom, scrubbing off the pen marks just as she had done, but adding a small note on his wrist.

"The name's James."

"Bond."

"How original."

"I can practically smell the sarcasm from here, James."

They communicated for a few years, up until Bucky was around eighteen. Their personalities merged well. James learned her name. She was a year younger than him, and lived all the way in Georgia. 

He wrote on his arm, one sentence that would forever change their relationship.

"I'm joining the army."

"What? You idiot."

"I want to help our country."

"There are plenty other ways you can do that, James."

"(Y/N), I need to do this."

"You don't need to do anything. No one is forcing you."

"We're done talking about this."

"Pity. Our first fight isn't even in person."

The marks washed off a few seconds later.

With a huff, he washed off the leftover ink and pushed the pen into his back pocket.



.

"We haven't talked in a month."




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"Oh, so you're not going to talk to me now?"



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"How mature, James."





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"James?"

"- •-- •••"

"What is that? Is that a marking? Did you get a tattoo on your right arm?"

"•••• -•-- -•• •-• •-"

"James?"

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"Wh y is it not let ing me rite on my lef t arm? I hve to write on my rigt arm now, and it's hard fo r me to wrte with my left h and."

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"James, co me on now..."

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"James?"



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"James¸ thes3 men came and to0k m¸e To thIs place | dont kno where I am Plea¸e help me"

"-•• • •- - •••• / ••• --•- ••- •- -••  •-•-•- / •••• -•-- -•• •-• •- / -- • -- -••• • •-•"