Sebastian Stan Character One-Shots

Bucky Barnes Drabble

It was messy, but you didn't mind.

You reveled in the bright stains soaking your fingertips, some of the cast off landing on your forearms, your clothes, even your face.

If you thought about it, this was probably one of your favorite parts. It was like you became a part of it, with each drop carelessly spilt on the ground beneath your feet, each speck of color soaked into the fabric of your shirt you became more and more engrossed.

Clean up was tedious, but the end result was always worth a bit of a mess.

You stood back, leaning your body weight back on one foot. Back arched slightly—head tilted to the side to get a better look—as you scrutinized every detail.

"I think there's more paint on you than the canvas Doll."

A wry grin spread across your paint splattered cheeks and you spared a look over your shoulder.

"Don't judge my creative process Bucky Barnes."

You snickered when he held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin showing off those dimples— blue eyes sparkling with mischief. He took a step forward over the threshold of your studio and you held out a hand armed with a thick paintbrush.

"I can't guarantee if you come any closer you won't leave with a bit more color added to that wardrobe." You teased, eyeing his usual black on black on black outfit.

"You know I don't mind getting a little dirty." He winked.

"Don't say I didn't warn you Sergeant." You chirped turning back toward the canvas once again. Your eyes scanned across the swathes of color, the different hues telling their own stories as they merged and intersected with one another. Your mind was buzzing with the need to fill every blank space with pigment.

A pair of strong arms one cool metal and the other warm flesh wrapped around your waist and you leaned against him as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. You knew when he finally let you go he'd be stained with rainbow hues, like a signature of your shared embrace.

The two of you stood silently for a moment, staring at the canvas together.

"What is it?" Bucky asked, his breath caressing your cheek.

"I don't know yet."

"Well whatever it ends up being, I like it."

"You sir, are biased." You giggled as his fingers tickled your ribs gently.

You spun in his arms, his hands settling on your hips. Your arms wrapped easily around his shoulders, one hand still holding the wooden stem of the paintbrush loosely behind him.

You smiled brightly as your eyes locked onto his own, leaning in slowly you rubbed your nose against his. When you leaned away, your head rocked back as a laugh erupted from your chest.

"What? Have I got something on my face?" Bucky asked his tone full of mirth, his tongue sneaking out to moisten his lips.

Momentarily distracted by the pink muscle as it disappeared behind his full lips, you felt your face heat. You traced the bright pink glob of paint across the tip of his nose as your heart began to pound out a happy rhythm.

You could paint a thousand masterpieces and they'd never compare to the one holding you tightly in his arms.