I can't fix him, but I can let him rest his head on my chest while I pet his hair and softly hum to him. I can kiss the crown of his head and murmur how beautiful he is and that he's safe in my arms. I can be the one he sleeps with in warm sheets and tender intimacy, skin to skin, tracing each bump and curve with kisses, giving him no choice but to see the way I look him in the eye and tell him how beautiful he is and how happy I am just simply being together.
I can't fix him, but I'll show him how much I love him and how far my admiration and devotion span beyond the time we share, the kisses we'll trade, the fleeting caresses with trembling fingers that are too nervous to find their purchase. I'll be so patient with him; I'll kiss him good morning and goodnight, and I'll laugh with him when I whisper a joke to him. I can try to be the one for him, his reason to come home and be the reason he pines when we are apart and loathes when he must leave me for a while, counting the hours it will take until we can kiss under candlelight in each other's arms.
the characterization of cinderella in the ugly stepsister is, dare i say it, my favorite i've ever seen. because elvira and cinderella are both competing for the prince's hand, the film performs a delicate balancing act in depicting patriarchy. elvira seeks male approval at the instruction of her mother, but cinderella seeks social mobility and changing of her material circumstances.
unlike other cinderella adaptations, the ugly stepsister doesn't simply reward cinderella with marriage for being beautiful. instead, it depicts marriage as a social tradeoff. cinderella is pragmatic and cunning, and she has more experience with men than elvira does due to her position and appearance. she has more confidence and decorum than elvira, but she is also never given a reason to doubt herself. she doesn't marry out of love but as a means of escaping her situation. meanwhile elvira doesn't actually need to be married. but after such intensely targeted indoctrination, scrutiny, and bullying from her mother and teachers, this is the only future she can imagine. and ultimately this makes her shallow and cruel, to both cinderella and herself.
this is a truly fascinating and deeply sympathetic take. a lot of people compare the ugly stepsister disfavorably to the substance as body mod horror. however, the ugly stepsister is in an entirely different ballpark with its characterization
its so awesome that you can straight up write fanfiction in your head to help yourself fall asleep and it doesnt even have to be good or something anyone would ever want to read. even yourself
More and more I think Vergil's reluctance to say anything about Nero's mom is cause he doesn't wanna admit he had a one night stand and never bothered to learn her name.
That's my initial impression too. Cause before the events of DMC3 he was investigating the Order of the Sword and with Arkham. Then right after, he spent most of his time in the Demon World.
He could not have spent that much time courting a woman into a relationship that resulted to Nero. At least that's my opinionated conclusion
GoodLordJesusChrist. How am I supposed to focus on the fight with his massive thighs in front of my face?
Alpha, get out of the way, I'm going to show Vergil some real power. The Ascension-Network is nothing compared to how hard my head is. The punishing virus won't stop me from getting between his legs
Their conversation is killing me brah. Two losers communicating
Summary : You leave lipstick marks on Bucky’s face.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x wife!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : fluff, slightly suggestive content, canon-typical violence, please let me know if I missed anything.
Word count : 2.8k
Note : I didn’t post at all last week because I was busy viewing wedding venues, and we’ve finally picked one, so that’s a big weight off our shoulders lol. I’ll be updating my taglist, masterlist, and replying to asks very soon. In the meantime, I’ve queued this up while watching Fantastic Four, so… enjoy!
The morning was chaos, as always.
You were already finished with your cereal and halfway through your coffee, trying to wrestle your foot into a pair of your favourite flats when you realised you were running late.
Bucky’s slice of toast had been sitting in the toaster for the past seven minutes because you couldn’t find your lanyard. Your phone was only thirty percent charged. You’d only slept four hours. And your husband was—
“—way too calm for someone who’s also late,” you muttered as Bucky emerged from the bathroom, toweling his hair and wearing nothing but his dog tags and a pair of black boxer briefs.
He smirked. “You’re staring, sweets.”
“I’m stressed,” you snapped, stepping over a pile of clean laundry.
He chuckled, walking barefoot to the kitchen island and stealing your half-full mug of coffee like it was his God-given right.
“Did you take my last granola bar too?” you asked, rifling through the cabinets.
“Nope,” he said between sips. “You ate that last night when I fell asleep on the couch.”
You stopped mid-step, hands on your hips, about to give him hell—when you noticed the little box he was holding behind his back.
“Buck.”
“Hm?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“James.”
He grinned, then revealed the box — matte black, small, with a thin satin ribbon around it. You immediately recognized the luxury brand embossed in gold across the top. You blinked, confused.
“What…” you started, walking toward him slowly.
Bucky shrugged casually, but his eyes were almost shy. “It’s just... a thing. Just because.”
You stared. “That’s… the lipstick? The one I’ve wanted for months?”
“The exact shade, darlin’” — he sounded proud — “Figured you might like to wear it today. Y’know. For your big meeting with the board,” he said, stepping closer, trailing both metal and human fingers down your arm and pressing kisses, “and maybe let me kiss it off tonight.”
Oh.
Your stomach flipped.
You reached out, pulling the ribbon, and opened the box. The lipstick sat nestled in velvet, a rich shade of red that reminded you of another era. You lifted carefully, like it might break if you touched it with too much force— it was very expensive, after all.
“I can’t believe you remembered,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across the cap.
“I remember everything about you,” he said, that dangerous rasp curling into your ear.
Even after all these years, your cheeks flushed, heat pooling in your stomach. “Bucky, we have to leave in ten minutes.”
“We’ve done worse things in five,” he whispered, lips brushing the side of your neck.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying... if you wanted to try it out right now, I wouldn’t mind.”
You smacked his chest, though lightly. “If you don’t stop trying to seduce me, we are not leaving this apartment today.”
He grinned and backed away with both his hands up. “Fair.”
You turned to the mirror by the entryway and carefully uncapped the lipstick. You smoothed the deep crimson shade over your lips, and it went on like a velvety and bold dream.
You turned back toward him. “Well?”
Bucky looked like he’d been punched in the chest.
“Holy shit.”
“Too much?”
“No.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s… that your colour.”
You stepped toward him slowly, lips parted just slightly, eyes flicking up to his. He grabbed you by the waist before you could reply, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that had been simmering under his skin since he walked out of the bathroom with no top on. He smiled against your mouth, triumphant, as you wound your arms around his neck and let him deepen the kiss.
Then you pulled back and planted one kiss on his jaw. Another on his cheek. One right under his ear, just to hear him groan. Then one more, on one of his eyebrows, because he was finally frowning at the time on the microwave.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I really do have to go.”
You were laughing as you grabbed your coat and swiped your bag from the floor. “I’m always right.”
He was still blinking in a daze as you passed him.
“What?” you asked.
“Did you… did you leave a mark?”
You paused, cocking your head. “…maybe.”
“I have a briefing,” he whined dramatically, touching his face with metal fingers.
You shrugged. “You’ll survive. Tell the team I say hi.”
He jogged after you, grabbing his jacket and boots. “You are so lucky I love you.”
“I know,” you said, kissing him once more on the lips, just to reapply the color.
You opened the door and winked. “Now go, Sergeant. Before I drag you back to bed and ruin both our careers.”
He didn’t move for a second.
Just stood there, watching you walk away, cheeks flushed, all kissed up, no thoughts whatsoever in his mind as he looked at the lipstick smudge on his collarbone in the distorted reflection of your stainless steel pan.
—
Once you were gone. Bucky rushed into the bathroom mirror, and it showed exactly what he expected.
Your new lipstick stain, bolder than he would imagine.
It was smeared like war paint along his jaw and neck. One kiss was just below his ear, slightly angled like you’d pulled him down by the collar. Another was fainter, near his cheekbone.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered.
He yanked the hem of his black long-sleeve shirt up and scrubbed at his jaw. He loved that color on you, and loved that he could still feel the drag of your lips across his skin, but the team would drag him to the ground.
He wiped again, a little too hard this time. A faint pink patch came off on his shirt, but the rest stayed stubbornly in place like a brand.
“Shit,” he muttered again, but it was too late now.
He had a work briefing to go to.
—
The elevator dinged in the watchtower.
He adjusted his jacket, popped the collar up slightly to shield the worst of it, and rolled his shoulders back as he stepped into the new, refurbished Avengers briefing room.
The calm lasted about four seconds.
“Jesus, Barnes,” Yelena said, looking up from her tablet. “You wrestle a lipstick monster on your way in?”
The entire room froze for a second.
John blinked before letting out a low whistle. “Oh damn.”
Alexei squinted. “What... is that paint?”
Bob Reynolds raised his hand like they were in a classroom. “No, those are lip stains! Most likely from his lovely wife that brings us cookies once a week.”
Bucky clenched his teeth and sighed. “You people need hobbies.”
Ava’s tone was flat as ever. “We do have hobbies. One of them is watching you walk into meetings like you just rolled out of bed with your wife still attached to your face.”
John burst out laughing. “I mean, fair. It’s kind of impressive.”
Bucky reached up slowly and tried to rub his thumb over the spot near his ear. Still there. Of course.
He exhaled through his nose. “I wiped it off.”
“You tried to wipe it off,” Yelena corrected, standing up and walking around the table to inspect him like a forensic analyst. “That’s high-end lipstick. Long-wear. Transfer-proof, so clearly she kissed you when it was still drying.”
“She did it on purpose,” Ava said casually, arms crossed. “You can tell. Look at the placement. That’s a ‘he belongs to me’ kiss. And that one”—she pointed—“is downright territorial.”
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly remembering the way you smiled as you kissed each spot on his face that morning. Like a map.
He had to look away from his own reflection in the polished black table. His skin was warm now. His ears were hot. His neck… was tingling.
John clapped him on the shoulder. “So this is how married life is treating you, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
The truth, though?
He was starting to like it.
No — he loved it.
The more he looked at his reflection, the more loved seeing the lipstick on his skin the way it clung to him even after he scrubbed at it like a sinner trying to wash off guilt. The possessiveness in it. The heat it left behind. The way it made him feel like you’d staked a claim on him trying — just by pressing your mouth to his skin, casually.
God, that made his knees weak.
He dragged a hand down his face and tried to clear his head, but he could still feel the phantom weight of your hands in his hair, tugging just slightly. The scent of your perfume still clung to his jacket. The taste of your mouth lingered on his lips like honey.
And now, thanks to your indestructible lipstick and a complete lack of shame, he was sitting in a military-grade conference room looking like he’d been devoured alive by his wife.
And he wanted more.
He wanted to walk into battle with your lipstick on his jawline. He wanted the world to see he had something — someone — worth coming home to.
Yelena slid back into her seat and gave him a knowing grin. “So. You want us to pretend we didn’t see it, or...?”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Pretend away.”
Bob leaned over, stage-whispering, “Don’t worry, man. If I had a wife who kissed like that, I wouldn’t wipe it off either.”
—
The mission was supposed to be routine.
Get in, extract intel, maybe break a few bones. It was a Hydra splinter cell — the wannabes, fanatics, and leftovers still pretending their little empire wasn't in ruins.
But no one warned them that James Buchanan Barnes was showing up with red lipstick smeared across his face.
—
20 Minutes Into Infiltration
The base was buried in some frozen forest.
Bucky didn’t care.
He moved like a shadow through the corridors, metal arm whirring. But it wasn’t the weapon in his hand that made the first patrol unit freeze.
It was his face.
Or, more specifically … the kiss marks on it.
One print glowed faint red under the stark fluorescent lighting, right beneath his cheekbone. Another peeked out just above his collar. A third bold and shameless one sat on his eyebrows.
“What the hell…” muttered one of the guards, gun wavering.
“Is that… lipstick?” another whispered, confused. “Is he—“
“I think someone got lucky this morning.”
“I think we’re about to get beat up.”
And they were right.
Bucky didn’t say a word. He just smiled, thinking I’ve got nothing to prove — but I’m going to make this hurt anyway.
Three seconds later, the hallway was a pile of bodies— cracked ribs, dislocated shoulders, and a shattered femur, probably. The last guy was still groaning when Bucky knelt beside him, blood dripping down his temple.
“The drive,” Bucky growled, pressing the cold frost of his fist to the guy’s shirt. “Where is it?”
The guy coughed. Eyes wide. “Y-You’ve got… lipstick on your face.”
Bucky blinked once.
“Yeah, well.” Bucky hissed proudly. “My wife kissed me goodbye.”
The Hydra agent whimpered. “...Lucky bastard.”
—
40 Minutes In, Main Control Room
The alarm was blaring. Red lights flashed like strobe against the concrete walls. Another squad of agents waited in a semicircle with their weapons raised. They were prepared.
Then Bucky stepped through the smoke.
And for a split second, they hesitated.
Because he wasn’t just battle-worn — he looked like he’d come straight from someone’s bed. Hair mussed. Collar half-popped. Face kissed like a trophy, yet with blood on his knuckles.
“Is this a joke?” one of the agents sneered. “You show up looking like you fucked a runway model?”
Another tilted his head. “That lipstick waterproof or what?”
“Why don’t you come find out?” Bucky deadpanned.
Then he dove straight into the fray.
His fists moved like they were born for it — metal arm catching one throat, organic arm snapping another wrist. Someone tried to tase him and he drove an elbow into their ribs hard enough to lift them off the ground.
The whole time, the lipstick stayed.
One agent tried to mock him mid-fight. “Does your wife know you’re out here fucking up people with her makeup on?”
Bucky shoved him against the wall, face inches away.
“She picked the shade,” he growled.
Then he headbutted the guy so hard he dropped like a ragdoll.
—
The last Hydra grunt was backed against the server wall, his eyes wide.
“Y-You’re fucking insane,” he stammered. “You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore. You’re someone’s pet.”
Bucky tilted his head.
He leaned in close, giving the guy a good long look at the smeared lipstick still faintly on his cheek — a little smudged now with sweat and blood, but still there.
“No,” Bucky said, voice low and lethal. “I’m her husband.”
And then he knocked the guy out cold and completed the mission.
—
It was past midnight when you heard the key turn at the front door.
You were curled up on the couch, hair tied up, reading the same paragraph on your annual report for the fourth time — half waiting, half trying not to stare at the clock.
Then you heard a heavy pair of boots, followed by the thud of a tactical jacket hitting the floor, and you didn’t even have to look up.
He was home.
“Buck?"
He let out a tired grunt.
You stood, moving toward the hallway, just as he stepped into view, sweaty, bruised, and a bit wrecked, with blood on his forearm and gravel in his hair.
And still… wearing your lipstick marks.
The marks were faded now, but still unmistakably there.
You blinked, covering your mouth to stifle the giggle that bubbled up. “Oh my God.”
He looked up, eyes heavy, mouth tugging into a sleepy smirk. “Tried to wipe it.”
“I know.” You grinned. “Bob messaged me. Didn’t know it was that bad.”
Bucky chuckled, as he kicked his boots off. “Of course he did.”
Then, he walked right into you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, head ducked against your neck and just held you.
You barely had time to react. “Hi—Whoa. Okay. Hi.”
His body felt like home against yours, metal arm sliding up your spine as he practically lifted you off the couch, burying his nose into your shoulder.
You laughed softly, hugging him back. “You okay?”
He nodded, murmuring into your skin. “Mhm. Just needed this.”
“You smell like shit.”
“And you smell like home,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse.
“Rough mission?” you asked, brushing your fingers through his hair.
Bucky hummed again, nodding lazily. “Got messy. One of ‘em asked if the lipstick was waterproof.”
You laughed. “And?”
“I broke his nose.”
“Good man.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded. “They all saw it, babe. Saw me like this.”
You smiled and smoothed your hand over his beard. “I think it’s hot.”
That got his attention. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You, showing up to a mission marked by me? Of course.”
He looked like he was about to melt into the floor.
“I really love you,” he mumbled.
“I really love you too, especially with this lipstick,” you teased, brushing your thumb over the faint smudge near his eyebrows. “This one held up through gunfire and hand-to-hand combat. I’m impressed.”
“I didn’t really want to wipe it off,” he admitted sheepishly, voice gentler now. “Even when I saw it in the mirror. I tried, but… not that hard.”
You grinned. “You liked it, huh?”
Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and you felt the tiniest, almost embarrassed nod on skin.
You reached up and gently tilted his chin, eyes tracing the places where your kisses had landed. His skin was flushed, warm, bruised in places — but somehow, the lipstick was still the first thing you saw.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek again, just beside the original print.
Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, and a rumbled content from his chest, almost like a purr.
"You're clingy," you whispered fondly.
"M'happy," he mumbled. “Mission’s done. You’re here. Your kisses are still on me.”
You ran your hands up under his shirt, feeling the scarred skin, the steady heartbeat. “Come to bed, baby.”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
You blinked. “No?”
“I just wanna hold you for a bit,” he said, walking backward and pulling you with him toward the couch.
So you curled up on the couch again — this time with a super soldier wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. His arm tucked under your legs, his nose against your collarbone, his sigh on your skin.
Every few minutes, he kissed your neck or your shoulder or the inside of your wrist, like he couldn’t stop.
Eventually, his lips brushed your ear. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“You think, since it’s a rest day…” he paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I could try the lipstick tomorrow? Kiss you up before your work.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “That’s... kind of hot, Buck.”
