ker0ppik00

[ker0ppik00]

🌷✨ Little update! ✨🌷

I’ve been slowly building up the courage, and… I finally created my Wattpad profile with the same username as here. I’m still in the process of writing Heart of Winter and deciding exactly when to start posting, but I’m definitely getting closer. It feels both terrifying and exciting to think about finally sharing this story that’s been living in my head for so long. 😁😁

[ker0ppik00]

🚨 Before You Read:

Sam Wilson x Lawyer!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Courtroom drama / legal references. Slow burn tension. Mutual pining. One party scene.

Minor Thunderbolts* post-credit scene.

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work.

Legal Briefs and Heartbeats

You are the best lawyer in the country. Or at least, that’s what Sam Wilson has been told.

And when Captain America personally shows up in your office, flanked by government reps and weighed down by months of diplomatic red tape, you don’t exactly argue the title. You just gesture toward the empty seat across from your desk and say, "So. Who do we have to sue?"

Sam doesn't smile, at least not at first. He sits with his spine too straight, eyes unreadable behind his aviators, the shield leaned gently against your wall like it's more symbol than weapon.

“For what I’ve been told they called themselves Thunderbolts before. But now…,” he says, voice low. “Now they're called the New Avengers. Public’s confused. Government’s letting it happen. I’m not.”

You nod, already spinning through precedents, trademark law, unauthorized branding cases, the legal identity of the Avengers Initiative. You tap your pen twice against your notebook, then start writing. Names. Dates. Leverage points. You don’t flinch at the idea of going up against a rebranded black-ops team with government funding and enough power to level cities. You’ve done worse.

Sam watches you like he’s studying a battlefield, but you’re used to it by now —clients who think they're sizing you up, not realizing you already know how to win before they’ve finished the first sentence. But there's something different in Sam’s gaze, it is less calculation and more curiosity. Respect, even.

“You're not what I expected,” he says eventually.

You raise a brow. “Let me guess. Less suit, more cape?”

He huffs a short but genuine laugh.

It starts professional, strictly so. Sam sits across from you every morning, fresh coffee in hand, legal pads between you, the future of the Avengers name hanging in the balance. You talk strategy. You break down federal loopholes. He listens —really listens— and sometimes smiles when you get heated about superhero IP law like it's a sport.

There’s courtroom drama, of course. The New Avengers' legal team is ruthless, all smoke and mirrors, but you’re sharper. Sam watches you dominate the room, motion after motion, cross-examining files with the precision of someone who sees through every PR-smoothed lie. After one particularly brutal hearing, he catches your arm outside and murmurs, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Long nights bleed into longer ones. You’re in your office at 2 a.m. drafting rebuttals when he texts you: Still awake? You answer with a photo of your desk and he shows up twenty minutes later with takeout.

Somewhere between the briefings and witness prep and those slow, simmering moments where his knee brushes yours under the table and neither of you moves —it changes. You start noticing how he always brings you tea without asking, that he never takes off his jacket, that he carries the weight of legacy with a quiet kind of grace. He notices how you fidget when you're thinking, that you whisper arguments under your breath before court, that you make notes in two colors —red for attack, blue for defense.

Then you meet Joaquin Torres.

He swings by the office one afternoon with a coffee run and a grin as wide as the Mississippi. Sam introduces you as “the reason we haven’t lost this case yet”, and Joaquin doesn’t miss the way Sam looks at you. He teases him for the rest of the afternoon.

Weeks pass. The case nears a verdict and everything feels heavier —stakes and silence and unspoken things. You don't know what to call what’s building between you and Sam but then Joaquin’s birthday rolls around, and he corners you outside court with a smug grin.

“You’re coming Saturday,” he says.

You blink. “To what?”

“The party. Duh.”

You start to protest, but Sam’s already looking at you across the parking lot, half-smile pulling at his lips like he hopes you’ll say yes. So you do.

You show up that Saturday night, later than most, nerves disguised under your best outfit and a smile that’s a little too sharp. The music thrums beneath your feet when you step inside. Warm lights cast soft shadows on familiar faces —Joaquin’s already halfway through a story in the kitchen, and Sam’s nowhere in sight at first. But when he finds you —he does find you— he stops mid-conversation, beer bottle dangling forgotten at his side. His gaze moves over you like you’re a closing argument he wasn’t ready for. It makes your stomach flip, but you smile, steady as ever, and offer him a quiet “hey.”

He blinks. “Hey.”

The party stretches on. You talk to Torres and accept a drink (just one). You laugh when someone tries to set up karaoke in the living room and watch Sam shake his head with a fond eye-roll. You don't hover and neither does he but somehow, you always end up in the same room —always find each other again.

You’re slipping your coat on when Sam catches up to you near the door.

“Leaving already?”

You glance back. “You know lawyers. We don't party—we schedule decompression.”

His smile grows. “Can I walk you home?”

You hesitate. It’s late, but he’s warm and you're tired so you nod. “Sure.”

It’s quiet outside, the city softened by night. You walk side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, talking about nothing at first —the case, the music, Joaquin’s cake. Then silence stretches, long and full of something unsaid.

He clears his throat. “I meant to say something earlier.”

You glance over. “Yeah?”

He stops walking. You stop too.

“Joaquin didn’t ask you to the party for himself,” Sam says, voice low and honest. “I mean, he did, but… He hoped you’d come for me too.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He huffs a laugh, running a hand over head. “Man, that came out more pathetic than it did in my head.”

You recover enough to tease, just a little. “Might need to work on your closing statements, Captain.”

He smiles, then looks away. “Yeah, well. I’m better in court.”

You shift your weight, heart picking up speed. “Why, though? Why’d you want me there?”

You search his expression. There’s no defense in it, no shield. Just Sam. Looking at you like he has for weeks —but finally brave enough to say it.

“Because I like being around you. And not just during case prep. Not just late nights at the firm, or walking out of hearings. I like the way you talk. I like how smart you are. How you challenge me. I like the way you look at me when I’m being stubborn as hell.” He pauses, swallowing. “I didn’t think I’d feel this way in the middle of all this bullshit. But you came in swinging, all calm and clever and somehow steadier than half the people I’ve ever trusted.”

Your heart is a riot in your chest now.

He shifts a little closer. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line. Trying to keep it professional. But I think I’ve been falling for you since our second meeting.”

You laugh —soft and stunned. “That’s funny.”

Sam blinks. “Funny?”

“I’ve been trying not to flirt with Captain America for two months straight.”

The look on his face crumbles into pure relief—relief, and something warm and disbelieving that makes your chest ache.

He takes another step toward you.

“I’m gonna take you out,” he says. “For real. Not a briefing or paperwork. Just… a date.”

Your lips part. “I want that.”

His smile is slow this time. And when he leans in, giving you every chance to stop him, you don’t. His mouth finds yours, gentle and sure and a little breathless, and the world hushes. Like even the city knows something just changed for good.

[ker0ppik00]

Thank you for the support!! It always encourages me to keep writing 🌸

🚨 Before You Read:

Sam Wilson x Lawyer!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Courtroom drama / legal references. Slow burn tension. Mutual pining. One party scene.

Minor Thunderbolts* post-credit scene.

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work.

Legal Briefs and Heartbeats

You are the best lawyer in the country. Or at least, that’s what Sam Wilson has been told.

And when Captain America personally shows up in your office, flanked by government reps and weighed down by months of diplomatic red tape, you don’t exactly argue the title. You just gesture toward the empty seat across from your desk and say, "So. Who do we have to sue?"

Sam doesn't smile, at least not at first. He sits with his spine too straight, eyes unreadable behind his aviators, the shield leaned gently against your wall like it's more symbol than weapon.

“For what I’ve been told they called themselves Thunderbolts before. But now…,” he says, voice low. “Now they're called the New Avengers. Public’s confused. Government’s letting it happen. I’m not.”

You nod, already spinning through precedents, trademark law, unauthorized branding cases, the legal identity of the Avengers Initiative. You tap your pen twice against your notebook, then start writing. Names. Dates. Leverage points. You don’t flinch at the idea of going up against a rebranded black-ops team with government funding and enough power to level cities. You’ve done worse.

Sam watches you like he’s studying a battlefield, but you’re used to it by now —clients who think they're sizing you up, not realizing you already know how to win before they’ve finished the first sentence. But there's something different in Sam’s gaze, it is less calculation and more curiosity. Respect, even.

“You're not what I expected,” he says eventually.

You raise a brow. “Let me guess. Less suit, more cape?”

He huffs a short but genuine laugh.

It starts professional, strictly so. Sam sits across from you every morning, fresh coffee in hand, legal pads between you, the future of the Avengers name hanging in the balance. You talk strategy. You break down federal loopholes. He listens —really listens— and sometimes smiles when you get heated about superhero IP law like it's a sport.

There’s courtroom drama, of course. The New Avengers' legal team is ruthless, all smoke and mirrors, but you’re sharper. Sam watches you dominate the room, motion after motion, cross-examining files with the precision of someone who sees through every PR-smoothed lie. After one particularly brutal hearing, he catches your arm outside and murmurs, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Long nights bleed into longer ones. You’re in your office at 2 a.m. drafting rebuttals when he texts you: Still awake? You answer with a photo of your desk and he shows up twenty minutes later with takeout.

Somewhere between the briefings and witness prep and those slow, simmering moments where his knee brushes yours under the table and neither of you moves —it changes. You start noticing how he always brings you tea without asking, that he never takes off his jacket, that he carries the weight of legacy with a quiet kind of grace. He notices how you fidget when you're thinking, that you whisper arguments under your breath before court, that you make notes in two colors —red for attack, blue for defense.

Then you meet Joaquin Torres.

He swings by the office one afternoon with a coffee run and a grin as wide as the Mississippi. Sam introduces you as “the reason we haven’t lost this case yet”, and Joaquin doesn’t miss the way Sam looks at you. He teases him for the rest of the afternoon.

Weeks pass. The case nears a verdict and everything feels heavier —stakes and silence and unspoken things. You don't know what to call what’s building between you and Sam but then Joaquin’s birthday rolls around, and he corners you outside court with a smug grin.

“You’re coming Saturday,” he says.

You blink. “To what?”

“The party. Duh.”

You start to protest, but Sam’s already looking at you across the parking lot, half-smile pulling at his lips like he hopes you’ll say yes. So you do.

You show up that Saturday night, later than most, nerves disguised under your best outfit and a smile that’s a little too sharp. The music thrums beneath your feet when you step inside. Warm lights cast soft shadows on familiar faces —Joaquin’s already halfway through a story in the kitchen, and Sam’s nowhere in sight at first. But when he finds you —he does find you— he stops mid-conversation, beer bottle dangling forgotten at his side. His gaze moves over you like you’re a closing argument he wasn’t ready for. It makes your stomach flip, but you smile, steady as ever, and offer him a quiet “hey.”

He blinks. “Hey.”

The party stretches on. You talk to Torres and accept a drink (just one). You laugh when someone tries to set up karaoke in the living room and watch Sam shake his head with a fond eye-roll. You don't hover and neither does he but somehow, you always end up in the same room —always find each other again.

You’re slipping your coat on when Sam catches up to you near the door.

“Leaving already?”

You glance back. “You know lawyers. We don't party—we schedule decompression.”

His smile grows. “Can I walk you home?”

You hesitate. It’s late, but he’s warm and you're tired so you nod. “Sure.”

It’s quiet outside, the city softened by night. You walk side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, talking about nothing at first —the case, the music, Joaquin’s cake. Then silence stretches, long and full of something unsaid.

He clears his throat. “I meant to say something earlier.”

You glance over. “Yeah?”

He stops walking. You stop too.

“Joaquin didn’t ask you to the party for himself,” Sam says, voice low and honest. “I mean, he did, but… He hoped you’d come for me too.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He huffs a laugh, running a hand over head. “Man, that came out more pathetic than it did in my head.”

You recover enough to tease, just a little. “Might need to work on your closing statements, Captain.”

He smiles, then looks away. “Yeah, well. I’m better in court.”

You shift your weight, heart picking up speed. “Why, though? Why’d you want me there?”

You search his expression. There’s no defense in it, no shield. Just Sam. Looking at you like he has for weeks —but finally brave enough to say it.

“Because I like being around you. And not just during case prep. Not just late nights at the firm, or walking out of hearings. I like the way you talk. I like how smart you are. How you challenge me. I like the way you look at me when I’m being stubborn as hell.” He pauses, swallowing. “I didn’t think I’d feel this way in the middle of all this bullshit. But you came in swinging, all calm and clever and somehow steadier than half the people I’ve ever trusted.”

Your heart is a riot in your chest now.

He shifts a little closer. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line. Trying to keep it professional. But I think I’ve been falling for you since our second meeting.”

You laugh —soft and stunned. “That’s funny.”

Sam blinks. “Funny?”

“I’ve been trying not to flirt with Captain America for two months straight.”

The look on his face crumbles into pure relief—relief, and something warm and disbelieving that makes your chest ache.

He takes another step toward you.

“I’m gonna take you out,” he says. “For real. Not a briefing or paperwork. Just… a date.”

Your lips part. “I want that.”

His smile is slow this time. And when he leans in, giving you every chance to stop him, you don’t. His mouth finds yours, gentle and sure and a little breathless, and the world hushes. Like even the city knows something just changed for good.

[ker0ppik00]

🚨 Before You Read:

Sam Wilson x Lawyer!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Courtroom drama / legal references. Slow burn tension. Mutual pining. One party scene.

Minor Thunderbolts* post-credit scene spoiler.

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work.

Legal Briefs and Heartbeats

You are the best lawyer in the country. Or at least, that’s what Sam Wilson has been told.

And when Captain America personally shows up in your office, flanked by government reps and weighed down by months of diplomatic red tape, you don’t exactly argue the title. You just gesture toward the empty seat across from your desk and say, "So. Who do we have to sue?"

Sam doesn't smile, at least not at first. He sits with his spine too straight, eyes unreadable behind his aviators, the shield leaned gently against your wall like it's more symbol than weapon.

“For what I’ve been told they called themselves Thunderbolts before. But now…,” he says, voice low. “Now they're called the New Avengers. Public’s confused. Government’s letting it happen. I’m not.”

You nod, already spinning through precedents, trademark law, unauthorized branding cases, the legal identity of the Avengers Initiative. You tap your pen twice against your notebook, then start writing. Names. Dates. Leverage points. You don’t flinch at the idea of going up against a rebranded black-ops team with government funding and enough power to level cities. You’ve done worse.

Sam watches you like he’s studying a battlefield, but you’re used to it by now —clients who think they're sizing you up, not realizing you already know how to win before they’ve finished the first sentence. But there's something different in Sam’s gaze, it is less calculation and more curiosity. Respect, even.

“You're not what I expected,” he says eventually.

You raise a brow. “Let me guess. Less suit, more cape?”

He huffs a short but genuine laugh.

It starts professional, strictly so. Sam sits across from you every morning, fresh coffee in hand, legal pads between you, the future of the Avengers name hanging in the balance. You talk strategy. You break down federal loopholes. He listens —really listens— and sometimes smiles when you get heated about superhero IP law like it's a sport.

There’s courtroom drama, of course. The New Avengers' legal team is ruthless, all smoke and mirrors, but you’re sharper. Sam watches you dominate the room, motion after motion, cross-examining files with the precision of someone who sees through every PR-smoothed lie. After one particularly brutal hearing, he catches your arm outside and murmurs, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Long nights bleed into longer ones. You’re in your office at 2 a.m. drafting rebuttals when he texts you: Still awake? You answer with a photo of your desk and he shows up twenty minutes later with takeout.

Somewhere between the briefings and witness prep and those slow, simmering moments where his knee brushes yours under the table and neither of you moves —it changes. You start noticing how he always brings you tea without asking, that he never takes off his jacket, that he carries the weight of legacy with a quiet kind of grace. He notices how you fidget when you're thinking, that you whisper arguments under your breath before court, that you make notes in two colors —red for attack, blue for defense.

Then you meet Joaquin Torres.

He swings by the office one afternoon with a coffee run and a grin as wide as the Mississippi. Sam introduces you as “the reason we haven’t lost this case yet”, and Joaquin doesn’t miss the way Sam looks at you. He teases him for the rest of the afternoon.

Weeks pass. The case nears a verdict and everything feels heavier —stakes and silence and unspoken things. You don't know what to call what’s building between you and Sam but then Joaquin’s birthday rolls around, and he corners you outside court with a smug grin.

“You’re coming Saturday,” he says.

You blink. “To what?”

“The party. Duh.”

You start to protest, but Sam’s already looking at you across the parking lot, half-smile pulling at his lips like he hopes you’ll say yes. So you do.

You show up that Saturday night, later than most, nerves disguised under your best outfit and a smile that’s a little too sharp. The music thrums beneath your feet when you step inside. Warm lights cast soft shadows on familiar faces —Joaquin’s already halfway through a story in the kitchen, and Sam’s nowhere in sight at first. But when he finds you —he does find you— he stops mid-conversation, beer bottle dangling forgotten at his side. His gaze moves over you like you’re a closing argument he wasn’t ready for. It makes your stomach flip, but you smile, steady as ever, and offer him a quiet “hey.”

He blinks. “Hey.”

The party stretches on. You talk to Torres and accept a drink (just one). You laugh when someone tries to set up karaoke in the living room and watch Sam shake his head with a fond eye-roll. You don't hover and neither does he but somehow, you always end up in the same room —always find each other again.

You’re slipping your coat on when Sam catches up to you near the door.

“Leaving already?”

You glance back. “You know lawyers. We don't party—we schedule decompression.”

His smile grows. “Can I walk you home?”

You hesitate. It’s late, but he’s warm and you're tired so you nod. “Sure.”

It’s quiet outside, the city softened by night. You walk side by side, shoulders brushing now and then, talking about nothing at first —the case, the music, Joaquin’s cake. Then silence stretches, long and full of something unsaid.

He clears his throat. “I meant to say something earlier.”

You glance over. “Yeah?”

He stops walking. You stop too.

“Joaquin didn’t ask you to the party for himself,” Sam says, voice low and honest. “I mean, he did, but… He hoped you’d come for me too.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He huffs a laugh, running a hand over head. “Man, that came out more pathetic than it did in my head.”

You recover enough to tease, just a little. “Might need to work on your closing statements, Captain.”

He smiles, then looks away. “Yeah, well. I’m better in court.”

You shift your weight, heart picking up speed. “Why, though? Why’d you want me there?”

You search his expression. There’s no defense in it, no shield. Just Sam. Looking at you like he has for weeks —but finally brave enough to say it.

“Because I like being around you. And not just during case prep. Not just late nights at the firm, or walking out of hearings. I like the way you talk. I like how smart you are. How you challenge me. I like the way you look at me when I’m being stubborn as hell.” He pauses, swallowing. “I didn’t think I’d feel this way in the middle of all this bullshit. But you came in swinging, all calm and clever and somehow steadier than half the people I’ve ever trusted.”

Your heart is a riot in your chest now.

He shifts a little closer. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line. Trying to keep it professional. But I think I’ve been falling for you since our second meeting.”

You laugh —soft and stunned. “That’s funny.”

Sam blinks. “Funny?”

“I’ve been trying not to flirt with Captain America for two months straight.”

The look on his face crumbles into pure relief—relief, and something warm and disbelieving that makes your chest ache.

He takes another step toward you.

“I’m gonna take you out,” he says. “For real. Not a briefing or paperwork. Just… a date.”

Your lips part. “I want that.”

His smile is slow this time. And when he leans in, giving you every chance to stop him, you don’t. His mouth finds yours, gentle and sure and a little breathless, and the world hushes. Like even the city knows something just changed for good.

[ker0ppik00]

Happy Birthday, Sebastian Stan!🎉❤️

Today, I just want to say thank you. You mean so much more to me than just an actor or a celebrity. I feel like your words and your presence have truly helped me find my own voice and courage to follow my dreams. Your honesty, your insights, and the way you share yourself so openly make me feel seen and understood in a way I never expected.

You inspire me to be braver, to pursue what I really want, and to believe in myself even when things get tough. I love you not just for the roles you play, but for the person you show us through your interviews and your heart. You remind me that it’s okay to be vulnerable, to keep growing, and to keep dreaming.

Wishing you all the happiness in the world today and always. You deserve it.

Thank you for being you. 💙💙💙

[ker0ppik00]

🚨 Before You Read:

Bucky Barnes x Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Established relationship. Emotional comfort and fluff. Kitten adoption.

PTSD-related nightmare (non-graphic).

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work.

Tiny Paws, Big Trouble

The door creaks open to the familiar scent of home when Bucky locks in past eight —cedarwood from the candle you like, something buttery and herby wafting in from the kitchen, and a low hum of music playing from your phone docked on the counter. He’s barely stepped inside, still pulling off his gloves, when you appear from around the corner like you'd been waiting right by the door.

“Hey sweetheart, you’re home,” you say, too fast and too cheerful. You stretch up on your toes to kiss his cheek before he’s even shrugged out of his jacket.

He blinks. Then, you’re tugging him by the hand into the kitchen.

“I made dinner,” you announce. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not his favorite—chicken cutlets exactly how he likes them, mashed potatoes, the good gravy, green beans caramelized just a little too long in butter the way you know he prefers. His plate is already made and still steaming.

His brain stutters.

“Did I forget an anniversary?” he asks cautiously, brows pinched. You laugh too quickly, and again too brightly.

“Nope. Just missed you. Figured you'd be starving after training.”

He squints at you suspiciously now. Not because he doesn’t love being loved on, but this is over-the-top sweet. He’s used to affection, yes. Your gentle touch, your sleepy kisses, your sleepy complaints when he leaves early for the compound. But this is concentrated affection. A big, shiny bow on everything. It's suspicious.

He sets down his bag and narrows his eyes. “Okay. What did you do?”

“Do?” you repeat, blinking innocently. “Nothing. What? Can’t I just do something nice for my boyfriend?”

“Sure,” he says slowly. “You can. But you usually don’t act like you’ve swapped places with a robot unless you're hiding something.”

Your eyes flick to the hallway in a not subtle way.

Bucky tilts his head. “What’s in the room?”

“Nothing!” you say too quickly.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a decent liar,” you argue. “You’re just annoyingly perceptive.”

And then just as he starts walking toward the hallway there’s a meow. He freezes. You freeze too, and it comes again. High-pitched and small.

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, slowly widening. You smile tight and innocent, and it makes you look absolutely guilty.

“Okay,” you say, hands raised like you’re under arrest. “Before you say anything—”

“There’s a cat in our bedroom.”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“I found her near the bakery and it was raining and she had the saddest little face and I couldn’t leave her behind. She likes it here and she only knocked over one lamp—”

He walks past you mid-ramble, pushes the bedroom door open. A small white kitten is curled up on his pillow like she owns it. She blinks at him, then meows again, sweet and tiny. Bucky exhales sharply.

You lean on the doorframe behind him, sheepish. “I already named her.”

He turns.

“Of course you did.”

“She’s called... Alpine.”

He stares at you and folds his arms, all exasperation. “Nope. No. We can’t have a cat.”

You blink. “Why not?”

“Because we don’t have time, we don’t have space, and we barely keep up with laundry. A cat is responsibility. She’s going to scratch up the couch and knock stuff over and shed everywhere. And we already have a lot on our plate.”

“But she’s so small,” you say, voice pitched in that soft, dangerous way that always gets to him.

Bucky shakes his head firmly. “No. Absolutely not. She spends one night here, and tomorrow we take her to a shelter. A nice one. One with a cat room and windows and adoption events. Got it?”

You nod. “One night. Of course.”

He doesn't trust your tone one bit.

That night is a slow-burn comedy of emotional sabotage. Alpine makes a beeline for you immediately, curling on your chest like you’re a warm hill made just for her. Bucky scoffs from the other side of the bed, grumbling something about allergies he definitely doesn’t have. You coo, Alpine purrs and Bucky stares blankly at both of you. An hour later, Alpine is curled between you under the blanket at bed, kneading her tiny paws into Bucky’s hoodie sleeve while he pretends not to care.

“She’s invading my personal space,” he mutters, though he does not move.

And when midnight rolls around the apartment is quiet —just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant city sounds muffled by the window. You're curled up deep in sleep, Alpine tucked between you and Bucky like a fuzzy comma.

At first, the change is subtle. A shift in Bucky’s breath, a twitch in his fingers. Then comes the small ragged gasp and suddenly he jolts up with a quiet noise caught in his throat, eyes blown wide and wild. It takes him a second too long to remember where he is. He grips the sheets, chest heaving, caught somewhere between memory and present.

It’s the sharp edge of another nightmare —one of those ones— and you’re still asleep beside him, unaware.

But someone else isn’t.

Alpine stirs, lifting her tiny head from the crook of Bucky’s arm. She blinks, stretches like a cotton puff with legs, and climbs onto his chest like it’s mission critical. Her small forehead bumps gently under his chin —once, twice— then she settles on top of his sternum and starts purring. Loudly. The sound vibrates into his ribs, into the space that just moments ago was tight and panicked. Bucky exhales shakily. Alpine purrs louder. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth of her grounding presence fill the gaps. The nightmare fades —not instantly, but enough. Enough that he doesn’t need to wake you. Enough that, for the first time in a long time, someone besides you has helped pull him back without words. He rests one hand over her tiny body and Alpine doesn’t move. He sleeps again.

In the morning, sunlight slants through the window. You find them curled like a secret: Bucky on his back, one arm still over Alpine, who’s curled on his chest like she owns him now. His expression is calm, even peaceful. Soft in a way you don’t always get to see. You don’t say anything, just smile.

Over breakfast, as Bucky pours coffee and you prep toast, he mumbles without looking up, “We should get a sandbox. And a scratching post or whatever else the little girl needs.”

You blink. Did he just call the cat he didn’t want ‘little girl’?

You try not to grin. “So… we’re keeping her?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Guess we are.”

Victory has never purred so sweetly.

[ker0ppik00]

I'm not gonna be home till the afternoon, so I decided I'll post the Bucky and Alpine fic when I arrive home :) thanks for the patience (if you saw it posted and deleted no you didn't)

[ker0ppik00]

Tomorrow I’ll be posting a Bucky Barnes + Alpine story to kick off an early celebration for Sebastian Stan’s birthday 🎂🖤🐾

Also... I have more Johnny Storm x reader ideas on my drafts since y'all liked the first one so much. I'm working on them. 👀🔥

[ker0ppik00]

I'm so overwhelmed and happy for all the love you're giving to my work. It means the world to me and helps me keep going. I'm so inspired to write new things thanks to y'all. Seriously, thank you. 🥹❤️❤️

🚨 Before You Read:

Johnny Storm x KindergartenTeacher!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Soft romance. Fluff, flirting, and chaotic charm.

Minor Fantastic Four: First Steps spoiler. Features Franklin Richards (Reed & Sue's son).

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work

Sparks Fly at Pickup

Johnny Storm is running ten minutes late, sneakers barely tied, sunglasses sliding down his nose. The Baxter Building’s elevator had been slow, the traffic slower, and the coffee he spilled on his shirt somewhere in between doesn’t help his case. If it weren’t for the tiny, tyrannical authority of his sister Sue, he might’ve just told her “oops, can’t make it.”

But here he is —panting a little from the jog, hair perfectly disheveled by accident— and rounding the corner of the sunny kindergarten hallway like he’s walking onto a red carpet.

Franklin is already by the cubbies, swinging his backpack like it owes him money, ready to go.

Johnny offers a sheepish, two-finger salute. “Hey, little genius. Sorry I’m late. You eat all the glue today or just some?”

But before Franklin can fire back with a deadly comeback to sharp and clever for a five-year-old, you step forward like a gentle presence and a warm smile. And for Johnny, it’s like someone dimmed the sun just enough for him to see clearly.

You’re holding Franklin’s folder in one hand and a crayon-scrawled drawing in the other, one that appears to depict a rainbow, a volcano, and what might be Johnny mid-flight yelling “FLAME ON!!” in purple marker.

“You must be Johnny,” you say, offering the drawing. “We’ve been working on a family art project. Franklin insisted you had to have your own page.”

He takes the paper automatically, glancing at it before looking back at you, which is a big mistake; because now he can’t stop looking.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “That’s me. In all my crayon glory.”

You laugh, and it’s honestly unfair how soft it sounds, how real. The kind that cracks something in him without trying.

“I just wanted to say,” you continue, shifting the folder into his hands, “Franklin’s been doing really well this week. Kind, focused. He even helped another student clean up after craft time. You’ve got a great kid in the family.”

And just like that, Johnny Storm is toast.

The compliment, the tone, the way you talk about his nephew like it means something personal —it gets under his skin in the nicest possible way. He opens his mouth to say something smooth, charming, maybe slightly flirtatious, but nothing comes out. Instead, he nods. Nods like a weirdo.

You don’t seem to mind.

“Anyway,” you say, stepping back toward the classroom door, “just thought you should know.”

Johnny watches you go. Literally watches you go, like he has forgot what planet he’s on. Franklin tugs at his hand, annoyed.

“Uncle Johnny. Can we get ice cream?”

He clears his throat, stands taller, smooths his expression into something like normal. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go, champ.”

But as they walk out, drawing clutched in one hand, Johnny looks back over his shoulder. You’re still by the door, waving goodbye to another parent. The hallway is bright, the air smells faintly of washable paint and graham crackers, and Johnny Storm —former flirty boy, Fantastic Four’s hothead, actual fire-powered hero— feels a little warm in a very different way.

He's completely, hopelessly smitten, and he’s absolutely coming back for pickup tomorrow.

And he does, because after that first afternoon, Johnny insists on picking up Franklin again. The next day. Then the day after. Then every day that week.

At first, Sue gives him the kind of look only an older sister can —one eyebrow raised, arms crossed, calculating the sudden spike in “family involvement.” Reed is too busy in his lab to notice at first, but even he eventually glances up from a notebook and asks, “Is there… a reason you're clearing your schedule at 3:15 every afternoon?”

Johnny brushes it off with a breezy, “I’m bonding with my nephew! Ever heard of good uncles, Mr. Stretch?”

But actually, Uncle Johnny is on a mission.

It starts simple. Day two, he wears his nicest (least scorched) jacket and rehearses a few casual lines in the car. Compliments, jokes, a harmless suggestion about coffee. Then he sees you and promptly forgets all of it, so instead he ends up babbling about how Franklin once caught a marshmallow on fire in the kitchen. You laugh again, and he walks out beaming, only realizing twenty minutes later that he never even asked your name.

By the end of the first week, it’s a routine.

Johnny shows up five minutes early, leans against the doorway like he’s in a romantic movie, and watches as you gently herd tiny humans into the arms of their grown-ups. Every time, he tells himself this is the day he will play it cool, but very time he walks away internally screaming.

One Monday, he brings coffee for you. You thank him with a surprised smile, and he spends the next six hours analyzing whether “thanks” sounded casual or flirty. He doesn’t even like cold brew, but now he drinks it daily, just in case it becomes a shared bit.

Wednesday, he tries to compliment your laugh —he likes your laugh, it’s warm and kind of addictive— but it comes out as “you have a nice, uh, sound? Vibe. Voice. Thing. Yeah.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Thanks?”

Johnny melts. “Cool, cool, yeah. Totally. I’ll just… be over here.”

Some days Franklin groans the moment Johnny arrives.

“Are you gonna be weird again?”

“I’m not being weird,” Johnny hisses, checking his reflection in the classroom window. “I’m being charming. Shut up and let me live.”

On Fridays, you send Franklin off with a smile and a gentle reminder about the weekend reading log. Johnny makes sure to ask follow-up questions, just to hear you talk a little longer. You’re always patient, always sweet, and Johnny falls a little harder each time.

And when you laugh at his terrible puns? Forget about it. He nearly proposes on the spot.

He tells himself he’s playing the long game. That one of these days, he’ll manage a full sentence without tripping over his ego or his tongue, and eventually, you’ll see he’s not just a walking fire hazard with a pretty face and a hero complex.

And then Friday afternoon, Sue appears in the hallway as Johnny’s grabbing his keys, with her arms folded, and one brow arched like she’s reading the entire situation in 0.3 seconds flat.

“You’re going to pick up Franklin?” she asks casually, like it’s not the twentieth day in a row he’s moved meetings, canceled plans, or left scorch marks on his shirt from changing too fast to make it on time.

“Yep,” Johnny replies, a little too fast. “Bonding. Quality time. Uncle stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” She leans against the doorframe, grin slow and dangerous. “Cool if I come with you today?”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

Johnny swears under his breath and changes shirts for the third time.

The kindergarten looks the same as always: bright posters in the windows, paper sunflowers in the front hall, and the faint smell of glue and finger paint lingering in the air. But Johnny’s not paying attention to any of that—he’s already scanning for you.

You’re by the classroom door, talking to another parent, and Johnny’s brain fizzles out like a short-circuit. He has one goal —look normal, say something witty, don’t combust— but none of those things happen. He just stands there.

Sue leans in and whispers, “This is who you’ve been melting down over? Adorable.”

“Shut up,” Johnny hisses.

Franklin is the first to spot them from inside the classroom and races out with his backpack swinging. “Uncle Johnny!”

Johnny crouches to catch him in a hug just as you walk over, clipboard in hand, smiling like the sun came early today.

“Hey, Johnny.” You nod politely at Sue. “Hi, Sue. It's been a while.”

Sue grins. “I know, that’s why I’m tagging along. Wanted to see why someone suddenly loves school pickup.”

Johnny throws her a look that could scorch wallpaper.

You laugh softly, eyes kind. “Franklin’s been doing really well lately. Kind, helpful, focused. Whatever you’re doing at home it’s working.”

“Oh, we’re doing nothing,” Johnny blurts. “I mean, we’re trying! But it’s mostly Reed. And Sue. And, uh— books— not, like, children’s books, but parenting ones—” He stops himself, face flaming with secondhand embarrassment.

Sue covers a laugh behind her hand.

Franklin tugs on your sleeve. “Uncle Johnny talks about you all the time. He even—”

“Okay!” Johnny interrupts, his face the color of his flames. “Okay. Time to go. That’s enough, buddy, say goodbye.”

Franklin squints at him. “Aren’t you gonna ask about the reading log?”

Johnny mumbles something that vaguely resembles a sentence.

But then Sue, the traitor, leans over and says sweetly, “You know, Johnny’s got tickets to that concert this weekend. It’s a shame he doesn’t have anyone to go with.”

There’s a second of silence where Johnny forgets how to breathe —how to function.

Sue, full of unholy joy, adds, “And, you know, if you don’t have anything to do this weekend…”

You tilt your head. “Well, if he’s asking…”

“I— uh— do you— do you wanna go?” Johnny stammers, voice too high.

You smile, a little amused, a little flattered. “Sure. Sounds fun.”

Johnny almost forgets Franklin’s there until the kid sighs, tugging his arm. “You owe me a milkshake now.”

Sue snorts. “Two if there’s a second date.”

Johnny’s still too stunned to reply. You’re already writing your number on a sticky note from your clipboard.

“Call me and we talk about the details,” you say, then nod to Franklin. “See you Monday, sweetie.”

Johnny holds the note like it’s made of gold. He might combust, right now, but is totally worth it.

[ker0ppik00]

Johnny’s out of my drafts and into your dash.

This one’s pure sweetness: my take on the Human Torch (Joseph Quinn's Johnny). The playboy charm? Just smoke and mirrors. Underneath, he’s the kind of guy who completely loses his cool when he’s genuinely interested. ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Fluff, warmth, and a little bit of Johnny being hopeless over you.

My drafts have been unusually warm lately. Might be because a certain Human Torch is crashing in. 🔥🔥

Follow me and/or like this to not miss it. 🖋✨️

In the meantime check some of my writing here

[ker0ppik00]

🚨 Before You Read:

Johnny Storm x KindergartenTeacher!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Soft romance. Fluff, flirting, and chaotic charm.

Minor Fantastic Four: First Steps spoiler. Features Franklin Richards (Reed & Sue's son).

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work

Sparks Fly at Pickup

Johnny Storm is running ten minutes late, sneakers barely tied, sunglasses sliding down his nose. The Baxter Building’s elevator had been slow, the traffic slower, and the coffee he spilled on his shirt somewhere in between doesn’t help his case. If it weren’t for the tiny, tyrannical authority of his sister Sue, he might’ve just told her “oops, can’t make it.”

But here he is —panting a little from the jog, hair perfectly disheveled by accident— and rounding the corner of the sunny kindergarten hallway like he’s walking onto a red carpet.

Franklin is already by the cubbies, swinging his backpack like it owes him money, ready to go.

Johnny offers a sheepish, two-finger salute. “Hey, little genius. Sorry I’m late. You eat all the glue today or just some?”

But before Franklin can fire back with a deadly comeback to sharp and clever for a five-year-old, you step forward like a gentle presence and a warm smile. And for Johnny, it’s like someone dimmed the sun just enough for him to see clearly.

You’re holding Franklin’s folder in one hand and a crayon-scrawled drawing in the other, one that appears to depict a rainbow, a volcano, and what might be Johnny mid-flight yelling “FLAME ON!!” in purple marker.

“You must be Johnny,” you say, offering the drawing. “We’ve been working on a family art project. Franklin insisted you had to have your own page.”

He takes the paper automatically, glancing at it before looking back at you, which is a big mistake; because now he can’t stop looking.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “That’s me. In all my crayon glory.”

You laugh, and it’s honestly unfair how soft it sounds, how real. The kind that cracks something in him without trying.

“I just wanted to say,” you continue, shifting the folder into his hands, “Franklin’s been doing really well this week. Kind, focused. He even helped another student clean up after craft time. You’ve got a great kid in the family.”

And just like that, Johnny Storm is toast.

The compliment, the tone, the way you talk about his nephew like it means something personal —it gets under his skin in the nicest possible way. He opens his mouth to say something smooth, charming, maybe slightly flirtatious, but nothing comes out. Instead, he nods. Nods like a weirdo.

You don’t seem to mind.

“Anyway,” you say, stepping back toward the classroom door, “just thought you should know.”

Johnny watches you go. Literally watches you go, like he has forgot what planet he’s on. Franklin tugs at his hand, annoyed.

“Uncle Johnny. Can we get ice cream?”

He clears his throat, stands taller, smooths his expression into something like normal. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go, champ.”

But as they walk out, drawing clutched in one hand, Johnny looks back over his shoulder. You’re still by the door, waving goodbye to another parent. The hallway is bright, the air smells faintly of washable paint and graham crackers, and Johnny Storm —former flirty boy, Fantastic Four’s hothead, actual fire-powered hero— feels a little warm in a very different way.

He's completely, hopelessly smitten, and he’s absolutely coming back for pickup tomorrow.

And he does, because after that first afternoon, Johnny insists on picking up Franklin again. The next day. Then the day after. Then every day that week.

At first, Sue gives him the kind of look only an older sister can —one eyebrow raised, arms crossed, calculating the sudden spike in “family involvement.” Reed is too busy in his lab to notice at first, but even he eventually glances up from a notebook and asks, “Is there… a reason you're clearing your schedule at 3:15 every afternoon?”

Johnny brushes it off with a breezy, “I’m bonding with my nephew! Ever heard of good uncles, Mr. Stretch?”

But actually, Uncle Johnny is on a mission.

It starts simple. Day two, he wears his nicest (least scorched) jacket and rehearses a few casual lines in the car. Compliments, jokes, a harmless suggestion about coffee. Then he sees you and promptly forgets all of it, so instead he ends up babbling about how Franklin once caught a marshmallow on fire in the kitchen. You laugh again, and he walks out beaming, only realizing twenty minutes later that he never even asked your name.

By the end of the first week, it’s a routine.

Johnny shows up five minutes early, leans against the doorway like he’s in a romantic movie, and watches as you gently herd tiny humans into the arms of their grown-ups. Every time, he tells himself this is the day he will play it cool, but very time he walks away internally screaming.

One Monday, he brings coffee for you. You thank him with a surprised smile, and he spends the next six hours analyzing whether “thanks” sounded casual or flirty. He doesn’t even like cold brew, but now he drinks it daily, just in case it becomes a shared bit.

Wednesday, he tries to compliment your laugh —he likes your laugh, it’s warm and kind of addictive— but it comes out as “you have a nice, uh, sound? Vibe. Voice. Thing. Yeah.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Thanks?”

Johnny melts. “Cool, cool, yeah. Totally. I’ll just… be over here.”

Some days Franklin groans the moment Johnny arrives.

“Are you gonna be weird again?”

“I’m not being weird,” Johnny hisses, checking his reflection in the classroom window. “I’m being charming. Shut up and let me live.”

On Fridays, you send Franklin off with a smile and a gentle reminder about the weekend reading log. Johnny makes sure to ask follow-up questions, just to hear you talk a little longer. You’re always patient, always sweet, and Johnny falls a little harder each time.

And when you laugh at his terrible puns? Forget about it. He nearly proposes on the spot.

He tells himself he’s playing the long game. That one of these days, he’ll manage a full sentence without tripping over his ego or his tongue, and eventually, you’ll see he’s not just a walking fire hazard with a pretty face and a hero complex.

And then Friday afternoon, Sue appears in the hallway as Johnny’s grabbing his keys, with her arms folded, and one brow arched like she’s reading the entire situation in 0.3 seconds flat.

“You’re going to pick up Franklin?” she asks casually, like it’s not the twentieth day in a row he’s moved meetings, canceled plans, or left scorch marks on his shirt from changing too fast to make it on time.

“Yep,” Johnny replies, a little too fast. “Bonding. Quality time. Uncle stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” She leans against the doorframe, grin slow and dangerous. “Cool if I come with you today?”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

Johnny swears under his breath and changes shirts for the third time.

The kindergarten looks the same as always: bright posters in the windows, paper sunflowers in the front hall, and the faint smell of glue and finger paint lingering in the air. But Johnny’s not paying attention to any of that—he’s already scanning for you.

You’re by the classroom door, talking to another parent, and Johnny’s brain fizzles out like a short-circuit. He has one goal —look normal, say something witty, don’t combust— but none of those things happen. He just stands there.

Sue leans in and whispers, “This is who you’ve been melting down over? Adorable.”

“Shut up,” Johnny hisses.

Franklin is the first to spot them from inside the classroom and races out with his backpack swinging. “Uncle Johnny!”

Johnny crouches to catch him in a hug just as you walk over, clipboard in hand, smiling like the sun came early today.

“Hey, Johnny.” You nod politely at Sue. “Hi, Sue. It's been a while.”

Sue grins. “I know, that’s why I’m tagging along. Wanted to see why someone suddenly loves school pickup.”

Johnny throws her a look that could scorch wallpaper.

You laugh softly, eyes kind. “Franklin’s been doing really well lately. Kind, helpful, focused. Whatever you’re doing at home it’s working.”

“Oh, we’re doing nothing,” Johnny blurts. “I mean, we’re trying! But it’s mostly Reed. And Sue. And, uh— books— not, like, children’s books, but parenting ones—” He stops himself, face flaming with secondhand embarrassment.

Sue covers a laugh behind her hand.

Franklin tugs on your sleeve. “Uncle Johnny talks about you all the time. He even—”

“Okay!” Johnny interrupts, his face the color of his flames. “Okay. Time to go. That’s enough, buddy, say goodbye.”

Franklin squints at him. “Aren’t you gonna ask about the reading log?”

Johnny mumbles something that vaguely resembles a sentence.

But then Sue, the traitor, leans over and says sweetly, “You know, Johnny’s got tickets to that concert this weekend. It’s a shame he doesn’t have anyone to go with.”

There’s a second of silence where Johnny forgets how to breathe —how to function.

Sue, full of unholy joy, adds, “And, you know, if you don’t have anything to do this weekend…”

You tilt your head. “Well, if he’s asking…”

“I— uh— do you— do you wanna go?” Johnny stammers, voice too high.

You smile, a little amused, a little flattered. “Sure. Sounds fun.”

Johnny almost forgets Franklin’s there until the kid sighs, tugging his arm. “You owe me a milkshake now.”

Sue snorts. “Two if there’s a second date.”

Johnny’s still too stunned to reply. You’re already writing your number on a sticky note from your clipboard.

“Call me and we talk about the details,” you say, then nod to Franklin. “See you Monday, sweetie.”

Johnny holds the note like it’s made of gold. He might combust, right now, but is totally worth it.

[ker0ppik00]

My drafts have been unusually warm lately. Might be because a certain Human Torch is crashing in. 🔥🔥

Follow me and/or like this to not miss it. 🖋✨️

In the meantime check some of my writing here

[ker0ppik00]

🚨 Before You Read:

Sober!BuckyBarnes x Drunk!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Slightly sexual themes / teasing. Established relationship. Soft humor and fluff. NO SMUT.

Healthy boundaries. Bucky being a gentleman.

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

More of my work

Drunk on You

The party is winding down, and at some point, the music fades from something thumping and relentless into the kind of mellow beat that means most people have left, and the ones still around are either slumped on couches or laughing too hard at things that stopped being funny an hour ago.

You are... somewhere in between.

Standing on the edge of the empty dance floor, you're making a compelling argument to a half-eaten cupcake about conspiracy theories. Bucky watches from a few steps away, arms folded, mouth twitching.

He’s been keeping tabs on you all night —partly because he promised to, partly because it’s just what he does. You showed up four hours ago in the right party outfit, confident, with big ideas about stealing drinks from Tony’s ridiculous bar menu. Now your hair’s a mess, your collar’s crooked, and your eyes are glassy with fond, tipsy wonder as you point at a flickering chandelier like it’s about to tell you a secret.

Bucky steps closer, gently, like someone trying not to spook a baby deer.

“Alright, darlin’ ” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Think it’s time we head upstairs.”

You blink at him. “But the party—”

“Is over.” He gestures vaguely to the room behind you, where Sam is passed out in a chair with his sunglasses still on and Natasha is playing poker against herself. “Even Tony called it a night.”

“Coward,” you mumble, wobbling slightly as you turn in a circle, like you're trying to spot him. “Didn’t even stay for the toast.”

“There was no toast.”

You gasp. “There should have been.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m—” You start, but then stop, swaying a little. “Okay, yes. But like... eloquently.”

“Sure,” he says, reaching out to steady your elbow. His touch is gentle, steadying without pulling. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

You grumble something that sounds like “party cop” but lean into him anyway, letting your head bump against his shoulder as he guides you toward the elevator.

“Did you have fun?” he asks as the doors slide shut.

You look up at him, eyes soft and bleary. “You didn’t drink.”

“I did. I just can’t get drunk.”

“That’s unfair,” you murmur, poking his chest. “You should be tipsy with me. We could be chaos together.”

He smirks, pressing the elevator button with a quiet ding. “Is enough chaos just keeping up with you.”

And maybe it’s the alcohol —or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the best kind of trouble— but you grin.

“Next time,” you say, “I’m making you hold my shoes.”

He chuckles again, steady as ever beside you. “Deal.”

The elevator hums upward, and he adjusts his arm to keep you close, brushing a kiss to your temple just before the doors open again.

“Let’s get you to bed, trouble.”

The second the words leave his mouth, something shifts in you. Like a lightbulb flickers on —albeit one powered by too many drinks and a dangerously low sense of shame.

You gasp, eyes wide. “Bed?”

Bucky pauses, already halfway into unlocking the door to your shared quarters. “…To sleep.”

You, apparently, hear: To ravish. Because now you’re pawing at his arm like a koala on a sugar high.

“But you said bed. You said it all low and sexy.”

He lets out a breath —half a laugh, half a prayer for patience. “I said it like someone who wants to get you horizontal before you trip over your own feet.”

You press your body against his side, arms looping (clumsily) around his waist. “C’mon, Buck. You love me.”

“I do,” he says, guiding you gently inside before you attempt to climb him like a tree. “Which is why I’m not gonna do anything while you’re too many glasses deep and calling the hallway lamp ‘sexy Groot.’”

You pout. You definitely pout. “But I’m so in love with you right now. I would let you do anything. Anything. To me.”

“That’s the problem,” he says, steadying you as you nearly miss the step up to the bed. “Your standards are currently in the gutter.”

But you don’t go down easy. The second Bucky locks the door of the bedroom, you’re on a mission —uncoordinated, determined and horny.

“You could just take your shirt off,” you murmur, tugging at the hem of his black tee like it personally wronged you. “Y’know. For science.”

Bucky grabs your hands gently. “Nope.”

“But I’m being sexy,” you argue, leaning in like you’re about to whisper a secret. Instead, you hiccup. Loudly. “See?”

“You’re being drunk,” he corrects, guiding you back toward the bed like a bomb disposal expert. “And a little dangerous with that look in your eyes.”

“I do have seduction eyes,” you declare proudly, flopping backward onto the mattress with the grace of a stunned octopus.

“You do.” He kneels to take off your shoes, gentle hands brushing your ankles. “Still not gonna sleep with you tonight, tough.”

“You could kiss me,” you offer, not letting him get up by clinging to his shoulders now like a sleepy barnacle. “Just a little. Or, like… a lot.”

Bucky sighs through his nose and whispers something that sounds a lot like God give me strength.

“I could,” he agrees calmly, like he isn’t currently sweating. “But then I’d never forgive myself.”

You lean your forehead against his chest, mumbling nonsense into the fabric. Your hands keep wandering —down his ribs, across the line of his spine, suspiciously lower. Bucky catches them both, holds them firmly on his own and warns you using your name.

“But you’re so warm and big and safe and hot and your hands,” you babble, eyes bleary, voice thick with drunken devotion. “You could pick me up like a rag doll. Manhandle me. Better yet, I want your hands in my—”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, like a man in crisis. “Okay. That’s enough.”

He lifts you easily, ignoring your squeal of delight, and deposits you squarely in bed before tucking you in like you’re a gremlin who needs to be sealed away for safety reasons.

“But we could just cuddle sexy,” you try again.

“You’re gonna wake up tomorrow and thank me for not doing anything you can’t consent to,” he says, kissing your temple.

“I’m gonna wake up tomorrow horny,” you say into your pillow.

Bucky ignores your last comment, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh that wants to escape. He mutters something about needing water and slips out of the room before your sleepy flirting levels up into something even harder to resist.

When he returns, the glass in hand, you’re already out —sprawled sideways across the bed, one sock halfway off, cheek smooshed against the pillow like you lost a fight with gravity. Your lips are parted slightly, the faintest snore catching in your throat. You look peaceful, soft and safe, just how he likes you.

Bucky sets it down gently on the nightstand, careful not to wake you. Then he crouches beside the bed, just to look at you. Just to admire the chaos of your hair, the scrunch in your brow like you’re dreaming something weird and the way your fingers are curled like they’re still trying to find him even in sleep.

He reaches out slowly, brushing a knuckle down the line of your cheek. Then, he places a kiss soft and warm to your cheek, barely more than a breath.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “Even when you’re a menace.”

You shift in your sleep, sighing contentedly, as if you heard him anyway.

And Bucky? He just smiles, shaking his head, already resigned to a long night of you starfished across his side of the bed. But he wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.

[ker0ppik00]

summer means no college and endless time to daydream (and write). with my friends scattered all over the country right now, i suddenly have a lot of time, so yes, i’m writing. a lot.

thank you for the support, I really appreciate it! 💗💗 and expect more short fics soon!! (yes, that means more Bucky, but also Sam, Joaquin, and maybe a few surprises… 👀).

basically: i miss having social life, but at least the writing brain is thriving 🙂‍↕️

[ker0ppik00]

🌷 Welcome to Lisa's Little Garden 🌷

Hi! I'm Lisa (she/her), I’m 20+, and this is my soft, slightly feral corner of the internet to yell about fictional men and the people who love them. This blog is my safe (and slightly chaotic) space to post short fics, one-shots, and drabbles while I work up the courage to share my long-term project — a big fic called Heart of Winter that’s been haunting my drafts like a ghost with feelings.

Expect a mix of fluff, emotional damage, idiots in love, and occasionally me live-blogging my own meltdown.

Right now, I’m writing to have fun and build up confidence, so if you’re here, thanks for being part of that journey! 💗 I’m always happy to chat, take opinions, or yell about fictional crushes.

Fic Masterlist

Bucky Barnes

🍳 A Pinch of Normal —Bucky in a cooking class, trying (and failing) not to fall for you.

💐 Thursday in Bloom —Bucky keeps buying flowers. You think it’s for someone else. He thinks you're the bouquet-worthy one.

🍷 Drunk on You —Party is over. You are drunk. Bucky is very sober and his gentleman-level self-control is being tested.

🐱 Tiny Paws, Big Trouble —You bring home a stray kitten. Bucky says absolutely not. Then she comforts him during a nightmare and curls up on his chest.

Johnny Storm

🎒 Sparks Fly at Pickup —Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, tries his best (and fails spectacularly) to flirt while picking up his nephew Franklin from your kindergarten class.

Sam Wilson

⚖️ Legal Briefs and Heartbeats —You’re Sam Wilson’s top lawyer, and when the Avengers name is on the line, so is your slow-burning tension.

(More coming soon — I write faster when people scream in the tags.)

✨Confidence is in progress. My obsession with Marvel is everyone's problem.✨

[ker0ppik00]

🚨 Before you read:

Bucky Barnes x Florist!Reader (gender-neutral, second person).

Post-TFATWS, soft vibes, fluff.

English is not my first language. I search a lot of words.

Hope you enjoy.

Thursday in Bloom

The bell above the door jingled softly like a delicate sound, easy to miss if you weren’t used to it.

You looked up from the bundle of ranunculus in your hands just in time to see him step inside. Tall and broad, with shadowed eyes that darted across the room like he was scanning for exits. He didn’t look like a man used to standing in flower shops.

He moved slowly, deliberately. Like every step required permission.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just gave a small smile and dusted off your palms on your apron, letting the silence stretch. Some people need space before they can breathe.

He looked at the counter, then at the flowers, then at the door.

"Hi," he said, voice low and rough around the edges. "Uh… I’m looking for flowers. For someone.”

You nodded, keeping your tone light. “You came to the right place.”

He huffed something between a laugh and a breath, still giving casual glares at the entrance like he wasn’t sure he belonged here.

You gestured to the rows of blooms behind you, bright against the soft wooden walls. “Want to tell me about them? The person, I mean. Makes it easier.”

He hesitated. “She’s… kind. Tough. Smarter than me.” A pause. “She is helping me a lot.”

That narrowed it down to roughly every type of flower you had.

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Color preference?”

“Not really,” he said, scratching behind his neck. His left hand stayed buried in the pocket of his jacket, but the right one tapped lightly against his thigh, and even when you caught the movement, you didn’t comment.

Instead, you started gathering: a little yarrow for courage, some soft peach roses for gratitude, a few sprigs of waxflower because they last longer than people expect them to. You built slowly, explaining each one, and he listened carefully, nodding once or twice like he was filing the information away like intel.

When you handed him the bouquet, his eyebrows lifted slightly. “You made that fast.”

“I make a lot of them,” you said with a shrug. “But this one’s fits.”

He studied it like he wasn’t sure how to hold it. “Are those good enough?”

“I’d bet my best clippers they are.”

That earned a real smile —small and crooked, but there.

“Thanks,” he said, and for the first time, he looked you directly in the eyes. “Really.”

You didn’t ask for a name. Didn’t ask who she was or why his shoulders were wound so tight. You just watched him leave, bouquet in hand, the bell jingling again behind him.

He came back the next week.

Same awkward shuffle through the door, same hesitant glance at the display, but this time, he didn’t hover by the entrance. He walked straight to the counter, nodded once, and said, “Need another one.”

So you made him a new bouquet —cooler tones this time, with a splash of lavender and white lilac. He listened, asked a few more questions, and thanked you again before leaving.

The third day, two weeks after your first meeting, he entered with a cup of coffee in his hand and didn’t glance at the door, not even once.

By the end of the month, it had become routine: same day of the week —Thursday—, different flowers and a quiet exchange wrapped in petals. You started learning the curve of his voice, the slight smirk that appeared when he found your jokes funnier than they were. He started saying your name when he came in. You learned his on the fourth visit —Bucky Barnes, spoken like it was nothing, though it lingered in your chest for hours afterward.

He stood straighter each time he entered, spoke with a little more warmth, and sometimes he asked how your day was. Other times, he lingered longer, pretending to browse while you tried not to stare.

But you couldn’t help wondering who the flowers were for. His girlfriend? He said she was kind, smart… You never asked, tough. But it sat there, quietly blooming in the back of your mind: how lucky his girlfriend must be.

The thought shouldn’t ache, sure, but it did. Because somewhere between building bouquets and stealing glances at his hands, you realized you might’ve fallen a little in love with him.

The visits continued into the second month. And then the third.

By now, you didn’t even pretend not to look at the clock on Thursdays. You knew the rhythm of his boots on the pavement, the exact sound the door made when he opened it. You knew already how he’d pause just inside —out of habit, not nerves— and scan the shop until his eyes found you.

Hell, you even started dressing a little differently on Thursdays. Not dramatic. Just a cleaner collar, cuter colors, a touch more of care in your hair, your smile, and in the way your apron tied neatly at the back. Just in case he noticed.

And maybe he did, because he smiled more now. Told stories. Asked about your favorite flowers. One week, he brought Alpine —white fur, blue eyes, a queen in a harness— and you fell in love with her instantly, only slightly more discreetly than you were falling for him.

And always, always, he bought flowers. Always for her.

Today, he walks in a little earlier than usual, but you’re already halfway through prepping a tray of dahlias. Your heart does its usual traitorous flutter when he grins at you.

“Hey, flower,” he says, tugging off his gloves. “Got time for another?”

“For you? Always.” The words slip out too easily, and his smirk lingers a moment too long.

You build the bouquet —wildflowers this time, bold colors, just like he asked. There’s something warm in his eyes when he watches your hands move, and when you hand it to him, he doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he clears his throat. “What time do you get off today?”

You blink.

“What?”

“Your shift,” he says, a little softer. “When does it end? I was thinking maybe we could… meet up? After?”

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

You feel your mouth open before your thoughts can catch up. “Oh— I mean— I would love to, really, but that’s not— it’s not appropriate, is it? You have someone. The one you always buy the flowers for— your girlfriend, right? It’d be weird, or— wrong— and I mean I totally understand why you wouldn’t say anything but I just, I didn’t think—”

You trail off, flustered, watching his face shift slowly from confusion to something like stunned amusement.

“Wait,” he says, brows raised. “Girlfriend?”

You nod, heat rushing to your face. “The one you bring flowers to. Every week. For three months.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Bucky laughs —not meanly or mockingly, but surprised and helpless. Almost warm.

He sets the bouquet down on the counter and shakes his head. “I’ve been bringing those to my therapist.”

You stare.

“She told me I needed a routine,” he continues, still chuckling. “Something calm. So I bring flowers. Every week. Same day, same hour. For her office.” He rubs the back of his neck, then adds, “Didn’t realize I was giving off ‘madly in love with my therapist’ vibes.”

You blink again. “Oh.”

“And I was hoping I could actually bring flowers to someone else this week,” he says, voice quieter now. “Someone who makes the arrangements and knows exactly what they mean.”

You don’t say anything. Not at first at least, because you’re still catching up. But when he smiles —really smiles— you feel it bloom all the way to your fingertips.

[ker0ppik00]

okay random OC dilemma but i need to share this. so… i usually base my OCs on celebrities because I can’t draw (bless the artists who can 🙏), and having a visual reference really helps me imagine their vibe, mood, style, etc...

but here’s the thing: i’ve had a faceclaim for my OC Lily Bloom for a long time now. she’s a redhead (which is key), and she’s been the "face" of Lily for ages, but recently i saw another redhead celeb that just fits her aura, her softness, her gentle energy so much better and now i’m stuck.

because my brain (hi ocd) is like: “you can’t change it. it’s always been this way. she’s already established in your head. it’s too late.” even though NOTHING is posted. not a pic. not a fic. not even a moodboard. just private.

and yet i feel weirdly guilty??? like i’m betraying the first faceclaim?? 😭 has anyone else felt like this?? is it okay to change faceclaims mid-creative process?? does it make me a fake fan of my own OC??

pls someone tell me i’m not alone in this 😭😭😭