YOU. WILL. WRITE. oh you want to write so bad. all the motivation is here. the plot is so good. words come to you so naturally. YOU ARE GOING TO WRITE. RIGHT NOW.
I hope that this year has been good for everyone and that you're all doing okay<3
Recently I've been getting into The Witcher (games and books), Dispatch, Red Dead Redemption (im gonna start playing rdr2 soon), and a few other things!
I love this moment. Like, they’ve been “back together” in their right minds for, what, five minutes? since 1945 and the dynamic is already coming back.
Steve: Come on, man, fuck’s sake, try harder.
Bucky’s face: Shut the FUCK up Rogers, don’t start with me, I was FINE but NO you show up and bring a FIGHT with you WHY AM I NOT SURPRISED.
Warnings: 18+ only. Dehumanization. Description of non-human genitalia. -For now-
Summary: She brings home a cynical hybrid no one wanted: a missing limb, a brutal past, and zero interest in making things easy. He didn't ask to be rescued, doesn't want her pity or her stubborn refusal to back down. What begins as an act of conscience becomes a tense dance of boundaries, old instincts, and... unexpected connection.
Word Count: 6.8k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She watched him disappear down the hallway, then let out a slow breath and leaned back in her chair.
He needed space. She could tell. And honestly, so did she.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Two hours until her pottery students arrived. She'd have to ensure the workshop was set up, the tools were clean, and the clay was prepped.
And she'd have to figure out what to do about Bucky.
She looked toward the hallway again, as if she could see through the walls to wherever he'd gone. The hair. The beard. Both of them were a mess: tangled, uneven, probably uncomfortable. She'd have to bring it up eventually. But not now. Not after he'd already spent the entire day being poked and prodded and pushed into a new life he clearly didn't trust yet.
Later. She'd deal with it later.
She stood, picked up her plate and his empty container, and put them in the sink. After a quick rinse, she headed downstairs.
The workshop was quiet and familiar. The smell of clay and glaze, the faint warmth still radiating from the kiln, even though it had been off since yesterday. This was her space. The one place that made sense when everything else felt chaotic.
She rolled up her sleeves and started tidying: wiping down the wheels, organizing tools, checking the clay bins to make sure there was enough wedged and ready for her students.
It felt good to have something concrete to focus on. Something that didn't involve navigating the minefield of a traumatized hybrid who seemed determined to test every boundary she tried to set.
She was halfway through cleaning one of the wheels when she heard it.
Footsteps. Quiet, but not trying to be silent.
She turned and saw him standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs, looking down into the workshop. Just watching.
"Hey," she called up. "Everything okay?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stood there, resting his hand on the doorframe with an unreadable expression until finally, he descended the stairs.
She tried to keep her expression neutral, even though she felt relieved seeing him coming down on his own. Whether it was boredom, curiosity, or restlessness, it didn't matter. He'd chosen to come.
She went back to organizing, wiping down a rib tool, and setting it in its proper spot on the shelf. "So, just a heads up. I've got people coming in a little while. Students. I teach a pottery class on Thursdays and Tuesdays."
He didn't respond, just moved slowly along the edge of the room, scanning the shelves, inspecting the half-finished pieces, and the tools she'd laid out.
"I'm telling you this because I don't know if you'll want to be down here when they arrive," she continued, keeping her tone casual. "You just got here, and I know it might be... a lot. The noise and the fact that there will be strangers in the space. If you want to stay upstairs, it's totally fine."
Still nothing.
He stopped in front of a shelf and picked up a luminary, half-painted, shaped like a mushroom with a tiny door and windows carved into the cap. A little fairy house. He turned it over in his hand, examining it with that same focus he'd given to everything else.
"Bucky," she said, her voice more serious now.
He turned toward her. His ears swiveled in her direction before his eyes did.
She set down the tool she'd been holding and looked at him directly. "I know you spent most of your life guarding a perimeter." She paused, making sure he understood she got it. "You were the warning, and the last line. Nobody got past you unless they were supposed to be there."
He didn't change his expression, but something in his posture shifted. His shoulders went a little rigid.
"So I need to know," she continued carefully. "Are you going to be okay with strangers walking in here, or is your brain going to tell you they're a threat?"
The silence stretched between them.
His tail flicked once, sharp and irritated, then stilled.
"I'll manage," he said finally, his voice low and clipped.
"That's not what I asked." She didn't let him off the hook. "I'm not asking if you can manage. I'm asking if it's going to be a problem. Because if your instinct is to put yourself between me and anyone who walks through that door, we need to talk about it now."
He worked his jaw for a second, grinding his teeth together. He looked away from her, dropping his gaze back to the mushroom in his hand.
"They're your students," he said flatly. "You invited them. That makes them... allowed."
It wasn't quite an answer, but it was something.
"Okay," she said slowly. "But if it gets to be too much -if something in you starts screaming that they shouldn't be here- I need you to go upstairs. Understood?"
He set the luminary back on the shelf with deliberate care, then turned to face her fully.
"Understood," he said, in a tone that made clear the conversation was over.
She nodded, even though she wasn't entirely convinced.
But it was the best she was going to get.
----
Twenty minutes later, the first student arrived.
She heard the bell above the shop, followed by a cheerful voice calling out, "Hi there! It's just me!"
"Back here, Linda!" she called back, wiping her hands on her apron.
Bucky, who'd been standing near the kiln examining the temperature gauge with vague interest, went completely still. His ears swiveled toward the sound, and he shifted, rebalancing his weight and squaring his shoulders, locking his gaze on the doorway leading from the shop into the workshop.
She saw it happen in real time, the change from idle curiosity to sharp awareness.
"Hey," she said quietly, stepping closer to him. "It's okay. She's supposed to be here."
He didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge that she'd spoken. Just kept watching that doorway.
Linda appeared a moment later, a woman in her mid-fifties with a canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. She was smiling, already mid-sentence about traffic, when she stepped through the threshold and saw him.
She faltered, and her smile slipped as she stared at Bucky. At the black ears pressed flat against his head. At the tail hanging low and tense behind him. At the wild tangle of hair and the unkempt beard that made him look half-feral.
"Oh," Linda said, her voice suddenly small. "I- I didn't know you had-"
"This is Bucky," she said quickly, keeping her tone light and normal, like this was the most natural thing in the world. "He's staying with me. Bucky, this is Linda. She's been coming to my classes for about a year now."
Bucky didn't waver. He stared at Linda with that same flat, unreadable expression, and a body language that didn’t precisely invite to hug him.
The woman swallowed, tightening her grip on the strap of her bag. "Hi," she said weakly. "Nice to... meet you."
Unsurprisingly, he didn't respond.
The silence dragged on just long enough to become uncomfortable.
"Why don't you set your stuff down at your usual spot?" she suggested to Linda, gesturing toward one of the pottery wheels. "We'll get started as soon as the others get here."
Linda nodded quickly -too quickly- and hurried past them, giving Bucky a wide berth as she moved to the far side of the room.
The moment she was out of immediate range, Bucky's shoulders relaxed by a fraction. But his eyes stayed on her, tracking her movement across the workshop.
"Bucky," she murmured, stepping into his line of sight. "Look at me."
His gaze flicked to her, sharp and annoyed.
"She's fine," she said firmly. "She's not a threat. Neither is the next person who walks in. You don't have to watch them like that."
His ears twitched, but he didn't answer.
Five minutes later, the bell chimed again.
This time it was Rachel. Early thirties, wearing paint-stained jeans and a denim jacket. She walked in with the confidence of someone who'd been here a dozen times before.
"Hey! Sorry I'm late, I had to-" She stopped mid-sentence when she saw him.
Her eyes went wide as she took in the ears, the tail, and his size standing there in the middle of the workshop.
"Holy shit," she breathed.
"Rachel," she said, a note of warning in her voice.
"Sorry, sorry," Rachel said quickly, holding up her hands. "I just- wow. I didn't know you had a hybrid. That's- that's really cool, actually."
Bucky's expression darkened slightly, his tail flicking once in clear irritation.
"This is Bucky," she said. "And yes, he's staying here. Let's not make a big deal out of it, okay?"
Rachel nodded, still staring a little too long before forcing herself to look away. "Yeah. Cool. Sorry." She moved toward her wheel, though she kept glancing back at him every few seconds like she couldn't help herself.
The bell chimed a third time.
She glanced up from where she'd been organizing clay wedges, already bracing herself. Three students. That was all. Just three people Bucky would have to tolerate for the next two hours.
The door to the workshop opened, and Ewan walked in.
Mid-forties, broad-shouldered with a flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows and work boots that tracked a little dirt across the threshold. His hands were already dusty, probably having come straight from whatever construction site he worked at.
"Afternoon," he called out.
"Hey, Ewan," she replied, keeping her tone neutral.
And then he saw Bucky.
He slowed. Not quite stopping, but there was a visible shift in momentum as he landed on the hybrid standing near the kiln. He looked up, taking in the height, the breadth of shoulders, the black ears pinned flat, and then slowly, deliberately, dragged his gaze back down. Taking inventory. Assessing.
Bucky’s stance changed instantly.
He straightened, lifting his chin just slightly. His tail, which had been hanging low and tense, went completely still. Everything about him sharpened. He met Ewan's assessment and returned it tenfold, making the air in the room feel heavier.
She felt it immediately. The change. The way the space between them suddenly felt charged with something dangerous.
"Ewan," she said quickly. "This is Bucky. He's staying with me."
The man raised his eyebrows slightly, and a slow smile spread across his face. Not precisely friendly. Amused.
"Huh," he said, still looking Bucky up and down like he was examining a piece of equipment. "When'd you pick up a watchdog?"
The words hung in the air.
Linda snapped her head up from her wheel, eyes big as plates. Rachel froze mid-step, staring.
Bucky didn't move. Didn't blink. But something in him changed, and something cold and sharp slid into place behind his eyes.
She stepped forward, positioning herself slightly between them. "He's not a dog, Ewan."
Ewan shrugged without losing his smile. "Yeah, yeah. Hybrid. Whatever." He gestured vaguely at Bucky's head, at the wild tangle of hair and the unkempt beard. "Just saying, looks like he could use a trip to the groomer. You planning on getting him cleaned up, or is the whole feral thing part of the appeal?"
He laughed. A short, self-satisfied sound that echoed awkwardly in the workshop.
No one else made an echo of that laugh.
Rachel looked down at her hands, suddenly very interested in the project she was pulling from her bag. Linda busied herself adjusting her apron.
Bucky pulled his lips back slightly, just enough to show the edge of his teeth. Not a snarl. Not quite. But close enough to make the threat clear.
"Ewan," she said, her voice sharp now, her tone sharp now, brooking no argument.. "Go set up at your wheel. Now."
The man blinked, and his smile finally faltered as he registered the tone in her voice. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Didn't mean to ruffle any feathers." He shot one last glance at Bucky -sizing him up one more time- then turned and walked toward his station on the far side of the room.
The moment he was out of immediate range, she turned to Bucky.
He was still focused on Ewan, tracking every movement, every shift of weight. He breathed in controlled measures, but she could see the tension thrumming through his body, so tight it looked painful.
"Bucky," she said quietly, stepping closer.
His ears flicked toward her, but he didn't look away.
"Look at me."
Slowly -so slowly- he shifted his gaze to her face.
"He's an asshole," she said bluntly, keeping her voice low enough that only he could hear. "But he's not a threat. He's just an idiot who thinks he's funny. That's all."
Bucky worked his jaw, grinding his teeth together. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely above a growl. "He called me a dog."
"I know." She didn't try to soften it, didn't try to make excuses. "And he was wrong. But if you react, if you give him what he wants, he wins. Do you understand?"
He flared his nostrils, closing his hand into a fist at his side.
"Do you understand?" she repeated, firmer this time.
He held her gaze for another long beat. Then, finally, he gave a single, sharp nod.
"Good," she said.
----
She should've known something like this would happen with Ewan. The man was a walking powder keg wrapped in flannel and work boots. Fresh out of prison last year, assault charges from a bar fight that had nearly turned into manslaughter. The judge had been merciful, or maybe just pragmatic: work, community service, and find a constructive outlet for all that aggression. Hence, the pottery classes.
He'd never hidden his record from her. In fact, she'd had to sign paperwork confirming she understood his parole conditions before he could even attend. She knew what he was: a redneck with a hair-trigger temper and a mouth that ran faster than his brain. But the money from his monthly tuition helped keep the lights on, and most of the time, she could manage him.
He had his quirks. The crude jokes, the lack of filter, and the way he dominated any conversation he entered. But -strangely- he was almost courtly with women. Something about his 'ma' raising him right, he'd said once. Linda and Rachel had long since learned to tune out his more colorful commentary, rolling their eyes and moving on.
But Bucky?
It was practically inevitable. Oil and water. Alpha and alpha.
She glanced at him now, half-expecting him to retreat upstairs, to remove himself from the situation before it escalated further.
He didn't.
Instead, he moved -slowly, deliberately- to the far wall near the kiln. He leaned back against the brick and locked his gaze directly on Ewan.
Unblinking.
Unwavering.
Like he was the only target in the room, and Bucky was cataloging every breath, every twitch, every change in his posture. Calculating angles of attack.
His ears were still pinned flat. His tail hung low and motionless. But his body language was clear: I'm watching you.
Ewan noticed. Of course he did.
He glanced up from his wheel, caught Bucky's stare, and instead of looking away, instead of showing even the slightest hint of discomfort, he grinned.
Wide. Toothy. Delighted.
"Well, shit," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Looks like someone's got himself a new job. You just gonna stand there and mean-mug me all afternoon, or you planning to do something about it?"
He laughed, that same self-satisfied sound from before, like he'd just told the funniest joke in the world.
Again, no one else laughed.
Linda kept her eyes down, focusing intently on wedging her clay. Rachel shifted uncomfortably in her seat, glancing between Bucky and Ewan like she was watching a fuse burn toward a stick of dynamite.
Bucky didn't move. Just kept staring at him with that same predatory focus.
She stepped forward, positioning herself in Ewan's line of sight. "Ewan," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Please focus on what you are going to work with today."
He held up his hands, still grinning. "I'm just saying, it's a little distracting having Cujo over there giving me the death glare." He gestured toward Bucky with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What's he think I'm gonna do, steal your glazes?"
"Ewan."
Her tone didn't rise, but something in it must've registered, because his grin finally faltered. He shrugged, turning back to his work. "Alright, alright. Jesus. Can't even make a joke anymore."
She exhaled slowly, rolling one shoulder.
This was going to be a long class.
----
She moved through the lesson on autopilot, demonstrating centering techniques, adjusting hand positions, and answering questions about compression and wall thickness. Linda worked quietly, methodically. Rachel was more hesitant, asking questions every few minutes, which she answered patiently.
And Ewan? He threw himself into it with the same aggressive energy he brought to everything else. His clay wobbled on the wheel, his hands too heavy, too forceful. She corrected him twice, reminding him to ease up, to let the clay move instead of fighting it.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "I got it."
He didn't have it.
But she let it go. Picked her battles wisely.
The whole time, Bucky didn't move from his spot against the wall.
He just stood there. Watching. Waiting.
Every so often, Ewan would glance over at him, that same amused smirk tugging at his mouth. Like having a hybrid stare him down for an hour was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him all week.
At one point, Linda dropped a tool, and the metal clattered loudly against the old tiled floor.
Bucky snapped toward the sound, going completely rigid for a split second before he registered what it was.
Ewan caught the reaction and chuckled under his breath. "Jumpy, ain't he?"
She shot him a look that could've stripped paint.
He raised his hands again, mock-innocent. "What? I'm just making an observation."
"Observe quietly," she said flatly.
----
By the time the class ended, her shoulders were so stiff that she almost couldn’t move them.
Linda packed up quickly, murmuring a polite goodbye and casting one last nervous glance at Bucky before heading out. Rachel lingered a moment longer, leaning closer and lowering her voice. "Is he… okay?"
"He's fine," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure that was true.
Rachel nodded, unconvinced, and left.
Ewan took his time cleaning up, wiping down his wheel with exaggerated care, and packing his tools back into his bag. She could feel him drawing it out, enjoying the fact that Bucky was still standing there, watching him.
Finally, he stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stretching his arms with a satisfied grunt. He walked toward the door, pausing just as he passed her.
"You know," he said conversationally, his voice just loud enough to carry across the workshop, "you might wanna think about getting that one neutered." He glanced back at Bucky with that same amused smirk. "I hear it calms them down. Makes them more... manageable."
He said it like he was giving gardening advice.
Then he walked out, the bell above the shop door chiming cheerfully as it swung shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
She stood there, frozen, struggling to process what he had just said. The casual cruelty of it. The way he'd tossed it out like a joke and walked away, leaving the words pooling there like poison.
Neutered.
Calms them down.
Manageable.
Her stomach twisted.
She turned slowly, already knowing what she'd see.
Bucky hadn't moved from his spot against the wall. But everything about him had changed.
He was rigid. He clenched his jaw so hard she could see the muscle jumping beneath his beard. His hand was fisted at his side, knuckles white with tension.
But it was his eyes that made her chest tighten.
They were empty.
Not angry, or hurt. Just... blank. Shut down. Like he'd pulled back somewhere deep inside himself where Ewan's words couldn't reach him. Where nothing could.
She'd seen that look before. In the facility. Through the window of his cell when she'd first met him. That flat, dead stare of someone who'd heard worse, endured worse, and had learned long ago that reacting only made it hurt more.
"Bucky," she said quietly.
He didn't respond. Didn't even blink.
She took a step toward him, then another. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching something wounded.
"Bucky," she said again, firmer this time.
His ears twitched -just once- but he kept staring at the door Ewan had walked through.
She stopped a few feet away, close enough to speak without raising her voice, but far enough to give him space. "Look at me."
Nothing.
He breathed slowly and controlled, but everything else about him was shut off. Unreachable.
She took another step closer. Then another.
"Bucky," she tried again, softer now.
Still nothing.
Carefully, she reached out and placed her hand on his forearm.
He registered it. She saw it in the subtle shift in his posture, the way his breath hitched for just a second. But he didn't look at her. Didn't move.
She stayed still for a beat, then slowly lifted her other hand toward his face.
He didn't pull away.
She brushed his beard first, tangled, rough, and unkempt. She let her fingers linger there, running through the mess of hair, feeling its texture beneath her palm. Then, carefully, she moved higher.
She found the base of his ear, and the reaction was immediate.
It twitched under her touch, flicking forward, then back, then forward again, an involuntary response he couldn't suppress. His breath stuttered, and he finally dragged his eyes away from the door. Focused on her.
She didn't pull her hand away. Just kept it there, stroking gently along the soft fur at the base of his ear with her thumb.
"What that guy said," she murmured, "is bullshit. You know that, right?"
He kept his jaw tight, his expression still guarded, but his eyes weren't empty anymore.
"He was totally out of place," she continued, holding his gaze. "And he's not coming back here. Ever."
He worked his throat like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
"Do you hear me?" she asked, firmer now.
He swallowed hard, then gave the barest nod.
She let her hand fall from his ear slowly, trailing down to rest briefly on his shoulder before pulling back entirely.
"Come on," she said quietly. "Let's go upstairs."
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at her like he was still trying to figure out if any of this was real.
Then, finally, he turned and walked toward the stairs.
Once they were back in the apartment, she headed toward the kitchen, trying to give him space, trying to let him process whatever he needed to process. She filled a glass with water from the tap, took a sip, and set it down.
"You okay?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
It was a stupid question. She knew it the second it left her mouth.
His response was immediate and cold.
"You could, you know."
She turned to look at him, furrowing her brow. "Could what?"
"Castrate me." His voice was almost conversational, but there was something sharp underneath it. Something bitter. "Legally, nothing's stopping you. You own me. You can do whatever you want with me."
Her stomach dropped. "Bucky, don't be absurd. I'm not going to-”
"Why not?" He stepped closer, closing the distance between them in two strides. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, and suddenly the kitchen felt a lot smaller. He loomed over her, close enough that she could feel his body heat. "Ewan had a point, didn't he? Might make me more... manageable."
She held her ground, refusing to back up. "Stop it," she said in a firmer voice. "You know I'm not-"
"Maybe," he continued, leaning in just slightly, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "you've got some curiosity about it. Plenty of humans do."
The words hit her like a slap.
She stared at him, clenching her jaw, feeling the heat crawl up her neck, not from embarrassment, but from anger. He was lashing out. She knew that. She understood it. But that didn't mean she had to just stand there and take it.
"You know what?" She stepped forward instead of back, closing the last inch between them until she was almost chest-to-chest with him, tilting her head back to hold his gaze. "Maybe you're the curious one here. After all this time using your hand, I'd imagine you'd be interested in trying an alternative."
The silence that followed was deafening.
His expression changed -just for a second- from that cold, cynical mask to something else. Surprise. Shock, even. Like he hadn't expected her to hit back.
She immediately regretted it. Not because it wasn't deserved, but because she knew better. She'd spent years dealing with assholes like Ewan, learning to fire back without flinching, and she'd just used that same reflex on him. Just that this time, it felt like a low punch.
She broke eye contact first, stepping back and turning sharply on her heel, walking down the hallway to her bedroom, and shutting the door firmly behind her.
She pressed her back against the door and exhaled slowly, squeezing her eyes shut.
Fuck.
----
He sat on the floor of his room, back against the wall, staring at nothing.
She'd hit back. Hard.
He'd expected her to shrink. To stammer. To back down like everyone always did when he pushed. Because he was bigger, stronger, and more dangerous. Because that's how it worked.
But she hadn't. She'd looked him in the eye and thrown his own bullshit right back at him.
He clenched his jaw.
The ear thing. That's what started this. That's what made him lose it. Because what the hell did she think he was? Some kind of-
He stopped himself.
Because the truth was, it had worked.
And he hated that it worked.
She'd touched his ear -something no one had ever done before, not that he could remember- and it had disarmed him. Pulled him out of that cold, empty place he'd gone to when that asshole said what he said. Made him feel something different than rage and humiliation.
And he hated her a little bit for that.
But also-
He exhaled sharply through his nose, bringing his hand up to rub at his face.
She'd stood her ground. Twice now. Maybe three times, he'd lost count. Every time he tried to dominate her, tried to push her into submission, the way every other human had always bent under pressure, she'd pushed back. Not with violence. Not with fear. Just with words.
No female had ever done that. Fuck, no male had either.
His tail flicked irritably against the floor.
He didn't know what to do with that.
----
It was late. Past eleven, maybe closer to midnight. His stomach had been growling for the past hour, and he'd finally decided to do something about it.
She hadn't said anything about restricted access to food. Hadn't told him he needed permission. So technically, he could just... go down and eat.
He padded down the hallway, barefoot, expecting the apartment to be dark and silent.
It wasn't.
The kitchen light was on, and she was sitting at the table.
She had a book open in front of her, a mug of tea steaming gently beside it. She'd changed into pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. She looked... soft. Tired, maybe, but calm.
She glanced up when she sensed him there, and for a split second, neither of them moved.
The silence stretched.
He didn't apologize. Wasn't going to. He'd been lashing out, yeah, but she'd-
She didn't apologize either. Just looked at him until finally, she closed her book and set it aside.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, like nothing had happened.
Like they hadn't just torn strips off each other a few hours ago.
He hesitated, then nodded once. "Yeah."
"Okay." She stood, moving to the fridge without another word. "There's more roast if you want it. Or I can make you something else."
He stepped into the kitchen slowly, moving carefully. "Roast is fine."
She pulled out the container, popped the lid, and set it on the counter. Then she grabbed a plate, spooned a generous portion onto it, and slid it toward him.
No commentary. No lingering looks.
He stared at the plate for a beat, then picked it up and moved to sit at his spot on the floor.
She returned to her seat, picking up her mug and taking a slow sip of tea. Her book stayed closed.
He ate.
She drank her tea.
Neither of them spoke.
But the silence wasn't hostile. It wasn't comfortable either. It was heavy with things neither of them was ready to say.
After a few minutes, she broke it.
"The hair and beard," she said quietly, not looking directly at him. "We should probably deal with that tomorrow. If you're okay with it."
He paused mid-chew, then swallowed. "Fine."
Another stretch of silence.
Then, almost reluctantly, she added, "I'm not good at this."
He looked up at her, surprised.
She stared down at her mug, wrapping her fingers around it like she needed something to hold onto. "I don't know what I'm doing. With you. With any of this." She exhaled slowly. "But I'm trying."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he just went back to eating.
And she went back to her tea.
----
She woke groggy and stiff. She'd slept—technically—but not well. She sat up slowly, rubbing her face, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded down the hallway, barefoot, the floor cool under her feet.
The apartment was quiet. No sounds from Bucky's room, no footsteps, no movement. She didn't know if that was a good sign or not. She headed toward the kitchen, still in her nightgown, and as she rounded the corner into the living room, she stopped.
He was there.
Standing near the window with his back to her, staring out at the street below. The morning light caught the sharp lines of his face, the dark sweep of his hair, the black ears angled slightly forward. His tail hung low and still.
He didn't turn when she entered, but one ear twitched once in her direction. He knew she was there.
She cleared her throat softly. "Morning."
He grunted. Low, noncommittal.
After a beat, he shifted his weight, one ear flicking back toward her. Then he nodded subtly toward the street. "Did you know that from the building across, the first and second floors can see everything if your curtains are open?"
She stopped near him and looked briefly toward the window. "Yeah, I know. And I can see them too," she said lightly, trying to signal a shared awareness, a silent acknowledgment of vulnerability between them.
His ears flicked back, then forward again. Still silent.
She couldn't help the small smile tugging at her mouth. "Actually, the guy on the first floor does his workout routine naked three times a week. I'm pretty sure he likes being watched."
Bucky's nose wrinkled visibly, his lip curling just slightly in disgust.
She chuckled, and as she passed by him to enter the kitchen, she caught it, his scent. Different from yesterday. Cleaner, somehow, like he'd washed up in the sink or used soap she'd left out. But underneath that was something else, something warmer. The faint musk of sleep and proximity. It made the space between them feel smaller than it was.
She didn't pause, didn't acknowledge it. Just kept moving.
Inside the kitchen, she pulled eggs from the fridge, stacking slices of bread on a plate. The nightgown hung loosely on her shoulders, the hem brushing her thighs as she walked. Her hair was a mess, but as long as she wasn't walking around naked, she didn't care how he saw her; she was in her home.
“Want some breakfast?” she asked casually, glancing over her shoulder toward him.
The mention of food made him shift. Slowly, he turned around. The street outside no longer held his attention.
And that's when he actually looked at her.
Her nightgown -cotton, loose, nothing deliberately provocative- was wrinkled from sleep, the fabric shifting as she moved around the kitchen. The V-neckline sat low enough to show a hint of the swell of her breasts, and the hem ended mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare.
He stared.
It had been... a long time since he'd seen a female wearing anything that wasn't heavy fabric, uniforms, layers meant to cover and protect. Even at the facility, the staff wore scrubs or coveralls. This was different. Casual. Domestic.
Human.
He tracked her movement as she cracked eggs into a bowl, reached for the bread, and moved unselfconsciously around the space. The way the fabric caught on her hip when she turned. The bare line of her calf when she stretched up to reach a cabinet.
She didn't notice him watching.
"Want some breakfast?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder toward him.
He didn't affirm or deny. Just asked flatly, "You got meat?"
She paused, turning to face him with a slight frown. "No. And it's not really meat-eating hours anyway." She gestured toward the counter. "There's milk, eggs, toast, and cream cheese. Fruit if you want it."
His ears flicked back slightly, a hint of disappointment, but he didn't argue.
"Eggs are fine," he said after a beat.
"Scrambled are okay?"
He shrugged.
She turned back to the stove, cracking more eggs into the bowl, whisking them with a fork. He moved slowly into the kitchen, stopping near the table but not sitting. Just standing there, watching her work.
The silence wasn't as heavy as last night. But it wasn't comfortable either.
The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. She was aware of the space he took up, the way he seemed to fill the room just by being there.
After a moment, she spoke without looking at him. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine."
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
She didn't push. Just poured the eggs into the heated pan, the sizzle filling the quiet.
"You can sit, you know." She added after a moment.
He moved toward the spot on the floor near the table, the same place he'd sat last night when he ate the roast.
"At the table," she clarified quickly, before he could lower himself down.
He paused, glancing at her, then shrugged and changed direction. But instead of pulling out a chair, he started to crouch down next to the table, clearly intending to sit on the floor beside it.
"Bucky," she said, "at the table. Use the chair."
He froze mid-motion.
For a long moment, he just stood there, half-bent, staring at the chair like it was some kind of foreign object. His ears flicked back, then forward again, and his tail swayed once in what might've been irritation or confusion.
Then, slowly, he straightened and pulled the chair out.
He sat down carefully, stiffly, like he wasn't quite sure what to do with his limbs once he was there. He rested his hand on the edge of the table, and he looked... uncomfortable. Out of place.
She didn't comment on it. Just finished plating the eggs, added toast, and set his portion in front of him. Then she made a serving for herself and sat across from him with her own plate and a cup of coffee.
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
She watched him from across the table, the way he hunched slightly over his plate, protective. The way he ate quickly, efficiently, like someone who'd learned not to trust that the food would still be there in five minutes.
Then, carefully-
"After breakfast..." she started, "we should deal with the hair and beard. If you're still okay with that."
He stilled halfway to his mouth, fork suspended. He looked at her, guarded.
"What do you mean, 'deal with it'?"
She set her fork down, choosing her words carefully. "I mean, it'd be good to clean it up a bit. Get it trimmed, shaped. It's pretty tangled right now."
He stared at her for a beat, then went back to eating. "So?"
"So..." She paused. "It'd be better if we straightened it out. Made it more manageable."
He didn't look up from his plate. "Is that necessary?"
She sighed. "Yes."
He flicked his eyes to hers, something sharp in his gaze now. "Why?"
"Because," she said, keeping her tone even, "it needs to be tidied up. You can choose how long you want it, whether you want to keep some of the beard or not. But it needs to be addressed."
He huffed -a short, derisive sound through his nose- and returned his attention to his eggs. The message was clear: Good luck with that.
She leaned back in her chair, studying him. He'd gone rigid again, that defensive wall slamming back into place. She could practically see him digging in, preparing for a fight.
"It's not a punishment," she said quietly.
He didn't respond. Just kept eating.
She clenched her jaw slightly but pushed through. "There's something called basic presentation, Bucky. You're going to be in my shop, around my students, out in the world. You can't keep looking like a shipwrecked person."
He narrowed his eyes. He set his fork down with deliberate slowness and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arm over his stomach. His posture closed off, defensive.
He didn't say anything. Just stared at her with that flat, uncooperative expression she was starting to recognize.
She stared back, refusing to look away first.
The silence stretched.
Finally, she leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table. The movement brought her closer, made the space between them feel more immediate. "Look, I get it. You don't like being told what to do. But this isn't about control. It's about the fact that you're living here now, and part of that means not scaring the shit out of people when they see you."
He curled his lip slightly. Not quite a snarl, but close.
"I'm not cutting it," he said flatly.
"I didn't say you had to cut it all off," she countered. "I said trim. Clean it up."
He didn't respond. Just kept staring at her, his tail flicking once against the side of the chair in clear irritation.
She exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple. "Are you going to fight me on every single thing?"
"Depends," he said, his tone dry and edged with sarcasm. "Are you going to keep giving me orders?"
"It's not an order," she said, her voice firmer now. Not angry, but done with this back-and-forth. She leaned in a fraction more, holding his gaze. "It's basic hygiene and common sense. And whether you like it or not, you're going to have to deal with it eventually."
He clenched his jaw, and she braced for another round of defiance.
But then he just looked away, sliding his gaze toward the window. His shoulders stayed tense.
"Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not sitting still for it."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
He turned back to her, and there was something challenging in his expression now. "It means if you're going to do this, you're going to have to work for it. I'm not going to make it easy."
She felt a flicker of frustration mixed with something else, something that felt uncomfortably like anticipation. The idea of physically managing him, of being that close, hands in his hair...
She pushed the thought away, sitting back in her chair, staring at her coffee cooling in front of her, and wondered what the hell she'd just signed herself up for.
Then something occurred to her.
"Meat," she said.
He turned toward her, swiveling his ears forward slightly.
"If you behave while I clean you up," she continued, meeting his gaze, "we'll go to the butcher and I'll buy you whatever cut you want. Within a reasonable price range."
He stared at her for a long moment, unreadable.
Then he arched one eyebrow slowly. "Deal."
She should've felt victorious. Instead, she felt the need to add, "And don't get used to this. You're not going to get a reward every time you cooperate with something as basic as grooming."
He looked at her with that same flat, sardonic expression -Sure, whatever you say- and turned his attention back to his breakfast, shoving another bite of eggs into his mouth.
The message was clear: he'd heard her. But he was calling her bluff.
She sighed and picked up her coffee, taking a long sip.
a few descriptions of organs (not detailed obv) at the end of paragraph 1,
reader listens to music on the plane,
no dialogue
The reader's s/o is male and isn't named, but he cares about mc (i vaguely thought of Caleb from love and deepspace and how he acts with mc)
His hand drifted to yours as the plane began to rise, his thumb brushing over your knuckles soothingly. The sound of your music from your headphones mostly drowned out the chatter of other passengers but not the aircraft itself. Everytime the plane flew higher, it felt like your organs were falling in your body.
Your eyes determindly glued to your phone in your lap, unwilling to look out the window or even at the floor. Looking out the window would only prove that you were really in the air.
it's just driving on the road, it's just driving on the road. We aren't in the air yet, you tried to trick yourself, even if it was a feeble attempt.
Your mind reeled at every tilt, feeling like your brain was tilting with the thing itself. We arent in the air, we arent in the air.
Sometimes, he'd show you little notes on his phone - words of comfort, mostly. Stuff like "you doing okay?" Or "we're almost there :)"
You could feel his gaze on you as your leg bounced anxiously, feeling the back of your throat itch to puke from nerves.
love and deepspace is so funny in a ton of ways, not the least of which being that it’s an angst game full of angst with a huge helping of angst on top masquerading as a romance game
and this angst romance game has wacky characters like:
🐠 merman sea god who is an artist with flame powers for some reason. his symbol is not a fish but a duck. there is a section of the story where he goes into heat. canonical billionaire. also a serial revenge killer.
❄️ accomplished heart surgeon with ice powers who is trapped in a cycle of multiverse-spanning reincarnations. mc’s childhood friend and also her doctor. blatantly the horniest of the lot but you wouldn’t know it because he has never shown anyone an emotion ever.
💫 centuries old immortal space prince. literally an alien. got stuck in the past after attempting wormhole travel and has been bopping around earth until mc is born. mc’s monster-fighting coworker and upstairs neighbor. secretly batman.
🐦⬛ dangerous crime boss. also an alien, probably. also a dragon whose soul is bound to mc’s. once made mc shoot him in the heart to prove his immortality. wife guy in a “he supports women’s wrongs” way.
🍎 cyborg military commander with gravity powers. flies space planes. was killed in an explosion but got better. a narrative representation of the biblical eve. diagnosed mentally/emotionally unwell. wife guy in a “he is the wife” way.
and. like. originally i was going to say only a sentence about each of them but i could not pick just one of the many, many unhinged things about the tiny men who live in my phone.
absolutely batshit insane game. hilarious.
i have cried probably a dozen times while playing it.
When people started seeing the direction Infold was taking Infinity Nikki, no one said anything until the Steam release, and by then, the game was far from what it was before and The vast majority of the player base just stopped playing, and only then did Infold hear the demands by players
As someone who loves Lads, the boys, and mc Ii am asking that if you have a main, boycott, first it was Sylus missing memories and nothing was done, now Caleb has joined the roster and is seemingly going in the same direction.
Help me understand why Infold is now releasing a patch with so many things you need to purchase. What's the logic behind it? this is just to silence the community after the King of darknight incident (Xavier myth), if you don't want the game to end up like Infinity Nikki(straight up hell for F2P), speak up now, boycott now, no spending money on this patch/ banner, period.
If you are in support, please repost to spread awareness :))
Outsiders w/ an s/o who lives in an old farmhouse (out of town)
Includes: Ponyboy Curtis, Sodapop Curtis, Darrel Curtis, and Johnny Cade
Contains / warnings: reader feeds stray cats, reader takes care of animals outside, reader can ride a quad/atv, may be ooc cuz I havent wrote for them in so long, hcs might be repetitive, small writing!!
A/n: ik that quads/ATVs or wtv werent mass-produced til 1965 and were prob expensive as shit, but for the sake of these hcs, lets js pretend that they came out a few years before and blah blah blah<3
Also pretty self-indulgent😅
Soda's the most likely to be ooc because I kinda did a bit of guess-work and these were wrote rlly quick😅 mb if he is guys</3
Ponyboy Curtis
He'd be so happy whenever Darry and his brother would go over to your house / drop him off
Cuz then he could spend time with you and help you go about your regular day (out of school)
So, he'd help put out food for the stray cats outside and feed the chickens
Your parents had bought a used quad for a bit cheaper and taught you how to ride it so you could go out driving it around the property
He'd gladly go on quad/ATV rides with you and he'd ask to learn how to drive it
You'd take it out and drive somewhere into the fields and do your guys' homework
Would totally pick pretty flowers from the fields and give them to you<3
You'd also run around in the fields
Wouldn't come back in til lunch or dinner and would clean up wirh the old waterpump out in your backyard
He'd help do dishes after eating
Your parents def love him lmao
Sodapop Curtis
He loves when he has the chance to drive out to your house
When he's over with you, the property kinda reminds him of when he had his horse
He'll go on quad/atv rides with you and playfully snake his arms around your waist while you're driving
He'll def go fast when driving the quad/atv🤭 (not dangerously fast, but still a bit fast)
Sometimes he'll tease you as you feed the animals on the property (all good-naturedly)
Dont take it to heart though cuz he truely loves watching you work :)
Darrel Curtis
He'll drive his brothers over to your house - maybe on the weekends
He'll help out with dinner even if you (or your parents) insist that he's the guest
He'll also help feeding the animals around the house
Secretly loves all the domesticity of helping around<3
He'll sit and relax with you while the boys either hang out outside or watch tv
Sometimes you'll find him playing football or something with Soda and Pony outside in the field
Johnny Cade
Whenever the Curtis's or Dally can drive him over, he'll take chance to
He loves watching you feed the stray cats (like him) and the other animals on the property
He'll def be a bit nervous when you try to teach him how to drive a quad/atv, but he'll feel a bit of pride when he manages to do it well :)
If you're still in school, he def loves to sit with you or lay with you while you work on assignments or homework
