You vaguely remember a time from when you were younger, full of lifeless bare walls and the choking smell of disinfectant. The incessant murmurs behind the glass, the dread of getting scruffed whenever you did something not up to standard.
The memories are fuzzy, where you're left grasping for the wisps of the crumbling recollections of your childhood; a gaping chasm in your existence so wide it feels like you've only existed for three years, not however many you truly are.
For three years, as far as you can recall, you've lived on the streets. Stuck in your feline form, not because you can't shift — though the process would probably kill you in your current state — but because maintaining your human form would demand more food than you have access to. Shifting takes precious calories you don't have the luxury to waste; it's already hard enough to sustain your kitten appearance.
You're exploring past your usual peripheries today, hoping to find some scraps or endear an ignorant human into giving you a meal to get you through the day. Most of them can't differentiate between hybrids and regular animals, so if you loiter close enough, they'll leave precious sustenance on the ground. It's not a foolproof method, however. Some humans aren't generous, especially when you have a penchant for biting and scratching anyone who gets within a foot of you. It's not as if you can help it either.
Every hand reaching could be your end. Every step too close is a threat.
What choice do you have? It's survival and you want to live.
By late afternoon, your stomach feels hollow enough to fold in on itself. You've only managed to get a bowl of milk and you don't want to scrounge through the dumpsters again. That's alley cat territory, and they aren't particularly fond of shifters, almost as if they can smell the wrongness on your fur, can tell you're not one of them.
So when you spot a cling-wrapped sandwich on the pavement, instincts take over and you're springing into action. Food food food is all you think: the soft dough of the bread, how it'll crumble in your mouth. The acidity of the tomatoes. You can't remember the last time you had fruit. And the thing you've been longing for most: chicken. Fatty, juicy chicken that might keep you going for another couple of days.
Everything else blurs. Your fangs sink down—
Salt. Sweat. Definitely not the sandwich you were eyeing.
You snap out of your daydream and jolt back, looking up to see an enormous, masked man crouched in front of you. His scarred hand hovers over the sandwich, two small indents marking his index finger.
Shit.
_________________________________________________
Simon wasn't expecting his day to go like this. After a grueling day at base clearing the paperwork he'd ignored for weeks — a part of his job worse than training rookies — he was starving, and the base cafeteria wasn't going to cut it.
So why is it that he's staring down at the little shit that bit him? He should ignore it, leave the sandwich for the feral beast, and go home to make dinner and crack open a bottle of bourbon. He has better things to do, but something about your behavior makes him stop.
You're frozen, pupils blown wide as you continue to stare at him, as if locked in a standstill he didn't start. He gives you a once over: matted black fur, no collar, and a defensive posture tell him you're likely feral.
It clicks.
Ah.
You're a shifter.
He works with shifters. Knows them. And this isn't a cat.
You're not acting like a regular one: no hissing, no meowing, and no running. Just still, like you're trying not to exist, hoping his attention shifts to anything other than you.
It's rare to see shifters outside of the militia, but he's cracked down on enough research laboratories to know that domestic shifters were a thing. They sell well on the black market.
Something uncomfortable wells in his chest. What if you got snatched?
Usually civilians can't tell the difference, but there are always exceptions with nefarious intentions to boot, and coupled with the fact you're tiny, you wouldn't survive. Simon can't, on good conscience leave you to your own devices. He remembers being that small, remembers what that felt like. No one deserves that.
If you were an adult, he'd walk away without a second thought. But you're not. Bloody hell.
The longer he continues to look at you, the tenser you get, shifting on your paws. He has to grab you, even if it gets him bit and scratched; he's due for his shots anyways. And his resolve must show — because without another second, you bolt.
Simon sighs, picking up his sandwich from the ground. He can see your small form taking a sharp turn down an alley.
Okay, maybe that was a little extreme. They didn't dislike you. They just didn't need you. No matter how hard you tried, they refused your help. Your job was essentially reduced down to sitting in your office being ignored for a check.
The team did like the little orange cat that wandered its way into the garages. Treats and soft coos, large fingers rubbing together to try and beckon you forward. When you were shifted, the team suddenly seemed very interested in you.
It felt good for the first few months. Curling in Price's hat when it sat in the sun, chilling out on Simon's shoulder, letting Johnny and Kyle bicker over who got to hold you. That is until you hear them talking about you.
"Laswell needs to transfer them. I'm sick of a secretary that doesn't do much around base anyway." Price grumbles one day as he strokes a hand through your fur.
"We don't really give em a chance to do much, anyway. Probably would be a better fit with the shadows." Johnny offers, reaching out to give you a pet. You hiss quietly at him before standing, jumping down from the table, and wandering outside.
You're glad they don't follow you, shifting in a bathroom, shrugging your clothes back on, and slipping into your office. You emailed Laswell about a transfer that afternoon, are approved the next day, and clean out your office by the end of the week.
"Where's kitty?" Kyle asks as he rounds the corner into John's office. "Haven't seen them for almost two weeks now."
"You know the strays wander off all the time. Kitty is no different." He assures, waving it off easily. Truthfully, he'd been a little worried about the orange cat. Nikolai had even started keeping an eye out for you, but only the usual cats were around.
"Kitty? Is that the name of one of the strays?" Laswell chuckles as she walks into the office and sets down some files. "Very creative."
"Maybe you've seen em. Orange fur, kinda stripey, hisses at everything." Kyle rattles off as Laswell blinks in realization.
"Y/N? Y/N the secretary? I knew they were a cat shifter, but I didn't know they were spending time with you." She chuckles with a shrug. "They transfered almost a week ago now. Said you guys didn't want a secretary and they needed an actual job to do."
John's heart drops into his stomach, realizing he'd talked about getting rid of you right in front of you. "Shit." He grumbles, head falling into his hands. Laswell keeps her smile and sass, to herself, patting his folders stack before heading out of his office.
If he wanted you back, he'd have to find a way to grovel.
kitty is eepy so you nap alot also simon is blonde so he won't be a black cat instead he'll be a cream coat maine coon i just think it suits him better example
cat shifters can only shift after 5 years and until they turn 19 their cat form will be a kitten
you patter along the pavement in your kitten it's dark out which you prefer, less humans are out at night meaning it's easier to travel, but the sun is coming up so you need to find a place to take shelter before dawn, you walk along sniffing around this entire street smells of cat, you'll have to avoid the cat that's scented this place eventually you find a nice crack in some wood covering a crawl space for one of the stores you crawl inside, it's not terriable in here theirs a nice soft layer of dirt on the ground and no snake tracks so thats a plus you find a nice spot spinning in two circles before laying down to sleep
you wake up some hours later to the sunlight shining thru the crack you stretch with a mewl and patter over to look outside not much to do other then watch people and sleep before you can go again at dark
turns out you are under a store, one that sells food as there's two sets of tables and chairs you see two men sitting together one with a mohawk and another older one, they seem friendly so you decide it's time to get some grub so creeping out of the crack and walking over your barely out the hole when they spot you, you can't read the older ones expression but the younger one starts cooing at you so you decide he's your target and creep closer you get to about his foot when you look up at him and mewl he coos and drops a couple hot chips down and you crouch down wrapping your tail around your paws as you start eating theres some meat on the chips thank god for loaded fries
he keeps just dropping more chips down usually your glad to be in kitten form smaller stomach and all but right now you feel stuffed but still eat more your not sure when the next time you move will be you feel fingers on your head and hiss jumping back the mohawk guy overstepped your are not letting him pat you with a tummy full of food you turn and run back into the crack curling up to sleep
when you wake up it's dark out you creep out of the crack and stretch time to make your way out of here, you barely get down the block before you have to duck behind some trash spotting an absolute beast of a cat he's the one you smelt when you first got here and he is big you've never seen a maine coon before but you've heard of them big bastards and this one is no exception he walks with purpose in your direction
he passes you but you stay low and hidden waiting for him to leave when his tail twitches he sniffs the air and turns to look at you, you make eye contact for a few tense seconds before you jolt up running as fast as you can which is unfortunately not fast enough as the maine coon picks you up by the scruff and carries you along in the direction he was coming from you twist and yowl in his jaws not even noticing where the cat's taken you until you hear a voice
"goddammit Simon" you look up to see the man that fed you earlier "told you to just get a look at the thing not steal it" the man reaches down plucking you off the cat(Simon?) you yowl as he walks up the steps into a house with the cat following behind him
you keep yowling as loud as i can leading to two other men entering the room the older one taking a look at you "jesus christ where did you get that?"
Johnny walks over to the sink keeping you in his palm as he runs water over you using two finger to rub the dirt out of your fur "saw her earlier peeking out from under the bakery, Simon brought her back" Simon begins to yowl putting his front paws on Johnny's legs looking up at you in the sink Johnny finishes scrubbing you and checking you for ticks only to find your free of them he lowers down to put you on the ground but before he even gets the chance Simon bites the nape of your neck plucking you from Johnny and pattering over to the couch where he drops you and begins licking the extra water off you grooming you
typically you'd scratch and bite until you could escape but you've never been man handled by a cat with good intentions before and his paws are the size of your head as he presses you closer to his body cleaning you off he pick you back up and carries you over to the large cat bed where he curls around you, you can't hear anything thru his fluff
"so think we're getting our boyfriend back today or he just full cat" Kyle asks watching Simon curl up in the cat bed
"don't think so, i mean if he does shift back the kitten will freak out because her new cat dads gone" Price chimes in with that they all just decide to talk about it more in the morning for now going back to bed
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Cat Shifter! Reader (curvy reader friendly; no descriptions regarding weight)
Word Count: 8.8k
Summary: You are a shy shapeshifting member of the Avengers. Nobody suspects, though, that your favorite shape is a housecat. When Bucky finds you one night, he thinks you’re just a team member’s pet, not the woman who flees the very sight of him. One night you’re forced to reveal yourself to him, finally allowing your borrowed closeness to lead to something real.
Trigger Warnings: Shapeshifting descriptions (fur retreating; vertebrae lengthening); unknowing non-sexual touch (like, she's a cat; he doesn't know it's her, and he pets her); angst, but hopeful ending (it's realistic).
Author’s Note: Reader shifts with clothes. Because it would be awkward otherwise. Also, I WISH I had the knowledge of physics and thermodynamics (but alas, those were my worst subjects) to really think about the concepts of matter and energy conservation and how it could be possible for a human to shape shift into both a housecat and a jaguar.
Masterlist
You padded across the training mat on silent paws, each step measured and unhurried.
The rubber floor dipped faintly beneath your weight, releasing the sterile scent of disinfectant and old sweat that never quite left the compound. Every sound separated itself cleanly: Sam’s steady breathing near the wall, the faint tap of Tony’s fingers against a tablet screen, the high electric pitch of the fluorescent lights. Most were too faint for human ears, but not for yours.
As a jaguar, the world arrived in layers.
You thought in distance, in angles, in threat assessment. The air brushed your whiskers; the room mapped itself by your nose. Your shoulders rolled beneath your spotted coat, muscle sliding smoothly under fur.
The jaguar wasn’t something you wore; she was something you were.
Your tail swayed low as you circled the sparring dummy, paws whispering against the mat. Even in training, you conserved energy. No wasted motion, no unnecessary display. Only power.
“Okay, that’s just unfair,” Sam muttered somewhere behind you. “She’s like her own zoo.”
You flicked an ear but didn’t look at him. Distraction was vulnerability.
You inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of canvas and padding. You imagined heat beneath it and the quick pulse of prey or enemy. The line blurred easily in this form. Your heartbeat slowed, steady and deliberate, matching the coil gathering in your hind legs.
Tony’s voice cut in, dry with amusement. “Careful, Wilson. One of these days she’s going to turn into a saber-tooth and use those teeth on you.”
You sprang before he finished.
Your muscles compressed and released in a single, fluid surge. You hit the dummy hard enough to rattle its base, jaws clamping around its padded shoulder. The impact vibrated through your skull, a satisfying jolt. You could have torn right through it, shredded the canvas and left stuffing scattered across the mat.
But you didn’t. Because control was part of the power.
You held, then released, stepping back with quiet precision.
A low murmur passed through the room. Natasha’s eyebrow lifted slightly in a silent acknowledgment of precision recognizing precision.
You let the jaguar recede, loosening her hold on your bones.
Heat flared beneath your skin. The shift moved through you like a tide reversing direction: fur dissolving, spine compressing, limbs reshaping with a crackle that never quite stopped being strange. The air felt cooler against skin without fur as you straightened, barefoot on the mat, workout clothes clinging faintly to damp shoulders.
Your chest rose and fell, fatigue setting in. The jaguar never tired easily, but you did.
Polite applause followed. It was familiar and almost lazy, because your prowess was expected. They relied on you to be formidable, to be the one who could become teeth and muscle without hesitation.
“Still only cats, huh?” Sam called. “What’s your favorite? Lion? Snow leopard? Don’t tell me you can do a housecat. That would be too cute.”
Laughter rippled outward.
You smiled automatically, rolling your shoulders as though the shift had cost you nothing. “Just the big ones.”
The lie slid off your tongue, delivered with practiced ease.
Because the truth pulsed quietly beneath your ribs even now.
It was a different kind of pull, not outward, but inward. A subtle drawing close, tight along your spine. Your bones wanted to shrink instead of lengthen. Your muscles wanted to compact instead of swell. The phantom sensation of smaller paws pressed at your awareness, light and nimble instead of heavy and lethal.
The housecat waited inside you like a secret.
She was tan and white, soft fur, and small enough to curl into the hollow of someone’s lap without drawing a second glance. She had a body built for slipping through doorways unnoticed, for basking in windowsills, and for existing without performance.
No one knew about that form.
You made sure that no one even suspected.
As a lioness, you felt command settle in your chest like a crown: steady, territorial, and unyielding. You stood taller in that skin. You expected to be obeyed.
As a panther, you were shadow made flesh: silent, watchful, and impossible to pin down. You were fearless in darkness.
As a jaguar, you were force: sudden, decisive, and unapologetically lethal.
Each big cat amplified something already present in human nature, whether it be strength, instinct, or authority.
But as yourself?
You second-guessed. You measured every word. You felt the weight of eyes on you like pressure against your ribs.
But as a housecat, there were no expectations to meet, and that was why you preferred it. Because in that smaller shape, your shyness wasn’t a flaw, it was natural and expected. A housecat wasn’t judged. It simply observed it and existed in it.
You kept your small shy smile as Sam’s teasing faded into other conversations. You kept your posture relaxed and let the focus shift elsewhere.
But deep in your bones, the smaller form hummed patiently.
Your favorite shape wasn’t the one that made the ground tremble.
It was the one that let you breathe without being noticed.
*****
You fell for Bucky in fragments.
In the way he held doors open without waiting for praise. In the quiet patience he offered the world, never interrupting, never correcting, just listening with a steadiness that felt older than the room. In the rare curve of his smile, the way it pulled hesitantly at the corners of his eyes as if the muscles had forgotten the motion and were relearning it slowly.
You noticed because you were good at noticing.
You tracked micro-expressions, shifts in breathing, tension in shoulders. You knew when someone was lying before they finished their sentence. You knew when fear crept in, when anger coiled tight. And with Bucky, you noticed a gentleness he kept tucked away, soft and restrained.
It was more than enough to make you fall hard.
You told yourself it was harmless appreciation at first. The simple admiration of recognizing goodness in someone who had fought so hard to keep it. But admiration didn’t make your pulse stumble when his voice carried across a room. Admiration didn’t make your body hyperaware of the exact distance between you and him at any given moment.
When his blue eyes flicked your way, even briefly, it felt like standing in the open under a searchlight.
You didn’t know how to survive that kind of attention, so you avoided it.
One afternoon you sat curled into the corner of the common room couch with Wanda, a mug of chamomile warming your palms. The room smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, late sunlight spilling in through wide windows in slow golden sheets. Wanda was saying something soft and thoughtful, her voice a gentle hum against the quiet.
The door slid open.
You didn’t even have to look to know it was him.
You recognized the cadence of his steps, measured, almost soundless despite his size. A subtle shift in the air followed him, something crisp and clean, like cold wind off metal. Your spine straightened before your mind caught up.
He glanced your way and gave a small barely-there tilt of his lips as he crossed toward the fridge, and your throat went dry.
Your pulse began to pound, too fast, too loud, like it was trying to escape your ribs. Heat crept up your neck, staining your cheeks. You stared down into your tea as if the swirling steam might save you.
Say something, you told yourself. Say anything.
Instead, your tongue felt thick and useless.
“I—uh, I should go check on something,” you muttered, already setting the mug down too quickly. A thin line of tea sloshed over the rim, spotting the table.
Wanda’s eyebrow arched with quiet, knowing precision. “Still?”
But you were already on your feet, already halfway to the door.
When you were overwhelmed, your first instinct was to flee. Because escape was survival. It was the same in every feline form you took, but as a big cat you could overcome it. When you were just yourself, you knew it was best to give in.
The hallway air felt cooler, thinner. You walked quickly, heart hammering as though you had just outrun an actual threat.
Your thoughts spiraled.
He didn’t even speak to you and you ran. Then again, why would he? Why would he look twice when you couldn’t even say hello?
It was like that every time.
If he entered the gym, you cut your training short, pretending you’d hit your limit. If he sat at the far end of the dining table, your appetite vanished as if it had never existed. If he lingered in the lounge, you suddenly remembered emails that needed answering.
The others noticed, of course. You caught Sam’s speculative glances, Natasha’s narrowed eyes. They likely assumed tension or dislike, maybe even unresolved friction from a mission.
It was simpler to let them believe that, because the truth felt unbearable.
The truth was that your crush on James Buchanan Barnes had grown so heavy it pressed against your lungs. It made you clumsy in your own skin. You, who could become a jaguar without hesitation, who could face down armed men without blinking, you couldn’t manage a simple conversation with him.
The irony would have been funny if it didn’t ache so much.
Late at night, sprawled across your bed in the dim quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to imagine it differently.
In your mind, you were composed and effortless. You leaned casually against the kitchen counter while he poured coffee. You said something dry and clever, and he huffed out that soft, surprised laugh you’d heard only a handful of times. Maybe he asked you a question. Maybe he lingered.
Maybe he looked at you the way you looked at him.
In those imagined conversations, your voice didn’t shake and your hands didn’t tremble.
But reality was merciless.
The moment he stepped within ten feet of you, your courage evaporated like mist in the sun. Your thoughts scattered and your instincts screamed retreat.
So you retreated.
You stayed silent, and distant, and safe.
You told yourself it was enough just to watch him from across rooms and to catalog his small kindnesses. It was enough to feel your heart tug quietly in your chest and never act on it.
You had always been good at restraint.
But restraint did nothing to quiet the wanting.
It lived in you like a restless animal, pacing, stretching, pressing against the cage of your ribs. It followed you into sleep and lingered between breaths. It whispered what if and what if and what if until the questions felt like bruises.
You wanted his attention, his smile, and you wanted to stand in the spotlight of his attention without flinching.
And you hated yourself for wanting it at all.
*****
The compound changed after midnight.
During the day it thrummed with conversation, footsteps, clashing metal, the constant current of lives intersecting. But at night, the lights dimmed to a low glow along the corridors, shadows stretching long and quiet against polished floors. The air cooled, carrying the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilation system.
You preferred it like this.
You padded down the hallway on small, soundless paws, tail swaying lazily behind you. The carpet fibers brushed between your toes. Every shift in air skimmed across your whiskers, translating the world into delicate currents and invisible edges. The compound felt enormous in this form: ceilings higher, doorframes taller, and the world reshaped into something cavernous but safe.
In this body, no one expected anything from you.
A housecat was harmless, nothing but a background presence slipping along baseboards and under furniture. You could enter any room and curl into corners meant for shadows.
You could exist without being judged.
That was what you loved most.
You rounded the corner toward the lounge, already imagining the soft dip of the sofa’s back beneath your weight, the warmth left behind by earlier occupants. It was your quiet perch, for you to rest a few peaceful minutes before returning to your room.
But you stopped short.
Bucky was there.
He sat sprawled along the length of the couch, long legs stretched out, socked feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. A book lay open in his lap, one large hand bracing the spine while the other held a mug of tea that sent up thin spirals of steam. The room’s low lamplight caught in his loose hair, casting soft shadows along his jaw. His brow was faintly furrowed in concentration, mouth set in that familiar, thoughtful line.
He looked peaceful.
Your first instinct was immediate and sharp: retreat. Turn and disappear before he notices.
But his eyes lifted and landed on you.
For one suspended heartbeat, panic flared hot and blinding. You froze mid-step, muscles taut beneath soft fur. He was looking directly at you, seeing you, even if not truly you.
Then his expression shifted.
The tension in his brow eased. Surprise flickered, then melted into a warmer and softer expression. The corners of his mouth curved, small at first, almost hesitant.
“Well, hey there,” he murmured.
His voice carried easily through the quiet room, low and roughened by disuse, yet threaded with unmistakable gentleness. He closed the book carefully, setting it aside as though unwilling to startle you, and leaned forward slowly and deliberately, giving you space to flee if you chose.
He crouched, one knee pressing into the carpet, metal hand resting lightly against the floor while his flesh hand extended toward you.
You hesitated. Your tail flicked once, betraying nerves you couldn’t hide in this form. You told yourself you could still run. You should run.
Instead, you stepped forward.
Each paw landed carefully, silently, until you were close enough to lower your head and sniff his fingers, catching his scent: soap, clean cotton, and a faint trace of metal and oil beneath it all.
He didn’t move abruptly. He waited for you to decide.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, the words nearly a breath against the quiet. “Where’d you come from, huh?”
His fingers brushed under your chin.
The contact was gentle, tentative at first, then more certain when you didn’t pull away. He scratched lightly beneath your jaw, right at that sensitive spot you could never quite reach yourself.
A purr rose in your chest before you could stop it.
Mortifying.
You leaned into his touch without thought, pressing your small body against the warmth of his hand. The purr deepened, vibrating through you, betraying everything you kept guarded in your human skin.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
The happy praise made something inside you flutter and fold in on itself, tenuous and bright. His smile widened, not the tight, polite curve he wore in meetings or training sessions. This one was unfiltered. It erased years and softened his entire face.
You had never seen him smile like that at you.
Not when you were standing across a room, heart in your throat. Not when you forced yourself to look away first.
“Didn’t know anyone around here had a cat,” he continued quietly. His thumb traced a slow path along the top of your head. “Who do you belong to, huh?”
The question lodged somewhere deep in your chest.
Who do you belong to?
No one, you wanted to say. I belong to myself.
But the traitorous part of you, the one that ached and yearned and replayed imaginary conversations at night, whispered something far more dangerous.
You leaned harder into his palm in lieu of answering.
He chuckled softly at that, the sound low and warm. “Guess it doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment, easing back onto the couch. He patted his thigh in invitation. “You wanna keep me company?”
You hesitated only a second.
This was reckless. Intimate in a way your human self would never be invited. He would feel your weight settle against him. He may absentmindedly stroke your fur. He would look at you.
And he would not know it was you.
The thought twisted inside you, sharp and bittersweet.
Still, you gathered yourself and leapt lightly onto the couch. The cushion dipped beneath your small frame. After a brief pause, you circled a few times before curling against his thigh. His warmth seeped into you immediately, solid and steady.
His hand returned to your back without hesitation.
Slow strokes from shoulders to tail, careful, almost reverent.
You closed your eyes.
In this shape, you didn’t stammer or burn under his gaze. You could sit beside him and be wanted, even if only as a small, harmless housecat.
Your purr filled the quiet lounge, mingling with the soft hum of the compound at rest, and you told yourself this was more than enough.
This way you could have his warmth and borrowed closeness in the dim evening light.
Even if he would never know who he was truly holding.
*****
One night became two. Two became three.
Soon, the choice to seek him out stopped feeling like a choice at all.
You found yourself slipping into smaller bones as naturally as breathing, your body folding inward with familiar ease. The world expanded around you as fur grew from skin, as weight vanished from your limbs. The compound welcomed you in ways it never did when you walked upright: its quiet corners opening, its long hallways stretching into soft, navigable paths meant for something small and unseen.
You told yourself it was harmless.
You padded through the sleeping corridors, guided by instinct more than thought. His room, the common room, the library, you learned his rhythms quickly. He was a creature of habit, whether he realized it or not.
You always found him eventually.
Sometimes he read, his posture relaxed but never careless, one ankle resting over his knee. Sometimes the television murmured quietly in the background, forgotten as his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Sometimes he did nothing at all, just sat in the stillness, shoulders loose, gaze distant.
Those nights, you understood something about him that he never said aloud: he was lonely.
His eyes would soften when you appeared, the tension in his frame easing as if he had been waiting without knowing it. He’d greet you in that low, warm voice, never startled, never suspicious, just welcoming, like you belonged with him there.
You would leap lightly onto the couch beside him, settling against the solid length of his thigh or curling into the curve of his hip. His warmth soaked into you immediately, steady and grounding.
And then his hands would find you, large, careful, and ever careful.
His fingers would sink into your fur with slow certainty, stroking from the base of your skull down along your spine. He never rushed, never grabbed. He let his touch linger, his palm broad and warm as it moved over you in long, soothing passes.
The pressure was perfect, firm and gentle and soothing.
You could feel the strength in him even through the restraint, the quiet power in his hands, the way he held himself back from ever using more force than necessary. His thumb would sometimes drift behind your ears, scratching lightly, and a helpless purr would vibrate out of you in response.
It was humiliating.
It was perfect.
You couldn’t stop thinking about those hands. What they would feel like against your human skin. How they would move across your shoulders, easing the tension you carried there. How they might press into the tight muscles of your back after training, slow and deliberate, patient in ways no one had ever been patient with you before.
Against your will and against your better judgment, when alone in your room at night, you imagined those hands on your waist or your hips or your thighs.
The thought alone caused an ache inside your chest.
You could never allow yourself to want that out loud. You would never risk seeing rejection in those soft blue eyes.
So you took what you could have: this version of closeness, this quiet illusion.
Sometimes he talked to you while he read, his voice a low murmur as your cheek rested against his leg. He’d comment on things absently, sharing thoughts he offered no one else. Other nights, he said nothing at all, but his silence never felt empty.
You drank in every moment greedily, storing them away like some precious and finite resource.
Because here, you didn’t stumble over your own words.
Here, you didn’t flee from his presence.
Here, you didn’t feel like something fragile pretending to be strong.
You could exist beside him without fear of ruining it.
His hand would continue its slow path along your back, fingers threading through soft fur, and your eyes would drift closed despite yourself. You let your body go loose beneath his touch, trusting him in ways you never trusted anyone.
It was a relief that he never asked anything of you. You were nothing but a cat to him, so he never expected anything. He simply let you stay.
And selfishly, quietly, you began to need it.
Because here, in this small borrowed body, you could have the one thing your human heart was too afraid to reach for.
You could be closer to him than you had ever dared to be in your own skin.
*****
You didn’t remember when curiosity had turned into boldness.
At first, you had hesitated. You’d lingered at thresholds and stayed in doorways, ready to flee if your presence wasn’t wanted. But over time, his continued welcome eroded your caution. You began to follow him more openly, padding down the compound’s dim evening halls with your tail swaying in loose, unhurried arcs, as if you belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
As if you weren’t choosing him.
He never questioned it, never pushed you away. Sometimes he’d glance down at you with that soft, private smile, slowing his steps without realizing it so you could keep pace beside him.
You treasured those small mercies more than you should have.
That night, the compound carried the fading echoes of training, distant clanks, muffled voices, the lingering scent of sweat and exertion clinging to recycled air. You found him just as he stepped out of the gym, his movements looser now, fatigue softening the sharp edges of his posture. A faint sheen of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and his hair clung damply at his temples.
He didn’t notice you immediately.
You fell into step behind him anyway.
He walked the familiar route to his quarters, boots quiet against the polished floor. You followed at a measured distance, paws silent, heart beating faster with every step closer to his private space that you had always deemed off-limits.
When he reached his door and pushed it open, he waited for you.
You stopped, every muscle locking.
His gaze dropped to you where you stood just on the threshold, caught.
For a moment, you waited for rejection, for confusion, or for the gentle but firm ushering back into the hall.
Instead, his mouth curved.
“Persistent little thing, aren’t you?” he asked. “Come on, then.”
Warmth bloomed in your chest as he let the door close behind you.
The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.
You moved quickly before you could second-guess yourself, avoiding the soft bed and leaping lightly onto the chair by his desk and curling into a neat loaf. You tucked your paws beneath your chest, arranging yourself into practiced casualness, forcing your body into stillness despite the frantic rhythm of your heart.
You tried to look like you belonged there.
But his room smelled unmistakably like him: leather, soap, clean cotton, and beneath it all, the faint, metallic trace of gun oil and something uniquely him. The scent wrapped around you, grounding and disorienting all at once.
The room itself was neat but not sterile. His bed was made with military precision. A book rested on the nightstand. His running shoes sat beside the wall where he must have left them after the morning’s run.
You drank in every detail greedily.
This was a part of him you were never meant to see.
He kicked off his training boots with a quiet exhale, rolling his shoulders as if trying to ease lingering tension. Then his hands went to the hem of his shirt.
You froze.
He pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it into the laundry basket without ceremony.
Your pupils widened, vision sharpening instinctively.
His back faced you, broad and powerful, muscles shifting beneath skin marked by history. Scars traced pale, uneven paths across him, some thin and surgical, others jagged and unmistakably violent. They mapped places where pain had lived, where he had endured and survived.
He was beautiful.
The thought struck you without permission, sudden and overwhelming. Not in the distant, untouchable way of admiration, but in the immediate, breath-stealing way of proximity, close enough to touch.
Your heart stumbled over itself.
And then awareness crashed in.
He had just finished sparring. He was tired. Sweaty. Alone.
And you were in his room.
Oh no.
Your ears twitched, nerves igniting all at once. This was territory you had never prepared yourself for. You had sat beside him, felt his hands stroke your fur, but not this.
You never imagined witnessing the quiet, unguarded rituals of his solitude.
Not when he thought no one was watching.
His fingers moved to the button of his pants, humming an old tune faintly under his breath. The sound was absentminded and unselfconscious.
Panic surged through you.
This was about to be a gross invasion of privacy.
Before he could go any further, you yowled and launched yourself off the chair.
Your claws scrabbled against the wood in your haste, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You hit the floor running, darting toward the door and rising onto your hind legs to paw frantically at the handle.
Escape. Escape now.
Behind you, he laughed.
The sound was low and warm, threaded with gentle amusement.
“Guess even cats know when to give a guy some privacy,” he said.
Footsteps approached, unhurried. He reached past you, opening the door with easy understanding.
You bolted the second the gap was wide enough, barely hearing his bemused, “Bye!”
The hallway air felt cooler as you sprinted through it, paws barely touching the ground. You didn’t stop or slow. You ran until distance dulled the immediacy of his presence, until the scent of him faded into the neutral emptiness of the compound corridors.
Two hallways away, you finally stopped.
Your tail had puffed to twice its size, fur standing on end. Your sides heaved with quick, shallow breaths. Heat burned beneath your skin, mortifying and inescapable, even in this form.
You sank back onto your haunches, trying to will your racing heart into submission.
His laugh lingered in your mind, warm, teasing, and gentle.
He hadn’t been annoyed. He hadn’t even been suspicious. He had just laughed.
Relief and an odd disappointment tangled together inside your chest, impossible to separate.
He thought you were just a cat. Just a harmless, curious creature who had wandered somewhere it didn’t belong.
If he ever realized the truth… if he ever looked at you and saw the real you, not this small borrowed shape but the person hiding inside it…
You didn’t know what you would do.
You didn’t know if you would survive the loss of this fragile, impossible closeness.
Or worse, if you would survive his rejection of it.
*****
The lounge was nearly empty that night.
Only one lamp had been left on, its shade casting a soft pool of light over the couch and the low table in front of it. The rest of the room faded into gentle shadow, bookshelves blurred at the edges, windows reflecting back the dim shapes of the room.
You were already curled tightly against Bucky’s thigh, tucked into the warm space between his hip and the couch cushion. His body radiated heat through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, solid and reassuring next to your smaller frame. One of his arms rested along the back of the couch; the other draped lazily at his side.
Then his hand began to move slowly and absentmindedly.
His fingers slid between your ears, careful as always, stroking down the curve of your skull and along your spine. He traced the line of your back with deliberate gentleness, never pressing too hard, never gripping. Even distracted, he handled you like something precious.
You purred before you could stop yourself.
The vibration rose from deep in your chest, filling the quiet space between you. His thumb shifted, rubbing lightly behind your ear in response, as though the sound pleased him.
For a while, he said nothing.
His breathing was slow and measured, but you could feel tension beneath it, subtle and coiled. His fingers would move, pause, then resume. At times they tightened almost imperceptibly in your fur before easing again. His gaze wasn’t on the television or the darkened windows. It was fixed somewhere far beyond the room.
You recognized that look.
After a long silence, he exhaled through his nose, the sound faint but weighted.
His fingers continued their steady path along your back.
“You know, there’s this woman on the team,” he went on, tone careful, almost casual. “Strong as hell. Fast. Smart. Turns into those big cats like it’s nothing.” A faint breath of something that might have been admiration slipped into his voice. “She’s incredible.”
Your entire body went rigid.
If he noticed, he gave no sign. His hand kept moving, smoothing over your fur in long, thoughtful strokes.
“But every time I walk into a room,” he said, a humorless huff escaping him, “she leaves. Won’t look at me. Won’t stick around long enough for me to say more than a word or two.”
His jaw tightened slightly beneath the lamplight.
“Guess I can’t blame her.”
The words landed heavier.
“With a past like mine…” He trailed off, thumb rubbing slow circles just behind your ear, as if grounding himself. “I probably make her nervous. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Your chest felt too small for your heart.
He thought you were afraid of him.
The irony was so sharp it almost hurt.
“Besides,” he added softly, gaze dropping to some unseen point on the floor, “why would she want anything to do with a guy like me?”
You pressed closer without thinking, your small body fitting more tightly against his thigh. If you could have climbed inside his mind to shake that thought loose, you would have.
His hand stilled briefly at the shift, then resumed, slower now.
“Don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he murmured. “You’re just a cat.”
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile.
“Maybe that’s why it’s easier.”
The confession settled between you.
He adjusted his hand, thumb stroking beneath your chin this time, drawing another helpless purr from you.
“Funny thing is,” he continued, voice softer now, “I don’t think she’s scared of fights. Or missions. She’s got more courage than most people I know.” A pause. “But around me? It’s like I’m something she needs to… outrun.”
Your stomach twisted.
You were never running from him.
You just hadn’t wanted to make a complete fool of yourself in front of him.
“Hey,” he added after a moment, tone slightly lighter, a bit self-deprecating. “You’re a cat. She’s kind of a bigger cat.” His fingers scratched gently at the base of your neck. “Think you could put in a good word for me?”
A quiet breath of laughter followed. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”
Each word pierced you clean through.
Your purr filled the space, trembling faintly now with everything you couldn’t say.
He mistook it for comfort.
His loneliness wrapped around you, threading through the air like the low hum of the compound itself. He had offered you something raw and unguarded: his insecurity, his fear of being unwanted.
And in this form you could only answer with the steady vibration of a creature he believed incapable of understanding him.
He thought he frightened you, when in truth, he made you too nervous to breathe.
The ache of it settled deep in your chest.
All those moments you had fled the room, cheeks burning, heart racing, he had read them as proof that he was too damaged to be wanted.
You burned to undo that damage more than anything.
You wanted to shift right there in his lap. You wanted to let bones stretch and fur recede and skin return so you could take his face in your hands and tell him the truth. That he didn’t scare you. That you thought he was kind and gentle and beautiful.
That you weren’t afraid of him.
But if you did that, then he would know. He would know that the unwitting feline that had been his companion on lonely nights… was you. And this fragile connection you had with him would be gone forever.
But of all people, didn’t he deserve to know the truth? Wouldn’t the loss of his presence in your life be a small price to pay to right the false image of himself that your own actions had given him?
He had placed his heart, into the lap of a cat, while the woman trembled inside, unable to speak.
Your purr faltered beneath his hand before it died altogether.
The sound of your heartbeat filled your ears, drowning out the soft hum of electricity in the walls, the distant rush of ventilation, even the steady rhythm of his breathing above you.
You couldn’t stay like this.
Not after what he had said. Not after he had admitted his own insecurities in that quiet, unguarded voice, thinking you were nothing more than a warm, uncomprehending presence curled against his side.
Your body suddenly felt too dishonest. The borrowed shape clung to you like a lie.
Before you could retreat into instinct, before fear could convince you to wait, to hide, to preserve the precarious safety you had built, you pushed up on unsteady paws and stepped out from beneath the cradle of his hand.
The loss of contact was immediate and sharp.
For a fraction of a second, he glanced down at you, confusion knitting his brow at the abrupt absence of your weight.
Then you stepped back on the cushion and changed.
The shift rippled through you in a wave, fur withdrawing in a whispering sweep beneath your skin. Your spine lengthened vertebra by vertebra, a muted crackle threading up your back. Limbs stretched, reshaped; paws unfurled into trembling hands that caught against the couch cushion for balance. The world tilted and reoriented as your center of gravity rose, the familiar heaviness of your human body settling back into place.
Warmth vanished.
His thigh was no longer beneath you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was no longer pressed against your ribs.
Cold air kissed skin that had been shielded moments before. Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders. Your lungs struggled to draw in a full breath.
You were sitting beside him now, human, shaking, and painfully exposed.
Bucky froze.
His hand remained suspended in midair, fingers curved as if still expecting fur beneath them. His blue eyes widened, not in anger yet, but in pure, unfiltered shock. You watched understanding dawn in increments: confusion, disbelief, realization crashing in behind it.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
The lamplight seemed harsher suddenly, throwing sharper lines across his face. The room felt smaller, the quiet heavier, pressing in against your ribs.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you said.
Your voice came out thinner than you intended, but steady enough to be understood.
His gaze snapped fully to yours. The shock hadn’t faded, but it had sharpened into something more focused now, searching, wary, trying to reconcile what he was now seeing with weeks of his lived experiences.
“I never was,” you continued, the words rushing before you could lose them. “I just… I don’t know how to talk to you. I get in my head. I say the wrong thing. So I run.” Heat crept up your neck, flushing your cheeks. “It’s easier when I’m a cat.”
The admission hung between you, exposed and humiliating.
You dropped your eyes, unable to withstand the intensity of his stare. Your fingers twisted together in your lap, knuckles whitening with the pressure. Shame pooled low and heavy in your stomach.
You had thought it was harmless at first, no more than a small indulgence. You saw it as a quiet way to sit beside him without risking humiliation or rejection. But now, sitting there in your own skin, you could see it so much more clearly: the secrecy, the blurred line between comfort and deception.
“I didn’t mean to trick you,” you added, voice softer now. “I… like you. And I just wanted to be near you.”
And that was the truth, stripped down to its simplest, most vulnerable shape.
You wanted to sit beside him and be wanted. Your heart hurt with the knowledge of how you had ruined the possibility of that now.
“I’m sorry.”
The words felt insufficient the moment they left you, insignificant against the weight of what you had done. You had let him confide in you, let him believe he was talking to an unknowing animal, let him pet you, an intimacy he surely never would have knowingly invited.
You couldn’t bear to watch his expression shift into anger. Or worse: disgust.
So you stood before the silence could stretch any further.
Retreat was easier than waiting for judgment.
You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the distance between you widening by inches that felt like miles. Your heart pounded so hard it bordered on painful, each beat echoing in your throat.
“I’ll go,” you said, already stepping back. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—needed you to know.”
The admission left your mouth and you’d have sworn you died a little inside. But you needed him to know you weren’t afraid, that you cared, even though it had been in feline form.
Even though it cost you everything.
You turned toward the hallway, the words still hanging between you.
The space behind you seemed to stretch, widening with every inch you put between yourself and the couch. Every step toward the doorway felt like peeling something raw from your chest.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t look back, you couldn’t.
So you walked.
Each step felt unsteady, like the ground had shifted and never fully settled after your transformation. The cool floor beneath your bare feet made you acutely aware of your human weight, of the vulnerability of skin nails instead of fur and claws. There was no shrinking from this, no slipping into smallness to soften the blow.
You had told him the truth.
And now you would accept whatever came next.
The doorway loomed closer. Just a few more steps and you could escape into the dim hallway, into distance, into the safety of being alone with your humiliation.
Behind you, the room remained quiet.
The thought of how much you just lost hollowed your heart.
You had wanted him to know the truth.
You just hadn’t been ready to lose him the moment you said it.
*****
Bucky was stunned.
The shock locked him down, seizing his muscles, freezing him exactly where he sat. One second there had been the steady weight of a small feline body curled against his thigh, the soft vibration of a purr beneath his palm.
The next, there had been you.
Human, and shaking, and looking at him like you were bracing for impact.
His hand still hung in the air where fur had been.
His brain lagged behind his eyes. It replayed the last few seconds in fractured pieces: the sudden absence of warmth, the ripple of movement, the impossible lengthening of bone and limb.
And then you had spoken.
Not afraid of him.
Easier as a cat.
Wanted to be near him.
The words overlapped in his head, colliding with weeks of quiet evenings, the steady rhythm of a purr against his leg, confessions he had let slip into dim lamplight because he had thought he was alone.
He stayed seated and watched you rise like you were already preparing for exile.
The space beside him felt colder now, like something essential had been yanked away without warning.
The lamp cast long shadows across the lounge, catching in the tension of your shoulders, the rigid line of your curled spine, your fingers twisting together.
He sat there, silent, as you took your first step away.
Shock still held him fast, but it was fading now, giving way to a need for clarity.
Questions rose, quick and unwelcome:
Did you plan this from the start?
Had every quiet night been calculated?
What was the end goal here?
He suddenly realized that if he let you walk out now, he might not get the truth later.
“Hey—wait.”
The words tore out of him before he could temper it, rough with shock and something sharper underneath. It scraped his throat on the way out, like his voice hadn’t quite caught up to the reality his eyes had just witnessed.
You stopped, your shoulders tightening and your step faltering. You hadn’t expected to be stopped.
You didn’t turn immediately. You stood there, caught halfway between staying and fleeing, like a startled animal deciding whether the threat behind it would give chase.
The couch creaked as he pushed himself upright. His muscles felt stiff, delayed, like they had spent too long locked in disbelief. For several seconds after you had changed, he hadn’t been able to breathe, hadn’t trusted himself to move. His mind had been too busy trying to reconcile two incompatible truths: the warm, quiet creature that had curled against him night after night, and the woman now standing in its place, trembling under the same lamplight.
“We’re not done. Don’t just walk out like that,” he said.
This time his voice was steadier. You glanced back over your shoulder.
The sight of your face hit harder than the transformation had.
Your eyes shone, not with defiance, but defeat. Your expression wasn’t defensive. It was resigned, like you had already decided what he must think of you and were bracing yourself to accept it.
He closed the distance between you slowly, each step deliberate. He didn’t reach for you or block your path. He stopped close enough to see you clearly, but far enough that you could still leave if you chose.
“I need to understand,” he said.
Up close, the details became impossible to ignore: the faint tremor in your hands, the way your fingers curled inward, like you were trying to make yourself smaller, your jaw was locked too tight, your breathing uneven.
You weren’t standing your ground.
You were enduring.
The realization didn’t softening the situation, but sharpened it. You weren’t someone caught in a lie trying to justify it, you were just waiting for the verdict.
“That first night…” he asked carefully. “Did you seek me out?”
Your reaction was immediate.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Your eyes widened, horrified at the implication.
“I didn’t plan it. I was just going to nap on the couch… But you were there…” Your voice faltered, fragile but insistent. “And it was so simple at first. You didn’t expect anything. And I wasn’t going to say the wrong thing. And then it kept happening, and the longer it went on, the harder it was to stop… And by then I knew where you like to be quiet… And I liked being near you…”
The honesty in it disarmed him more than pure denial would have.
You hadn’t tried to reshape the truth into something cleaner. You hadn’t minimized it. You had simply admitted it, raw and unprotected.
He held your gaze, searching for any sign of calculation, but didn’t find it.
“You say you wanted to be near me,” he said. “So what did you think was going to happen?”
Your throat moved as you swallowed.
“Nothing was supposed to happen.”
The words sounded smaller now. Less certain.
He studied you, weighing them against what he knew. Against quiet nights and steady breathing. Against the weight of a small body pressed against his side while he said things aloud he had never trusted another person to hear.
“You knew that it wouldn’t stay simple,” he replied. His voice wasn’t accusing. Just honest. “There’s no way you could sit there night after night, listening to me talk about things I don’t say to anyone else, and not think about where that leads.”
Your gaze fell.
“I didn’t think that far ahead.”
He believed you.
Not that it excused anything, but it fit. Because nothing about you, in hindsight, had felt orchestrated. You hadn’t steered him. Hadn’t lingered with intent. You had simply existed beside him, quiet and warm and steady.
He dragged a hand over his face, trying to make sense of the situation
“Were you going to tell me?”
The question lingered between you.
Your silence answered first. Then, quietly, “I didn’t know how.”
He believed that, too.
Because he remembered the night cat-you had followed him to his room. The startled yowl and panic in your movements when he had reached for his pants, the frantic scramble of claws against hardwood as you fled.
There had been no manipulation in that, only embarrassment.
And yet.
“You let me believe I was talking to an animal that didn’t understand. When it was you.”
The words settled heavier than he intended and he saw you flinch.
Your head snapped up, apology filling across your face. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. You were talking. I didn’t—” You stopped yourself, voice trembling under the strain.
You took a deep breath, “I didn’t want to leave, because that felt like a rejection. And…” you hesitated with this much honesty, “you seemed as lonely as I was.”
He could see the effort it took just to stand there, to remain instead of retreating into the safety of fur and silence.
“But I couldn’t let you believe for a second longer that I was afraid of you or avoiding you because of your past.”
He had believed you avoided him because you wanted distance. Because he made you uncomfortable. Because he reminded you of things you didn’t want near you.
Not because you liked him.
You went quiet, and he could see in your face that you were replaying every moment from his side. Every absentminded scratch behind your ears. Every slow stroke along your spine. Every quiet, unguarded confession he had offered into what he thought was solitude.
“And every time you reached for me…” you said, your voice smaller now, stripped of all defenses, “I let you. When I knew it wasn't that simple. And you didn't.”
The admission was dangerous. He felt the truth of it in his chest. Not something done to him, but as something you had allowed and had carried alone.
He glanced down at his own hand.
The same hand that had stroked along your spine night after night. That had scratched behind your ears, traced the line of your skull, rested warm and unguarded against what he had believed was nothing more than fur and feline instinct.
His fingers flexed once, slow and uncertain, recalibrating.
Memory rearranged itself in real time: the weight of you curled against his thigh, the steady vibration of your purr, the way he had let his touch linger because it had felt uncomplicated.
It hadn’t been uncomplicated.
It hadn’t been simple.
He let his hand fall back to his side, not withdrawing from you or recoiling, but acknowledging the difference, the fact that it had been you all along.
The warmth of those evenings didn’t vanish, but it shifted. And so did he.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose, forcing his pulse to settle into something manageable. The initial jolt of shock had burned away, leaving deliberation in its place. This wasn’t about reacting. It was about choosing how to move forward.
“This is weird,” he said plainly.
There was no point pretending otherwise. The understatement felt almost inadequate, but it was honest.
“I know,” you said, softer now, the fight gone from your voice.
“And yeah,” he continued, steady but unflinching, “it crosses a line.”
You flinched like he had physically struck you. Your shoulders tightened, chin dipping as if bracing for impact. He saw the moment your mind leapt ahead: to exile, to consequences, to punishment.
“But,” he added before you could retreat into that spiral, “it’s not the line you think.”
You looked up at him, confusion cutting through the shame.
“If I thought you were manipulating me,” he said, voice level and certain, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
He meant that.
Manipulation had a texture that he knew intimately. It was subtle and coercive and designed to control. What had happened here had felt quiet and human.
The weight of his words settled between you. He saw the way you swallowed, saw the resignation flicker behind your eyes, as if you were already prepared to pack your things if he asked.
You would leave voluntarily, he realized, out of guilt. And a deeper realization followed, that he didn't want that.
“I don’t think you were trying to control me,” he said. “I think you were hiding.”
Your lips parted slightly, startled.
“But from what?” he asked.
“From… myself, mostly,” you admitted. Your voice didn’t shake this time, though it was raw and unguarded. “From messing it up. From becoming a laughingstock. From hearing you say you didn’t feel the same.”
The admission of your fear settled deep in his chest. He recognized it easily. He had lived in it for years: fear of being too broken, too complicated to choose.
“I should have told you before it… got this far,” you continued. “I just… I didn’t know how to be brave enough… as myself.” Your throat tightened around the last word. “I’m sorry.”
He measured the truth in your expression silently.
The sharp edge of suspicion that had flared earlier dulled under scrutiny. You hadn’t been orchestrating anything, you hadn’t been steering him. You had been avoiding the risk of rejection the only way you knew how.
It was flawed and it was unfair, but it wasn’t malicious.
“You should have given me the choice,” he said finally.
The words weren’t raised or sharp, just firm.
Choice mattered, especially to him, who had been stripped of his autonomy before.
“You’re right,” you accepted, without argument or deflection.
Silence filled the room again, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It was closer to a recalibration: two people adjusting to a new truth neither of them had expected to face tonight.
His gaze flicked briefly to the couch, to the indentation where you had been curled minutes earlier. The moment no longer felt like a lie. It had been reframed, colored differently, but not erased.
The warmth had been real. The quiet companionship had been real.
But so had the imbalance.
He looked back at you.
“You can’t hide,” he said. “Not if you want something real.”
Your breath hitched softly.
He took a deep breath, settling on a decision.
“So you’ve spent weeks getting to know me. You likely know me better than most here in the compound. Now… I’d like to get to know you back,” he added, holding your gaze so there would be no confusion, “As you. Not as the cat.”
There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. He meant it as both boundary and invitation tangled together; a new start.
He searched your face again, not for apology this time, but for resolve. For the willingness to stand in your own skin and not retreat the second it felt uncomfortable.
“Can you do that?” he asked.
The question lingered between you, fragile but steady.
Then he stepped back and sat down on the couch, lowering himself into the cushions deliberately. He didn’t reach for you or gesture as further invitation. He simply created space beside him, open, but not demanding.
For a heartbeat, you remained standing.
He watched the decision move across your face. The familiar instinct to withdraw flickered there, and then faded.
You crossed the distance and sat beside him, not as something small and safe and untouchable, but as yourself.
i’m picturing shapeshifter könig who turns into the smallest and cutest cat ever </3 and then he falls asleep on the couch under a pillow or borrows into the cushions of the couch </3
and you come in, see a cat in there and pick him up by his scruff, waking him up until he’s looking at you and then he’s crying out on that adorable way cats do when they want something, paws grabbing onto your sleeve and trying to get up on your arm
It is a beautiful day. And you are a horrible, horrible goose. And by horrible, horrible goose, I mean mischievous, mischievous cat.
Stiles has stumbled across a stray or street cat in Beacon Hills every now and again, but he’s never fallen victim to the cat distribution system before. He hears a noise out by the trash cans one night and bursts out the back door with his bat in hand, fully ready to fight off whatever feral animals or shirtless darn beautiful wolf men are rooting through his trash when there’s a feline chirp, and something furry darts past his legs and runs into his house.
He spends about two hours trying to get you out of his house unsuccessfully before he gives up and leaves out a plate with some cheerios, shredded cheese, tuna, and a bowl of skim milk, sets down some newspaper, and calls it a night (god bless this man he has NO experience with pets)
He calls Scott who would normally come over and help, but cats tend to… not be very fond of the whole werewolf thing. So Scott decides he’ll just drop off some pamphlets from the animal clinic about cats for Stiles at school tomorrow.
You LOVE annoying him. You love sitting on his books and papers only when he needs them for homework or supernatural research. You love hopping up on a tall shelf and knocking over little figurines and pens. You love annoying him just to cuddle up against him and rub on him and purr because he ALWAYS folds. Every single time.
He’s had to learn to live with it, with this furball that makes biscuits on his chest and stomach, sleeps on top of him every night, headbutts him affectionately and weaves around his legs just to try and trip him up. If he had a nickel for every time he had to stop you from eating plastic he would be so, so rich by now.
You like Stiles. You like being his cat. And Stiles… weirdly likes having you around.
Okay fine, he’d die for you.
And now you’re just kind of waiting. You’re waiting for the most inconvenient moment - probably when he’s asleep - to shift into your human form and watch his face when he wakes up to a hot naked stranger blinking up at him with way too familiar eyes, and a little star wars print jingle bell collar around your neck.
Wad thinking of changing the rp with @colonel-valentino where Ellwyn is a cat shifter and there's just a cat roaming around base
So here it is...
Open rp btw guys
The base was quiet, empty of a few soldiers on a mission, but.. One who wasn't. The resident tinkerer, Ellwyn, was gone from base, and a few soldiers had sworn they heard loud meowing coming from the room as they passed. So, someone is sent to investigate. Low and behold, the soldier now stands at the door, getting aggressively meowed at from the grey ragdoll that sits at their feet and is trying to get past with his tail swaying in annoyance. Ellwyn is nowhere in the room, and the bathroom is open, no sight of him. The cat then meows loudly and looks up at the soldier, mouth wide and practically screaming at them to let him pass.
