#cat!hybrid!reader

Part 1 of this

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He awoke to a crawling sensation on his leg, could’ve been chalked up to your claws… if you weren’t on his other side, laying stock still aside from the rise and fall of your chest, letting out something akin to a snore.

He had tried to lift the duvet very gently, but of course you woke, mewling gently.

Your eyes—equipped with tapetum lucidum—locked onto the culprit, a daddy long legs going for a midnight stroll up Simon’s leg.

He wasn’t an arachnophobe, but even he felt a little queasy when you—after successfully pouncing and pinning it with a claw, licked at and even attempted to eat the spider, not made much better by your decency to kill it before you did so.

Much to your chagrin, he pried it from your fingers and you groaned, biting your tongue to keep from hissing as he cooed at you shortly after, acting like he hadn’t taken you midnight snack from you in cold blood. Sure, it didn’t taste good or anything, but it was fun to stimulate your senses with something of a hunt.

You settled back down on his chest after some more soothing pets, closing your eyes…

after spitting out a spider leg on his face of course!

Simon, to his credit, wasn’t particularly mad when he noticed it the next morning, especially since you were in the bathroom brushing your teeth obsessively, having come to your senses, no longer half-asleep and controlled by your instincts, now thoroughly disgusted.

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You were by no means dumb, nor lesser in comparison to humans—that myth had been busted in decades since past, genetic engineering enhanced and normalised to the point of becoming mundane.

But… there was still leaps of progress to take in regards to hybrids in the military.

Having a handler was in some ways smart—given your unique properties and the struggles carried by proxy—but dehumanising in other ways, especially since handlers had next to no special training, and being assigned a hybrid was either treated with lecherous, sleazy eagerness or like lavatory cleaning duty.

Ghost tried to be neither, but the latter half was easier said than done.

He didn’t adore you, but he certainly didn’t hate you either, he’d always preferred feline companionship, and your soft ears and flicking, sleek tail were undeniably cute. It’s just… you could never quite seem to quell your instincts thoroughly enough.

You’d latch your eyes onto a target, pupils going from constricted slits to near pitch-black, hindquarters wiggling in an odd, amusing dance before you pounced, claws unleashed, sometimes delivering bunny kicks as you bit and scratched, tore a poor enemy soldier to ribbons.

And that bit was all fine and dandy—if you looked past the piling paper work on his desk.

But when your target evaded you? Well that was a completely different story. You’d pace back and forth restlessly from overlook to overlook, sometimes mistakingly knocking into Ghost and leaving him winded in your eager haste to relocate your “prize”.

Perching yourself precariously over ledges and considering jumps you would probably fail, before finally coming to your senses, and searching around when he’d already eliminated the target, unable to think quite clearly when you adrenaline still rushed and your cat brain remained dominant, humanity dormant.

Lastly, loudly running around his quarters and playing with things you shouldn’t, until you we’re back to normal, knackered at the foot of his bed, purring softly when he pet the right spot under your ears.