#cs-fox

- if hybrids are allowed in the military, I’d assume they were picked because of their superior combat ability. These are not animals, these are soldiers, chosen for their heightened senses and special abilities that give them an edge over normal humans.

- and I bet they’d be so surprised when a normal human joins their taskforce. What was this all about? Surely this human couldn’t have skills equal to theirs?

- after a long time of avoiding this new recruit and her strange smell, slightly friendlier and more curious avian Kyle decides to engage.

- you’re actually quite nice, at least at the surface, and strangely not bothered by the hybrids too much. There’s a couple of scars on your form that makes Kyle wonder but he knows better than to ask.

- the big werewolf, Soap, is next. He sniffs you, actually sniffs you - big, bristly snout nuzzling into your armpit exactly like a real dog. You think it’s pretty adorable till he shifts back, when you realise there’s suddenly a bulky Scotsman with his arm around you - and a wolfish grin on his face.

- then there’s Price, an aging sheepdog, with a beard akin to his animal counterpart. His dark, beady eyes are kind, but seem to hold a lot of knowledge, and unnerve you every time they fall on your form.

- finally, Ghost. He’s a kind of shapeshifter, for use of a more mundane term, because of his parentage. There’s wolfish ears atop his thatched blonde head but shadows leak from his imposing form like dry ice.

- he almost doesn’t say a word when he approaches, simply observing, as you rock on the balls of your feet awkwardly.

- ‘Um - hi. I’m - ’ ‘Y/N.’ he says, with an unreadable look. ‘I’m Ghost.’

- ‘Well, it’s an honour,’ you tried, attempting reverence, but you didn’t see any change in his demeanour.

‘Mhm.’

His eyes were so powerful, you swore they were boring holes in you, trying to suck your soul out through your mouth.

‘I mean - being able to work with this team. It really is.’

The man didn’t even move, until you made some lame excuse and all but ran off down the corridor back to your quarters, where you stayed for the next hour, a little thrown off by the huge skull-masked man.

You only opened the door when you heard scratching - a small noise, like a tiny animal was begging to be let in.

Because Ghost, despite his stony exterior, had taken to you straight away. You were a kind of light to him - friendly, kind, and a little bit oblivious… even so, he couldn’t resist trying to get a peek inside your quarters - after all, being a shapeshifter had it’s uses.

When the door cracked open, there was a slim tortoiseshell cat, with beautiful dark eyes. You gazed at it in wonder - how did a cat get into the barracks?

It mewled softly, and you scooped it up, grunting slightly at its unusual weight.

‘C’mon baby. I’ll see if I have any food for you.’

Simon had met you when you’d performed at a task force get together, as a solo violinist. He’d been enchanted by your playing and even singing - which you blended perfectly together - and eventually worked up the courage to ask for your number.

He still lived for the times when he came home from service to the sweet sound of your playing.

Simon would watch, entranced, as your body swayed gently, your bow gliding across the strings of your instrument, coaxing an impossibly dulcet tone. Your eyes would flutter closed, and only fly open when his arms found their way around your waist.

‘Keep playing,’ he mumbled.

And you complied, for another twenty minutes, until you set your violin down, loosened the bow, and allowed his arms to swallow you up.

Then -

‘What’s this, sweet’eart?’

You felt breath, hot breath, flooding over your collarbone. Looking down curiously, you find a round blemish - not unlike a bruise.

‘Is there something you need to tell me?’

You giggled, nodding gently. ‘I’ve been having an affair with my violin,’ and Simon had never looked more confused.

‘It’s a violin hickey, Si,’ you laughed.

‘Wha’?’

Poor man, he looked so dumbfounded at this revelation.

You explained to him that because you were wearing only a singlet and your violin’s body rubbed against your neck, along with the shoulder rest, it could cause a small, pinched bruise to form. Especially if you’d been playing for a few hours.

‘Oh.’

‘I’d never leave you for someone else, Si,’ you said softly. ‘I promise.’

‘Alrigh’. I’m getting a little jealous of your violin, though, lovie.’

You squealed as he gently pushed you against the wall, warm, damp lips already attached, leech-like, to your neck.