#hybrid!reader

price: this man is dressing you in the sweetest little gingham shorts to show off your fluffy tail, getting you to hop around his cottage yard to find the eggs he’s hidden for you. he’s too old to play games, so he’s content to watch from the porch as his cigar smoke curls in the spring sunshine

gaz: similar to price, he’ll be spending it with you outside. the bastard loves to show off, so he’ll pick a popular park to have a picnic with you, making sure everyone can see your bunny ears are real and not just a headband. might even enter you in a stupid hop competition just so you can beat them all and be his winner (which he will be sending to soap)

soap: he’s a family man, what can he say? he’ll have you in scotland, playing with all of his nieces and nephews — arts n crafts, egg hunts, and he even lets his niece trace your ears on a paper so she can cut them out and wear them like yours. any chance alone he’s murmuring in those fluffy white ears about how nice it would be to have wee bunny!hybrids bouncing around you all with his ridiculously blue eyes (“think about it, bun, hey?”)

And the team absolutely loves them, even though they have to stay covered during ops. The tiny, barely noticeable flashes of them across the field let your team know your alive. It becomes soothing, in a way.

Which is why they all notice when your pink color begins to fade.

None of them are hybrids, they have no clue what's wrong with you but it's obvious you're sick. That dashing hot pink turned dull and white.

The worst part is that you're acting completely fine! Insisting on training like normal and taking your usual workload. You act confused when price only gives you a handful of small files or when ghost tells you to take the bench for sparring.

If anything, it only makes you more eager to trains and work even as the last bits of pink fade from your wings.

It's not until price attempts to bench you from a mission that you come to his office seething, wings flaring and huffing "what the hell, sir? Why am I benched?"

Price, who doesn't take well to such disrespect, reminds himself that you're sick and clearly not thinking straight. He raises a brow, glances at your wings "I don't know much 'bout avians but I'm not stupid, I know what sickness looks like."

"...sick?? Sir, I'm not sick–"

"Your wings are completely white, sergeant. Piss off. Fuckin' not sick my ass." Price stands now, too. He really wishes you would sit down, standing can't be good for you.

"...sir." you stare at price, face carefully neutral "this is because my...my wings are white?"

"Yes, sergeant." He watches as you cycle through emotions on your face, before you finally settle on mildly amused.

"Sir. My wings aren't naturally white. It comes from my diet." You let the comment sink in, then add "the diet i changed so I could blend in better on the field."

....of course none of them thought to simply ask if you weren't alright.

After a gruff apology from price, you're ordered to return back to your previous diet, something about team morale.

You’re just not used to it being with them since they took you from your real— no you’re bad owner.

He wasn’t bad to you. Atleast, that’s what you thought. That’s what your heart told you.

Him being gone didn’t mean to just start acting out of character, it was hard to adjust. To live somewhere new, and to sleep alone, and not being told what to do when you needed some help. You knew the list to control yourself ingrained in the back for your brain.

Deep breath, hide your ears & tail, another deep breath and there wouldn’t be a reason to be so hyper all the time, another breath, and he’d do all the thinking for you. Don’t worry that pretty little head, he said.

And it wasn’t so easy on the 141 either. You’d go on missions, listen so well and when all is said and done you’d dart to your bedroom. Didn’t want to hang out or just talk outside of work. The one place that’d become your safe haven. The one place that had your previous owners shirt that started to smell less and less like him.

You couldn’t help but feel more and more alone even when you were surrounded by people.

But you started noticing things from being so alone.

You’d realized something as Gaz was patching up in the helicopter— they all have big hands. Large Calloused hands with thick fingers. John’s were hairy, so rough from working in the field for so long, you’d felt his hand on the back of your neck while he guided you somewhere, he runs warm.

Gaz’s hands are so well taken care of, manicured, long like he could be a hand model but still rough, like he’d been to hell before despite his softer exterior, and always has the least bit of grime unlike Soap’s.

His are a little shorter, but thicker, he a few tattoos on the back of his hands, a couple rings always stay on his fingers with chipped nail polish.

And then there’s Simon, who has the largest hands, most rough despite him wearing gloves, there are a lot of scars, maybe even a burn or two, said himself, “Almost lost my thumb with this one.”

And it makes you almost yearn to hear the story behind it, feel his— or any of their hand on you and rub your back or pay your head while you sleep.

It was an act of you being desperate for something. Anything. Dead of night during a mission, you managed to sneak passed Simon and John, light as a feather. You stood over the makeshift cot Gaz was sleeping in with bags under your eyes, exhausted. You bend down on your knees, laying your head on his stomach and placed his hand to cup your face, letting his thumb drag itself across your cheek. So soft, so warm— had your ears and tail popped out from holding it in for so long. Tail swishing from excitement. You were out like a light before you could try to regain yourself.

It took everything in Gaz to not react when he’d found you there, sleeping so soundly on him. Pretending to be asleep once you finally woke up so cutely.

And then Soap who has patted your knee after a tiring mission, you couldn’t even control your body when he shyed away, firmly placing his hand back to where it belonged on your thigh before resting your head on his shoulder to take a quick nap.

Simon who unconsciously tickles the bottom of your chin just like Soap and Gaz when they listen well, you can’t help your tail quickly swishing behind you, nuzzling your face in his hand.

And then John, who takes his big hand in yours whenever he has to take you anywhere. Worse, he’ll let his hand find your back, soothingly rubbing circles on your waist—

Okay, maybe you were starting to see the benefits of the 141.

Dog Hybrid! Reader who tucks away into corners, never cowering but quiet, cautious, wary gaze tracking anyone who moves just a bit too quick or laughs a bit too loud, but they don't think much of it- Ghost's the same way after all. You still have their backs in the field, you still swap banter over comms, you still join them for meals in the mess hall

They don't see it coming, honestly, but Simon doesn't blame you one bit for it.

On your way back from training, trailing after your Lieutenant, you're still wound up, recent recruits too loud and too rowdy where they walk along with the two of you. Ghost can see the way your jaw shifts, tongue no doubt nervously tracing your teeth, ears ramrod straight and tail stiff where it bobbed with each step. He could see the fur bristled slightly, just enough to stick up, and he thought he saw it coming when a recruit got a bit too close while roughhousing, knocked into you, made you bark sharply and snap your teeth, wanting the rookie out Out Out of your space, Now

Ghost, without thinking twice, reached out and clamped his hand around the back of your neck, attempting to scruff you

You whipped around faster than he could blink, white hot pain racing up his arm as your teeth sank into his wrist, blood dripping out between your fangs and down to the linoleum floors

He grunted in reflex to the deep ache, your gaze cleared- you released his arm in a flash, his blood smeared around your mouth

The hall had gone dead silent, the recruits stunned into shock, and Simon stared at the bite wound on his arm before turning his gaze to you, who shrank away. "Kid, wh-" He tried to question, but a full-body flinch stopped him in his tracks, and he could only stand and watch as you muttered an apology and bolted away, fur standing on end and ears pressed against your head.

Later, in medical, the bite thoroughly cleaned and bandaged, he vehemently denies any insinuation that you could've meant to hurt him

He'd seen your eyes, just before they'd cleared and you realised the taste of iron in your mouth wasn't imagination- blank, unseeing, animalistic, terrified

And none of them like it.

Too creepy, too weird and the movement freaks people out, the way the tiniest of phalanges curls and twists. You train yourself to wind the fronds tight together, make a single or double limb, but inevitably you lose control and it all explodes out again.

You learn to stay in the back of the room, to hide when possible, and even the skills that brought you to the 141- the way you can type a code, write a message, and field strip a weapon all simultaneously- are better off in the shadows, where your new team can't get too...upset. Can't snap and sneer, wiping off their arms and hands if they accidentally touch you, shoving you away if your fronds start to reach for them or anything they're holding.

"The fuck're you doin' back here?"

You look up at your lieutenant. Ghost is glaring down at you, dark eyes scowling out of his balaclava. "Um...eating?" Your hand-frond curls around another French fry. Salt, oil, potato, a preservative in the potato. Greasy fingers that prepped it all onto the tray.

"Yeah, and why alone? Team eats together, that's the rule," he says, and jerks his thumb over to the table he and the sergeants are at. He grabs your tray, and you don't have a choice but to follow.

The other men welcome you warmly, and to your astonishment, they don't skitter away as your phalanges spread over the table, touching their trays, an instinct you can't fully reign in. Soap's drink slides across the table towards you, and you wince, fronds peeling away from it. Aluminum, paint, fresh water in the condensation, and your microscopic hooks leave little marks in the logo.

"Sorry! Sorry, I can...get you a new one..." You trail off, because he's shrugging and taking his drink back, touching it easily.

"Eh, if I was that worried about it, I'd get it myself. You're fine, love," he adds, and your throat is tight. Is this really all it takes? One tiny kindness?

Gaz grins. "Look, I know you're worried, but we really do not give a shit about all- this," he gestures to your wide, branching baskets of arms, "outside of what it means for our missions. Do you know how many weird bugs that one has brought home?"

He nods to your left, and you look over to Ghost, where he's examining the delicate phalanges that have spread over his arm with the care and focus of a master watchmaker. He strips off a glove, and your breath catches in your chest as he touches the very tip of a frond with his finger- a tiny burst of taste, salt-skin-oil-cotton, the base building blocks of the man called Ghost- and shakes it solemnly, like he's meeting you for the first time.

Soap pats your shoulder, and doesn't twitch when your arm splits in surprise. "Not that you're a bug! But, y'know, when you get two hours in a transport home being told all about the way this beetle works and lives, you start to see the beauty in the strange. And nothing's stranger than our LT!"

that’s their baby now.

price had already tried to take it away, saying that there were no pets allowed on base that wasn’t the bomb-sniffing dogs or rescue dogs.

feline hybrid!reader almost took off his entire arm if it wasn’t for the rest of the team pulling him back in time.

it now officially lives in your room.

The opposing soldiers were finally beginning to fall back, signaling yet another successful mission. Except he couldn't find you yet.

The troops began to round up, gathering to head towards exfil, the sergeants talking over the comms discussing their status. All except you. He can still see your tracker blinking on his map, and when he asks Laswell to try to get a position on you, she just says “You’ll see them coming.”

It’s twenty minutes until you finally return, lugging a body behind you. Simon’s eyes immediately widened, moving forward to meet you in case it was a fellow injured soldier. Though all you do is drop the body at his feet, wipe the blood on your hands onto your gear and then look up at him expectantly.

“You brought back.. a body.” He speaks the words like they’re foreign to his tongue, but you just nod, looking down at the body then back up at him again.