I feel like feral reader has the biggest, saddest eyes known to man when not on a mission, they just want love and pack. It's not their fault they're so feral. They were /made/ to be a weapon, when all they wanted was peace
If feral's an alpha - I can see them hunting down snacks and bringing it to the 141 like "look! I can provide! I can be gentle!" And just watching them eat with those (almost weirdly) big eyes.
If feral's an omega - I can see them hiding away and trying to frantically nest, to give themself somewhere safe. It's not right, there's no pack scent so it just pushes them further into the feral mentality, but (once) if feral swipes some of the packs' items, it does help. It's messy, it's too small, but its a nest, and its theirs and thats all that matters
And omg imagine if feral gets hurt and needs to be hospitalized
The higher ups demand that they be cuffed to the bed, but when the 141 sees feral, they see someone who's just scared. Scared of the hospital and scared of themself. They've been stripped of the muzzle, chains, and scent patches, and look so utterly /weak/. Their scent is distorted from the cruel use of scent blockers, meaning telling their designation from that is impossible.
And then they're so drugged up on pain meds that their walls are lower, and a /lot/ more talkative without their muzzle...
Igh just imagine the sweetest fluffiest angst that hurts so good
(Not a request, just some of my rambles)
do you know that you ate with this ask? because you did. you absolutely did đŠ i loved reading all your thoughts about feral reader, especially the speculation of how they'd act depending on their designation!! the part abt the hospital works so well with what i had planned so i hope you like what i've added to it <33
CW: human trafficking
omegaverse masterlist
The hospital room is quiet, sterile, and suffocating.
John clenches his jaw as he steps inside, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the space. He sees the IV lines, the machines monitoring vitals, the thick, military-grade cuffs securing your wrists to the bed. You look so small like this- nothing like the unrelenting force they fought beside.
Here, right now, youâve been stripped of everything that made you feral.
No muzzle, no reinforced collar, no scent patches suppressing your pheromones into oblivion. For the first time since youâd been forced into their pack, they could see you. And it guts them.
Because you arenât some bloodthirsty creature bred for war.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, dull nails scratching uselessly at the cuffs, but thereâs no real struggle. No vicious snapping of teeth, no blank, unfeeling stare of a tool awaiting its next order. You barely even react to them entering the room.
Your scent is muddled- soured by years of suppressant use, reduced to something broken and incomplete. It makes it impossible to tell your secondary gender, but it doesnât matter. Not to them.
The steady drip of the pain meds in your IV dulls everything- your body is sluggish, barely responding, but it also lowers the walls that kept them from truly knowing you.
â⌠âS too quiet,â you mumble, blinking slowly. Your voice is hoarse from disuse, raspy from the damage the muzzle had done to your jaw. Itâs the first time any of them have heard you speak so calmly, in a controlled setting that isn't a battlefield, without the muzzle in place.
Johnny is the first to move, dragging a chair close so he can sit beside you. His movements are slow and careful- like approaching a wounded animal.
âAye, hospitals tend to be,â he says gently. âBit shite, arenât they?â
Your lips press together in something that might be the ghost of a frown. â... Hate it.â
The words are so soft. Theyâre used to you tearing apart enemy soldiers with your bare hands, not murmuring complaints like a child unhappy with their surroundings.
âYeah, I know,â Gaz murmurs from the other side of the bed. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you, but he doesnât. Not yet. âYou, uh⌠donât like small spaces, do you?â
Your response is slow, weighted with exhaustion, and your eyes flicker between them yet remain unfocused. âNot the spaces.â A small pause. âThe waiting.â
John exhales slowly through his nose, crossing his arms. You were never allowed to wait. You were a tool, a weapon unsheathed only for war. They never let you have quiet. The only time you werenât fighting was when you were locked away, bound and muzzled like a rabid dog.
You shift against the restraints, huffing when they keep you pinned in place. ââM not gonna run.â
âYeah, we ken, sweetheart.â Johnny says before he can stop himself. The pet name slips out, but you donât flinch. If anything, your muscles relax just a little.
Simon, who has been silent in the corner up until now, finally moves. His mask is still in place, but his scent- bitter with restrained frustration- is unmistakable. He steps closer, gloved hands reaching out to carefully unfasten the cuffs.
Itâs a risk. The higher-ups demanded you remain restrained, even sedated if necessary. Hell, it was a fight for the doctors to convince them to take off the collar and muzzle.
But Simon doesnât give a fuck.
You blink sluggishly up at him as he undoes the clasps, rubbing absent circles over the raw skin left behind. He doesnât say anything, doesnât acknowledge the way your fingers twitch under his touch.
You donât lash out. You donât fight. You just watch him with the biggest, saddest eyes heâs ever fucking seen.
âWe shouldnât be here,â you say, words slurring together slightly. âDonât- donât need to waste time. âM just a weapon.â
Something cracks in Johnâs chest.
âNo, youâre not.â he says firmly.
You blink slowly at him. â⌠Thatâs what they said.â
âWell, they donât know shit.â Gaz snaps, unable to help himself.
Your lips part slightly, as if you hadnât expected that. As if no one had ever disagreed with that sentiment before.
Johnny leans forward, his voice softer now. âYouâre not a weapon, bonnie.â His fingers twitch again before he finally gathers the courage to reach for you, brushing a careful hand over your hair. You donât flinch. Donât move away. Your eyes slip shut under the warmth of his touch.
Itâs the first time youâve been touched like this. Not in combat, not in restraint, but with care.
âJusâ want pack." You mumble, so quiet they almost miss it. And fuck- if that doesnât make their chests ache.
They knew it wasnât your fault. They knew you were made into what you are, forced into something unnatural. Theyâve seen you- seen the way you watch them, longing written in the lines of your body, in the fleeting glances and hesitant movements that scream of someone who just wants.
And now, stripped of the chains and the regulations that kept you leashed, they see you for what you truly are.
Not a weapon, nor a monster.
Just a broken little thing that was never given a choice.
Johnny keeps petting your hair, Gaz is murmuring quiet reassurances, and Simon hasnât moved his hand from yours. John steps closer, resting a heavy, grounding palm on your ankle.
âWeâve got you,â John says, voice low and steady. âYouâre pack now.â
Your breath hitches slightly. Your walls are too low, your body too exhausted to mask the emotions that flicker across your face.
And for the first time since they met you, you look safe.
(John just wishes the reality you'll face once you are recovered was far, far nicer to you).
Later, Ghost is the only one still awake with you. Johnny dozed off in the chair beside your bed, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back in an uncomfortable angle that would have left him sore in the morning if it weren't for the scarf Simon bundled in the crook of his neck. Gaz and John left hours ago, forced back to their own quarters under the watchful eyes of command. Theyâll be back in the morning.
For now, itâs just you and Simon, the quiet hum of the hospital machines, and the weight of something unspoken between you.
Until you speak up again.
âYâknow,â you murmur, eyes closed, voice rough from disuse. âI wasnât always like this.â
He doesnât move, doesnât even breathe for a second, like any sudden shift might scare you away from whatever youâre about to say. His hands tighten over his knees, fingers curling into the fabric of his fatigues.
He doesnât ask you to elaborate. He doesnât need to. He knows youâll either continue or shut down completely. He prays itâs the former.
Thereâs a long silence before you exhale, long and slow, staring up at the ceiling like the words are carved into the sterile white panels above you.
âThey took me in the middle of the night,â you say quietly. âDidnât hear âem coming. Shouldâve. Shouldâve smelled âem.â Your lips press together, something dark flickering over your face. âBut why would I? I was just... doing something. Near a car, and then- then I got knocked out before I even... knew they were there."
Simon doesnât ask who. Not when it means interrupting you, not in this fine, delicate moment with its hands grasped around his throat. But he can guess and connect the dots, though; Itâs always the same types. People who think they can own things. Who see others as commodities, as something to be bought and sold.
âWoke up in a cage,â you continue, voice distant, like youâre narrating someone elseâs story. âCouldnât tell how many others were there. Too many. Some crying. Some too scared to move. Some alreadyâŚâ You swallow hard. âAlready gone."
Ghost keeps his breathing steady, keeps his hands still even though his body screams to move, to do something. But this isnât something he can fix. He canât go back in time, canât put a bullet in the heads of the men who did this to you. The only thing he can do is listen.
âI remember thinking,â you murmur, lashes heavy, eyes wet. âif I just waited, someone would come.â A bitter, breathless laugh slips past your lips. âSomeone always comes. Thatâs what they all say, right? That someone always comes.â
Simon knows better than anyone that sometimes, no one does. Sometimes, you have to claw your own way out. Sometimes, it would still not save you.
He says nothing, just watches as you shift slightly against the pillows, your fingers twitching restlessly atop the blanket.
âThey started selling people off,â you say. âOne by one. Didnât matter if they fought, if they screamed. Just lined them up, packed them into trucks, and that was it.â
A pause. Your eyes fluttered shut, a lone tear rolling down your face.
The silence that follows is heavy. Suffocating. Simon still waits, letting you decide if you want to keep going. You donât look at him, but your fingers twitch again, this time like youâre reaching for something absent.
âDidnât matter what I wanted,â you whisper, now more to yourself than to him. âDidnât matter who I was. I was just a thing to them. Something to be sold. Caged.â
He knows that feeling too well.
He knows what it means to be stripped of personhood, reduced to nothing but flesh to be used and discarded. He knows the rage, the helplessness, the slow descent into something feral and unrecognizable. But unlike you, he had John Price's need to adopting strays to reel him back in. But you-
âWhat happened?â he finally asks, low and rough as gravel.
Your lips part, and for a moment, he thinks you wonât answer.
Simple. Unapologetic. Matter-of-fact.
Ghost doesnât flinch. Doesnât react at all. He just waits.
âFirst one was easy,â you say, exhaustion coloring every letter. âHe was the one who opened the cage. Didnât think Iâd fight. Thought I was too weak, too scared. I was scared.â You exhale. âBut not enough to let them take me.â
Your fingers curl into the sheets, grip tightening.
âThey were so scary.â Your voice is flat, emotionless, but Simon can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your pulse jumps against your throat and reflects on the heart monitor. âStrong. Trained. Bigger than me. Didnât matter.â A small, humorless smile twitches at your lips. âDidnât matter how much stronger they were. I fought like a fucking animal.â
You, starved, exhausted, barely more than skin and bone- tearing through men who thought they were untouchable. Clawing, biting, ripping, killing. Not for sport. Not for pleasure. Just to survive.
It was never a choice; the only other option was death.
âI didnât stop,â you admit, softer now. âEven when they were all dead, even when there was no one left, I couldnât stop.â A deep, shuddering breath. âI was stuck like that. Didnât know how to turn it off. Still donât.â
The silence stretches long between you, until Simon breaks it; âNot your fault,â he murmurs, waiting for you to look at him with those glassy, painfully big eyes. He shakes his head. âYou didnât have a choice.â
Your throat bobs, something unreadable passing over your face and for a long time, neither of you speak. âYouâre the first person Iâve told.â You admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Simonâs fingers twitch. He wants to touch you. Wants to pull you close until he can rub his face and scent all over every crevice of your body. Not to restrain, not to command- just to comfort. But he doesnât. He can't.
Instead, he just nods, voice soft when he says: â..Get some rest, love. Weâve got you now.â
