As a bat shifter, you were relatively small to your 'cousins,' or whatever you called other bat shifters. You could fit comfortably in a human hand, let's just say that.
That being said, you also clung to your teammates whenever you were sleepy.
One dull afternoon, after Price had finished making recruits on base run laps or whatever involved punishment because someone drew a dick on the captain's door, the team had met up in the rec room to lounge. Every Wednesday after training was your dedicated relax time you all agreed on. Yet - you were nowhere to be seen.
"Where's our sarge?" Price had asked, looking at Johnny and Kyle - the two other sergeants shrugging in return. Only when Price turned his gaze to Simon was when he had the answer.
Simon, in response, turned around. There you were, on his back with your little hooks dug into the fabric of his hoodie. Your eyes were closed and your little body shifted with each soft breath of slumber. You were the perfect picture of content.
Johnny may or may not have snapped a picture for the blackmail folder he has against you.
Kyle already began prepping your little corner dedicated to you with soft blankets to help with warmth while Price carefully pried you off of Simon's back. Your captain then set you in the little nest Kyle prepared for you, and the team migrated to the opposite corner as to not disturb you.
You were a great soldier, and that was enough to look past the fact you sleep around twenty hours a day. They would take care of you anyways, they always do.
Plus, they can't deny the fact they love tucking you in.
Reader who is Prices absolute nightmare, They have Soap's energy with Ghost's disposition.
Reader who's laughs on field missions gives people a sickening pit in the stomach, not knowing how close they are stalking by.
Gaz who uses reader as a snack disposal for leftovers he'd never eat, this become symbiotic as the reader refuses to buy snacks and this habit soon gets adopted by Soap.
Ghost who see's reader as a more feral version of soap, and embracing it for the better especially during sparring.
Reader who prefers quick ambush attacks, trying to pinpoint Simon's next step. Only to get overwhelmed due to his stature, a human wall as they fail to knock him down.
Price hears it before he see's it, a crisp thud as they make contact with the ground.
Simon's hands were held up as he backs off, He wasn't stupid when he heard a growl growing from your lip
You wanted to rip him apart, and the only thing keeping you from that is how Price's eyes are locked on you.
His intent clear : Choose the next step ever-so carefully .
You’re an emotional support dog shifter – a springer spaniel, specifically. A soft thing that sighs and has long ears, the fur on them curled into tight, multi-colored rings. You were brought on at the insistence of Laswell, the woman claiming that if the lot of them refused to get their shit sorted with their assigned shrinks, they’d be getting themselves a mutt to help manage their trauma.
It was only after a few rounds at the pub that Kate begrudgingly admitted to John that you were a failed service dog – kicked out of the school for being perpetually sleepy. She and her wife didn’t have the space to keep you permanently while they fostered you, and the missus was too distraught at the idea of you going to strangers, so this was the next best thing. Give the tired pup a group of equally tired, emotionally constipated men to hang out with.
John? He was not thrilled. Not at first, anyway. He believed you’d get in the way of their duties, take up space, require attention and care that they didn’t have the time nor capabilities to provide.
Boy, did you surprise him, though.
Multiple daily walks in your dog form? Nah. There was the sporadic occasion that you’d join Gaz on one of his early morning jogs (mostly because he didn’t jog particularly fast, preferring distance over speed), though that only happened once in a blue moon. He offered every day, but the majority of the time, you’d simply look at him from your bed in the corner of the rec room with droopy eyes, huff through your nose, and go back to sleep.
Constant need for attention? Nope. You never begged or demanded for any of them to play with you or entertain you. If you needed stimulation, then you’d help yourself to a book in the rec room, or maybe watch some TV in there. You also had your favorite toy – a short length of rope with thick knots on either end – that you chewed on when your teeth itched. Never once did you bother the captain when he was in the middle of mountains of paperwork; never once did you paw at his door and whine to be let in.
The only time he found you near there was when he’d stayed in his office extra late one night, only leaving close to two in the morning. You were laying in the hallway by the door, and when he came out, you got up, looked at him for a few seconds – then, you were yawning and stretching, and trotting away back to your bed, content to see him still alive.
You were quiet, too. No incessant barking whenever someone came over, no jumping on people with excitement (or lack of control). You didn’t bite or claw, and you required basically no training. If one of them told you to come, you would without issue (though, maybe you’d give them a bit of side-eye for waking you).
When one of them took you out on the field to watch over rookie training, you’d obediently sit at their heel, observing recruits run laps until they lost their breakfast, passed out, or both.
Mess hall? Not an issue, even with the overwhelming amount of soldiers present. You took your spot on Gaz’s free side, the seat that had been designated yours when you first joined them, ate all your food, and cleaned up after yourself. Just for that, you were a gem to have.
Then, the actual emotional support.
It started slow. It took you time to settle in fully, get used to your new space and roommates. It also took the boys time to get used to you – Gaz and Ghost still teased Soap about the time he hadn’t noticed you standing behind him and screamed like a little girl when he turned around and saw you. You were patiently waiting for him to move out of the way so you could make yourself a cup of tea, but redirected to bumping into his side and holding onto his sleeve until he calmed down.
He took to you the quickest after that, though. At the end of every day, he was making his way straight to you to enjoy some warm, fluffy cuddles. More than once, the rest of the team had watched him simply lay down on top of you on your bed, amused to see the Scot face-down on your side while you laid your chin on his mohawk.
Gaz was also fast to warm up, enjoying the quiet company you provided him. Shared reading and tea time, you lending an ear (both human and dog) to listen to the gossip he’d gathered around base that he had to spill. That boba he’d been dying to try? You were more than happy to go with him. Self-care days? Make it double.
Now, Ghost; he refused to admit that you’d wormed your way into his heart, but something settled in his chest when you laid yourself across his lap, or plopped down directly on top of him anytime he chose to nap on the couch. You’d rest your head on his collarbone, tuck your paws, and let out one of those big, deep sighs that dogs do when they’re content and comfortable. Instinctively, he’d scratch behind your ears, and you’d lean into his touch with a happy little grumble. Ghost never understood the appeal of weighted blankets until he had you on top of him, giving him deep-pressure therapy.
Price was the hardest to win over, but the most rewarding. The old man went from secluding himself to his office 90% of the time, to finding excuses to take a break and check on you. He’d pretend that he just so happened to end up where you were on his way to do something else, and then he’d invite you because he was a gentleman and it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You never called it out for what it was, but you would smile softly and accept his invitation to take a walk or grab a snack.
In no time at all, it was like you had always been there, chatting with Soap, helping Gaz with puzzles, and napping on the dingy sofa in Price’s office while he worked. Ghost wouldn’t push you off when you flopped beside him while he cleaned his guns, stuffing your cold, wet nose under the hem of his hoodie to hide the sensitive thing from the acerbic stench of gun oil and polish.
It’s like you always belonged with them.
So, after they came back from a relatively short mission – their first time being away from you – and you were nowhere to be seen, they immediately knew something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
In the couple months they’d gotten to know you, they knew you weren’t one to wander. In fact, being a springer spaniel shifter, you were prone to separation anxiety, so they figured you’d choose to rest in one of their rooms, or stay in the spaces they tended to occupy most. But they checked every room, every office, and found no sign of you.
It took an hour or so after their return for them to find you – Gaz, specifically. He spotted you hiding under the coffee table in the rec room, refusing to come out. He had to coax you out slowly, using sweet words and that gentle voice of his that could soften into a tone none of the others could match. He was the best man for the job, and you eventually crawled out.
You were limping, refusing to put any weight on your back left leg whatsoever, ears tucked close to your head. There was crusted blood stuck in your fur, and a small, raw patch where fur was missing entirely, revealing wounded flesh.
Ghost saw red. Blistering, bleeding, crimson red.
As soon as you were close enough to Gaz, you collapsed back onto the floor, evidently exhausted, like you hadn’t slept in days. You let out a broken whimper, your eyes wide and wet and so full of fear and hurt. Things you were never supposed to feel, to know. All the man could do was soothe and comfort you, Soap joining in to help with little coos and featherlight petting.
Price didn’t hesitate. He did what he did best – be a soldier.
He began digging, putting his skills and knowledge to use. Given his position as Captain, it wasn’t difficult to get answers out of people, figure out what happened to their poor pup while they were gone. A few questions, a bit of parading his rank (and abusing it, just a little), and he had all he needed to know.
It was a trooper – some new face in the SAS who managed to land himself a spot in it and thought it made him untouchable, made him entitled. He’d been following you around base, to and from the mess, gym, the field, anywhere like he had nothing better to do. He catcalled you incessantly, despite how you ignored him, or told him you weren’t interested, but he wasn’t having it.
On the third day of him harassing you, you decided you had enough. Not wanting to deal with him, you shed your human form, intending to quickly get away from him.
And he shot you.
By some miracle, the bullet only grazed your leg, but it still hit your ankle, nicked the bone. The trooper was immediately grounded, put on indefinite suspension and isolated to constant, intensive watch while he was being investigated. But it wasn’t enough. Not for your boys.
They knew well just how corrupt the system could be. Chances were, the trooper would just get let off with a warning, nothing more than a slap on the wrist that’d only further inflate his ego. They had to handle it.
Johnny and Kyle volunteered to take you to the medbay to get your leg checked, x-rayed, and treated. Ghost and Price stayed behind, sharing a look that nobody dared question. They all knew what was going to happen to that trooper, and neither sergeant had any plans to stop their superior officers from doling out justice at their own hand.
Kyle only briefly paused in front of Simon on the way out, after he’d carefully hoisted you into his arms to carry you. It gave Simon just enough time to scratch your head, run his rough, undeserving fingers through your impossibly soft fur, and murmur, “We’ll take care o’ it, pup. Y’re olrigh’ now,” before Kyle was carrying you away to get taken care of.
The door to their barracks closed, and Price and Ghost donned their soldier skins once more, knowing it wasn’t time for them to rest. Not yet, not until they fixed the issue.
Permanently.
— — — —
When Ghost and Price returned later that day, hands already scrubbed clean from the mess they made a few hours ago, you and the others had already returned from medical. You were curled up on the couch next to Kyle, chin resting on your front paws, a cast secured around your hind leg.
“Fractured the bone,” Johnny informed them, his voice quiet as to prevent waking you up. You were sedated, medicated with some heavy painkillers and still coming off anesthesia, but he wouldn’t dare bother you while you rested. You needed every moment of it to heal quickly and well. “No’ a full break, thank god, but they had ta put a pin in ‘er bone. Puts ‘er at risk o’ a proper break. So, cast, an’ strict instructions ta nae shift back inta human form fer the time bein’.”
Price sighed heavily through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. Ghost stared at you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Even though they just finished… interrogating the trooper, hearing what you had to go through, the pain you’d been dealing with alone for god knows how long, it renewed his rage all over again.
“What’d ye do ta the poor sod?” Johnny asked as he gazed at you, his arms folded over his chest. Evidently, he was fighting for control, too.
“Did a lo’ more than jus’ break the bastard’s leg, can tell ya tha’,” Ghost answered cryptically, receiving a pleased hum in return.
“Least the fecker deserves,” the sergeant commented.
Price lightly clapped both men on the back, attempting to reassure them. “It’s alright, now. We got it taken care of, Johnny. She’s safe.”
Muscles in the Scot’s jaw fluttered, teeth grinding together, eyes refusing to leave your form. “Shoulda been ‘ere.”
“Soap.”
“Isnae right,” he hissed under his breath. “Look at what happened. We shoulda been ‘ere.”
Simon lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Won’ be leavin’ ‘er alone again, no’ anymore.”
John took off his bucket hat, running a hand through his hair. He was in desperate need of a shower, eager to wash off the blood that still clung under his nails, and hopefully some of the week’s stress, too. “We’ll debrief in the morning, boys. For now, keep an eye on her.”
“Yes, sir.”
friendly reminder to please put your age in your bio before you follow me, or I will block you
banner by cafekitsune ♥
✧summary!: a simple child like God of the age of 6-9 with the powers to shift reality goes through shenanigans and the care of the batfamily
✧info!: reader is someone who has the ability to shift through realities/worlds/universes, shift to things into their own liking. Basically like atom eve but a chaotic user of shifting the person’s or something’s anatomy or aleast make things appear.
✧genre!: fluff// story// just randomness
✧wc!: 1,559
Hair flowed with magic with sparkles of cotton blue and pink. The tiny child smiled at the beauty of the sunset in Gotham. Liking how the wind was blowing in their hair.
Y/n was a simple child. A young child who has the powers of a god. Shifting realities or the principle of reality.
They could even change anything into candy or change their appearance.
So simple but so deadly if given to the wrong person.
Luckily y/n found Bruce before anyone could get them.
And boy, they are something…
☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆
Bruce was in the Batcave, logging anything they could find about the child who calls themselves “y/n”.
“Whatcha doin' mister?” Y/n asked, popping up with a bunch of sparkles behind them. They held cotton candy whilst they munched on it softly. Looking at the amazing big screen of a computer.
“I’m monitoring you,” Bruce says bluntly, he doesn’t have to try and hide the truth from a simple child that can teleport anywhere, shift things to how they desire, and basically just do anything a god could do.
“Why?”
“Because you’re dangerous.”
“How?”
“You’re a child like god in the form of a six-year-old and you’re out pottering around when you could randomly heave destruction across Gotham and the whole world.”
Y/n munched on their cotton candy slowly as they listened to the older man.
“So you’re basically saying I’m awesome?” Y/n says with a smile, showing off their gap tooth. “I mean I knew I was awesome when I had cool hair and could do this!” Y/n’s cotton candy magically shifted to their favorite soda.
“Man, I was thirsty.” Y/n drank their soda as they started to walk away. “Thanks for the talk B!”
‘That one needs to stop hanging around Dick.' Bruce thought to himself as he put all his focus back on the bat computer only to not see the saved file of y/n.
It was a cat going into a cardboard box repeatedly on the screen.
☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆
“Dick!” Y/n exclaimed, seeing the acrobat across the hall. Immediately the hyper child poofed into glitter only to poof in front of the adult. “What’s up d-man!”
Dick raised his hand, letting y/n high-five them. The simple handshake turned into a secret handshake, turning around and doing a mix of random handshakes to known men.
Y/n and dick have such a strange dynamic, but it’s filled with surprises. Y/n would love to hear dick’s jokes and just smile about them, not really knowing what they mean.
But oh well, it’s dick we’re talking about. In the end of the day, y/n and dick are quite a lovely duo.
Dick would have y/n around patrol, their sparkly cotton candy hair that is clearly not inspired by Princess Celestia.
Hey, their hair isn’t naturally this color either. It was [natural hair color]. Which is boring, why be that hair color when you can be more colorful with your hair choices?
Like how Dick had seaweed green hair for not getting y/n a juicy batburger during patrol.
How dare the acrobat not give the child what they want?
They’re amazing.
☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆
Jason stood in an alleyway with y/n just staring at the bad guys staring back at the duo.
“It’s redhood!! And … some kid??”
Y/n waved as their sparkly cotton candy hair flowed in the air. “Hi! I’m the sparkler!”
Before one of them could ask why the child was named that, y/n held their hand out as sparkles blinded one of the guys' eyes.
“AHHH MY EYES!!! THAT LIL SHIT BLEW SPARKLES IN MY EYES!!” The guy yells as he tries to get whatever the child released into his eyes.
Pouting, y/n put their hand down. “Actually it’s glitter…” y/n said as if it was a fact indeed. Another of the goons raised their gun at Jason and y/n.
Jason pulled his gun out quickly, “You could try to shoot, but I’ll shoot more quickly than you.” The tall man said beside the child, Jason wasn’t lying either to what you sometimes saw.
The man seemed to be a little sweaty as he turned his head to still see his partner trying to rub glitter out of his eyes.
“Shoot what,” Jason said as he pointed with his gun at the man’s hand. The man looked back to see that the gun wasn’t there anymore but a chewy gummy version of his gun.
Just hanging droppy.
The man dropped the candy gun, eyes wide as he looked at the child who just smiled as Jason was clearly smirking under his mask.
“Surprise.”
“YAY SURPRISES!” Y/n screamed, the word ‘surprise’ being some kind of code name as y/n whipped their hands up and immediately the area seemed to change.
Jason looked at his watch, “We got 5 til dinner kiddo.”
“Okie dokie!!”
The area changed to the Gotham department as the two goons are locked up behind a holding cell.
“Surprise!!!” Y/n said with a smile as their hair flowed with beaming happiness. “Now bye-bye!”
Jason and y/n left confetti behind where they stood. The two men were still shocked, mostly the one who could still see anyway.
☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆
Y/n is floating as their hair has grown longer, watching Tim put together something.
“Whatcha doin…” y/n says curiously, the seeming to get older child looked over Tim’s shoulder. Smelling like straight vanilla and cotton candy.
Too sugary for the smell of a child.
But the smell they held was filled with childhood.
Something that made everyone relax and only think of good things.
Maybe that's why Jason and Dick hang around them.
Because they remind them of the old times before things got rough.
“I'm making you a watch,” Tim answered as he saw how the child liked to keep up with the time.
The child’s eyes widened in excitement. “Oh cool!!” y/n exclaimed. But soon the excitement washed away with a pout.
“Hey… you know I couldn't make my own watch don't you?” as y/n said this, they slapped their wrist. Lifting it, there was a unicorn watch that sat perfectly on the kid’s wrist.
“See, cool right?”
Tim smiled softly at how the child was, pulling the now-finished watch. “Very cool dude, but I think this one would be even cooler. I used most of the stuff from the Wayne enterprise.”
“Just for you,” Tim said lastly.
Staring at the watch, y/n grabbed it. Narrowing their eyes as they inspected it closely. “Hmm not bad. But why so emo?”
Y/n pointed out how it was just black with no certain designs on it.
Just plain and simple.
Tim deadpanned, “Well, shift it to make it, I don't know. More you?”
Gasping, y/n immediately clasped the watch between their hands.
“Amazing idea Timmy!!”
“Don't call me that--”
“shhh!!”
The watch started to sparkle, the simple and black design turned into another design you like.
It was a cotton candy unicorn.
Both things the child likes.
“This isn't some mind tracking device for you to trick me into wearing cause I'm like some kinda god right?” y/n spoke out in a whole breath as they took off the watch and put on the one-time made.
“..no?” Tim said as if it was stupid.
But it wasn't. Cause he knew it was true Bruce put him up to make a tracking device that looks like a watch.
“Okay!” y/n answered back mindlessly, proofing away in glitter.
Tim was covered in the said glitter, coughing as he swore some went into his mouth.
“I hate glitter.”
☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆
“My room is covered in glitter you absolute anomaly of a being!!” Damian screamed as he pointed an accusing finger at the simple child who was just a few years younger.
“Okay… I get you’re mad. But low-key that couldn't be me.” y/n said whilst they crossed their arms with sass.
Damian had the face that said, “You're clearly the imposter” which the young child was as they have been known in this house to leave glitter around.
Even Jon thought there was a missing glitter edition leprechaun around. Which was funny when y/n thinks about it before showing up with their flowing hair.
“Okay, so what? That’s basically me saying I cut hair once and that makes me a barber.” Y/n threw their hands out as if they made a point which made the Arabic boy more angry.
The boy seemed to scream something at the ragebait as he grabbed his throwing knives at y/n. Y/n rolled their eyes, putting a hand out as the knives were immediately turned into bubbles.
Floating into the air while Damian just huffs. Realizing it was useless to fight against someone who can easily turn his prized possessions into candy or even worse….
Glitter.
“Just get out!” Damian screams, pointing out of his room. Y/n had a smirk, but not like a cunning smirk.
No, even worse.
It was like the Roblox man smirked as they left the room.
“Alright, Captain D.”
“GET OUT.”
☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆⭐︎☆
At the end of the day, y/n is a simple elementary kid.
Not knowing the deep consequences of having such powers that could destroy the world and the factors of reality.
But maybe it’s better that way. A simple-minded child should see only the fun things of living with it rather than the straight destruction and terror.
simon who had to retire (most likely against his will) and was forced to get a ptsd service dog who's a shifter, which he didn't realize they weren't just a dog until they turned human whilst in the middle of an episode. to say the least, it did NOT help and the reader has to put in a lot more effort after that. simon might be a little (very) mad, betrayed even.
THIS IS TASTYYYYYY (I actually wrote a lot for this omg so I'll post in parts. check this og post for link updates)
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.
cw: panic attack. ghost x dog shifter!reader.
Simon meets you on a Tuesday.
The case worker is all clipped heels and half smiles, trying to fill the silence in his flat with optimism. The room eats her words before they hit the walls.
“This is your new partner,” she says, kneeling to unsnap the leash from your collar. “Specialized for you, just like we talked about."
Simon says nothing. He stands in the middle of his kitchen, arms crossed tight across his chest. He hasn’t shaved. The bruises under his eyes are old.
He studies you. “You serious?”
The case worker just nods. “Shifter-class.”
His mouth twitches. A sneer, maybe. “What, you think I need a running partner?”
She blinks. “No—I mean, shifter. It’s the classification tag. You’ll notice better adaptability. You read the profile I sent didn't you?"
He doesn’t press. He’s not listening anymore.
You sit. You wait. You’ve done this before, different people, different homes. They’re all the same in the beginning. Angry, tired, half-alive. All you can do is be there.
The first week is quiet. As quiet as you'd expected.
You sleep on the floor by his bed, curled against the frame. You don’t bark. You don’t whine. You don’t make yourself big. You only move when he does, and even then, only enough to stay in reach.
When he jerks awake in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and gasping, you rise slowly and press against his legs. You feel his hands shake when they reach for you. He clings, fingers twisted in your ruff, body rigid with whatever terrors had gripped him.
He never calls your name, he never asks if you’re staying, but he doesn’t push you away, he keeps you fed with half-decent food, makes sure you have clean water in your bowl.
A month in, you know the routine.
He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t leave often. He paces sometimes. You follow, but not too close. He needs space, you note, more than some others.
Other nights, he’s quieter... more broken open. He’ll sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands for an hour before he can lie down. You keep your body pressed to his shins until he decides to go to sleep.
When he dreams, loud, violent, and trembling, you move up, lay your body across his legs and stomach, head at his sternum. Let him hold your weight.
Sometimes, in the blue light of early morning, he’ll whisper things to you. People, old stories, small things long passed. Just breath-thin confessions that hang in the air for no one but you.
You are the only thing in his world that never changes.
One night the weather turns heavy, thunder pressing across the city. Simon’s jaw is tight all evening. You know the signs. Something in his mind's already spinning.
You curl close on the bed before he's asleep. You tuck yourself against his ribs, feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
He thrashes hard, arm slamming into the wall he sleeps against, and you’re up in a second, trying to get close again, but he’s spiraling.
This isn't like before. His whole body’s locked. His chest is heaving. You can hear the panic clawing through his throat.
You gently rest over him, press your weight to his legs. He kicks free. You bark once, sharp, hoping to snap him back, but he doesn’t hear it. His hands are clutching at the sheets like he’s going to drown.
It’s not working.
It’s not working.
The next moments are a blur of desperation.
Your body unfolds upward in a rush of muscle and heat and bone reshaping. Skin over fur. Legs over paws. You land half-crouched beside him, panting just a bit as your senses readjust, hoping that maybe, maybe, you can fix this.
You reach out, slow and open-palmed. “Simon,” you say, softly. “You’re safe. You’re here. I promise.”
His eyes snap wide open.
You see the panic harden into fear and fury and then he swings.
Just pure, ugly instinct. His hand connects with your shoulder and sends you back hard, off the edge of the bed.
You hit the floor with a thud.
The wind’s knocked from you for a moment. You stay down, waiting for him to see you clearly.
“What the fuck,” Simon breathes. “What the fuck—”
He’s pressed back against the headboard, staring at you like you crawled out of his worst nightmare. His hands are up, palms curled into fists.
You try to speak—you shouldn’t, you should wait.
“I didn’t mean to—I had to—You weren’t breathing—”
“Get out.” The words are low.
Your heart stutters. You shake your head. “I can’t. I mean—not yet. But I’ll give you space. I swear. I’ll stay right here.”
His eyes dart to the corner. The door. The window. You watch his brain run circles, looking for the next threat.
You move to the far end of the room, slow and careful. You sit down cross-legged against the wall, tail curled tight around your waist.
And you stay.
Simon stays on the bed like a man held hostage. He watches you closely. His hands fall to his sides, clenching and unclenching in the sheets.
You don’t dare move.
Morning comes dreadfully slow..
He gets up without a word, doesn't look your way, and closes the bathroom door gently behind him.
The 141 are wolf shifters, and while they might not all be the same breeds, they are still a pack.
The war has been long and hard. People are dropping like flies, and the Shifters are doing the best they can to keep up.
Paxian was never supposed to join the 141. She was never supposed to leave the Shadow Company. They never knew her shifted form. Never knew that she could take to the skies and demolish their opponents with a single glance.
Because that would be saying that they allowed shifters in the army. And that they did not. It certainly didn't help that she was a feathered dragon shifter. No, that just made things worse.
Every time she messed up, she was threatened with exposure. With death.
Even when her back ached from not being in her shifted form, when she could feel the animal inside her getting weaker. She was never to shift. Not once.
The only thing she was allowed to have to remind her who she was, was a single black feather from her shifted form. She kept it twisted into her hair.
Until 141 came along.
She was transferred to them, Shadow Company claiming they did not want her anymore. That they had no use for her.
That hurt more than the transfer.
Authors Note: In this fic, mythical animals are possible for shifter, just incredibly rare, which makes them hunted in the United States, Russia, and Africa.
Paxian knew she was being transferred to a shifter squad. She should be happy. Hell she should be over the moon with joy, finally being able to shift, to fly again.
But something doesn't feel right.
No something must be off. This has to simply be a test from Shadow company. They must be trying to catch her in the act of shifting so that they could finally hand her over.
Pax fiddled with her hands in her lap. Desperately trying not to touch the feather. Not to draw attention to it.
The plane ride was long, and awful. She was allowed to travel alone this time, but being in the air and not being able to feel it is another kind of torture in itself.
The AC on her seat was turned all the way up, but nothing helped. All she could do was sit there and stare out the window, imagining herself out with the clouds.
Her shifter form was small. Maybe the size of a small wolf. But she was fast. She could outpace any flying shifter or machine. That is before she joined the army and shifted in secret.
The plane landed and I practically ran off it. Now that it's landed that means that I now have to deal with the situation at hand.
"Lass! Over here." A voice rings out from the baggage claim where Pax just grabbed the duffel that holds her life. A man with a Mohawk waves her down. Theres three others with him by the looks of it.
Their names were Johnny (Soap), Simon (Ghost), Kyle (Gaz), and Price if I remember correctly. They were the entirety on the 141, but why were they all here? Usually I just took public transport as close as I could get before walking the rest of the way.
Hesitantly I walk over. These people were wolf shifters, they could sent me for what I am at the drop of a hat. Hiding my scent underneath my clothes and perfume was the best I could do.
She stops in front of them, waiting for the Captain to acknowledge her first. That was the rule in the shadow company. Don't speak unless spoken to.
"Paxian, right?" Gaz addresses her first. "Or do you prefer Pax? I couldn't find a call sign in your file." He sheepishly explains.
"It's whichever you prefer." My answer isn't quiet, but not commanding either. This could very well still be a test to see if I can behave well on my own.
"So you don't have a call sign yet?" Soap jumps on the case. I shake my head no. Soap looks over to the other three with something like elation in his eyes.
"That means we get to make one for you, yeah?" I bite back a sigh. In all reality I did have a call sign, not an official one, but it was still used like one. Pet.
I have no doubt that this one will be something similar to that.
"You can call me whatever you like." I make sure my voice stays even, hiding any form of emotion. I'm so focused on dealing with the questions of Gaz and Soap as they bring me back to the base, I miss the glances between Ghost and Price.
"Pax." Prices voice cuts through the constant chatter of the two in the back seat. They've squished me in the middle of them, so I have questions on both sides. There's no doubt these people are wolf shifters.
"Your file says you're a shifter." There's no question in his tone as the car goes silent. Of course shadow company included that lovely little detail in there.
"You're a shifter? What's your form?" I hold back a glare at Price. I know better to do something that could get me so easily punished. The questions continue from both sides about my animal, which I deflect each time.
I'm vaguely aware of all of them sniffing at the air oh-so-subtly, trying to guess what my form is as I deflect question after question.
Thankfully we arrive at base, and Price has Ghost show me to the quarters, giving me a brief break from all of the questions. He drops me off at my room, which is smack dab in the middle of all of their rooms.
"I'll be back at 18:00 to show you the mess hall." He notices the look on my face. "We all like to eat together here." I simply nod. He looks me up and down one last time, like he's trying to figure me out, before he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
"Somethings off." Is all Simon says as he steps into Price's office. The others sit in their favorite spots. Johnny's on the couch, Gaz is in a comfy chair, and Price is behind his desk.
Simon sits down in the chair across from Price, angling it so that he can see the rest of his pack.
"Care to elaborate?" Price sets down the paperwork he was working on.
"With the new kid. Somethings off." They wait for him to continue. "None of the stuff she carries has any sort of scent, not to mention she doesn't have a scent."
"Now that you mention it, it is odd that she didn't answer any of the questions about her animal." Soap pipes up.
"Wasn't Shadow company her previous assignment?" Gaz asks softly from the chair. They'd all seen the Shifters that come out of there. Every single one either forgot how to shift, or flat out refused, but none of the 141 had ever met one, or dealt with one personally.
"How do we deal with this Price?" They all turn to look at their captain. While everyone there were Alphas, they still mostly deferred to Price for guidance.
"Like we deal with anything. Watch first, assess how bad it is, and go from there."
The kid never spoke, she didn't talk much unless answering a question, and no matter what she always put them first. Even when her life was in danger.
The last one wasn't an issue until they were on a mission where all of them got shot, and instead of shifting to get away to get help, she stayed human, and nearly got herself killed getting all of them out of there.
To be fair, I had no idea it was going to end up like this. I had just been doing as the Shadow company taught me. I was expendable, and should always put the other team members first.
That was not how the rest of them saw it though.
Now I'm stuck on base with nothing to do. And to make things better? Price wants to have a talk with me and the rest of the squad.
I sit down on the couch of the 141's common room, and Soap and Gaz are instantly on either side of me. Their presence isn't overwhelming so to speak, but every time I move they tense ever so slightly. Like they would try to catch me if I ran.
"We need to talk about the shifting... Issue." Oh! This must be about the others then. I've seen them in their wolf forms so many times over the past two months, even in front of Price. They didn't even try to shift back. Just stared at him.
"Pax." I stiffen at the sound of my name, causing everyone in the room to tense every so slightly. I hadn't shifted once since I've been here... Did I accidentally shift in my sleep?
"Yes?" I make myself smaller on instinct. Usually punishment's aren't as harsh when I make myself small.
"I don't really know how to go about this..." Price rubs the back of his neck, so Ghost jumps in.
"Why have you not shifted once since you got here?" I stare back at him, shocked. "Usually any type of shifter would have been in their form as much as possible to try and get used to the new environment, but you haven't shifted a single time since getting here."
This has to be some kind of test. They want to get to to admit to shifting (even though I never did) so that they can punish me, and if I try to say I didn't then they'll call me a liar and punish me anyways-
"Hey. Kid?" There's a hand on my shoulder, and one on my chest. "Deep breaths okay?" but the words fall on deaf ears.
No no no no no no no- I can't say that I shifted, but I can't take another beating. Not after that last mission.
My breathing gets quicker and quicker. The others must be saying something, and I feel more hands grabbing at me.
the edges of my vision start to go dark, and there's a fuzzy tingling in my hands, like I can't move them anymore.
I have to get out of here I have to get outofhere Ihavetogetoutofhere-
Suddenly I'm up and moving. Moving away from the hands, and away from the loud noises. I'm moving faster than I would normally.
I hear more yelling behind me. Followed by barking and the sound of thumping paws.
I barely register that I've actually shifted before I ram into a door, finally getting access to the outside.
The task force is behind me, I can smell them closing in. And the other people are all staring at me. I have to find a way to safety, I have to-
"Lass!" Soap tumbles out of his shifted form behind me, the others following suit.
All ideas of going back and apologize leave as they look at me. Shocked.
Before any of them get any ideas I launch myself into the sky. The wind feels amazing on my wings, rippling through the feathers.
My ears pick up the sound of vehicles starting, and more shouting. I drift a little higher and hide in the clouds.
"I grew up on the countryside." you add quickly, that usually is enough of an explanation.
When you were a child you were fascinated by the story of Goldilocks. As a bear shifter, it didn't seem unusual to you that a human child would live among bears, and you grew up in a nice house and everything. Later, when you learned the original story, with an old nasty woman instead of a cute child, it made less and less sense to you. Why would anyone be so rude and just enter a home and use their things? And avoiding consequences by running away was a very normal response, running meant surviving sometimes.
You didn't understand that humans were scared of bears most of the time. Your parents explained it to you, but still, you couldn't believe it.
Until you met the first humans, ignorant loud people, who didn't respect the forest and bragged about killing bears for fun. That was the time when you learned why shifters stayed hidden. Why you lived in close communities, sometimes too close for your instincts. Why you had to stay close to the town during hunting season. And why you needed to learn the human ways.
You were told that in the old days, bear shifters lived far away from each other, territories respected, therefore avoiding conflicts. But just like your animal siblings, shifters were forced to either adapt or retreat into settlements. Children learned to pass as humans, hiding their shifter traits, and it became a tradition to spend time among humans so you could decide where you wanted to live.
And that was, what brought you here, a last stop before you would move to a smaller town, maybe get a job or higher education. There were shifters that would help, but the most important part was making experiences.
The man sitting in front of you had said he was a hunter, but he doesn't smell like the ones you have encountered so far. No cheap beer. Instead, he smells earthy, a bit like burnt leaves, but sweet. You can smell soap and herbs, maybe from cooking. It's not unpleasant. Stupid instincts already telling you he could be a good mate.
Price just watches you, filing away every piece of information. Things don't quite add up, the way you talk about the city, it makes him think of isolated communities.
"Not a fan of big cities either." It makes sense, if what he saw was true. "But isn't a rite of passage usually happening at a younger age? Sorry to be blunt, you seem to be an independent woman who knows how to get by."
His eyes roam shamelessly over your form, head to toe, not very subtle. Appreciative of the curves that younger women usually lack. And he does notice that you don't shy away. Good. He has seen too much to waste time with someone who has to be convinced of their own worth.
Still, he hit a spot, apparently.
"It's not... Not strictly like that. And true, I am not really sure if I even needed this, but then I thought, even if I don't like it, I should at least see for myself. I don't want to be the kind of mother who doesn't know anything about the world outside her small town."
"So... you see the world and the go back to your fiancé or something like that?" Would be a shame, but he reminds himself that he has no claim here, even if you look like you just walked out of his dreams. Especially when you blush a little like right now.
"No, there is nobody waiting. I just... feel that I want that some day. And now is probably the last time I can do this. I mean, maybe I like it and stay and start a new life. But once there are children, my life is not just my own. Oh no, that really sounds like a cult, doesn't it?" you laugh, a little embarrassed. This man, he looks at you, as if he understands the urge to protect your cubs. As long as they need you, they would have you.
"True, you never know. I came here to get away from everyone, but I am not disappointed that a very interesting woman crossed my path. I don't want to impose, but if you feel like company, don't hesitate to knock. And be careful, just in case there really is a bear around. I have a guest room, if you want."
You know, you shouldn't feel so excited about this offer. The man was just friendly. Offering protection. But you could have a little bit of fun, right? It didn't have to be a serious mating. Even though he would make a good mate. You look at him, the same way he looked at you. Broad shoulders, strong muscles, hair showing the first silver. And you know he is interested.
"It does get a bit cold at night..." A lie. At night your fur keeps you warm and there is nothing in these woods that would pose a danger to you. "And I did catch too many fish to eat alone." Another lie, since you could easily finish even more, putting on weight for the winter.
Price doesn't point out that there was no fishing gear around. The theory in his head was too fantastic to believe, but unless he was hallucinating, he still holds onto what he saw with his own eyes.
"How about you bring the fish and I show my gratitude by cooking them and offering a warm bed for the night?" No he doesn't explicitly say guestroom. And the way you blush and lick your lips you think the same. Price finds it refreshing, if he is honest. Not too direct, but also no complicated games. Only a mystery to solve and probably a nice meal and interesting company.
----------------------
I am not sure yet where this is going. I mean it is in the title but you know... bears are very independent, Price might have to work for it if he wants something long term.
Second part to this which was orignally inspired by this post by @rawme-price.
It's twice the length of the first one I posted, so it maybe should have been a three-parter but eh. Enjoy! You can find my masterlist here
⪼ ✧ ⪻
The room they give you might as well be a punishment.
It’s huge, bigger than the others you saw at Shadow Company, with a proper bed, a desk, even a small sitting area. There’s a window that looks out over the training grounds, curtains that you can close for privacy, space to pace if you need to work off nervous energy.
It should be a blessing, having your own space. Instead, it’s a nightmare.
You lie on the bed the first night, staring at the ceiling, skin crawling with exposure. The space around you feels cavernous, threatening, like anything could be hiding in the shadows beyond your peripheral vision. Back with the Shadows, you had a crate when you were good, a small space under Rodriguez’s bed when you’d earned the privilege. Contained. Safe. Owned.
This room belongs to no one, which means it belongs to you, which means you don’t belong anywhere at all.
You try the floor instead, pulling the thin military blanket down to create a nest in the corner. But the floor is too hard, and you’re too exposed, and every small sound from the hallway makes your ears prick and your heart race.
By morning, you haven’t really slept at all.
It becomes a pattern. Days blend into each other in a haze of confusion and bone-deep exhaustion. You run laps before dawn, pushing your body until your legs shake and your lungs burn, hoping physical fatigue will override the mental static that keeps you awake. The others notice, of course they do. They gather in small clusters when they think you’re not looking, voices too low for human hearing at this distance but perfectly audible to your enhanced senses.
“...not eating enough…”
“...barely sleeping…”
“...won’t let us help…”
“...what did they do to them?”
The concern in their voices makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest. You’re used to being discussed like property, like a resource to be managed and maintained. But this? This sounds like they actually care, and you don’t know what to do with that.
You catch Price watching you during training, expression thoughtful in a way that makes you nervous. Gaz tries to engage you in conversation, casual jokes and observations that you respond to with polite monosyllables. Ghost leaves small offerings outside your door: energy bars, tea bags, a book of crossword puzzles, all of which you’re afraid to touch in case it’s some sort of test.
Soap corners you after a particularly brutal workout, when you’re too tired to deflect properly.
“You know,” he says conversationally, towelling sweat from his face, “when I first joined up, I thought I had to prove myself every single day. Like one mistake and they’d ship me back to where I’d come from.”
You don’t respond, but you don’t walk away either.
“Took me months to realise they weren’t waiting for me to fail. They were waiting for me to succeed.” He glances at you sideways. “Sometimes the hardest part isn’t earning your place, it’s believing you deserve it.”
The breaking point comes three weeks in.
You’re making your usual pre-dawn circuit of the base perimeter when you catch a scent that stops you cold. Another shifter - canine, but not one of the team. The trail is fresh, maybe an hour old, and it leads directly towards the main building.
Training kicks in before conscious thought. You follow the trail, every sense straining for additional information, rusty from disuse. The scent is wrong, somehow, carries undertones of aggression and territorial challenge that make your hackles rise.
You’re so focused on tracking that you don’t notice Ghost until his hand closes around your wrist.
“What are you doing?” He asks quietly. He’s in human form, dressed in his usual kit, but his grip is firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
“Intruder,” you breathe, nodding towards the trail. “Shifter. Armed, probably. Came in from the east fence line about an hour ago.”
Ghost’s eyes sharpen, and he brings your wrist to his nose, scenting where you’ve been. His expression darkens. “Soap,” he calls, and somehow the other man appears out of the shadows, moving towards you.
“What’s the situation?” Soap asks, already reaching for his radio.
“Unknown shifter, hostile intent,” Ghost reports, his hand still wrapped around your wrist like an anchor. “They picked up the trail.”
And then something extraordinary happens. Instead of taking over, instead of pushing you aside so the real soldiers can handle things, they look to you.
“Which way?” Soap asks
You blink, certain you’ve misunderstood. “I- what?”
“You’re the one with the trail,” Ghost says patiently. “Which way did they go?”
Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Back with the shadows, finding an intruder meant reporting to your handler, who would report to their commanding officer, who would decide how to proceed. Shifters weren’t tactical assets; they were early warning systems at best, and here are the two other team shifters, one a higher rank than you, looking to you to lead them. Neither of them has made to move to find Price, eyes focused on you.
“Hey,” Soap says gently, and there’s no impatience in his voice, no frustration at your hesitation. “We need your nose, yeah? Trust us to have your back, and we’ll trust you to lead.”
Trust. The word hits you like a physical blow, foreign and terrifying and desperately wanted all at once.
“North,” you whisper, then clear your throat and try again. “North towards the armoury, trail’s getting stronger.”
“Good,” Ghost says, and his grip on your wrists shifts, becomes something that feels less like restraint. “Lead on.”
The intruder turns out to be a lone wolf shifter, literally and figuratively, who’d been hired to gather intelligence on the base’s security protocols. You track him to a maintenance shed where he’s photographing patrol schedules, and the team moves with fluid precision to surround him. No shots fired, no injuries, just professional competence that leaves you breathless with something that might be pride.
“Excellent work,” Price says afterwards, and the praise hits you like a drug, warm and dizzying and desperately needed. “Your nose might have just prevented a serious security breach.”
You duck your head, overwhelmed. “Just doing my job, sir.”
“No,” he says firmly, and when you look up, his expression is serious. “You went above and beyond. That kind of initiative? That’s what makes a soldier great.”
Soap whoops, loud and exuberant, and before you can react, he’s got his arms around you in a brief, fierce hug. “Bloody brilliant,” he says against your ear, and his scent is pack-warm, proud-happy-safe in a way that makes your chest tight.
Ghost doesn’t hug you, but he does rest his hand briefly on your shoulder, a solid weight that feels like approval. Even Gaz, who spent most of the incident still in bed, seeks you out later to offer his congratulations.
For the first time since joining the 141, you feel you might actually belong.
The feeling doesn’t last.
That night, alone in your too-big room, the anxiety comes crashing back with interest. You pace the perimeter like a caged animal, skin crawling, mind spinning. Maybe the incident was a fluke. Maybe they were just being polite. Maybe tomorrow they’ll remember you’re not really one of them, that you’re just a tool on loan from another organisation.
You end up on the floor again, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest. The praise from earlier feels distant now, overwhelmed by the familiar voice in your head that whispers you’re not good enough, not worth the trouble, not really wanted. You try to ignore the fact the voice warps into that of the shadows.
A soft knock at your door makes you freeze. “It’s me,” Ghost’s voice, muffled by the wooden barrier between you. “Can I come in?”
Your throat works soundlessly. You want to say yes - desperately want the company, the connection, the proof that you’re maybe not as alone as you feel. But what if this is where he tells you that today was a mistake? What if he’s here to set expectations, to make sure you don’t get ideas above your station?
“Please,” he adds quietly, and the single word carries so much gentle patience that your resolve crumbles.
“Come in,” you manage.
He enters slowly, giving you time to object, to change your mind. He’s not in his usual tactical gear, just a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants, though he still wears the skull mask. His eyes find you immediately, taking in your position on the floor, the untouched bed, the careful distance you’ve put between yourself and the door.
“Rough night?” he asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away. Close enough to talk easily, far enough to avoid crowding your space.
You shrug, not trusting your voice.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about,” you lie.
Ghost is quiet for a long time, studying you with sharp brown eyes. “You know,” he says finally, “first few months I was here, I slept under my bed.”
Your head snaps up.
“Couldn’t handle all the space,” he continues conversationally. “Felt too exposed, too vulnerable. Used to drag my mattress down there, raise the legs, make a proper nest of it.”
“What changed?” The question slips out before you can stop it.
“Time. Patience. Team that didn’t give up on me even when I was being difficult.” His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, suggesting a smile behind the mask. “Soap used to leave me food outside my door. Drove me mad at first, thought it was pity or some sort of test. Took weeks to realise he was just taking care of pack.”
Pack. There’s that word again, the one that makes your chest tight with longing.
“I’m not pack,” you say quietly.
“Why not?”
The question is so simple, so direct, that it steals your breath. “I’m not- I wasn’t- the Shadows don’t work that way.”
“The Shadows aren’t here,” Ghost points out gently. “We are.”
You stare at him, searching for the trick, the catch, the condition that will make this kindness make sense. “I don’t know how to- I’m not good at-”
“Neither was I,” he interrupts. “Neither was Soap, apparently, if you can believe that. I still struggle to. Price had to teach us both how to be people instead of soldiers. Took bloody forever, but he was patient.”
“What if I mess up?”
“Then we’ll figure it out together.” He shifts slightly, angling towards you. “Pack isn’t about being perfect, it’s about being present. About letting people care about you, and caring back. Price and Gaz aren’t shifters, but they’re still pack because they care.”
You have to close your eyes against the sudden sting of tears. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Want to learn?”
You open your eyes to find Ghost extending his wrist toward you, the same gesture soap had made weeks ago. The one you’d rejected out of fear and conditioning and bone-deep certainty that you didn’t deserve what was being offered.
Your hand shakes as you reach out, fingertips barely brushing his pulse point to move it closer to your nose. His scent is pack-warm, patient-kind-safe, with undertones of acceptance that make your chest ache.
“There you go,” he murmurs, and his free hand comes up to rest lightly on your knee in return. “Just like that.”
You’re crying now, silent tears that track down your cheeks, but for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel alone.
“I sleep under the bed,” you admit in a whisper.
“I know,” Ghost says gently. “Soap figured it out first. He’s got better hearing than the rest of us. We’ve been wondering how to help without making it worse.”
“You don’t think I’m broken?”
“I think you’re healing,” he corrects, “and healing takes time.”
The next morning, you find a care package outside your door. Energy bars from Ghost, herbal tea from Gaz, a worn paperback novel from Price, and a small stuffed German Shepard from Soap with a note that reads: For when the room gets too big.
When you go for breakfast to join them, Soap’s face lights up like you’ve given him a gift instead of the other way around. Ghost nods approvingly from across the table, saying not a word of last night. Price’s smile is small but genuine, and Gaz shuffles up on the bench to make room for you without being asked.
Change comes in small increments after that. Ghost teaches you how to build a proper nest in the corner of your room, shows you how to arrange furniture to create a secure space that feels contained instead of exposed. Gaz brings you books and puzzles, things to occupy your mind. Soap shares stories about his own adjustment period, the mistakes he made and lessons he learned. Price starts checking in with you personally, not just as your commanding officer but as someone who genuinely cares about your well-being.
You still struggle. Still have bad days when things are overwhelming and you retreat into old patterns and defensive behaviours. But now, when that happens, you have people who notice. Who care. Who don’t give up on you when you want to give up on yourself. And occasionally, you even shift. Willingly, instead of by force. And instead of a sharp tug of a lead to the collar, you get pet and left alone.
Pack, you learn, isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being known, being accepted, and being valued for who you are instead of what you can do. It’s about trust that runs both ways - their faith that you’ll let them help, and your faith that they’ll be there when you need them.
It’s about belonging, finally and completely, to something bigger than yourself.
And for the first time in a long time, you begin to understand what that feels like.
