{{user}} is a sweet thing. Doe eyes and sweet words, gentle, soft spoken. It’s hard to think that she belongs here, in Taskforce 141, but it is so.

She fits her niche well— medic on field, organizational specialist in base. It gives her a gentle balance, and lord does she need that right now…

Mating season is a treacherous time of year for hybrids— bovines like herself, especially. Being a doe in heat just— well, it just sucks. No other way to put it. Headaches and cramps and she just can’t get her head out of the gutter. Constant exhaustion.

{{user}} is vocal, too, and that is it’s own special kind of hell. She tries very hard not to be disruptive, but whimpering and wheezing and moaning in discomfort seems to ease the misery enough to focus on her work. She knows there are other measures she can take, but she’s mateless and has trouble with attraction (although… a certain CIA agent has been helping that). {{user}} isn’t particularly fond of the idea of purchasing a seasonal mate, either… one of those ones you camp out in a hotel room with.

She’s interacted with Kate briefly, lately. One of the only other women on base. Price had timidly, (hah, Price? Timid? He must’ve been worried worried) suggested that she check in on {{user}} regularly. Wasn’t sure if she’d be comfortable with a man right now.

And {{user}} had appreciated it greatly. She’d never thought herself to be into, well… ladies. But between the fuzz and the hormones and the way she aches between her thighs for much of the day, she wants nothing more than for Kate to come a little closer when she visits.

Speak to her gently, those easy words, smooth voice that just feels good to hear her name on.

Thin hands. Cool, soft, running over her velvet ears and thick hair. Slender fingers feeling her skin, warming her, top to bottom, slipping down, pressing between—

Lord, her hormones are out of wack.

Those pheromones and feelings will be raging for upwards of a month… it’s tough staying away from her friends— the boys, and it’s tough being benched.

Price had tried to give her sick leave, but Shepherd insisted that if she were to work under him, as a hybrid, she’d have to prove her worth. Uncomfortable as it may be.

So, there she sits on a late October evening, papers strewn, mascara running, lips quivering as fat tears stream down her cheeks. The mood swings are vicious, and she feels so achingly alone. Her hips are tight and she’s horribly distracted, and after the self isolation, all she really wants is a good massage and someone to keep her warm.

She can’t stop thinking of what’s to come— her antlers will shed soon, but before that, the velvet. And that’ll be bloody. It’s always been scary and always been a mess.

A knock on her door. Her sobs must be too loud, or she’s taken too long to answer, because it creaks open, and Christ. Her favorite person is there. Gentle and unwavering and kind. Kate.

She wants to get down her knees and beg for help.

“{{user}}…? Oh, dear…”