who knows?

Sure, he draws in his notebook, doodles about the witty mechanic he spends too much time around. But he hasn't made anything physical, something that can really be held in the palm of his hands for years now.

It started after you mentioned your love of animals. Soap had pulled off one of the sticky notes you kept on your desk and, with a proud "i think I still know how," soap made a simple origami frog.

The cutest thing you've ever seen, he even drew a face on it.

After that, it was tradition. A little zoo accumulating on your desk. Animals made from notebook paper, origami paper, the printer paper that keeps disappearing from the office. Swans, dinosaurs, foxes and cats.

You'd make some too, insisting soap shows you how it's done. His rough hands over yours, guiding them to be delicate along the crease of paper. You insisted on giving the swan to him.

Then he left.

Price was kind enough to include you in clearing out his room, though you seldom spoke to the other men. You had no idea why until ghost told you "johnny was yours since the beginning. Just...never had the guts to tell you."

You spent days staring at the animals lined up in rows. Thinking.

Surgical precision, the kind taught to you by johnny. You unfold the a swan, and find scribbled on the inside "i think about you all the time." Another, "you're the kindest person i know." After that, "I think I love you."

Each animal a confession handed right to you. Held in your hands and loved.

Of course, that was back when you were a pup, small and soft and easy to love.

Nowadays, you're nothing anyone wants to cuddle. A giant anatolian shepherd, you can remember clearly the day your mom told you the weight was too much, and you'd simply have to curl by her feet. Age has changed you just as war has.

No one wants to hold you, too big and awkward to fit in anyone's lap.

That is, until you meet ghost, your new lieutenant. A giant of a man, even in your human form he easily outclasses you. Of course, ghost has worked with plenty of shifters before, killed plenty too, he knows exactly how to read your body language.

Meaning it almost takes you off guard after a bad mission when he drops a heavy hand on the back of your neck like he's scruffing a pup, grunting "with me, runt."

"Go on, shift." He orders you in the recroom he just locked that you're pretty sure he shouldn't have keys for. Maybe you see him a bit as a pack leader, so you shift without asking why.

Only for him to bodily haul you onto his lap, entire couch sagging with the weight of you both. He doesn't groan about how big you are, or how your claws dig into his jeans.

He only cards two hands into your fur and gently scratches until you let your mind really sink into it.

You got me, I love an AAU..... alas, I think Soap would be a LOT less subtle about it than Ghost was - because that's his man ALIVE

Tags: cumming in pants, meet-cute, lap dances, love at first sight

—————————————————————————

Quite possibly the funniest memory of the taskforce happened on Ghost’s 32nd Birthday.

Ghost was adamant not to celebrate it, eager to spend the night in the base’s gym, beating the punching bag to a pulp. His friends, however, had a much different plan.

One thing led to another, they were three bottles deep at the strip club, and Soap had insisted on spending an absurd amount of money to buy Simon a private dance with the club’s most popular stripper.

Enter you, towering in 6 inch heels, bare skin painted with body glitter and spilt liquor, all but naked except for the tiny g-string hugging your covetable hips.

Simon had barely downed a single beer all night, too outraged at his friends to get into the birthday spirit.

He’d been nearly at his wits’ end with Soap’s antics, but the second you’d strutted in, bare tits exposed and covered in hot pink glitter, his words had died on his tongue.

The boys had hooted and hollered as you hauled a silent (and completely stiff) Simon Riley from his chair and yanked him across the club by his shirt collar.

Their laughing had drowned in the music. Unbeknownst to him, they’d huddled around the crack in the door, choking on their laughter as you cranked up the music.

You’d rubbed your ass against his hips. Pulled his hands off the arm rests to grope at your tits. Toyed with the edge of that tiny pair of panties until he could see the neat little patch of hair hidden just underneath the scant fabric.

All the while, Simon had been ramrod straight in his chair. Unspeaking. Unmoving. Unblinking. Completely and utterly expressionless.

To the 141, it was downright hilarious, watching a pretty thing like you vigorously shake your ass up and down the human equivalent of a brick wall.

To Simon…well, it’s a much different story.

Simon found a bug!

The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.

Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.

Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.

Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.

You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.

Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”

Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.

You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.

His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”

Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.

The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.

The bugs and dirt embrace him when he lies in the now-dry river bed that will soon be running with water next season. Cold and damp from morning's rain, the smell of petrichor lingers in his clothes.

That's how you find him. The stranger taking a nap in your backyard.

Well, technically this isn't yet your backyard, you still need to sign some papers. Currently the land belongs to your late uncle, owner of a large chunk of forest. You used to run through these woods as a child visiting in the summer. It was only natural he leave the place to you.

"Uh. Hello?" And now there's a fucking stranger in your river bed. He's big, wearing old clothes. You glance at the net of scars over his face, and mildly wonder if he's a veteran or something. "sir? Are you alive?"

The man peeks an eye open, wrinkles his nose at you in scrutiny before he huffs "what do you want, kid?"

"Are you....okay?" You ask, frowning at the dirt on him. You've always been too kind, generosity outweighing self-preservation when you add "are you hungry? It's awful cold out. You'll freeze."

The stranger closes his eyes and says nothing for a solid five minutes. Just as you're about to leave, he rolls onto his side and begins to stand "wot're you eating?"

Which is how ghost ends up sat in your kitchen, eating soup while his jacket dries by the fire.

He's....strange. funny. Kind-of nice, in a roundabout way. Like when he insulted your choice to toss food scraps in the trash instead of making a compost pile, then offered to weed your uncles garden that had gotten out of hand.

He knows so much about...everything, really. He points at bugs and tells you facts about them, fixes some things around the house.

You end up offering him a place to stay if he helps out, something to do on leave.

Now, every few months ghost can be found sleeping in your garden before you drag him in for tea.

Weird bloke.