Youâve always thought you were a smarter than average person. You make good decisions, had mostly good grades all throughout high school and college, and never stray from what you know is right.
Apparently, one of your recent missions gave you severe brain damage, because what the hell were you thinking when you finally let Soap start letting his doggy instincts out on you?
Itâs all you ever dealt with now. Making breakfast? Soaps there. Training? Right next to Soap, of course. Taking a piss? Soap will be waiting outside the door whining about how itâs not a huge deal if he came in there with you.
The others started catching on, too. Not like they could miss it though, considering you reeked of their Scottish pack mate. You could tell they didnât like it. Constantly offering to grab you a change of clothes, taking the mutt out so you could get some peace and quiet.
Ghost was constantly grumbling about how close you two had gotten to the point of you letting him get his hands on you for a day so heâd stop complaining.
TERRIBLE IDEA.
That apparently opened the fucking floodgates for the rest of the team. Those little moments you had to yourself when Soap wasnât bothering you? Now one of your other teammates took that up. Ghost dragged you through the gym everyday, sleeping was reserved for Gaz, and John.. oh..
God, where to start? When he had to fill out papers? Youâre squished between him and the desk. Dinner? On his lap while he feeds you himself. You reeked of wolf and smoke, basically being passed around like a joint by your team.
It got worse the warmer the days got. Spring was beginning to bloom, and just like the flowers of the season, your teammates boldness blossomed into something far worse than what it was beforeâŚ
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a/n: wooow ok yeâ horny bastards, hereâs a part two to yâallâs favorite meal. Iâll eventually make a part three that is either gonna be fluffy or downright dirty, but I havenât quite decided yet. Either way, heres some slop to heed you over for now â¤ď¸
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Iâm not the first to write something like this but hereâs my spin on shifter!141.
*****
They had spent too long in their bestial forms. Time feels different when the wolf takes over, easier to lose track of and even harder to remember their human lives. By the time one of them remembers the house in the woods and its many acres that still needs a final payment under a fake name itâs too late.
They look on from the tree line, taking note of the changes made by the new owner. A budding flower garden in front of the house, well kept and just starting to show its spring colors. Around back a large vegetable patch was still green, nothing yet ready to harvest. The exterior had a fresh coat of paint and small repairs had been made. A single faded blue truck rumbled up the long and winding driveway. Thatâs when they first laid eyes upon you.
âââââ
âAbandoned, Selling As Isâ was what the advertisement had read. No one else had wanted the plot of land hours away from civilization. For you, though, it was perfect. Somewhere to start over, to be alone and relearn who you are.
The rooms still held the previous ownerâs belongings. Everything had been left untouched as if they just vanished one day. All men, you assumed, just from the sparse decor and the clothes left behind. Military, maybe, from how the beds were made with their sheets tucked into hospital corners. Paranoid loners, possibly even doomsday preppers, was another guess you made after discovering a gun safe hidden behind a false wall under the stairs.
It was almost a game, once a day trying a hand full of combinations to see if any worked. Something mindless to fill an unoccupied moment of time. Thatâs when you really started going through the papers and books left behind. Looking for any clues at what the code might be. A notepad left on the small hallway table is where you scribbled down all the combinations that hadnât worked, in a meager attempt to not repeat yourself. A small mystery to add a little life to your loneliness.
At night is when things really come to life this far out into the wilderness. In the early days of owning the property, before you were able to get the satellite internet set up, youâd spend the evenings watching and listening on the back porch. Deer were the most common, using the wide open expanse of a backyard as a place to graze in the evenings. Owls silently swooping down on field mice before retreating to the trees once more. Coyotes, crickets, and night birds made a symphony of nature most nights.
The most exciting were the wolves. You could always hear them howling in the distance, calling to one another. They werenât like the coyotes that cackled over one another in attempt to sound larger or more numerous than they actually were. These were direct calls and responses. Their vocalizations sounding almost melancholy, as if they were yearning for something that seemed just out of reach.
It was a quiet night when you finally decided to respond to their calls. The evening had been spent making supply lists for your trek into the nearest town in the morning. A large cooler had been thrown into the bed of your truck to store items intended for the refrigerator and deep freezer.
You sat on the tailgate, listening to the night song that seemed to encapsulate the peaceful valley you now owned. A celebratory drink held in one hand and a small, proud smile graces your lips. Your house was starting to feel like a real home and that was definitely worth celebrating.
The wolves that you had grown fond of, yet had never seen, were starting up. Your favorite night song. A melody that you could listen to for hours. One you had listened to for hours.
Four. You could make out four distinct calls at this point. Two were more vocal than others, their tones more playful. One was definitely the pack leader. His call the first and last each night, like a command or an order. And one was rarely heard, usually only short responses and never as loud as the others. But the valley always carried their calls to you, teaching you their voices. They were faceless friends in your solitude.
So you call out into the night. The long howl a poor imitation of theirs, straining your vocal cords.
The night grows still. All goes quiet. As the silence passes for a beat, then another, your smile slowly falters and fades. A pang of disappointment and a small bubble of guilt at interrupting their conversation.
All animals, even fierce predators, could be skittish. You worried that your call had scared them off, ruining your chances of ever spotting them. With a hop you jump off the tailgate, slamming it shut in frustration. Heavy feet stomping all the way onto the porch and inside. You could only hope they hadnât heard your foolishness and that something else has quieted them.
The night remains silent as you crawl into bed. The night song ending early and sewing sadness into your dreams.
But they had heard you.
Your distinctly human howling calling to a dormant part of their minds. They remembered themselves. They remembered their life in the valley. They remembered the house where their human lives were lived.
