#werewolf!ghost

you're shaking with fear, already came face to face with its toothy maw once and felt its claws attempting to disembowel you --the sharp edges of them tearing through your clothes instead of your skin when you'd scrambled away. your thighs are caked in sticky slick, evidence of your escape smeared where its cock had rut between your thrashing legs. the sound of heavy breathing isn't coming from you, it's the intentional snuffling of an animal, the intake of air through wet nostrils. it reminds you of the way your friend's dog presses its nose to her pant leg when she walks in the door, searching for evidence of the day's work. or evidence that it was there.

for how big the creature is, you never hear it coming. you open your eyes and it's there in front of you, a twisted amalgamation of man and wolf. blood muddies the fur covering its massive form, its muscles sinuous and shaking with the effort of bipedal motion wrap around its skeleton like creeping vine, tendon doubling back on itself until its become as unyielding as steel. it wraps one tender hand around your throat and lifts scraping your back against the gouged bark of your tree. it's easy, you barely see it strain.

you kick your leg out towards its middle, your eyes darting down to be sure you hit your mark. it nearly breaks your foot, and earns you nothing but an unnatural, throaty chuckle. the other claw grabs your thigh, claws digging into the scratched flesh and raising fresh pops of blood as it spreads your leg wide. adrenaline slams into you, a new wave of panic making your fingers tingle. your eyes drop to the thick cock that hangs heavy between the beast's legs.

"not polite ta stare," the beast's voice comes out like a croak, its lips remain unmoving, teeth bared and tongue red, "thought i told ya that olready."

even in the throws of panic your mind yanks you back to this morning. in the cafe where you and your friends had gotten breakfast there was a group of men far too big for the little chairs they perched on. the biggest had cornered you coming out of the bathroom, tugged the skull pattern mask down and smiled with crooked teeth.

"shouldn't stare too much sweet'eart, someone might get the wrong idea." he'd chuckled when you pushed past him with a 'fuck off.'

it couldn't be... and yet something in those dark eyes is familiar. the head of the beast's cock notches against your entrance, tracing the line of your cunt with the tapered tip as the monster rolls its hips. you flinch, clenching tight as it flicks against your clit. a coo rumbles darkly from the thing's throat, patronizing and promising.

Delta!Ghost following Human!Reader around everywhere. His shadow looming over you as soon as you exit your room. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you turned round and bumped into his chest.

You’ve asked your Captain about the delta’s behaviour, but all Alpha!Price said was he’s hardwired to act like that. Delta’s have a strong sense of protecting the weak, humans break so easily to their kind. You’re not even on the same level of an omega. Still need to learn about wolf rankings without heightened scent. You can’t sniff out a position, the military patch on their lapels only offers you a role. How were you to know that lieutenant was a beta? They pretty much all wore the same scowl as they glared down at you.

half of the scars on his body are hidden under the thickness of his hair and fur, only those closer to the center of his chest are bare and wide, whitened with age, speckling his pale skin and broad back, stretching over the sharpened muscles of different lengths and shapes, scratches, healed gashes, bullets, rippling with every movement or stretch of simon's.

sharp fangs that are more often noticeable when he snarks or growls, lifting his thin lips and exposing his pointed teeth in order to scare away and tear unwanted, and with you to cover every area of your soft, pure skin with fresh traces of his possessive darkening bruises and toothprints, allowing simon to mark you from all those who are not wanted and let everyone know whose you are.

simon is as feral as a wolf and behaves like a barbarian, the instinct to mate makes him constantly keep you with him, without giving you the ability to go anywhere, he even prefers to have undressed all the time, thinking that the clothes are useless if he tears them to shreds anyway to fill you with his cock, but you scold him every time, so he doesn't complain, despite the rumbling whine slipping from his throat.

he's just a dog, all he thinks about is how to make sure his thick cum doesn't leak out of your pulsing hole, practically not letting you out of bed and the softness of the fluffy furs beneath, ravishing on your naked and supple body, clawing at your knees and pressing them upwards so he could pummel his meaty cock deep in your creamy pussy, ramming into your spongy spot, grinding his thick tip just so you'll tighten up and he could breed you again.

i. every time he looks in the mirror, day after day, simon sees all that's human in him dying out, little by little. He convinced himself there's safety in distance, but now he doesn't know how to find his way back. So he doesn't; he finds the deepest point in a thick forest and builds himself a cabin, lives off what he plants and what he hunts, pretends it's enough.

It's enough.

ii. winters are mean but full moons are meaner, harrowing. the silver rays rip through him like butcher knives slicing through meat. his bones bend out of shape, his skin stretches to make room for muscles he doesn't remember growing. there's nothing poetic about the transformation from man to wolf then wolf to man; it's all blood and canines and claws and howls. So many howls: of suffering, of loneliness, of yearning.

Wolves are a social creature. Simon's first mistake was isolation.

At least he got to choose the thing that eats him.

iii. and it does eat him. he has been a werewolf for the longest time, a dormant gene that suddenly woke up one day in a moment of fight or flight. Despite it being in his blood, birthed with him and growing within him, he doesn't know the first thing about werewolves, about being one. He doesn't know if there exists many, if any, others like him.

this curiosity chips at him day in day out, an itch he can't scratch, a voice that keeps him up at night, howling at the moon.

iv. he tries to distract from it. most days, the distraction does its job. when you're a man living in the woods and relying on your own two hands to feed you, there's little time to willow in self inflicted misery and loneliness, much less time to indulge in existential-crisis-induced questions like: am i one of a kind? in this whole vast universe, am i the only human(?) cursed to be less human?

v. march comes with golden sun rays and misty mornings and a stranger. right out there in an open field, alone. even if it's spring, the woods are still dangerous, treacherous. it's full of unkind things with teeth the size of your forefinger, and you're just- Simon lowers on his hinges and stares at you, baffled even in his wolf form- you're on a picnic.

but you don't feel right.

a fist wraps around simon's heart and squeezes, an inexplicable sense of aggression seizing him the more he stares at you. it isn't rare for him to run into a human when he's out hunting. In fact, he's quiet familiar with some of the folks living in the small town at the edge of the forest. They, on the other hand, never notice him. He keeps to the shadows, spun himself a cloak made of the dark and draped it over his shoulders. He isn't to be seen, isn't to be heard.

you, however, he's unfamiliar with. But unfamiliarity rarely breeds aggression, especially in him.

so what is it about you that made his canine sharp, digging into the tender flesh of his jaw?

he keeps to the shadows, watching, a pair of golden eyes trained on you.

you're oblivious to his existence, too busy finding the right angle to take a picture of yourself, of your little picnic blanket with different foods laid out, of the sun rays spilling in from between green tree leaves.

he thinks you have the survival instincts of a stale piece of toast.

vi. but you always come back to the same spot, and so does he. it becomes sort of a routine, a secret rendez-vous you're completely unaware of. He sticks to the shadows, the black shine of his fur blending perfectly with the dark, thick green of the forest swallowing him whole. He never makes his presence known, doesn't ever plan to. He just watches, man or wolf, a fist around his heart.

this goes on for weeks, a game in which he's always studying you, trying yet failing miserably to decipher the feelings he experiences when his eyes land on you. He sleeps to the thought of you, wakes up to dreams of you.

march dies quietly, april slips into may.

his aggression towards you ebbs and flows; sometimes it morphs into curiosity, other times it twists into something sharp and dark. most of the time, he's just berating your carelessness in his head. he'd be working the garden in front of his cabin and muttering about how stupid you are.

slowly, you trickle down into his life like a small, inconspicuous river, filling cracks in his chest he never knew existed. the loneliness he has surrendered to has started to retreat at your presence, even if he never spoke to you.

and he doesn't intend to change that.

vii. "you're not going to come closer?"

the slight spring breeze carries your question deeper into the woods. you're looking right at him, head tilted slightly to the side, lips curved up into an amused smile.

simon's heart stutters. you know exactly where he is. you can see him. all this time, simon has been operating under the believe that he was the stalker, the watcher, the all knowing. to find out, after weeks of observing, of feeling very much like the predator, that you felt his presence at the tips of your fingers, saw him the way one sees a shadow: from the corner of their eyes- the thought makes the fur along his spine stand on end.

"well?"

his ears flatten, canines barred.

"i'm not going to bite you."

he knows you won't, your human teeth not sharp enough to pierce his thick wolf skin. still, there's something unsettling about you. simon thinks he has developed the survival instincts of a stale piece of toast from watching you alone because, and he knows there will come a point he will regret his next decision- he steps out of the darkness.

Having no other need for the entire task force to live on base, they were sent home. Soap and Gaz lingered to hash out plans for the next few days to weeks. Even Price took his time walking to his car. Ghost, already feeling his gums itch from the extension of his canines, wasted no time in racing down the road to his shitty little apartment. Maybe he would even get to throw together a scrappy nest this go around.

Two days passed, and then it started. The aches. Ghost tossed and turned, pawing at the singular blanket on his bed as his spine echoed with the pain of shifting form. It always did this. What should be a simple process was convoluted from years upon years of suppressing his inner canine. He had no time for werewolf business when his work was what was important. Too bad it always came back to bite him in the ass.

Sharp teeth jutted from Ghost’s mouth, tail curled over his bottom and through his legs, and tips of his ears turned sharp and furry in the struggle. He was stuck in a half-shift. If Ghost bothered to change his clothes through the process, he would have found his back dusted with a line of black fur and tummy even furrier. The everyday motion of taking care of himself reminded Ghost too much that he was stuck like this — a freak. Humans were cool, werewolves were cool, but what kind of a twisted creature gets caught up somewhere in the middle?

He couldn’t even bring himself to answer his phone. He relaxed when it finally died, and he no longer had to hear the incessant chime and ring of many texts and calls. It was a nice 12 hours without any outside noise beside his own whines of frustration and pain. Right at 8am sharp the next day, though, Ghost shot upright at the sound of his door being opened. He moved too much and too quickly, being forced to curl back over and just listen.

It didn’t take long for heavy footsteps to make their way through the kitchen and down the short hall. Whoever it was, they were on a mission. The click of his bedroom door being unlatched made Ghost’s eyes flit over. He turned his head the opposite direction when he saw who it was.

“Christ…” Soap whispered to himself at the state of the room. A bare mattress, save for one blanket on top, cradled the man who seemed to be trying to make himself smaller. The edge of the blanket was visibly caked with dried blood and crumpled like it had been chewed on. It was dark, but Soap could still see the shivers wracking Ghost’s body periodically.

He took a few steps over, pausing with his hands in the air when he got a weak snarl in return. It wasn’t any sort of threat, but it was a boundary. “Am not moving. Just here to check on ye, ‘specially after not getting a single damn reply to my texts and calls.” Soap looked, really looked, at Ghost, and lowered his voice. “Is this… normal?”

“No,” Ghost snapped back immediately. He tensed, sparing a glare over his shoulder to the Scotsman in his room. “It’s not bloody normal for me to be some half-human, fucking… piece of shit monster for days. It’s ridiculous, and it hurts.”

Soap frowned at the way the last bit was said with a hint of a dog-like whine. He could see the pain emanating off the man, smell it in the stale air of the room. Yeah, this looked like it sucked. “Stay here,” he pointlessly advised. Not like Ghost would have moved, anyways. Soap returned two and a half minutes later with a bottle of water and two pain killers. “I’m assuming ye haven’t taken any.”

The answer was yes, based on how quickly Ghost swallowed the pills. “I don’t know much about weres, but this looks like a sorry excuse of a nest if you ask me,” Soap grumbled. He took a look around the room and scooped up the few blankets and pillows he could see lying around. “If yer not in shape to fix it up, then I’ll do it for ya.”

Ghost found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, watching as Soap fluffed and arranged and rearranged the bedding. The medicine was kicking in, and Ghost was becoming more aware of his surroundings. Specifically how Soap was getting his human scent over all of his stuff. The instinct to roll around and rub his own scent everywhere was building, but Ghost knew to fight it. It was trained into him, after all.

“There we go!” Soap puffed with pride as he settled the last pillow in place. He gave a hopeful look to Ghost. “Good enough for a wolf, aye?”

“Hrm,” Ghost considered. He scooted over the blankets and adjusted some things with his hands. Holy hell, it reeked of Soap in his room now. He blinked once, looked up at Soap, and blinked again before deadpanning. “No.”

“No? Ah, sorry, just figured you’d want to be a little cozier with all the fangs and shifting and all. Should I-“

Soap couldn’t finish his sentence before Ghost was tugging him down, nestling him right into the bed. It was unbecoming of the partial wolf to be so upfront about physical contact, so it wasn’t totally unexpected when he stopped halfway and stayed sitting and staring. Confused, but willing, Soap opened his arms and patted his chest in invitation.

He was hesitant, but Ghost did let himself lay down on top of Soap. He pressed his nose to his neck and sank his claws lightly into the man’s sides. Giving into a little bit of instinct couldn’t hurt, could it? Just a little rub of his chin against Soap’s chest… just enough to soothe the urge to scent. Soap wouldn’t dare mention that he felt the little lick to his collarbone, even if it did surprise him.

They laid like that for a while, silent and still. Soap didn’t press, Ghost didn’t give. The quietness of a shared space was its own pressure, though, and Ghost found himself running his mouth despite his resolve not to. “Haven’t shifted since I was a pup. Hard to get back into it when it’s been forced out of you for so long.”

Soap was a lot of things, and some flavor of stupid was definitely amongst them. Combine that with his overly kind heart and want to do right by his loved ones, and his hand is in Ghost’s hair before he knew it. He didn’t really mean to pet him like a dog, ruffling and smoothing down the hairs on the crown of his head, but it only felt natural. “Sounds awful,” he murmured in reply.

Ghost made a noncommittal noise, burying his face and nose further into the crook of Soap’s neck. “The meds helped,” he commented. “Dunno if I’ll ever shift again, but I feel more-“ he paused to make a gesture with his hand, “-mentally wolf now that I don’t hurt. Still feels weird. And wrong.”

“Baby steps. A mental shift is still a shift, I’d say. Don’t focus on it too much, yeah? I can tell it’s wearing ye out, and I think a much needed nap is in order,” Soap rambled as he adjusted how he was lying. He kept Ghost held close, hand now scratching along his back. “Get some sleep, puppy. I’ll still be here when you get up.”

Ghost felt his ears get hot over being called ‘puppy’. His initial reaction was to be upset and emphasize that he was a full grown man, not a pup. Yet, some part of his brain liked the word. Soap was right. He was too tired, and fighting against this would be pointless. Now that the aches of his muscles and bones had subsided, Ghost could finally drift off in peace as he rested safe and sound against Soap.

warnings: werewolf!simon, dark themes, territorial behavior, obsession, voyeurism, suggestive content, implied masturbation, sexy dreams, written in headcanons bc i’m lazy and high ♡

✧ when you first heard about your aunt’s passing, nothing struck you as too strange. she’d been a recluse for years, the kind of woman your family only talked about in whispers—lives alone in the woods, never visits for holidays, writes letters instead of calling. but when you got the call that she left her entire house to you? a house you didn’t even know existed? you almost laughed. you thought it was a scam. who leaves property to a niece they haven’t seen in over a decade?

✧ but something about it tugged at you. maybe it was the idea of an escape—your lease was about to end anyway. or maybe it was just the way the lawyer’s voice sounded when he warned you, “this place isn’t for everyone.” you told your friends it was just a road trip. a weird little adventure. but in your gut, you knew better. something about this felt like walking toward the edge of something.

You're afraid. Who wouldn't be?

Kinktober, Day 21: Monsterfucking, Rimming, Forced Orgasm Pairing: Werewolf!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader  CW: dubcon

➢  18+, fem reader, established relationship, monsterfucking, rough sex, forced orgasms, rimming, oral, vaginal sex, knotting, overstimulation, slight breeding kink, slight degradation kink, 1438 words

Many people would call your boyfriend a monster for what he does during the day. No one knows that the description would be more fitting for the way he can be at night.