(tw noncon) getting separated from your friends when you're hiking, the night closing in around you miles from civilization, nothing to keep you company but the full moon and the rustle of animals settling down for the night; ending up with your hand clutched tightly over your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut and your back pressed against a tree as you try to keep quiet to avoid the creature that stalked you out here from your make-shift camp site.
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.
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Delta!Ghost following Human!Reader around everywhere. His shadow looming over you as soon as you exit your room. Youâve lost count of the amount of times you turned round and bumped into his chest.
Youâve asked your Captain about the deltaâs behaviour, but all Alpha!Price said was heâs hardwired to act like that. Deltaâs have a strong sense of protecting the weak, humans break so easily to their kind. Youâre not even on the same level of an omega. Still need to learn about wolf rankings without heightened scent. You canât 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.
Deltaâs are kinda not a rank in the sense they can challenge any wolf in the name of fairness. Theyâre the ones questioning their alphaâs decisions and giving justice to those who abuse their power. A bridge between humans and shifters, a vital part of ensuring they work well together.
And well Ghost, heâs making sure youâre remembering their ways too. He whispering in your ear about how you should have addressed that beta!Lieutenant and maybe next time you wonât be stuck in the armoury cleaning weapons for a week. How you shouldnât have borrowed Soapâs hoody, why donât you go scrub his scent of your flesh, yeah? Youâve got a synthetic scent of their pack stitched beneath your skin, a patch covering a would be scenting gland (the spot where even as a human is the strongest).
Youâre only allowed to spar with Kyle as heâs an omega and wonât do as much damage. Youâve took a punch from him and thatâs enough for you to dodge whatever he throws at you next. Donât underestimate an omega.
Thereâs only so much you can learn from a textbook, Ghost is that little voice in your ear steering you through the whole thing. Slight hand signals when heâs across the room, a made up language for you to figure out a wolf. The two horn fingers be raises meaning Alpha. He taps the inside of his wrist when youâre approaching a beta. Omega a clenched fist. You just have to look for his cues. Delta, well they donât need introduction, they make themselves known before you can question it.
thinking about werewolf simon riley, there's thick hair at his body, his arms and chest are covered in dark hairs that feel almost like fur, soft but also slightly rough because he doesn't take much care of it, and the same with his tousled tail and unruly hair on his head that sticks out to the sides messily, adorned with a pair of pointed ears, one of which is adorned with whitened scars that are missing hair.
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.
a/n: a little warm up writing because i've never wrote about werewolves. if you enjoy what i write, please consider supporting me on kofi, i would greatly appreciate it! (more ghost fics on my blog)
Werewolf Ghost who praises the high heavens when leave lines up with the full moon. It was easy to keep his wolf in check when he was out in the field and actually working, mind numb with the adrenaline and routine he knew to the bone, but the intel grabbing mission went quicker than expected. Stepping out from the dingy warehouse he had been tromping through, Ghost hummed at the sight of the waxing gibbous in the sky. Not ideal.
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 Ghostâs 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 â a freak. Humans were cool, werewolves were cool, but what kind of a twisted creature gets caught up somewhere in the middle?
He couldnât 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 didnât 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 Ghostâs eyes flit over. He turned his head the opposite direction when he saw who it was.
âChristâŚâ 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 Ghostâs body periodically.
He took a few steps over, pausing with his hands in the air when he got a weak snarl in return. It wasnât any sort of threat, but it was a boundary. âAm not moving. Just here to check on ye, âspecially after not getting a single damn reply to my texts and calls.â Soap looked, really looked, at Ghost, and lowered his voice. âIs this⌠normal?â
âNo,â Ghost snapped back immediately. He tensed, sparing a glare over his shoulder to the Scotsman in his room. âItâs not bloody normal for me to be some half-human, fucking⌠piece of shit monster for days. Itâs ridiculous, and it hurts.â
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. âStay here,â 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. âIâm assuming ye havenât taken any.â
The answer was yes, based on how quickly Ghost swallowed the pills. âI donât know much about weres, but this looks like a sorry excuse of a nest if you ask me,â Soap grumbled. He took a look around the room and scooped up the few blankets and pillows he could see lying around. âIf yer not in shape to fix it up, then Iâll do it for ya.â
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.
âThere we go!â Soap puffed with pride as he settled the last pillow in place. He gave a hopeful look to Ghost. âGood enough for a wolf, aye?â
âHrm,â 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. âNo.â
âNo? Ah, sorry, just figured youâd want to be a little cozier with all the fangs and shifting and all. Should I-â
Soap couldnât 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 wasnât 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 manâs sides. Giving into a little bit of instinct couldnât hurt, could it? Just a little rub of his chin against Soapâs chest⌠just enough to soothe the urge to scent. Soap wouldnât 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 didnât press, Ghost didnât give. The quietness of a shared space was its own pressure, though, and Ghost found himself running his mouth despite his resolve not to. âHavenât shifted since I was a pup. Hard to get back into it when itâs been forced out of you for so long.â
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 Ghostâs hair before he knew it. He didnât 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. âSounds awful,â he murmured in reply.
Ghost made a noncommittal noise, burying his face and nose further into the crook of Soapâs neck. âThe meds helped,â he commented. âDunno if Iâll ever shift again, but I feel more-â he paused to make a gesture with his hand, â-mentally wolf now that I donât hurt. Still feels weird. And wrong.â
âBaby steps. A mental shift is still a shift, Iâd say. Donât focus on it too much, yeah? I can tell itâs wearing ye out, and I think a much needed nap is in order,â Soap rambled as he adjusted how he was lying. He kept Ghost held close, hand now scratching along his back. âGet some sleep, puppy. Iâll still be here when you get up.â
Ghost felt his ears get hot over being called âpuppyâ. 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.
Indulgently, Soap watched Ghost fall asleep. He studied how his wolfish ears twitched into relaxation, marveled at the way his tail sagged under the weight of his slumber. Selfishly, and also for Ghostâs own good, he silently hoped to see that tail wag one day.
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⌠werewolf!simon riley when you move into his woods â§
warnings: werewolf!simon, dark themes, territorial behavior, obsession, voyeurism, suggestive content, implied masturbation, sexy dreams, written in headcanons bc iâm lazy and high âĄ
â§ when you first heard about your auntâs passing, nothing struck you as too strange. sheâd been a recluse for years, the kind of woman your family only talked about in whispersâlives 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 didnât even know existed? you almost laughed. you thought it was a scam. who leaves property to a niece they havenât seen in over a decade?
â§ but something about it tugged at you. maybe it was the idea of an escapeâyour lease was about to end anyway. or maybe it was just the way the lawyerâs voice sounded when he warned you, âthis place isnât for everyone.â 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.
â§ so you drove across the country. packed your shit, loaded your playlist, and watched your whole life shrink behind you in the rearview. the house was tucked away in a town no one had heard ofâlike actually not on the gps, the kind of place where cell signal dies and the locals look at you too long when you walk into a diner. you got there just after dusk. and even though it was dead quiet, you felt watched. not in a scary way. in aâŚheavy way. like something ancient had just noticed you.
â§ the house was creaky and weird and way too cold for mid-spring. half the windows were boarded. the lights flickered when you flipped the breaker. you figured youâd stay a few daysâjust long enough to take some pictures, maybe list it online. you werenât gonna live here, god, no. you had a whole life back home.
â§ but on your second night, you found a claw mark on the inside of your bedroom window. not a scratch. not a branch. a mark. long, deep, intentional. the kind that says âi couldâve come in if i wanted to.â
â§ the dreams started after that. hot, fevered, wet. a shadow in the woods, glowing eyes in the trees. strong hands on your hips, a voice growling your name like a sin. youâd wake up shaking. drenched. sometimes, you swear you heard breathing right outside your bedroom door.
â§ and you never see himânot at first. but you start hearing footsteps on the porch. a low growl under your window. and you swear the clothes you hang outside to dry smell like firewood and pine when you bring them back in.
â§ itâs on the fifth night that you leave the porch light on. you donât mean to. youâre half-asleep, half-terrified. maybe itâs stupid. maybe itâs brave. maybe itâs not even really your idea.
â§ you start locking the doors, but only halfway. leaving the latch off the back one. telling yourself itâs by accident. thereâs something in the woods with its eyes on you every night and it gets harder to pretend you donât feel itâwhatever it is. he doesnât come inside. not yet. but you know heâs closer. you smell him sometimes. smoke and sweat and something you canât name.
â§ the dreams get worse. or better. depending how you look at it. his hands are rough. his mouth never soft. he bites like he canât help it, like he wants to bury himself under your skin. you wake up aching. your sheets twisted, your thighs wet, your fingers between your legs before your eyes even open. you donât remember his face. just heat. just hunger. just need.
â§ and you still havenât seen him. not really. but you start catching things. a shape in the treeline. a sound too heavy to be wind. once, you look out the bathroom window and swear you see eyesâlow, bright, golden. watching. not blinking. your heart races. but you donât scream.
â§ on the seventh night, you leave the window open. not all the way. just a crack. just enough for the cold to sneak in and for somethingâsomeoneâto catch your scent. you spray your favorite perfume on your neck. you wear the little shorts that ride up when you sleep. you lay on your stomach and close your eyes and pretend not to hear the heavy breathing just outside the screen.
â§ you donât fully know it yet, but heâs been circling this house since the moment you crossed the property line.
Werewolf!Simon encounters you in the mountains on a solo camping trip.
You're afraid. Who wouldn't be?
It's then that you realize you've lost sight of the road, and your phone has zero signal. As though sensing your distress, he departs quietly, seeming to melt into the forest, soft white eyeshine and golden irises the last things you see as he goes.
You wake from poor sleep to a jug of fresh water and a small paper sack of homemade bread rolls. You don't know who left them, but the bread is still warm.
Someone takes care of you like this for several days. You never see their face, but you suspect you know who it is.
One night, the temperature drops below freezing.
Large, furry arms pull you against a warm, wall-like chest in the darkness. You panic at first, but the soothing rumbling from his chest calms you. You drift off.
On the third night of keeping you alive with his body warmth, the weather worsens. He leads you up the mountain. You follow him against your better judgment.
But if he were leading you to your death, would he have dragged things out like this?
You find yourself standing outside a small cottage, soft lamplight glowing through the front window.
The tall bipedal Wolf at your side opens the front door and motions for you to follow.
This is his cottage. He lives here. He offers you a clean set of clothes, obviously meant for a tall and broad-shouldered man, and shows you the washroom.
Seeing only one bed, you mean to ask where you'll sleep.
He's already on his way out the front door, giving you a long look before making a chuffing sound. He's gone.
It takes you a long time to fall asleep. You're hoping those strong, furry arms would hold you close tonight. You drift off.
You wake to find your truck parked outside, your camping gear packed neatly in the back.
The Wolf is nowhere to be seen. You go back inside to prepare breakfast.
He has to return sometime. He deserves proper thanks for saving your life.
By the looks of your surroundings, he spends more time as a man than a Wolf. You have no idea which you'll behold when he walks through that door.
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.
You never quite know when itâll happen. You don't even know if it will happen. Because sometimes it doesn't, for months.
Sometimes he can reign it back in, sometimes he warns you in time and rolls off. But sometimes⌠Sometimes it just happens. Because when he has you like this, spread out on all fours, panting, soaked, and moaning with your trembling thighs opened for him⌠He can't control it.
He pauses in the middle of staring at you, and lets out a slow growl. It's a rolling vibration, deep in his chest and so primal that it makes you shiver as he kisses down your spine, open-mouthed and messy.
His hands grip your ass and part you. There is something off about his grip, ust a little. Something sharp pokes you and when you glance back over your shoulder, his eyes are golden.
âYou okay?â His voice raspy and already deeper than usual. Thick with that rolling accent that darkens further when the other part of him comes forward.
You nod, because what else are you supposed to do when your bodyfriend is turning into a literal monster while eating you out from behind?
âI got you,â he growls. âLet me taste you, love.â
You feel his breath first as he leans back in and your forehead drops to the pillow when his hot, rough tongue makes first contact with you.
He devours your pussy like itâs his last meal, but itâs the way he spreads your cheeks and dives further back that really makes you cry out.
âSimonâfuckâ!â
He groans into your ass, tongue dragging slow and deep between the sensitive rim, eating you out like heâs in heat. Like he canât stop. Like this is what he craves more than anything.Â
And you're slick, sensitive, open, and overwhelmed. You press your face into the mattress, keening. You want to wriggle away, but his claws dig in just enough to say donât you fucking move.
Then, without lifting his head, he speaks into you. It's more of a growl than actual words. âSmell how wet you are, sweetheart. Could fuckinâ drown in it.â
You sob. His togue pushes deeper, fucking in and out of you with slow reverance. His teeth have lengthened into fangs now, but he is careful not to let them tear you open.
Finally two flawed fingers push inside you and a thumb presses to your clit, moving in tandem with your tongue. Your eyes roll back and you cry into the pillow as an orgasm wrecks you. He moves back down and licks your slick up with a satisfied growl.
He pushes up and removes his hands, panting like a feral animal. He moves up, pushes against you from behind and licks up the sweaty line of your spine.
âNeed to be in you,â he growls, like it physically pains him. âCanâtâfuckâneed itââ
You reach back, try to stroke and calm him, but the heat in his skin stuns you. Hotter than normal. He is almost feverishly hot.
His hand comes around to grip your chin, but you pause when you catch sight of it. His hand is fully shifted now, darker than usual and clawed. A look back confirms that he is halway through turning, his cock is thick and flushed, leaking, but the base is already swelling.
âOh my god,â you whisper.
He notices your hesitance, even the slither of hesitant fear and snarls, more at himself than you.
He reaches down and strokes himself before pressing hard kiss to your shoulder.
âYou can take it,â he grunts. âYou always do. My good girl. My little cocksleeve. You'll take me, won't you?â
His cock pushes against you from behind, not quite pushing in but pretting his head into the entrance.
âI can take it.â
He grunt and pushes in without waiting even a moment longer. He is determined, rough, pushing inch by inch without pausing. Your head drops back into the pillow. Itâs too much.
Every single thrust, itâs too much. The stretch and weight, the way he moves when his instincts are in control⌠Itâs brutal. He doesnât start slow, he canât. His hips slam into with a low grunt, his claws digging into your flesh as he snarls.
âSo tightâfuck, fuckâgreedy fuckinâ cunt, you love this, donât you?â His teeth graze your shoulders, nibbling without breaking skin even as he clearly desires to.
âYes,â you whimper. âSimonâfuckâitâs so muchâ!â
âThatâs the point,â he growls, voice half-wolf. âYou were made for this. For me.â
Your body screams with sensation. Slick drips down your thighs. His knot presses against your opening, teasing or threatening more, and your second orgasm hits you like lightning.
He feels it, the way your clench and your come coats his cock. âSee? Fucking loving this,â he pants. âDonât you dare stop there.â
You lose track after the third orgasm. Or was it the fourth already?
He holds your hips up when your legs give out, fucks you harder when you cry, and praises you while breaking you.
âGood girl.â
âTake it.â
âSo full of me.â
âYouâre gonna milk me dry, arenât you, pet?â
His claws leave faint marks on your hips, a couple droplets of blood only enticing his instincts further. His knot finally slips in then, only once he was worked you so thoroughly that your cunt is relaxed and slack. He pushes so deep you feel it lock, feel his cock throb and twitch inside you.Â
Youâre screaming, babbling incoherent words, as he wrecks you over and over. You donât even register that youâre crying until heâs licking your cheek, tongue rough and hot.
âCanât stop now,â he mutters, barely even actively speaking to you. âGotta breed you. Gotta fill you. Gotta keep you. My sweetheart, my tether. Couldn't be human without you. Need you.â
He only stops when he comes with a snarl. He shakes his whole body shudders over yours and his cock pulses so hard you feel every thick rope of cum flood your cunt.
His muscles give out and you're pressed into the mattress, flat, him barely holding up enough not to squish you fully. He pants for air and gasps⌠But he doesnât stop. Even knotted, he moves.
They are small thrusts, barely there, but the pressure is too much. It grinds everything inside you, drags you over the edge again. You scream his name, sobbing as your body tightens, pulses, spasms.
âI canâtââ you sob. âI canât anymoreââ
âYes, you can,â he growls. âHave to. Youâre mine. Youâll come as many times as I fuckinâ say.â
You convulse around him. He licks up your tears while his cock keeps twitching inside you. âMy good slut, takin' it allâŚâ
But he slowly down, kisses the side of your neck over and over. Your eyes flutter closed and he watches with golden eyes, his clawed fingers running over the side of your body.
Eventually, he shifts again once the swelling of his knot it down just enough to unhook, to pull out and watch the mess pour out of you.
Your cunt gapes. Slick, cum, and heat spill down your thighs. He stares at it like art.
His finger dips into the mess and rubs it over your clit, making you whimper and twitch. âNo more.â
He kisses your temple. âOne more.â
He works you slow, with just one finger, his teeth around your nipples as he turns you around and watches you fall apart.
When you do, your vision fully blacks out. The world swims and the last thing you see is him fully transforming above you, losing all sense of humanity.
When your eyes open, he is curled around you. He is human again, you can tell from his human hand resting on your arm as he holds you from behind.Â
He smells like sweat and sex and woods. When you glance up you can see the mud on the window sill, and you know after he transformed he must have climbed out to do whatever it is werewolves do out there.
You sigh softly and shift, whimpering almost silently.
He still rouses and kisses your neck. âToo rough?â he whispers. âDid the beast scare you?â
Your cunt is throbbing, you have claw shaped scrapes on your hip and your nipples are chewed red. And still⌠âNo,â you breathe. âLove that side of you.â
âGood.â He kisses your shoulder reverently. âBeast needed some time with it's mate.â
His hand cups your stomach, and you get the feeling Simon thoroughly approved of the breeding his other side gave you.