hi hi! I don’t normally make asks, but I was recently put onto your stuff and you write SO YUMMY?!? LIKE WHAT?
anyways uh…am I allowed to be greedy and ask for even more werewolf simon who thinks reader loves his musk??? Ik you’ve already written two posts but…it’s so good!
no pressure ofc!
also get well soon! Being sick sucks 😔
Hi nonnie :) of course you can!! I am a people pleasing slut, so be greedily all you want. And thank you! I get sick so easily do to CFS, and I agree this shit sucks. And i did only start posting in October for this side blog, so I'm still new to these parts, so don't feel to bad about only noticing. And thank you for the kind words <3
Please note this specific line of fiction contains elements of musk, piss, and conditioning. Refer to the tags for all kinks included.
Somehow, in Simon's self-proclaimed quest to make sure you get the scent he had been denying you, of his scent. You've come to miss it when he's not around.
Now, whenever Simon comes home from a run, you're always by the door, waiting. At first, he thought it was a coincidence, but then you started pressing your face against his neck or collarbone, inhaling like you needed his scent more than air. You didn't even realize you were doing it; your body just moved on its own.
Simon, bless his dumb wolf instincts, thought you were just being affectionate. He'd wrap his arms around you, still warm and damp from his run, and you'd melt every time. Sometimes you caught yourself licking the sweat off his skin, tasting him. It should've been gross, but it wasn't. It was like scratching an itch you didn't know you had.
To Simon, this was proof that you needed him, that he'd been neglecting you. So he doubled down, making sure you got your fill of his scent and his knot.
You didn't notice how restless you got when his scent faded, how you'd drift toward his side of the bed at night, burying your face in his pillow. You kept telling yourself you were just sorting his laundry, but your fingers lingered on the fabric, and your breathing always went shallow.
Sometimes you woke up halfway through the night grinding into Simon's sleeping form. Sometimes you woke up wet, confused, with the smell of him still in your nose. The worst part? You weren't even embarrassed anymore. Your body had stopped treating it like something shameful. It was comfort. Reward. Relief, even.
Meanwhile, Simon started noticing strange things. Pillowcases that smelled stronger than he remembered, shirts that were damp or stiff in places he couldn't explain, and a duffel bag of his laundry that always had one or two items missing.
He started hoarding anything that smelled like you, tucking it into his bag like trophies. He carried one of his hoodies on deployment just because it had a bit of your scent left in the lining, something that made his wolf settle when he was too far from home.
He never admitted it out loud, but every time he found something of his marked by you, his ego swelled. His instincts purred. His tail would wag. It never crossed his mind that he caused it, that he'd conditioned you into associating his scent with comfort and pleasure and closeness, that he'd rewired your body to react to him on a level deeper than thought.
To him, this was just how mates behaved.
And it reached a point where you didn't even notice how dependent you'd become, not until the day you caught the faintest whiff of him on the couch blanket and your entire body shivered, your knees nearly giving out.
Simon noticed. Simon misunderstood. Simon was thrilled.
