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.
❦ werewolf!simon riley when you move into his woods ❧
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.
✧ 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 of—like 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 a…heavy way. like something ancient had just noticed you.
✧ 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 you’d stay a few days—just long enough to take some pictures, maybe list it online. you weren’t gonna live here, god, no. you had a whole life back home.
✧ 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 “i could’ve come in if i wanted to.”
✧ 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. you’d wake up shaking. drenched. sometimes, you swear you heard breathing right outside your bedroom door.
✧ and you never see him—not 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.
✧ it’s on the fifth night that you leave the porch light on. you don’t mean to. you’re half-asleep, half-terrified. maybe it’s stupid. maybe it’s brave. maybe it’s not even really your idea.
✧ you start locking the doors, but only halfway. leaving the latch off the back one. telling yourself it’s by accident. there’s something in the woods with its eyes on you every night and it gets harder to pretend you don’t feel it—whatever it is. he doesn’t come inside. not yet. but you know he’s closer. you smell him sometimes. smoke and sweat and something you can’t name.
✧ the dreams get worse. or better. depending how you look at it. his hands are rough. his mouth never soft. he bites like he can’t 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 don’t remember his face. just heat. just hunger. just need.
✧ and you still haven’t 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 eyes—low, bright, golden. watching. not blinking. your heart races. but you don’t scream.
✧ 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 something—someone—to 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.
✧ you don’t fully know it yet, but he’s been circling this house since the moment you crossed the property line.
Werewolf!Simon dreams about meeting "the one" and knowing her by scent alone. Finding her at a party and fucking her raw without knowing her name. It's like she knew it too and let him pull down her jeans and put it in.
He tries to pull out in time. Or thought about it. He says it out loud. But he doesn't manage to pull out before he comes. Always running out of time...
He wakes up.
Her scent lingers in a blurry retreating fog as he rubs his eyes.
The woman without a name. His mate. She's out there. Somewhere.
Hey so this is my first Call of duty fanfic, so the characters might be wack. The general idea for this one is based off of a Love, Death, Robots episode where werewolves are basically in the military.
You're a retired combat medic that made a mistake, costing you your cushy office job. As punishment, you're sent to an active war zone, where you meet the 141, a squad of werewolves that slowly accept you as their own. (I know, I know I'm bad at summarizing)
Warnings: Extreme violence, smut in the future
Part 1
It was odd to think of how much your life had changed in just a few weeks. At the beginning of the year, you were placed in a cushy job at a base where you were paid large amounts of money to stitch up red-faced recruits and perform physicals on the higher ups–it had been nice, a simple existence where you didn’t have to see blown apart soldiers or hold poor boys down while they screamed and screamed.
But things changed, and for the punishment of your mistake, you were flown here. An active warzone deep in the desert, where there were no boyish recruits eager to please, just grizzled soldiers that look at you like an intruder, a hen in the midst of foxes.
When you were younger, this was easier. You had liked the excitement and adrenaline of danger, of scurrying in the heat of gunfire with your medpack to save lives.
Now you’re older, grumpier, and generally out of shape. They hadn’t given you time to prepare before the Colonel shipped you out here, so here you were in an ill-fitting uniform, setting up your medic bay beside the wolf-soldier’s tent because the Captain insisted that was the only space left in camp.
Their original medic had died after both he and his supplies were blasted to pieces. Captain Graves shortly put in a request for an experienced combat medic, and you could imagine his surprise when he saw you step off the plane, a woman in her early thirties, soft from five years of office work.
The Captain, understandably, hated you. He was saddled with an overweight female medic and a squad of wolves, you were sure the combination put a few extra gray hairs on his head.
Ironically, wolf-soldiers were highly sought after in the military. They were quicker, stronger, and smarter than even the best of the best, able to walk barefoot in the desert without a blister or sniff out an enemy from miles away. You had seen a wolf blown nearly in half get up and walk out of your tent the next day.
Captain’s group was a particularly intimidating bunch. There was Johnny–or Soap, as he preferred–a mohawked wolf with charming blue eyes and a deadly sense of humor. Gaz was the sweetheart of the bunch, smiling at you in a friendly sort of manner whenever you were forced to sit at the end of their lunch table.
Price was their leader, a wide man with a deep voice and commanding presence. Honestly, he reminded you of your father.
Then there was Ghost, the wolf in the skull mask. He was the biggest, all broad shoulders and muscles encased in a healthy layer of fat–and, from what you had learned from your patients, the most dangerous.
On your first day, you had to dig a piece of shrapnel the size of your hand out of his shoulder. Ghost refused when you offered wolf-friendly pain medication, seeming to enjoy your expression as you watched the skin around his gaping wound knit itself back together.
The other soldiers disliked them, simultaneously jealous and fearful of their abilities . The 141 were excluded from the rest, much like you were, so you spent meals at the other side of their table, minding your own business with a novel.
They didn’t seem to mind, after all, you spent half your time digging bullets out of them when the other medics refused to touch them. They weren’t used to humans being kind to them.
You quickly adjusted to life in the desert, sleeping in the back of the med bay in a rickety cot while your patients tossed and turned through the night. You got used to the early mornings and the shitty food, the screaming, the blood, settling back into a life that you had thought you left behind.
This morning was no different. You wake to the noise of shouting, the dark sky telling you it was far from morning.
“Where the fuck is the medic?” Price’s voice dominated over the others. You quickly stumble out of bed, shoving your legs through your pants and hastily buckling them as you hurried outside, wiping the sleep from your eyes.
The scene before you was gruesome. Gaz lay prone on the ground, throat slashed and guts strewn out of his belly like noodles.
If he were a man, he would be dead.
But even a wolf can die, and a body can’t heal around its own intestines.
You were awake in an instant, shouting orders to the men around you as you dropped to your knees. His pulse was slowing as more blood pooled into the dirt, his body unable to replace what he was losing so quickly.
The thing about werewolves is that they are partially human, which allows them to take human blood in small doses if the need calls for it. But the issue was the blood itself.
Every week, you get a shipment of fresh, cold O-negative blood, giving you ample supply for every occasion. But a sandstorm had interrupted the usual shipment yesterday, and while you knew that the shipment was supposed to arrive at noon later today, that didn’t help you now.
Gaz gagged, blood gurgling from his throat.
“Shit, shit,” Soap said, his mohawk slicked with his friend’s blood. “Is he gonna make it, doc?”
Soldiers huddled around you, supplies in their hands. You ripped strips of gauze and placed them over his throat, slowing the bleeding before you started on his gutted stomach.
“We’re out of transfusion blood,” you announced. “Is any soldier here O-negative?”
Silence. No human soldier would volunteer to give his own blood to a wolf.
Except you. You nodded, swiping an alcohol swab into the crease of your elbow before connecting the two of you with an IV, the bright red of your blood flowing into his veins at the gasps of both human and wolf around you.
It would stir up the healing process so you worked quickly, Amon, another medic, joining you as you worked on closing his stomach.
It felt like hours before his pulse grew strong again, but you knew it could only be ten, twenty minutes. You slid the IV out of your arm, blinking as black spots appeared in your vision.
You might have given a bit too much.
Gaz looked at you, his dark eyes replaced by an eerie yellow stare. A chill stole up your spine.
“Good morning,” you said through numb lips, taking a peek under the gauze on his throat. It was now only a pale scar, just a memory of a wound. “Look at that, soldier, you’re practically brand new.”
Gaz smiled weakly, his head falling back into the dirt. Soap whooped, gripping your shoulder in a vicious hug. “Good job, lass, I thought the pup was gone for sure.”
You stumbled at the weight of him, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Amon, will you get him set up in the infirmary? I think I need a moment.”
Price waved Soap off, gripping your elbow in a guiding hold. “Ease off the poor girl, Johnny, she’s dead on her feet.”
Soap merely grinned apologetically, ruffling your bedhead with a rough palm before helping the others move Gaz into the infirmary.
Ghost stood behind you, a reaper in sand-colored tactical pants. Price pushed you gently into Ghost’s direction, “Get her something to eat, Lieutenant.”
“I’m alright,” you tried to insist, a spike of nerves in your belly about being with Ghost. He was the least human of them all.
“That was an order, doc,” Ghost said, his voice a dry rumble as his hand fell on your shoulder. “Go on.”
You allowed yourself to be herded to 141’s tent, having half a mind to curl up in one of their bunks and sleep until dawn, free from the smell of blood and antiseptic.
Their tent was neat and smelled, well, like an animal den–not unpleasant, just overwhelmingly…male.
Ghost nudged you towards the sink without a word.
It took you a moment to see that you were still wearing gloves, caked in Gaz’s blood. You stripped them off, then began soaping up your hands and forearms, scrubbing the red from your skin.
When you were clean, you hovered over a cot, about to take a seat for your shaky legs.
Ghost stiffened from where he was crouched, his hands in a tub of supplies. “Not that one.”
You glanced down, seeing the Scottish flag on the wall, the photos of a couple that looked exactly like Johnny. “Oh, sorry.”
He jerked his head to another cot, this one bare of any decoration except for a cold cup of tea. You assumed it was Price’s, perhaps he doesn’t mind the stench of a human on his sheets.
You took a seat, your hands trembling in your lap. Ghost tossed an army bar your way. “Eat,” he said, in a tone that didn’t invite an argument.
“Ew,” you said, eyeing the packaging. He gave you a dark-eyed look, the kind that probably made wolves bare their bellies and whine. “Oh fine,” you huffed, tearing into it.
It was awful, the kind of chalky that let you know they stuffed enough nutrition and calories in the bland, tasteless bar to keep a soldier going for days. You chewed and watched Ghost shift around in the makeshift kitchen, heating a pot of water over a spindly propane stove.
Was he making-
“Drink this,” Ghost said, passing over a cup of tea. He kept one for himself, pulling up a chair to sit across from you. He was still filthy from whatever mission the Captain had set them on, blood and dirt smeared over his gear and mask.
“Thank you,” you said, sniffing it doubtfully. You were American, so you didn’t have much taste for tea unless it was iced and sweet.
But when someone like Ghost makes you a cup of tea, you drink the fucking tea.
He nodded, turning away from you so he could lift his mask over his mouth to drink his tea. You looked away quickly, focusing your attention on the Scotland flag on Soap’s corner.
The two of you sit in silence for a long time, long enough that your cup is drained and you’re blinking heavily at the darkness still outside.
“Go on,” Ghost said, slipping the cup out of your hand.
You hide a yawn, pushing yourself up from the bed.“It’s alright, LT, I’ve got my own bed somewhere.”
“You have half a dozen men in your tent, love.” Ghost backed you up against the bed, his heavy hand on your shoulder. “Sleep. We’ll keep an eye on Kyle.”
It made sense. You kicked off your boots and curled up on the cot, hiding your throbbing head in a pillow that smelled like gunpowder and musk.
Ghost ducked out of the tent as you laid down, your eyes falling on a skull mask folded up neatly beside the cot.
❝simón álvarez was bitten at 14. the night he first turns, he almost murders his best friend. that was also the night he ran away with the intention of never coming back. the only problem is that for some reason the universe seems set on giving him back his old life whether he wants it or not. so when his best friend luna valente shows up in buenos aires because her parents took a job offer from the bensons, the best hunters in the country who have been after him since he first came to argentina, he tries his hardest to stay away from her to protect her. but when his plans to ditch are overthrown once again by rey shooting him and luna trying to save him, he has to ask himself how much he is willing to give up for the people he loves.❞
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.
