Random Simp Book (one shots, imagines, etc.)

Werewolf: Armo x reader

A/N: y/n was in the car crash with armo, her boyfriend, !SPOILERS FOR MONSTER!, i felt really badass when i wrote this for no reason whatsoever, even tho yall not gonna read this cos yall probably dont know who armo is -

Warnings: swearing, violence, kissing

Word count: 2535

Colonel DiMarco looked down at your unconscious body, pumped full of fluids and drugs which had saved your life but now kept you under.

'She was in the crash with Aristotle Adamo, you say?'

'Yes,' the doctor replied.

'Adamo's girlfriend,' DiMarco muttered. 'Too smart to be told he died and she didn't. Healthy, top student, but almost as unruly as Adamo. Hopefully no one will go to great ends to investigate her 'death' because we have no choice.'

'No choice?'

'No choice but to use her too.'

----------------

You wake up aching and with a pounding headache, probably from the drugs that were pumping through your system. Groaning, you sit up, your head spinning. Shouldn't you be injured? You were in the car, Armo's Dodge Viper -

Armo.

You jerk upright and look around. Metal toilet. Metal sink. Desk bolted to the floor. You're inclined to think you are in jail, but for the thick glass which makes up one wall which makes you think of a zoo more than anything else. And the fact that through the glass, which is so thick it makes everything outside murky, you can see other cells, and other figures in them.

Your neck hurts more than anything else, and you gingerly touch it where the most pain is; at the nape. The flesh there is puffy and sore as hell, and you swear under your breath as your fingers brush over metal. A control device? It's what your brain thinks to first, since you are in some sort of dystopian cell with a wall made of glass for people to oggle at you while you're... you're naked?

'Oh, for fuck's sake,' you groan, mainly because you were wearing Armo's - and your - favourite hoodie in the car crash, and of course it wouldn't have made it through, but no one had thought to or bothered to put clothes on you afterwards? Now you're pretty sure it's a control device in your neck. So, you start clawing at it, because who are you but the girlfriend of Armo who can't even help doing the opposite of what people say?

A woman walks up on the other side of the glass and you quickly lower your hand. 'I am Colonel DiMarco,' she says. 'I am your direct superior, and from this point on, you will follow my orders to the letter.'

You raise an eyebrow. You can see that going down really well with Armo. If he's here too. 'Hey, Colonel,' you say. 'Where's Armo?'

'Armo?'

'Aristotle Adamo.'

'Oh,' she says dissmissively. 'He's fine. Now, we're going to do a small experiment. You will experience a little... discomfort, but you'll obey what I say when I do.' She looks back at a person in a lab coat. 'Proceed.'

Your head explodes. Or it feels like that. Staggering pain shoots through your body, and you fall to your knees, the sound of bone on floor echoing around the room. Somehow, though, you manage not to claw at the device, manage to show as much obedience as you can. And then the pain stops.

The memory of it echoes through your bones, but you don't care. Not while you're gulping in air and staring at the way your forearms are rippling with thick grey fur and the way your fingernails are turning into claws; claws that, with a thought, you can retract. Your eyes are sharper, and you reach up a hand to feel your hair replaced with sleek, presumably grey, fur, and two, pointy but sensitive, lupine ears. And you can smell everything. You can smell DiMarco from the other side of the glass. You can smell the others in the cells; two panes of glass away.