A Howling Beneath the Moon

caitlyn-thelittlewolf:

fatalefenrir:

caitlyn-thelittlewolf:

fatalefenrir:

“Well, well. Look who we have here.”

A small shy smile was drawn on her features before she nodded in response “Hello…” she simply said as her light blue eyes wandered over his form, studying the werewolf before her carefully.

“Got yourself lost in the wood, girly?” The girl’s shy smile is ignored, scorned. Wolves are made for hunt, never the other way around. Peridot drooping low beneath thick lashes, the wolf lights up his vice. Vermillion bleeds from the tip of toxic white tube.

She bared lightly her fangs at him, a soft growl rumbling from her chest. He didn’t scare her, she knew his reputation very well and she also knew that kind of men. “No, I just went out for a walk” she replied without flinching, still studying him, his scent thick in her nostrils. “And I’m guessing you’re out looking for a new prey?”

At the act of defiance, the seasoned wolf snorts. Flickering . Fuckery . Fuck . He doesn’t care. Drag tapped against digits, lending to another falling grey speckle, he shifts his head slightly back, once again taking an indulgence in his musty vice.

“New or old,… does it matters?”

Fenrir does what he pleases. Explanation is rarely given.

It is in a harsh winter night that Fenrir finds himself staring at her again. His life puffs up in white smoke, fading into that bleakness most call night. Winter is always harsh among the woods; Fenrir, the werewolf, always live among the woods. There was a time where the hearth’s warmth had been a part of his life; there was a time grandfather’s tales had lulled him to sleep at night. As his emerald reflects upon her silver, only the tales remain; it sings in his bloood.

His and the pack’s. Fenrir trusts no one, but the pack has been his life. They share his bath. Wolves’ sense of color differs to men. Still, beneath her tentalizingly glow, the blacken liquid is recognized for what it is, savoured for what it is. The seasoned wolf’s ear twitches to the sound of movement. It is one of them; yet it is not.

Wolve’s steps are lighter. Wolf he is willing to recognize as one.

The pack. Snatchers. How fool of men to think they are one and the same. The season wolf turns, harshness bared upon his lips. The pack, Snatcher: there is one yet still caught at its middles, and it is toward that form that cold emerald falls upon. Teeth gritted, metal curls just around the edge in that single utterance of name— recognized for his own making, yet not accepted.

“Scar.”

White mist bellows: Fenrir’s life cuts upon encompassing darkness.

down-to-sin:

fatalefenrir:

down-to-sin:

“You’re the one who attacked me.” She stepped forward boldly. “What do you want from me?”

The gentle breeze seemed to halt, as did all noise. Everything was commanded to be still. And so everything was. Yvonne’s eyes drew down from his violent gaze. She saw the cruel, malice and felt the underlying power that moved just beneath the surface. She studied him closely, inexplicably drawn to her creator. “What did you do to me?” 

They were easily answerable questions. She knew she would change…but these other senses, the urges, the desires. These were not her. Were these his? She did not wish to be bound to anyone else but herself. “Undo it.” Her icy gaze resettled and she locked eyes with him. She would not be bossed around like some child. She would not go back to how things were.

“You are the one who attacked me?”

“What do you want from me? Why did you do this to me”

“Undo it.”

Ah, but how can one really undo the taste of blood once it has been savoured? How can one deny that sweetness of copper once it is coated upon one’s tongue and caught upon one’s snout? When the song from her lady lune leaves its burnt in your blood and nothing else matters but the wind on your face and your hunt’s hastened steps? Catch me. Take me. Play with me., it beckons. Such sensation. Such delight!

It is…exquisite.

“I won’t.” Not “I can’t” Can’t is no longer counted in Fenrir’s dictionary when it comes to his blessing. One step turns to two; two turns to three; her eyes follows in every move— did he care? None. Fenrir enjoys the focus. It reminds him again.

She is his.

“You are one of us now.”

There was an Eastern Asian legend, she recalled, that muggles had called the ‘Red String of Fate’. The bond between humans were symbolized by a red string tied to each respective limb. The bond could never be severed. Perhaps, if she were Asian in some shape or form she’d believe that this string could not be broken or damaged. Fortunate for her, she would cut that damn string in half. The setting sun darkened the shade of the trees but her eyesight was no more hindered. The trees groaned slowly as if relaxing for the night to come before they had to stiffen up once more for the long day. At his words she bristled.

Yvonne knew. She knew that her fate was intertwined with his the moment he sunk her teeth into her. Not in the way he planned it. She was not a pawn. The string they shared would snap and she would destroy him the way he destroyed countless others. She planned on returning the favor of his teeth and claw. “I will not.” She spat at his feet and turned from him. Never turn your back on him. But she did. And she was walking away. A scatter of pine needles covered the forest floor causing her steps to be light and pillowed. Could she out run him? She could not say she feared him. But she did not wish to be any more nearer to him.

But they are bound. As much as the girl wishes to deny, they are bound. Their strings of fate spidering through every fibres of their existences. The same blessing coursing through Fenrir’s sanguine water of life is now coursing through her. They are bound: him as her creator, her as his child.

But they are also bound to the moon. Even when she has not yet graced the sky, the encasing nightfall already has Fenrir’s blood hum in approval.

The string or fate, their blessing is the red Yggdrasil that seals the pack together.

And Fenrir laughs— a low merciless echo mirroring her steps— at her denial, at her turn of back, at the challenge and the silent frustration fuming in her tone. He laughs, for he knows.

She has already came to him once, unbidden.

She will come again.

Their call is too strong to ignore.

down-to-sin asked: Didn't think you were the type for flattery, Fenny.

“Who am I not to indulge from time to time?”, snerks the seasoned wolf.

gerrybutlerfan11:

He’s such a badass werewolf and he’s really one of the darkest characters in the book! JK leaves so much to the adults imagination with that character. Everyone should love Fenrir…. for his ruthlessness!

Don’t know what it is about evil werewolves but I think they’re my guilty pleasure. Doesn’t help that my best friend roleplays Fenrir Greyback; her background story and how well she’s filled the gaps to his biography - not to mention his Gerard butler face.

ugh!

Hotness

Haters gon hate. But you know you hate him for his awesomeness. Their has to be some really devious characters, come onnnn!!

                             

“Glad to know I have a fan.”