There Will be Blood

Fenrir Greyback | 40 | Death Eater | RP Blog for Silencio

[bloodmoongreyback]

Bedside Manner | A&F

[bloodmoongreyback]

bewarethesirenscall​

As quickly as he’d been on top of her, undulating against her apex with a need that matched her own… he was gone. She had dangled so far out on a limb, it snapped from the weight of the words she’d just spoken, from the moment that had just been shared between them. His eyes searched her own for any kind of lie, falter or hesitation and found none.

Arielle sat up for a moment, scanning his hunched back as tattooed fingers ran through drying locks of hair. Her heart ached at the pain he was going through, the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling. She understood his withdrawal, understood why he’d taken so long to show how deeply under his skin the Veela had managed to get in the first place.

Crawling over the sheets, she moved behind him, small hands gripping his shoulders and smoothing the wide expanse of his back. It wasn’t enough, to be pressed up behind him like that. She needed to see his face, like a horse spooked on the field- she needed to whisper quietly into the void between them, to ease his mind- and his heart.

Sliding off the bed entirely, the small witch found herself nestled into the space between his enormous thighs, perched on her knees, gazing up at him. Delicate fingers lifted his chin, forcing the great wolf to look at her. “I almost died, Fenrir.” She was stating the obvious, he already knew that- but she wasn’t saying the words to rub it in. No, she was reminding him, for emphasis. “I almost died and you had no idea how I felt. Not really.” She kept her tone soft, low, almost cautious- but if he listened, if he reached out and focused… he’d hear the steady rhythm of her heart, the even hitch of her breath. He’d sense the truth in her scent. “I’m not asking you to love me back.”

Her free hand rested atop a thick thigh as she balanced herself against him. “But I couldn’t live another second without you knowing, without you hearing those words- just once.” Emotion scared him, more than anything on this planet. The great beast who moved fearlessly through life, instilling terror on innocents and victims alike- had one Achilles heel. His heart. “You didn’t just save me from the Scavengers… you save me every single day.”

But she’d been given a second chance, and she wasn’t going to waste it hiding behind a facade any longer. If he chose to push her away, to get up and leave- to never turn back again. It would break her, but at least she’d spoken her truth. She wasn’t going to take it back, not now- not ever. She loved him with every fibre in her being, so fiercely that she couldn’t ever imagine loving anyone else. Even if he chose to end it now, he was her past, present and future.

“I owe my life to you for more reasons than you could ever imagine, Fenrir Greyback.”

Love. He didn’t understand love. His life didn’t have room for that kind of weakness. Any memories he had of it, of love, belonged to a different person, another life. This person, this life, destroyed things like love. Often, mercilessly, laughing every step of the way. 

Love was a weapon he used, a torture implement better than any bone saw or plier. Fenrir preferred it when his victims had loved ones because of it. Because it was so much easier to break them if he broke the ones they loved first. 

To be the focus of love, the source of it? He felt like a rung bell, hollow and shaking as the words reverberated through him. Fenrir couldn’t think. His mind was empty. There was nothing in his head but a rush of dread. It was a riptide that cinched him by the waist and yanked him down so hard it filled his lungs. He didn’t know how to love, how to be loved. 

Over the years he’d been a lot of things to a lot of people. Brother, pack mate, ally, Alpha, but never loved one. He didn’t know what to do with it, didn't’ understand how it was even possible. If he allowed himself this weakness, it was only a matter of time before someone exploited it. With the company he kept, the life he lived, it wasn’t a question of if someone would use her against him, but when.

He barely noticed the bed shift, barely felt how slender arms wrapped around him from behind, a small body pressing into his back. In another beat the warmth of that body was gone from his back, the bed shifting again as the barely registered weight eased off of the mattress. The space between his feet was suddenly occupied by the veela’s tiny form, her round eyes staring up at him, peering into him as she touched his face and held his gaze. 

Clenching his teeth, he breathed in deeply at her words. She had almost died. Love hadn’t stopped that. Love had done fuck all to protect her from those Scavengers. ‘I’m not asking you to love me back.’ Fenrir’s exhale was slow and heavy as he stared into those open, unguarded green eyes. Truth stared back at him, understanding. There wasn’t pressure to feel something he didn’t, or be something he wasn’t. 

Teeth gritted, brow furrowed, lips thinned into a scowl, Fenrir considered the tiny veela kneeling in front of him, one hand on his thigh to keep her balanced, the other still on his cheek as she held his gaze prisoner. Moments passed in silence. Ten seconds, thirty, a minute, an eternity passed with them sitting just like that, not breaking the other’s gaze for a second of it. 

The tension broke when Fenrir reached between them. He took her cheek in his calloused palm, thumbed over her soft skin as his hand moved from her face, fingers carding through her hair until he had her by the nap. Fenrir captured her gaze, didn’t let her look away for a second as he grumbled a low, “You are my mate, Arielle.” His grip on the back of her neck, her hair still caught between his fingers, pulled her up from her knees so she could stand between his legs, so he could pull her onto his lap, and she was straddling him. He still had her eyes locked with his as he promised, “I won’t be without you.”

He pulled her mouth back down to his, and rumbled hungrily into the kiss he stole from her.

[cad-charming-antonin-dolohov]

poking the beast || AF

[bloodmoongreyback]

cad-charming-antonin-dolohov​

He was surprised the man didn’t growl at him, just restrained himself with a glare that was moderately less impressive than his usual one. Probably the borrowed face. It did not have the roughness of his usual one, though the light behind the eyes was still the same. You can take the man out of the beast, but not the beast out of the man.

“Just making pleasant conversation,” Antonin said mildly, raising his glass to his lips. He surveyed the crowd rather than look directly at Fenrir. He knew how the man often saw it as a challenge. Really, he was right. Direct eye contact could be very useful, and confrontational. And Antonin was not trying to start anything tonight. He had promised to be not only on his own best behaviour, but, Merlin help him, keep the others from acting out as well.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t needle the wolf, nor get more information. They had something of an adversarial working relationship. There was respect, yes, but not as much as if the beast were a real wizard. It was a shame, really. He would have made an impressive addition to their number.

Antonin supposed the wolf that had turned Greyback had seen his initial potential as well. It made him wonder what the man had been before he was turned. He could imagine him no other way than the callous, cruel, animalistic creature he was, and he wondered what had come first.

“It’s good practice for you.”

Fenrir’s disbelieving hmm was as near to a growl as he’d spare the Death Eater. ‘Pleasant conversation’ his fluffy fucking tail. Glancing sidelong at the man beside him, Fenrir took his measure before clenching his jaw and refocusing on the crowd, on Ari being guided through it on Bella’s arm. 

He didn’t dislike Dolohov. There were too few Death Eaters that were worth anything beyond his indifference. Antonin Dolohov was brutal, methodical, a worthy opponent. They weren’t allies or friends, and Fenrir sure as fuck didn’t trust the man. But there was respect. He liked the way Dolohov worked, liked the way he killed, and the way he didn’t. 

“Practice,” he repeated, sipping his scotch, not bothering with another sideways glance to the man standing beside him. Savoring how smoothly the way the alcohol went down, warmed his middle as it settled in his gut, Fenrir licked his lips and tapped his finger to the glass. “The next time I come to something like this it’ll be because someone wants everyone on the guest list dead. So keep your practice and your pleasant conversation, and tell me what the fuck you want.”

He did turn to face him then, staring the man down with an expectant glare. Dolohov didn’t make ‘pleasant conversation’. He played mind games and manipulated people. Much as Fenrir could appreciate that in a predator, he didn’t much feel like playing.

[bloodmoongreyback]

Back Alley Run Ins | A&F

[bloodmoongreyback]

the-underestimated-amelia-bones​

“If only more of them felt that way,” she muttered, head tilting back as she rested it against the brick, her hood cushioning her from the cold stone. Eyes gazed up at the stars for a moment. Only those who took their jobs seriously carried that weight, those fighting to right wrongs and bring justice to the world. Amelia had sadly learned that those who worked at the Ministry were not always among that number.

“But I suppose I’ll take it as a compliment.” Amelia shrugged. He probably hadn’t even meant it as one, was probably mocking her. As if she could do anything to change the world much less carry its weight.

She didn’t have to be a full fledged Auror to know he was being somewhat vague. Whether that was because he wanted to seem mysterious or because he really was trying to hide something was a toss up. But then, normal people didn’t just lurk in dark alleys, did they?

Again, Amelia’s internal voice warned her there might be danger. That she was talking to a stranger in the dark behind the Hogs Head and no one knew where she was. But he wasn’t threatening, and being mysterious wasn’t a crime.

Billowing grey whafted from his pursed lips, bleeding into the lamplight in curling, wispy fingers that dissipated into the night. Fenrir watched the way her shoulders jerked, a smirk creeping over his mouth. “Take it however the fuck you want.” He ashed his cigar. 

It wasn’t, in his mind. The world didn’t give a shit about either of them. Not him, for the chaos he created. And it sure as fuck didn’t care about her, for all the weight she carried trying to make it right. They were both going to die, except he was going to die having made more of an impact than she did, his actions smothering hers because what was Good in this war other than weakness for him to exploit. 

Bored of the conversation, of the woman, and waiting for Raven to show up to talk pack business, Fenrir put his cigar out on the wall he’d been leaning against and tossed the stump at the rubbish bins. “Entertaining as this has been,” he rumbled, pushing out from the shadows to step into the hard line of lamplight, revealing his face to her as he said, “I should get going. So much to do. So little time.” 

A grin slashed across his face, feral and lupine, as Fenrir stared down at the small witch, scenting the air for realization, waiting to see if she’d let him pass or try to do something stupid.

[bloodmoongreyback]

blueflameremus​

Remus wasn’t a pacifist, not by a long stretch. But there were times when inaction, the inability to reconcile disparate thoughts in his mind stilled his hand. To freeze when people like James and Sirius could act, react. Of all the times to give into impulse, submit himself to thoughtlessness as the anger ripped through him. Goaded into action by the monster standing before him, smoke curling from his nostrils like a dragon. Dragon, wolf, beast.  Fenrir’s gravelly laugh, it transpired, was the straw that broke the camel’s back as the noise bounced around the hollow of Remus’ stomach. Orpheus’ metaphorical turning point when Remus’ hand moved, will of its own and then Fenrir was being shoved back into a wall, covered in a snow of falling plaster.

Things went to shit pretty quickly after that, and if Remus had thought about it for a second he could have seen it coming. Eyes growing wide as the wolf was back on his feet with lightning speed, Remus hardly had time to draw breath before Fenrir’s claws were in his shirt and his feet were no longer on the ground. Remus was tall, a whippet of a man, yet up he went and legs flailed, free hand scrabbling to free himself of the bull-like strength. His wand arm was moving, beginning to plot a counterattack when Fenrir roared and things slowed, stilled.

The noise shot through him like a bullet in the chest, ripping through flesh and bone. The blood in his veins, fast-moving and steaming, ran cold. And the wolf in Remus stirred, his reaction visceral to the noise of kin. Alarms rang in the distant recesses of Remus’ logical brain and for a moment, he was sure that he was about to turn.

Four families lived in this building, and the Somali family in the flat below his had just had a baby. Remus wanted to be sick. He couldn’t, refusing to put them in danger. It was a fruitless fight, but the panic quickly subsided as the human part of Remus, the evasive and affable boy, was subsumed by instinct.  Could feel the same bone-crushing pain of transformation threatening to burst from his skin, and pulled back from it.

He snarled, wand clattering to the floor as he thrashed in Fenrir’s stony grip. Hazel eyes flattened out and baring his teeth at Fenrir, Remus’ foot found the larger man’s abdomen and kicked hard. In all the years, he never thought this was how he would die, but suddenly it felt appropriate, the snarling beast getting the best of him. His nails were replaced with claws, and the press of his grip on Fenrir’s arm pierced coat and skin and Remus longed to feel the man’s throat under his fingers.

Remus hated him. And if Fenrir was going to kill him, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Fenrir could have laughed. He felt the seed of it between his lungs. The upsurge of emotion that built and curled in Remus was heady, intoxicating. It was a wave that pulled back from the shore and gained momentum with every mile, power with every gallon, until a great wall of water came crashing forward with the strength to level a city. He greeted it with bared teeth. 

Fear, fury, repulsion, rage. Fenrir had more control of Remus’ emotions than the boy did and, with a spittle spraying roar, he summoned them all to the surface to meet him. His reaction was immediate, instinctual. The visceral sharpening of a suddenly alert wolf, a stirred predator forced to the forefront. It was in his eyes, his teeth, his nails that scratched at Fenrir’s forearm, shredding leather as he scrambled for freedom. 

He did laugh then, at the sight of Remus’ greatest shame, his biggest fear, Fenrir’s truest gift. Golden eyes glared back at him, nothing human in their glow, not as they narrowed on his throat. Thin lips pulled back, baring long, sharp canines, teeth that could shred through skin and muscle, tear apart necks with an addictive sort of ease. Nostrils flared and his eyes widened. His wand fell to the ground in a clatter. For a second fear outmatched his other emotions, until Remus focused himself on Fenrir. Then his rage was back in the driver’s seat. 

The boy’s foot met with his abdomen hard enough to kick the air out of his lungs, and get him back on the ground. It wasn’t enough to free him. Fenrir still had the whelp by his collar, which his fist tightened around as his other arm wound back. The crack of meeting flesh was loud as a thunder clap. His knuckles ached from the backhanded blow that had Remus doubled over, face cradled in his hand, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. A knee to the boy’s middle launched him a few inches up off of the ground before he collapsed to the floorboards in a heap. 

“Get up,” Fenrir growled down at him, reeling his foot back to kick the steel toe of his boot into Remus’ gut, forcing him to curl in on himself as he barked a commanding, “Get up.”

He leaned down, grabbed a hold of his arm, his shirt, his bony frame, and lifted him off of the ground. Fenrir threw Remus into the far wall. Cracks spiderwebbed with the collision, chunks of drywall falling with Remus, on top of him, revealing the brick and wooden slats behind it. 

“Anger isn’t strength,” grumbled Fenrir as he prowled over to Remus’ hunched form, grabbed him again and hauled him up onto his feet just to backhand him again, catching him before he could crumple from the blow. Standing him up against the ruined wall, he seethed, “Strength is strength, and you are fucking weak.”

[bloodmoongreyback]

Know Thy Enemy | F&R

[bloodmoongreyback]

awearywood​

Raising his wand, Augustus muttered a silencing spell on the room, eyes casting a glance around the disheveled space. Sad, really. Pathetic. One good hex would have blown the entire building asunder. It was a curious thought, how detached magic could be; how personal the Death Eaters insisted on making it. And Fenrir, who took such delight in murder, unafraid of getting his hands dirty, was the most intimate of them all in many ways.

Taking someone’s life away was a gift, hardly something to be treated lightly. There was a whole branch of magic relating to death, and the energy release of murder on a magical being was huge. Massively understudied, naturally. And with muggles, it was hard to say. Dark eyes dropped to Marcus’ profile, his features scrunched into unspeakable pain, expression one of panic. Did Marcus know of the potential in his head, that he could save himself if he was able to wield it, that power? Poor squib.

Augustus found himself smiling. (He needed to sleep, he was getting irrational.) Fenrir’s words to the boy had Gus straightening up. That was interesting, too. Had never paid much mind to werewolves, how they turned. Was that a magical transmission? Did wolves need to practice turning their victims or was it an inherent? He would have to remember to ask, when this was over.

The scent of blood was inescapable now as Fenrir drove the knife into the boy’s wrists. Augustus was not a religious man, but his mother had been. This is what it would have smelt of, when the muggles scourged him, the Lord of beggars and redemption. No incense, no candles, just blood and piss and cold sweat of fear.

Fenrir was on a vendetta. That was apparent now, as his eyes glistened with a cold, furious delight. Marcus was babbling again, and the noise crescendoed. Too loud, biting at his nerves.

With catlike steps, Augustus drifted, fingers ghosting over papers and clutter. An electricity bill that needed to be paid. A photograph of them, the four of them, smiling on a beach. Their cheeks were pink from the wind. The remains of an entire family. He could picture the local paper, maybe the national papers or the wizard papers. If Marcus had someone in Azkaban then the Prophet would be crawling all over it.

Fingers working, Gus slipped the photograph from its cheap metal frame and tucked it into his coat pocket. He was a collector. He would want it later. There was a morbid fascination in the lives of the people that he destroyed.

They’d need to leave a clean enough scene. The Death Eater scrunched his nose as he surveyed the mess Fenrir had made of the boy. He was barely recognisable. Absolutely dead. But it was nothing a scourgify couldn’t fix after Fenrir had satiated his bloodlust.

Wand raised once more, he began putting the small apartment back together into something that resembled relative calm. In two steps, he had crossed the room to their sleeping quarters. One room, shared by four. With a flick, Augustus put the bed back together, feathers from the mattress coalescing as if Augustus was reassembling an oversized bird. At his feet, the man spied a copy of Moby Dick, thumbed relentlessly.

‘I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing.’

He turned in the doorway. Marcus’ face had crumpled into something that was vaguely human. Barely. He had stopped looking at the boy pinned to the wall, face turned in horror to stare at the limp frame of his other son. Gus frowned. This was going to be an awful lot of stress on his test subject after all this was said and done. He sighed, turning to Fenrir. At least the wolf was laughing.

“Fenrir.” The low voice carried over the sobs and dry heaves. “Do you have an idea how long this will take?”

The sobbing, pleading, soundless wailing had stopped. All that was left was the broken silence of a broken man. Fenrir pulled his knives out of the small body, one by one, ending with the dagger pinning his wrists to the wall. He wilted to the ground with a wet thump. Glassy eyes wide, face set to a dying gasp, the boy stared blindly across the floor, screaming soundlessly into the black that had taken him. 

He stepped over the small body, over to the squibb. Smirking down at the man, Fenrir watched how he swayed forward, head heavy between his shoulders, tears a puddle in his lap to join the stain of piss. Wiping the knives clean on his shirt, one at a time, Fenrir stained the squibb's shoulder with his son’s blood before resheathing the blades that killed him. 

Huffing a laugh, the amusement in Fenrir’s eyes faded when he saw that the flat was set to rights. Brows furrowing with his frown, he glanced toward Rookwood and watched as the bedroom was also magicked back into order, not a down feather out of place. The wizard turned for the doorway and their gazes met after he considered the squibb. 

“I’m done,” he supplied on a growl. He’d wanted to leave the mess, the blood and gore, ruined furniture and maimed bodies. He wanted word to get back to the Scavenger that had hurt Arielle, and the best way for it to reach him in his cell in the Ministry, or his cell in Azkaban, was for the whole fucking world to know. 

Last knife sliding into place, he grabbed the squibb by his scruff and yanked him up off of the chair. Fenrir tossed him over to Rookwood. “Let’s go,” he muttered, already stalking toward the door. Without looking back at the wizard, Fenrir said, “The boathouse burns.” News would make it back to the Scavenger. One way or the other.

[bloodmoongreyback]

Bedside Manner | A&F

[bloodmoongreyback]

bewarethesirenscall​

Draped across his body, she realized, it was all worth it. The road they were on was long and torturous, full of twists and turns that pulled at her heart and had her waking up at night in a cold panic only he seemed to be able to soothe… and she wondered, what her life would have been like had it ended up any differently. It was a broken road that led her to Fenrir but it was one she’d follow to the ends of the earth, knowing what was lying in wait for her.

As she felt his heart beat against her own chest, she felt life instil itself within her again. Like her body renewed with vigour of a fresh purpose. Sure, there was damage and she was still healing- but right here in the silence of the strangers bedroom, she realized one irrefutable fact. Arielle was in love with him. Head over heels, undeniably so.

And then… from one blink to the next, she went from settled atop his overly large frame to being flipped upon her back, with the full weight of her wolf now on her. She would have laughed in delight at the show of affection but the look in his eyes was nothing but pain. A manicured hand reached up to touch the sharp cut of his jaw once again.

“I’m sorry, I never meant to scare you like that… but I’m not going anywhere, Fenrir. You couldn’t get rid of me then and you definitely can’t now. I promise.” It was one she intended on keeping. Ari had lost too much in her life, and so had he. They deserved this love, this connection and she’d fight tooth and nail to keep it.

His head dropped to her neck, soft lips pressing against porcelain skin as he growled his vows against her. Like he was speaking straight to her soul. On a powerful surge, his hips found friction with her core and she had to bite her lower lip hard to stifle the moan threatening to escape her.

The sharp edge of his fangs cut lightly against her throat and as the large splay of his hand pressed against her, Ari’s back arched. Pressing her chest hard up against him she couldn’t control her bodies reaction to his attention, to all the months she’d waited for him to hold her, to touch her just like this. Squirming beneath him, her own hips sought out friction against him as her arms wrapped around his neck, clinging onto him for dear life…

“I am yours, Fenrir…. I love you.” The words slipped past her lips before she could stop them but frankly, she didn’t want to. He didn’t have to say it back, hell it was probably too much to say in the first place but she couldn’t help it. All they’d endured together, all he’d sacrificed… for her? And to think of a world in which, she wasn’t in it. In which, she hadn’t told him the very thing she’d been keeping so close to the chest for so long? No. Arielle refused to live a second longer in this world without him hearing it, at least once. She loved him.

“Arielle,” he growled, moving his hand from her face to her neck, where he applied enough pressure to force her to look at him, to see the command in his hard gaze. “Stop. Apologizing.” 

He didn’t want to hear that she was sorry. She didn’t have anything to be fucking sorry about. Those Scavengers, they had something to be sorry about, and they’d pay for hurting her. But her? She’d been a victim, and he deserved whatever fear he’d felt after she’d gotten hurt. 

He hadn’t protected her, and he deserved to feel what that felt like, needed to know that pain was. If he knew it, lived it, he wouldn’t let it happen again. Fenrir would do anything to make sure she was never hurt again. He knew because the anguish of almost losing her would always be right there, front and center in his thoughts for the rest of his life. No other thought could come forward without first filtering through that truth. 

At her promise he dipped his head for her neck, his hand sliding from her throat to grab her jaw and hold her face to the side as he breathed her in. Fenrir’s hand on her back pushed her chest into his and he could feel the way her heartbeat, how it thumped against his own chest as her breaths came in harder, shorter bursts. Rumbling into her neck as his fangs scratched over her skin, Fenrir pressed his hips into her apex, instinct and desire both warming his blood, roaring in his ears, hardening his length. 

Fenrir growled as she squirmed, her small body undulating as he bit and licked and kissed her neck, writing for more as little mewling sounds came out of her. Nails dug into him, hands grabbing for purchase as he grounded himself into the softest part of her and contemplated all the noises he wanted to hear her make, all the way he could make her make them. 

But then she spoke and he froze. Not at her submission, which earned a replying bite on the incline from her shoulder to her neck as he thrust his jean clad member against her. The panted words that followed made him go rigid, flash froze his blood, not an ember of arousal left in him as he lifted his face from her neck, used his grip on her jaw to make her face him, and frowned down at her. Fenrir scanned her face, peered into her eyes, and found sincerity, truth. 

He pushed away from her, off of her, turning to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to her. Glowering at the plush carpet beneath his bare feet, Fenrir scraped his fingers through his hair, nails raking against his scalp as he fought to form a single thought. His head and chest had been hollowed out. There wasn’t a thought or emotion in either one, just an empty vacuum. Shock. There were no words in his head. Nothing for him to say. 

All he could do was sit on the edge of the bed and try to make sense of a world that didn’t make any fucking sense anymore.

[bloodmoongreyback]

bewarethesirenscall​

She lifted to the tips of her toes, still needing to stretch to get anywhere close to his face, even in the small suit. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She whispered, pressing herself against him along with his own grip. A reminder that she belonged utterly to him- and no one else. “Oh baby, it’s okay. Fighting might be your domain- but this is mine.”

There was a twinkle in her eyes as her smile brightened, her arms lifting to wrap around his neck. “Just move with me, think of it like tracking prey… you follow their footsteps until you corner them.” And he could corner her as much as he liked… though she was desperate for the night to be over, so she could burn that damn flask and watch as the man she loved came back to the surface.

Her feet hardly moved as her body began to sway to the dulcet tones of the music playing. The song was slow, gentle, the perfect pace to ease him into the routine. She started so subtly, one would almost not realize they were swaying at all. When the first step came, it was monotonous, a mechanical move made on auto pilot.

“See? You can do this.” Sucking her lower lip between her teeth, she couldn’t help but admire how he did everything with such grace. From dancing to killing, he moved with purpose. Whether it was his own suit or not, she almost wondered if he knew just how beautiful he was. And standing here in the moment, looking into his eyes- the eyes that remained unchanged regardless of a potion… it was perfect.

For a moment Fenrir anchored himself to the spot, dug his heels in, his heart beating uncomfortably at the prospect of letting her move him at all, much less making him dance. He was expecting roaring in his head, his instincts shouting at him to run, retreat to the wall of the room where he could see everyone and watch all the exits. But everything was silent in his head, with nothing but the music and Arielle’s soft smile to fill the space. 

This was her domain. He’d seen her home in France, and even her flat in London. Where he’d been raised for killing fields and charnel houses, she was raised on dancefloors and extravagant parties. Dancing was as second nature to her as killing was to him, Fenrir would never make her kill anyone, but if she wanted him to dance… he let her delicate hands pull him into place. 

A muscle in his jaw worked as he followed her instructions, watched her as she placed his hands then wrapped her arms around his neck. Shorter than he usually was, it was easier for her to do so without him having to lean forward while she stood on the tips of her toes. Fenrir gripped her hips and stared into her eyes, he let her lead him into simple movement and all he allowed himself to focus on was her beautiful face. 

He didn’t reply when she spoke, just watched her bottom lip as it was pulled between her incisors. His hands on her waist pulled her in that much closer. The beat was easy to follow, the steps simple enough that he found the rhythm and kept it, moving with her effortlessly, hoping this made her happy, that he… 

Quietly, nearly inaudibly, Fenrir confessed, “My parents used to dance.” His brow furrowed and his jaw tightened, his heartbeat picking up as his mind revolted against memories that should have stayed buried, that he had no right to say out loud, to share with anyone. Memories that didn’t belong to him. Not anymore. He shook his head, meaning to dismiss the rest, but when Fenrir spoke it was with a muttered, “At night, when the rest of my family was sleeping. They’d dance like this.”

[cad-charming-antonin-dolohov]

poking the beast || AF

It’s strategic of Antonin to approach Fenrir here, in his borrowed skin. The wolf has been knocking back the Polyjuice Potion all night in order to keep from reverting back to his normal beastly self. And he can’t make a scene.

Antonin had noticed the way the wolf in sheep’s clothing seemed actually attached to his date. And she, he was fairly certain, was not a werewolf. Antonin recognized her from the Ministry actually: the Keeper of the Prophecies.

He knew Fenrir well enough to know that the man would not just bring some stranger here tonight. Appearances meant nothing to him, so he would have had no trouble showing alone. And yet he brought the petite French blonde who looked at him with the same kind of adoration which he bestowed upon her.

Here was the best place to bring it up, and now as good a time as any. Antonin wove his way through the crowd, throwing out his polite smiles and nods until he arrived at the werewolf’s side. He had waited until the predator was alone, though still in a public area. However much he enjoyed slugging it out with the wolf as an exercise in stamina, tonight was not the time nor place. And Fenrir was even more aggressively possessive than Antonin was. 

“Will wedding bells be playing soon for you too?” he inquired, managing to keep the smirk off of his face.

@bloodmoongreyback

[bloodmoongreyback]

Retreating to the far side of the room, where he had a wall at his back and an eye on the exits, Fenrir watched the room. Something in his glare pushed the crowd a healthy distance away and encouraged a wide berth. He definitely wasn’t complaining. 

Fenrir watched as Bellatrix took Ari by the arm and strode through the main hall, between bodies, around tables, stopping every so often for Rod’s mate to address her guests and introduce Arielle. He watched her the entire time, tracking his mate’s every move as Bella paraded her around. 

He hadn’t meant to tell her about his parents earlier, hadn’t meant for that deeply buried part of him to come bobbing up to the surface, the memory of a past that didn’t belong to him, a life that wasn’t his. He gritted his teeth and shook his head, trying again to bury it at the deepest, darkest parts of him; where no one and nothing could touch it. Not even him. 

It came as little comfort that Fenrir noticed Antonin’s approach, not when he should have been able to sense him sooner than he had. He didn’t break his attention away from Ari as the wizard came to stand beside him, just lifted his drink to his mouth and took a sip of the scotch. Not until Dolohov spoke, then Fenrir’s focus snapped right onto him. 

Not saying anything, he just stabbed him with a glare and waited. There hadn’t been a threat in his question, nothing beyond curiosity in his face. Without his hightened senses, he couldn’t scent what the man was really asking, what he’d actually come here to discuss. Fenrir had known that bringing Arielle tonight would be a risk, would expose her, them, to dark forces that would happily use her against him. But he didn’t think he would have survived tonight without her. He’d weighed the risk and decided to trust Rod, trust that he and Bella would protect Ari, too. Even if it was from the rest of them. 

Voice low, absent the growl that would have edged it if he had the right vocal cords, he grumbled, “What do you want, Dolohov?”

[bloodmoongreyback]

Back Alley Run Ins | A&F

[bloodmoongreyback]

the-underestimated-amelia-bones​

It was strange how his rumbling laughter could be heard across the alleyway. How she could almost feel it reverberating against her own chest. It was even stranger how Amelia was allowing herself to rest here. As if shoring herself up for another battle, for pushing herself off the wall and making her way home. As if that would be difficult. It might be.

Strange how in this moment, she felt comfortable talking to a stranger, with anonymity protecting her as well. Her cloak shadowed her face as much as his corner kept his in darkness. It was easier this way, without having to worry about who she was speaking to, or about what. His was not a voice she recognized, and she was grateful for that too.

She didn’t like that it was so obvious that the day had taken its toll on her, though. But again, what did it matter if he didn’t know who she was? Her job required her to be on point, ready for anything. But he didn’t know that. For the moment, they were two strangers in a dark alley.

Amelia suddenly understood the allure of a one night stand. Not with this man, of course, but she felt safe cloaked–literally and figuratively–in the darkness. In the knowledge that they didn’t know each other. At least in this moment. She was always so afraid of her image, of how she was perceived.

She had given up her happiness for her work, for the chance to do good in their world that otherwise she would have been denied. Would she have gotten the job as Moody’s handler if they were still together? Absolutely not. And her position allowed her to do good for so many, including those fighting for what was right.

“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose,” she agreed, slowly. And there was the apprehension again. Interesting was one way to describe the current state of affairs, but she would have far preferred it to be dull. She didn’t need everything to be going to hell in a handbasket all at once to keep her happy.

“I don’t know if that’s your powers of discernment, or a safe guess,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. Many people worked at the Ministry. “Where do you work?” It was an answer by not answering, an implied agreement that he was right. If he understood that, fine, if he didn’t…even beter.

Fenrir’s shoulders jerked. Smirking into his cigar, he muttered, “I wouldn’t say it's especially obvious.” He also wouldn’t say that he particularly cared. Not about where she worked, or about her, but she had Ari’s scent on her and that changed things. After taking a drag he pointed at her with the thickly rolled tobacco, observing, “You just have that ‘weight of the world on your shoulders’ look that comes standard to Ministry officials.”

By the way her arms folded in front of her, he could tell that he didn’t like her talking about work. She’d probably come out here to avoid it. The other reasons to come slum it at the Hogs Head didn’t seem like the kinds of things she was interested in. She didn’t smell or look like the type than ran in his circles. She didn’t smell or look like the type that had any business chatting him up in the shadows of a back alley. 

But who was he to tell a grown woman how to live her life. Especially when he was curious to see exactly what type of woman she was. 

The question earned an amused huff from him. Fenrir licked his lips to ward off a grin. Scratching the side of his nose, he supplied, “I do freelance contract work,” smirking, “So, I guess I work wherever the work is.”

[bloodmoongreyback]

[bloodmoongreyback]

bewarethesirenscall​

His arms were wrapped around her, holding her close against a still hard chest. Only, they were off. The height distribution, the wing span of the hand flat on her tummy, the way his body crowded her but not in its entirety. The scent was different, too clean, too aristocratic. The meat suit he was wearing one too much like the kind of pure blood male her parents tried to set her up with…

He was Fenrir, but not her Fenrir and the thought alone had her aching for the hours after the wedding, when he could return to his true form and hold her once more. The thing was, though… it was probably good that she be seen with this version of her lover. Just another way to throw off the scent of anyone tracking them.

It didn’t mean she had to like it.

He was flush against her, those still large though not large enough hands holding her with all the need that sat unspoken between them. Her own closed over the top, holding him tight as if she could latch on and never let go. Despite the fact that he wasn’t wearing his own face, to be able to do something in public- to enjoy a moment like this… it was nice.

She could live without it, knew the life she’d chosen the minute she’d laid eyes upon him. The second she’d fallen unexpectedly, uncontrollably, irrevocably in love with the wolf. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t relish the date whilst they had it, though. Memories lasted a life time and this was one she’d cherish until the day she died.

Twisting in his grip, Arielle wrapped her arms around his neck. He was still so tall, and those eyes… the poly juice potion couldn’t change those. They were her favourite thing about him, could stare into them for an eternity and never tire.

“How’s the suit going for you?” She wasn’t talking about the threads, but knew he’d understand her regardless. The mischievous twinkle in her eye only brightened as she pressed closer against her lover. “Think you can dance in it, handsome?”

There was a dispassionate rumble to Fenrir’s exhale as he watched Arielle smooth his suit while asking about the skin he was wearing. “It’s… small,” he muttered, unaccustomed to occupying so little space, to being as weak and slow as he was. Clenching his jaw, he dug his fingers into her waist and tugged her in closer, so her chest was flush against his. “Don’t wander far from me tonight.” 

Not because she was in any danger here, he knew she wasn’t. But Fenrir couldn’t relax in this body, and it helped to see for himself that his mate was fine. It helped to know that he could be at her side in an instant if she called for him. 

Fenrir blinked at the question, brows furrowing, jaw tightening. “I…” He ground his teeth and searched her eyes. He didn’t dance. Didn’t know how. Growing up in a warband, fighting and killing his way to Alpha, hadn’t left a lot of time for dance lessons. Not tearing his discerning gaze from hers, he rumbled, “Do you want to dance?”

Something stuttered in his heartbeat, warmed uncomfortably in his blood. Not the way she typically warmed his blood, but a prickling warmth that climbed up his neck and made his skin itch. If Arielle wanted to dance… he’d endured worse things, had experienced greater shames. If it would make her happy…

[bloodmoongreyback]

Crisis Averted | F&R

[bloodmoongreyback]

viciousvisage​

Rod stiffened. Some idiot had cornered Fenrir, and was apparently yapping his ear off. By the expression on his brothers face, he was about… three seconds away from smashing his head into the marble, and we can’t have that now, can we? The elves that ran this place just polished it.

He casually excused himself from whoever the hell was talking to him in that moment- he wasn’t even paying attention- and made his way through the crowd. Nodding and smiling at anyone who caught his eye as he closed the distance between himself and Fenrir.

Slipping in behind the not so large werewolf, he slid an arm casually over his shoulder- “Hey, Nigel. I see you found my dear old cousin here. If you don’t mind, I need to borrow Jean… Grooms business and all that.”

His tone was light and airy but the ice cold stare could wither the warmest of souls, and the poor sod nearly tripped over himself backing out of the room. “Sure, no worries Rod… you got it.” The smirk didn’t cross his features until the idiot was gone and the pair were left alone in the room.

“Can’t leave you alone for a second, can we?” He jabbed with a low chuckle, turning until he was standing before the werewolf. A clap of his hand on the shoulder that was far too thin to be real in comparison to Fenrir’s normal form, he shook his head. A small sadness washing over him.

“Can’t tell you what it means to me that you’re here, I just wish it was… you know…”

An ache was starting to form in his jaw. Fenrir’s breaths were coming harder as his patience frayed. There was a countdown dwindling fast in his head, the seconds dropping faster as Fenrir rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and shifted his weight. For Rod’s sake, and out of respect for his mate, Fenrir had tried to be civilized. He wasn’t going to be punished for it by listening to this asshole for the rest of the night.

Just as the minute zeroed out in his head, Rod’s voice sounded from behind him, his presence washing in like a tidal wave as he draped an arm over his shoulder in a casual embrace. Fuck, he hated this body. He hated what it’d reduced him to. Fenrir hadn’t even heard Rod’s approach, hadn’t scented him or sensed him until he was right on top of him. 

The growl that built behind his sternum wasn’t to discourage the touch, but out of frustration over how weak he was. His senses were diluted, so watered down they were useless. Fenrir didn’t know how humans did it, how they could stand to be this weak. The respect he felt for Rodolphus and the others doubled. 

Whatever the stout man saw in Rod’s diamond sharp gaze had him backing away in a hurry, not just from the conversation, but from the room altogether. Fenrir watched him run with a sneer, jaw clenched, eyes narrow with violence. Huffing his distaste, he raked his fingers through his hair again, mussing the strands before grabbing the knot of his tie and tugging it looser, a scowl on his face as he made a grumbling noise. 

Scratching clipped nails over a hairless jaw, Fenrir muttered, “I wouldn’t recommend it.” Leaving him alone had almost ended up with a body he’d have had to get rid of. His patience and restraint were running on fumes. Or had been. Now that Rod was standing in front of him Fenrir felt like he could breathe again.

The heavy hand that grabbed him by the shoulder made him relax his shoulders and his jaw. He let go of his tie and rolled his head on his neck, sighing a weighty exhale. A nod met his brother’s words, dismissing the gratitude he heard in them. Fenrir dropped his gaze from the male’s ice blue eyes to stare down at his hands, which he curled into fists before shaking his head at himself. 

“I don’t think I’ll get used to it,” grumbled Fenrir, looking up again. “I can’t… smell you.” It bothered him to be this disconnected from the world, his nature, from Rod himself. Not breaking away from Rod’s gaze, he forced himself to smirk. 

“Not the kind of party I’m used to, but you know I’ll always come when you call.”

[bloodmoongreyback]

Crisis Averted | F&R

@viciousvisage

He didn’t know how he’d gotten separated from Arielle. That wasn’t true. Rod’s mate was in rare form tonight. When she’d gabbed Ari by the arm and glared up at him, Fenrir hadn’t been sure that he stood a chance against her in this body. He’d growled, but even that sounded wrong. 

Without his mate to anchor him, Fenrir had drifted through the crowd, prowling between partygoers, not sure where he was going or what he’d do when he got there. 

Somehow he’d ended up in the smoky interior of a parlor room, trapped in a conversation with some business mogul hoping to expand his trade into France. Since Fenrir was posing as Rod’s cousin who’d come all this way from the prospective frontier, clearly he’d been the ideal person to corner. Rolling his shoulders and biting down on his molars, Fenrir missed his knives. He missed his claws. Staring at the stout man in front of him, he imagined the warmth of his blood spraying as Fenrir slashed open his throat. 

Fenrir’s French was pretty good. His French accent? Not as good. So, he nodded his way through the conversation, eyeing the nearby sculptures and busts of old nobles, and plotted the best way to bludgeon the man, and his way out of this.

Fingers raked through his hair, mussing the strands. Continuing to absently nod, he tried to loosen the tie choking his neck. He needed out of this room. It was stifling, and the man’s voice was grating on already frayed nerves. Licking his lips, he felt them twitch into a snarl, and ground his teeth against the urge to bash the man’s skull into the nearest corner if it meant him leaving him the fuck alone.

[bloodmoongreyback]

Gravity | A&R

@bewarethesirenscall

Everything about this was strange. Never in his entire life had he been somewhere so extravagant, worn something so expensive, or been surrounded by so many people. He was standing among them, out in the open, in plain sight, and no one had pointed and screamed. The flask in his breast pocket had enough polyjuice in it to make sure that his good luck lasted the night.

Staring down at unmarked hands, no scars or calluses or tattoos, he curled his fingers into a fist and sighed. Fenrir shook his head. His jaw clenched as he glared past his brow at the ongoing party. He’d never been more out of his element than he was now. 

Everything about this body was wrong. Its senses were dull, its reflexes slow, and he was at least forty pounds lighter than he should have been. All that muscle mass, gone. He felt weak, exposed, on edge. 

Fenrir took a subconscious step nearer to his mate. His hand on the small of her back pulled her closer and he leaned down to nuzzle her temple, but that cinnamon vanilla scent was off. Gritting his teeth, his exhale was resigned as he stood upright again.

He hated how weak his senses were, how weak he was in this body. Logic argued that nothing would threaten her here, but he hadn’t survived this long by being careless and letting his guard down. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d still tear anyone apart that so much as looked at her wrong. It’d just be more of a challenge without his fangs, claws, or arsenal of weapons. 

Smartly dressed wait staff wended through the crowd and he considered trying to see if he could get drunk in this form. As soon as the thought formed he cut it off at the knees. He was weak enough as it was. He wasn’t going to hinder himself some more by testing his tolerance. Not if he was also endangering his mate in the process. 

He pulled her in closer and glared at the crowd.

[bloodmoongreyback]

Event: Wedding Bells Ring

Pictured - Fenrir polyjuiced to look like Rod’s French cousin, and is going by the alias Jean Dubois

[bloodmoongreyback]

Best Served Cold | F&R

[bloodmoongreyback]

viciousvisage​

He knew the owl was received. In all the time the pair had known each other, Fenrir had never ignored him. The woollen overcoat was the first to be removed. It had been hung delicately upon the iron hook of the rack near the door of the cabin. Fingers moved to unlink the cuffs in his sleeves, placing the 24k gold on the table, next.

Ice blue eyes pierced the mirror he was looking into as skilled hands unbuttoned the white shirt. Slowly, methodically. Un-tucking it from his belt, he shrugged the shirt off too, hanging it on the hook next to the coat. His gaze ran down the length of the mirror, assessing himself as he waited. The watch was next, along with any jewellery on his person. God, he hated this.

When the door swung open, he didn’t move, merely looked at Fenrir through the mirror. He knew what was coming next, and his heart ached. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t care. If it were anyone else, they’d be dead. The silence in the room deafened him, and the Death Eater waited for the door to shut and the look to turn, even though there’d be no one coming. It was a metaphor, more than anything else. An invitation to begin.

He caught sight of the dark mark on his forearm as the wizard turned to face his brother. There was no fight in the other’s face, no anger, no rebellion. Merely acceptance. That hurt him even more. He took a step towards the wolf before a right hook connected with Fenrir’s jaw. Hard. It barely moved, the blood that welled upon his lip only the beginning. “You should have listened to me, brother.”

He spoke through gritted teeth, maintaining a facade he knew Fen could see straight through. His fist connected again, and again, andagain.. Over and over, until his knuckles bruised and the wolf’s face was bloody. It wouldn’t last. He’d heal within the hour but that wasn’t the point, was it? “It’s not that you took them out, I don’t care about the pathetic mudbloods.”

Rodolphus stepped closer still, until they were all but chest to chest. Eye to eye. “I told you it was my ass on the line.” The punishment he took from Voldemort, to protect Fenrir and Evan- to keep their names out of it. He shuddered at the memory. “You should have listened…”

A final hit to the jaw had his own knuckles swollen and aching but he pushed it aside. One more and he’d break the bone clean off his face. Not because he was stronger than the wolf, but because he was letting him. Because Fenrir was standing there and taking the punishment without a single groan or sound of protest. He came here knowing why, came with his guard down and defences dropped. Which is why Rod stopped, why he held back any further.

The same bruised hand that hurt him, clasped hard to the back of his neck. Pressing his forehead against the other, a silent plea in his eyes. “Don’t make me do that again, brother.” He can’t always be the one to protect him, Voldemort had eyes and ears everywhere… and a part of him wondered if the Dark Lord knew. It didn’t matter, just like his wolf- he’d stand there and take anything Voldemort gave him if it meant keeping him safe.

Fenrir could handle his own, he knew that… but the carnage? The bloodshed? The casualties if the two ever went head to head… it wasn’t just about Fenrir any more. He had someone he loved, he had a weakness and for that, Rod would step up. He’d do whatever he had to do to keep them all safe.

Tension came off of the cabin in powerful enough waves that creatures skittered away with his approach, animals fleeing a storm. Fenrir paused mid stride, stopping his foot just as it nearly came down on a mouse. He watched as it scampered out from from beneath his boot, racing for the treeline and the safety a wall of birch trees would provide from whatever came out of that cabin. Turning his focus back onto the lantern lit doorway, a muscle feathered in his jaw as he sighed through his nostrils and reached for the handle. 

Displeasure tinged the air with a sharp tang that burned his nostrils. But not like how he was expecting. It wasn’t anger. Anger had a fiery smell to it, ash and embers, and brimstone. This was the kind of displeasure between pack mates, between brothers. The kind of displeasure that needed reprisal before it could be shrugged off and forgotten. 

Rodolphus was agitated with him. Reparations meant he’d need to make Fenrir bleed. But it wasn’t anger. He couldn’t put a name to what this was. It didn’t matter. If Rod needed him to bleed, then Fenrir would bleed. 

He gave the space the briefest appraisal before their gazes met in the mirror, glacial blue to autumn hazel. Fenrir noted how deliberately Rod had undressed, his clothes and jewelry hanging neatly and lying in a methodical straight line. It was a ritual. A pre-battle centering. This fight --if it could be called that-- served a purpose.

Aware of that purpose, he didn’t look away from Rod as he reached behind him and turned the lock into place. They stared at each other for a moment, understanding passing between them like it always had. Wordless and instinctual. Fenrir’s grit his teeth against his own instincts, against how his hackles rose at the thought of submitting, how his blood burned with a defensive kind of violence. 

He broke his hard gaze to walk into the small living room attached to the dusty foyer. Fenrir shrugged out of his duster and tossed it onto the sheet covered armchair, the moonlight illuminated a plume of dust as it landed. Watching Rod’s back, seeing the tension in the male’s muscle corded body, Fenrir bit down on his molars and began to remove his weapons one blade at a time. The table glinted with silver and steel, his knives, daggers, and hatchets laid out and far from reach. He’d even removed the stiletto from his boot, and the brass knuckles from his pocket. They fell onto the table with a clunk, before he raked his fingers through his hair and fashioned the strands into a bun, out of his face and out of the way. 

Looking up to meet Rod’s gaze again, he pulled his henley over his head and tossed it with his overcoat. A sharp nod at his brother motioned that he was ready. At the scent of discomfort, Fenrir wondered if he should pretend to fight back, if that would make this easier for him. The thought was shoved down and stomped out before it fully formed. Rod would kick his ass just for thinking it. 

Pain exploded in his jaw with the first strike, the metalic taste of blood already on his tongue. Fenrir exhaled a heavy breath, shut his eyes, breathed in deep, and opened them again, sure there wouldn’t be rings of gold glowing in his gaze. He locked eyes with Rod without a word. Didn’t bother with excuses or an explanation. Didn’t retort beyond clenching his jaw and preparing for the next blow. 

They came in quick succession after that. Each impact made his nerve endings bark in pain. Blood filled his mouth, ran from his broken nose, his split lip, down his chin and onto his bare chest. A crack burned his face like a sunburst, and the fracture in his cheek made his eye swell within seconds. Fenrir uncurled from the blow, caught himself on the mantel and pushed off of it to stand upright again. He faced Rod, spine straight, face bloody, not a hint of gold in his eyes.

Not until he sensed Rod’s shudder. Not until he scented the unease that came with whatever memory had just surfaced. Then it’d been all he could do to smother the snarl that raged in his chest, to keep his instincts on a tight leash and himself from grabbing Rod by the face and demanding answers that would result in more bloodshed.

His jaw unhinged with the last blow. It wasn’t until Rodolphus stepped away from him, fists loose at his sides, his pound of flesh claimed, that Fenrir reached up and set it back into place. He spat blood onto the ground before tonguing his teeth to see if any had been punched loose. More blood splashed across scratched and rotted hardwood, and he looked up at Rod again, holding his gaze as the wizard stepped in close and grabbed him by the nape to press their brows together.

A chuckle rumbled up in place of the growl that had formed in his lungs. Fenrir grabbed Rod by the back of his neck and gave it a squeeze, his breaths whistling out of his broken face. Voice ragged, wet with blood, he grumbled, “You know I can’t promise you that.” Another squeeze and he pushed away from Rod, bringing both hands to his face to realign his nose, which snapped painfully back into place. Another mouthful of blood was spat onto the ground before he captured Rod’s gaze and held it with his. 

Voice hard with sincerity, he said, “I meant no disrespect, brother. I didn’t intend for you to answer for my actions.” Rod had warned him. It wasn’t that Fenrir hadn’t cared, he just… hadn’t realized he’d pushed the boundaries too far beyond the Dark Lord’s specifications. He’d told him not to get caught, and to keep it quiet. In Fenrir’s mind, he’d kept to the parameters given to him. 

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t making excuses. He’d broken trust, and had now answered for it. The pain in his face was already starting to ease a bit as his accelerated healing slowly knit torn flesh back together. His eye would be swollen for a while yet, his face sore for twice that. Fenrir had expected worse from Rod, but if he was satisfied then he’d leave it alone. Even if everything in him was bristled with a demand he couldn’t give into. Not if he wanted to keep benefitting from this cause.

He sidled over to his shirt and sopped up his bloody face with the cotton, grumbling, “You’re still leaving your flank open when you come in overhand.”

[bloodmoongreyback]

Bedside Manner | A&F

[bloodmoongreyback]

bewarethesirenscall​

Ari knew she was probably pushing it. Fenrir didn’t really do affection all that well- but she was needy and didn’t care who knew it. The sadness etched into his perfect fact was too much to bare, it made her heart ache in a way that shouldn’t when the man you loved was sitting, completely healthy right in front of you. The truth was, she needed to comfort him- just as much as she needed the comfort he provided her.

For a heartbeat, she feared he’d turn her down. Come to his senses and get up and leave. After all, she’d proved more so yesterday than ever before that she was a liability to him. For almost eight months, she’d waited on edge for the other shoe to drop. For the wolf to leave and never return... but he never did. Every morning, she woke to find him waiting for her. Whether it was on the road, following the path of her lost brother’s trail or at home in her apartment, his checking in before going about their day.

She’d grown accustomed to his being in her life, had needed it more than she’d realized. Which was why the last two weeks without him had been so god damned torturous. Why the fear of his leaving right now hit her in her very soul. It was also, completely fucking irrational. She knew it, too. They were well and truly down the rabbit hole and there was no turning back for either of them, not now. Not ever. It was stupid insecurity that crept into the darkest crevices of her mind, because the last time they parted was they closest they’d ever gotten and to have that moment stripped from them, that lack of closure or understanding... it was killing her.

Fenrir took a moment to remove is shitkickers, before moving that rippling mass of muscle to the other side of the bed. Her eyes tracked his every moment, unable to look away. God, he was glorious. A living statue of Adonis. A tattooed hand tugged the covers away, and she had to bite her lip to hide the smug grin desperately trying to form as he joined her beneath the blankets.

She was wearing one of his shirts, it was covered in his scent and wasn’t exactly the first time he’d had to provide her with clothing after a messy situation. There was nothing else here, save for clothes owned by whoever lived in this beautiful mansion but frankly, she’d take his shirt over anything else, any day.

A moment later, her wolf was settled in the bed and she had been tucked up against him. Pulled over with the kind of ease that was Fenrir’s way of doing anything. Like she was a paperweight and he was merely placing her where he wanted her. Which was essentially on top of him. The Veela had to actively remind her brain that she’d just woken up from who knows how long she’d been out, and her body was still healing.

It wasn’t listening, though. Her mind had gone straight back to the training mats, to the arousal that had consumed her thoughts just as he had consumed her entire being. She had to bite her lip harder to refocus, using the pain as a sieve to empty those thoughts out as her gaze settled on the hard set of his jaw, on the delicate touch of a large hand across her back.

Her eyes fluttered shut at the soft kiss he pressed to her forehead. Her hand slid up along washboard abs to rest on the hard expanse of his chest- right over his heart. She needed to feel it beat, to know for sure that he was safe, unharmed. At least in the physical sense. “Much better.” She whispered, resting her head against him as her body relaxed, the walls that had been up since her eyes had opened melting away.

“I’m sorry I put you through that, Fenrir.” It wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. But she never wanted to hurt him, not even unintentionally. The warmth that emanated from him seeped into her, like a healing aurora that seemed to rejuvenate the witch from the inside.  Just knowing he was there, he was back and nothing could take him away from her was enough to feel stronger, to feel like everything was going to be just fine.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. The henley he was wearing, was soft against her lips. A thigh slid up to rest over his lower abdomen, searching for a deeper connection, like she could curl up around him completely and never let go. “Please, don’t ever let me go...”

Gritting his teeth, his expression was hard as he stared down at her. Fenrir watched as she melted against him. He bit down on his molars when his inhale was painted with the sweet scent of her arousal. All but glaring as he took in the sight of her, he watched as she curled up against him, swimming in one of his flannels, small and delicate, and content; looking for all the world like the kitten he’d claimed her to be. He half expected her to start purring.

Bellatrix had offered to lend Ari some clothes, but he’d refused, hadn’t let her dress her in anything but his shirts. They were familiar. She’d worn them before. Knew the scent and feel of them, and he’d thought she might need that familiarity when she woke up, not knowing where she was or if she was safe. It was nonsensical wolf instinct, but he hadn’t been able to help it and, staring down at her bare leg as it bent over his body he was glad he hadn’t bothered. 

His palm itched to feel if her thigh was as soft as it looked, but he reached up to her hand on his chest instead. A grumbling noise resonated behind his ribs at her quiet admission to preferring this position. Hand dwarfing hers as it wrapped around her dainty fingers, he lifted her hand from his chest and held it up, casually lined her hand against his, and absently considered the differences between them. He didn’t say anything as his heartbeat stumbled, the rhythm knocked off kilter by whatever the emotion was squeezing around his chest. 

If he’d lost her, if he’d never had the chance to hold her like this… Fenrir clenched his jaw, stifling the growl building in his throat. Just as he was about to drop their hands and resign himself to being her pillow, Arielle apologized. To him.

This time when a growl shook up from the pit of his lungs he didn’t bother holding it back. In a swift movement he had her on her back, was looming over her, hips between her thighs, his weight braced on a forearm beside her head as he grabbed her by the jaw and bared his teeth at her. A deep breath in through his nose calmed the spike of outrage that had repositioned them in a blink. 

He softened his hold of her jaw, an apologetic noise sounded from the base of his throat as he searched her face for pain and discomfort. She was still healing. Gentleness had never come naturally to him, wasn’t something he knew if he was even capable of, but he’d keep reminding himself to try. 

“Don’t,” he said, staring into her eyes as he bit out the word. I put you in danger, Arielle. What you endured, the pain you’re in…” His hand left her jaw and trailed down her side, fingers burrowing under her to touch her now scarred back. Fenrir grit his teeth. His lip quivered with the snarl he was holding back. Lowering his face to her neck, he nuzzled her jaw aside and buried his nose in her neck. 

His blood warmed as her cinnamon vanilla scent filled his lungs, making his mouth water as primal instincts roused awake. Lips parted on the warm column of her neck and he scraped his teeth on its soft surface. Another growl shook his chest, low, nearly inaudible. 

As he pressed his hips into the warm apex of her thighs, he swore onto her neck, “Nothing like that will ever happen again.” The hand splayed over her back pressed her chest flush against him. He nipped at her neck, dragged his canines over her throat, before muttering into her skin, “No one will ever hurt you again. You are mine. No one is going to take you away from me. I’ll kill anyone who tries.” Slowly, brutally, until they’re begging for death. The Scavengers who did this to her were going to pay. He owed his mate nothing less.