The Alpha

The young woman shook those thoughts away. They would do her no good; she had to keep a firm resolve. 

When she saw the younger man, her heart lept - a truly strange sensation for her - and she felt herself clam up a little. She was starting to feel a bit like a scolded child at his growled words, though they weren’t directed at her. 

“Thane?” Alecto flinched. Her tone wasn’t even confident. 

“Where have you been?” He asked, quietly. “I... I don’t understand. You were safe with us.”

museinspo’s aesthetic series  — the killer ( fem )

                   she’s a mess of gorgeous

                                     c     h    a   o   s

“I can try.” Amelia smiled at the introduction, noting the slide of an accent- that made sense considering Freya had said she hadn’t been here in a while. “I’m Amelia Bones,” she nodded towards her dog, “this is Alby. He’s not likely to be any help.” Then the woman explained who she was looking for and unfolded the poster and oh, interesting. “Yes, you’re definitely not. I haven’t personally seen him around, but then, looking for him isn’t technically my job. That’s the Aurors, not the Hit Witches, but I’ve got a bad habit of sticking my nose places it’s not allowed.” Freya didn’t exactly seem like the dangerous dark witch type, so maybe… “I don’t know if I could professionally advise you to keep looking for Greyback. He’s a dangerous man, by most accounts, but if you’re determined I could try to help.”

Not the case with Rose.

He had broken Rose. He’d taken her apart bit by bit and looked into her very soul, and then he’d used that to manipulate her into his own keeping. She’d never be what she was, but as her master he could loose the wildness that lived in her blood, or he could contain it. He smiled faintly as she bounded up the stairs to put her things away. No questions or back talk, just pure eagerness for his approval.

“I’m ready, Master. Can we go?”

He picked up his bag, shrinking it so that it fit into inside the small pocket of his coat. He’d exchanged his normal cloak for a jacket that suited muggle fashion (he hoped). “Yes little Savage.” He caught her by the upper arm, and guided her expertly out into the yard where he adjusted to slide his hand down to the curve of her waist. “Hold tight.”

He’d cased the area once or twice before, not that it was hard to find a dilapidated area of Paris. The arrived with a nearly imperceptible pop (utter silence was difficult when he had baggage). The alley was dark, dank with the smell of urine, trash, and mildew. Nose crinkling he drew Rose closer to his side reflexively though his attention was on the area around them.

Bottles rustled and he glanced over his shoulder. A drunk was scrounging, likely looking for more booze. He didn’t appear to have noticed them at all so Evan ignored him, tugging Rose with him so that they disappeared around the corner before the muggle ever saw them. His goal was two streets down and he maneuvered his way across the street and along the sidewalk with ease, keeping his pet close to his side and ducking his head occasionally so it looked as though they were nothing more than lovers confiding secrets.

In reality he was giving her instructions. “We are going to a club little Savage.” He drew to a halt not far form the door, turning his body so that his hands rested along the curvaceous dips of her hips. Ducking closer, he caught her gaze, his words remaining so soft only she could hear him.

She wrapped her arms around him as they paused, catching onto the facade quickly and keeping it up. Her eyes met his, and her lips parted slightly, as he spoke to her. She loved him with every fibre of her being, and she was enraptured as he spoke. Still, she hung on his every word, and even as she inhaled at the feeling of his teeth on her skin, her eyes fluttering closed, she was listening. “Yes, Master.” She whispered, softly, nodding. “I understand.” She smiled up at him. 

She tucked herself into his side, as she let him lead her in. The music was loud, but her enhanced senses let her filter it, listening to the voices. She was always aware of him, even as she slipped from his side - albeit reluctantly - and she wound her way through the club. It stank, of people and alcohol, and she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. She scanned the crowd. She could picture her Master, scything through them, covered in their blood, with her beside him, the two of them ripping through the screaming, trapped crowds, death incarnate. 

She touched the people as she wound her way through them, and someone bit. Hands wound around her, and she abandoned the urge to rip them off. Unless her Master told them, she belonged to him, and no-one was to touch. He had told her so, though, and she ground back against the man feeling her up. “Hey, gorgeous.” Her first prey, and she let her head fall back, rolling her hips against him, though even through the crowd, she found her Master’s eyes. Is this the one? She pulled away from him, moving further through the crowd. People moved up against her, but she could tell she was being followed. She returned a girl’s smile, moving up and taking her hand, looking her up and down, her hand running up her arm. “Hey there.”

He hurried to catch up to Marie when she barged off, looking upset. He ran forward and caught her by the arm. “Marie, hey… What’s wrong?” It wasn’t as though he’d never seen her upset before, but he’d never seen her fight with Thane. “Is everything alright?”

Nearly dying an early death by overexcitable dog didn’t leave much room for paying attention to her surroundings, but Amelia caught sight of the woman anyway. Loitering, looking up and down the street, letting out a visible sigh. Amelia wrapped Alby’s leash around her hand another time and made her way up to the woman. “Hello. You seem a bit lost. Could I help?”

“I... I am not sure you’ll be able to help me, but...” She bit her lip. “Um, sorry, my name is Freya Malikova.” Her accent switched flawlessly to a Russian accent, without her even really noticing. She’d started learning Russian when she was fifteen, when her father had first made the match. “I’m looking for Fenrir Greyback.” The name was unfamiliar - that wasn’t who she’d known. “I don’t think I’m the only one, though.” She smiled, unfolding the poster, showing it to her. Fenrir snarled out of the photo at her. “I just wondered if you... might have seen him anywhere. It’s a long shot, I know.” 

He laughed, the sound rather sudden in the otherwise empty room, when Fenrir said he would submit. “Oh that’s good, but I don’t remotely believe that. You don’t believe you deserve to be here any more than I do. I don’t care that you pissed off our Lord. But that’s hardly relevant. Still, I’d rather not have to kill you. I’m probably one of the few, so I guess that makes you lucky.” He smiled, though there wasn’t much comforting about that at all and he knew it.

He sat back slightly, considering him. “Hm… You pose a very interesting question now, don’t you?” he mused. “Werewolves aren’t so very like humans, not more than the way you look. I’ve heard it’s painful.” He didn’t sound remotely sympathetic about it. “Breaking every bone in your body over and over, that must be difficult. But I can’t imagine breaking bones now will do you much harm. Crucio is likely the same. So how, pray tell, do you hurt someone with incredible pain tolerance and a penchant for quick healing?”

“I...” He could feel his body trying to heal itself, and shut his eyes, the relatively dim room seeming too bright. “Stop. Fucking... Stop it-” He wasn’t even sure Rabastan was doing anything, whether this was just his body. “I...” He groaned again, and shook his head, slowly, gradually slipping over onto his side, keeping his eyes closed, starting to control his breathing. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.” He ground out. “I’m gonna... kill you. Fuck.” He took deep breaths, shaky, and focused on the shift. He could do it. He could. He growled, and yanked at the cuffs, as his spine and shoulders crunched, shifting inside of him. Let’s see how you deal thinking a wolf is gonna come at you. He couldn’t complete the shift, he knew, the cuffs wouldn’t break, they’d just cut into his forelegs, but he didn’t know if Rabastan knew that. 

Although the war had raged for a year, Mary still found herself looking for different angles on stories. Unlike some other journalist (side eyeing you, Rita Skeeter) Mary truly tried to publish unbiased reports that provided information instead of rumors–which, of course, earned her both praise and scorn, and sometimes both combined into a backhanded compliment. 

Mary didn’t doubt that she would catch a lot of flack for her newest story. With all of the talk of elitism and species bias, Mary’s interest in other species’ viewpoints had spiked. Unlike other members in the wizarding community, Mary didn’t mind nonhumans; why should she? If the Dark Lord had his way, she would soon find herself on the dangerous side of prejudice. Mary wanted to tell the truth, no matter how unpopular. 

In that vein, she had arranged for several interviews with nonhumans; goblins, freed house elves, and even a vampire named Louis. Now, she was closing in on her last interview: a self-proclaimed werewolf. With such a stigma around lycanthropy, Mary had been surprised that any werewolf would voluntarily sit down and tell their experience. Even more surprisingly, her interviewee had agreed to allow the Prophet to publish his real name. The werewolf’s only request had been that Mary meet him in a small park outside of wizarding London, which she had readily accepted. This was an important interview, after all, concerning an even tougher subject; she would want to make the interviewee as comfortable as possible

However, when Gerard Cullen had stumbled up the path, a flask in his hand at 3:32 in the afternoon, Mary had begun to rethink her decision. She sat on the edge of the bench, crossing her feet at her ankles and whirling her quill as she studied the man that sat next to her. The werewolf leaned back easily in the bench, stretching out long limbs and looping his hands behind his head as a support. “What can I say? Being a werewolf is great,” Gerard said, grinning lazily. Golden locks fell over his bright blue eyes, and he flicked the strands out of the way so he could study Mary better. 

“Can you give me a little more details? Tell me why you think that being a werewolf is so desirable?” Mary asked, meeting his gaze. “I want our readers to understand.” 

Gerard shrugged. “It’s whatever, I guess.  Hey are you going to take my picture for the Prophet?”

Mary blinked, and her brow creased in confusion. “Sorry, no. I want to protect you in case this doesn’t go the right way.” Gerard scowled at Mary’s comment, and shook his head. 

“Listen, I’m doing you a favor. You should be grateful.”

Her intuition flared, and Mary matched Gerard’s scowl with her own. “I am. But you’ve got to give me a little bit of info here. You act like you’re hiding something.”

The man cringed and dropped his gaze, trying to hide the truth, but Mary caught the expression in his eyes. “You are hiding something.” She didn’t realize it, but her voice rose and she found herself standing and glaring down at Gerard. Something’s definitely wrong. Footsteps echoed on the path, but Mary didn’t bother to look up, keeping her attention locked on the impostor.

Theo had been the first one to find them, and had been quickly joined by Emma, and Thane. They could smell the scent of magic around them, and the word werewolf caught their attention, and now Mary’s interview had a small audience.

“This guy just wants to be in the newspaper, right?” Thane asked his brother, from the bush they were perched in, watching the conversation.

“Yeah. He’s not a werewolf. But why would someone pretend to be a werewolf?”

“Cus werewolves are great!” Emma piped in, clambering into Theo’s lap to try and get a better view. She’d been much more kind recently, much more cuddly, and he liked it. Emma had always been cruel, always been a little more vicious, and while she was a wolf, and it was to be expected, it was nice not to be bitten with no warning when you were cuddling up to your little sister. 

“Werewolves are pretty great, but most people don’t think that.”

“Listen to him! He doesn’t know a fucking thing.” Thane lobbed a twig out of the bush, directly on his head. “Booo! You don’t know shit, mate!”

“Yeah! Loserrrr!” Emma joined in the stick-throwing, and Theo laughed, trying to stop her, gently. They were attracting attention, and they fell out of the bush, laughing. Emma scampered over to the bench, clambering onto the back of it, looming over the man, putting her hands in his hair to balance. “This guy is lying.” She said. “He’s jus’ a reguler normal person who wants to be a werewolf.” 

“Emma?” She almost fell off the bench as Fenrir approached, and hid, giggling nervously. He looked between Gerard and Mary, for a moment, and then at Emma, before looking back at the journalist. “Sorry, I hope the kids aren’t getting in your way.” He gave her an easy smile, and looked over at his Beta and Omega, who were looking abashed. “They weren’t too much of a bother, were they?”

Werewolves.