Werewolf Makeup Men Novels & Stories

It was either she disappears and go into the city or go back to the cabinet her mother had made for days like this. The crush of leaves grew louder until the Alpha finally stepped into the narrow band of moonlight. Maria lost count of the werewolves who had paid them a dreadful visit. They wore rough clothes, leather and wool, stained, worn, and filthy. With them was a werewolf wielding a bow, an arrow nocked and aimed. He was dressed like the rest in pants and boots, his hair a tangled mess alongside the eye patch that he wore proudly. “They don’t look like they have anything to say,” a man with a flat nose said.

Celeste. The long-awaited night of the grand ball for all the werewolves had finally arrived. After three hours of getting ready, I was all set and ready to go. I did my makeup and didn't need any help because, besides the fact that I already have a good-looking face, we witches have spells that can temporarily alter our facial features.

Removing her makeup was easy, sometimes being a werewolf was beneficial in the sense that minimal makeup was required; werewolves were insanely good looking, especially to humans, and April knew she was easy on the eyes to both human and supernatural beings; it was just part of her everyday life. Funny though, after she showered and changed into her pajamas, she stood looking at her reflection for a moment. It wasn't really so surprising to see a broken wolf staring back, even after four years.

My tone is soft and seductive, hoping he would get my meaning. He smirks at my joyous smile and slips off his shorts in one swift motion. I listen to the cracking of his bones and watch him shift into a huge werewolf. His fur is a shadowy dark gray color, so smooth it is almost smokey, silver blue. I am mesmerized by his wolf; he is absolutely stunning and definitely an Alpha male. I thought he said he was just a warrior? Normal warriors aren’t usually the coloring of an Alpha.

His body was full of scars and blood covered his body. Before him was a three meter tall old man with a white beard. Although he looks old on the surface, his body was well built and strong that he doesn't act his age. A serious expression could be seen on his face as he wiped off the blood from his hand. Around him stood several werewolf whose head was lowered. Some of them were shaking while sweating endlessly. They don't even have the courage to speak nor look straight to the person in front of them. “It's funny to think that you were defeated by your older brother. Although you are labeled as the second strongest blood wolf in history, yet now you're nothing but trash eating dirt” the ma

But this was different than seeing males in our pack after they shifted. These men were strangers and bore scars that I wouldn’t think a werewolf would have. Unless they are scars, they had before they shifted. Unless the wounds are from wolfsbane or silver. Either way, it made them look scary and intimidating. One of them seemed to be in charge of the group as he stood forward from the group.

It was only at this moment that they realized the true power of the werewolf challenging Zed. Zed's mouth bore a smile, and then, with a wave of his hand, several hundred more werewolf soldiers, adorned in purple battle robes, materialized at the venue's edge. Their expressions were solemn, bodies displaying visible scars, as if the murderous aura had transformed into a tangible substance, emitting continuous, shocking vibrations to the surroundings. It was evident that this group of werewolf soldiers had faced the battles of life and death, honing their skills. Today, their adversaries were the two werewolves who had come to provoke them.

It looks like a bathroom mirror. A man fills the frame. He’s shirtless. His chest is wrapped in bandages that are already soaked through with bright red blood. His skin is pale, sweaty, covered in grime. He holds the phone up with one hand. With the other, he holds a patch. A Wolves patch. Bloodstained. torn. He brings it to his lips and kisses it. Then he smiles. The scar on his cheek crinkles. His eyes are dead, cold, and mocking.

My eyes lands on three figures stepping forward from the edge of the shadows, their heels clicking softly against concrete, confidence radiating off them like it’s something they’ve worn their entire lives. Did they feel the need to dress up for this kind of shit? Also Heels? In the middle of the woods? Really? Christ! Three females step forward, the light from the porch shining brightly gives me full glimpse of their faces. They look Pretty! Wolves always were. But their beauty was loud, overdone. Almost desperate in its presentation and the dreadful fashion choices don’t help. The one in the center who seems to be the ringleader of the gang catches my eyes with her bold red lipstick and he

“It’s right here.” For this one, they’d formed the papier mâché into a short-muzzled, opened wolf mouth, complete with teeth and a lolling tongue. After painting it, they’d carefully drilled holes into the sides and used ribbon ties to secure it to his head. The two men laughed at one another again.