Summer had finally cloaked itself over the valley that the Greyback clan called home. The hillsides were lush and green, the skies hinting at just a slight flush of blue. The days weren't now dominated by harsh winds and rain, but gentle breezes and the soft, milky scent of wild primrose.
Hermione Granger, resident healer and matriarch of the pack squirmed her way closer to her mate, breathing his salty, manly scent deep into her being, feeling the soft brush of the furs that covered her large, male shaped hot water bottle and herself. Her leg wriggled its way between his, her ears perking at the sound of air being hissed through his teeth that signalled he all too vividly felt the press of her cold toes against his shin.
"Do that again, little girl, and I'll gobble those toes up."
Hermione smiled at the sound of his deep, rumbling voice. Fenrir's heavy arm moved to cup around the dip of her waist and pull her torso tight against his own. His head dipped against her shoulder to give her a warm nuzzle in greeting.
"Mm," Hermione hummed, tipping her head back as Fenrir's tongue dipped out of his mouth to give her a long, slow, sensuous lick from the dip between her clavicles, over her voice box, all the way to the tip of her chin.
"Good morning," she murmured, eyes closed.
Hermione felt Fenrir smile against the sensitive skin at the underside of her jaw.
"Good morning to you, too," he rumbled warmly.
Her head tilted back down to look at his face, and the pair smiled at one another. Hermione's arm escaped the grips of their furs to brush against his hairy cheek, before she leaned forward and kissed him slow.
Fenrir hummed against her mouth, stealing another second of her lips by following her backwards motion as Hermione moved to pull away.
He kissed her again, this time, his warm, moist tongue slipping past his lips to nudge against her own. "A very good morning, indeed."
His arm tightened around her waist, and as he pushed his hips forward against her belly, Hermione felt a pulsing hardness press against her naked flesh.
She had come into season a little over two days ago, and she was yet to drop back out of it again. In that time, Fenrir had taken her a total of seventeen times, and, quite frankly, she was starting to feel a little bow legged.
In her short existence as a full-blooded werewolf, Hermione had quickly learnt that it was incredibly hard to have children. She had heard of couples taking decades to obtain a successful pregnancy. Naturally, being herself, Hermione had researched this, and it all came down to a simple change in body chemistry.
In werewolves, the females, 'plumbing,' as Fenrir so aptly called it, was far more acidic than it normally was in their human counterparts. More often than not, the sperm was killed off long before it got anywhere near the ovum.
And because she was stupid enough to tell her mate this, Fenrir had taken it upon himself to pump her with as much of his sperm as possible.
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With rut session number eighteen pleasantly complete, Hermione closed her eyes, and fell into a light snooze, waiting the early morning sunrise.
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A/N:
Not so fun with them enforcing these guidelines, now, is it? If you want to read the full version, you can find me on AO3. I have a link to my profile page there on my profile page here. If not, just type in archiveofourown works/529977.