Note: I had originally intended this to be a one-shot but I had some requests to continue on. Sadly I don't think this chapter had the same flow that the first one had, but, alas, that is how it goes. I wish there was more Fenrir/Hermione out there, as I find it to be an interesting couple. As for this I have no idea if there will be any more. I think there might be, if only because I find writing it to be theraputic.

Thank you.

She awoke as she had many times before to the sounds of the wolves as they stretched out languidly against one another. The sounds of hairy backs and chests heaving onto four legs was surprisingly loud in the mornings. The girl, bushy haired and red-lipped, attempted to rise herself but was impeded by the large body, a man, wrapped around her small form.

She studied him through half closed eyes, taking in his naked composition (he preferred to sleep, eat and live that way). The hair on his body was thick like the pelt that covered him when the moon was full. It was dark and course, unwashed. His face was fierce and angular. As a geometrician Hermione could make triangles on his face and add them up to one hundred and eighty degrees. All before the morning awakening.

And what an awakening it was. His eyes would flutter, the wings of butterflies, perhaps the only delicate part of him, before opening wide and becoming slits either from the rays of the dawn or an intrinsic distrust of every other organic material. Then his body would shift until he crouched, still leaning over the girl, where his genitals would episodically brush up against her skin. His voice was deep from sleep though he rarely spoke. He would growl grunt grimace and gauge from the back of his throat.

The only time she had heard him speak was when he told her his name followed up by a command to be silent.

He kept her bare-ass and under him whenever feasible. With him there was no analyzation of why or why or why? There was no questioning of his actions before the others. He kept her naked because he liked the way her body felt against his. He used to sleep gathered around his pack (his, because he was the strongest, the quickest, the sharpest, Alpha) with their fur (all wolves, them; he, of a different yet similar species) brushing against him. He had forgotten what it felt like to sleep with the skin of his own and found that he liked it. He kept her under him because that was where she should be.

With an eye on his pack he languidly turned her over. Her body rolled against the ground and she let out a small sound when a rock pressed into her back, small indentation on pink skin. A beetle, black and shiny, disturbed from its own sleep, crawled over her breast. Fenrir, noticing, bent his head down and picked up the bug between his jaws and, crunch, devoured it. A small speck of the internal organs, black on purity, with saliva coating it fell onto an erect nipple. His tongue retrieved the dirt, sluggishly, caressingly, until she made a pleasing sound.

He sank his teeth lightly into her shoulder to remind her, him, the others, that she was there and that she was his.

They were hunting. The girl carried mixed emotions on the subject. The civilization inside of her remembered forks and spoons and plates and dinner napkins folded into swans and graced upon laps. It shuddered and recoiled when it was faced with blood spattered muzzles, red-sticky-coated fur and the skin-breaching claws. And the laughter, the terrible, triumphant sound that reverberated off the trees. It seemed to branch out of their shining eyes just like his eyes did when he took her, panting and licking and wailing, at night.

Another part of her was fascinated, outside of clinical detachment, with wide eyes as she saw the great animals of the forest fall before the stomping legs, the broad jaws. It was fascinating, abominating, degenerating and liberating to watch them come together as one entity, stronger for all the weak parts, into a fully organic machine of destruction.

Fenrir would lead them. Not one of them, but more than each of them individually.

Hermione never took place in the hunts. She couldn't; it was a physical impossibility. She had tried once, on his urging, to rip with her white, straight teeth into the pulsating artery of a deer that had been easily brought down. She brought her teeth down and nipped lightly, tasting the sweat-salt covered skin, slick with fear. She could have done it, especially under his watchful eye, if she hadn't looked up and seen the blank half-gone eye of the deer, begging, pleading, for her to do it. To end all anticipation with a bite.

She turned her head and vomited. She had never been very good at granting wishes.

Now when they went on the hunt Hermione stayed behind while a female wolf watched her, unblinking, unmoving, save for a growl when the girl moved too far to the left or right. Fenrir always returned to her with a hunk of meat. He would lay it at her feet like he would a pregnant mate who was too infirm to hunt for herself but honored beyond any other because she was baring him the alpha, a son.

Once she had tried to run away. When he did come upon her, panting from the chase, he knocked her against a tree and took her upright for the first time. He bit into her so hard that she carried the scars, pinpricks of black, on her pale skin. His nails, hard as the claws of the animals he lorded over, ripped into her arms and chest, over each pale breast. Her cries echoed out at he ran his tongue over the blood in an act of primal ownership.

She hadn't tried to run after that.

"I want to leave."

Fenrir looked up, wary. He was already tired from having brought down a hippogriff, nasty creature, the blood still coated on his long arms, and was not willing to deal with what he considered her human tendencies. She still insisted on bathing when blood marred her skin.

Just as well. He almost couldn't control himself when he saw such stark contrast.

"I warned you against speaking," he said softly. He didn't need to use any sort of tone of voice to intimidate her. His size alone did enough. They were sitting on a soft spot of grass. He languished with his legs forward. She sat curled in a ball with only her eyes visible through a tangle of curly hair.

"I want to leave," she stubbornly repeated if not in a voice which was softer, lilting, afraid.

"Don't you know," his voice rasped a bit from disuse. He moved onto all fours and crawled in front of her. "Don't you know," he repeated. "That you're not ever going to leave? Not unless I kill you."

"There are other ways to die than by your hand," she lifted her chin defiantly. He hand shot out and cupped her face, running a nail across the smooth skin of her cheek, a teasing and a warning all at once.

"No, little one. I will make sure that no harm comes to you except that which I inflict." He ran a hand over the bite marks at her neck and shoulder, a caress that made her shudder. "And how I enjoy inflicting my marks upon you, little one. You're pretty enough but what I do to you makes you beautiful. This," he ran a tongue over a large scar on her knee, "is true beauty."

"It's an abomination," she whispered, her eyes cold. With a jerk he pulled her legs out from under her, causing her body to stretch out longways. She hit him, let out a cry that was animal like him, like calls to like they say as his prick sprang to instant attention.

"Everything I do to you is a gift," he hissed into her ear as he settled himself at her entrance. "You are mine, little one."

She shook her head back and forth.

"Say it."

"No," her eyes were wet with tears but none were brave enough to trail down her face.

"You insist upon speaking. Say it. Say it little one. Tell me you're mine," he slid inside of her now, familiar with the feeling.

"Tell me," he thrust.

"Never!" she screamed out as her head flew back against the ground.

"You think." Thrust. "It matters?" Thrust. "Words are meaningless." Thrust. "All that matters." Thrust. "Is that you." Thrust. "Are beneath me." Thrust. "And always will be." Slow Thrust. Explosion from two sources.

They lay together, her back smooth against his chest, pricking with goose bumps from his shaggy hair. His arms and hers held one another together and a giant leg lay secure on her thigh.

"I'm not yours. I never will be," she said quietly as she hung her head into his and her arms, to obscure the eyes of the forest.

"Little one," he said softly as he nipped her shoulder once again as he always did. He squeezed her body against his and relished in her young flesh.

"You already are."