Thank you so much for all the love & support throughout the last year. I just wanted to make a quick note (that has appeared on all WIP updates, so everyone has the chance to read it) about how I'd organized the updates. Aside from Love Like Blood (which I'd finished & completed posting before moving onto the other updates so the story is complete & out of the way), the updates have been posted in the order of furthest back date of 'last update' to most recent.
CHAPTER CONTENT WARNING: Brief mention of something that is on many readers squick lists—and, incidentally, mine, too (for readers who don't know what that means, a squick is a something in a fic that makes you go "… ew!")—I won't state specifically what it is, as you'll probably recognize it when you read it. However, it is only a mention, and only involves background characters who probably are not going to have 'screen time' in this fic, anyway.
Chapter Nine
"I really don't think you should be committing these to paper," Fenrir called from the bed, but didn't bother pulling himself out from beneath the covers to come and stop her.
Snickering, she shook her head and went right back to the scratch of the quill against the parchment—the only request she'd actually made of him the entire time she'd been there so far had been writing material. She was seated on the thickly carpeted floor, her back to him as she continued to jot down everything Antonin Dolohov had been able to tell her about his fellow Death Eaters.
It hadn't been much, but ….
"Oh, who enters your chambers besides you and me?" she asked, turning her head to pointedly meet his gaze over her shoulder.
Arching a brow, the werewolf ignored that it was a little unsettling the way her hand kept moving against the parchment despite her not looking at what she was writing. "That's … fair, but still. These are people's secrets."
Oh, she understood. Fenrir Greyback didn't care that people had secrets, or knew other's secrets … but writing them down felt like a set up to politicking, which he considered a very human waste of time.
"If anything happens to me, you and the pack we build might need these secrets." Okay, so it was politicking in a sense, but it was also the wisest precaution she could think of, and the only real power she had to aid Fenrir in their plans. Well, aside from making flirtatious—possibly downright seductive—overtures to a certain pair of Viking-esque Death Eaters.
Oh, the arduous and unsavory tasks she was willing to undertake for this man, she thought, a sly grin curving her mouth.
Tipping back his head, he groaned, unhappy that she was putting off coming to bed for this. She'd thought herself so clever when she'd crept from their room—as he now considered it, anyway—to find the library just a little while ago.
When she'd returned, smelling of alcohol but not much else—which was good, he might not particularly like Antonin Dolohov, but Fenrir did respect him, he'd have disliked what he might do to the wizard if he thought Dolohov had overstepped—he felt he already knew her well enough to recognize the look on her face. Then again, he was rather certain 'triumphant grin' looked much the same on anyone.
As she'd puttered about the room, casually stepping out of her slip as though being clothed when alone in his presence were some horribly unnatural state, she'd filled him in on what Dolohov had told her. However, as he'd reached for her, intent on dragging her into his arms so they could get some sleep tonight, she sidestepped him and went to the desk to retrieve the writing materials.
Not liking the stiffness of the desk chair in her current mode of undress, she'd settled on the floor … just beyond the reach of his fingertips. She knew if he touched her, that might well be the end of any thinking until they woke up in the morning.
Dolohov had of course not mentioned anything about himself—though Hermione now felt sure, given their discussion, that he subconsciously blunted the impact of his spells when he thought is opponent was weaker than him, not really a secret, but certainly a good thing to know—but his fellows? There had been a few juicy, if disturbing, tidbits in there.
"How is this supposed to help us, Sweetness?" he asked, pushing away the blankets and sitting up.
The bridge of her nose crinkled as she read over the parchment. She wondered if it was some part of her old self that was disturbed by the short list she held before her, or if it was simply that these things—these secrets—simply were that disturbing.
"Never know when a favor from a pure-blood might come in handy," she explained. "I mean, the Carrows, alone …."
Climbing out of bed, Fenrir settled himself behind her, long legs stretching out on either side of her and his arms slipping around her waist. "That one was fairly stomach-churning. Wizards don't bat an eye over cousins marrying, but even they draw the line at what those two get up to, the way Dolohov tells it."
Her brows pinched upward, letting herself lean into his embrace as she set the parchment, quill, and ink bottle aside. "I'm not sure if that's worse or the same as Rodolphus Lestrange's addiction to being Imperiused."
He shrugged and she shivered pleasantly at the way that slight motion pulled her naked form tighter against his still. "Certainly explains why he follows every whim of that mad bitch of a wife of his. He literally begs to be cursed into it."
"I really don't want to think about any of these disgusting people anymore," she said, turning her head so her chin touched her shoulder as she met his gaze.
"Oh?" He granted her a feral grin and then nipped at her shoulder. Close enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushed hers, he asked despite knowing perfectly well what her response would be, "And what would you like to think about instead?"
The way his breath danced over her lips, warm and teasing and tingling, drew a sigh out of her as she said, "You."
A handful of heartbeats passed as he held there, his eyes lingering on hers. He would absolutely turn the world over for her.
And yet the only reason she was here, the only reason they had even come to exist together like this was because she'd turned on those who'd once been her allies. If it ever crossed her mind to show him the same treatment, he wouldn't just turn the world over ….
He'd absolutely burn it to fucking ash.
He realized that something of his thoughts must've flickered in his expression, because her brows pinched together and she pulled back to look more fully at his face. "What is it?"
Drawing in a deep breath, he tightened his arms around her, lifting her as he closed his legs beneath her to settle her on his lap. For the moment, he ignored the press of her, warm and inviting, right over his cock.
"There is something I should warn you about."
With a shake of her head, Hermione looked down at his arms around her before resting her hands over his. "Well, I'll be honest, I don't much like the sound of that."
"The only reason you came here," he started, deciding it best to simply explain it as it was in his head—he wasn't good with emotions and all that bullshit, so the quicker he could get this all out, the less chance there would be of his discomfort getting the better of him and letting his anger take control.
And the quicker he could get to what he really wanted to do with her.
"Was because you betrayed your friends, you comrades." Slipping one hand from beneath hers, he traced it up along her side, across her shoulder, and up over her throat. His fingers tucking her wild hair behind her ear, he dipped his head, his lips brushing the lobe of her ear as he went on, "How can I know you won't do the same to me?"
Her eyes were drifting closed, her head tilting, attempting to press closer to his mouth. "The situation's not nearly the same. You've never underestimated me, you've seen me as your equal from the start. And—other than when we're outside these walls and have to put on a bit of a show for those horrid pure-bloods—you treat me like your equal."
"And they didn't?" Oh, he needed to have this discussion with her, but he didn't know how much longer he could hang on not making her writhe and moan and tremble beneath his touch.
Bit difficult to focus when simply having her this close had made him so hard it was starting to hurt.
"Not exactly," she said, refraining from what she really wanted to do. She wanted to rock her hips, to grind herself against him, to feel the head of his cock teasing and rubbing against her as she moved and hear that guttural animal sound of need rumble deep in his chest.
God, she could feel herself aching and damp just thinking about it.
Focus, Hermione. "They either put me on a pedestal for my intellect and cleverness, or they saw me as some fragile thing that needed to be protected." Still her blood boiled as she recalled listening to Harry and Ron considering leaving her behind on their precious Horcrux hunt! She'd earned her place on that mission more than either of them!
Those two idiots would've probably been dead long before now if not for her!
"So," she continued her breath quickening for a moment as a pulse flickered through her, her body clenching over his involuntarily. "Keep treating me the way you have, don't lie to placate me or get me to 'see reason' and you and I will have no such issue."
"Good," he said, grazing his teeth against her ear. It was certainly more consideration than any of Voldemort's precious inner circle had ever been willing to give him. "Now, if we're done talking …." The arm at her waist tightened around her, pinning her against his body while his other hand trailed back down and slipped between her legs.
It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that he was the one who'd started the conversation, but she never made it that far. Not when he pushed her thighs apart and cupped his hand against her, entering her with two fingers.
He lived for the way her breath thundered out of her as he slammed his hand against her and withdrew again and again, the heel of his palm meeting her clit in rough, unforgiving motions each time he thrust into her.
She threw her head back against his shoulder, her mouth falling open in ecstatic screams even as her voice failed her. Her own hand slipped down, fingers scrambling at his wrist, trying to ease the rhythm, to slow him down just a little—it was too much, too fast—and yet hoping he would ignore the gesture.
That he would recognize her need—of him, of the way he touched her, of the things he did to her, of how he made her want to beg for more even when more never needed to be a question with Fenrir Greyback. It was a certainty.
The way her body tightened around his delving fingers, the way she shivered and ground herself against the press of his palm forced a warning growl from his throat.
"Goddammit," he said through clenched teeth, his hand somehow driving against her faster still. "Come already, woman!"
She stilled, tensing in his embrace, holding herself steady for his thrusting fingers. She recognized now what he was doing, she realized as his teeth grazed her throat and the fingers inside her curled ever so slightly.
He was already so painfully hard he wasn't sure how long he'd hold out once he was inside her.
Her voice returned as the orgasm tore through her, the sound erupting from her in a long, loud moan. He growled against her skin, unwinding the arm at her waist and slipping it beneath her, lifting her so that her body tightened further still.
A faint tremor shook her, the sweet warmth pulsing through her stopping her brain and stealing her breath before it began to ebb.
The second she inhaled, the second the tension started draining from her and her legs tried to pull together of their own volition—her body reacting to the overstimulation—he withdrew his hand, barely needing to position himself before he pulled her down.
Fenrir adored the sound of her screaming his name as he entered her. Of how that second syllable left her in a stuttering cry as he forced her forward and pulled her back, working her over him until he was moving beneath her in frenzied, jerking motions.
Hermione didn't know how he managed to bring her to orgasm for a second time so soon after coming so hard, yet as he pulled her tight against him, letting out a ferocious growl as he spent himself, she came again, just as hard, her head lolling back again, eyelids drifting closed. She would swear later she saw stars.
And later, after she told him that—and after Fenrir once again kept his promise, dropping his head between her legs to greedily and happily lick her clean—he would say good.
He had to give those other two idiots something to live up to.
As they were falling asleep, exhausted and blissfully content in each other's arms, she asked, "Does this mean you want me to shag them?"
He brushed a kiss against her forehead. "I'll remind you using yourself as incentive was your idea."
"That is true," she conceded.
"What it means is you get to do what you like with them, as long as they come away from it with the notion that it will never be as good as it could be … if they were werewolves. Like you said. It really is the only plan we have. They're yours, so long as you remember, so long as they know no one is above me ... beside me there's you. Nothing else."
Beside him. She liked that. He treated her as his equal, but she understood quite suddenly that she wasn't. Not as she was at present, anyway.
Then of course, there was the question of how much better could this feel? Lifting her head, she met his gaze, her chestnut eyes reflecting the drowsiness in his. "I've made a decision," she said, wondering why she was so calm about her choice, yet knowing full well that it would mean she would never again be as powerless as she was now.
"Tell me," he said, despite a little niggling sensation in his gut that he already knew what she was about to say.
As though to assure herself he really was listening, she raised up on her elbow so that she was staring down at him. "I want the bite, Fen."