A/N: *tiptoes in, sighing softly*

*gives you all a forced smile, fraying at the edges just a bit*

* whispers "You're not alone. We're with you. We're all with you."*

*hopes the chapter helps, even a little*

xx-Kitten.


Get Me

By Kittenshift17


Chapter Three


He didn't waste any time or wait for her to change her mind again once she'd surrendered. Hermione had stopped fighting, but when he nuzzled into her neck, biting her hard enough to break the skin before licking at the blood, she wondered if she was going to regret it. What did she really care about a bunch of muggle children, anyway? Was it worth her dignity? Worth surrendering her body to so wretched a monster as Fenrir Greyback? Would knowing that she'd succumbed to his blackmail - his extortion of her humanity - leave a bad taste in her mouth once this was all over?

Would it be the only bad taste in her mouth before he was through with her?

Like the animal he could become, he was ravenous, lapping at the blood he'd inspried, his thick erection grinding against her through the fabric of his jeans, her own clothing already ripped out of his way. This couldn't actually be happening, could it? It had to be a hideous nightmare inspired by having seen him on her walk home from the village. He wouldn't actually break into her home and force himself on her like this, would he?

Who was she kidding?

This was Fenrir Greyback.

Evil. Vile. Canibalistic, if the rumours and accusations were true. Werewolf. He was an evil creature who cared nothing for humans and their vices. He was the beast who'd bitten Remus when he'd been just a little boy. He was the wretch who'd torn Lavender Brown's throat out. Everything about him screamed danger and a lack of humanity. Every time she'd come across him in recent weeks since he'd first started showing his face around her sleepy village, he'd been unkempt at best, downright filthy at worst.

Strangely, tonight, he smelled clean. In fact, when he dragged his sharp teeth lightly across her jugular and trailed a line of kisses down the middle of her chest, inhaling her scent where it pooled in the valley between her breasts, his hair felt damp. Had he showered recently? Merlin's beard, had be broken in and actually made use of her facilities before invading her bedroom intent on ravaging her? Was he that methodical?

"Smell so good," he rumbled, his voice gravelly with need as he ground himself against her core.

Hermione didn't say anything. She didn't think she could. She felt like her brain was being torn in two - one half of it screaming about everything that was wrong with this picture and how she should kill him with her bare hands or die trying; the other half practically purring to finally have a man's hands on her body again, particularly those of a man who - though Merlin only knew why - set her blood on fire with lust. And he did make her lustful. He might terrify the pants right off her, but they'd come off damp with her desire whenever she came across him, too. Hermione couldn't fathom why that was, and when his mouth closed over the taut peak of her right nipple, biting gently before licking and sucking as though he couldn't resist, she didn't really care to understand it any more.

Automatically, her hands moved to his shoulders, travelling up his neck and tangling into his long hair. It was definitely damp, and when she stirred the air, she caught the strong coconut scent of her Miracle Moisture shampoo and conditioner - the only thing she'd come across that helped tame her wild nest of ringlets into some semblance of attractiveness rather than simply a festoon of frizz. Greyback growled against her skin when she scratched her nails against his scalp, arching her back and leaning into the sweet sensations spiralling through her core and sizzling in her blood.

The moan left her mouth unbidden, and his low laugh was smug. Hermione raked her nails down his back in punishment, not liking to be laughed at and hating that she'd ended up in this position.

"You can scream if you want to," he rumbled as he licked a circle around her belly-button, nipping the taut flesh and moving further south.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she sneered, not about to give him the satisfaction.

His answer was to scoot the rest of the way down her body and to bury his tongue between her legs. Hermione groaned, her hands knotting in his hair once more while the werewolf devoured her experstly, taking his time, leaving no inch of her untouched. In that moment, Hermione was lost. All rememberance that this had come about by blackmail and trickery flew from her mind and all she really cared about in that moment was that he keep licking her ... there... there... there!

She hated herself a little when she realised she actually had screamed when she hurtled off the edge of sanity and into the waiting pools of blissful saitation, made all the bitterer by another smug chuckle from the creature who'd caused it.

"Taste so good, girly," he praised. "Knew you would. Always fucking knew."

Hermione hissed when he slid his hands around her hips, gripping her - it seemed - by her very bones, before he flipped her with frightening ease. This man could break her entirely by accident, it occurred to Hermione when she suddnely found herslef face down in the pillows with her arse hiked in the air, her quim almost-lovingly licked again, gathering the gush of desire he'd inspired onto his tongue and further lubricating her body as she felt him rise to his knees behind her. His body dwarfed her own, significantly, Hermione realised with mounting terror, his hands fiddling at her derriere while he growled at the fabric of his jeans as he sturggled to free his cock. When the flush of heat from all that bared flesh pressed up against her bum, Hermione almost jack-rabbited away.

Strong hands caught her hips against before she could dive free of him and he growled in warning.

"Don't make me hurt you, girly," he warned, his grip tight enough to bruise; so tight it made her very bones ache.

"Don't," Hermione whispered, her heart pounding, fear suddenly fizzing through her. "Greyback don't. I can't... I can't..."

The sob choked her when he ignored her pleas, his cock nudging at her opening before her body welcomed him, so wet and lustful and ready, it was.

"Fuck," Hermione whispered, clenching her eyes closed while her quim clenched around the invasion stretching her out and making her ache. Gods, he was big. And Merlin, it had been too long since anyone fucked her.

"So fucking tight, girly," he growled, his breathing laboured, his grip on her unfogiving. "Shit. You're gonna fuckin' snap it off, witch."

He released one of her hips, curling his hand around to lightly stroke her clit.

"Relax, little moonlight," he murmured. "Just relax. Ease up on me, girly. Bloody fuckin' Sin, witch."

But she couldn't. This was a nightmare she'd long haboured suddenly made real. This was a monster stealing her autonomy. This was Fenrir Greyback, ten years on from their first meeting, finally taking what he wanted from her.

He fell to growling when her body didn't unlock, her muscles spasming as the fear and PTSD kicked her in the guts and robbed her of her voice. With nothing else to do, Greyback slowly withrdrew, almost getting free of her vice, his hand stroking her clit like his life depended on it. When he pushed back in, a vicious growl tore from him and Hermione whimpered, beyond the ability right at that moment to even distinguish pleasure from pain and wondering which would be worse right then.

"You got to ease up, Granger," he muttered, his free hand leaving her other hip and stroking down the length of her spine before he curled forward, wrapping himself around her. He nuzzled her shoulder blades, peppering her skin with soft kisses that, surprisingly, penetrated the fizz of emotion and jumbled thoughts filling her brain. "Come on, little moonlight. Deep breahts. Do it with me. In..."

His massive frame dwarfed hers to such an extent that even seatd deep inside her, he was able to lean his head over her shoulder, pressing his cheek to hers. He took a deep, slow breath in through his nose for five beats and Hermione took one with him, though she didn't know why she wasn't just throwing him off her and running for the door. Maybe because he would just catch her. Maybe because this very moment had seemed inevitable since the minute she'd laid eyes on him, baring down upon her and her friends in all his terrifying glory ten long years ago.

"And out," he murmured against her cheek, sighing out the breath he'd held. "In... and out."

When he said out the second time, he slowly drew back his hips, pushing back in again as he instructed her to breathe in. He worked up the rhythm that way, taking his time as her body slowly loosened, unclenching and beginning to relax into the repetitive feel of breathing with him while he took her. When he fell silent, Hermione hung her head, her cheek still pressed to his, her eyes still closed, but no longer squeezed shut. He kissed her cheek, surprising her as he maintained his slow pace, rocking in and out of her. It seemed so wrong to her that this vicious, ravaging, violent creature practically made love to her there on the bed. She'd never imagined that. Not even in her weirdest nightmares about this werewolf did she ever imagine he would be gentle; that he would talk her through her fear; that he would give a shit if she cried, or screamed, or fought.

But there he was, taking his time with her, kissing her cheek; her neck. Dragging his lips, then his tongue, and finally his fangs over the curve of her shoulder.

"Why?" she breathed, her eyes still closed, her head still hanging low, though with exhaustion or shame, Hermione couldn't decide.

He didn't seem to need more explanation than that. Fenrir nipped her shoulder where it met her neck.

"Want you," he answered. "Wanted you since I first scented you."

It wasn't what she wanted to hear.

"But why?" she asked, pushing.

"Smell good," he answered, and his shrug moved her entire body as he committed it.

Hermione didn't imagine she was going to get more out of him than that. Shaking her head, she let the matter go. She supposed it didn't matter in the end. Not really. Either way, he'd come for her, fought her, blackmailed her, and subdued her. Either way, when she woke up in the morning, he would have fucked her.

And he did. He fucked her late into the night, bringing her body to climax several times, unwanted and wanted, both. He fucked her until she collapsed on the mattress beneath him, and then he flipped her with ease so she laid on her back before he lowered himself down on top of her and fucked her some more. He didn't stop. Hermione wondered if he could stop. He didn't come, either. No matter the number of times she dissolved around him, no matter that sometimes he picked up the pace and the violence when rage overtook her and she scowled and bit him and scratched at his skin until she drew blood. He didn't come even when she screamed out her release and Hermione frowned, exhausted, peering up at his grizzled face by the glow of the moonlight filtering in through her bedroom window, wondering what was going on.

"You're starin'," he murmured as he kept right on ravishing her, holding himself off her enough that she could breathe, but no so much that she could get free of him, were she still so inclined.

"You haven't come, even once," she frowned at him.

His chuckle was low and self-deprecating.

"Should be grateful for that, little witch," he muttered, nuzzling against her cheek and nibbling her earlobe.

Hermione frowned. He was probably right. If he was to come, he might impregnate her and that was the very last thing she needed or wanted.

"I don't think I can do it agian," she warned him when he slid a hand under the small of her back, arching her body into his and taking her at the new angle, one of her legs curled over his hip, the other hooked over one of his forearms.

"Bet you can," he muttered. "Bet I can make you."

He did.

Hermione mewled her way through it, grateful that tomorrow was a weekend because she doubted she'd be able to get out of bed, much less walk.

"You ready?" he asked, his pace picking up even though all Hermione wanted now was sleep. "You want it, girly?"

Hermione was too delirious with exhaustion and oxytocin and dopamine overload to know what he was saying, let alone what he meant, but when he drove into her harder than ever, one... two... three times before he suddenly buried his teeth in the top of her shoulder, Hermione screamed again. She screamed and she whimpered and she whined when she felt him swell inside her abused and over-stiumlated quim, his cock engorged and getting bigger. She'd read about that. Knotting. The wizarding romance novels she'd read featuring werewolves called it hot; romantic; deliciously sinful.

It wasn't.

It hurt.

A lot.

Like... Hermione feared she would black out from the pain, clinging to the beast holding her down, his teeth in her flesh preventing her from squirming off his knot, his arms boxing her in on both sides so she couldn't roll away. He had her right where he wanted her, and Hermione screamed into his shoulder, her own teeth clamping down on muscled flesh in return, her nails raking bloody gouges down his back as he swelled and swelled until he was entirely locked inside of her, the agony like nothing she'd ever known. Only then did he groan. Only then did all that pain practically quadruple with his cock spasms, emptying in heavy waves, pulsing deep inside her. It seemed to go on forever. It was supposed to, she knew. Werewolves, when they mated, knotted to prevent the female escaping before ejaculating multiple times - not merely once, but numerous times.

And Hermione would swear she felt every single one.

What felt like hours passed that way with her clinging to him, crying, screaming, writhing as though she might still escape the pain of it. Eventually, she blacked out.

Fenrir sighed when the witch went limp beneath him, almost done now, his heart racing like he'd just sprinted an entire marathon. The final few waves took everything from him, wringing the last skerricks of energy right up from his toes and leaving him weak and exhausted. He collapsed on top of her, grateful she'd passed out because he was probably crushing her, she was such a slight little thing. Fenrir groaned, utterly spent, slowly dislodging his teeth from her flesh and licking at the blood that welled from the puncture wounds where his fangs had torn into her. He should get off her, but he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he unknotted her. It took a while. When finally he was able to slide free of her, he shrugged her teeth from his own shoulder and moved off her, crawling into the space beside her and wrapping his arms around her, thinking about sleep.

He should clean her up. She'd be bad enough to deal with when she woke without having her be bloody and messy and sticky, too. Sighing, not sure he had the strength for it, Fenrir hauled himself into a sitting position and slung his legs over the edge of the bed.

They gave out at the knees when he attempted to stand and he fell back on the bed with a huff; weak. But he was determined, and gritting his teeth, Fenrir waited for the dizziness to pass before he managed to make it to the bathroom where he rung out a wash cloth and located the first-aid kit before returning to her. She hadn't stirred, still out, and she probably wouldn't until moring, but that was alright. He cleaned her up quickly, washing the blood and come from her skin, and smearing some dittany on the bites he'd given her. He treated his own the same way, cleaning himself off before dropping the supplies over the side of the mattress and stretching out, dragging the small witch into his embrace. She would be bad tempered in the morning, he suspected. Whatever. He'd fucked her, that was what mattered. If she threw him out in the morning, at least there was that. She never be able to go back to not having fucked him. When next she spotted him lurking somewhere, watching her, maybe it would only be desire she'd feel instead of fear.

Fenrir didn't care. He fell asleep holding her, one happy wolf.