Work Text:
Hermione swore as she picked her way across the uneven ground, the bright light of the moon hardly lighting her path beneath the shadows of the cliffs that lined the cove. Damp sand clung to the hems of her skirts, the sharp, salty wind whistling from the sea stinging against her cheeks. She’d meant to set out earlier, before it had grown quite so dark, or quite so cold, but first Mrs Figg’s cat had somehow got stuck on her roof again—she suspected the beast did it on purpose—and then her delivery had been late, and then Miss Brown simply wouldn’t stop talking, and, well, here she was now, risking life and limb for the sake of an errand she never should have been running to begin with.
She could cast a Lumos to light her way, of course, but the last thing she wanted to do was draw attention, not here, not now, peril be damned. She winced as a particularly sharp rock dug through the thin sole of her shoe, just as a cool, terse voice emerged from the dark, slicing through the gentle lapping of the waves.
“You’re late.”
Hermione started, nearly losing her footing, her grip tightening about the bundle clutched beneath her arm as her eyes searched the dark for the speaker.
“I know,” she bit out through gritted teeth.
It had been months now, this unwilling agreement of theirs, a careful detente between enemy parties, and still she couldn’t shake the unsettling idea that he was toying with her, that this was all a part of a larger game to him. Though what should one expect, when one made a deal with the devil?
She hadn’t done it on purpose, of course. He’d seemed perfectly normal that day, when he’d wandered into her small library, all finely tailored clothes and sun-kissed skin. She’d thought he was just another foppish gentleman escaping the simpering of the young women who visited to take the waters in Brixham, just another lordling with more time than sense. Or at least that was the picture he presented, right up until he’d leaned against her counter, sliding a slip of paper across the scuffed wooden surface with a charming smile in lieu of words. She’d returned a polite smile, plucking the paper from the counter, expecting to find a list of the usual fare, a few of the popular novels, perhaps a book of poetry or a treatise on naval practice. Except when her gaze had dropped to the spiky words scrawled across the page—
Moonstone
Murtlap Tentacle
Occamy Eggs
Gracilaria Skottsbergii
“I’m afraid there must be a mistake,” she’d said with a tight smile, offering the parchment back. “This is a lending library, sir, I can’t assist you with this. The apothecary is three streets up, can’t miss it.”
But rather than thanking her and leaving, as any reasonable person might, the man had merely arched a silvery brow.
“Are you quite certain?” He leaned nearer, his voice dropping low. “My dear friend—Lord Dolohov—suggested you may be of some assistance.”
She tensed, her fingers unconsciously crumpling the paper still in her grasp. She didn’t know Lord Dolohov, and she was reasonably certain he didn’t know her, his current state considered. But she did know his scullery maid and, judging by the way the man in front of her arched a smug brow, he knew as much, and the why of it.
Which was how she found herself on an abandoned beach in the middle of the night, a tightly bundled package of Class III restricted ingredients beneath her arm, enough to get her thrown in Azkaban for life if she were caught. Nearly as quickly as she would be if it were discovered she was the source of the poison that had killed Lord Dolohov last year.
“If we could get this over with, please?”
“You’re late,” the man merely repeated.
She let out a huff of frustration. “Yes, I know,” she grumbled as she scanned the dark, gaze searching futilely for the source of his voice. Where was he?
It was bad enough it had taken her so long to get here, he could at least do them both the decency of not wasting her time further. There were plenty of things she’d rather be doing, namely, sleeping in her own bed, even if her cat did sprawl across the majority of the narrow cot. At least then her feet would be warm.
A shudder wracked her frame as a particularly cutting breeze whipped past.
“Fine,” she muttered to herself before calling out. “I’ll just leave this here, then.”
It was odd, to be sure, a smuggler who required the same things from her month after month, and in quantities so small she couldn’t fathom how he could turn a profit. But she didn’t particularly care if the man’s operations served him well, only that she, and the women she aided, remained safe, and this was what it took, this deal they’d struck.
And she’d held up her end of the bargain, even if the prat didn’t bother to show himself. With one last, wary glance about the seemingly empty beach, she stooped to set the package on the sand, and turned her back. She made it one step, maybe two, before something gripped the back of her skirts, pulling her to an abrupt stop. She stilled, an unconscious frisson of something—not quite fear—washing down her spine as that voice came again, so much nearer this time, a low purr in her ear.
“Did you think you could neglect our agreement simply because you were tardy, poppet?”
She tensed as his arm snaked about her waist, shifting her weight to turn and face him, to tell him exactly what she thought of their deal—not that she wouldn’t go through with it, if only for the sake of those who relied on her. But rather than let her move so that she could get this over with, his grip tightened, holding her firmly in place.
“I should charge you double for the slight, witch.”
She bristled as his warm breath brushed over her nape, ignoring the shudder that washed through her at the sensation in favour of the ire surging within her.
“Do you have any idea how long it took me to procure occamy eggs? It’s not as if I can simply pop down to the corner shop.” If he thought it was so very simple for her to track his ridiculous order down, then he could very well do it himself and she could—
He tutted, interrupting the whirlwind of her thoughts. “That’s not the part I’ve yet to collect on, love.”
She tensed in his grip.
Oh.
Of course.
That.
She’d thought he might have given up on that particular bit of inanity, might have finally grown bored, but why would he, when he held such power over her?
“Must we?”
She’d been frightened, terrified, even, the first time he’d asked—demanded—this of her. She was far from a simpering virgin—she was nearly twenty-seven and firmly a spinster, after all—but a passing romp with a travelling bookseller had somehow felt far less intimidating than the single kiss this man—this stranger—had demanded of her each time they met. But as months had passed, and he’d asked nothing more of her than the ingredients she provided and a simple press of the lips, she’d begun to question the motive of it all.
He was passably handsome enough—roguish tendencies aside—with hair so blonde it was nearly white, and stormy grey eyes nearly as sharp as his features. She was rather certain he could have had kisses from any number of women, all of them more willing than she. But it was she he’d chosen to torment.
No, there was little doubt in her mind he meant nothing more than to discomfort her, and she simply wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. So instead, she did her best to simply feign boredom with the entire situation. Because she most certainly didn’t think of his kisses, or the way his shirt stretched across his chest, or the way his white teeth glinted in the moonlight. He was a nuisance, nothing more, and it would be a service to his ego for someone to tell him as much.
She spun, ignoring his grip on the back of her skirts, her lips parting to, well, not scold him, but to at least tell her precisely what her opinion of his request was.
Only—only as she faced him… Her mouth gaped open, but nothing escaped, her scream trapped in her throat as she took in the shadowy sight before her.
“Now, now, poppet,” the man crooned, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “I warned you not to be late, did I not?”
“I…I…” she stammered, only for one of the—Merlin help her—one of the tentacles undulating across the sand to lift and tap gently against her chin, prompting her to close her mouth.
“No hysterics, if you please,” the—oh Circe, could she even call him a man? The creature before her said, as if they were discussing the latest bit of town gossip.
He appeared much as she’d grown to know as she looked into his face, a man like any other, but as her eyes drifted down his form, over his chest and lower still…That scream burbled in her throat once more. Because where there should be legs—where she’d been quite certain there had been legs—were seven writhing tentacles, dark against the pale sand, each as thick as her thigh and twining about as if just waiting to ensnare her and drag her to a watery death. Except it was too late, they were no longer waiting, because—oh Circe help her—it wasn’t his arm that had twined about her waist. No, it was an eighth tentacle, draped about her and holding her firmly in place even as every instinct in her body screamed at her to flee. Which is precisely what she did. Or attempted to do, as she whirled, taking one stumbling step, then two, before she was yanked to an abrupt halt.
“Stay put,” he hissed, another of those heavy tentacles snaking about her waist, pinning her form hard against his as she stumbled over his undulating limbs in her attempt to escape, trapping one momentarily beneath the sharp heel of her boot.
Hermione froze as a sharp bark of pain escaped him, certain that this would be her end, that, whether she’d meant to or not, she’d brought harm upon this man—this creature—and now he would take it from her in turn.
But instead the man merely produced his wand, holstered at his arm as if he were prepared for battle, and cast a silent charm, setting pale blue flames dancing in his palm, casting a weak circle of light about them.
“There,” he said, sounding all too satisfied as he forced her about to face him once more. “Do try to keep those vicious little feet to yourself, hmm?”
She jerked away as he lifted the flames higher, as if the fact that she could now see him in full, could make out that the tentacles were a rich, dark green, studded with silvery suckers, rather than just merely black, somehow made it better.
“I…” she stammered once more, hating herself for the quaver of fear that laced her tone. She knew it was out of pocket, and terribly foolish, but she couldn’t just…not ask, curiosity seething within her even as her base instincts urged her to run for her life. If she were going to die, she’d really rather know exactly what the cause was. “Excuse my rudeness, but…what are you?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and she startled. He was amused by the question?
“Really, pet. So very proper,” he murmured, his mouth startlingly close to her ear. “And here I thought you might be brighter than most, might have put it all together. After all, it’s not too far off from wolfsbane, is it?”
She blinked down at where he was wrapped about her waist still, her mind still too caught on tentacles to realise exactly what he was referring to until—
She let out a startled squeak of excitement, the sudden rush of a new discovery temporarily overriding her fear as she jerked her chin up to meet his gaze once more.
“You’re a wereoctopus?”
He sniffed indignantly, a deeply affronted look crossing his expression, as if she were the absurd one in all this.
“A werekraken if you will. But yes, well done, poppet. A werekraken who should have returned to his ship well before this became an issue.” He gestured to his tentacles with a dismissive sneer and Hermione flushed lightly.
It wasn’t as if she’d planned to be late, for Merlin’s sake. But far be it from her to argue with a beast who might just as easily drag her to a watery death as he might flash that charming smile of his.
“Well then,” she said with forced brightness. “I apologise for the delay. Again. But you have your things now, and I expect you should be on your way then.”
Please, Merlin, let him be on his way, so that she could spiral into hysteria without the added shame of witnesses. And then perhaps once she’d managed to calm her racing heart, and the instinct that screamed her death was imminent, she might do some digging to see if such a phenomenon as a werekraken had been observed in the past.
But rather than releasing her and returning from whence he came—his ship? The sea?—Merlin help her, she didn’t know whether to scream or pepper him with questions—one of those thick tentacles caught underneath her chin, startling her from her spiralling thoughts, his dark gaze stern as he tilted her face to his.
“The terms haven’t changed simply because I have, pet,” he crooned, a dangerous edge to his tone.
Hermione, never much one for hysterics even when they were grossly deserved, fought to gather herself, pasting a carefully even expression across her face, affecting a sense of ennui she very much did not feel as she heaved a heavy sigh. She was doing her very best to ignore the way a second tentacle wound about her ankle as if he were certain she might run again, another twining about her wrist, as if he knew how dearly she wished she could reach her wand, tucked neatly through her plait. But if that was what it would take for him to release her, to send her on her way…
“Very well then,” she said tightly, placing her hands on his (very human) shoulders and rising to her toes, brushing her lips over his in a gentle kiss.
That was that, then.
Except.
This wasn’t the kiss she’d come to know from this man, the dry, chaste pressing of lips. No. This time, as her lips met his, that supple limb at her chin slipped to her nape, urging her nearer as his mouth pressed hard to hers, seeking. She gasped as his teeth nipped at her lower lip—sharper than they should have been—and he took advantage, his tongue seeking hers, tasting and sliding together as their breath mingled, harsh in the quiet night, until the slide of his tentacles over her skin—smoothing over her nape, wrapping about her ankle, tight about her waist—didn’t feel so startlingly foreign but instead almost…welcome. So much so that, when he began to pull away, she let out a muffled noise of protest, her grip tight on his shoulders as she rose to her toes, chasing after him.
That heavy weight settled about her waist tugged her tight against his form, her legs tangled amongst his limbs even as he pulled his lips from hers with a groan. “Poppet,” he murmured, a muffled rasp to his voice as his lips pressed to the top of her head. “That’s enough.” One of his myriad tentacles stroked a slow, teasing pattern up her calf even as he spoke, and Hermione had a brief thought that perhaps he might not even realise it, as his hands fell to her waist, setting her away from him. “You should go home, sweet.”
“Oh,” she said, unprepared for the sudden wash of disappointment that coursed through her, unable to explain why, when anyone with sense would flee the moment they had the opportunity faced with this beast of a man. But that had been, well, rather lovely, and she had so many questions, and—
“I mean…Yes, of course.”
And yet she stood there as he looked down at her, his gaze obscured by the shadows as a heavy silence settled over them.
“I…” she finally spoke again. “I’m afraid you’ll need to let me go, if you please.”
He jolted with a grunt, the thick length unwinding from her calf, leaving her feeling oddly bereft. Its weight had been…a comfort, almost, there, in the dark.
She was free, she should flee, back to the comforting lights of the town on the cliff, but still she stayed, studying him in the dim, flickering light of the blue flames in his hand.
A werekraken, here, in their cove. She was rather certain she’d never encounter such a thing again. She had so many questions, there had been so little research—Merlin, she’d never even heard of a werekraken, and now she was simply going to walk away from the one standing before her? No, she couldn’t do that. Squaring her shoulders and summoning every scrap of bravery she had, she tilted her chin up.
“Before I go…” She paused, swallowing the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her throat. “Before I go, I was hoping I might ask you a few questions. About…your condition?”
He let out a sharp, harsh bark of laughter and she took a startled, stumbling step backwards, would have fallen if not for him catching her about the waist once more, a hard glint in his gaze as he answered.
“It’s not a condition, it’s a fucking curse, love.”
“Oh,” she said lamely. She couldn’t argue with him, she supposed, though he seemed to lack the feral urges that drove werewolves during their change. He was still half-human, for Merlin’s sake. But she would be foolish to forget that this wasn’t a man here before her. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking—”
Her lips snapped shut as a tired huff of laughter escaped him as he glanced over his shoulder, out to sea, where his ship must wait in the dark, her form stilling as his gaze turned back to her.
“Ask your questions, poppet.”
A thrill ran through her, her mind racing with the opportunity before her, the words whirling about all fighting to come out at once, until she finally managed—“You brew… a wolfsbane of sort, every month?”
His chin jerked in a sharp nod.
“And…the potion…it prevents the change entirely?”
His too-sharp teeth flashed. “Outside of a few…more permanent changes, yes. It’d be rather inconvenient for business to go about like this once a month, don’t you think?”
She blinked at him. He made it sound so…simple. Though, she supposed, when one was gallivanting about upon a ship, perhaps this was nothing more than a minor detail. It might even be convenient, she supposed, for a sailor such as he to be so closely tied to the sea. But she’d known werewolves, had seen the challenges they faced every day…
“But how do you manage, if you turn every month, I mean, even with the wolfsbane—err, werebane—the instincts, they must—”
“Those instincts make me want to fight, poppet. To kill.” A wolfish grin twisted his expression as he interrupted her, his voice lowering to a purr. “Or if I’m lucky, they make me want to fuck.”
She flushed scarlet, the harsh words stirring something low in her belly as she floundered, searching for her next question, one with an answer that wasn’t quite so shocking. One that didn’t call to mind visions of his form, poised above a faceless stranger, the thick weight of his tentacles draped over exposed skin, lips twisted in a snarl, hips flexing as he thrust deep—
“But what about your crew?” she blurted, barely masking the quaver in her tone. It was an inane question, and not at all what she truly wanted to know, but… “Do they—”
“You need to stop, poppet.”
There was a rasp in his voice as he cut her off, an unfamiliar edge, and Hermione froze as she realized, in the midst of the turmoil of her thoughts, her hands had settled on the tentacle still wrapped loosely about her waist, her fingers drawing idle, thoughtless patterns over the oddly smooth skin.
“I—Oh!” she exclaimed, snatching her hand away. “I’m so sorry.” Merlin, what was the etiquette for this sort of thing? She would never touch a gentleman so. Not that he was a gentleman—he wasn’t even a man—but perhaps that was even worse, perhaps there were unspoken rules about touching with….werekraken. Like how one didn’t wear perfume around werewolves, out of consideration for their noses, or eat too much garlic prior to meeting with vampires, or…
Flushing deeper, she raised her gaze to meet his, to stammer out another apology, to beg forgiveness for her misstep, only—
“Oh,” she said softly, her voice a hush against the waves, her breath caught in her chest.
Gods, he… She knew his face after so many months, knew that gentlemanly sneer that so often twisted his features. But here, now, under the silvery light of the full moon, that familiar expression had taken on a feral edge, the flames casting shadows across the crags of his features, his pupils blown wide with lust. No, this was no gentleman here before her, no roguish sailor. No, this was a monster, one hidden beneath the guise of a man.
“I…” she stuttered, that sense of fear she’d been so foolish to forget surging through her once more as he glowered down at her. “I think I should be going now.”
She took a stumbling half-step back, only for that heavy weight about her waist to tighten, a low tut reaching her ears as his expression shifted. “So quick to try to run now, are you, sweet?”
She tensed in his hold, heart beating a rapid tempo in her throat as his voice lowered to a dangerous purr.
“Do I frighten you? Or is it something else that’s scared you, that has you scurrying like a little mouse?”
She bristled. Of course she was frightened, he was a monster, anyone with sense would fear for their lives. Hell, he was lucky she hadn’t run screaming, taking his precious supplies with her. For him to insinuate that she was nothing more than a silly little girl, nothing more than a coward for wanting to retreat now, when he leered down at her, a predator eying his prey—a shudder washed down her spine as a rough hand caught at her chin, tilting her face to meet his.
“Perhaps you’ve realised that you owe me something more, for being late, hmm?”
There was a rough growl to his words, one that hadn’t been there before, and she stiffened, something foreign stirring low in her belly, blending with the fear that roiled there.
“I—I already gave you what you required…Our agreement,” she faltered. “Your ingredients and…and the kiss.”
She flushed, and a wicked grin flickered across his expression.
“And is that all you want, little mouse?” he crooned. “Will a kiss do?”
Her breath caught as the roughened pad of his thumb swiped over her lips.
“Or are you going to go home to your lonely little bed tonight and think of me?”
She jerked, her cheeks flaming scarlet as she attempted to wrench her face from his grip—he couldn’t just say things like that, like she was some sort of—some sort of strumpet!—but his grip merely tightened, pinning her in place like a butterfly fixed on display.
“I think you will,” he mused aloud, tilting her face to the side, almost as if examining her. “Do you think I couldn’t scent you, before? The way your sweet little cunt called to me, so damp and desperate?”
Her lips parted in protest and his thumb slipped between them, pressing against her tongue and silencing her mutinous protest.
“No, you may not care for the man at all. But now? Now, I’m a monster, pet…and you like it.”
A low whimper escaped her unbidden and his eyes took on a sharp, pleased glint, his grip about her waist tightening, tugging her nearer until his breath whispered across her cheek.
“There it is,” he nearly purred. “Now she tells the truth. Such a pretty, eager little thing you are.”
Her eyes widened as his heavy limb slipped from about her waist, falling to the sand with a weighted thud, his thumb slipping from her mouth. A heavy, expectant silence reigned for a long moment as she stared at him, shifting uneasily on her feet, warring urges roiling within, until—He shifted closer and she tensed, preparing for him to ensnare her once more, but his lips simply brushed over her cheek, a mere breath of a kiss before he spoke.
“Go on, little mouse,” he purred low in her ear. “Run. I do so love the chase.”
A thrill stirred low within her, one absolutely absent of any sense, as the promise rang in his words. He couldn’t mean—surely—
“Go.”
His voice was a harsh rasp, one that spurred her into action as she spun, instinct taking over as she sprinted down the dark beach, stumbling, feet catching in sand, skirts tangling about her legs. She couldn’t hear him behind her, beyond the crashing of the waves and the whistle of the wind, yet somehow she knew, knew he was merely toying with her, that it would be the work of an instant for him to catch her, to pin her to the ground and—
Her voice ripped from her, a sharp shriek vanishing into the wind as her feet were unceremoniously torn from beneath her, sending her tumbling to the sand.
She scrabbled helplessly beneath him, the grains rough against her palms as she fought to scramble to her feet once more.
“Ah-ah,” a low voice tutted in her ear as his heavy weight came down atop her. “You should have run faster, pet.”
It was as if she were nothing more than a doll pressed beneath him, a toy for his amusement, as the thick lengths of his tentacles twined about her legs, pinning her in place with ease, the heat of his form at her back as he settled atop her.
“And what a lovely little prize I’ve won,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over the curls escaped from her plait.
“I’m not your prize,” she snapped, unthinking, as she struggled against him, the waves of the incoming tide lapping over their—her—feet as he pressed her to the sand, the damp soaking through her thin gown, a chill running down her spine even as his lips warmed her throat.
“Aren’t you though?” he crooned as his mouth found the rapid pounding of her pulse.
Gods, it would be the work of an instant for him to kill her, to rip her throat out, to abandon her as just another body lost to the sea. And yet, as his sharp teeth pricked at her skin, taunting, teasing, it was all she could do to keep from arching into his hold.
Circe help her, she was losing her mind, letting him touch her so. This was no quiet, easy lover in the comfort of a bed. No, this was—he was—a monster, and he wanted her in a way she couldn’t begin to comprehend and she…she…Gods. A low keen rose in her throat as those long, snakelike limbs twined about her chest, pinning her arms to her sides and binding her tight to him, forcing her back to arch flush against his chest as he rose to his knees behind her, pulling her from the sand.
“There we are,” he purred as his hand smoothed down her nape, sliding across her collar, a single, taunting finger tracing over the swell of her breast, forced higher by the press of his tentacles about her ribs. She squirmed against his hold, a whimper escaping her, a plea, though whether she was begging for escape, or for…for… A sharp gasp escaped her as he shoved the bodice of her dress lower without warning and—oh gods—delicate rows of suckers fastened to her skin, plucking at her nipples through the sheer fabric of her chemise even as other limbs twisted in her skirts, tugging them higher.
“I—What are you—” she gasped out, her head falling back against his broad shoulder, helpless against the sensations.
A low, rough chuckle echoed in her ear as he lifted her higher, shifting her about like a doll, thick tentacles slipping between her legs, suckers dimpling the soft flesh of her thighs as he forced them wide, her skirts rucked about her waist. “Again with the silly questions, sweet.”
She flinched as the cold spray of the ocean air met her heated flesh, thighs trembling as he held her there, just for a moment, exposed for all the world to see.
“Please,” the word escaped her on a whimper, her limbs twitching within the press of his hold. “I…I need…”
“What is it you need, poppet?” His words were a low purr, thick tentacles holding her aloft as his hands skated down her front, finding her heat for himself.
She bucked against his hold, a sharp cry wrenching from her throat as deft fingers found her center. “There,” she gasped out, hips jerking. “I need you there.”
He hummed as his fingers traced circles about her most sensitive point. “Is that so?”
Her head jerked in a sharp nod, her limbs quivering against his hold.
“But it’s not my fingers you truly want in this pretty little cunt, is it? No, you want something those insipid men in that insipid town can’t give you, don’t you?”
Her mind stuttered over the thought—what could he—he couldn’t mean—her breath caught in her throat as one of those thick limbs slid through her folds, the textured ridges slick with a moisture that wasn’t her own and—oh Circe, they were moving, sucking lightly at her, as if dozens of fingers danced over her sensitive flesh all at once and—gods. A shudder wracked her form as pleasure surged deep within her, and she felt, more than heard, the laughter in his chest as his easy grip spread her somehow wider.
“There’s no running now, mouse,” his voice met her ear just as that tentacle shifted, pressing to her entrance and surging into her without warning, wrenching a sharp cry from her throat.
Merlin, no, it was too much, so thick, and he was pressing so deep—she thrashed against his hold, fighting to free herself even as the walls of her cunt fluttered about the intrusion, her thighs slick with her want and his, pleasure crashing through her even as her mind screamed she’d gone mad. She kicked out, one ankle slipping from the tight shackle of his grip as she squirmed, foot connecting hard with—something. A flash of hope rose within her, that she might free herself in truth, until a harsh bark of laughter escaped the man at her back, her victory short-lived as sharp teeth settled at her throat, a clear threat as something nearing a purr rumbled in his chest.
She froze, that limb twining sinuously back up her calf as her pulse beat a rapid tattoo in her throat, like the prey he’d so aptly named her.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he crooned as he soothed a hand over her hair, twining her braid about his fingers and giving it a sharp tug that drew an answering gasp from her as she clenched about his length.
“Look at you,” he rasped, urging her gaze down to where dancing blue flames cast flickering shadows over them, their limbs twined together, the dark lines of his tentacles stark against her skin, and there, in the shadow between her legs…A gasping moan rose in her throat as that thick limb rippled, somehow easing deeper within her, every nerve alight as he toyed with her, claimed her.
His lips moved over her throat, a work-roughened hand smoothing over her stomach, over the soft swell that bulged there as he pressed deep. “Taking me so fucking well, such a perfect little thing.”
She keened, arching into his touch as he surged within her, forcing her body to make room for his thick length. Gods, she could feel it coiling within her, stretching her further though she was already full to bursting, could feel it stroking at spots she hadn’t known existed.
Circe help her, she couldn’t fight any longer, couldn’t protest. All she could do was feel.
“Please,” she gasped out, her hips rocking as much as he’d allow, begging for more, for everything.
“That’s right,” he growled, a feral edge creeping into his voice, another of those thick ropes looping about her throat, pinning her in place against his hard chest as he rutted deep within her.
“You’re going to take everything, going to let me fill you until you’re fucking dripping with me, aren’t you?”
She shook her head, a sharp jerk of denial. She couldn’t. She couldn’t think, couldn’t take anymore. “No, please, I—” she arched with a cry, pleasure crashing through her as she clenched tight around him, as if she might pull him deeper.
“Oh but you are,” he crooned, his thrusts deep within her easing even as the tentacle about her neck loosened, instead tracing a line up the delicate line of her throat until the tip came to rest against her lips.
“Open for me, sweet.”
A noise of protest escaped her as her lips pressed tight. He couldn’t expect her to…want her to…
“I said open,” he grunted, shunting harder into her as his hand found the peak of one breast.
Her lips parted on a gasp as his fingers caught her sensitive flesh and a low groan escaped him as that thick length crowded into her mouth without pretence. She tensed, panic coursing through her in a flash as his heavy weight pressed against her tongue, her lips stretched wide, chest tightening as she fought to draw breath through her nose. And then—a low moan escaped her as his taste flooded her mouth. He tasted of man, and yet there was more.
Hermione let out a whimpering moan as she suckled at the thick length teasing at her throat, suddenly desperate for more of him, more of that rich, almost sweet edge near choking her as she sucked him deep, the barest hint of the salt of the sea teasing at her senses as his suckered ridges rubbed over her tongue. His answering groan reverberated against her back as he clutched her somehow closer still. Gods, he was everywhere, all at once, she was going mad.
“There she is, such a sweet girl,” he panted, hands roving as suckers plucked at her breasts, yet another of his limbs slicking over her peak. “Fucking lovely.”
The words were raspy, as if wrenched from his throat, her lids fluttering at the praise as she fought to take him deeper, to return the pleasure he dragged from every direction, driving her higher and higher, her every sense flooded until, all at once—she shattered, her scream muffled by the length in her throat, her form jerking in his tight hold as sensation wracked her form and—he wrenched his length from her throat and her scream rent the quiet night as the sharp blade of his bite sank into her shoulder, the warm wet of her blood welling against her throat as, with one last, forceful thrust, his length sank deeper than should have ever been possible and, with a low groan against her hair, he flooded her.
“Fuck,” he swore aloud as his weight collapsed beneath him, sending them both tumbling to the sand, her form still clutched to his own as he rolled, drawing her atop him as he slowly withdrew from her, leaving her feeling gaping, empty, suddenly all too aware of the cold breeze once more. A light shudder washed through her and he tutted low, gathering her nearer and snaking his tentacles tighter around her. It was foolish, she knew it was, and yet, she couldn’t quite resist settling into his embrace as his heat seeped from her, their breaths heavy in the silence as his hands swept soothing patterns over her skin, tracing over the delicates patterns of circles left behind by the suckers that had claimed her so thoroughly, his touch a stark contrast to the violence of their coupling.
She couldn’t sleep here, in the wet sand, a monster at her side as the tide washed in, it would be the height of insanity, and yet…yet…she let her lids drift closed, just for a moment.
Minutes passed, perhaps hours, when the distant clanging of a bell shattered the silence, three distinct tolls, followed by three more.
Hermione bolted upright, her eyes widening as the alarm travelled, loud even over the crash of the waves.
“Pirates,” she whispered to herself, just as distant cries of the same reached their ears on the wind.
She scrabbled to her feet, haphazardly fighting to tug her bodice back into place as her eyes frantically scanned the dark waters for any sign of the invaders and finding none. She glanced over to the man, he clearly could see better in the dim light than she, only to find him still sprawled lazily across the sand, the flickering blue flames revealing an amused curve to the set of his lips.
“What are you doing?” she hissed as she twisted her hair into some semblance of respectable. “There’s pirates.” She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, as if that particular scourge of the sea might emerge from the dark at any moment.
“It’s rather late for you to worry about that, love.” He grasped at her skirts, as if he might pull her down atop him once more as he offered her a lazy, sardonic grin. “Seeing as I am the pirate.”
A half beat passed as Hermione merely stared at him, all of the pieces coming together to paint a startling clear picture.
The calluses that roughened his hands.
The ease with which he rowed his small boat to their cove every month, unlike any gentleman she’d ever met.
The fact that no one in town seemed to know who her mysterious blackmailer was and yet he’d known Dolohov, who’d all but famously had his wand in any number of illegal enterprises.
Not to mention he was a bloody werekraken.
Gods, she was a bloody idiot. A bloody idiot who was very well going to land in jail—or worse—alongside this man if they didn’t move rather quickly.
“Oh get up,” she spit irritatedly, yanking her skirts from his grasp and fighting to ignore the way a tentacle snaked over her shoulder and gently tugged her sleeve back into place. His grin only widened as he pushed gracefully to his—oh Merlin, she couldn’t call them feet, could she?
“They’re going to be here any moment. They can’t see you, like, like…” she gestured helplessly at his monstrous form.
“Careful,” he purred as he flicked a bit of sand from her bodice. “Or someone might even think you like me, witch.”
She sniffed, levelling him with a glare in return even as her cheeks coloured, all too aware of the way his spend trickled slowly down her leg. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snipped. “I tolerate you, out of necessity, at best.”
His grin merely widened, a sinuous limb snaking about her waist and yanking her nearer even as another wound up her leg, taking up its now-familiar position about her calf.
“Tolerate, hmm?” he hummed as she sagged reflexively into his touch.
“Do shut up,” she murmured in return even as his lips found hers once more, teasing and tasting as if they had all the time in the world until he finally pulled away, grin still firmly in place.
“You’d best be on, then,” he said with a rather rude pat on her arse as he urged her about to face the cliff-side path that led back to town. “It’d be a shame for such a sweet young lass to be caught with the likes of me, no?”
Hemione glanced over her shoulder at the man, his broad hands warm about her waist once more as another limb stroked idly about her ankle. Almost as if—almost as if he were reluctant to let her go, despite his words. She couldn’t go yet, she had questions, damn it all. But when she opened her mouth to say as much, he simply shook his head, his gaze flicking pointedly past her to where the flickering lights of torches bobbed along the cliff’s edge.
“Go,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
A gentle push at her back and she was once again stumbling across the wet sand, this time all too aware of the man—creature—pirate—lurking in the dark behind her.
His parting words reached her ears, a laugh in his voice as he called after her retreating back. “Don’t be late again, poppet.”