Work Text:
OFFICIAL COVER ART
By
TurtleShellPowerup
Tom had never felt anything that matched the focus of that afternoon, when his name climbed the draft board as a first round pick to Dallas. The stadium lights of his first game had felt ordinary beside the heat behind his eyes, a pressure that ordered him forward.
He had been a Texas kid grown up in the system, who learned to move through small openings and opportunities, who turned every slight into fuel, paying it back tenfold.
Hermione was a bright presence in his life. They’d met, naturally, as they ran in the same circles at the stadium. He had first seen her at practice, seen the way she could capture a crowd with her stunning aura and finish a routine flawlessly, and something in him had constricted around the sight and refused to let go.
It was irrational and absolute, the kind of wanting that made him obsess over every small movement she made, from the tilt of her head to the way she laughed with teammates. Draco noticed; Draco teased; Tom smiled and kept the wanting private, like a playbook with a single secret route.
The clause in his contract read like a line drawn in the sand. It was an instruction and an obstacle, and the more official it sat on glossy paper, the more Tom decided he would find the loophole and make his own way, as he had all his life. He thought of consequences the way other men thought of weather, an inconvenience to be planned around. He was a Cowboy and she was a Cowboy’s Cheerleader, so what? If Tom wanted her, he was going to have her.
In the quiet between training and sleep, he made plans with the care of a man mapping a field. There was a selfish tenderness in it, the sort that kept vigil for the exact moment boundaries weakened. Like a coiled snake, he was ready to strike at a moment's notice.
When Draco clapped his shoulder and said the obvious, that Tom was courting trouble, Tom only half laughed and insisted it would work out. He was Tom Riddle, after all.
He did not imagine a neat ending, however. How could it, when Hermione was unfortunately with that Ginger fuck. He would have his work cut out for him. He imagined a night where the rules bent, and a bed would be an ordinary place and not a breach to be cataloged.
It was not courageous so much as a patient compulsion. He closed his eyes and let the plan unfold in his mind, certain that when the chance came, he would take it and accept whatever consequences followed with the same appetite that had driven him from foster home drills to first round lights.
The following Tuesday, the Cowboys’ training facility was a temple of sweat and striving. The sounds of grunting men and whistles and the violent thud of pads colliding formed a chaotic, orchestra of sound. Tom moved through the drills with a machine like efficiency, his body executing plays his mind had already visualized a thousand times. His focus, however, was tuned to the windows above the stadium, where a different kind of athlete trained.
Through the glass windows, he watched them in their practice room. The cheer leading squad was a kaleidoscope of blue and white motion, a stark contrast to the brutality of his own world. Today, they were practicing a new routine. Hermione was in the center of the room, a fifth year veteran, and was helping the rookie members with the routine.
As she paused her teaching, her gaze swept absently across the football field, and for a single, suspended second, it connected with his. There was no smile, no acknowledgment, just a direct, unguarded look. As quick as their eyes connected, they disconnected, and she was focused again, her eyes on some distant point, her body achieving the flawless pose the routine demanded.
Later, showered and dressed in the quiet sanctuary of the players’ lounge, he thought of her, as he always did. She was, he thought, perhaps the only person in this entire building whose mind operated on a frequency adjacent to his own. Once everything had wrapped up, he headed to the players parking garage. Draco fell into step beside him as he headed for the parking lot.
“See something you like, Riddle?” he drawled, his voice dripping with implication.
Tom did not look at him, he kept his eyes forward, on the gleaming black sports car that was his and his alone.
“I see many things, Malfoy. I calculate the cost of acquisition.”
“Acquisition,” Draco snorted, unlocking his own ostentatious Lamborghini. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Just be careful you don’t acquire a one way ticket out of Dallas. That clause is in there for a reason, dude. They’re not decorations, they’re a liability. Why do you think I haven’t tried to get with Granger myself? You’re not the only one who dreams about that tight ass, Riddle.”
“Don’t touch what’s mine, Malfoy.” Tom replied, his voice lethal.
He slid into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning in welcome.
“Hermione is my girl.”
He started the engine, the powerful growl a definitive end to the conversation. He pulled away, leaving Draco standing in a cloud of exhaust and his own unheeded warnings. In the rear view mirror, he saw a familiar, less welcome figure jog to catch up with Hermione as she’d been walking to her own, green Beatle. Weasley, some no name comedian, his red hair a bright flag of mediocrity, slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
Tom’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, the fine leather creaking in protest. He felt the hot spike of jealousy branded onto his heart. Weasley may be fucking her now, but the game was already in motion. He knew her schedule, her lifestyle, the Café she frequented after practice with her friends. He knew she was entangled with that ginger fuck, Ronald Weasley, a fact that provoked unbridled contempt.
Weasley was an obstacle, a temporary fixture, a man who clearly did not understand the rare, brilliant woman he had been gifted. Tom’s desire was not a boyish crush; it was a patient, predatory compulsion. He was studying the playbook of her life, learning its formations and its weaknesses, waiting for the perfect moment to call an audible and change the game forever.
He was Tom Riddle. He had clawed his way out of the anonymous, grinding machinery of the Texas foster system, turning every closed door and dismissive glance into pure, refined fuel. This was no different. Hermione Granger was the ultimate prize, the one thing his success could not automatically buy. He would have her.
The plan, Tom reasoned, was the most efficient way to bypass the artificial barriers erected between them. The answer was an injury, a minor one, but with a sufficient recovery period, that would create a dependency, a loophole as he’d be a non-active rostered player. Hermione’s nature, that intrinsic goodness he had observed from a distance, would be the very engine of his design.
Her sense of responsibility, her compassion, these were not abstract virtues to him; they were levers, precisely placed and waiting for the correct amount of pressure to be applied. He would not force an opportunity; he would engineer one so perfect, that she would walk into his world of her own volition, believing the choice to be her own.
He selected the venue with care, the annual charity gala at the Dallas Art Museum. It was a sprawling, glittering affair where players, cheerleaders, and benefactors mingled under the guise of philanthropy, a perfect Petri dish for controlled social collisions. He wore a tailored black tuxedo, a uniform of power and allure, his features quite striking. Tom had always been handsome. He moved through the crowd with a politician’s grace, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, his eyes perpetually scanning the room until they found her.
She was a vision in deep emerald silk, a dress that left one shoulder bare and cascaded over her form in a way that was both elegant and hinting at the athlete beneath. She was standing with that useless waste of space, who looked uncomfortable and ruddy in his ill fitting dinner jacket, his hand possessively on the small of her back.
Tom watched them from across the room, a crystal flute of champagne cool in his hand. He saw the way Hermione’s eyes wandered over the art, the intelligent curiosity in her expression as she listened to a museum curator, the slight, almost imperceptible shift away from Weasley’s touch. The cracks were there, he simply needed to widen them.
His moment came hours later, as the crowd began to thin and migrate toward the valet station. He had positioned himself near the grand staircase, a sweeping marble structure that descended into the main lobby. He saw Hermione excuse herself, likely heading for the restroom, while Weasley was caught in a boisterous conversation with a group of other players’ guests. As she passed him, her gaze momentarily met his. He offered a small, polite nod.
“A captivating exhibition,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear it. “Though, I found the curation of the postwar abstracts to be a bit…safe.”
Her step faltered, her eyes, a rich, cognac brown in the museum’s soft lighting, widened slightly.
“You think so? I thought the thematic grouping was rather bold, considering the traditional patronage here.”
“Bold in concept, perhaps,” Tom replied, taking a subtle step closer, closing the distance between them. “But the execution lacked a certain daring.”
He could smell the green apple scent of her, now mingled with something warmer, more complex. Jasmine.
“It’s a common flaw when institutions try to innovate without fully committing to the chaos of true art.”
A genuine, surprised smile touched her lips.
“That’s a remarkably astute observation, Mr. Riddle.”
“Tom, please,” he said, his own smile carefully crafted, designed to be both disarming and intimate. “We’re teammates, after all. In the broadest sense of the word.”
It was then that he executed the maneuver. A group of rowdy, champagne flushed patrons stumbled past, laughing loudly. As they jostled between them, Tom used the disturbance as cover. He shifted his weight, his polished Oxford deliberately catching the heel of her stiletto as she took a half step back.
It was a minute, precise action, invisible to anyone else. Her ankle turned with a sickening little twist. A sharp, pained gasp escaped her. She stumbled forward, and his arms were there instantly, catching her, his body a solid wall against her fall.
“Goodness,” he murmured, his hands firm on her bare arms, the silk of her dress brushing against his fingertips. “Are you all right?”
Her face was pale, her brow furrowed.
“My ankle. I must have caught my heel.”
“Here, lean on me,” he instructed, his tone all concerned and commanding.
He supported her weight effortlessly, guiding her to a velvet covered bench nearby. He knelt before her, a knight in a tuxedo, his head bowed as if in supplication. His fingers, with a surgeon’s gentleness, probed the delicate muscle and bones of her ankle. He could feel the slight, nascent swelling beneath her skin.
“It’s likely a minor sprain, but you shouldn’t put weight on it. We should get it elevated and iced immediately.”
It was at that moment that Weasley finally noticed the commotion. He pushed through the lingering crowd, his face a mask of confused irritation.
“Hermione? What happened?”
“She took a fall on the stairs,” Tom said, his voice smooth and laced with just the right amount of gravitas.
He didn’t look up from his ministrations, establishing a silent, intimate bubble around the two of them that excluded the ginger completely.
“The marble is treacherously polished, I’m afraid she’s injured her ankle.”
“I’ll take her home,” Weasley said, reaching for her.
Tom’s head lifted slowly.
“Your car is a standard sedan, isn’t it? The seating position will be agony for her leg. My vehicle is much more accommodating for an injury like this. I can take her straight to my apartment. It’s closer than the team doctor’s office at this hour, and I have a full medical kit, cryo-cuffs, everything she’ll need.”
He turned his attention back to Hermione, his expression softening into one of pure, undiluted solicitude.
“It’s the most logical course of action. Unless you’d prefer to spend the next four hours in an emergency room waiting room?”
He had presented the scenario with the flawless logic of a chess master. He had framed Weasleys’ car as an instrument of torture, the hospital as an ordeal, and his own solution as the only sane, comfortable choice. He saw the conflict warring in Hermione’s eyes, loyalty to her boyfriend warring with intense physical discomfort and the undeniable practicality of Tom’s offer.
“Ron, it… it does make sense,” she said, her voice tight with pain. “It’s throbbing quite badly. I just want to get off it.”
Weasley looked from her pained face to Tom’s implacable one, his own features a cartoon of helpless frustration. He was outmaneuvered, and he knew it.
“Fine, whatever. I’ll follow you there.”
Tom shook his head.
“There’s no need for that,” Tom said, his tone dismissive yet polite as he carefully lifted Hermione into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
“As Hermione’s boyfriend, you should continue to stay here and represent her.”
She instinctively looped her arms around his neck, a small, shocked sound escaping her. Her body was warm and pliant against his chest. It was everything he had imagined.
“She’ll be perfectly safe with me, Weasley. I’m a public figure with a pristine reputation. You should stay here for her, and I’ll ensure she’s properly cared for.”
Without waiting for a reply, he carried her through the stunned remnants of the gala, past the blinking, confused figure of Ronald Weasley, and out into the humid Dallas night. The valet, wide eyed, hurried to bring his McLaren to the curb.
Tom settled her into the passenger seat with meticulous care, arranging a conveniently placed cushion under her injured foot, his fingers brushing against the delicate skin of her calf. A faint tremor went through her at the contact. He closed her door, a quiet, definitive click, and rounded the car, the ghost of a true, triumphant smile finally touching his lips.
The drive to his building was filled with small pleasantries. The city lights slid over her profile, illuminating the thoughtful, slightly dazed expression on her face. He could feel her watching him when she thought he was focused on the road, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the effortless way his hands commanded the steering wheel.
His penthouse was silent when they entered. He carried her directly to the expansive, charcoal grey sofa in the living room, propping her leg on a mound of pillows with a quiet efficiency. He brought her a glass of cold water, then retrieved the professional grade medical kit, kneeling once more to carefully wrap her ankle in a cryo-cuff that revved to life with a soothing, cold vibration.
“This is…incredibly kind of you, Tom,” she said, her voice soft in the vast quiet of the room. “And terribly embarrassing. I can’t believe I was so clumsy.”
“It was an accident,” he said, his gaze holding hers.
The green of her dress seemed to deepen the gold flecks in her eyes.
“These things happen, there’s no need for embarrassment. Though…” He allowed a carefully measured pause. “I must admit, my motives aren’t entirely selfless.”
Her breath caught, just a little.
“Oh?”
“The team physician will undoubtedly bench you for a few weeks to let this heal, and my timing is truly abysmal.” He gave a wry, self-deprecating shake of his head. “I’ve just had a rather stubborn rotator cuff strain diagnosed. Nothing serious, but it requires four to six weeks of very specific, very tedious physical therapy. Having a partner for the exercises makes them infinitely more effective.”
He looked at her, his expression open, almost vulnerable.
“I was going to ask you at the gala, before all this happened, if you might consider being that partner. We could keep each other accountable. Two injured athletes, navigating the frustrations of recovery together. And now, it seems, you owe me a favor.”
He had woven the trap from threads of truth and lies, of genuine need and manufactured opportunity. He saw the thought process unfolding behind her eyes. Gratitude for his rescue, guilt for her perceived clumsiness that had, in her mind, caused this entire situation, and the logical appeal of his proposal. It was an irresistible confluence. An understanding smile spread across her face, erasing the last traces of her pain and discomfort.
“You’re right, I do owe you. It would be the least I could do.” She extended her hand, a formal, almost quaint gesture in the mood lit penthouse. “Very well, Tom Riddle. You have yourself a physical therapy partner.”
He took her hand, not in a shake, but by enclosing her fingers within his own. Her skin was soft, her grip surprisingly firm.
“Excellent,” he said, a murmur that seemed to absorb all other sound in the room. “I think this is the beginning of a very productive partnership.”
Soon, he would have her naked and writhing under his tongue and on his cock. It was only a matter of time.
The following weeks settled into a new and potent rhythm, a shared existence carved out in the sleek, minimalist confines of Tom’s penthouse. The city below became a silent, sprawling witness to their private rehabilitation. Ron’s absence, a comedy tour that had initially been a source of mild complaint from Hermione, became the fertile ground in which Tom’s design took root. It was a vacuum, and Tom was meticulous in filling every inch of it.
Their physical therapy sessions were a study in controlled intimacy. Tom’s rotator cuff regimen was a genuine, if slightly exaggerated, prescription of resistance bands and precise, slow motion exercises. Hermione’s ankle healed with the swiftness of youth and fitness, but Tom ensured the partnership continued under the guise of mutual support. He would stand behind her as she worked the bands, his hands making minute adjustments to her posture, his voice a seductive, steady instruction near her ear.
“Your scapula should glide, not jerk. Think of it as a smooth, continuous motion.”
His touch was always clinical, professional, yet it lingered just a fraction of a second too long, a ghost of possession that raised the fine hairs on her arms. It was during the rests, the moments spent on the floor with ice packs and bottles of electrolyte water, that the true demolition of her defenses occurred.
He became a master archivist of her life, collecting the fragments she offered and piecing them together into a portrait he found endlessly fascinating. She spoke of her parents, both dentists, their quiet, orderly life a world away from the screaming stadiums. She confessed her intellectual loneliness, the frustration of being perceived as just a body in a sequined uniform.
“They see the routines,” she said one afternoon, tracing the condensation on her water bottle, her gaze distant. “They don’t see the work that goes into them.”
Tom replied, his back against the sofa, his arm resting casually on a bent knee.
“Don’t be coy, Hermione, you’re quite the fan favorite these days.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, never caring for such things. After getting to know her, he’d learned the topography of her relationship with Weasley. He listened, a silent, attentive sphinx, as she voiced the minor frustrations that were symptomatic of a deeper incompatibility.
Ron’s inability to remember the name of her favorite author, his good natured but dismissive teasing of her overthinking, and his chronic lateness. Tom never criticized nor offered an opinion, he merely asked questions, his voice a soft, probing instrument.
“What would you have preferred him to do in that situation?”
He guided her to her own conclusions, letting her build the case against her boyfriend with evidence she herself provided. One evening, after a particularly grueling session, he ordered food from the expensive Thai restaurant she had mentioned craving. They ate at the kitchen island, the food spread between them, and he poured her a glass of a white wine he knew she favored.
The conversation drifted from sports psychology to French New Wave cinema, a transition he engineered with seamless grace. He spoke of Kurosawa’s influence on modern storytelling, and she countered with the feminist undertones in a specific Hepburn film, her eyes alight with a passion he had never seen directed at a cheer leading routine.
“You’re surprising, Tom,” she said, her cheeks lightly flushed from the wine and the intellectual sparring. She leaned her elbow on the counter, her chin in her hand, studying him. “Everyone thinks you’re just this machine, all football and ferocity.”
Tom smirked.
“And what do you think?” he asked, his voice dropping, the space between them seeming to shrink.
She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze traveled over his face, over the perfectly composed features that hid a universe of ambition and calculation.
“I think there are depths to you that no one bothers to look for,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “And that’s their loss.”
It was the closest she had come to an admission. He could feel it, the delicate architecture of her loyalty to Ron breaking under the slow erosion of a connection that was more cerebral, more visceral. He saw it in the way her eyes dropped to his mouth when he spoke, in the unconscious way she leaned into his space, in the slight tremor in her laugh when his hand brushed against hers as he cleared their plates.
He walked her to the door that night, a ritual that had become laden with unspoken meaning. She turned to say goodnight, her body angled towards his, her face tilted up. The hallway light caught the gold in her eyes, and he could see the war within them, propriety and a burgeoning, undeniable want.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said, her voice a little unsteady. “For the conversation and for everything these past weeks.”
He reached out, not to pull her to him, but to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips grazed the delicate shell, a touch so feather light it was almost an illusion. He felt her shiver, a full body tremor she couldn’t suppress. Her lips parted on a soft, in drawn breath.
He was so close, he could taste the victory, sweet on his tongue. He could feel the yielding in her, the slow, inevitable surrender. He could have closed the distance and captured her mouth with his and known the final, physical confirmation of his conquest.
But Tom Riddle was a patient man. He understood the power of anticipation, the exquisite torture of the almost, and the insufferable moral compass on infidelity. He let his hand fall away, his knuckles brushing her jawline in a final, fleeting caress.
“Goodnight, Hermione,” he murmured, as seductive as possible. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He watched her walk away on steady, healed ankles, her steps slightly hurried, her posture coiled with a new and thrilling awareness. He closed the door, the soft click echoing in the silent penthouse. He leaned against it, the cool wood a stark contrast to the heat coursing through him. He could still feel the phantom impression of her skin against his fingertips, could still see the dazed, wanting look in her eyes. The final barrier was thin, a pane of glass just waiting for the correct, precise tap.
He had orchestrated every moment, every shared confidence, every lingering glance that he could for the past month, and now, he could taste it. Her surrender was not a question of if, but when, and he was ready to savor every second of its arrival.
As he fisted himself in the shower that night, as he did every time she left his penthouse, he imagined her under him, her tanned skin and ample curves bouncing with each thrust of his cock. The image was torture, but it did not stop him from spilling into his hand again and again.
Tom was reviewing game tape on the vast, silent screen of his penthouse TV, the movements of the players a silent ballet of strategy and force, when the chime of the doorbell cut through the quiet. It was not the brisk, familiar tap of a delivery person, nor the impatient buzz of Draco. This was a single, hesitant press. He rose, his movements fluid, and crossed to the intercom. The video screen showed a distorted image of Hermione, her head bowed, her shoulders slumped. A primal and triumphant feeling stirred in his chest, he pressed the entry release without a word.
He opened his apartment door and waited. The elevator chimed, its doors sliding open to reveal her. She stood there, a portrait of devastation, and his heart twinged though he didn’t know why. Her eyes, usually so bright and perceptive, were red rimmed and swimming in unshed tears. She hugged her arms around herself, though the evening was warm, and her gaze was fixed on the floor as she approached.
“Tom,” she whispered, her voice broken.
She stopped a few feet from him, unable to meet his eyes. He said nothing, he simply stepped back, a silent, open invitation into his sanctuary. She moved past him and stood in the center of his living room, looking small and lost amidst the severe, modern furniture.
“He…” she began, and a sob caught in her throat. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sound. “Ron. I came home early and he was…there, and there was someone else. In our bed.”
Tom moved to the bar where a crystal decanter of Macallan 25 sat, a trophy from a contract bonus. He poured two fingers of the amber liquid into a heavy tumbler, the quiet clink of crystal the only sound in the room. He crossed to her and held out the glass.
“Drink this,” he said, his voice devoid of pity, offering instead a simple, solid anchor in her storm. “You don’t have to speak.”
Her fingers trembled as she took the glass. She brought it to her lips and took a small, shuddering sip, the whisky making her gasp softly as it burned. She took another, larger swallow, the warmth seeming to steady her. She finally looked at him, her expression one of raw, bewildered pain.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she confessed. “We share the flat, and all my things are there…and he’s there… and I just… I couldn’t stay.”
Tom internally seethed. He would have to call a hit man in for Weasley, for daring to hurt his girl.
“You came to the right place,” he said, his tone absolute.
He guided her to the sofa, and she sank into the cushions as if her bones had dissolved. He did not sit beside her, imposing. He took the armchair opposite, giving her space, becoming a silent, attentive witness to her grief. He let her talk, let the words tumble out in a strategic move. The betrayal, the lies, the shattered trust, and the humiliation.
He listened, his gaze fixed on her, absorbing every detail, every inflection of agony. He was a black hole for her pain, and with every word she spoke, the bond he had so carefully built tightened another notch.
The whisky did its work, loosening her tongue and blurring the sharpest edges of her hurt. The initial storm of tears subsided, leaving behind a weary, hollowed out calm. She stared into the depths of her glass, now half empty.
“He never listened,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Not like you do. He never saw…me. Not the real parts, anyway.”
She lifted her gaze, her eyes, still glistening, searching Tom’s face.
“All these weeks, being here with you, it’s made everything else feel so shallow.”
Her next words were so quiet they were almost inaudible, a confession spoken into the space between them.
“I’ve been lying to myself, actually. Even before Ron cheated on me I…I’ve been wondering, what it would feel like if you kissed me.”
Tom moved with the swift, inevitable certainty of a predator whose wait was finally over. In one fluid motion, he was out of his chair and before her. He didn’t sit; he knelt, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking the damp tracks from her cheeks. His touch was not gentle; it was possessive, definitive.
“Then stop wondering,” he commanded, his voice a dark whisper.
His mouth found hers with unnerving accuracy; it was a claiming. His lips were firm and demanding, moving over hers with a hunger that had been banked for weeks, for months. He tasted the salt of her tears and the peaty richness of the whisky, a combination that was uniquely, devastatingly hers.
A whimper of surprise and surrender came from her, and then her hands were lifting, her fingers tangling in the dark silk of his hair, pulling him closer. She kissed him back with a desperate, aching fervor, as if he were the only solid support in her collapsing world.
The kiss deepened, becoming a language of its own, a conversation of longing and consolation and raw, untamed need. He felt the moment her rational mind finally, completely shut off, the moment she gave herself over to the sensation, to him.
It was a surrender more complete than any he had ever engineered. When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing in panting, unsteady gasps. Her eyes were wide and dazed, the pain eclipsed by a stunned, overwhelming desire.
He stood, pulling her to her feet with him. Her body molded against his, pliant and willing. He looked down at her, his own composure a thin veneer over the roaring inferno within. The carefully poked hole in the condom in his bedroom, the precise calculation of her cycle, it was all secondary now to the visceral, triumphant thrill of the moment.
He had not just broken her and Ronald Weasley; he had broken the last of her resistance. She was his. A slow, dark smile, the first true one she had ever seen, touched his lips. It promised everything.
“Now you know,” he murmured, his voice rough with a hunger that went far beyond the physical.
He swept her effortlessly into his arms, her own instinctively winding around his neck. Her face was buried against his throat, her breath warm on his skin. He turned, his movements sure and purposeful, and carried her toward the hallway that led to his bedroom, to the final, consummating act of his long planned conquest. The click of the door was a gunshot in the silence, severing the last frayed thread of her restraint.
“Tom,” she whispered, his name a plea on her lips.
“Tell me you want this,” he commanded, his voice heady.
His eyes, dark and fathomless, held hers captive.
“Tell me you want me to ruin you for anyone else.”
Her answer absolutely undid him.
“Yes.”
It was not a gentle kiss. She met his ferocity with her own, her hands tangling in the dark waves of his hair, pulling him closer, her body arching to press against the hard lines of his. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.
“I’ve thought of nothing else,” he growled against her lips, his hands sliding from her waist down to her hips, gripping her. “I have wanted you for so long, Hermione.”
He ground his pelvis against hers, letting her feel the hard, thick length of him straining against his lounge wear. A sharp, desperate sound escaped her throat at the contact. His gaze was a physical touch, roaming over her flushed face, her kiss swollen lips, and the frantic pulse at the base of her throat.
“I am going to take this off you,” he said, his intent clear. “And then I am going to learn every inch of the body I’ve been dreaming about. And you are going to moan for me like a good girl.”
He made good on his promise. He peeled the clothes from her skin, revealing her inch by agonizing inch. First her shoulders, which he bent to kiss, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. Then, the swell of her breasts, encased in simple, lace trimmed silk. A deep, appreciative sound rumbled in his chest.
“So perfect,” he murmured, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the cups of her bra. “You have no idea what you do to me, Hermione.”
He unfastened the front clasp with a deft flick of his fingers. Her breasts spilled into his hands, full and pale, her nipples already tight, dusky peaks begging for his attention. He did not rush, he lowered his head and took one into his mouth, his tongue laving the pebbled flesh with slow, worshipful circles.
She cried out, her back bowing off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets as his thumb circled and flicked her other one. He moved to her other breast, giving it the same devoted, torturous attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip with just enough pressure to make her gasp.
“Tell me what you want.”
Hermione rubbed her thighs together beneath him.
“I want more.”
He chuckled, a dark, sensual sound.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
His hand slid down the flat plane of her stomach, over the lace of her panties. He pressed his palm against the heat of her, and she jerked beneath him.
“Is this what you want?”
He hooked his fingers in the delicate lace and drew them down her legs, tossing them aside. He settled back on his heels, at the foot of the bed, and simply looked at her, sprawled and naked and utterly exposed to his hungry gaze.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
He parted her thighs with insistent hands, his touch proprietary. He bent his head, and his mouth found the very core of her. He licked into her with a slow, deliberate stroke that had her crying out, her hips lifting off the bed.
He held her down, his hands firm on her hip bones, and devoted himself to her pleasure with a single minded intensity that shattered her. His tongue traced intricate patterns against her most sensitive flesh, laving and sucking, first with a slow, maddening rhythm, then faster, more insistently, as her whimpers turned to choked, sobbing pleas.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her, the vibration sending another shock wave through her. “Let me hear you baby.”
She continued to moan as his thumb came up to circle her clit, while he tongued her. It was heaven, he thought, her hands gripping his hair, holding him close as she ground her wet, aching cunt into him. He could feel her getting closer, could feel her start to tremble. Her climax was a wave of sensation that left her trembling and shuddering, her moaning music to his ears.
He soothed her through the aftershocks with soft, lingering kisses to her clenching cunt and along her inner thighs. Before she could recover, he shifted, his body covering hers again. He was still fully dressed, a fact that felt incredibly decadent. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips.
“You are even more exquisite when you fall apart,” he whispered, his voice husky.
He reached for the drawer on his bedside table, retrieving a condom and rolling it onto himself with quick, efficient movements. She watched with dazed, heavy lidded eyes, her sated bliss clouding her brain.
He positioned himself over her, the head of his cock pressing against her slick, sensitive flesh. He looked down at her, his expression a mask of raw, unvarnished hunger and longing. He wore a fierce possession.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice absolute. “I want you to see who’s taking you. I want you to remember this, Hermione, as I drive my cock into you.”
Her eyes, glazed with pleasure, found him. He pushed inside and filled her completely, a perfect, stretching fit that made her gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders as he slid into her pillowy heat with ease.
“You feel that?” he ground out, his forehead damp against hers. “That’s mine, baby. All of it. Mine.”
He thrust into her with a deep, rolling, and possessive cadence. Each thrust was a deliberate, soul searing stroke, designed to reach the deepest part of her. He angled his hips, hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars.
“There?” he asked, watching her face contort in pleasure. “Is that the spot, Hermione? Tell me.”
Hermione could barely think as Tom drove into her.
“Yes…oh God, yes, Tom…right there.”
He growled, a feral, triumphant sound, and drove into her with renewed purpose, his pace intensifying. One of his hands slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit, applying a perfect, circling pressure that built another devastating coil of pleasure deep within her.
“I want to feel you shatter around me.”
He drove into her one last, deep time, his own moan muffled against her neck as he came, his big body shuddering in her arms. He smirked triumphantly, knowing what he’d done to the condom beforehand. He was almost positive it would take, trapping her with him forever. He collapsed beside her, pulling her with him, not letting her go.
His arms were bands of steel around her, holding her flush against his still heaving chest. He nuzzled into her hair, his lips brushing her temple. The plan had reached its flawless, breathtaking conclusion. Tom Riddle knew with absolute certainty, as he claimed his witch so thoroughly, that this was only the beginning.
It was the last game of the season, the Cowboys had won, and Tom had managed to score the game tying touchdown to send them into overtime. Tom noticed, however, that Hermione had looked distracted the entire time. He knew something was wrong. Hermione was standing with the rest of the cheer leading squad, her pom poms held in a loose, almost forgotten grip. While the women around her jumped and screamed with elation, she was still.
Her smile was a pale, practiced imitation, a ghost of the vibrant, incandescent joy she had worn when he first saw her. Her eyes, usually so present, were distant, fixed on some unseen point in the middle distance.
Throughout the entire game, even during his most spectacular plays, he had noted that distraction, a subtle disconnect that set every one of his finely tuned instincts on high alert. The victory, the adulation, the sheer animal triumph of the moment, it all receded, muted by the silent alarm she was broadcasting.
He made his way to her after the final whistle, after the interviews and the back slapping in the locker room. He found her in the nearly empty players’ lounge, sitting on a leather couch, still in her uniform. Her posture was slumped, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked up as he entered, and the forced brightness in her eyes was more painful to witness than tears would have been.
“You were magnificent out there,” she said, but it felt hollow.
He sat beside her, and her composure waned with a shuddering breath. She looked down at her hands, at the white knuckled grip she had on her own fingers.
“Tom,” she began, her voice trembling. “I… I need to tell you something. And I want you to know, you don’t have to, I don’t, I don’t expect anything from you. I’ll handle it, I’ll take care of everything.”
He remained perfectly still, a statue of calm. He knew. Of course, he knew. He had mapped this moment in his mind with the precision of a general plotting a campaign after all. This was not an accident, it was the final, masterful move in his game, the checkmate he had engineered from their very first encounter.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, the words leaving her lips in a soft whisper. “It must have…it must have happened sometime between that night I left Ron and…and after.”
He saw the vulnerability in her, the terrifying uncertainty of a future suddenly and dramatically altered. He saw the independent, proud part of her already building walls, preparing to shoulder the burden alone. He slid from the couch onto one knee on the cool tile floor, taking both of her cold, trembling hands in his. He looked up into her face, his expression a masterpiece of solemn, unwavering conviction.
“Marry me, Hermione.”
She gave a startled gasp. She tried to pull her hands back, but he held them fast, his grip firm yet gentle.
“Tom, no. You don’t have to do that. This isn’t…this isn’t why I told you. I meant what I said, "I don't expect you to have any responsibility for this.”
“I know you don’t,” he said, pouring every ounce of his considerable charisma into the words. “This isn’t about expectation. This is about what I want, what I have always wanted.”
He paused, letting his gaze soften, imbuing it with a tenderness that felt as real as any emotion he had ever conjured.
“I didn’t have a family, Hermione. I grew up in a system where home was a temporary address and love was a transaction. I will not let my child know that emptiness.” He squeezed her hands, his thumbs stroking her knuckles. “I want to raise our child in a real home. A loving home, with a mother who is brilliant and strong, and a father who will be present, who will provide, who will cherish them every single day. I want to build that with you.”
He watched the war play out across her features. The shock, the resistance, and the deep, ingrained desire for stability, for family, that he knew was the cornerstone of her being. He was not offering a duty bound proposal; he was offering a fantasy, a promise of the very thing her own orderly, dental hygienist parents had given her, and the very thing he had so poignantly, and truthfully, been denied. He was appealing to her logic, her compassion, and her deepest, most sentimental hopes all at once.
“A loving family home,” she repeated, the words a soft, wistful echo.
The fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a dazed, overwhelming cascade of emotion. A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the glitter on her cheek. She looked at their joined hands, then back into his eyes, her own filled with a tumultuous mix of trepidation and a fragile, burgeoning hope.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word barely audible.
He rose, drawing her up with him, and folded her into his arms.
“It’ll be alright, Hermione. I’ll take care of you.”
She buried her face in his shoulder, her body trembling against the solid, unyielding wall of his chest. He held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chin resting on her hair. Over her shoulder, his eyes remained open, clear and calm. He stared out at the empty, silent room, a faint, victorious smile touching his lips.
His eyes darkened with an insane possession, and it took everything in his power not to chuckle darkly. She was his. Totally, completely, and forever. The game was over, and he had won it, as he always knew he would. She would never know what he’d done, and he would get everything he wanted. It was perfect.