Work Text:
THE BRIEF
“They’ve got to be joking. ‘DILF Santa Fucks Wet and Ready Mrs Claus, Starring Tom Riddle and Hermione Jean’?” Hermione tossed the scene brief to her housemate and fellow porn actress across the kitchen island, her face screwed into an expression of disgust. “I won’t do it, Ginny.”
“Why not?” Ginny asked, spooning granola into her mouth. “I thought you liked a good rough scene.”
“I do. But this is different. Tom Riddle?”
“Since when are you afraid of any man’s cock?”
Hermione bristled, but she knew where Ginny was coming from. It wasn’t like her to shy away from doing rough scenes. In fact, she’d been rather ambitious about getting her scenes to the front page of ChamberofSecrets dot com.
“I’m not afraid,” she insisted. “I’m sure I’ve had bigger.” That wasn’t even a brag—Hermione was only stating facts. People assumed that sex work was a last resort career, but performing with men and toys that came in all shapes and sizes had always been her choice.
A few things had led her to her occupation:
First, she had discovered very early on that her sex drive was incredibly high. She’d been her teenage boyfriend’s dream, though she quickly learned he wasn’t hers, in the sack and out of it. Uni had been a more enlightening experience, and Hermione got herself bent this way and that to learn everything about sex… also in the classroom and out of it.
Second, taking Gender Studies at uni had opened her eyes to the vast inequity between the genders’ perception and enjoyment of sex (and, indeed, its perception and enjoyment among those who considered themselves neither). Despite graduating at the top of her class, she didn’t find any offers that excited her, or that would allow her to influence the sex narrative on a mass scale.
And finally, she’d made the disturbing discovery that porn—especially the hardcore variety—was ridiculously skewed towards only the male gaze. It was often degrading, insulting, and violating—and hardly ever arousing or empowering stuff for a woman like her.
But the thing was, Hermione liked sex. A lot.
She sought the thrill of knowing someone physically, and finding out exactly what made them lose themselves in her. She loved the energy she could create with another person with just their bodies.
The problem? There wasn’t much of the sex she liked on the internet. With the knowledge that people—herself included—would consume porn no matter what, she embarked on a personal mission to create content for women like her, who wanted to celebrate the glory of the female orgasm but were hard-pressed to find it.
Making porn for the female gaze was her lifeblood. Liberating, inclusive, sexy, ethical… her body and her body of work mattered a great deal to her. She had particular tastes and a particular audience, and that was why Tom Riddle did not suit.
Because while Tom Riddle was handsome—age defyingly so—he was a menace, the star and progenitor of some of the roughest scenes in modern pornography.
Apparently, he had personally requested for her to be his partner for this particular scene… and secured her an absurd amount of money to do the gig.
Hermione really should have put him on her No list.
It had just seemed conceited at the time. After all, he was twenty years her senior, and practically retired from performing. But the man was seemingly immortal, and had staged comeback after comeback to fuck every rising star of his choosing within an inch of her life.
“There’s just no way I’m having sex with him,” Hermione declared. “I can't.” She should be flattered by his attention, but the last thing she wanted was to be the newest addition to his trophy collection. Tom Riddle was an arsehole, full stop.
Ginny was completely unperturbed. “Sure you can. No one takes a pounding like you do.”
“Ginny.”
“What? It’s the truth. I watched your last DP scene with Draco and Theo like you asked—that was hot.”
Hermione goggled at her. “Tom is different. He uses women. It’s absolutely vile! I want my scenes to be about taking back that control.”
“Not just control,” Ginny said. “Sex is about pleasure. Connection. Out of everyone I know, you’re the person who can make that happen with just about anyone!”
“Easy for you to say. You get to do scenes with your boyfriend exclusively.”
“Viktor and I are a recent development. And even then, you do know I did a scene with Tom once, right? He’s not so bad. I lost my anal virginity to him.” Ginny sounded almost fond.
“I remember. You had to be escorted off the set in a wheelchair.”
“Worth it.” Ginny grinned. “He was actually pretty sweet about it afterwards. He sent me a nice leather journal and everything.”
“Maybe you got lucky. This is the man who destroyed Myrtle Warren’s arsehole, Ginny. He has a lust for violence.”
“No, Hermione Jean. He’s the reason she’s even called Moaning Myrtle, okay?”
“What?”
“Just… do a chemistry meeting with him. Feel it out,” Ginny advised. “In the end, it’s your choice if you want to do it or not.”
“You’re right.” Hermione nodded, feeling faint. “My choice.”
Mine.
THE MEETING
Hermione decided Tom Riddle was a mistake on sight.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Tom was Satan disguised as a snack, but Hermione knew as soon as he opened his mouth that doing a scene with him wasn’t going to work.
“Hello, Hermione,” he purred. “I’m pleased you made it.” He turned to his assistant, a sweaty, creepy little man with patchy hair named Peter. “Leave us.”
Peter scurried out of sight, and Hermione worried, a little too late perhaps, that coming to meet Tom alone in his home office was a bad idea. How was it that he could act so bloody smooth even as he was being a prick in the same breath? He was a snake.
“What sort of porn actor even has a personal assistant?” Hermione asked, brow raised.
“The sort that now has a stake in multiple production houses.” Tom rose from his leather armchair. “A drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He walked over to his bar, which was stocked with expensive liquors. He poured a finger of Ogden’s into a crystal tumbler and leaned against the counter. Sipping on his drink, he was the very picture of his on-camera persona: seductive and easy on the eyes, but also dangerous, dark and cold. In his all-black ensemble, he looked nothing like the bro-types Hermione often worked with. He’d even grown a beard. Equal parts salt and pepper now, it was groomed to frame his jaw, and looked intentional against the thick waves of grey-streaked hair on his head. It made Hermione want to sit on his lap. Or his face. But attraction had never been her issue with him.
She sat still on the sofa, waiting for him to make the first move.
“I know why you’re here,” Tom said finally.
“Oh?”
He levelled his dark blue gaze at her and she had to suppress a shudder… or a shiver, she didn’t know which. “You’re afraid.”
Hermione scoffed. “Just because I don’t want to do a scene with you doesn’t mean I’m afraid of you.”
“I never said that. You’re afraid of what we could do together.”
“It’s just sex, Tom. Hardly world-changing.”
“Oh, but isn’t it?” His eyes gleamed, and it felt as though he could see through her and her every intention. Her fingers curled at her sides, bunching her skirt up in her fists.
“With you?” she bit out. “I’d only be helping propagate harmful stereotypes about women in the bedroom.”
Her outburst only seemed to amuse Tom. “Cutting right to the chase, hmm? Well. Don’t tell me you stand on some moral high ground. You and I fuck for all the internet to see for a living.” He took a step closer. And then another. “Why do you do it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s because you like pleasure. Taking control of your pleasure. Being in charge. Isn’t that it, Hermione?” Her name rolled off his tongue like sin. “You’re a lot of woman.”
The way he said it sounded like a backhanded compliment. Defensive pride spiked in Hermione’s chest. “I am. And I don’t think you’re up to the challenge.” She gave the clock on his mantel a pointed glance.
Tom tutted. “So impatient for one so young.”
“You’ve fucked younger.” There were a dozen reasons Hermione didn’t like that.
“I have. But I had different motives then.”
“I can’t say I care to know.”
“But you do want to know why I want to work with you.” It wasn’t a question. Tom stood before Hermione, looking down at her in a way that would intimidate most other people. She glared back up at him, refusing to tear her eyes away first.
“At the end of the day,” Tom said, “what does a powerful, independent woman want? Hmm?”
“You already said it. Control. It’s what I do.”
“What if I told you that’s not it. At least, not all the time.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “What do you know about what women want? I’ve seen your work, and frankly, it’s not my cup of tea.”
“Tell me, luv. Does a woman really want to come home and continue to call the shots? Or… does she want to come home to her equal?”
“If you’re insinuating that women should always want a tender lover,” Hermione snapped, “you’re dead wrong. Besides, you aren’t exactly the slow lovemaking type.”
“No, I’m not. And that’s not what I’m offering either.”
“Then what are you offering?”
Tom circled around her slowly, like a predator. “You’ve made a stupendous career out of fucking men. Dare I say it—you’ve carved a bona fide niche in this industry that barely existed before. Call me curious, but… have you ever truly let anyone fuck you?”
He had some nerve! “It’s the same thing.”
“You know it isn’t. I want to show you that there’s also power in letting go. In taking pleasure from your lover. In letting him fuck your brains out for a change.”
Tom stopped before her. His face was so close to hers, she could taste the whiskey, smokey and seductive, on his breath. She wanted to slap him. But a small, undecided, traitorously horny part of her also wanted to rip his shirt off.
“So you want to put me in my place?” she demanded. “Is that it?”
“Is that what you think?”
“What am I supposed to think about the man who’s fucked his way through everyone and everything that moves in the industry? And so violently at that.”
Tom let out a low chuckle. “Being around for as long as I have, I can tell the wheat from the chaff—”
“Oh, spare me. This is porn.”
“—and,” he continued, untroubled, “chasing my own pleasure, while leaving my partners satisfied, has been a simple endeavour. A transaction, if you will.”
His turn of phrase struck Hermione as funny. “If you think of sex as a transaction, I wonder that you bother with it at all.”
“You want to know why I still do it? Why I’ve never left?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. Surely he tired of his egotistical nonsense!
“It’s because I want to push the boundaries of what people can desire,” Tom said. “Of what even I can desire.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m a hedonistic man, Hermione. And some say I am very sick, indeed. But you know what? I see myself in you. No pun intended.”
Hermione rose to her feet, sneering. “We are nothing alike.”
“I beg to differ. You and I, we get what we want.”
She was seconds away from bolting from the room. Only her pride kept her standing there. She wanted answers. “What do you want? I still have no bloody idea.”
Tom’s lips curled into a dark smile. “I want to fuck my equal. And I want you to like it.”
Hermione barked a laugh. If she agreed to do this, and it was a big if, Tom was going to have to earn it.
“Let me fuck you on Sunday, Hermione.” Tom tugged on one of her loose curls. “Give yourself to me. Full control. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Hermione steeled her every nerve and snarled in his face. “Fat bloody chance, Tom.”
AN INTERLUDE
In the end (and to Ginny’s eternal delight), Hermione decided to do it.
It had taken a long, hard rewatch of her scenes for her to admit that perhaps, Tom was right. Even her roughest romances were an exercise in power—power which she had certainly felt in the moment, but that she’d always believed she’d shared in equal measure with her partners. Through fresh eyes, she could see that she’d always been in charge, what with her bossy mouth, her insistent hips, her roaming hands, her wild hair.
She cursed Tom’s astuteness.
She cursed her own libidinous, morbid curiosity.
She cursed herself for actually wanting to try something that she’d sworn she’d never do in porn.
By gods, she was going to let Tom Riddle fuck her.
But would she submit? Could she? That was the question.
One thing was for certain: she wouldn’t give in so easily.
THE SCENE
In hindsight, it was absolutely ridiculous that all of Tom’s posturing had amounted to this—a bawdy Santa and Mrs. Claus scene, complete with a cheesy little skit before the main event.
“Oh!” Hermione laughed as Madam Malkin squeezed her into her elaborate Mrs. Claus costume. “This is tight.”
“It was made to your exact measurements, sweets.”
“Or slightly smaller.” Made of thick, deep crimson velvet and white fox fur collar and cuffs (faux, Madam Malkin had assured her), the long-sleeved, deep-cut dress was a tactile marvel that clung to Hermione’s every curve.
“Hold your tits,” Malkin instructed as she buttoned the dress up over Hermione’s chest. She looped a thin black belt around her waist. “Luckily, you won’t be wearing this for long.”
Hermione supposed that was a good thing. This outfit, while dead sexy, also felt a little too tarty than she would usually agree to. “Since when does the studio spring the budget for this sort of thing anyway?”
“Since Tom insisted. He had two bloody coats made.”
“Overkill,” Hermione agreed, slipping on her high-heeled boots.
“It was the only way we could get him to agree to wear a costume. He went with the tighter one in the end. Speaking of Tom…” Malkin leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes,” Hermione sighed. She wished she hadn’t, because Tom looked obscenely hot in his bespoke Santa suit. Then again, would he ever have been anything but? Tom cut a figure of a man straight out of a paperback romance, not one of Jolly Old Saint Nick. He did not possess a jovial bone in his body. If he had a heart, which Hermione doubted, it was black as tar. To top it off, he also looked absolutely nothing like Santa Claus. Despite him pushing fifty, his body was still as broad, trim, and muscular as any male actor in his prime. He hadn’t even bothered donning a fake white beard—apparently, he’d purposely grown his facial hair in preparation for this day.
Visible through his short coat and fitted crimson pants was a sizeable bulge that Hermione had prepared herself for with all her biggest toys. She didn’t need to have hate-watched his scenes all week to know that Tom Riddle’s cock was the stuff of legend. Fans had nicknamed it the Basilisk, and other porn actors joked that it could petrify you if you stared at it too hard. She sat waiting on the freezing set of Santa’s Workroom, scornful and wet at the mere sight of its long, girthy outline.
She broke out of her trance and willed her eyes to snap up. Tom was watching her, a secret smirk on his face.
“Places!” a set assistant hollered.
Today’s director, Gilderoy Lockhart, shimmied towards Hermione. He was far more chipper than any person on a Tom Riddle shoot should be. “Ready?” He rubbed his hands together.
Hermione eyed her co-star making his way to the other side of a prop door. Scene partners often took time before filming to rehearse or warm up, but Tom hadn’t approached her once today. That made her nervous. She didn’t like not knowing what to expect.
“Actually,” she said, “I have an idea for my costume. I understand Tom has another coat he didn’t want to wear?”
Gilderoy’s eyes widened. He wagged a finger at her excitedly. “You minx. I adore how you think. Oh, Madam Malkin!”
Hermione popped out of her tight Mrs. Claus dress and into Tom’s discarded coat. It was long and heavy, much closer to a traditional Santa costume than the one he’d chosen. As she threw one side off her bare shoulder, she immediately felt more powerful, more self-assured. Even as she kicked off her boots, she felt five—no, ten inches taller. Now this was sexy. She wasn’t just there for Tom’s pleasure, she was there for hers. She was in control, and Tom wouldn’t know what hit him.
“Fantastic!” Gilderoy skipped back to his seat. “Quiet on the set!”
Hermione closed her eyes and took in a calming breath—
“Aaaand… action!” Gilderoy cried, catching Hermione unawares.
Her eyes flew open as Tom barged in through the prop door, dusting fake snow off his shoulders. He took off his Santa hat and spotted her by the workbench. His brows quirked in mild surprise, but they quickly narrowed again as he cast her a dark, hungry look.
Damn it.
She was still in trouble.
“Where have you been?” she seethed, clutching her coat closed as she delivered her line. “Boxing Day is almost through. I waited two nights because—” Fuck. “—because I promised I’d fuck you.”
“Cut!” Gilderoy hollered too loud.
A set assistant scrambled to find the script, and Tom, the smug bastard, ventured closer.
“‘Because I promised I’d fuck you,” he murmured. “That's the line.”
“I know my lines,” she hissed as the crew geared themselves for another take.
“I’m pleased you came around.”
“That remains to be seen.” False bravado—that’s what it was. For all of Hermione’s confidence just moments ago, she was caught off-guard by how undone he made her feel with a single glance. She palmed her clammy hands down her coat, cursing mentally as her sweat smeared across the velvet. “You said you’d make this worth my while.”
“I’m a man of my word.” Like he had a few days before, Tom tugged one of her curls and made his way back across the set.
“Ready?” Gilderoy cued her. “Action!”
“Where have you been?” Hermione demanded. “Boxing Day is almost through. I waited two nights because you promised you’d fuck me.” She crossed her arms and squeezed her tits together. They nearly pushed out of her borrowed coat, and Tom leered at them through downcast lashes.
“Is that any way for my little wife to greet me?” He walked over, purring with such natural seduction that Hermione clenched her jaw. If Tom had wanted to be a Hollywood actor, he very well could have done it. He had the looks, the chops. It’s just that he also had the cock for porn.
“I’m not your little wife.” That wasn’t in the script, but Gilderoy didn’t stop her. “I would have called for better company if I’d known you’d be away for so long.”
Tom approached, cornering her against the set’s workbench. He leaned in, but Hermione turned her head away.
“No kiss for your Santa?” Tom’s beard tickled when he brushed his mouth against her neck and nibbled on her ear.
“You don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t be angry. Let me make it up to you.” He tugged one of his leather gloves off with his teeth and slipped his free hand between her legs. Hermione jolted, but spread her legs wider for him in a challenge.
His fingers inched higher, and his smile grew positively smug when he felt the slickness between her thighs. Hermione nearly burned on the spot.
Tom began rubbing circles over her damp knickers. “You poor thing,” he crooned. “You’re so wet. Have you been playing with your toys?” That line was improvised as well, but the glee in his tone was genuine.
His touch sent currents of pleasure up her spine, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “So what if I have?”
“Tsk tsk tsk. You’ve been a very naughty girl, Mrs. Claus. Lucky for you, I’m all out of coal.”
With alarming power, he hoisted Hermione up into his arms.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To bed,” he announced, both for her and for the crew. Then he carried her off to the neighbouring bedroom set, uncaring that they had yet to follow them.
It seemed the production crew was used to his antics, because cameras were already set up in the next room.
Hermione let Tom lay her back on the bed, very aware that the crew was fumbling about in the dark. “Follow the script,” she ordered Tom as he kissed his way up her legs. “We still had a scene to do on the workbench.”
“I can hold you much better from here.”
She tugged at his hair. “Quit the act. The cameras aren’t even rolling.”
“So?”
Ugh. Hermione liked this. She liked this too, too much.
The lights came on. All she could see was Tom.
“Action!” cried Gilderoy from… somewhere. Useless man!
Hermione pushed Tom off. “Take your stupid coat off.”
“That’s what I was trying to do,” he said, looking pointedly at her attire.
“You. First.”
He rose from the bed and acquiesced, removing his other glove before undoing his crimson coat one button at a time to reveal—Damn it, damn it, damn it all to hell, Hermione thought—a crisp white poplin shirt tucked into a fitted, embroidered vest of red wool.
Honestly. Where did Tom get off? He was giving more swashbuckling than Santa with his trousers tucked into his boots.
He smirked. “Happy?”
Hermione made a strangled sound.
Tom pulled her up and reached for the collar of her coat. He drew it down her arms with torturous slowness, his eyes tracing every inch of her revealed skin. Hermione huffed, itching to pull it off herself.
Eventually, finally, only her tiny red lingerie shielded her body from him. Ribbons, more ribbons and lace… she should have taken them off along with her costume. She regretted that she looked like a little present.
“For me?” Tom teased.
“Shut up.” Hermione made a grab for his cock, but he held her back.
“No.”
“No?” That’s my line, damn it!
“Let me get a good look at you, wife.”
If Tom’s intention was to embarrass her, she wasn’t going to let him have the satisfaction. For the film. She arranged her expression into one of seduction and want—which was surprisingly easy to do in spite of her ego’s protests.
“Give yourself to me,” Tom had beckoned days ago.
That’s all she had to do.
Hermione stood still as he gazed down upon her, his eyes roving her nearly nude form with a strange warmth.
No—not warmth. Heat. Want.
“Exquisite,” he murmured.
Hermione didn’t have a praise kink. She didn’t need Tom’s affirmation. But why did that sound so satisfying?
“I don’t want any pretending from you.” He tilted her chin up and brought his mouth closer to hers. “Tell me I can do this,” he whispered. For all the softness of his voice, his eyes carried all the the intensity of his request.
Hermione was so taken aback that she could only nod slowly. Since when did Tom Riddle, hardcore king, ask nicely for consent?
“He’s not so bad,” she could practically hear Ginny saying.
Hermione would not oblige. She wouldn’t. But…
“Cut!” Gilderoy interrupted in sing-song.
Hermione nearly eviscerated him on the spot, but then she checked herself. She’d nearly lost the game just now, and—
“What?” Tom barked, and she jumped.
“Geez, Tom.”
“I love this”—Gilderoy gestured in their general direction— “thing that you two have got going on. But Tom, could you maybe… dial down the improv?”
“No,” Tom said. “We’re doing what Hermione wants.”
Hermione met his stare. “You can certainly try.”
“Keep rolling,” Tom ordered Gilderoy. “Do not. Interrupt us. Again.”
On that, Hermione could agree.
The director bobbed his head. “Y-yes Tom! Sir. T-Tom, sir. That is… er. Action!”
“Where were we?” Tom stepped back into Hermione’s space, sliding his hands up her waist. “Ah, yes. You were going to kiss me.”
Hermione found herself unable to delay making a choice any longer. Should she kiss Tom, and let him have his way with her, or fight him all the way?
From her lingering eyes to her wet core, her body had already protested against her mind at every turn. She couldn’t deny that she wanted the man’s body, if not the man himself.
Perhaps, she thought, she should heed her own words. “It’s just sex. Hardly world-changing.”
“I want to fuck my equal,” he’d said, “and I want you to like it.”
If she was being honest with herself, she already liked it. And if the man wanted to fuck her, she was running out of reasons to say no.
“You’re a real arsehole, you know,” she growled, finally pulling him into their first scorching kiss. “Now, fuck me.”
He smiled against her mouth, but his lips soon morphed into the shape of desire.
Now, Tom was no on-screen kisser—he rarely offered his co-stars more than a perfunctory peck on the lips. But now, he held her face in his hands and kissed her like it was a covenant, an unholy oath to ruin her. Hermione shivered as he ran his fingers through her hair and moved his lips across the expanse of her neck and décolletage like a prayer.
Yet there was a discipline to his touches that surpassed the religious—he studied her like a science, cataloguing her every gasp and sigh, and returning to her favourite spots to verify his findings. How could this man ever be godly when he was hell-bent on her systematic ruin?
Tom was art and science. Hands and fingers and lips. He was Da Vinci… in a fucking Santa suit.
“Take your clothes off,” Hermione commanded. She wanted to feel his skin—all his skin against hers.
“If that is what the lady wishes.”
Tom’s eyes didn’t leave hers as he undid his vest, then his cufflinks, then the buttons of his shirt. They stared at one another in silence as each garment dropped to the floor.
Like many a male lead, Tom had no shortage of tattoos. On his sinewy forearm was a snake wound about a skull—the likeness of his infamously treasured pet, Nagini. Upon his bicep were a locket and a ring—family heirlooms, so he’d said. And on his chest were two large pieces, rumoured totems of his finest conquests: an intricately rendered cup for Helga Hufflepuff, heiress to some wine country fortune; and a diadem signifying Rowena, the former queen of Ravenclaw. Tom had fucked literal billionaires and royalty. What on earth did he want to fuck her for?
It was only when his torso was completely bare that Hermione went down on her knees.
She placed her hands on his belt buckle and looked up at him for permission. Tom gave her a single nod, and she took care of the rest. His belt and trousers. His socks and shoes. His tight, tight boxer briefs.
Good god.
Face to face with the Basilisk, Hermione couldn’t help but stare. He was larger than she’d estimated, and she knew she’d been right to prepare.
Hermione enjoyed giving blowjobs. She loved having a man at her mercy when his cock was in her mouth. She didn’t actually know what it meant to submit in this case: would she simply allow him to fuck her face with abandon? Surely not.
Tom took her hair in one fist and his cock in the other.
“Open for me.”
She took a deep breath, and he slowly slid himself down her throat as far as he could go. Involuntary tears pricked in Hermione’s eyes as he withdrew then slid himself in another time.
This was no blowjob. He wasn’t fucking her mouth as he was wont to do. He was showcasing her, testing her, and judging from the gleam in Tom’s eyes, he was pleased by what he saw.
Hermione wanted to show him everything she could do. She took him back in her mouth and hands, drawing low moans from him and salty precum from his cock. She liked how he tasted, but she liked how he looked even more. Tom watched her with barely-held restraint, nostrils flaring slightly as she pleasured him. Her mouth was full, but it only served to remind her of how empty her cunt was. It clenched around nothing, hungry and seeking attention. She ran her hand down his thigh and down between her legs—
“That’s enough.” Tom gave her hair a light tug. She rose, and before she could wipe her mouth, he kissed her, tasting himself on her tongue. He tossed her back on the bed, laying on top of her body. “Don’t forget what this is about.”
He ran his hands up and down her sides, removing her lingerie with practised fingers. Then he traced his tongue down her neck to her breasts and her cunt, murmuring sinful promises into her skin.
“God,” she moaned softly as he flicked his tongue against her clit. He pushed a finger, two, into her pussy, pressing up against her G spot as he flattened his tongue upon her. All she could do was hold him closer, trap his head between her thighs as she ground herself against his face. His beard—Oh! It tickled in the best way. Hermione panted in short, needy gasps. Her legs trembled, she dug her fingers in his hair and pulled—“Oh, goddddddd.” Her cry was strangled, pulled from her proud throat by the force of Tom’s mouth and his fingers.
“God?” He made his way back up her body and nibbled her ear. “Just Tom will do,” he whispered, script absolutely abandoned.
She reached for his face. “Your beard is...” Sopping wet.
He grabbed her hands instead, restraining her against the bed. “I think I like it this way. Hold on to the bed frame for me, baby.”
Yes, yes, yesyesyes. Hermione reached above her head and did as he asked, knowing what would follow.
Tom aligned himself with her cunt, smirking, no doubt, at how wet he’d gotten her. The evidence was all over his beard. Hermione knew better than to be embarrassed, but she didn’t think she’d give in this easily! All greed, she spread her legs wider, wanting to lay herself bare for everything Tom had yet to offer.
“You’re so ready for me,” he whispered, smirking. And then he was sliding in, inch by thick inch, until he was sheathed fully inside her.
“Move,” she commanded.
“As you wish.”
He began with long, slow strokes, canting his hips upwards to catch her clit with every pass.
Hermione tried meeting his thrusts with her own, but he moved his hands down her ribcage to her hips, where he held her firmly in place. Tom, she wanted to whine. “Daddyyy,” she keened instead.
“Yes?” He picked up the pace, but it was nowhere near what she’d seen him do.
She wanted him to give it to her.
“Harder,” she whined.
“What do you want? A little louder for Santa, luv.”
“Harder!” She was begging now, nearly screaming. Tom’s smirk turned into a deep, evil smile, and he held her in place as he fucked her for all he was worth. All she was worth. All they were worth combined.
So this was what it was like—what it was like to be purely on the receiving end of a pounding. God, if Hermione had known, she would have done work like this sooner—
“OH!” she cried. “Right there, right there, rightthererightthere…”
She was approaching a crest, the point of no return—
Tom pulled out. It was swift, rude, unexpected.
“Hey!”
“All fours for me, baby.”
She could do that. She wanted to do that.
Tom didn’t give Hermione much time to move. He hoisted her by waist and flipped her over, giving her a little slap in the arse for good measure. He fed himself back into her and resumed his punishing pace so seamlessly that she nearly forgave him for pulling out the first time.
She didn’t even have the leeway to grind back against him—this was Tom’s show now. She could only moan and keen while he held her steady, while he ran his free hand up and down her spine. She didn’t even have it in her to hold her cries in any longer. Her arms gave out as he carried on, hoisting his leg up beside her to hit spots ever deeper.
Unrelenting. Dominating. Unapologetic. That was how Tom fucked.
Hermione was loath to admit how much she was enjoying herself… and she hadn’t even done any of the work! Was this what she’d been missing?
Tom, Tom, Tom….
A cry ripped from her throat as her second orgasm—or maybe it her third—washed over her, and she trembled in the aftermath. Limp, arse up, she wondered that Tom hadn’t come yet, or even given any indication…!
She turned around to face him, and her eyes narrowed. Smug bastard, his dark glee was undeniable even behind his beard.
“Lie back,” she said. It was her turn now.
She crawled over Tom’s body and impaled herself upon his still-hard cock. She tried to bounce upon it, but Tom wasn’t having any of it. He stilled her hips above his cock only so he could thrust into her from below.
“No!” she cried. She wanted—no, she needed to take control. But she was helpless against his continued onslaught, and the pressure in her belly that only continued to build.
One thing she learned then and there was that Tom did not need a fluffer to keep him erect. She would later ask him if he took Viagra (a query he would only answer with a sneer), but right now, he was rock hard. And he had been that way for… for ages! How long could he keep it up, non-stop? His stamina was beyond anything she could ever have expected of any man even half his age.
Yet as Hermione looked down upon his face, the concentration on his brow, she realised that Tom’s cadence betrayed pure mental discipline—he knew when to speed up, when to slow. When to shift ever so slightly for her benefit and his. Gods, he was good.
But was he even enjoying himself?
“Stop,” she panted, bracing herself against his shoulders. “Slow down.”
Tom didn’t hear her. Hermione realised that his eyes had glazed over. He seemed a different man now, devoid of all art and science. He seemed caught up in his own performance, in his own violent need to fuck. When did that happen?
Was this how Tom did it? Was this why he was always so cold and disconnected?
Was this heartless, mindless fucking the result of using countless people like Tom had?
Hermione didn’t want that. Not for herself, not for her partners.
Not even for Tom Riddle.
This was the man who, for better or worse, had taught an entire generation of porn actors how to fuck. The man who had arguably been the first male porn star who was valued for more than his hard cock on a body. The man who starlets, billionaires, and royalty lined up to sleep with. The man who had used his body to pleasure hers so fully. Hermione understood why he was legendary, but despite his promises that she had nothing to worry about, she recognised in him something she truly ought to be afraid of.
Emptiness.
It was all too easy to lose oneself in the trap of pornography—and even the king of the industry was no exception.
Tom was right—she was his equal. But like Newtonian laws, she was the opposite reaction to the force that was Tom. To him, sex was a transaction, an exchange of power for pleasure. To Hermione, it had always been about control, yes, but also about connection.
She didn’t believe that sex truly needed to be anything profound, but an acknowledgment of one’s partners, however many, was the bare minimum. Because you couldn’t un-fuck someone. You couldn’t allow someone to know you so fully, inside and out, without leaving even a little bit of yourself with them. Tom had torn his soul into calloused little pieces with every transaction that she couldn’t even recognise the man who was currently inside her.
“Tom.” She grabbed his face. “Tom.” She didn’t care that production would need to cut her words out in post. She wasn’t going to fix Tom—certainly not—but she was going to give him what he asked for. She was going to do this her way. Now or never.
She kissed him.
His mouth was rigid, pulled into a hard line of concentration. That didn’t detract her—she clung to his head, plying his lips with soft kisses.
“Santa,” she whispered between pecks and nibbles. “Daddy. Come back.”
Tom slowed his thrusts, canting his hips in smaller degrees until he lay still beneath her, kissing her back.
“Herm—”
“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “It’s my turn now.”
She gently tugged his hands off her hips and coaxed them to play instead with her breasts. She ran her hands up his abs, over his chest and up his neck. She played with his thick crop of hair. She pulled at his beard. She kissed the tension away from his neck and mouth, revelling as he circled his arms around her and responded in kind.
Finally, she began to ride him.
Tom let out a small, confused gasp as she braced herself on his chest, one hand on each tattoo. He bucked his hips, but she pushed him down with her arse.
“Two can play at that game.” She threw him a cheeky wink. “Just relax.”
Tom nodded dazedly, leaning back against the pillows to watch. He couldn’t help it, though. His hands still massaged her thighs, squeezing a bit too hard. He rose up to meet her—only to stop himself, jaw clenched. It was unlike him to move with such uncertainty beneath a woman, and Hermione loved it.
“Yessss,” Tom hissed when she finally hit the right stroke, the right rhythm. “Just like that, baby.”
He seemed unused to having his pleasure drawn from him. And no wonder—he’d always sought it for himself.
Hermione commanded Tom’s body with her own, dictating where she wanted his hands and mouth. On her breasts. Around her neck. In her hair. Nothing was off-limits to Tom, for so long as he gave it to her fully.
He played along wonderfully. All his earlier calculations—Hermione realised he hadn’t been drawing from experience of what made a woman tick. He’d been studying, like a man learning a foreign subject for the first time. And he wasn’t done.
Hermione was on the brink of making him come. She could see it in his straining neck, feel it in his pulsating cock. He was close. Tom seemed to know it himself. He came up to meet her and, in one smooth motion, flipped them so she was back beneath him.
He thrusted into her once, twice.
“Oh!” she cried. “More, more, more…”
Tom obliged, picking up his speed. “That’s right, my little lioness. Show me what you’re made of.”
He had regained the sharpness in his eyes that had been so blank some minutes before. Now, he was engaging the full force of his gaze to bore into her soul. Eye contact was a huge turn-on for Hermione. Tom’s piercing blues beneath his dark lashes were intense, so much so that it made her flush even as the blood had already rushed to her upper body.
Oh, god. Why isn’t he looking away? Hermione screwed her eyes shut.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Tom commanded. “I want you to look at me. Look at me when you come.”
“I… I…” Hermione tried and failed to meet his gaze as he drew yet another powerful orgasm from her. She thrashed on the sheets. She clawed at his shoulders and scraped her nails up his back. She tugged at his hair—“Please, please!” she sobbed—as he pounded into her without mercy.
He felt so good. So fucking good. Her cunt fluttered around him and his face suddenly twisted, a warning of what was to come. He groaned, the veins in his neck protruding from the sheer effort.
“Don’t you dare,” she cried. “Don’t you dare stop.”
That was all he needed to let go.
Tom pulled out of her with a guttural cry and spilled his seed all over her belly and thighs.
It was a beautiful, glorious mess. Triumphant, Hermione palmed a bit of his come and tasted it.
She’d done it.
She’d let Tom Riddle fuck her.
She’d fucked Tom Riddle back.
Tom collapsed upon her, another thing he never did. But he was as breathless as she was, and looked positively stricken by the ferocity of their coupling. He looked even more handsome this way, dishevelled and candid. She knew it wasn’t an expression she’d likely see again.
Hermione still snuggled into his side, even as he somehow remembered to deliver his last line—something trite that ended with, “Ho, ho, ho,” and sealed their scene with a deep kiss.
From the corner of the room, Gilderoy redundantly hollered, “Cut!”
“Glorious,” Tom whispered.
Hermione lay unmoving with him for a few minutes, save for him tracing lazy circles on her skin.
He was studying her with well-concealed wonder, but she saw it nonetheless.
Perhaps that wasn’t all she’d seen. Perhaps she’d seen a glimpse of his soul.
Hermione rested her head on Tom’s chest, peering down at the Basilisk. It hung limp between Tom’s legs, red and worn out and still dripping come.
“If I were a younger man…” Tom sounded rueful as he adjusted his cock. “I’d be painfully hard again in a heartbeat.”
“What’s this? Tom Riddle acknowledging his age?”
He chuckled. “As much as I crave immortality, time continues its crusade to ravage me.”
“Please.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I can admit it now—you’re a legend for a reason.”
“Your own star is only beginning to rise.” It was the most sincere thing he’d told her so far. “I was right to choose you.”
“Must you always be such a condescending arse? You’re lucky I even agreed to this.” Hermione punched him lightly in his side, a tit for a tat. More softly, she said, “I don’t regret it.”
“Good.” Tom leaned in. “What say you I take you home and play little wife with you some more?”
“Shut up.”
“It was worth a shot. Then… how about I take you on as a producer for this studio venture I’m eyeing? I’ve learned quite recently that women like a little bit of control in the bedroom.” Tom pulled on Hermione’s curls one final time. “I could use someone like you.”
His wording could use some work, but... “That’s more like it.”
“You could produce, or even write and direct. You could star in your own films, if you wish.”
Hermione nodded. She'd already seen this as her next step, and she had so many ideas to fulfil her feminist porn agenda. “I’m interested.”
“It's settled, then. I was thinking we could open with a Valentine’s special. You, me, Gilderoy Lockhart…”
Oh my god. Tom Riddle made a joke! Maybe he wasn’t entirely hopeless. He was a long way from being a man she would ever need, even if she’d liked what they did here today. But this... this was a start.
Hermione snorted like she had that day in his home office. “Fat bloody chance Tom.”