Chapter Text
In all of Hermione’s time spent fantasising about a naked chase through the woods, she’d never once paused to contemplate the logistics.
She’d always been too busy trying to get her nut to waste time considering superfluous details. Details like how the frozen forest floor might rip up her bare feet, or the way that huffing icy air into her lungs would make them feel as though they were on the verge of exploding.
And she definitely, idiotically, hadn’t considered how fucking cold it would be.
Now, as she stumbles starkers through the dark, Hermione discovers that potential hypothermia drastically reduces the erotic appeal of being stalked by a masked assailant.
She’s never regretted shaving her legs this much in all her thirty-five years. She’s also willing to bet that her nipples could cut glass at this temperature. And the arousal that’s smeared and beginning to crust across her inner thighs sticks to her skin like super glue.
The thing is, a sexy, high-speed hunt is exactly how Hermione had wanted to spend her birthday; she just hadn’t anticipated it playing out quite like this.
Each slap of her foot to the earth is a gamble against the branches and slick leaves that threaten to send her careening arse over tit into the dirt. She clambers through the woods faster than she thought herself capable, even faster than she’d ever managed during those miserable little runs with Draco back when they’d first started dating and she’d still been trying to dazzle him with her feigned athleticism.
But despite her breakneck pace, the sound of his heavy footfalls is never far behind. He moves methodically, traversing the undergrowth with enraging ease. All the while Hermione slips and scrambles half-frozen and out of breath, with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.
“Come out, come out wherever you are!” He coos from somewhere behind her.
Fresh dread spikes through her so violently that it stalls her coordination and she goes lurching forward, legs flying out from under her, entirely out of control. Her foot catches on a gnarled root and her hands shoot out to break her fall and she goes down hard, palms sinking into the sucking mud with a wet squelch.
Three hours earlier….
Hermione leans against the island in the exorbitantly expensive kitchen of their exorbitantly expensive rental cabin, attempting to articulate the ins and outs of consensual non-consent to her husband for perhaps the 100th time.
The “cabin” part of “rental cabin” might be a bit of a stretch; with its gargantuan size, it’s more akin to a rental mansion. But that’s Draco Malfoy. He never, ever does things by halves.
He always goes above and beyond to give her the world, save for the one thing she so desperately wants. If she were to ask for the moon on a stick, it’d be hers. But a few firm slaps across the face in bed? A brief pre-coital tussle? She’d have an easier time asking Stephen Hawking for definitive proof of god.
“But you wouldn’t actually be hurting me! It’s just a safe way to explore relinquishing control to someone else,” she protests, emphasising the reasoning her kinkier friends had suggested she include.
She pauses to gauge his reaction, but he’s giving her absolutely nothing, just standing there with his arms crossed and his best poker face. His only tell is the slight bob of his Adam’s apple.
“It’s like… a haunted house. Nobody actually wants to be murdered in a haunted house,” she tries to explain gently.
Across the kitchen, Draco scrubs a hand down his face and shakes his head. The movement sends a few white-blond locks falling across his forehead.
Irritation looks unfairly good on Draco Malfoy. Unfortunately for Hermione, it’s also about as dangerous as he gets; his version of anger has always been frustratingly civilised.
It’s fucked up, she knows it, but sometimes she secretly wishes that if she pushed him far enough, she could goad him into hitting her. Millions of women would kill for a man half as decent as hers, and here she is praying for a bit of domestic violence so she can masturbate over the memory later. She’s clinically insane. She's got to be.
He finally looks at her dead on. “So you want me to jump out from behind a door clad in a sheet and shout boo? Because that? That I can do.”
Hermione shrugs. “Sure, as long as you tie me up and fuck me to the point of incapacitation afterwards.”
He barks out a laugh and follows it up with a groan. “Christ. You’re impossible, you know that?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course. She’s already well aware.
“You knew I was stubborn when you married me.”
He picks up his nearly-empty wine glass and tilts it in her direction, a simulation of a toast. “That I did.”
Hermione sighs loudly and tips her head back toward the ceiling. It’s all she can do not to stomp her foot like an insolent child.
In their discussion’s brief lull, Draco turns his focus to dinner. He’s lugged a veritable feast of fresh vegetables and spices from the fancy grocers back home, all carefully packed away in one of those absurdly overpriced coolers. Hermione would never admit it aloud, but it is far more aesthetically pleasing than the cheapy one she’d initially suggested they purchase from Amazon.
He rifles through the drawers until he finds the knives, and begins to slice into a pepper.
She lets his rhythmic chopping punctuate her words and walks toward him. “I just think,” chop. chop. chop. “that after eight years of marriage,” chop. chop. chop. “one should perhaps be willing to occasionally indulge one’s wife’s more niche interests.”
Draco snorts without looking up from the cutting board. “Niche interests. You make it sound as though you're asking me to take up stamp collecting.”
She comes to stand behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back.
“Besides, I indulge you constantly,” he adds.
She turns her head, presses her face between his shoulder blades. “That’s not the point,” she mumbles weakly into his fitted sweater.
He puts the knife down and pivots to look at her. He takes her face gently between his hands and, leaning down, plants a soft kiss to the tip of her nose before continuing, “what exactly is the point, then?”
“The point is that everyone gets to have weird Ghostface fantasies except me.” She pouts, gives him her best attempt at puppydog eyes.
Draco’s face softens and, for a brief moment, she can almost convince herself he’s actually considering it. He brushes his thumb across her bottom lip, smoothing over the stubborn little pout. “I’m not denying you your right to fantasise, my love.”
She tries to wriggle out of his grip, but he holds firm. “But you are denying my ability to make it a reality,” she huffs. It comes out sounding far whinier than she intends.
His hands drop away from her face and he folds them across his chest. “Everyone, you say? Is that so?”
Hermione takes a few steps back and waves a dismissive hand. “It’s practically the most common fantasy! You know what I mean.”
He tilts his head and cocks a single pale brow. “I genuinely don’t.” A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, please. The internet is full of women wanting to be forcefully fucked by a man in a mask.” She shoots back.
Draco tries and fails to hide his grimace; he practically recoils from her.
“There it is!” Hermione says triumphantly, pointing wildly at him. “That face!”
He schools his features immediately. “What face?”
“The horrified one!” She all but shouts it.
“I’m not horrified. I simply think you’d benefit a great deal from a psychiatric evaluation," he responds, biting back a grin.
She wants to hit him over the head and kick him in the shin. Maybe she should go all Ghostface on him. Instead, she settles for giving him a scoff and an eye-roll in lieu of the very tempting domestic battery.
“Could’ve fooled me. Looks like you’re moments away from reporting me to MI5 for suspected terrorism,” she mutters.
Draco exhales through his nose and turns his attention back to the peppers.
“Hermione,” he says carefully, placatingly, in the same tone one might use to explain nuclear disarmament to a particularly stubborn and stupid diplomat, “the idea of pretending to break into our home and terrorise my wife does not strike me as erotic. The idea of intentionally harming you… I just— I couldn’t do it.”
“You had no problem intentionally harming me back at Hogwarts,” she retorts under her breath. It’s a shitty card to pull, she knows that, but she can’t help herself.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your Honor, please forgive Mrs. Granger-Malfoy’s cheap shot! She’s simply trying to get her rocks off!
“Well, now you're not fighting fair. I was a prick. I know that. And for the record, I plan to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
Draco pulls a saucepan from a cupboard. When Hermione doesn’t respond, he begins filling the dead air. “Look, I understand it’s fantasy. I understand the appeal of adrenaline and vulnerability and all of that.” He’s placed the saucepan on the stovetop and is now gesticulating emphatically with his hands. “I played competitive rugby for the entirety of my youth—I’m quite familiar with the need for a thrill.” He pauses. “But this is a line I am unwilling to cross.”
Once he starts bringing up his glory days as a star athlete she knows she’s lost him. It would honestly be easier if Draco were judgmental about it. If he thought it was strange or excessive, or if he thought she was completely batty. The apparent pity, the dismissal despite the understanding, feels worse.
“You wouldn’t actually be hurting me,” she says more gently, giving it one final go. She leans back against the island and watches as he digs through the cooler.
A half-hearted I know is all the response he offers.
“You’d have boundaries and safewords and all the boring admin,” she insists.
God, she feels absolutely pathetic. Begging her husband to treat her badly has to have some sort of karmic consequences. It’s an affront to both feminism and the institution of marriage. Two birds with one stone.
“I know.”
“And we could stop whenever you wanted!”
“Hermione, my love, I know.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
Draco looks at her fully. He lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair and rolling his shoulders.
“Let's table this for now, alright? It's your birthday. I don't want to spend it arguing.” He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s back to his rummaging, moving aside artisanal cheeses and packages of aged meat. His brow furrows. He stops, then rifles through it again more urgently.
“I forgot the bloody shallots. And the cream.”
“So?” She responds. She can’t help the annoyance that seeps into her tone.
He flashes her an apologetic smile and she immediately feels guilty for having acted like such a cunt. How he puts up with her, she’ll never quite know.
“Need them for the sauce,” he explains. “I’ll pop out to the market. Twenty minutes. Tops.” She’s got no time to protest; he’s already moving to the door. He gives her a quick kiss before grabbing his coat and keys and heading out into the darkness.
Hermione takes full advantage of Draco’s departure. She gulps down two glasses of pinot noir and luxuriates in the type of absolutely scalding bubble bath that would have triggered a lecture on the importance of not boiling oneself to death in the tub had Draco been home. But what he doesn’t know certainly won’t hurt him. By the time she emerges from the bath, she’s gone all pink-cheeked and feels pleasantly fuzzy-headed. She drifts through the cabin in her favourite “I-just-killed-my-80-year-old-husband-for-the-will” silk robe, following the sound of the crackling fireplace into the living room, begrudgingly grateful that Draco had insisted on lighting it earlier. He’d sworn up and down that she’d want it later. He was right, as usual.
The couch practically swallows her whole the moment she sits. She leans her head back against one of its plush cushions and watches the shadows dance across the high beamed ceiling. Her eyes close and she’s just beginning to drift off when a loud creak cuts through her reverie.
She jolts forward, head whipping toward the noise. A moment passes and nothing happens, the room silent save for the sudden hammering of her heart and the dull crackle from the fire. And then—
Clomp.
Clomp.
Clomp.
The unmistakable sound of heavy boots against hardwood.
Hermione freezes, momentarily seized by terror so profound that her brain short circuits and she forgets to breathe.
A figure steps into the living room, backlit by the hallway’s floor lamp. He’s like a thumb print smudging a camera lens, a black hole bending her universe and swallowing up all surrounding light. His face is completely obscured by a ghostface mask—the very one from Hermione’s fantasies. He’s covered neck to knee in a long dark robe and, because of his height, there’s a gap between the cloak’s hem and his combat boots that he’s tried to hide with a pair of black joggers.
That brilliant, beautiful bastard.
Of course. He'd pretended to forget the shallots and cream. He'd given her the whole song and dance to leave her entirely unsuspecting. All so he could double back and finally indulge her. Happy birthday indeed.
A genuine jolt of fear and excitement twists low in her stomach and warmth begins to bloom between her thighs. She pushes herself up from the couch, her robe falling open slightly. If someone had accused her of letting it open on purpose, she would’ve met them with a staunch denial, but truth be told, there was a reason she’d tied it so loosely in the first place; she’s never one to forgo birthday sex.
A distorted voice crackles from behind the mask, electronically warped and eerily calm. “What's your favourite scary movie?”
Oh. He’d even gotten the voice modulator. Bless him.
Hermione bursts into a fit of laughter. She doesn’t mean to, really, she doesn’t, but the situation feels surreal.
“You think this is funny?” The way he asks it, so cold and deadpan, it stops her giggles dead in their tracks. Her mouth snaps shut so suddenly that her teeth clack.
Ghostface Draco places a gloved hand over his chest in mock offense. “I’m wounded, Hermione. Truly. I was hoping for at least a little fear.”
“Well you’re not being very scary right now,” she retorts defiantly, jutting out her chin.
His head tilts slowly to the side. She knows it’s fake, but the mask’s vacant expression sends cold dread creeping down her spine nonetheless.
“I’m not?”
He starts toward her then, slowly, like she’s a prey animal he’s trying not to spook. The firelight flashes across his unseeing eyes and the playful energy from moments ago evaporates instantly.
“My apologies,” he says softly. “Let me try again.”
He lunges forward lightning quick. His gloved hand darts out and seizes a fistful of the soft fabric at her chest. He uses the leverage to yank her toward him roughly. Her coordination’s been shot to shit by the wine and she stumbles, crashing into him, putting them suddenly face to face. The sharp plastic edge of the mask digs into her forehead and the vibrations in his chest rattle her own as he speaks.
“Better?”
“A little,” she says breathlessly.
That earns her a mangled-sounding snort. “Christ. Tough crowd.”
He rotates and spins her around, bringing her back flush to his front. One arm bands tightly around her waist, the other keeps its grip on the fabric crushed in his fist. He’s solid and warm and she can feel the bulge of his erection pressing against her lower back. It sends a flicker of perverse arousal burning through her lower half.
“Maybe I need to commit to the role a bit more.” He says, releasing the silk and slithering his hand upward to wrap around her throat. She goes rigid and her hands fly up on instinct, nails frantically scratching at his sleeve, trying to pry his fingers away.
Up until now, Hermione’s been hyper aware of her movements, as if observing from somewhere beyond her own body. She’d been feigning fear for the sake of the bit, but the threat against her air supply has brought her crashing back down into herself, and she suddenly can’t tell where the pretending ends and the panic begins. It is, without a doubt, the most erotic thing she’s ever experienced.
The chuckle he lets out is a low static-filled sound. He snatches both of her wrists in a single grasp and pins them down against her own stomach, holding them there effortlessly. His hands feel bigger like this, caging her own.
“Now that’s more like it, hmm?”
He begins walking her through the cabin, one gloved hand still wrapped around her throat, the other immobilizing her hands. Her feet kick out lamely, scrambling for purchase on the wooden floor. He just keeps forcing her along, legs limp beneath her, steering her toward the heavy oak dining table. She wriggles with all her might, a frantic, futile struggle against his overwhelming strength.
She shocks herself with a series of pleas and pathetic begging that seem to spill out of her of their own accord. “Please don’t do this! Please! My husband will be back any minute! Just take what you want and go!”
Another laugh. “Oh trust me, Hermione. I will.”
He continues marching relentlessly onward until her hip bone cracks against the edge of the dining table. It sends sharp pain radiating down her side.
The hand around her throat falls away. The one pinning her wrists releases its grip, only to shove her forward roughly, and Hermione crashes forcefully onto the tabletop. The impact is stunning, knocking the wind out of her completely.
Before she can recover, his hands are on her again, wrangling her wrists and pinning them behind her back in one palm.
She thought she’d have a hard time rustling up real fear, but it’s pumping through her system violently, spreading outward from her gut and sharpening all of her senses. Her haunted house analogy had been right on; fake absolutely can be scary. Downright terrifying, in fact.
One hand tangles in her curls and he wrenches her head back savagely; it feels as though her hair is on the verge of ripping clean out at the root. She chokes out a startled yelp and is shocked to hear Ghostface Draco groan in response.
“That’s it, baby. Now scream for me.”
The scream rips out of her before she can swallow it back. It’s the first time she’s ever really screamed in all her life; a scream like that back home would prompt a police investigation before it even finished.
She doesn’t know why, it’s not like she’s in any real danger, but the primal monkey part of her brain screams at her to run. In her attempt to get away, she kicks out blindly, her foot landing a direct hit to his balls. And down Draco goes, folding in on himself like a collapsable lawn chair. It gives her the briefest window she needs to flee.
She clambers off the table and high tails it for the living room, her silk robe flapping wildly around her bare legs.
“You fucking bitch—”
But he’s too fast for her. It takes him approximately three steps to close the distance she’s created. His hand shoots out, catching the belt of her robe and snapping her backward forcefully. Pain bursts through her hipbone and shoulder as she crumples and connects with the hardwood.
She scrambles backward frantically, but it’s useless; he catches her by the ankle and drags her toward himself.
She’s got no plan; she just keeps on swinging her arms wildly, flailing like a mad woman. It's not long before her fist connects hard with the side of his head, ripping her right out of the fantasy. She pauses to apologise for decking her husband in the skull, but then something strange happens. There's a sharp crack of plastic against wood as the Ghostface mask is knocked loose and goes skittering across the floor.
Her brain simply refuses to process what she’s seeing; it stutters and stalls like the engine of an old car. Because the man looming over her is not Draco. It’s nonsensical. It simply does not compute. It’s not Draco. It’s not Draco.
Instead of her husband’s pale pointy features, she’s met with the nearly too beautiful face of Tom Riddle.
“Surprise,” he says with a grin so big she can practically see every tooth in his mouth.
Hermione stares, her mind reeling, unable to comprehend Tom’s face where Draco’s should be. Terror floods her system with a watery weakness that weighs down her limbs, and she sits there, dumbly, frozen in place.
He cocks his head, eyeing her amusedly. “Cat got your tongue?”
His grip on her ankle tightens. A skin-crawl starts where his hand and her leg meet and worms its way up to her belly. Her stomach rolls, and she’s momentarily worried she may actually be sick.
He uses his free hand to casually brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
The cheeky fear from moments ago? That’s child’s play compared to the raw, animal panic coursing through her right now. It isn’t even in the same category. It isn’t even in the same universe.
"Earth to Hermione." Tom gives her ankle a light squeeze. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” His voice has an excited edge to it like he’s getting high on sucking down her shock.
He pulls her toward himself using the leverage on her ankle. Still stuck in stasis, she lets him drag her across the floor like she were nothing more than a loose limbed mannequin.
He’s forcing her thighs apart the second she’s close enough.
It feels as though she’s watching this happen to someone else. Hermione should be enjoying a lovely birthday weekend with her husband, not watching in mute disbelief as his boss wrenches her legs open.
“Well, well. It seems you were enjoying our little game more than you let on,” he says, meeting her eyes and cocking a single brow.
The humiliation shocks her out of paralysis. She finally moves, trying to twist her hips in a feeble attempt to shield herself from his gaze. She doesn't see it coming; his palm cracks across her cheek at breakneck speed. It sends her head rocking to the side, and her temple hits the hardwood with a reverberant thwack. He shifts his weight swiftly, using his knees to pin her spread-eagled calves firmly to the floor.
He looms over her, gripping her chin roughly in his still-gloved hand. That shit-eating grin’s been chased away by a glare so severe that if looks could kill she’d be dead on sight.
“I will bash your fucking face in if you try to hide from me again,” he hisses, punctuating the question with a firm shake of her head. “I like a good fight, but I want to see what I’m fighting for. Are we clear?”
The speed with which he'd shifted from teasing to explosive rage leaves her reeling. His voice is barely audible thanks to the ringing in her ears, but she understands well enough. She simply cannot get her mouth to cooperate.
“I asked you a question. Are. we. clear? Or is that big brain of yours filled up with too many dirty thoughts to comprehend what I’m saying?”
She bobs her head frantically; it’s not quite a nod and not quite a shake—just a rapid jerking motion that she hopes will sate him. Hot tears spill over to trace paths down her temples and into her hair.
Tom’s brows pull together and he pushes out his bottom lip in an imitation of a pout. “Oh, don't cry. I thought you liked it rough?”
She does. Oh god, she does.
She’s not certain whether it’s the terror or the arousal that’s sent her heart galloping into her throat.
Her brain is unable to decipher the conflicting emotions in a way that her body can easily comprehend. Something about the taunting, sickly-sweet softness of his voice breaks whatever remains of her fragile composure. Her quiet crying dissolves into ugly, body-wracking sobs. She sucks in big hiccuping gulps of air, wheezing around the protests stuck at the back of her throat. Her face is all hot and spit is dribbling out of her mouth and snot is bubbling from her nose and she can’t stop the little animal noises from falling out of her.
Tom rolls his eyes and peels the gloves off his hands, tossing one aside. The other he balls up and raises to Hermione’s mouth. She snaps her lips shut instantly and he tuts, pinching her nose between his fingers, cutting off her air supply. She's given no time to prepare, forced to hold her breath before she's even finished choking out the last one.
“I can keep this up all night, Hermione,” he murmurs, tightening his grip. The delicate cartilage in her nose screams against his fingers and her lungs burn torturously in her chest.
cantbreathecantbreathecantbreathe
The words are a pinball ricocheting around her skull. Her entire world narrows to his hand on her nose. She holds it for as long as she can, as long as humanly possible, but instinct wins out over pride. The second she parts her lips to gasp in a breath, he shoves the glove into her mouth. Her jaw joints ache with the effort of keeping it in place.
She’s so busy fantasising about ways to overpower him (a finger to the eye socket and a punch to the trachea are her favourite options) that she almost doesn’t notice his hand disappearing between her legs. She goes rigid, preparing for pain, but his touch is surprisingly gentle, at odds with the forceful manipulation she’d been expecting. He carefully parts her labia and his thumb begins to trace slow circles around her clit.
His words, however, more than make up for the tender caresses. "Never thought a frigid bitch like you would have such a welcoming cunt," he murmurs. His pointer finger drags through her arousal and lifts toward her face, filling her field of vision with the evidence of her body’s betrayal.
Tom shifts his weight then, releasing the pressure on her calves only to settle more firmly between her splayed legs. He lowers his head, puckers his lips, and blows warm air against her pussy. She wishes a hole would open up in the floor and swallow her because her hips jerk helplessly toward his mouth on instinct. Tom, of course, doesn’t miss it. He laughs maniacally, the sound of it vibrating against her sensitive flesh. Before she can process what’s happening, his tongue darts out to deliver a slow lick from her entrance up through her labia, before flattening to lap at her swollen clit. He luxuriates in eating her pussy, moaning in time with each of her little spasms and squirms. Then his lips close over her clit, forming an air-tight seal. He sucks greedily, the pressure intense and almost painfully pleasurable; it’s as though he's trying to suck her soul out through her sensitive bundle of nerves.
He pulls away and mutters something, but she hardly hears it. Evidently he’s had enough of her writhing; his hands wrap around his hips tightly and buries his face between her legs again. The gentle lapping from moments before is gone. He sucks and nibbles her clit ruthlessly, like a man starved.
Her orgasm is so close, so fucking close, and just as she's about to topple violently over the edge, he lifts his head. Her hips give an involuntary, desperate little thrust into the empty air.
He shifts backward and rucks up his cloak and tugs it over his head, flinging it aside carelessly. He moves to pull down his joggers and she can't help but stare as his cock springs free over the waistband. It's hard and flushed angry-red, precum already beaded at the tip.
He slides the length of it along her pussy, massaging the head against her clit. “Be a good little slut and rub that clit against my cock,” he says. “Not very nice to make me do all the work.” He’s got a weird, plasticky smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The last vestiges of her ego shout at her to resist, but his potential violence is a more immediate terror than her own mortification. Besides, she secretly wants the humiliation. She forces her hips to move in a small, jerky roll, grinding her clit against the slick head of his cock. It makes her throb; she can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, like all the blood in her body has abandoned its usual responsibilities in favor of pulsating at the apex of her thighs.
“Yeah, just like that. Just like that,” he murmurs.
He stares down at her, watching her rut sloppily, his face slackened with pleasure. For a moment he seems completely lost in whatever twisted fantasy is unfolding inside his head. Then the spell breaks, and his mouth curls into a sneer as the mockery starts up again.
“That’s where you needed it, huh? Poor aching cunt’s just desperate for relief.”
She whines pathetically as the pressure builds between her legs. She needs more friction.
His free hand moves to her hip, using it as leverage to grind himself against her more insistently. He stills for a moment, then delivers several teasing slaps of his cockhead to her pussy. He drags the tip through her slick folds, circling her entrance before bringing it back up to press and rub against her clit.
Hermione's knuckles strain against her robe's silky fabric; she practically fists its edges for dear life. Feral grunts bubble up from her throat before she can claw them back, and she can feel liquid arousal running hot down the insides of her thighs.
He gives her no warning. She’s just started to lose herself in the rocking of his cock against her clit, pleasure rolling across her body in warm waves, when he shifts and plunges into her with a single slam, knocking against her cervix so forcefully that she practically chokes around the gag. He pulls back suddenly, but instead of slamming home again, he pumps into her only halfway, gyrating his hips in slow, languid circles. He angles upward, the head of his cock massaging against her G-spot, still sheathed only partially in her pussy.
His eyes are glazed over and glued to where he disappears inside her. “Fuuuuucking hell... Does he even use this thing? Christ it’s— fuck— it’s fucking strangling my cock.” He pauses long enough to card a hand back through his sweat-soaked hair, pushing it off his forehead before suddenly driving back into her with renewed force.
The sight of his pretty flushed face and knitted brows is too much to bear. She keeps her head fixed firmly to the floor and screws her eyes shut so tight that the afterimages of the ceiling lights burst like stars behind her lids. With her eyes closed, at least she can pretend it’s Draco.
His hand shoots out to tangle in her hair, wrenching her head forward violently. He forces her gaze down to where she's stretched and pulsing around his cock. “Eyes open, we’re just getting to the good part,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Gonna turn this pretty pussy—” a strangled groan cuts him off, “—into my own little fuck hole.”
It’s like he’d arrived at the cabin after spending the afternoon slinking around her brain, rifling through her fantasies and lifting his words from her dirtiest thoughts. His taunts are like ammo directly to her arousal, triggering a series of humiliating aspirated wails to spill up and out of her in time with his momentum.
The gag dampens the noises only slightly. He drags a finger through the drool dripping out of her mouth and brings it to his own lips, sucking it clean.
“Eeze…” It’s a ragged mumble, distorted by the glove’s pressure and her own shock. It might be an attempt to say ‘please,’ but she can’t be certain. She’s not even sure what she’s begging for.
A smug smirk smears across his face. He releases her hair, letting her head fall back to the floor with a thud. His hand immediately moves to her clit, his fingers finding the sensitive nub and rubbing it in tight circles. Hermione chokes out a whine—half protest, half surrender, as his fingers fumble wildly against her. The sensation sends her rushing towards the edge so quickly that it's dizzying.
He leans forward, damp forehead hovering just above her. His voice sounds rough this close to her ear and it tickles the baby hairs at her temple. “Fucking slut,” he breathes out with an exaggerated sigh. “Better come— all over— my cock—” thrust. thrust. thrust.
He’s panting so hard she’s surprised he can even formulate coherent thought, let alone coherent words. His hair whips forcefully against his forehead in time with his furious pounding. Each drive of his hips sends perspiration rolling from his hairline down the tip of his thin nose and it pools in the suprasternal notch between her collarbones.
His mouth hangs slightly agape, cheeks flushed with exertion and pleasure, eyelids heavy with lust as he stares down at where their bodies are joined—utterly transfixed by his cock sliding in and out and in and out and in and out. The obscene, sopping squelching sounds of sweat-slicked skin slapping skin echo and bounce off the vaulted ceiling.
Her orgasm rips through her with the weight of a wrecking ball, destroying her faculties and momentarily suspending all higher thought. Tom doesn't stop, his pace becoming even more frantic, more punishing, fucking her for his life as he chases his own release. For a split second, his hold on her hip slackens as his own climax crashes over him, his body shuddering above hers.
It's all the opening she needs. Hermione wrenches herself free with a nearly inhuman, adrenaline-fueled surge, scrambling out from under him. He's paralyzed in the throes of his orgasm, too cum-drunk to realise that she’s even moved. She doesn't look back, lunging for the back door, fumbling with the lock before throwing it open and stumbling out into the freezing night.
The icy air hits her with a sharp crack across the face. The woods yawn open before her, swallowing the sound of her footfalls as she barrels into the darkness. Branches claw at her arms and legs, and each inhale scorches her lungs. She trips, stumbles, steadies herself, warring with gravity as her feet slip-slide on slick leaves and pebbles. She’d spit out the gag the second she’d fled the cabin, but she regrets it immediately. She could’ve worn it and saved at least one hand from frostbite.
She remains upright by the grace of adrenaline and whatever higher power she doesn’t believe in. She tears through the woods purblind and out of breath, Tom’s thudding steps never far behind.
“Come out, come out wherever you are!”
The sound of his voice is a bulldozer to her coordination. Her foot catches on some unseen gnarled root and she goes flying face first into the cold earth. For one awful, suspended second, she just lies there, cheek and hands pressed into the thick sucking mud, shivering uncontrollably while her heart tries to beat its way out of her chest.
Get up. Get up. GET UP.
She clambers onto two feet and launches herself forward again, hurtling through the thinning trees. Tom’s unhurried, combat-boot-clad steps crunch just over shoulder. She’s sprinting, arms and legs pumping for her life, the curls not stuck to her damp neck flapping behind her like a white flag. And somewhere in her periphery there’s Tom, leisurely moving as though perusing the aisles of a Tesco.
She goes careening down a dip in the earth, nearly eating shit yet again when finally she sees it. Light. No— headlights. Headlights illuminating a ribbon of wet asphalt curling alongside the edge of the woods.
Hermione bursts from the treeline, wobbling haphazardly onto the road’s narrow shoulder toward an idling car. Leaning against it, one hand in the pocket of his wool coat, the other checking his watch, is none other than her husband, Draco Malfoy. The world rights itself the second she takes in the sight of his moonlit face. She hurls herself at him dazedly, greedily, like a man lost in the desert would an oceanic mirage. He's here. She’s safe. Everything is going to be okay.
Draco looks up from his watch as she nears, her arms flailing outward to grip the lapels of his coat. His bored expression shifts instantly to one of concern. He moves gracefully, catching her before her dirt-caked hands can make contact or she collapses on the asphalt.
“Draco oh god we have to go! We have to— we— he’s crazy!” Hermione's words tumble out breathlessly. Her eyes continue to dart back toward the dense trees every few seconds, searching for any sign of Tom.
“Easy, love. Easy. I've got you,” Draco murmurs. He brings a hand up to brush matted curls back from her face.
She stares at him, mouth agape, completely dumbfounded. Why the fuck is he just standing there?!
“We have to go! He’s coming!” Her voice raises several octaves, tipping over the edge of persuasive gusto into ear-splittingly shrill. She tries to yank him toward the car, but he remains rooted to the spot.
Frustrated rage and terror threaten to explode out of her. It’s all she can do not to grab him by the shoulders and shake him violently. But her desperate pleading hardly touches him. He’s still preternaturally calm, the only evidence that he’s even heard her a gentle, almost apologetic smile on his lips. “Hermione. Stop for a second. Breathe.” He rubs his hands up and down her arms, trying to generate heat and ground her in one go.
“Draco you’re n— not— not—” she’s cut off by her own panicked sobs. Her entire body vibrates with the force of her crying and the overwhelming urge to flee.
“Shhh. I am listening, darling. I hear every word. But look at me.” He dips his head lower, trying to meet her eyes.
She lets out an agonized moan. “You’re not listening! It’s Tom! He attacked me! T-Tom attacked me!”
Just as she says his name, a figure emerges from the darkened woods. Tom steps out onto the road like he’s returning from an evening stroll. There are leaves plastered to his joggers and a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, but otherwise he looks perfectly composed. He stops a few metres away, a hand in one pocket, a smug smirk playing on his lips.
Hermione whines out a horrible, wet broken sound at the sight of him. She instinctively tries to make herself smaller, tuck herself behind Draco’s body and burrow away for safety, but he doesn’t move to shield her. He doesn’t tense. Draco doesn’t even look surprised to see him. He just turns his head slightly toward Tom and gives him a little nod. Tom returns the greeting with a small, pleasant wave.
It’s then that it hits her, the jagged puzzle pieces finally clicking into place: Draco Malfoy—who has never forgotten anything in his 35 years on this Earth—conveniently forgetting two key ingredients, his calm presence here on this deserted road, hell his presence on this road at all, his total lack of surprise. Tom Riddle choosing to break and enter while Draco just so happens to be out, his near psychic level knowledge of Hermione’s deepest desires, his knowledge of the cabin’s precise location. The earth tilts on its axis. She feels a bit like she’s under water, like she’s watching the scene unfold from at the end of a very long tunnel.
She shakes her head rapidly and reels backwards, staggering slightly over her own feet. Draco grabs her arm and pulls her in close.
“I— what— what’s going on I don’t—” the words die out on her tongue. The world slows to a crawl.
Draco grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts her head up to face him. “I couldn't give you what you wanted. Not the way you needed it to feel. So I found someone who could.”
Tom pipes up just then, adjusting the cuff of his jumper, his tone dry and amused. “The pleasure really was all mine,” he says with a smirk.
Her body, still buzzing from the violation, betrays her again with a treacherous, shameful flood of arousal.
“You said you wanted it to feel real.” Draco leans in slightly, his warm breath ghosting across her face. “Did it feel real, my love?”
The words suck all the air right out of her, siphoning it straight from her lungs. Hermione stares at Draco. His grip on her arms tightens, becoming a hair firmer.
“Now,” Tom commands.
In one smooth, practiced motion, Draco spins her around, pins her arms behind her back, and pulls her against him. He holds her there effortlessly against his chest, her back crushed to his front. His erection presses against her arse, and Hermione’s heart picks up pace to match the rapid beating of Draco’s. He’s not rough, but it’d be impossible to break free even if she’d wanted to. But she’s surprised to find that she doesn’t want to. She, really, really doesn’t.
Tom’s smirk cracks open into a wolfish grin. He takes a step closer, then another, and another, until finally, he’s standing directly in front of her. She can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves.
“You were incredible. Made such a big show of putting up a fight. All the while your cunt was just drooling everywhere,” he pauses, tilts his head as if really taking her in. “Just fucking perfect.” Tom's voice sounds ragged, thick with arousal. He palms his cock through his joggers with one hand and, with the other, he gently wipes away a stray tear from her cheek.
Draco plants a soft kiss to the side of her neck, traces his lips up the side of the delicate skin and pauses just beside her ear. “Happy birthday, Hermione.”