Jagged

You've Got My Devotion

Hermione meets him on the porch steps, hands at her sides, shoulders stiff.
Nerves radiate off her like never before. It spills from her and into Tom, making his stomach twist.
She thinks he's changed his mind. That she's come here to be rejected by him, just as she has in the past.
But Tom has never felt more sure of anything. Hermione: both his undoing and his savior.
When he reaches her his fingers wrap around her waist, pulling her in until his lips touch hers. The taste of Draco still lingers on his tongue and Hermione's kissing him back and the world has never felt more right.
There's much to be done, and Tom wants to get started right away. But first–
First.
He pulls back to study Hermione. She looks at home with that same unreadable look, the one that makes him want to drag his claws through her mind, see what secrets she keeps, what horrors she still hasn't shared with him. It's a look that makes him want to bend her over a table as much as it makes him want to strangle her.
Because that urge will always be there. The truth that Hermione will hold power that he'll never possess, that she'll always knows the best ways to subdue and destroy him, will always irritate him to no end.
Tom will never stop trying, stop reaching. He lost the duel in that abandoned classroom all those months ago, and he'd probably lose again, if he's honest with himself. He cannot picture a world in which Hermione isn't at his side, stuffing his own hunger for power down as much as she assists him on the path for reformation.
Checks and balances. But Hermione's so much more than that.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, because he can't tell and he genuinely wants to know.
"This isn't the future I planned for myself." She looks out on the horizon as the sun rises higher, bathing the woods in hues of gold and orange. Lavender emerges from the trees, blood stained on her chin and a wicked smile on her lips.
It might be poetic, if Tom searches hard enough.
He won't.
"Disappointed?" He tries not to feel bitter about it. Tries not to linger too long on the truth– that everything Hermione is, she is because of him. All that bitterness and pain, every meltdown and death she's experienced. It's his doing.
But there's strength, too. Tom has no doubt Hermione would have found her own way without the war, but how far would she have gotten? Would the trees bend to her will, would Old Magic run through her veins? Would she understand how to manipulate anyone to her will? Without him, would she even be Hermione?
Hermione looks at him and smiles. Open and real and so genuine Tom feels it in his chest.
"No," she says simply.
No, his mind echoes back at him.
---
Hermione leads him up to her room, fingers laced in his tightly. The house is quiet, most people still asleep, unaware or uncaring what went on in the woods behind their home last night.
Dry blood coats his hands and throat, flaking off with each pass of his fingers over his skin. The animal part of him never wants to wash it off. Wants the reminder of what he did– who he destroyed. How he took apart someone using nothing but his teeth and claws.
It's one of the few times being a werewolf has felt more like a convenience than a setback.
He thinks Hermione will shove him towards the bathroom as soon as they enter her room. He thinks that he'll take a long shower, followed by a much needed slumber, and when he wakes up he'll tell Hermione all the gruesome details of Draco's death.
He thinks wrong.
Not a moment after the door click shuts behind them, Hermione shoves him up against it, hands firm on his hips. She catches him off guard and he's tired enough to let the shock slip onto his face.
But Hermione simply smiles, eyes bright and knowing. And then she leans in and kisses him with searing intensity. With purpose she hasn't aimed at him in months.
Tom is exhausted. He's covered in blood.
But that's never stopped them before.
The wolf, absent and spent, will be sleeping his night under the moon away for the next few hours.
This is all Tom. All Hermione. With no agenda or plans, no desperation to prove something or further agendas.
So he lets her lead the speed of the kiss. Lets her lick at his mouth and roll her tongue slowly in. His hands tighten into the thin shirt, fighting the urge to rip it off. He likes this shirt. There's never been a single thread of clothing on Hermione that hasn't made his mouth water.
They snog for a long time. Slow and meaningful. Whispered sighs and breaths that say so much more than words ever could. Words can be twisted. Manipulated. They are too easy to fake.
But this. This. He can smell how much Hermione wants it, the scent of bergamot both familiar and hauntingly nostalgic.
And this can't be imitated. His body thrums with it– the bond translating everything Tom will never say out loud.
It's not the first time he's felt it, but it is the first time he understands it. All those months ago, when Hermione had first made her claims about being mates, he hadn't even realized that his guard had been lowered. That there was no longer an agenda or undying need that kept him coming back to Hermione, rather that he wanted to be there. To be with her.
It was terrifying. Tom had never relied on anyone. Not since he grew old enough to dress and feed himself. And to have that realization thrown at him– by Hermione, of all people, who was suddenly more at ease and malleable than she'd ever been– he lost all sense.
Because even as lost as he'd been, he knew better than to think she was simply there for him out of the kindness of her heart. She had an agenda– everybody does, when it comes to Tom. Of course, he could have never guessed how deep her commitment to distracting him went, or that she would eventually let everything go and accept what she deemed to be fate.
Mates.
It seems a lot less scary now than it had back then.
His fingers travel down her legs, underneath the tiny skirt, hesitant. Unsure. It's been too long and Hermione is too willing to snatch the things he wants from his grasp and he thinks if he gets his hopes up this time, he might explode when she pulls away and shakes her head at him.
"It's okay," she whispers, lips brushing against his. "I want this. I want you."
He imagines this must be what world domination feels like. Even better, perhaps, because he's not giving up on his dreams. Merely adjusting them, changing the vantage point. Compromising so now he gets both power and Hermione.
He switches them around, pushing Hermione roughly against the door and dropping to his knees. When he flips her skirt up, he sees she's wearing no knickers.
His vision blurs as the scent of bergamot hits him unbidden. He thinks his legs might give out.
He's missed this. He loves this. He'd kill and die and surrender to be able to do this for the rest of his life.
"Thought I'd save you the trouble," Hermione says from above, head thrown back and eyes shut. "But I think I might have sent you into shock instead."
He licks his lips. Glances up and then back to her cunt three times before leaning in and pressing his nose against her. Hermione's stomach hitches and a gasp slips past her lips.
He feels drunk, but he hadn't had a sip of liquor this morning. It's Hermione. Her scent. The way every move of his fingers against her skin draws the most delicious reactions from her. And they're real. Hermione wants this.
The first taste of her cunt feels like an awakening of some sort. Like they've traveled to a place no one else is. Perhaps the Old Magic had pulled them away again, sent them to a timeline where all they'll ever need to do is feed and fuck.
But Hermione's nails scrape against the wooden walls and Tom is brought back down a bit.
There's a world outside of this bubble. But it doesn't fucking matter. Not right now.
He licks a slow line up her, reveling in the way her thighs shake around his ears. A hand makes its way into his hair, pulling lightly, twisting until his head is angled right against her center, demanding without pause or thought.
He obliges immediately, tongue entering as he brings a hand up and around to rest at the highest part of her inner thigh, fingers teasing but not touching, not even when she keens and reaches for his arm.
He lets himself get lost in it, if only for a moment. The touch and the taste, the sounds of Hermione's moans and the smell of sex in the air. It washes over him, and he doesn't even realize he's been pulled to his feet until his senses are no longer flooded with bergamot and he realizes his mouth is pressed tightly against Hermione's as she shucks his pants off and drags him toward the bed.
Her shirt is gone, lost somewhere in the madness and he drops her skirt to the floor just before she lands on the bed, yanking Tom on top of her.
He pulls away and just... looks. Her eyes are open, staring back curiously. She's not guarded or plotting, not trying for the upper hand or trying to dominate him. It's a bit unsettling. He's not sure what to do, for a moment. They spent too much time using sex as a weapon or punishment. An effective one. Now that it's just them, stripped down to their most vulnerable state... Tom isn't sure what to do next.
Hermione lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb stroking slowly. "It's natural, yeah? To be nervous. But I won't hide if you don't."
It shouldn't settle him. He shouldn't let it settle him. But he's tired and still covered in blood and the full moon takes a lot out of him. He can let himself have this one slip up. For once in his life, he's going to give himself what he wants, even if it offers him no future advantage.
So he leans down and kisses her, slow and sensual, tongue licking into her mouth. A shudder runs down his spine and he thinks it's been so long that he might be able to come from just this, from the way her hands trail down his sides and land at his hips, squeezing lightly but not pushing or pulling. Like she can't get enough of him.
Not enough. Never enough. He'll spend the rest of his life wanting more– more time, more skin, more Hermione.
He reaches between them, grabbing for his cock because she's been wet enough for ages and he's hard enough to leak precome onto the sheets beneath but then–
"I love you, Tom."
He freezes. Pulls back and stares.
Something washes through him, but he's not familiar enough with his emotions to identify it. It feels good, though. And the way Hermione stares at him like she believes in him, like she knows who he really is and it doesn't matter that it's not inherently good.
Suddenly the words don't feel so scary. Not coming from Hermione.
And he can't say them back. Maybe not ever.
But he kisses her and pushes in, and she wraps her legs around his back and buries her face in his neck and it's enough. He's enough.
Her cunt is warm and tight and his vision whites out. For a moment he doesn't move, just stays bottomed out inside, overwhelmed and unwilling to make a fool of himself by coming within two thrusts.
"I never thought you'd let me do this again," he admits, pulling back to look her in the eyes.
She pushes into his lower back with her heels impatiently, but her expression is gentle, even as she rolls her eyes.
"I never planned to let you."
He pulls out slowly, memorizing the way her mouth drops open and her eyes flutter shut. "What changed?"
"You, a little." He pushes back in, just as steady and a shudder runs down her spine. "Me, even more."
He pauses. "I'm sorry." And he is. He has hated Hermione. He has wanted her dead and destroyed and he has wanted to do it himself. But in the end, he just wants this.
She reaches up and kisses his lips lightly, pulling back to meet his eyes. "I'm not."
And then she flips them over, sinking all the way down on Tom's cock, effectively ending all chance at cohesive conversation.
She works him slowly, building her pace and letting his hands slide up and down her body. He squeezes at her hips, palms at her breasts. His fingers linger much too long over the ritual mark, and his mouth waters at the thought of digging his teeth in when they're finished and Hermione's laying sleepily on top of him.
He meets her next thrust halfway, and a choked moan falls from Hermione's lips, so he does it again. The momentum picks up quickly after that. Tom fingers at her clit and Hermione leans into it, head thrown back as her breathing gets heavier. The base of Tom's cock starts to grow and he's so close he thinks he might cry if Hermione changes her mind and hops off at the last second.
But then she falls forward, limp and spent and pulses around him, deep and so wonderful his fingers curl and cut into Hermione's shoulder blades before he's coming too.
Her breath puffs against his chest and he shifts slightly, trying to angle so he can get to her throat, the urge to lick and bite suddenly irrepressible.
There's a pull as their bodies fight to stay locked together. It stings a bit, but Tom loves it, basking in the closeness. No one else can give Hermione this. Even if they could, she would never let them.
She is Tom's.
"And you are mine," she returns groggily, eyes shut and breathing already deep and even. He licks from jaw down to her collarbone. Something loosens in his chest as soon as he sinks his teeth into the ritual mark. It's like a warm fire on a cold day, a long sleep after a particularly awful transformation. He bites down harder and Hermione swats at his arm.
"You've already left your mark, no need to draw blood today."
He licks at it before sucking on it obscenely.
"Go to sleep."
And for once, Hermione does as she's told.