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Severus sniffs derisively. With nobody to hear his annoyance, it does nothing to squash the burning anger bubbling in his veins.
He stood—right hand clamped around the tumbler of amber liquid—and circled the coffee table for no reason other than his endless restlessness. With each slow, measured, muffled step, he willed himself not to glance at the clock. Not again. For the past hour, he has done nothing but growl at the fireplace and watch the minutes pass.
One hour. An hour since she had told him she would return home to him.
His eyes flick to the clock quickly, as if doing it quickly wouldn’t count. Severus growls again, throwing himself back into the armchair, slumped and uncomfortable. Leaning forward, he fishes a silly little cushion of hers from behind him and tosses it to the ground, sparing it a dark glare.
Every little accoutrement seems to taunt him, all of these pointless, pretty items she insists on decorating their home with, only further encouraging his anger. His clever little witch knows a multitude of ways of communication; with a simple flick of her wrist, she could have sent him word of her tardiness. But of course, she was having too much fun in his absence.
Fucking Potter. Fucking Weasley.
Hermione tells him time and time again that he—Severus—is all she needs, all she wants, and yet, she continues these regular meet-ups with her friends. He knows that it is unfair and unacceptable to keep her from her friends, and the idiots would likely come crashing through their perfectly gleaming windows to rescue her if he even tried.
He glowers at the room and all of its traces of Hermione. On every surface is one thing or another that she bought to make ‘their house, a home’ as she so often told him brightly. Severus, on the other hand, would happily live with just the essentials—a bed, a source of food, a single chair and of course, his books.
Really, he should go to bed, stop this sulky nonsense and sleep off his temper. His eyes flick to the clock once more. She would know that he was vexed if he was in bed this early, but she would know either way. He chides her regularly for not controlling her emotions, and just as frequently, she reminds him that he can only control the softer side of himself. His anger, always quick to the surface, is not so well disguised.
He is justified in his anger, he tells himself.
His bright, vivacious little witch is probably spending her evening laughing at him. His dour, miserable ways, his pathetic existence being little more than an errand boy for whoever needs Potions that month. He is sure she expected grand ambitions from the man who led Slytherin house for fourteen years.
Severus grumbles something indistinct even to his own ears.
He is tired. His grand aspirations died many years before she bustled her way into his life, before she was born, if he was true to himself. She chooses to be in his life; he isn’t forcing her, never chased her. Hermione set them on this path, and if she wants to stay, she can accept him for who and what he is.
Just as his tangled thoughts were starting to create tension and monsters in their relationship that aren’t there, the fireplace casts a green glow across his knuckles that makes his skin look sickly.
She is glorious. All curls and smiles and giddiness. Every part of him that is lacking, she fills with ease. Hermione Granger taught him the meaning of the phrase ‘better half,’ and yet, this does nothing to dissuade his rage.
“Severus,” she hums, slurring slightly on the final ‘S’, then dropping her handbag by the hearth. “I missed you.”
Not enough to call, he thinks viciously. Severus has learned through their relationship not to niggle too hard, lest she use something he has done in retaliation. This whole concept of sharing a life is foreign and difficult.
“I had such a nice night,” she rambles on, “but I missed you.”
“So you’ve said,” he grumbles.
For the first time since tumbling through the fireplace, her gaze snaps to his, and her hands continue to pat the soot from her coat. She studies him, gauging his mean demeanour, his snarling mouth and his narrowed eyes.
“You’re angry.”
“What’s new?” he scoffs.
“You’re angry with me,” she amends.
“Very astute, Miss Granger.”
It is whispered very low under his breath, full of venom and hurt. Still refusing to look at her, Severus only catches the barest of twitches as the honorific washes over her. It is his way— to revert to a time when she was little more than a niggling annoyance in his life to express his irritation.
For a moment, there is only stony silence growing and mutating between them, until she shifts a little and tosses her coat onto the chair he is staring at studiously.
“Severus,” she purrs, “my Severus, whom I’ve been so very excited to see this evening, is angry at me?”
He knows that voice and this game all too well. Severus continues to stare pointedly away, where there is only the armchair and a silly plush cushion—and now her coat. She will not distract him from his annoyance. Not this time.
The trouble is, he wants to look at his pretty little witch. He’s been itching all night to see her, to card his fingers through her soft mountain of curls, to kiss each new patch of skin as she undresses. But to look now—as she unbuttons a new item of clothing—would be to admit defeat.
A lumpy mound thumps around her ankles—surely her ankles are relatively safe to look at—that he recognises as the cardigan she wore earlier when kissing him goodbye. Severus pulls in a breath through flared nostrils, lust starting to mingle with his anger. He focuses on the armchair once more, counting the stitches on the trim.
“The whole night,” she goes on in that tempting voice, “I thought about you. About coming home to you—”
Is that a stain on the upholstery? He wonders to himself, blinking hard and setting his jaw.
“—about seeing your handsome face—”
Something else falls to the floor, something with a bit more weight, maybe something with buttons. Her blouse.
He is only human; he can’t control the flicker of his eyes, and certainly can’t control the lingering gaze on her exposed torso. Even from a distance, one can see how soft her skin is, the moles and freckles further fuelling the aesthetic. He has counted them all, kissed them all, and whispered any number of wicked deeds to them.
“—not just your side profile—even though I do find it very attractive—your beautiful eyes, so dark and penetrating.”
The sound of her zipper draws his attention, but he does not waver in his determination. If she thinks this little game is won yet, she’s far from the clever witch she thinks. The skirt, black and snug on her hips—he remembers it well from watching her dress earlier—slides down her legs and onto the growing pile.
“Severus,” she says again, pleading this time.
He hears her shuffle on the spot once more, reaching around to unfasten her bra, he assumes. Applauding himself internally for not giving in to her little charade, Severus adopts a little smirk of triumph before lifting the tumbler of whisky to his lips.
Head tilted back, draining the last of his beverage, he is both pleased and disappointed. Severus was hoping she’d fight a little dirtier, tempt him beyond temptation to the point where he has no option but to give in.
Just as he’s about to lower the tumbler from his mouth, something lands on his lap. Something very light, but its movement draws his attention downward. Severus places the empty glass back on the side table and peers down.
A strip of black lace. His fingers run across it, still warm from where it’s been nestled between her cheeks and under them, he can feel his cock stir to life. All of the rage begins to dissipate, leaving him a hapless, boneless mess for her.
Eager to regain control, Severus gathers his strength and rises. His height is an advantage, possibly the only one he has whenever she uses this little tactic. Holding her thong, he paces toward her.
“You know,” his voice rumbling deep in his chest as he approaches. “You can’t undress every time I’m angry with you.”
Her eyes are wide, plump bottom lip pushed out in a small pout. His tongue darts out, teeth eager to press into the plush, moist flesh on offer. She looks utterly petulant and delectable.
“Are you sure?”
Severus runs his fingers up the length of her arm, watching the goosebumps follow in his wake. Hermione’s eyes are still latched onto his face, anticipating his next move, while he entertains himself watching her nipples hardening under his affection.
“Perhaps I’ll join your little soirée next time,” he says, “get myself into a right snit in the pub.”
“Oh,” she gasps, eyes fluttering as he rolls one tight nipple between his fingers, “and you’d like that, would you? Me undressing in front of all those eager eyes.” She is completely breathless as she speaks.
The corners of his mouth twitch, and his nostrils flare with hypothetical jealousy. She likes this, too, of course, possessiveness without any real malice behind it. Hermione wants him to want her more than he’s wanted anyone.
And he does.
“I’d take great pleasure,” he hums against her ear, delighted by her breathy whimper, “gouging out every set of eyes that bore witness to such a treat.”
“Take me to bed, Severus.”
Hermione takes his hand, leading him towards their bedroom. Severus follows, leaving as much distance as he can while still holding his witch’s hand. The sway of her hips, the slight jiggle of each cheek as she walks, is hypnotising. He is suddenly overwhelmed with power; her state of undress while he is fully clothed feels heady.
His cock twitches as she points to the bed.
The bedroom is another space that is inherently Hermione. Impractical lighting that she calls ‘ambient’, a collection of pillows that must be removed before they can sleep, and added again the next day and of course, the wicker basket in the corner always covered in orange fur.
“I should sleep on the sofa to teach you a lesson,” he tells her.
“I can think of a better way to remind me of why I’d rather be here.”
She drops his hand, stopping at the foot of their bed and turns to face him in all her nakedness. Hermione’s crown of curls sits atop pure perfection—golden skin smattered in freckles, perky breasts standing to attention, and, if he isn’t mistaken, glistening lust glittering between her thighs.
“Lie down.”
There is unmistakable heat in her voice, the words quivering from her lips and settling low in his abdomen. Keeping his gaze on the trembling, naked witch, Severus shuffles onto the bed, grumbling slightly as he tears the cushions off and dumps them onto the floor. Now glad he hadn’t imbibed too much whisky while in his snit, he settles against the headboard and awaits her next move.
“Touch yourself,” Severus demands, suddenly eager for a little show.
Hermione smiles shyly, her cheeks bright pink and eyes full of mischief. He could never tire of that perfect face all light up in embarrassment, even now, even after he’s explored every inch of her body… thoroughly.
“And they say I’m bossy.”
Severus hums his approval as her fingers trail down the path of pink that glows on her chest, pausing only briefly to fondle a nipple.
He could and would watch her all day. Her middle finger teases her clit before sinking inside, mimicking the way he touches her, the way she says only he can satisfy her. Hermione pumps a few times, her hips moving wantonly, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. Pure perfection.
Severus nods to her hand, “mouth.”
His command is more breathless than he’d like, but it has the desired effect nonetheless. His pretty little witch lifts her glistening finger to her lips and sucks vigorously, eyes falling shut.
“How do you taste?”
“Like I’m yours.”
Her eyes are still closed as she says it, so honest and true and full of heat. Severus shifts on the bed, his erection begging for release. When she looks at him, her gaze is hooded and molten. She climbs on the end of the bed, moving up his legs, coming to a stop when her face is hovering over his crotch.
His cock pleads with her through twitches and a leaking tip, and Hermione—ever merciful, Hermione—unbuttons his trousers, looking at him always. She sucks in a little sigh as her fingers wrap around him, and her smile is both playful and smug.
Severus groans as she takes him into her hot mouth, her tongue welcoming him with vigour. He does battle with himself not to thrust upward, to invade and fuck. He wants to feel her affection for him tonight, wants to languish in this slow torture.
Hermione shoves her hand up his shirt, running her fingers along his torso while her head continues to bob in his lap, and all he can do is watch her mouth rise and fall. Her hips are writhing now, searching for something to grind against, some way to satisfy the need building between them both.
“Enough,” he rasps as his cock fills her so fully he can feel her throat start to fight against him.
His hips are nestled between her thighs, but she looks perplexed, annoyed.
“That’s better,” she declares, removing his clothes with one swift hand movement.
“Such proficient magic when you want something,” Severus chuckles.
He thinks she might have whispered something along the lines of ‘I want you so bad’, but he can’t be sure because the blistering heat of sinking inside her casts all rational thought from his mind.
Her lips travel up his chest, stopping occasionally to suck on his skin, leaving blooming marks of passion on him. Hermione kisses his neck, the underside of his jaw and finally trails her tongue along the seam of his mouth. Her hips move at the pace of a woman ready to give in to her pleasure already, rising and falling, hard and fast.
Severus knows that if he doesn’t slow her down, he won’t last. Tongue still plundering her mouth, swallowing her moans and fighting his own, he takes control, cupping her arse with both hands, as he guides them into a slower pace.
“Fuck,” her lips still against his, her breath is sharp around the words, “I love you.”
“My Hermione.”
“Yes! Yes! Yours!”
The power of her words lights a fire in him. Severus’s fingers grip her harder, pulling her down close and keeping her body firmly against his own. Hermione’s hips continue to roll, her breaths are short and filled with moans now.
“Oh—”
Severus can feel her starting to shudder, her body’s way of letting them both know she is about to topple into bliss. Her movements are desperate now, her kisses deep and lingering. His cock moves in her without resistance, the rest of his body is rigid with effort not to just give in to the pleasure.
There is a little scream caught in her throat as her body clamps him like a vice; he can just hear it, building and fading away into panting gasps before his restraint fails and he is coming with her.
“Love you.”
It’s almost too soft to hear, but Severus has trained himself to follow the sound of her love. He uses it as an anchor, a solid presence that keeps him whole and happy.
The anger he felt earlier was fleeting, a side effect of his all-consuming love for this little witch now sweat-sheened and satisfied next to him.
“Once again, I must remind you,” he says, finding his voice. “You can’t undress every time I’m upset with you.”
Hermione laughs, sleepy and sated.
“We’ll see.”