A/N:
i have broken my sacred oath to only write bottom tom PWPs. but in my own defense... i don't have a defense. this is mostly just unrealistic smut.
this was written in two days and partially livewritten on discord. enjoy!
Tags/Warnings: AU - Twins, AU - Soulmates, Sibling Incest, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Explicit Sexual Content, PWP, Come Eating, Light Bondage, Biting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
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Infinite
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When people see his soulmark, they always assume the wrong shape. Harry corrects them as gently as he can—no, it's an infinity symbol, see how it stretches across instead of up and down?—and smiles when they tell him how lovely it is to have such a beautiful, meaningful mark.
When they see Tom's soulmark, their smiles turn sad and pitying.
Tom is the older twin. He is the cleverest student at Hogwarts and strikingly handsome to boot. Harry is... just Harry, with mediocre grades and a penchant for broomstick flying, with disastrous hair and terrible vision.
The day Headmaster Dumbledore had come to Wool's to explain the world of magic and the meaning of the identical, inky-black marks burned into the soft, inner part of their wrists, Harry had accepted his fate.
They have the same mark. The same soulmate. Whoever their soulmate is, wherever they may be, they will go to Tom.
Harry doesn't mind. He understands that while Tom is his brother, he can never hope to compare. It's alright. He's fine with it because he loves Tom more than anything in the world. He loves Tom more than he loves their soulmate and he hopes their soulmate will too, because Tom deserves that. He deserves to have a beautiful love and a perfect life.
So Harry wears his shirts with the sleeves rolled down, even during the hot, muggy summers. Tom never asks why, but sometimes his eyes are dark and curious. They roam over Harry's messy hair and awkward glasses and terrible posture like there are secrets to uncover there. As if they hadn't grown up together, spent every waking moment together for years.
As children at Wool's, they'd shared a bed together. Sometimes Harry misses those nights. Those years before Hogwarts, when their worlds had revolved wholly around each other. Harry's world is still Tom, only ever Tom, but the reverse doesn't exactly hold true anymore.
Tom still makes time for him, of course, and Harry is always grateful. His perfect older brother, who always has a warm smile on hand for his younger counterpart.
Sometimes, Tom will grab his hand, and suddenly it's like they're kids again, their wrists bare and unshackled by fate as they run through the streets of London with only the wind at their heels.
But it's a funny little thing, the way his heart jumps and settles whenever Tom is around. It's a strange twinge in his chest whenever he catches sight of Tom's mark, when he remembers that the bond they have, however strong, will someday give way to something even stronger.
Soon they will graduate, and Harry hardly knows what to do with himself. He has the grades to join the Aurors, to throw himself into selfless work that will distract himself from his misery. No doubt Tom will go on to do great things at the Ministry, and if joining the Auror corps is the closest Harry can be to him, then he'll take it.
Harry doesn't see Tom very often outside of classes. Even then, the only class where they sit next to each other is Defence. It is Harry's best class, which makes it the only class where he'd be a decent partner.
Lately, though, Tom's taken to studying late in the common room. He sits by the fireplace for hours, pouring over his notes and textbooks. Harry doesn't know what Tom expects to gain from doing so—it feels impossible for there to be a single spell in the Hogwarts curriculum that Tom hasn't successfully cast at least once.
But Harry won't complain about it; he forces himself to stay up, to sit by Tom's side and pretend to study. He even asks stupid questions from time to time—never too often, he doesn't want to be a bother—just so he can hear Tom's gentle, encouraging answers in response.
It's on one such night that Harry finds himself half-asleep in his chair, the crackling warmth of the fireplace having successfully lulled his body into a heavy, lethargic state.
Tom remains as vigilant as ever, quill scratching dutifully at a long scroll of parchment. He's been going for ages now; Harry can hardly fathom what remains to be written. Surely over the course of the night, Tom has scrawled out the entirety of 'Hogwarts: a History' and then some.
"Will you be finished soon?" Harry asks in a low, sleep-thickened voice. He thinks he should be a bit embarrassed by it, but Tom has seen and heard him in worse states than this.
The noise of Tom's quill slows to a halt. "Tired?" he asks, and there's definitely a thread of amusement laced in there, maybe even a hint of fondness.
Harry feels his face heat. "Yes," he admits, because there's no point in pretending here. "It's late. You should sleep, too."
Tom smiles, a lazy curl on one side of his mouth, and stretches back in his chair. His neck cracks slightly, just enough for Harry to catch the faint grimace of displeasure that flashes across Tom's face.
"You'll break your back at this rate," Harry comments, forcing himself to sit up. "What've you been writing all night, anyhow?"
"Just studying," Tom says. His gaze falls on Harry's face, that odd searching look returning to his eyes.
"You'll do great on your NEWTs," Harry says, fighting back a yawn. "If you study any more, I'm sure your brain will explode."
Tom laughs. The familiar sound sends a tingle down Harry's spine, like the bubble of champagne in a tall crystal glass.
"I know," Tom says. Then his presence seems to swell, filling the air with warmth. Harry feels safe with Tom around.
"So," Harry says, dragging the syllable out, "sleep?"
"Of course." Tom rolls his parchment up and tucks it into his bag. It's a slow process, or maybe Harry's just so tired that everything seems slower than usual. "Have you thought more on what you'll do after Hogwarts?" Tom asks as he does up the clasp of his bag.
"Yes and no," Harry admits, hesitancy colouring his words. "Slughorn thinks I ought to join the Aurors."
"And do you agree?"
"It's honest work." Harry shrugs, more uncomfortable than he is willing to admit, and watches Tom's expression soften almost immediately.
"Take all the time you need to decide," Tom says, dropping his bag onto the chair in favour of circling the table to join Harry's side. "You know I'll always take care of you."
Harry likes hearing that, he does, but it also stirs sadness in him, the deep well of it that he's tried so hard to bury away. "I know you will."
Tom frowns. It makes Harry feel worse. He must do better, put on a proper smile.
"Don't worry," Harry says. "I'll figure it out."
Tom takes his hand. Harry's heart seizes up right away, the frantic pounding of it twisting painfully in his chest; Tom might as well have wrapped his hand around that vital organ instead.
"You're worried," Tom says quietly. He drops to one knee, his eyes imploring and filled with firelight. "Tell me what you're worried about."
"It's nothing," Harry says, turning his face away. The fire is bright and hurts his weary eyes, but it's safer than the keen gleam in Tom's knowing gaze.
"If you expect me to believe that..." Tom trails off, threat unspoken. "What is it, Harry?"
"Nothing," Harry repeats, a stressed edge to his voice.
Tom says nothing for so long that Harry makes the mistake of glancing back. And then he can't look away—how could he, when Tom is so good to him, so kind and understanding? How could he shun the hand that holds his own, or reject the eyes that look upon him with unconditional acceptance?
Tom squeezes down, fingers wrapped tight around Harry's wrist, thumb smoothing over—over that spot.
Harry feels shame crash over him in an instant. He jerks his hand back as if stung, ignores the blatant confusion that washes over Tom's face.
"Harry," Tom says, voice sharp. "Stop it. Tell me what's wrong."
Harry is exhausted; he feels himself on the verge of frustrated tears. The long evening combined with the knowledge that no matter how good Tom is to him, it will never be enough—it's too much to bear.
"It's nothing," Harry repeats, like a broken record. "I'm just—it's just sad that we'll be leaving soon."
It's not far from the truth. For some time now, Harry has known that in many ways, his departure from Hogwarts will also mean a departure from Tom.
Tom nods once, a slow bob of his head. "Hogwarts has been a home to us both. You're not alone in thinking that way."
"I'm never alone," Harry says without thinking. "Not with you."
Tom smiles at that. Harry wants to tuck the memory of it away forever. His hand reaches out of its own accord, lacing their fingers together.
"And you will never be alone," Tom promises.
Harry wants so badly for those words to be true, but he knows they can't be. Slowly, carefully, he extracts his fingers from Tom's grasp. But he doesn't let go—he slides his thumb and index finger around Tom's wrist and rotates it in place, exposing Tom's mark to the glow of the fire.
"Someday," Harry says quietly, the messy knot of his emotions heavy in the back of his throat as he traces the shape of infinity with the tip of his finger, "someday I might be. And I want you to know that I'm okay with it."
Silence overtakes them. Tom's aura seems to go cold and shrink back. Harry knows it's his own fault, that he shouldn't complain, but it still stings.
Then Tom shuffles in place, his weight shifting as he rises to a crouch. His wrist remains trapped in Harry's grip, so Harry pulls back.
"Sorry," Harry says. The gravity of his confession has finally begun to sink in. Panic teases the edge of his chest, icy fingers closing in. "I didn't mean to. I just wanted you to know that I won't—I won't fight you. I don't care. I won't."
Tom comes closer, closer. His hands—large and warm, Harry can feel the heat radiating from them in spades—rise to cup Harry's face.
"Tom?" Harry breathes, barely above a whisper. His heart seems to have stopped entirely, waiting on Tom's response.
Tom leans in and kisses him.
It's soft and warm and everything Harry hadn't known he needed; Tom surrounding him, holding him. The safety that Harry has always felt around his brother is multiplied thousandfold.
Tom's hands trail into his hair, dragging to the nape of his neck. His fingers dig in there, the curl of them very nearly gentle, except Harry can feel—he can sense a strange undercurrent of desperation there. It's a desperation he feels, too.
A choked sound edges its way past Harry's lips. Tom's gaze snaps to his face, and in that gaze there is a hunger that Harry's never seen before.
It should frighten him.
But it doesn't.
"You are mine," Tom says roughly. "No one will ever take you from me."
Harry does sob this time, a stupid, ridiculous hiccuping noise that Tom kisses away, hands smoothing down Harry's spine in the tender way he'd once used to chase away bad dreams.
The fears that have been piling up for years, they flood out all at once. Harry falls apart in Tom's arms, feels the faint sensation of kisses pressed all over him, on his forehead, his cheeks, but above all, on the little black mark etched into the soft inside of his wrist.
Tom refuses to let Harry's soulmark go untouched for long—if his lips are occupied, then his hands take their place.
Harry doesn't want it all to end and he's terrified of what will happen when it does.
They end up on the floor—Tom sitting awkwardly on the rug with Harry on his lap. Harry's tears have finally subsided, and shame is eager to take their place, only Tom seems intent on shutting any negative emotions out, at least for the time being.
Harry doesn't dare move. He doesn't speak, either, lest he ruin the moment by saying something wrong. The last thing he wants is for Tom to change his mind and tell Harry to get off of him.
Tom's nose presses against the side of Harry's face. His breathing sounds funny, uneven puffs of hot air that wash over Harry's skin like a heavy fog.
"How could you think I would ever leave you?" Tom murmurs.
Harry doesn't understand. He can barely wrap his mind around the fact that brother has kissed him. "You have a soulmate," Harry tries.
Instead of responding, Tom kisses him again, slow and languid, his mouth open and wet against Harry's own. Harry feels like his face is on fire; everywhere Tom touches leaves trails of heat behind.
When Tom's lips descend lower, Harry bites down on a whimper.
"You trust me, don't you?" Tom asks. There's a husky quality to his voice that makes Harry's breath catch.
"Course I do," Harry mumbles. It's stupid that Tom thinks he even has to ask.
Tom's hands trail down his sides, rubbing warmth through the fabric of Harry's shirt.
"I—ah," Harry stutters, suddenly unsure. "Wait."
Tom's movements halt right away, hands stopped in place, breath ghosting against the side of Harry's neck.
Then Tom hums once, an unspoken question.
Harry doesn't know how to answer it. He thinks he ought to protest more and fight back against Tom's misguided actions. They're brothers, and Tom has a soulmate out there somewhere, waiting.
But if Harry can have Tom like this for even a moment, maybe it's alright. Maybe he can close his eyes and pretend it's okay.
"I trust you," Harry says, his mind made up.
Tom smiles again, and it makes Harry's chest fill with warmth to know that he's responsible for even a small measure of Tom's happiness.
When Tom shifts their position, cradling Harry's upper back and shoulders with steady hands as he presses Harry down against the heavy rug, Harry feels protected and cared for. The snug cage of Tom's arms around him—he doesn't know how he's gone without it all these years at Hogwarts, sleeping in separate beds.
He's never told Tom this, but on their very first night at Hogwarts, he'd cried. Even with Tom in the bed right across from his, he'd never felt more lonely in his entire life, like Tom's absence had left a ragged, gaping hole in his chest.
He doesn't want to feel that way again.
Tom's hands settle on his shoulders, grounding weights that anchor him to the floor. The buttons of Harry's shirt come undone, the fabric pulled from his body with careful movements. Harry shivers, exposed and anxious, with only Tom and the firelight to cover him.
Tom hums, a pleased noise that pools heat in Harry's gut. His hands slide down Harry's bare arms and stop at the wrists. Then his fingers wrap around the joints, applying the slightest amount of pressure, and guide them to rest just over Harry's head.
"Keep them there," Tom says. He sounds excited, maybe even a little breathless.
Harry nods, not trusting his voice. With how Tom has placed his hands, his soulmark is very visible. But Tom likes it, or at least he seems to. He keeps staring at the black ink.
Then Tom reaches for Harry's belt buckle and starts to undo it.
His belt, then Tom's belt. The clink of metal is loud in the quiet of the common room; Harry feels himself blush to the tips of his ears.
Tom leans in and licks at the seam of Harry's mouth like he's a sweet. Harry shudders, gasps quietly—Tom's tongue slips through the gap and fills him right up, warm and heavy, and his knee slides between Harry's legs, spreading them just so.
Then Tom slides his palms over Harry's chest, moving down the ladder of ribs towards the sharp jut of Harry's hip bones. Next, Tom works his trousers down, rough cotton scraping against Harry's sensitive skin. Every inch of him is painfully aware of just how close Tom is, and that they're really doing this—whatever this is.
It feels wrong to put a name to it. Harry knows he shouldn't feel this way, shouldn't enjoy this, but he does. He's selfish and terrible but Tom seems to want him anyway, so he'll keep his mouth shut.
"You're so good," Tom murmurs. He nuzzles at Harry's neck, teeth nipping at the soft column of Harry's throat. "So good, and all mine."
Tom is the beautiful one, hovering over him like an angel. Harry feels lightheaded just from Tom kissing him. Some terrible sickness must have taken him hostage, to make him crave kisses from his own brother. He's gone dizzy with lust and love and everything.
Tom sheds his own trousers before shoving Harry's pants the rest of the way down, exposing Harry's erection to the warm evening air. When Tom's hand slips lower, Harry's back arches almost obscenely, a low whine escaping his mouth. A heady rush of arousal washes through him as Tom palms his cock in slow, teasing motions.
"I've wanted this for a long time," Tom says softly. "And ever since we were children, I knew." The fingers of his free hand smooth over the flesh of Harry's thighs, pressing down against the muscle there. "When we got our soulmarks," Tom adds in a low, hoarse whisper, "I knew we would always be together." Then both his hands retreat, and Harry bites back a helpless whimper.
Tom swiftly undoes his neck tie. He wraps the silk loosely around Harry's hands, careful to avoid the wrists. "Hold onto this," Tom mutters, shoving the bunched ends into Harry's palms.
Harry is shaking, but he clenches his hands obediently, sweaty fingers buried in the silky material. His muscles strain with the effort of keeping his hands above his head, but he ignores the faint burn because he wants to do what Tom has asked him to.
"Good boy," Tom praises, and rewards Harry with a gentle kiss. Then his hips bear down, Tom's clothed erection rubbing against Harry's own, and Harry gasps, keening, the roaring fire a deafening echo in his ears.
"Ah, Tom—"
His face must be indecently red, his lips swollen and spit-slicked, but Tom murmurs sweet things against his skin and suddenly it's easier to relax and let Tom have his way.
Next, Tom sits up to examine his handiwork: the flushed, panting state he's left his younger brother in. His dark eyes are brighter than usual, glittering and pleased by the embarrassing display of Harry spread out on the common room rug.
Harry watches, mesmerized, as Tom removes his shirt and tosses it aside. Then Tom settles back on top of him and starts to suck a mark into his neck.
Harry whimpers. "Tom," he repeats. "We're—" His sentence cuts off.
Harry had meant to say 'related', but truthfully, shamefully, he doesn't care about that. He only wants Tom to hold him and repeat that they'll never be parted.
"This is—" Harry tries again, because he feels he has to give Tom the opportunity to stop, to change his mind before it's too late, but Tom nips at his collarbone, a sharp reprimand that sends a jolt of heat crawling up Harry's spine, rendering him speechless.
"Don't worry," Tom murmurs. "Just give in to me. Let me take care of you." His voice sounds foreign, the familiar tenor warped into something much darker and deeper than before. His hand brushes over Harry's forehead, a tender gesture that tugs at Harry's heartstrings.
"Tom," Harry says desperately. His head spins, the room around them phasing in and out of focus. "Tom, I'm—" Yours. And maybe he always has been.
Tom grinds his hips down, presses the thick line of his erection against Harry's. Harry lets that delirious coil of pleasure build inside of him. He's already spiralling out of control, what's a little more?
"You are mine and mine alone," Tom whispers as he shoves Harry's legs even further apart with his knee. "No one else will ever touch you. No one else will have you but me." Then Tom reaches between them, and the firm drag of his hand on Harry's cock is so slow that Harry thinks he might pass out.
The noise of the fire has faded away. Harry's world has narrowed to the sound of Tom's uneven breaths and the blissful sensation of cool hands wandering over his heated skin.
When Tom nudges a fingertip against the cleft of his ass, Harry tenses, made anxious by the unfamiliar sensation. But Tom shushes him, a soothing noise that washes through Harry like a calming draught, and everything feels okay again.
"So good," Tom murmurs, his free hand petting gently at Harry's hip. "You're so good, Harry. I'm going to give you everything. Anything you want, anything at all."
Harry wants everything Tom is willing to give, he wants it all, but mostly he wants Tom, like this, on top of him, even—even inside of him, though he can scarcely imagine it.
"You," Harry pleads, "you, please, Tom—" There is so much reverence in the way Tom looks at him. Harry wants to stay here forever, pinned under his older brother, feeling loved.
Tom reaches for his wand and casts a spell. The sensation of sudden slick between Harry's thighs is so distracting that it takes him a moment to realize what the spell was for.
Harry squirms as Tom settles between his legs. They are about to—they're going to—
Tom's gaze is dark enough to swallow Harry whole as it flickers to the soulmark on Harry's wrist. "You're mine," Tom croons, so possessive that Harry shivers in response, head to toe, thoroughly unsettled by the strength of his brother's conviction. "My sweet Harry. My sweet little brother."
Harry quivers, trying to spread his thighs wider as Tom bears down against his hole. Tom feels massive; the substantial weight of him against Harry's flushed skin is intimidating. Harry can't think of what it will feel like once Tom is inside of him, filling him up.
"Ready?" Tom whispers, and the patience in his voice is so comforting and familiar that Harry nods mutely in response.
Tom eases in slowly. At first, the pressure is almost unbearable; the stretch burns at his rim, but not too much, not so much that Harry wants it to stop. In fact, the burn is good, the pain is good, it makes Harry feel better about letting it happen, about letting his brother fuck him in the middle of their common room where anyone—god, where anyone could walk in on them and see them, see Tom half naked and guiding his cock into Harry's willing, pliant body.
Harry whines, low and soft. It hurts to keep quiet and still, to hold his hands above his head like the good boy Tom had asked him to be.
"Shh," Tom whispers. "Relax, it's alright, it's only me, it's me—"
Harry whimpers again, but the sound is small, a noise meant just for Tom. Anything for Tom, as surely as Tom would do anything for him.
Tom slides in another inch, stretching Harry so wide it feels like he's breaking apart. Harry's back is damp with sweat that sticks him to the floor, but that changes when Tom rocks his hips, grinding down. Harry can't help the moan—filthy, dirty—that flies out of him. But the moan comes to an abrupt end when Tom clamps a hand over his lips, sealing the noise away.
The side of Tom's mouth lifts in a teasing half-smirk, but his shoulders tremble faintly with restrained exhilaration from his first shallow thrust into his brother's body.
It is with some degree of pride that Harry looks upon Tom's beautiful face and knows that the spots of colour that sit high on Tom's cheekbones are there because of him. The soft pants of pleasure that Tom makes are because Harry is making him feel good.
Tom ease out then thrusts back in, fucking slow and deep like he wants to map out every inch of Harry's body. Harry's breath comes and goes in erratic flutters, soft little gasps of air that fill the room. As Tom speeds up, his hand hooks on Harry's hip, his grip hard enough to leave bruises behind.
"Yes," Tom hisses, one hand splayed on Harry's chest, nails digging lightly into the delicate flesh, dragging Harry up and down on the rug with the force of each thrust. "You're so gorgeous like this. So perfect."
When Tom snaps his hips forward, every inch of him fits perfectly; Harry is stretched to his limits, desperate to make room for Tom, desperate to hold as much of his brother inside of him as possible.
"All mine," Tom purrs, nuzzling close. "My Harry, Harry, Harry."
Euphoria pulses with each lazy nudge of Tom's cock against his prostate, and Harry feels so full he can barely think. His heart pounds so wildly that it actually hurts to breathe. The thickness of Tom's cock buried in him, it's incredibly overwhelming, but all Harry wants is for Tom to go even deeper, to plug him up and stuff him full so they can be as close together as possible. As close as brothers could ever be.
It's mortifying, just how badly he loves this. Tom fucking him against the common room floor. How badly he wants it to happen again even though this first time isn't even over yet. He should be disgusted with himself, but as ecstasy burns a dangerous, reckless path throughout his body, irreversibly reshaping him from the inside out, he decides it doesn't matter. So long as Tom is willing to have him, Harry will give him everything.
"O-oh," Harry gasps when Tom shifts his legs higher, spreading them wide over Tom's broader shoulders. "More," he pleads, too far gone to care about his own degeneracy.
"Fuck," Tom spits through gritted teeth, his hold on Harry's hip loosening just enough for him to adjust their position, to bend Harry's legs even further back so he can fuck Harry even deeper, so deep that pleasure and pain writhe up Harry's spine like fiendfyre, viciously hungry and unrelenting.
Harry feels like he's dying, his cock flushed and leaking, trapped between them. He's so close, close enough that when Tom wraps a firm hand around his length and strokes once, twice, that's all it takes to make him let go.
Harry wails as he comes, an endless cycle of tensing and shuddering with each spurt that escapes his poor, twitching cock. He feels like he's falling through the floor, bliss melting through every atom of his body.
"Fuck, Harry," Tom groans, eyes pinched shut as Harry clamps down on his cock, "f-fuck, I'm—" The steady rhythm of his thrusts turns rough and sloppy, fucking Harry through the dizzying aftershocks of orgasm as he chases his own release.
Harry whines loudly, his body slumping against the rug while Tom uses him to get off. It's too much, he wants the feeling of it to stop, but he doesn't want Tom to stop. He wants Tom to take him harder and faster even after it stops feeling good, even as he starts to cry from the overstimulation, his limp cock twitching feebly with each wet, filthy sound of Tom's cock fucking into his hole.
It doesn't take too long before Tom comes, spilling deep with a soft, stuttering groan, leaving his spend deep inside.
Harry clenches down weakly, walls fluttering around the damp warmth. His hands, stretched high over his head, shake uncontrollably until Tom presses down on them, pinning them firmly in place. Harry barely notices when Tom pulls out and takes his tie back. He is drifting away, his mind blissfully, utterly blank as exhaustion washes over him.
"Sweet, sweet Harry," mumbles Tom, his body slick with sweat and semen as he rolls them over, leaving Harry curled weakly against his chest and shoulder. "Soulmate."
Harry blinks, unable to see much past the heavy fringe of his lashes. Distantly, he feels Tom pet his hair and kiss his cheek. Tom is holding him, so everything must be fine. Everything is okay.
But the terrible fever still has hold of Harry. He wants Tom to kiss him and touch him some more. He imagines himself wrapped up in more of Tom's silk ties while Tom fucks into him over and over and over, and he feels horribly guilty for wanting it.
"I'm sorry," Harry says sluggishly. His nose bumps against Tom's jaw, like his body can't help but seek Tom out despite his nauseating shame.
Tom expels a little huff of exasperation. "What do you have to be sorry about?" His hand slides down Harry's spine and settles on the small of his back.
"I'm not—I'm not—" Harry's tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, rendering him unable to form the words he wants. Not that his mind is cognizant enough to think of proper ones anyway. He doesn't know how to explain that Tom deserves better, a real soulmate who isn't his brother of all people.
What they're doing, it's wrong. He shouldn't want more of it.
"You're fine," Tom says, sounding far too pleased with himself to be taking Harry's concerns seriously.
Harry doesn't know what's gotten into Tom. Maybe the same strangeness has taken over them both, for them to wind up in this unthinkable situation.
"I love you," Harry mutters, shamefaced, into his brother's neck. It isn't the first time he's said such words to Tom—though as they'd grown older he'd certainly learned to say it less—but it's the first time he's meant them this way. In a way that extends far beyond simple brotherly affection.
Tom tucks an arm around his waist and kisses his temple. "I love you, too."
It is the simplicity of this response—quiet, immediate—that finally, finally, lets Harry relax. Tom loves him. Harry holds that thought close to his heart and tries to ignore the doubts that circle his mind like vultures. Tom loves him.
At some point, Tom eases them into a sitting position. He cleans them both off. He helps Harry put some clothes back on, then practically carries Harry to their dorm room and sits him gently on the bed. Tom changes them both into pyjamas, and Harry clings like a child the whole way through, sleepy and needy. He doesn't want to let go, but he understands that they can't share a bed anymore, not like they used to.
"I miss you," Harry slurs out, once Tom has deposited him on his bed for the night, the way he used to, back at Wool's, when Harry had scraped a knee or busted an ankle doing something reckless and stupid.
Tom's hand lingers on his forearm for a moment. "I'm right here," Tom says tiredly. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Harry's hand catches on Tom's wrist, holding him in place. Tom stares down at the soulmark there, brows furrowed. Then, slowly, Tom lowers himself onto the bed. He slides his legs next to Harry's and tugs Harry against his chest.
"Good night," Tom whispers, like he hadn't just shifted the axis of Harry's entire world by joining him under the covers. "Sweet dreams." His hand smooths over Harry's head, and that's how Harry falls asleep, with Tom's touch lulling him into dreams he won't recall in the morning.
In the morning, he wakes to find Tom fast asleep next to him, face half-pressed against the back of Harry's neck. His unconscious breaths are deep and heavy. Their legs are tangled together.
Harry shifts minutely, his curiosity getting the better of him. He feels sore all over, some spots more than others. But mostly, he feels… happy. And a little nervous for what will happen when Tom wakes up and leaves again.
While Harry watches and listens, Tom's deep breaths stutter and morph into wakeful snuffles. He noses against the nape of Harry's neck, warm fingers crawling under the hem of Harry's sleep shirt to rub at the soft skin of his stomach.
"Good morning," Tom rumbles. He lifts his head so he can drag his lips over Harry's cheek.
Harry's face heats as he responds with a quiet, "Good morning."
The hand under his shirt rubs a slow, comforting circle, then dips even lower, much to Harry's chagrin. "Tom," he protests. A few metres away, their dormmates are fast asleep.
Tom hums, shifting them over so he can pin Harry underneath him and nibble at Harry's earlobe.
"People can hear us," Harry says weakly, squirming. "They might see us."
"You'll have to be quiet, then," Tom whispers against the shell of his ear. His arms shift, one hand clamping down on Harry's mouth while the other wraps around his soft cock, which doesn't feel like it will stay soft for very long.
Firm, gentle strokes with the occasional hint of pressure applied just below the head send Harry twisting into the bedsheets, tears welling in his eyes as he bites down on his lip to keep his moans trapped inside. Harry barely feels awake enough to think, but Tom keeps jerking him off, humming in approval with each choked-off noise Harry makes.
When being quiet becomes too much for him to take, Tom simply laps at his tear tracks with an eagerness that leaves Harry breathless.
Then Tom grinds against him, and the weight of that—the knowledge that Tom is aroused by him—sends Harry hurtling towards the edge, his hips thrusting sloppily against Tom's hand as he falls apart, coming in thin spurts that splatter over both of them.
Harry whines against the fingers covering his mouth, feels his own drool smear over his face as Tom pulls back and wipes his hand off on the pillowcase.
"That's it, darling," Tom murmurs, shoving Harry's shoulder down so he can climb on top and stare down at his younger twin. Then he raises Harry's wrist to his lips and plants a kiss there, scraping his teeth along the sacred black lines of their shared mark.
Harry shivers. This time, it has nothing to do with sex. It's difficult to think of his soulmark that way—as theirs. But he wants it to be theirs. He wants to be Tom's.
Tom works his own cock free from his pants and steadily jerks himself off, hooded eyes fixed firmly on Harry's face. He comes with a quiet grunt, spilling over Harry's stomach and chest.
Harry holds still when Tom swipes a finger through the mess and touches the pad of his thumb to Harry's lips.
"Open up," Tom says softly.
Harry does. He lets Tom wet the fullness of his bottom lip before sliding over his tongue. The salty taste of their mixed semen greets him as Tom pushes his finger further in, right to the soft palate at the back of Harry's mouth. It triggers his gag reflex; Harry coughs and splutters around the intrusion, his eyes watering again.
Tom draws back. Harry sucks in a desperate breath while Tom's finger scoops another smear of come to his lips. This time, Harry licks the finger clean, his face flaming the entire time, shame twisting deep in his gut from the dark arousal in Tom's eyes.
"A little more," Tom says softly, encouragingly, and gradually the sticky dampness of semen on Harry's skin is replaced by the sticky dampness of his own spit. The evidence of their sin grows in the pit of Harry's stomach like poison ivy.
Once the deed is done, Tom smiles and leans in to kiss him. It's dirty and obscene, how Tom moans at the taste of himself in Harry's mouth. Then he presses Harry down onto the bed and starts to rut his half-hard cock against Harry's hip.
"We can't," Harry says hoarsely. "Tom, we can't—"
"I'll put up spells," Tom says immediately, sitting up and summoning his wand to his hand. "They won't hear us. They won't bother us."
"No," Harry says, panic curling in his chest. "No, wait—"
Tom lowers his wand, concern visible in his eyes as he presses one hand to the side of Harry's face. "What is it? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?"
"N-no." Even if Tom had, Harry wouldn't have cared. He would let Tom ruin him without hesitation.
"Then it will be fine," Tom croons. His fingers thread through Harry's curls. "Don't you want me to fuck you again? Make you feel good?"
Harry does. He doesn't know how to explain why that's bad. He can't possibly explain his certainty that someday, a third person with a matching soulmark will come and tear them away from each other.
Tom plants slow kisses along his arm, from the inner crease of his elbow all the way to his wrist. He nips at the delicate skin, then releases Harry's arm in favour of casting several protective spells around them.
"All done," Tom says with a grin. "You won't have to worry about anyone finding out just yet."
The implication of 'just yet' does not make Harry feel better, and Tom must read the poorly hidden anxiety in his expression because the teasing fades from his eyes.
"Do you still think I'll leave you?" Tom demands sharply. He seizes Harry's wrist and pins it back above his head, wrist and soulmark exposed. "Is this not good enough for you?"
Harry shakes his head frantically, biting down on his lip. "I'm sorry," he pleads, desperate for it to stop, to wind back the minutes to before he'd fucked it all up. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm sorry!"
"You're mine," Tom snarls, digging the tip of his wand into the sensitive flesh, the hot spark of his agitated magic prickling at Harry's skin. "And I'll prove it to you."
Harry's breath freezes in his throat at the sound of Tom's dreadful tone.
Tom blinks once, relenting, and slowly exhales his aggravation. "I'll prove it to you," he repeats in a calmer voice. Still, his dark eyes bore holes into Harry's head. "Do you trust me, Harry? Trust me to prove to you what you mean to me?"
There is no other answer to give. He trusts Tom with his life. With his soul.
"Yes," Harry whispers.
"Good boy," Tom says with a smile. The silk tie from the night before floats over to his outstretched hand. Tom folds it several times and stuffs it into Harry's mouth. "Stay good for me and hold still," he says softly. "I'll try to make this as quick as I can."
Harry bites down on the fabric, his heart quivering, and nods.
Then Tom mutters a spell under his breath—sharp Latin words light his wand with a sickening green glow that makes Harry's body seize in fear.
Then, the pain.
Harry screams as Tom's magic slams into his forearm with enough force to split bone. It is the deliberate incision of knives into his flesh over and over again, it is a thousand needles prying and peeling his skin from his body before stitching it all back together.
Harry thrashes and convulses, but Tom's concentration never falters, sweat beading heavily on his brow as his wand moves in minute motions over Harry's arm. While he works, he whispers reassurances to his sobbing, agonized twin.
It will be over soon, Harry.
You're doing so well. Just a little longer, I promise.
For me, please, just a little longer.
Eventually, the pain proves to be too much. Harry passes out. When he comes to, his entire body feels numb. His eyes are wet with tears and he can still taste the texture of Tom's tie in his mouth.
"Harry?" Tom's voice, intimate and comforting, sends a fresh wave of tranquillity through him. "Can you open your eyes for me?"
Harry opens his eyes and licks at his dry lips. Tom is sitting behind him, firm chest pressed to Harry's back, holding him up.
"My brave, sweet darling," Tom purrs contentedly against his ear. "Look at you. Look at who you belong to."
Harry's arm no longer hurts. He looks down at it, at where his soulmark is. Where it used to be.
The black infinity symbol is gone. Something else has taken its place.
It takes a moment for Harry to recognize the new shape, to realize what Tom has done.
Tom has drawn a new mark on Harry's skin. A ghastly skull with an enormous snake pouring out of its mouth. The snake's great coils have replaced the symmetrical curves of the lemniscate, leaving no hint of the original shape behind.
It is a new mark. Tom's mark.
Harry touches the new ink with the very tip of his finger. He flinches, expecting pain, but there is none. Instead, the mark tingles like it's saying hello. It feels like Tom's magic is greeting him. The idea of Tom's magic etched into his skin forever, it makes Harry's chest tremble.
"My mark," Tom says fiercely. "My mark on your skin and no one else's." He drags his lips against Harry's neck, then slides his hands around to Harry's front, palms hot against Harry's stomach. "All mine."
Harry whimpers as Tom rocks his hips against his arse, and that's when he notices the lack of clothing between them. "Yours," he says dutifully.
Tom scrapes sharp teeth along Harry's shoulder as he spreads Harry's thighs open with his hands. When he speaks again, his breath is hot on Harry's skin. "Tell me who you belong to, Harry. Tell me."
"You," Harry says immediately, then whines as Tom pinches gently at one of his nipples, "yours, Tom, always, please—"
"Good boy," Tom praises, and that's all the warning that Harry gets before Tom bites down hard enough to draw blood. Harry shudders and moans helplessly in response. It's another mark on his body, another mark of Tom's, another proof of Tom's claim on him.
"I'm going to fuck you again," Tom says breathlessly, grinding his cock against Harry's bare arse. "Going to sit you on my cock and fuck you until you come. Going to cover you all up with my marks."
Harry's mind fills with visions of his skin littered with marks, with deep purple bruises on his hips and the red trail of Tom's mouth on his neck and chest. He wants it more than anything.
"Yes, please," Harry gasps.
"Yes?" Tom croons. He threads a hand through his hair and tugs his head back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. Heat floods into Harry's body, pooling in his groin.
"Please," Harry begs, "please, Tom, please bite me again—"
But Tom only nibbles at the soft skin of his neck. Warm desire washes over Harry anyway, a shiver of pleasure that travels all the way to the new soulmark on his wrist.
"Brother mine," Tom murmurs, his hand curling loosely around Harry's wrist, thumb digging into the pulse point.
Harry trembles instead of answering. All he can think of is Tom.
"Up you get," Tom says, giving his bottom a pat.
Shakily, Harry lifts himself up. Tom guides him into place with a gentle hand until the slick tip of Tom's cock presses against his hole and starts to shove in.
At this angle, Tom feels much larger, much thicker than before. Harry groans before the head is even all the way inside, and relishes in the sensation of his body stretching wide to make room for Tom's girth.
When Harry at last stills, Tom's length fully buried, Tom's hands slide to his hips and shove him down even further. Harry can't help but cry out, body shaking as Tom pets his thighs and kisses his tear-damp cheeks.
"T-too much," Harry whimpers.
But Tom doesn't let up; he leans back just enough for leverage and rolls their bodies together in long, smooth motions that make Harry's sore muscles burn with pain and pleasure.
Harry's whines increase in volume as Tom begins to fuck into him in earnest, the slick sound of their bodies meeting an ever-present reminder of their depravity.
"Tell me you love me," Tom demands, grinding his cock slow and deep so that Harry feels every bit of his brother pushing into him, filling him up.
"I l-love you," Harry gasps, as a particularly rough thrust sends his head lolling back against Tom's chest. "Love you so m-much, Tom."
Tom laughs, wild and breathless. His mouth comes to rest at Harry's shoulder, biting down there with such excruciating slowness that Harry starts to thrash, nearly mindless with pleasure. Tom leaves his mark there, eventually, then moves onto a new spot, then another, then another. His cock remains still and heavy in Harry's arse as he bites and licks and sucks his way across Harry's neck and shoulders, red and purple trailing in his wake.
"There we go," Tom purrs some moments later, his fingers now teasing lightly at the underside of Harry's cock. "There you go, darling. Time to let go now."
Harry is an incoherent, sobbing mess as Tom strokes his aching cock.
Then Tom says, "Come for me, Harry," and Harry orgasms for the second time that morning, his come splattering onto their stomachs.
Even after coming, Harry is shaking so hard that the vibrations make Tom groan and buck his hips into Harry's tight heat. Then Tom rolls them over, shoving Harry down into the mattress.
Harry has to turn his face to the side to be able to breathe. Tom's hand is firm on the nape of his neck as Tom pushes back into him, forcing him open. Harry moans wetly, his hands fisted in the sheets as Tom bottoms out in his arse.
"So good," Tom slurs, snapping his hips forward. "You were born to take me, Harry, born to be with me, to be mine—"
This time, instead of coming inside, Tom pulls out and flips Harry back over, painting Harry's skin with stripes of his come. He's breathing hard as his hungry gaze roves over Harry's defiled body. Harry shivers, glassy-eyed, savouring the attention.
"I'm never letting you go," Tom murmurs, his voice rougher and deeper than normal. "I'm going to be the greatest wizard there ever was and you'll be with me for all of it."
Then Tom leans down to kiss him. Harry does his best to respond in kind; the kiss is long and messy and leaves him panting afterward. When Tom pulls away, Harry goes to follow, sitting up even though his arms feel too jelly-like to hold him up properly.
"We'd better get up now," Tom says, almost as an afterthought. He drags his finger through the mess on Harry's stomach, smearing it over his navel. "We can use the Prefect's bath to clean off."
Harry has never been there before, but he knows those baths are supposed to be nicer. "Okay."
"Good." Tom smiles, boyish and charming, dimple popping up on one side. Harry's heart clenches wonderfully at the sight. Boldly, he sways forward to kiss Tom's cheek, his face flushing brilliantly all the while.
Tom hums in faint approval and squeezes Harry's hand. Then he glances down at Harry's wrist, at the skull and snake. "Are you still worried that someone will separate us?"
"No," Harry says quickly. He doesn't want to think that anymore, but it's hard not to since he's so used to it. "I have your mark. I know." Looking at Tom's mark on his wrist makes him feel a lot better.
Tom scrutinizes him for a long moment. Then he nods and smiles again. "Good," he repeats. "Because I don't care if someone else comes along. You are mine and no one else's, alright?"
Harry nods, not trusting his voice. He will swallow down his fears. He can do that for Tom.
"If someone does show up," Tom adds thoughtfully, "then I'll take care of it."
"Take care of it?"
"Don't worry," Tom reassures him. He pulls Harry into his arms and kisses the top of his head. "I told you, no one will separate us."
Something about Tom's tone worries him still, but Harry has already promised to himself that he will ignore his silly, stupid fears. So he ignores the fear. He shoves it down and locks it away. He lets Tom clean him off with magic and take him to the Prefect's bath.
So long as he has Tom, so long as they're together, everything will be okay.
.
END.
A/N:
check out my tumblr duplicitywrites for links to my discord writing server and the Room of Requirement, a community tomarrymort discord server~