Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Stutter ❯ Stutter ( One-Shot )

He is calling, crying, pulling her to him.

She lies awake in her bedroom, eyes on the full moon outside her window, and she feels as though there is a furnace inside her body. She has a fever, she thinks, because her curls are sticking to her face damply, and she imagines that she can see the heat rising in sultry waves from her sticky skin.

She hears him howl, feels the house shake, and it has never felt like this before, on these nights, but she is awake, aware of him, aware of his power and his heat.

Without thinking, she untangles her legs from the blankets and her feet touch the floor. The carpet feels cool beneath her burning toes, and her skin tingles, tiny hairs trying to rise under the weight of sticky sweat all over her body.

She wonders why she can feel him; he bit her -- and here, she touches her throat, feels the flutter of her pulse, feels the bruise left by his hungry mouth -- but he was yet human, in body if not mind. She remembers the weight of his arm over her thrashing legs, the hot slickness of his tongue as it slipped between her lips, drinking in her breath and her saliva as if she alone could quench his thirst.

She doesn't realize where she is going until she is there, standing outside the door of his prison, listening to his howls, his suffering. They have him manacled, the door and walls and barred window warded to keep him from escaping, and to keep her from reaching him now. His yelps sound like words, like pleas for her to come to him, to let him sup and sip from her as he would like, and she is entranced.

She leans against the door, ear pressed tight to it to hear his every huff, his every whimper, but she does not see him as such. She thinks of him as he was when he touched her, honey brown eyes flashing amber, a promising darkness flickering in the depths. His lip curled in a snarl when he dragged her to him, and even the chains about his wrists were hot from his body, scorching though they didn't leave a mark.

She is sweating more now, as much as he was when he touched her, and her thin nightgown clings to her body, to her breasts and nipples and belly and thighs, and she heaves out a breath against the door, lips parted and wet. He makes snuffling sounds now, as if exploring, as if he knows someone is there, but does not yet know that she has come back to him. She remembers the callouses of his hand on her lips, and she presses her own there, but it is too smooth, too small.

Her other hand slides down the wooden paneling of the door, her pinky catching a splinter, and the pain shivers up her hand, her wrist, her arm, through her body. There is a low growling behind the door, something very near a large cat's purr, and it sounds closer, so close. She lets her hand slide from the door to her thigh, where it pushes her nightgown up and slides between her legs, and there, her fingers and palm find damp heat soaking through the white cotton.

As her hand slips under the waistband of her panties, one finger tracing her slit the way his did, she lets out a ragged breath against her palm. All sounds behind the door stop when her finger slides inside, but as she sinks to her knees, head resting still against the door, she hears snuffling again, then a whine that she interprets as need.

Her palm rests hard against her wet curls while her fingers dip inside, a little deeper with each slow thrust. Her breaths come hard and damp against her other hand, fingers digging into her own cheek and small, white teeth sinking into the fleshy heel of her hand.

There is a sharp sound, a clatter like hammer to anvil and she presses her thumb hard over the hood shielding that little bundle of nerves. Her head lolls against the door and she pushes her thumb in a slow circle, the pleading whines growing louder with the pulse in her ears.

She can smell him, the way he smelled when he touched her, and she responds to his whimpering with a quiet moan. She is getting closer, closer, and she is brutally aware of everything: of the bruise on her neck and the pain of her pulse against it; of her fingers pumping inside her, her thumb easing the hood back and brushing directly over her clit; of the way her curls stick to her face and neck and ears; of the sounds he is making, needy and possessive and hungry.

Then her thighs are trembling and she feels a splash of heat and wet over her hand, then again, longer, her whole body wrapped in satisfying heat, and she is whimpering against her hand, hips stuttering a little. She feels boneless, melted, and she lets her hand slide free, damp with her fluids.

It feels as though she has the barest moment to lean there when there is a thud and the door shudders on its hinges. Her heart pounds rapidly, and she is toppled forward by the power of one of the wards surging against him. She scrambles to her feet, jerking her underwear back into place and, in a daze, pulse stuttering in her ears, she stumbles away, legs still shaking, weak from her orgasm, from her arousal and her fear.

He is coming for her, she knows, but now, now she is afraid, now she knows that he is not what she saw last, and he will rip her apart. There is another loud thud, another surge of magic pushing him back, and she knows she is safe from him, but her body aches with fear.

She doesn't stop her teetering run until she reaches her bed, and then she jerks the covers over her and closes her eyes, pretending she has been asleep all this time in case someone comes in. Her heart sounds in her ears and her skin hums with her recent release and she knows, she knows she will return.