The morning arrived in a slow, golden haze, seeping into the room like it had been invited to linger. It crept through the sheer emerald curtains that shifted with the rhythm of the cool breeze drifting in from the half-open window. Outside, the world was still quiet, suspended in that fragile pause between night and day. The trees whispered faintly in the distance. The hum of life beyond the walls was soft and far away. The embers in the fireplace across the room glowed with the last traces of their fire, pulsing like a heartbeat in the dim light.
None of it mattered. Not the green sweep of the forest beyond the glass. Not the song of the wind through the leaves. Not the warmth of the room itself. The only thing that mattered was the weight on his chest, the woman curled into him as if she had always been meant to rest there. Her breath was warm against his skin, each exhale steady and unhurried, each inhale a quiet claim on the space between them.
He had wished for this. Had wanted it so badly that at times it had felt like wanting alone would destroy him. For months, he had carried the thought of her with him into every empty bed, had imagined this in the kind of vivid detail that felt like punishment. He had almost convinced himself it would never happen, that it belonged to another lifetime entirely, some unreachable dream that would dissolve the moment he reached for it.
But she was here. Real. Warm. Tangled against him with no intention of letting go. Her hair spilled across his bare chest, a pale, silvery mess that he wanted to thread his fingers through just to watch the strands catch the morning light. Her hand rested over his heart, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his sleep shirt as if she needed to hold on even in dreams, as if some part of her still feared he might vanish.
He lay still, hardly breathing, afraid that any shift might wake her and send her retreating into the distance again. Yet the need to touch her was too strong, an ache that lived in his hands, in his chest, in the quiet places of his mind where she had always belonged. Slowly, carefully, with the kind of patience that felt almost reverent, he lifted his hand to her back. His fingertips traced the delicate line of her spine, lingering in the dip between each vertebra, mapping her as though he had all the time in the world to memorize her.
Beneath the oversized shirt she had stolen from him last night, her skin was warm and impossibly soft. She shivered faintly, a small, unthinking movement that sent something sharp and possessive curling low in his stomach. Her nose brushed against the hollow of his throat as she shifted, her lips parting just enough to sigh against his skin. She tucked herself closer, deeper into him, as if even in sleep she knew exactly where she belonged.
A sharp ache took hold in his chest, something unbearably tender, something so deep it felt almost dangerous. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, letting his lips rest there as he breathed her in, letting himself drown in the scent of her. It was warm and soft, the faint sweetness of honey threaded through with the clean, fleeting trace of wildflowers, and underneath it all, something he could never quite name, something that had always belonged only to her. It was intoxicating, the kind of scent that reached into him and took root, the kind that made him want to close his eyes and forget there was a world beyond this bed.
And then it hit him, sudden and violent, so sharp it almost stole his breath.
She was it.
She had always been it.
The one thing he had never been able to put into words, the one thing that had haunted him since the first time it reached him in the steam and heat of Slughorn's dungeon years ago. His amortentia. He had caught it then, only once, a note of something elusive and impossible, and it had lingered in the back of his mind ever since, like a whisper he could never quite catch. He had convinced himself it was nothing, some foolish dream or trick of his imagination, a longing for something that didn't exist. But here she was, tangled against him in the quiet of his own bed, and now he knew.
It had been her.
It had only ever been her.
A slow breath shuddered through him, his fingers curling tighter in the soft cotton of her shirt, his other hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head as if the truth might slip away if he didn't hold it firmly enough.
Luna Lovegood was the missing piece he hadn't even known how to look for, the quiet hum beneath the noise, the only person who had ever given him everything without asking for anything in return. She was the only thing in his life that felt untouched by the ruin he carried, and gods, he didn't know how he had survived before this. Before knowing what it was to wake up with her weight against him. Before hearing the soft, unguarded sounds she made in her sleep. Before watching the light of early morning bend itself to her skin like it had been made to touch her. Before knowing she was his to keep, to guard, to love.
The word struck him like a jolt, raw and unshakable.
Love.
Hadn't it always been there? In the way she had seen him when no one else could. In the way she had challenged him, pushed him, refused to let him hide in his own walls. In the way she had left him to suffer because she would take nothing less than all of him. In the way she had still come back.
He breathed her in again, pressing another kiss to her temple, letting his lips linger as if he could anchor himself there forever.
He loved her. Hopelessly. Completely. In a way that felt like it had been written into his bones long before either of them had the sense to notice.
And there was no coming back from that.
The moment she shifted against him, a soft, sleepy sigh slipping past her lips, his arms tightened around her on instinct, his body answering before his mind caught up. He wasn't ready to let her go. He would never be ready to let her go. Not now. Not ever. She was here, warm and real, the weight of her pressed into him, and he knew with a certainty that settled into his bones that there was nothing in this world or the next that could make him release her again.
She belonged here. With him.
His breathing stayed slow and steady, but his heart was reckless, pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to carve space for her inside his chest. She fit there like she had always been meant to, her body molded to his, the rise and fall of her breathing syncing with his own until the rest of the world ceased to matter.
When her eyes opened, heavy with sleep, he felt the pull of them immediately. That soft, unfocused silver-blue gaze was still dangerous, still undoing him in ways he would never be able to explain. He had missed this more than he would ever admit aloud—waking up to her face bathed in morning light, seeing that quiet awareness in her expression, like she still found something worth holding onto in him.
Without a word, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his chest, right over his racing heart. The kiss was slow, almost absentminded, yet it went through him like a lightning strike, easing and destroying him at the same time. His breath left him in one long exhale, his fingers tracing the barest of shapes along her spine, keeping her close.
She stayed there. Didn't move, didn't shift away, didn't put space between them. Just rested, the warmth of her breath sinking into his skin, her body loose and trusting against his own.
He lowered his mouth to her hair, pressing a kiss into the soft strands and drawing in the scent of her like he could store it somewhere inside himself. Then another kiss, lower, along her cheek, gentle and lingering, followed by one against the line of her jaw, each touch unhurried, as if he could keep her here simply by refusing to let go.
"Good morning," she murmured, her voice still wrapped in sleep, carrying the softened edges of a woman who had been held all night and hadn't needed a single word to know she was wanted.
His thumb swept across her cheek as he looked at her, committing every detail to memory. "Good morning, love," he said, his voice rougher than he intended, his words steady in a way his pulse wasn't. "Did you sleep well?"
Her smile was slow and unguarded as she nestled closer, her fingertips tracing aimless patterns across his chest. "Very well," she said, kissing his collarbone with deliberate softness. "Thank you."
He closed his eyes briefly, his hand flexing at her waist, his chest tightening with something warm enough to hurt. For too many nights, he had been left with only the echo of her—an empty bed, a silence that gnawed at him. Now she was here. And nothing else could touch him.
He could feel her breath against his lips, warm and steady, could see the flicker of something unreadable in her gaze, could feel the way her pulse quickened beneath his fingertips.
And then, finally kissed her.
Slow, soft, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world, like they weren't still healing, like they hadn't spent months trying to pretend they didn't need each other.
Her lips parted beneath his, her body melting into him, her hands slipping up, curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him as if she was afraid he might disappear. But he wasn't going anywhere.
He deepened the kiss just slightly, just enough to make her sigh into his mouth, just enough to pull her all the way under, just enough to remind her exactly who she belonged to. His hand slid into her hair, threading through the silken strands, holding her to him, savoring the way she responded, the way she gave in, the way she let herself be his without fear, without hesitation, without the walls she had kept between them for so long.
And wasn't that exactly what he had been waiting for?
Not just the press of her mouth against his, not just the taste of her—sweet and intoxicating in a way that had always undone him—not just the way she softened and yielded in his arms with a kind of surrender that had nothing to do with defeat and everything to do with trust. No, it was this. This quiet, unspoken understanding that the fight between them had ended without either of them really deciding it. That whatever this was had already claimed them both, had already wound itself into every part of their being so tightly that no force on earth could pull them apart.
But still, something in him needed to hear it. He needed to strip away the last shadow of uncertainty, needed to take the truth from her lips and hold it like something sacred.
Without a word, without the smallest flicker of doubt, he lifted his hand to her face. His palm was warm against her skin, his touch deliberate, careful, almost reverent in a way that made her breath catch and her body go still. He tilted her chin, closing the last inch between them until her lips hovered just beneath his, until her eyes were all he could see.
His voice came rough, unsteady, low with something raw and aching, something that had been clawing at his ribs since the moment she stepped back into his life.
"Is that true?" His breath brushed her mouth as his fingers tightened against the nape of her neck, his gaze fixed on hers with a kind of desperation he could not hide. "That you actually love me?"
He had not meant for it to sound so vulnerable. He had not meant to let the need bleed through every word, to let her see the way the question had been burning in him for so long. But he needed it. Needed her to speak it aloud, needed her to make it real, needed something he could hold on to that would silence the part of him still afraid she might leave again.
Luna did not answer at once.
cess. His body moved before his mind caught up. His hands slid over her thighs, slow and sure, tracing circles over warm skin, his touch shifting until both palms curved firmly around her. He gripped, kneaded, pulled her forward against him as if he could mold her into him, as if keeping her close enough would make the thought of her ever leaving impossible.
How could someone like her even exist? How could she be this soft, this perfect, this utterly real in his hands?
She was warm and solid and here, kissing him like she had never wanted to be anywhere else.
"I…" she began, the sound uncertain, her tone carrying a weight she seemed reluctant to lift. "All I wanted yesterday was an orgasm."
Draco's mouth curved in a slow, knowing smirk. Amusement flickered across his face, but underneath it there was something darker, something sharp and possessive that made his grip on her tighten. The thought of anyone else being the one to give her that—he wouldn't tolerate it. Not in this lifetime.
"I am very well aware, little love," he murmured, his voice dipping low, smooth and infuriatingly calm. He leaned in just enough for his lips to brush the corner of her mouth, letting the contact linger in a way that was both taunting and tender. "It's all right that we wanted the same thing."
Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like she needed something to anchor her, as if he was the only thing keeping her steady.
But Luna Lovegood had never been one to turn away from the things she wanted.
So instead of retreating, instead of pretending otherwise, she moved closer.
With slow, deliberate intent, she shifted in his lap, letting her weight settle fully against him. Her thighs bracketed his hips, her knees pressed to either side of him, her body leaning in until every inch of her was within reach.
His breath faltered.
His hands fell instinctively to her waist, fingers digging into her hips, thumbs pressing into the delicate curve of her ribs as if he needed to remind himself she was real. That she was here. That she was choosing this. Choosing him.
Without breaking his gaze, without giving him the chance to think or speak, she leaned forward and kissed him.
It was slow at first. Gentle. Almost shy in the way her lips moved against his, as if she was testing the weight of the choice she had just made.
A stark contrast to the way she had challenged him, to the way she had pushed and tested and fought him with everything in her. This was something else. Something gentler. Something unbearably, devastatingly sweet.
But then he moved.
Tilted his head, parted his lips, deepened the kiss with slow, careful precision, dragging her under, pulling her further, luring her into something darker, something hungrier, something that neither of them would be able to escape from once it fully consumed them.
Her fingers slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands, tugging slightly, making his breath stutter, making his control slip just a little more, making something low and wrecked escape from the back of his throat.
"Fuck, love," he breathed against her lips, his voice barely more than a growl. "You're trying to kill me."
She smiled against his mouth, slow and knowing, her breath warm, her body pliant, her weight pressed so perfectly against him that he was starting to wonder if he would ever be able to let her move away again.
"Not trying," she murmured, tilting her head slightly, brushing her nose against his, teasing, daring, letting the words settle between them like a challenge, like an undeniable truth, like something she had known from the very beginning. "Just succeeding."
And fuck, wasn't she?
She was driving him insane, unraveling him piece by piece with nothing but her presence, with nothing but the way she looked at him, touched him, breathed against his skin like she belonged there, like she had always belonged there, like she was made to fit against him in ways he had never known were possible.
Then, just as effortlessly as she had ruined him with a single breath, she reached for the hem of her oversized shirt—the one that belonged to him, the one she had stolen, the one that had clung to her body in the most unfair, most tempting way imaginable—and lifted it over her head, pulling it off in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor with no hesitation, no shame, no second thoughts.
And there she was.
Her gorgeous, perfect, unreal tits—bare, full, soft, teasingly within reach, practically begging for his hands, for his mouth, for his devotion.
Draco's breath stuttered, his vision narrowing, his restraint snapping all at once.
"Fuck," he rasped, his voice rough, wrecked, unsteady as he stared, as he drank her in, as he committed every fucking detail to memory because how the hell was this real?
He didn't hesitate, didn't waste a single second before his hands shot out, fingers wrapping around the soft weight of her breasts, kneading, testing, squeezing just to see how she would react, just to feel the warmth of her against his palms, just to own her body the way he had always dreamed of.
She let out the prettiest little gasp, her back arching instinctively, pressing further into his touch, her nipples pebbling against his skin, her thighs tightening around his waist, and fuck—that—that was going to end him.
He leaned forward, his mouth finding her without thought, without restraint, wrapping his lips around one hardened peak, sucking deep, groaning when she gasped, when her fingers twisted into his hair, when she rolled her hips against his cock like she was losing herself just as much as he was.
"Bloody hell," he mumbled against her skin, his voice muffled, desperate, barely coherent. His free hand slid up, rolling her other nipple between his fingers, teasing, pinching, watching her body react to him in real-time, watching her writhe, listening to the way she moaned his name like he was the only man in existence, like no one else had ever touched her before, like no one else ever would.
He needed more.
He needed all of her.
He let his mouth move lower, kissing down the delicate curve of her ribs, dragging his teeth over the softness of her stomach, worshipping, owning, memorizing, leaving his mark in places no one else would ever be allowed to touch.
But then , she moved.
She slid down his body with slow, deliberate purpose, her fingers trailing over his skin, her eyes dark, determined, full of something wicked, something dangerous, something that made his cock throb so hard it hurt.
She reached for his waistband.
Draco barely had time to react before she was gripping the fabric of his boxers, pulling at them, tugging, and his body went rigid, his stomach tensing, his hands flying to hers in a pathetic attempt to stop her before she could go any further.
"Love…" he rasped, his breath shallow, uneven, completely wrecked. "You don't have to—"
She didn't listen.
Because why the fuck would she?
Because she never listened.
Because she had already made up her mind.
Because Luna Lovegood had never been the kind of woman to be told what to do.
And so, with zero hesitation, with zero mercy, with zero concern for whether or not he could actually handle it—she yanked his boxers down, pulled them over his hips, down his thighs, down his legs, and tossed them aside like they meant nothing.
And then—silence.
Total, absolute, deafening silence.
Draco swore he felt the entire world stop spinning.
Luna just stared.
Her wide, luminous eyes flickered downward, landing directly on his cock, and—oh.
Oh, fuck.
She was not prepared for a huge surprise.
Because what Draco had was just exactly that—huge.
The biggest fucking cock she had ever seen in her life.
And for the first time since this had started, for the first time ever, Luna was at a complete loss for words.
Draco, for his part, knew what she was looking at, knew why she was staring, knew exactly what was going through her mind becaus he had seen this reaction before, had heard women gasp in disbelief, had felt them hesitate before trying to take him, before trying to fit him inside them, before realizing that it was going to be a very long night.
But this? This was different.
Because this wasn't just anyone.
This was her.
And fuck, if the idea of ruining her with it didn't send a full-body shudder down his spine, if the thought of stretching her open, of making her cry for him, of making her feel just how fucking much he wanted her didn't nearly kill him on the spot.
But before he could say anything, before he could break the silence, before he could tease her for staring at his cock like she had just discovered an actual magical creature—she moved.
Luna fucking Lovegood, with the kind of reckless, unshaken confidence that had always made him lose his mind, reached out, wrapped her delicate little fingers around the base of his cock, and squeezed.
Draco choked.
His entire body jerked.
"Fuck," he groaned, his voice wrecked, his breath shaking as her fingers slid upward, testing, exploring, her grip firm, her touch teasing, her gaze curious.
And then—because she was a menace, because she was Luna, because she always had to push him to the fucking brink—she lifted her gaze back to his, met his stare with something dark, something sinful, something that fucking destroyed him.
"Well," she murmured, her voice full of lazy amusement, her fingers curling around his cock with a grip that was at once casual and completely lethal, her thumb tracing a slow, teasing circle over the tip, as if she was contemplating some great, philosophical truth. Then she tilted her head, looking up at him with those infuriatingly knowing eyes, her lips curling into something devastating, something dangerous, something that made his stomach twist in anticipation. "That explains the ego."
Draco barely had time to react, barely had time to even process the words before she moved, before she acted, before she once again proved that she was not a woman who could ever be controlled, who could ever be told what to do, who could ever be anything but the goddamn queen of pushing him to the edge.
She dropped down, lowering herself between his legs, her hands splaying across his thighs, pressing, squeezing, nails dragging over his skin in a way that sent a sharp jolt of heat through his entire fucking body. And then, without hesitation, without mercy, without a single ounce of the patience he was barely clinging to—she licked him.
From the very base of his cock to the tip, slow, languid, teasing, her tongue dragging against the thick vein running up the underside, her breath warm, her lips barely brushing his skin, her entire body shifting forward, pressing closer, making it clear that she had no plans of stopping, no plans of hesitating, no plans of letting him have a single fucking second to prepare for what she was about to do.
Draco snapped.
His fingers flew to her hair, tangling into the strands, gripping, holding, desperate, because fuck, he wasn't ready, he wasn't prepared, he wasn't strong enough for this, for her, for what she was about to do to him.
But Luna?
Luna didn't care. She had already decided.
Luna Lovegood, his ruin, his salvation, his fucking everything, opened her mouth—and sucked.
His hips jerked completely involuntarily, his body acting on pure instinct, pure desperation, pure need, pushing him forward, deeper, more, and she—fuck, she let him. She took it. She welcomed it.
And then—because of course she would—she took advantage of it.
She moaned softly around his cock, the vibrations making him see stars, her tongue swirling around the tip, teasing the sensitive ridge, savoring him, devouring him, her lips wrapping around him in a way that should be fucking illegal.
Draco growled, the sound ripping from his chest, his hand tightening in her hair, trying to keep control, to hold back, to let her set the pace, to not shove himself as deep as he wanted to, to not lose himself completely in the warmth, in the wetness, in the goddamn perfection of her mouth.
She started sucking in earnest.
Slow, deep, determined, her lips stretching around him, her tongue flicking against the underside, tracing every inch of him, learning him, owning him, ruining him in ways he had never been ruined before.
She was so good.
So fucking good.
Better than he had ever imagined, better than anything he had ever dreamed of, better than any fantasy he had ever let himself indulge in late at night when he had been alone, when he had been touching himself and aching for her, when he had been so fucking desperate to know what this would feel like, what she would feel like.
And now he knew.
Now he was living it.
Now he was never going to recover from it.
His breathing was ragged, his body tense, his muscles locked with the effort of not losing himself entirely, of not letting go too soon, of not coming the fuck apart just from the feel of her mouth on him, from the sight of her between his legs, from the way her lashes fluttered, from the way her eyes stayed locked on his as she swallowed him deeper, deeper, deeper.
"Fuck, Luna," he groaned, his voice breaking, his fingers flexing against her scalp, trying not to push, trying not to fuck her throat the way he wanted to, the way he ached to, the way his entire fucking soul was begging him to.
She hummed in response, the sound vibrating against his skin, sending a shockwave of sensation straight through his cock, making his thighs tense, making his stomach clench, making his vision go white for a second.
She took him so deep.
So deep that he could feel the resistance at the back of her throat, so deep that she was struggling, so deep that her nails were digging into his thighs hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave marks.
And still—she didn't stop.
Still—she kept going.
She took more.
She let herself choke on him, let herself gag, let herself suffer just to make him feel good, just to make him lose his mind, just to make him come completely fucking undone beneath her.
His hand shook in her hair, his entire body shaking, his restraint shattering, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He needed to stop her.
He had to stop her.
If she didn't stop right now, if she didn't pull away, if she didn't give him a second to fucking breathe, he was going to—
"Fucking hell, Luna," he growled, his voice raw, his eyes squeezing shut, his stomach clenching as he barely managed to yank her off him, pulling her mouth away with a sharp, desperate tug.
She gasped, panting, her lips swollen, slick, perfect, a thin string of spit connecting her mouth to the tip of his cock.
Draco swore he almost came just looking at her.
The sight of her was enough to unravel him completely, enough to shatter every ounce of control he had ever had, enough to make him a desperate, wrecked, ruined man.
And then, she blinked up at him, her expression dazed, her pupils blown wide with desire, her tongue flicking out to lick her bottom lip, and—fuck.
He lost it.
Completely, utterly, entirely lost it.
A growl ripped from his throat, low, guttural, possessive, and before she could react, before she could even breathe, he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her—hauled her up, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, his hands gripping her soft thighs, guiding her up, higher, higher, until she was hovering over his face, her knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his head, her thighs trembling as she realized exactly what he was about to do.
"Draco—"
She barely got the word out before he dragged her down, forced her to sit, pressed her cunt against his mouth like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She let out a sharp, broken cry, her hands flying to his hair, her nails digging into his scalp, desperate, as his tongue slipped between her folds and fucking ruined her.
And fuck, she tasted like heaven.
Like the best thing he had ever put in his mouth.
Like something he had been starving for.
He didn't even think about it, he devoured her, licked her like he had been dying for this, sucked on her clit with just the right amount of pressure, groaned as her slick coated his tongue, as her thighs clenched around his head, as her body shook from the force of what he was doing to her.
"Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—" She screamed, her head falling back, her entire body tensing, her thighs squeezing around his face as if she was trying to escape—as if she could ever get away from him now.
"Stay still," he growled against her, his voice muffled, his breath hot against her soaked cunt, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her in place, forcing her to take it, making her stay exactly where he wanted her.
She whimpered, the sound utterly fucking devastating, her fingers pulling at his hair, her hips grinding against his mouth as if she couldn't help it, as if she needed this more than anything, as if she was already too far gone to stop herself.
He licked deeper, harder, slower, tracing the shape of her, learning her, memorizing every sound she made, every little gasp, every sharp inhale, every broken moan.
He wanted more.
He needed more.
So he shifted slightly, tightened his grip on her thighs, dragged her closer, buried himself deeper, his tongue pressing inside her, fucking into her, his nose brushing against her clit as he worked her over with relentless, merciless precision.
"Draco—oh, gods, Draco—" Her voice shattered, her body trembling, her thighs shaking, her hands fisting in his hair as she lost herself to him.
And fuck, he was enjoying this too much.
She was so responsive, so perfect, so utterly his, even if she hadn't admitted it yet, even if she still fought him, even if she still pretended this wasn't what she had wanted from the very beginning.
He could feel it—feel how wrecked she was, feel how close she was, feel how fucking wet she was, dripping down his chin, coating his tongue, her entire body fucking vibrating as he took her apart piece by piece.
He didn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
Not until she broke.
Not until she begged.
Not until she screamed for him.
It didn't take long.
She was already so wound up, already so fucking gone, already shaking, already whimpering, already pleading—
"Please," she gasped, voice high and desperate, her hips rolling against his mouth, her nails digging into his scalp, her entire body aching for it, chasing it, demanding it. "Oh gods, please make me come—please, Draco—"
That was all he needed.
That was what he had been waiting for.
He sucked her clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue, pressing just right, his fingers digging into her thighs as he held her down, forced her to take it, made her give in.
And then—she shattered.
She let out a broken, wrecked scream, her entire body locking up, her thighs clenching tight around his head, her breath catching in her throat as wave after wave of pleasure tore through her, as she fell apart against him, as she gave up, as she gave in.
Draco groaned against her, drank it down, savored it, kept his mouth on her, kept his tongue moving, relentless, merciless, desperate to wring every last drop of pleasure from her.
And fuck, he had never seen anything so beautiful.
Never heard anything so fucking perfect.
Never felt so completely undone.
She sagged against him, boneless, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her entire body spent, wrecked, completely ruined.
Draco licked his lips, a slow, satisfied grin stretching across his face as he pressed a final, lingering kiss against the soft, trembling flesh of her inner thigh. It was a kiss filled with intent, with meaning, with possession. Because this? This wasn't going to be the last time. This wasn't some fleeting, forgettable moment, wasn't something she could tuck away into the recesses of her mind and pretend never happened. This was a promise. A warning. A declaration.
Luna was his.
His to touch. His to ruin. His to make fall apart.
And she was never going to forget it.
He moved with ease, strength coiling through his muscles as he lifted her, dragging her back up his body like she was made to fit against him. Her breath was still erratic, still shaky, her entire body wrecked from what he had just done to her, but she didn't hesitate—didn't pause, didn't give herself a moment to recover before her fingers curled around his cock, small, delicate, dangerous fingers wrapping around his length like she owned it, like she had every right to touch him however she pleased.
And fuck, she did.
"Do you want to sit on it, princess?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was a sharp edge of desperation there, the undeniable ache in his tone betraying just how much he needed her. "Or do you want to lay down for me?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Because she was already lifting her hips, already pressing the swollen tip of his cock against her slick entrance, already making the choice for both of them.
His grip tightened around her waist, his fingers digging into her skin, barely resisting the urge to slam her down, to bury himself inside her in one brutal thrust and finally claim what was already his. But he held back—just barely, just enough to make her say it, to make her admit what she needed.
"This is what you need?" His voice was rough, strained, his body screaming for relief, for friction, for her. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you."
"You…" She gasped, voice breaking, eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen from his kisses, her nails biting into his shoulders as she braced herself against him. "Just you."
And fuck.
Draco had never been a religious man, had never believed in gods or fate or destiny.
But in that moment, as he held her there, trembling, perfect, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, like a plea, like something she couldn't stop even if she wanted to—he knew.
She was his religion now.
He exhaled sharply, his control fraying, his hands shaking as he guided her hips, tilting them just right, lining himself up just right.
And then he pushed inside.
Fucking hell.
This was heaven.
This was death.
This was everything.
She was so tight that it was almost unbearable, almost too much, almost enough to make him come the second he was buried inside her. His breath came out in a sharp hiss, his fingers bruising against her waist as he fought to keep himself from completely losing it.
"Oh, darling," he groaned, voice breaking, his head tipping back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to steady himself, tried to breathe. "You're not really going to survive this, are you?"
"Please…" She was already squirming, already trying to move, already desperate for more, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, her body writhing on top of him. "Please, Draco—"
His control snapped.
With a sharp growl, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him, dominating her, his body caging her in, his weight pressing her into the mattress like he never wanted her to leave.
"You want more, princess?" His voice was dangerous now, dark and dripping with something possessive, something she should have been afraid of, something she wasn't. "I'll give you more."
He grabbed one of her legs, lifting it onto his shoulder, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her calf before he moved.
His fingers—long, skilled, fucking relentless—slid between her thighs, slipping into her already soaked heat. One, then two, then three, stretching her, teasing her, making her body tremble beneath him.
"You're squirting on random men but not on me?" His tone was mocking, but his eyes were burning.
She gasped, eyes flying open, shaking her head frantically, already fucking wrecked for him, already so gone.
"That changes today."
He pressed down on her lower abdomen, his fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot with devastating, merciless precision.
And she screamed.
"Oh, fuck—oh gods—Draco—"
Her nails dug into his arms, her thighs clenching around his wrist, her body jerking against him as the pleasure crashed into her, as it overwhelmed her, as it dragged her under.
He didn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
Not until he had her completely undone.
His fingers moved faster, his palm pressing harder, his thumb rubbing tight, taunting circles against her clit.
"You think I'll let you get away with this, love?" He growled, watching her, watching the way her entire body was falling apart, watching the way she was drenched, watching the way she was so fucking beautiful like this, so fucking perfect.
"You think I'll ever let you go?"
"I—"
She couldn't even finish.
Because then—then she was gone.
Completely.
Utterly.
Fucking wrecked.
Her entire body seized, her back arching off the bed, her mouth falling open on a silent scream as she shattered around him, her slick gushing, her pleasure dripping down his wrist, coating his fingers, soaking the sheets beneath them.
And fuck.
Draco had never seen anything so fucking perfect in his entire life.
His sheets were ruined, but he didn't care.
He would burn the entire fucking house down if it meant seeing her like this again.
She was still trembling, still recovering from what he had done to her, still breathless and wrecked and so goddamn beautiful that it physically hurt. But when he pulled back, just enough to look at her, just enough to see the way her lashes fluttered, the way her lips were parted, the way she was looking up at him like he was something irreplaceable—that was when he knew.
There was no going back.
"Are you sure?" His voice was low, rough, barely controlled, his forehead pressing against hers, his fingers shaking slightly where they rested on her bare waist. "Tell me now, love, because after this—" he exhaled sharply, almost as if the thought of stopping physically hurt him "—there won't be a world where I don't belong to you."
Luna didn't hesitate.
She reached for him, fingers threading through his hair, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him shudder, to make his restraint snap at the seams, to make him fall even further into her gravity.
His body ached, ached for her, but he wouldn't rush. Wouldn't take. Wouldn't lose himself until he was absolutely sure she was right there with him.
He touched her the way a man touched the thing he had spent his entire life searching for.
When he finally settled between her thighs, when he finally felt the undeniable heat of her, when he finally began to push inside, so agonizingly slow, so deliberate, so reverent—he felt himself unravel.
His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breath coming out ragged, a soft, broken sound escaping him as he felt her tighten around him, as her body took him in, as she became the only thing in the entire world that mattered.
"Oh, love," he whispered against her skin, voice wrecked, shaking, his fingers digging into the sheets as he fought not to move too fast, not to lose himself completely. "Do you feel that?"
She was panting, her nails digging into his back, her legs wrapping around his waist as her body arched to meet him. "Yes," she gasped, "gods, yes."
Draco gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay in control, but fuck, she was so warm, so tight, so perfect, and the way she was looking at him, it was too much, it was everything.
He moved, slow at first, just enough to feel the way she clenched around him, just enough to make her moan softly, just enough to remind them both that this was real.
But soon, slow wasn't enough.
Soon, she was begging—for more, for him, for something deeper, something harder, something that would mark her, claim her, keep her tied to him in ways she would never be able to undo.
He gave her everything.
Draco kissed her like a man who had lost his mind, like a man who had been starved of her for far too long, like a man who had been wandering aimlessly through life only to finally, finally find his way home. His lips moved against hers with a hunger that bordered on desperation, his hands mapping out every inch of her skin, his body pressing into hers in a way that left no space between them, no room for doubt, no chance for anything but this—the raw, unbearable truth that he needed her in a way he had never needed anything before.
He moved inside her with slow, deliberate thrusts, rolling his hips in a way that had her gasping against his mouth, her nails dragging down his back, her legs wrapping around him to pull him deeper. He whispered filthy, reverent things into her skin, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, the line of her throat, the delicate curve of her shoulder.
"Fuck, love, you feel so fucking good."
"You're perfect—so goddamn perfect for me."
"This—this was always supposed to happen, wasn't it?"
He held her close, his arms tightening around her as if he could fuse them together, as if letting go would be the worst kind of sin. Every move was deliberate, every thrust measured, dragging out the pleasure, drawing her closer and closer to the edge until she was trembling beneath him, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, her fingers tangling in his hair like she was trying to anchor herself to something solid.
But he wasn't solid.
Not when it came to her. Not when she was moaning his name, not when she was clenching around him, not when she was looking at him with those wide, heavy-lidded eyes that made him feel like he was unraveling, like he was nothing but a man on the verge of ruin.
He was not fucking her.
He was making love to her.
And gods, that realization almost broke him.
Because it had never been like this before. It had never been this deep, this consuming, this devastatingly real. There was no distance, no separation between them—just two souls colliding, shattering, rebuilding something new.
His pace quickened, his movements becoming rougher, more desperate, more insistent, more everything.
She was his, and she was going to fucking know it.
"Draco—"
His name left her lips like a prayer, like a plea, like the only thing she could remember, and fuck, he was gone.
Her body arched, her back curving off the mattress as pleasure took hold of her, her breath catching, her thighs trembling, her entire being unraveling beneath him. He could feel it, the way she tightened, the way she clutched at him like he was her lifeline, the way she came apart so beautifully, so completely, his name spilling from her lips over and over like it belonged to her just as much as she belonged to him.
And then, finally, he followed her.
The pleasure crashed through him like a tidal wave, pulling him under, drowning him in her, only her, always her. His entire body tensed, his breath leaving him in a ragged, broken groan, his fingers gripping her hips as he buried himself inside her, as he gave her everything, as he came with her name on his lips.
For a long moment, they didn't move.
They just lay there, their bodies tangled, their breathing uneven, the weight of what had just happened settling around them like a warm, unshakable truth.
Draco pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder, then her collarbone, then the corner of her mouth. He held her close, his forehead resting against hers, his fingers drawing lazy, soothing patterns along her spine, his heart still pounding against his ribs like it had no idea what to do with itself.
"Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice rough, hoarse, exhausted.
Luna blinked up at him, a dazed, blissed-out expression on her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her cheeks flushed, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks. And fuck, she had never looked more beautiful.
She nodded, her fingers brushing through his hair, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, smoothing over his damp skin.
"I love you," she whispered, her voice quiet, but sure.
Draco exhaled sharply, his entire chest tightening, his throat closing up with something too big to name.
He didn't say it back—he didn't have to.
Because he had already shown her.