The morning arrived in a slow, golden haze, creeping in through the sheer emerald curtains that swayed lazily with the cool breeze filtering through the half-open window. The world outside was quiet, untouched, a picture of serenity painted in soft strokes of dawn, but none of it mattered—not the whispering trees beyond the glass, not the distant hum of the waking world, not the flickering embers still glowing faintly in the fireplace across the room. No, the only thing that mattered, the only thing that existed in this moment, was the woman lying atop his chest, her breath warm against his skin, her body curled into him as if she had never belonged anywhere else.
Draco had wished for this—for nights upon nights, for months upon months—had dreamt of it, had imagined it so vividly that he had almost convinced himself it would never be real, that it would always be nothing more than an unattainable, fragile fantasy. But here she was, real and warm and tangled against him, her wild, silvery-blonde hair a mess across his bare chest, her fingers still loosely curled in the fabric of his sleep shirt as if, even in slumber, she feared he might slip away. As if she still didn't fully believe he was hers to keep.
He barely breathed, afraid that even the slightest movement might wake her, might break whatever spell had allowed this moment to exist. But he couldn't help himself, couldn't resist the pull of her, the overwhelming need to touch, to anchor himself to the reality of her presence.
Slowly, carefully, reverently, he brought his hand up, letting his fingers trail softly along the delicate curve of her spine, tracing the barest of lines over the smooth skin exposed beneath the oversized shirt she had stolen from him the night before. She shivered slightly in her sleep, shifting just enough that he could feel the press of her nose against the hollow of his throat, the soft sigh that left her lips as she burrowed even deeper into his warmth.
A sharp ache clenched in his chest, something unbearably tender, something terrifying in its depth. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, letting his lips rest there, inhaling the scent of her, drinking her in like a man starved. It was intoxicating, addictive, the scent of wildflowers and honey and something uniquely, indescribably her. That scent, that perfect blend of warmth and comfort and magic, was the one thing he could never quite name, the one thing that had haunted him for longer than he cared to admit, the one thing that had always lingered in the back of his mind when he thought of love, of longing, of home.
And then it hit him, all at once, so violently that he almost laughed, almost cursed, almost wept.
She was it.
She had always been it.
His amortentia. The one scent that had always eluded him, the one thing he had never been able to place, had never been able to put into words, had always assumed was some half-formed dream or a trick of his own mind. He had smelled it once, years ago, brewing in Slughorn's dungeon during a lesson he had hardly paid attention to, lingering on the air like a whisper, like something that had belonged to him but had never quite been within his grasp. And now, after all this time, after all the chaos and heartbreak and fights and distance—now he knew.
It had been her.
It had always been her.
A slow, shaky breath left him, his fingers tightening just slightly against the fabric of her shirt, his other hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, holding her there, grounding himself in the truth of it.
Luna Lovegood was the very thing he had always wanted, always needed, always longed for without even understanding why. She was the piece of him that had been missing, the quiet, steady hum beneath the storm, the one person in his life who had never asked for anything from him but had, somehow, given him everything without even trying.
And gods, how had he ever lived without this?
How had he survived before he knew what it was like to wake up with her weight against him, before he knew what it was like to hear the soft, sleepy sighs she made as she shifted in his arms, before he knew what it was like to watch the early morning light dance across her skin, to see her lashes flutter against her cheeks, to know that she was his to hold, to protect, to love?
The word sent a sharp jolt through him, raw and undeniable and so fucking terrifying that he almost recoiled from it.
Love.
But wasn't that what this was?
Hadn't it always been?
Hadn't it been there in the way she had fought him, in the way she had challenged him, in the way she had looked at him with those infuriatingly knowing eyes and seen every broken, jagged piece of him and decided he was still worth something?
Hadn't it been there in the way she had left, in the way she had made him suffer, in the way she had refused to settle for anything less than all of him, even when he hadn't been ready to give it?
Hadn't it been there in the way she had come back?
He exhaled slowly, pressing another kiss to her temple, letting his lips linger, letting himself bask in the quiet, terrifying weight of it all.
He was in love with her.
Hopelessly, devastatingly, irrevocably in love with her.
And there was no coming back from that.
The moment she stirred against him, a soft, sleepy sigh escaping her lips as she shifted slightly in his arms, Draco tightened his hold instinctively, his body reacting before his mind even had the chance to catch up. He wasn't ready to let her go. He would never be ready to let her go. Not now, not ever. Now that he had her back, now that she was here, in his arms, warm and real and everything he had ever wanted, he knew with absolute certainty that there was nothing in this world—or the next—that could make him let her slip through his fingers again.
She belonged here.
With him.
His chest rose and fell with steady, measured breaths, but his heart, that reckless, traitorous thing, was hammering wildly against his ribs, as if trying to carve out space for her inside of him, as if trying to fuse them together so that they would never be apart again. The weight of her body was perfect, molded against his as though she had always been meant to sleep there, to wake up there, to exist beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then, slowly, lazily, she blinked her eyes open, those dreamy, unreadable silver-blue irises meeting his gaze with the kind of softness that made his stomach tighten, that made something inside of him crack just a little bit more. He had missed this, missed her, missed waking up to the quiet beauty of her face in the morning light, missed the way she looked at him like she saw something worth loving, worth keeping, worth staying for.
And then, without hesitation, without a single second of doubt, she leaned forward and pressed a slow, tender kiss to his chest, right over the place where his heart was still racing far too fast, as if she could soothe it, as if she could calm the storm raging inside of him with nothing more than the soft press of her lips against his skin. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his grip on her tightening just slightly, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along her spine.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't hesitate.
She just rested there for a moment, her breath warm against his bare skin, her body completely relaxed in his arms, as if she belonged nowhere else in the world but right here, right now, with him.
A slow, knowing smile curved at the edges of his lips as he pressed a lingering kiss to her hair, inhaling deeply, memorizing the scent of her, the feel of her, the impossible, beautiful reality that she was his.
His lips found her cheek next, the softest press of warmth against her skin, a silent promise, a vow wrapped in tenderness. Then another kiss, this time against the curve of her jaw, slow and lingering, as if he could keep her here, as if he could hold onto this moment forever.
"Good morning," she murmured, her voice soft, still laced with sleep, still carrying the warmth of a woman who had been held all night, who had been loved without ever needing to say the words aloud.
He let out a quiet hum, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her face before cupping her cheek, his thumb sweeping lazily across her skin as he took her in, as he memorized every delicate detail of her expression, every flicker of emotion in her half-lidded gaze.
"Good morning, love," he whispered, his voice lower, rougher, his words laced with something deeper, something heavier, something utterly unshakable. "Did you sleep well?"
A slow, easy smile pulled at her lips as she nestled closer, her fingers trailing idly across his chest, tracing faint patterns over the lines of muscle, over the faint scars that had long since healed but never quite faded.
"Very well," she murmured, tilting her head slightly to press another kiss to his skin, this time right over his collarbone, her lips soft, teasing, unbearably gentle. "Thank you."
He exhaled slowly, his fingers curling just slightly at her waist, his entire body thrumming with something warm, something dangerously close to peace. He had spent months aching for her, months drowning in the silence she had left behind, months convincing himself that he would never have this again, that he would never get to wake up with her in his arms, that he would never again get to feel the quiet weight of her pressed against him like she had always belonged there.
But now—she was here.
And nothing else mattered.
Without another word, without another second of hesitation, he slowly lifted his hand, cupping her face with the kind of careful, deliberate reverence that made her breath hitch, that made her lips part just slightly, that made her entire body go still against his. He tilted her chin up, just enough to bring her closer, just enough to erase the last inch of distance between them.
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 fully 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 walls.
And fuck, wasn't that exactly what he had been waiting for?
Not just the physicality of her, not just the way she tasted like something sweet and intoxicating, not just the way she melted into him with the kind of surrender that had nothing to do with submission and everything to do with trust—but this, this quiet, unspoken understanding that neither of them had to fight anymore. This acknowledgment that whatever was between them had already won, had already wrapped itself around them so tightly that neither of them could pull away even if they wanted to.
But still, something inside of him needed to hear it. Needed to strip away the last layer of uncertainty, needed to carve the truth from her lips like something sacred.
His lips barely left hers when he spoke, his voice rough, unsteady, low with something desperate, something aching, something that had been clawing at his ribs since the moment she walked back into his life.
"Is that true?" His breath was warm against her lips, his fingers tightening where they rested against the nape of her neck, his eyes searching hers with something raw, something wrecked, something almost afraid. "That you actually love me?"
He hadn't meant to sound so desperate. Hadn't meant to let the vulnerability slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed exterior. But fuck, he needed to know. He needed her to say it, needed to hear it aloud, needed to take the possibility and make it real, make it undeniable, make it something neither of them could run from anymore.
Luna didn't answer right away.
She just looked at him, her gaze unreadable, her lips still parted, her breath still uneven from the kiss, her body still pressed so tightly against his that he could feel the faint tremor of her pulse beneath his fingertips. She could destroy him with a single word. Could unravel him completely, could send him into oblivion with one breath, with one syllable.
"Unfortunately," she murmured, her voice dry, wry, teasing, as if she wasn't just handing him the single most important truth of his entire fucking existence.
Draco barely had a second to process it before his body reacted.
His hands smoothed over her thighs, tracing slow, possessive circles over the soft skin, his grip shifting, moving, until he was gripping the curve of her ass with both hands, squeezing, kneading, dragging her forward against him as if he could press her into him, as if he could mold her into his skin and never let her go.
How was it possible for someone to be this perfect?
How was it possible for him to hold something this fucking beautiful in his hands?
She was warm and soft and utterly unreal beneath his touch, and yet, she was here, wasn't she? Here, in his lap, in his arms, kissing him like she had never wanted to be anywhere else.
"I…" she started, faltering slightly, her voice hesitant, uncertain, as if the words were heavier than she knew how to carry. "All I wanted yesterday was an orgasm."
Draco smirked, his lips curling in amusement even as his grip on her tightened, even as he felt the faintest flicker of something dangerous, something territorial, something that said he would never, ever let another man lay a single fucking finger on her.
"I'm very well aware, little love," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, his tone smooth, unbothered, entirely too knowing as he leaned in, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth, teasing, taunting. "It's okay that we wanted the same thing."
Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him as if she needed something to hold onto, as if he was the only thing keeping her grounded, as if she was seconds away from losing herself completely.
But Luna Lovegood was nothing if not brave.
So instead of shying away, instead of running, instead of trying to deny what they both already knew, she did the one thing she had always done best.
She gave in.
With slow, deliberate movements, she shifted against him, pressing closer, letting her weight settle in his lap, her thighs straddling his hips, her knees bracketing his body as she lifted herself just enough to get the angle right.
Draco's breath faltered.
His hands dropped to her waist immediately, fingers digging into the soft curve of her hips, thumbs pressing into the delicate line of her ribs, grounding himself, bracing himself, as if the sheer act of her willingly climbing onto him had just stolen every last fucking ounce of sense from his brain.
And then, without breaking eye contact, without giving him even a second to prepare, she leaned in and kissed him again.
It was slow at first. Soft. Almost shy.
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—fuck—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 because—fuck—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—failing—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—hummed—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—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, breath coming in uneven gasps, a thin strand of spit still connecting her mouth to the tip of his cock—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—didn't hesitate, didn't pause—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.
Completely.
Utterly.
Entirely.
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—slowly—he pushed inside.
Fucking hell.
This was heaven.
This was death.
This was everything.
She was so tight—so fucking 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—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—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed—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.