She was in love with him. That was the truth, the undeniable, unbearable, soul-consuming truth that sat heavy in her chest, that made her fingers twitch whenever she wasn't touching him, that made her traitorous heart leap the second she caught sight of him, even when she was meant to be furious with him. But that didn't mean she had to put up with his absurdity, with his constant need to possess, to control, to claim her in ways that made her want to hex him into next week just as much as they made her want to melt into his arms and let him have his way. His possession was ridiculous, overbearing, entirely too much, and yet, despite everything, despite her endless protests, despite the threats, despite the fact that she had once sworn to never let a man dictate her life—she came to his house for breakfast every morning. Every. Single. Morning.
It had started as something reluctant, something she had done in a fit of frustration because, despite her anger, despite the fact that he had quite literally relocated her entire home without her permission, he had that stupid, unfair, insufferable way of looking at her, the one that made her legs feel weak and her resolve crumble into nothing. It had begun as a stubborn game of defiance, of showing up and refusing to let him think he had won, but somehow, in ways she could not explain, it had turned into something else entirely. It had turned into a ridiculous little routine, a ritual that felt like it had existed forever, something unspoken, something inevitable, something neither of them dared acknowledge but both of them had already surrendered to.
Each morning, she would apparate into his house—because she refused to actually live there, no matter how much he pushed, no matter how many times he made those little comments about her staying, about how her bed was cold, about how the house was too big without her. Each morning, she would storm in with a huff, fully prepared to scold him for something new, for some other ridiculous thing he had done, and each morning, he would be there, waiting, leaning against the counter with that arrogant, knowing little smirk that made her want to hex him into oblivion. He was always there before she arrived, always in the middle of making breakfast, always setting out two plates even though he would rather be hit by a broom than admit that he had been waiting for her.
She barely had time to sit before his smooth, morning-rough voice filled the space between them, warm and easy, like this wasn't something unusual, like this wasn't something strange, like this wasn't something dangerous.
"Good morning, love," he greeted, as if she hadn't spent the last month screaming at him at least once a day, as if she hadn't thrown things at him more than once, as if she hadn't almost obliviated him off the face of the earth for being an absolute menace.
"Good morning, darling," she replied, just as smooth, just as easy, pretending like her heart wasn't flipping over itself, pretending like this wasn't something real, pretending like she wasn't already far too deep in something she couldn't escape from.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her with that insufferable little smirk, that expression that meant he was about to say something that would make her want to throw her coffee at him, and sure enough, the second she took a sip, he tilted his head and said, "Don't you feel lonely in your little cottage?"
She nearly choked, eyes narrowing, fists clenching, because of course he would say that, of course he would phrase it like that, of course he would take her peaceful, private, perfectly cozy little home and reduce it to some sad, lonely, pitiful existence. "Do not degrade my home!" she snapped, glaring at him over the rim of her mug, daring him to challenge her, daring him to push, daring him to turn this into a fight.
But to her absolute horror, he didn't smirk this time, didn't look smug, didn't look like he was trying to pick a fight just for the fun of it. No, he just tilted his head slightly, his expression softening in a way that made her insides twist painfully, in a way that made her want to crawl under the table and never resurface. "I'm asking," he said simply, as if he wasn't trying to ruin her, as if he wasn't looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And gods help her, because she hesitated. She hesitated, she let the question linger, she let it sink in, and when she finally opened her mouth, the truth slipped out before she could stop it. "I… I do."
She hated herself the moment she said it, hated the way his smirk turned into something softer, something unbearably fond, something dangerously close to victorious. "We can spend the evenings together," he suggested, and his voice was careful, like he was giving her a choice, like he was trying to pretend he wasn't already winning. "Maybe. If you want. I have a thing called a telly. It's in my movie room. We can watch it together if you like."
She nearly groaned, rubbing a hand over her face, because of course he was going to pull the let's just watch a movie together card, of course he was going to make it sound so casual, of course he was going to say it in a way that made it impossible for her to say no without looking like a complete and utter coward. "I do know what television is, Draco," she muttered, rolling her eyes, pretending like the idea of curling up with him on a sofa didn't make something warm and terrifying curl low in her stomach. "I even have my favorite movies."
"Oh?" he arched a brow, leaning closer, intrigued, and somehow, the fact that he didn't already know this about her sent a strange thrill through her chest, made her feel like this was something sacred, something important, something intimate. "That's a new thing about you."
She huffed, glancing away, fingers playing with the edge of her mug, before she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I adore Muggle technology. I even have a cell phone."
Draco blinked, as if she had just told him she was an alien, as if he couldn't comprehend the idea of her willingly engaging in something so utterly mundane, so deeply human, so incredibly not magic-related. "You have a what?" he asked, stunned, looking at her like she had just personally reinvented the laws of the universe.
She smirked this time, watching his reaction with something dangerously close to amusement. "Although," she added, "my contacts are just Hermione and Pansy."
Draco groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Of course they are."
And just like that, without thinking about it, without realizing what she was doing, without meaning to at all, she smiled. Because this—this easy, ridiculous, infuriating conversation—was everything she hadn't known she needed.
Popcorn had become Draco's new hyperfixation. It had started off innocently enough—a simple snack, something to keep his hands busy while he figured out how to navigate this strange new arrangement with Luna. But like everything else in his life, he had taken it too far. He had spent the past week experimenting with different types of butter, different levels of salt, different methods of popping, and now, as he carefully poured freshly melted butter over the fluffy white kernels, tossing them in just the right amount of salt, he felt something dangerously close to pride. This was, objectively, the perfect bowl of popcorn. It was golden, rich, warm, and smelled like absolute heaven. If she didn't love him after this, there was no saving them.
Luna, of course, had settled beside him on the couch, but at a deliberately careful distance—not too close, not too far, just enough to make her presence known, just enough for him to feel her warmth, just enough for him to be hyper aware of every single movement she made. It was infuriating. Because all she had to do was lean in, just a little, and she would be against him, would be pressed against his side, would be curled into him like she belonged there. And she did belong there. But instead, she was playing this ridiculous game, pretending like she wasn't desperate for him, pretending like she wasn't just as drawn to him as he was to her.
And the worst part? Even Dandelion had joined them.
Draco exhaled slowly, staring at the fluffy cow who had somehow decided that she belonged inside the house, on the carpet, nestled comfortably against Luna like some kind of oversized pet. He had stopped questioning it weeks ago. At this point, the cow was just as much a part of their bizarre, entangled relationship as anything else. And yet, watching her sit there, entirely too comfortable, made him narrow his eyes.
"This is ridiculous," Luna muttered, sighing as she shifted, tucking her legs beneath her, looking every bit like she was at home here, despite her constant complaints about him forcing her into his world. "You cannot treat her like a dog."
Draco scoffed, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth, barely sparing the cow a glance. "She is my pet. I can do whatever I want."
Luna turned sharply, eyes flashing, voice filled with immediate, unyielding offense. "My pet."
"Whatever, Lovegood," Draco muttered, waving a dismissive hand, entirely too amused by the possessiveness in her voice, by the fact that she would rather argue about a cow than acknowledge the fact that she was currently curled up on his couch, in his house, eating his popcorn. "Just watch the movie."
Luna huffed, but to his absolute delight, she didn't leave. She didn't pull away, didn't snap at him, didn't launch into another tirade about boundaries and independence and how she was not living with him. Instead, she stayed. She stayed, and as the movie played, as the warm glow of the screen flickered across their faces, as the minutes passed and the world around them faded into nothing but soft golden light and the quiet hum of shared silence, she moved.
It was subtle at first. A slow, barely-there shift in her posture. The slightest lean. The kind of movement that might have been unnoticeable if he wasn't already hyper-focused on every single thing she did. But he was focused. He was always focused when it came to her. And so, when her hand finally reached out, when her fingers brushed against his, when she took his hand in hers—he felt it like a bolt of electricity through his entire body.
His eyes flickered down to their joined hands, his pulse spiking, his heart slamming against his ribs. He didn't say anything, didn't move, didn't even dare to breathe too hard, as if the smallest shift might make her pull away. She wasn't looking at him, wasn't acknowledging what she had done, wasn't giving him anything, except for this—her hand, soft and warm in his, small and delicate, fitting against his palm in a way that made something in his chest ache.
"Couples are supposed to hold hands during a movie," she murmured finally, her voice quiet, light, like it wasn't the single most devastating thing she could have said to him.
Draco swallowed, tilting his head slightly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, trying not to let his smirk take over his entire face. "Oh, do they now?"
She nodded, still not looking at him, still pretending like this wasn't a moment, like this wasn't something significant, like this wasn't everything.
"What else are they supposed to do?" he asked, and his voice was low now, rough, barely more than a murmur, like he was afraid of shattering whatever delicate spell had fallen over them.
She hesitated. He felt it in the way her fingers twitched in his, in the way her breath caught just slightly, in the way she pressed her lips together, as if debating how much she was willing to give away. "I don't know, really," she admitted finally, her voice softer now, slower, a little more uncertain. "Touch each other. Kiss."
Draco's stomach plummeted.
His grip on her hand tightened, his pulse thrumming, his entire body on fire with the weight of her words, with the possibility of what she had just given him. She was playing it off, acting like she wasn't already his, acting like this wasn't inevitable, acting like she wasn't just as desperate for him as he was for her, but he could see through it. He could feel through it. Because her hand was still in his, because she hadn't pulled away, because she had brought it up.
"But I'm supposed to know?" she added, a weak, pathetic little attempt at deflection.
Draco smirked. He lived for moments like this.
"We can make new rules," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand, his grip firm, grounding, as if he was daring her to look at him, daring her to admit what they both already knew.
She parted her lips, a breath caught in her throat, her body too still, too tense, too aware of every single inch of space between them, of every inch that still remained, of every inch that wasn't nearly small enough. Draco tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening just a fraction, his fingers tightening around hers, his voice dropping into something dark and dangerous, something that sent another sharp tremor through her, something that made her thighs clench together of their own accord. "So tell me, love," he whispered, voice like a challenge, like a promise, like something she should have walked away from but never would, his thumb tracing slow, idle circles over the sensitive skin of her wrist, his breath brushing against her cheek as he leaned in just slightly, closing what little distance remained between them. "What's our first rule?"
Luna inhaled sharply, her mind scrambling for something, anything to hold onto, something to steady her, something to keep herself from falling headfirst into whatever trap he was laying out so beautifully for her. She licked her lips, watched the way his gaze flickered down to her mouth like he was already considering devouring her, and then, with a tilt of her head and a glint of amusement in her eyes, she finally answered, voice steady, but quiet, as if she was almost embarrassed by the absurdity of what she was about to say. "Nothing inappropriate in front of Dandelion."
The laugh that escaped Draco's lips was warm, rich, full of something unbearably fond, full of something wrecked, full of something completely gone. He grinned at her, eyes flashing with something unreadable, something dangerous, something deadly, and then, before she could stop him, before she could think, before she could breathe, he was pulling her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her against him like he had been dying to do so since the moment she walked into his life. She barely had time to react, barely had time to let out a startled gasp before she was suddenly there, straddling his thighs, chest pressed flush against his, heart hammering violently against her ribs. She didn't resist, didn't fight it, didn't even try, because this—this felt right, this felt inevitable, this felt like something she never should have run from in the first place.
"You didn't let me kiss you for a long time, love," he murmured, voice lower now, rougher, edged with something raw, something desperate, something real. "I almost died."
Luna huffed, rolling her eyes, but her fingers were already moving, already threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, already tugging slightly just to watch his breath hitch, just to watch his eyelids flutter, just to see what it did to him when she was the one touching him for once. "I'm sure you almost died, love," she teased, the words soft, affectionate, laced with something that made Draco's grip on her waist tighten. "You look exactly like that."
His lips twitched, but the amusement in his expression was fleeting, brief, barely there before something heavier settled in its place. "I died inside without you," he admitted, the confession slipping past his lips like something he had never intended to say, something he couldn't have stopped even if he had tried. "I may have crossed a line moving your house here."
"You did," she agreed, voice softer now, her touch gentler, her body unconsciously relaxing against his as she let herself breathe in his presence for the first time in weeks.
He exhaled slowly, forehead pressing against hers, their noses brushing, their breaths mingling, his hands sliding up and down the length of her spine like he was memorizing the shape of her, like he was learning her all over again. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words genuine, thick with sincerity, thick with the weight of everything he had done, thick with something she wasn't ready to unpack just yet.
She studied him, held his gaze, searched his expression for something she wasn't sure she wanted to find, and then, finally, after what felt like hours, she sighed, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against the back of his neck, her voice quieter, but still edged with reluctant affection.
"Well… it's fine," she whispered, and that—that was when Draco Malfoy knew he had won.
It was slow, the softest drag of her mouth against his skin, the lightest press of warmth over the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, but it wrecked him. His eyes slammed shut, his grip tightening, his breathing turning ragged, uneven, a sharp exhale leaving his lips as she continued, as she traced the line of his throat with open-mouthed kisses, as if she owned him, as if she fucking knew what she was doing to him.
"Luna," he rasped, his voice nothing more than a wrecked, broken plea, his fingers digging into her sides, his entire body on fire.
"Shh," she murmured, her lips brushing against his pulse point, her fingers sliding up into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, sending a sharp, exquisite shudder through him.
"Fuck," Draco groaned, his head tilting back, giving her more access, giving her everything, because she was the only person who could reduce him to this, the only person who could turn him into something raw, something vulnerable, something ruined with nothing but a fucking kiss.
Her hands slid down, over his shoulders, over his chest, slow and teasing, like she knew she was in control, like she knew he was already completely at her mercy.
Draco let out a slow, measured breath, his hands tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against him, feeling every inch of her against him, every sharp, unbearable sensation of her warmth pressing into him, every single way she fit against him like she belonged there.
"You drive me insane," he muttered, his voice rough, hoarse, filled with something dangerous, something on the verge of breaking.
The smirk that curved her lips was pure sin, the kind of expression that sent something sharp and unbearably hot slicing through his veins, the kind of look that told him she knew exactly what she was doing to him, knew exactly how close he was to losing every last shred of control, knew that she had him—body, soul, mind—wrapped around her delicate little fingers, and fuck if that didn't set his entire body ablaze. The brush of her lips against his jaw was deliberate, calculated, devastatingly soft, teasing, playful in a way that was entirely Luna, and it was unfair, unfair, because she was currently destroying him, unraveling him at the seams, reducing him to nothing but raw, desperate need.
"Good," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin, her voice like silk laced with poison, and Draco—Draco was fucking gone.
There wasn't a single rational thought left in his head, wasn't a single coherent reason not to act on the fire burning between them, wasn't a single thing in this world that mattered except her, except this, except the way her body fit so perfectly against his, like she had always belonged there, like she had been made for him. His grip on her waist tightened just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her feel exactly how undone he was, exactly how far he was willing to fall for her, exactly how much he needed to claim her, to remind her who she belonged to.
And then—he moved.
The world spun around them, the air shifting, bending, the familiar pull of Apparition wrapping around them like static electricity. In the next breath, they landed, the soft, plush surface of his bed swallowing them whole, the dim glow of candlelight flickering against the dark emerald sheets, the air around them thick, heavy, suffocating with the weight of everything about to happen.
"Draco!" she gasped, her voice somewhere between scandalized and breathless, her body already arching against him, already responding, already giving in without hesitation.
He pressed her down into the mattress, his body caging hers in, his lips tracing a slow, burning path down the delicate curve of her throat, dragging his teeth just slightly over her skin before soothing the sting with his tongue. "The things I'm going to do to you," he murmured, his voice low, dark, dangerous, filled with promises she knew he would keep, filled with the kind of filthy, unholy devotion that made her toes curl. He lifted his head, his silver eyes locking onto hers, his smirk sharp, possessive, deadly. "Those filthy things? Our pet cannot see."
The words sent a shiver down her spine, made her breath hitch, made the space between them shrink into nothing, and she wanted to protest, wanted to pretend she still had some semblance of control, wanted to scold him for Apparating her straight into his bed like a caveman, but then—then—his fingers brushed against the inside of her thigh, slow, teasing, feather-light, and just like that, every ounce of resistance crumbled. Her legs parted automatically, instinctively, on their own fucking accord, and Draco let out a low, satisfied chuckle, like he knew this would happen, like he had expected nothing less.
"That's my girl," he murmured, dragging his lips over the delicate shell of her ear, his breath warm, his voice thick with something unholy, something dangerous, something that made her ache. His hands moved, slow, deliberate, exploring every inch of newly exposed skin, every dip, every curve, learning her, memorizing her, mapping her out like he was committing her to memory, like she was something sacred, something he needed to worship. He kissed her fiercely, deep, possessive, like he owned her, like he was staking his claim, like he was leaving a mark on her soul that she would never be able to erase.
And then—he touched her.
The first slow, agonizing brush of his fingers over her aching, throbbing clit had her gasping, had her arching, had her digging her nails into his shoulders as if that could steady her, as if that could save her. But he wasn't going to save her, wasn't going to let her breathe, wasn't going to give her a single second to think. He circled her clit with devastating precision, teasing, tormenting, drawing soft, breathy moans from her lips, coaxing her deeper into the pleasure, pushing her to the edge with nothing but his hands, his mouth, his presence.
"You're already so wet for me, love," he murmured against her skin, his lips ghosting over her collarbone, his fingers dipping lower, just enough to tease her entrance, just enough to make her whimper, just enough to remind her that he was in control, that he was the only one who could make her feel like this, the only one who would ever be able to touch her like this.
Luna shuddered, her head tilting back, her body betraying her, her thighs trembling around him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Draco..."
He groaned at the sound of his name on her lips, wrecked, utterly ruined, completely gone. "That's right, love," he rasped, his fingers slipping inside her, slow, deep, curling just right, making her cry out, making her clench around him, making her lose her fucking mind. "Say my name when you fall apart for me."
And she would—she would—because he was going to make her.
He dragged it out, made her suffer, held her on the edge for what felt like forever, a slow, torturous dance of pleasure that kept building, kept tightening, kept winding her up higher and higher without ever giving her what she so desperately needed. It was cruel, it was unbearable, and fuck, it was intoxicating. His touch was light, almost teasing, tracing slow, lazy circles over her clit, never applying enough pressure, never pushing her over the edge, just keeping her there, making her feel every single agonizing second of it.
She was whining beneath him, her body writhing against the sheets, her hips shifting, trying to chase more friction, trying to make him do something, but he held her down, kept her still, kept her helpless, his strong hands gripping her hips firmly, keeping her pinned beneath him as he continued his excruciating, deliberate torture.
Her breath hitched, her fingers flexing against his shoulders, gripping him, clawing at him, as if she could force him to move faster, as if she could will him into giving her what she needed, but he only chuckled, dark and satisfied, reveling in her frustration, in her desperation, in the way she was already falling apart beneath him without him even trying.
"Say please," he murmured, his voice low, commanding, thick with something dark and possessive. His silver eyes were glowing with satisfaction, drinking in the sight of her beneath him, watching her tremble, watching her unravel, watching her fight against the pleasure and lose.
Her breath was ragged, her thighs shaking, her lips parted, her entire body pleading even before she opened her mouth. "Oh gods, please!" she finally sobbed, her voice breaking, her pride long forgotten, her need so much greater than her stubbornness. "Please, Draco!"
And just like that—he gave in.
His fingers dipped lower, finally, finally slipping inside her, stretching her, filling her with slow, deliberate precision, and her breath caught in her throat, her entire body tensing, her nails digging into his skin as if she was desperate to hold onto something, anything to ground her.
"Fuck, love," Draco groaned, watching her, feeling the way she clenched around his fingers, the way she trembled as he set a slow, measured rhythm, thrusting into her with steady, unrelenting strokes. "You're so tight. So perfect. You take me so fucking well."
She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel, couldn't do anything but fall deeper into the pleasure, the ache, the all-consuming need that was winding tighter and tighter inside her. Her head tilted back against the pillows, her mouth parting in a soft, wrecked moan, her thighs trembling around him as he worked her open, stretching her with every deliberate movement.
And then—he added a second finger.
The sound that tore from her throat was obscene, completely unfiltered, completely unrestrained, completely wrecked. Her body arched, her back bowing off the bed, her hands gripping the sheets, grasping at him, begging without words, pleading without shame.
"Yes, love, that's it," he murmured, his voice like silk laced with something dark, something possessive, something that sent shivers racing down her spine. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how fucking good you feel."
She didn't need any more encouragement, didn't need any coaxing, didn't need anything other than what he was already giving her. His fingers curled inside her, pressing against the spot that made her jerk, that made her whimper, that made her come apart so fucking fast that she had no way of stopping it, no way of containing it.
And then—oh, fuck.
His thumb found her clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, applying just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of friction, just the right amount of torture, and she was gone, completely gone, her world shattering around her as the pleasure ripped through her.
She barely gave herself time to come down from the high he had just given her, barely allowed herself to catch her breath, barely let the aftershocks of her orgasm settle in her bones before she moved, her body still thrumming with pleasure, still trembling from the way he had wrecked her so completely. But it wasn't enough, it was never enough—not with him, not when he had done nothing but give to her, not when he was still lying beneath her, fully clothed, fully untouched, his cock straining against the thin fabric of his trunks, aching, waiting, needing.
And fuck, she wanted to take care of him.
Before he could react, before he could stop her, she was already moving, already sliding down his body, her lips pressing to every inch of skin she could reach, soft, teasing kisses trailing from his jaw to his throat, down the sharp lines of his collarbone, over the ridges of muscle on his abdomen, lingering in places she knew would make him shudder. She could feel his breathing grow heavier, feel his muscles tighten under her touch, feel the way his body reacted to her even though he was trying—so hard—to keep himself under control.
His hands flew to her hips, gripping them, his fingers flexing as if he was debating stopping her, pulling her back up, but before he could, before he could say a single word, she dipped lower, her lips pressing right above the waistband of his trunks, her teeth scraping over the sensitive skin of his hip, and—fuck, fuck—he groaned, his head tipping back against the pillows, his grip on her tightening.
"Shh," she murmured, her lips brushing against his skin, her voice teasing, wicked, drowning in satisfaction at the way he was already falling apart beneath her, at the way she had barely touched him and he was already losing it. "Slow down, love, no ru—"
He didn't get to finish.
Because she sank lower, her fingers hooking under the waistband of his trunks, peeling them down painfully slow, her mouth trailing lower, her tongue flicking over his hipbone, her breath hot against his skin, and fuck, he was shaking, his entire body tensing as she deliberately ignored his cock, as she kissed around it, as she let her breath ghost over it, teasing him, tormenting him.
"Luna," Draco rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked, desperate.
She hummed in response, blinking up at him through her lashes, her lips parting in an expression that was the perfect mixture of innocence and sin.
"Yes?" she asked, her tone light, unbothered, as if she wasn't stroking his thighs with her fingertips, as if she wasn't kneeling between his legs like something out of his dirtiest fucking fantasies.
His jaw clenched, his hands curling into the sheets, his control hanging by a thread.
"I never… it's not…lady-like" He was struggling for words, struggling to breathe, struggling to do anything but completely surrender to her. "You don't have to."
And oh, that made her smile.
Luna tilted her head, her fingers dancing over the thick, straining outline of his cock through his underwear, tracing it, feeling the weight of it, the sheer size of him, the torture he must have been in, and fuck, she loved this, loved the way he was fighting himself, loved the way he was still trying to be a gentleman, still trying to put her first, still trying to protect her, as if she wasn't starving for him, as if she wasn't dripping with want, as if she wasn't dying to taste him.
"Draco," she whispered, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh, licking over his skin, letting her tongue flick over the sharp dip of muscle there, letting her teeth scrape just enough to make his hips jerk. "I don't care what's lady-like or not."
Before he could respond, before he could even think, she finally, finally peeled the last barrier away, pulling down his underwear and letting his cock spring free, hard, throbbing, flushed a deep, aching red, and fuck, he was huge, even bigger than she had expected, and the sight of him, all of him, made her mouth water.
Draco cursed, his breath stuttering, his eyes wild as he looked down at her, his hands shaking as he hovered between grabbing her and letting her do whatever the fuck she wanted.
"Oh, darling," she murmured, leaning in, letting her lips brush over the head of his cock, watching as his stomach tensed, watching as his breath hitched, watching as he fell apart before she had even started.
"You poor thing."
And then—she licked him, slow and deliberate, dragging her tongue from the thick base of his cock all the way up to the sensitive tip, savoring the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he twitched under her touch. A deep, shuddering breath tore from Draco's throat, his entire body tensing as the slick warmth of her mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, her lips parting, her tongue swirling, teasing, testing, before she gave the softest, most devastating little suck.
Draco was sure he had just died. That this was it. That he had finally ascended into whatever afterlife awaited him, and if this was heaven, then Merlin, he must have done something right in his miserable, sin-ridden life to deserve it.
But then—then—she did it again.
She licked him, slow and sinful, teasing him, driving him insane, her tongue tracing along the thick veins that ran down his length, her breath hot and unrelenting against his skin. His cock pulsed under her touch, aching, straining, begging, and when she finally—finally—took him deeper into her mouth, her lips stretching around him, her tongue pressing firmly against the underside of his shaft, he felt the control he had left snap.
His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing himself deeper, and fuck, she moaned around him—moaned—a low, needy, wrecked little sound that vibrated straight through him, sending sharp, electric pleasure straight to his spine, making him dig his fingers into the sheets because if he so much as touched her right now, he would lose it.
She was destroying him, ruining him, unraveling him thread by thread until there was nothing left but raw, unfiltered need. And all he could do—all he wanted to do—was watch, helpless under her touch, trapped in the cruel, exquisite torment of her mouth, her hands, her lips, her wicked tongue that was so perfectly designed to wreck him. And fuck, he was never—never—letting this woman go.
His hands, trembling, desperate, reached for her, his fingers tangling in the silky strands of her hair, gently gathering it back so he could see her properly, so he could watch her, because he needed to see, needed to burn this image into his memory, needed to never forget what she looked like in this moment—on her knees, her lips stretched around his cock, her tiny hands trying and failing to wrap fully around his thick length, her mouth working him over like she was meant for this, like she belonged to him, like she wanted to ruin him.
And then—it happened.
She looked at him.
Not just a glance, not just a flicker of attention, but a deep, soul-wrecking, world-ending stare.
Her wide, knowing eyes met his, locking onto him, pulling him under, drowning him in something far more dangerous than lust, something heavier, something weightier, something he wasn't sure he was ready to name. She held his gaze, unblinking, unrelenting, her lips sliding further down, her mouth stretching around him, her tongue working him over in ways that had him biting down on his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.
"Fucking hell, baby," he groaned, his grip tightening in her hair, not to pull her away, but because he was losing it, completely losing it, and she was just staring, those big, perfect, infuriatingly beautiful eyes locked onto his, watching his every reaction, memorizing what wrecked him the most, learning exactly how to destroy him.
And fuck, she was a fast learner.
She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper, letting the tip of him press against the back of her throat, and fuck, his hips twitched, his stomach tightened, pleasure crackling down his spine like a live wire, like he was seconds away from coming undone.
His breathing was ragged, his muscles trembling, his control hanging by a fucking thread.
"Baby girl," he gasped, voice wrecked, rough, filled with pleading, filled with something dangerously close to surrender. "Please, stop… shit, baby."
She should've stopped.
But of course, she didn't.
Because she knew better.
Because she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Because she wanted him on the verge, wanted him wrecked, wanted him to feel what she could do to him, wanted him to never forget this, to never forget her, to never look at another woman again without remembering how fucking perfect she was for him.
So she slowed down, torturously slow, dragging her tongue over him as she pulled back, her lips lingering on the swollen, sensitive head of his cock, her breath hot against his skin, her hands gripping his thighs as she stared up at him, waiting, watching, drinking in the way he shook for her.
Draco Malfoy—who had spent years mastering control, who had perfected the art of keeping his emotions locked behind an impenetrable wall, who had never let anyone see him vulnerable—was falling apart in front of her.
And wasn't she just so damn proud of herself?
She radiated confidence, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes, her lips curling into a smirk as she hovered above him, knowing exactly what she was doing to him, knowing exactly how undone he was beneath her touch. He wanted to tell her that, wanted to warn her that she was playing a dangerous game, that she had no idea what she was provoking—but he was already too far gone.
She shifted, slow and deliberate, guiding him to where she needed him most, her delicate fingers curling around him, teasing, testing, torturing. His grip tightened on her hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh like he was grounding himself, like he was fighting for control, like he wasn't seconds away from losing his mind.
And then—she sank down.
Slow. Torturous.
His breath left him in a wrecked groan, his head falling back against the pillows, his jaw tight, his entire body going taut as she took him in inch by inch. His hands clenched around her, his control hanging by a fraying thread as she settled herself, as she adjusted, as she moaned—soft and breathy and utterly devastating.
"Luna," he rasped, his voice rough, wrecked, barely human.
She dragged her nails lightly down his chest, leaning over him, pressing her lips to his throat, smiling against his skin like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
"I know," she whispered.
Smug little thing. A brat through and through, and fuck, he loved it.
But she had no idea what she had just unleashed.
Draco wasn't a patient man. He wasn't gentle when he was being tested, when he was being provoked, when he was being teased within an inch of his sanity. And she had pushed him right to the edge, taunted him, tormented him, played with fire like she wasn't about to get burned.
He didn't give her a warning.
Didn't give her a second to prepare.
One second, she was in control, smug and teasing and entirely too pleased with herself, and the next—he had her on her back, his body pressing her into the mattress, his hands bracing her thighs apart, his breath warm against her lips as he loomed over her, his presence overwhelming, consuming, undeniable.
Her breath caught, her pupils blown wide, her fingers tangling in his hair, gripping, holding on as if she already knew she was in trouble.
Draco smirked.
"Oh, baby," he murmured, dragging his lips along the delicate column of her throat, nipping, teasing, soothing. "You should know better than to challenge me."
She didn't get a chance to respond—because then he was moving, rocking his hips into her, setting a pace that was brutal and precise and absolutely, utterly relentless.
She shattered beneath him almost immediately, her body bowing, her hands clawing at his back, her lips parting around a gasp that sounded dangerously close to his name. But he didn't stop, didn't let up, didn't allow her to come down from it, didn't allow her a single second of relief.
She whimpered, breathless, overwhelmed, nails digging into his skin, but she didn't tell him to stop, didn't push him away, didn't do anything but take it, take him, let him ruin her the way she had so recklessly dared him to.
"Please," she gasped, her voice raw, desperate. "Touch me."
And who was he to deny her?
His fingers found her, circling, teasing, working her over with the same merciless precision as his hips, pushing her higher, dragging her closer, refusing to let her rest, refusing to let her breathe.
And then—she broke.
Completely, utterly, devastatingly shattered beneath him.
And Draco—Draco had never seen anything so fucking beautiful in his entire life.
He pressed his forehead to hers, catching her lips in a slow, consuming kiss as she trembled beneath him, as she whimpered into his mouth, as she let him pull her under and hold her there until there was nothing left but him, him, him.
And only when she was nothing more than a wrecked, shaking mess beneath him, only when he was absolutely sure she belonged to him and only him—did he finally let himself fall, let himself lose control, let himself give in completely to the woman who had already ruined him in every possible way.
And fuck, wasn't he just so damn glad for it?