The first time it spoke—truly spoke—it wasn't like the whispers he'd been half-hearing in the periphery of his mind, those slithering sounds that always came when the sky turned black and the house fell still and the nightmares clung too tightly to the edge of his sleep, and it wasn't like the muffled static that curled beneath his ribs like smoke caught in a sealed jar, or the flickers of words that had started appearing like bruises on the back of his thoughts, barely legible, barely real, always there and gone before he could focus long enough to name them. No, this wasn't that. This wasn't the usual ghost-sound that he had managed to excuse again and again as exhaustion, as stress, as the natural consequence of too many years of violence and too many nights spent staring at the ceiling pretending his body wasn't crawling with something he couldn't see. This wasn't subtle. It wasn't fleeting. It wasn't a trick of the dark. It was a voice. A presence. And it was not near him. It was inside him.
It didn't echo from the corners of the room like some haunted breath caught in the stonework. It didn't come from the shadows under the bed or from the dark hallway just beyond the doorframe. It didn't travel through the walls or slip through the cracks like fog. It unfurled from within, rising from the hollow of his lungs like poison mist, like something ancient and starving and waiting for the exact moment when his guard would slip just long enough for it to speak. And gods, it spoke.
Theo had been bracing for this—maybe not consciously, maybe not in a way he could name or admit to, but the truth was there, woven into every restless night, every jolt of panic when silence stretched too long, every look over his shoulder when no one else was in the room. Some part of him had known. He had felt it growing bold, growing restless, growing strong, nesting inside the cracks of his soul like a parasite testing the strength of its cage, like a creature sharpening its claws on the edges of his restraint. He had been pretending he wasn't waiting for the inevitable, pretending he wasn't counting the seconds between every phantom whisper, pretending he didn't hear it breathing alongside him when the lights went out. Because ever since he drove that knife into the thing that refused to die—since that moment where everything went wrong in a way he didn't understand—he had felt it. Something had crawled inside the wound it left behind. And now, it wanted him to know it was still there.
He had spent days, weeks, months pushing it down, locking it up, convincing himself it was nothing more than the echo of his own fractured thoughts, the natural progression of someone slowly losing his mind to memory and blood and too much guilt. He had told himself over and over again that the flickers weren't real, that the cold in his chest was nothing, that the ache in his head was from tension or nightmares or something else explainable—because he needed it to be explainable. But now... now it was undeniable. Now it was speaking. Clearly. Directly. And it waited until the worst possible moment to do so.
Because of course it did.
It started in the deepest part of the night, when the air inside the safehouse had gone too still, when the last footsteps in the hallway had faded hours ago, when the wards were locked and the rooms were quiet and the fire had burned down to the softest, lowest glow. He should have been safe. He should have been able to sleep. Luna was there—gods, Luna was there—curled against his side like some celestial creature made of warmth and moonlight and breath, her hand resting against his ribs, her breathing slow and steady and grounding, like she didn't know what lived inside him, like she had chosen to stay anyway. And maybe she had known. Maybe she always did. But none of that mattered, not when the voice came.
Because when the first word slithered up his throat, when it dragged itself from the hollow space between his ribs and rose into the back of his mouth, it felt like ice and rot and shadow had found a language and decided to use his body to speak it. It felt wrong, not in the way dreams feel wrong, not in the way anxiety makes your chest too tight—it felt unholy, like something sacred had been perverted, like something old and furious had carved a throne into his bones and was only now taking its seat.
And it said his name.
"Theodore."
One word. Two syllables. Spoken in a voice that didn't sound like his but felt like it belonged in his throat. Cold. Calm. Smirking. As if it had been waiting for him to stop running. As if it had always known this moment would come. As if it had always known that he would be the vessel.
He froze. Every muscle in his body locked in an instant, a full-body bind with no incantation, no warning. His breath seized halfway through his lungs, refused to go in or out, caught somewhere between inhale and scream. His eyes didn't move. His limbs didn't twitch. His pulse slammed so violently against the inside of his ribs that it felt like it might shatter them, might break through the bone and burst from his chest like it was trying to run from him too. But there was no running. Not now. Because it wasn't a whisper.
It was a voice.
And it didn't belong to him.
"No."
The word slipped out on a breath that barely existed, little more than a tremor caught in the cavern of his throat, the shape of a refusal wrapped in silence, and yet it was everything—it was the only thing Theo could manage, the only defense he had left to offer as his lungs strained beneath the weight of something immense and suffocating, as the pressure bloomed behind his ribs like something pushing outward, something sharp and ancient and not him. The skin over his chest felt wrong, stretched too tight, unfamiliar in the way a shirt might feel after someone else had worn it, soaked it in their scent, molded it to their frame—and the longer he sat in this body, in this version of himself, the more he feared it no longer belonged to him at all.
Then came the voice, not spoken with lips or breath or any of the natural mechanics of speech, but carved into the marrow of his bones, rising through the hollows of him like smoke caught in a collapsing chimney, curling and twisting through his bloodstream as if it had always been there, dormant and patient and hungry.
"You hear me now."
It was a sentence, a declaration, a grin hidden in syllables he didn't want to understand. Theo's fingers dug into the sheets beneath him, white-knuckled and desperate, his body jerking against the mattress as if sheer willpower and rough cotton could anchor him to the present, to his reality, to the truth of being himself and not whatever the hell was waking up inside him. The fabric twisted beneath his grip like a rope pulled taut, like a lifeline he could braid with his own pain, with the bite of his fingernails carving half-moons into his palms, and still—still—it wasn't enough to drown it out.
It laughed.
Not a sound. Not the kind of laugh that echoed in a room or existed in air. It was a sensation—an emotion—the echo of something gleeful and cruel slithering along the inside of his skull like it had grown teeth and a mouth and was testing them on the softest pieces of him. It wasn't amused like a human. It was delighted like a predator who had finally seen its prey stop running.
"It's almost time."
A shudder wracked his frame, involuntary and all-consuming, the kind of full-body tremor that started in the chest and spread outward in every direction, curling into his joints, tightening his tendons, making his skin feel too hot and too cold all at once. His muscles screamed with confusion, with the impossible sensation that he was being stretched, like reality was pulling at the seams of his form, reshaping it into something unrecognizable. He could feel his mouth go dry, his pulse thundering in his ears, and for a terrible, splintering second, he thought he might vomit, might scream, might change—but then, mercifully, something broke the spiral.
A hand.
Warm. Gentle. Real.
Luna.
The moment her hand touched his arm, soft as a sigh, grounding as a heartbeat, his body reacted like it had been jolted with lightning. He flinched back so hard he nearly launched himself from the bed, his muscles seizing in panic, his breath punching out of his lungs like he'd just been yanked from deep water. His vision blurred at the edges, tilting with vertigo, and then slowly, slowly, the world began to sharpen, to anchor, to realign—and it all narrowed down to her.
She was watching him, sleepy-eyed but awake now, her pupils wide, her mouth parted in a silent question she hadn't yet voiced, her fingers still hovering near his skin as if she wanted to reach again but wasn't sure he could handle the touch. The intimacy of it—the way she didn't speak, didn't recoil, didn't panic—was the only reason he didn't lose himself entirely. It tethered him. It reminded him who he was.
"Theo?"
Her voice was low and careful, but not afraid, never afraid. She shifted upright, drawing her knees to her chest as she turned to face him fully, her hands folded neatly in her lap as though resisting the urge to reach for him again. He could feel her watching him, reading every twitch in his jaw, every ragged pull of breath from his lungs, and somehow, impossibly, it helped.
"What happened?"
He could have lied. Should have lied. Could have said he was dreaming, that it was nothing, that he was tired or anxious or just spiraling because of the week they'd had, because of the war and the blood and the old magic clinging to their bones like rot. But his throat was raw, and his heart was aching, and the truth sat at the back of his teeth like ash.
He looked at her—really looked at her—her hair tangled from sleep, her skin flushed from warmth, her eyes still too bright, too awake, too knowing, and the words came out broken, rough, made of sand and sorrow.
"It's not whispers anymore."
She didn't blink.
Didn't gasp. Didn't flinch. Didn't do anything that someone should have done when faced with that kind of truth. Instead, she nodded, just once, slow and thoughtful, like she'd already considered this, like it was only a matter of time.
"What did it say?"
There was no fear in her voice, only curiosity laced with steel, only the kind of calm that comes from having already made peace with the worst possibility. And that—gods—that was somehow worse than panic. It meant she had expected this.
Theo dragged a hand through his hair, gripping at the roots like he could wrench clarity from pain, like the sting of his own touch could remind him that he was still here, still himself, still real.
"It said... it's almost time."
She didn't move. Didn't speak. But something shifted behind her eyes—not fear, not dread, but a terrible, quiet sort of understanding, the kind that wrapped around his spine like frost, the kind that made him feel like the future had already been decided and they were only just catching up.
The silence between them stretched—long, heavy, full of things neither of them wanted to say, full of the knowledge that whatever had been growing inside him, whatever had been whispering in the dark, was no longer content to wait in shadows.
And yet, despite it all—despite the horror, despite the weight of the night, despite the thing curling around his bones and calling itself him—Luna didn't look away.
She stayed—not because she didn't understand the weight of what had just happened, not because she didn't hear the tremble in his voice or feel the way the room had shifted into something thick and heavy and close, not because she was too naive or too kind to walk away, but because somewhere in the quiet chambers of her heart, she had already prepared for this moment, had already folded it into the fabric of her understanding like a prophecy, had already accepted that this path, as tangled and cursed and unspeakably painful as it might be, was the one they would walk together. She didn't flinch at the darkness rising in him, didn't shrink from the jaggedness of his unraveling, didn't retreat in fear from the haunted thing that now lived beneath his skin, and that—more than anything—was what broke him open. She stayed as if she had always known it would come to this, that he would crack down the center, that the lies he told himself would rot and peel away, that the thing inside him could no longer be hidden behind the too-sharp edge of his silence, as if she'd been patiently waiting for him to stop pretending he wasn't falling apart, for him to realize that whatever this thing was, it wasn't content to be quiet anymore.
When he finally spoke, the sound of his voice didn't feel like it came from his throat—it felt like it was dragged out of him by force, scraped across broken glass and splinters of shame, raw and trembling and far too human for the things that haunted him. "Why aren't you scared of me?" he asked, and it wasn't a question he expected an answer to—it was a confession, a cry, a wound cracked wide open with blood still warm on the edges. He couldn't look at her when he said it, couldn't bear the idea of seeing pity in her eyes, of seeing her pull away, even if just an inch, because that would be the end of him. But Luna didn't look away. She didn't stiffen, didn't react as if he had said something unnatural or unthinkable. She only tilted her head slightly, that soft tilt of thoughtfulness that was hers alone, that quiet way of considering a question like it wasn't absurd at all, like he hadn't just admitted that something else was growing inside him, something not quite alive, not quite dead, something not of this world.
Her breath was steady when she answered, her voice unshaken and bare and as direct as ever, her hands resting lightly in her lap, her fingers twitching just enough to betray the enormity of the thing she was about to share—but her gaze remained fixed on him, unwavering, brave in the way only Luna could be, and her words hit him harder than any spell, than any curse, than any fucking ghost ever could. "It happened to my mummy," she said, simple and devastating and so unflinchingly honest that it stole the air from his lungs, hollowed out his chest, carved something deep and aching into the place where his heart already felt like it had been gnawed raw.
Mummy. Not mother, not mum, not any of the cold, distant, safe terms people used to keep grief at bay—but mummy, warm and soft and childlike and filled with all the unbearable tenderness of love that had been real, love that had been lost, love that had been swallowed by something that didn't care how much it hurt to remember. The sound of that word cracked something inside him wide open. The air thickened instantly, pressing down like the entire world had folded itself in half and placed the weight on his shoulders. Every breath became harder, every thought slower, as if time itself were grieving with her, mourning the past she had offered up to him like a gift, like a key to understanding why she hadn't run away.
He couldn't speak—not at first, not when everything inside him was trying to process the truth of what she had just laid bare. No one had ever handed him their pain so gently, so without bitterness, so unguarded. No one had ever said something so colossal and made it sound like it was okay, like it was survivable, like he could survive it too. And all he could manage, after several moments of choking on silence, was a single breath and the words that finally spilled out through the knot in his throat, trembling and wrecked and sincere. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't even close, but it was all he had.
She smiled, that maddening, beautiful, completely disarming smile of hers—not the kind that brushed pain under the rug or denied the ache in her voice, but one that said she had already made peace with it, that she had lived with the memory long enough for it to become part of her bones, that she didn't need his apology but still accepted it anyway, and it undid him. It undid him in a way he hadn't expected. And as if it weren't enough that she had just exposed the softest part of herself, she had to go and destroy what little was left of his composure by leaning forward ever so slightly, by letting her fingers brush lightly over the side of his jaw, by saying the most absurd, most devastating thing she could possibly say in a moment like this—soft and sure and deadly: "And you still look handsome."
The breath left his lungs in a sharp, uneven burst, a half-laugh half-sob that he barely recognized as his own, too broken to be joyful, too grateful to be painful, just noise—raw and human and helpless—and before he could talk himself out of it, before his fear could reassert itself and slam all his walls back into place, he reached for her. His arms wrapped around her waist, his hands gripping the fabric of her dress too tightly, his body coiling around hers like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world, because maybe she was. He buried his face against the curve of her neck, pressing his mouth against the spot where her collarbone met her throat, inhaling deeply—not because he meant to, but because her scent was the only thing that felt real, the only thing that didn't scare him, the only thing that didn't whisper with other voices.
"Please don't leave me," he whispered against her skin, and it wasn't a request, wasn't a plea—it was a truth so heavy it nearly brought him to his knees. His voice was wrecked, soft and desperate and hoarse, the words trembling on the edge of everything, because he couldn't survive this alone, not anymore, not with what was happening inside him, not with the thing whispering in the dark and curling around his spine like a parasite waiting to take him apart.
She didn't move away. She didn't hesitate. Her hands rose to cradle his face, slow and reverent, brushing across his jaw, his cheek, the space just above his lip, her fingers soft and sure, grounding him with every stroke, telling him without words that he was still here, still him, still worth holding. "Ever," she said, and that one word settled into him like a spell, like an oath sealed not in blood but in breath.
He tightened his arms around her, pulling her impossibly closer, curling himself into her like he could merge their bodies, like he could press the monster out of his skin just by holding her tight enough, breathing her in deep enough, loving her hard enough. And when she whispered again, her voice low and sure and without even a trace of fear, "I will not. I promise," he believed her.
He believed her. For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't too far gone. Maybe he could still be saved. Maybe there was a future beyond the thing inside him. And maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't have to face it alone.
~~~
There was something different about the air between them now, something that pulsed beneath the surface of their skin like a second heartbeat, something unspoken yet heavy with meaning, as if the room itself had inhaled and was waiting, holding its breath, suspended in that quiet between now and what would inevitably come next. It wasn't just the warmth of her body pressed against his side or the soft cadence of her breath tickling the curve of his collarbone—it was the weight of what had not been said, the lingering echoes of confessions that still burned behind their teeth, the slow unfurling of something that felt ancient and inevitable blooming in the hush between one shared heartbeat and the next. The way she curled into him, the way she exhaled like she belonged there, like his chest was the only place in the world she could fall asleep—it wasn't just comfort anymore. It was claim. It was memory in the making. It was the invisible thread tying them together, so tight and so fragile and so impossibly permanent that the thought of unraveling it made his chest ache.
He didn't know the exact moment when the shift had happened—whether it had been when she had first crawled into his bed like it was nothing, or when she had looked at him with those impossible eyes and promised not to leave, or maybe it was earlier still, in the field of wild herbs when she had laughed like ghosts didn't exist and made him forget, for a moment, that they did. He didn't know when, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that it had happened. And now, there was no space between them anymore—not really. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not in the way that counted. Their existences had become tangled, fused, merged at the seams like two rivers colliding and refusing to part, flowing forward in one unstoppable, sacred direction. There was no distance now that wouldn't hurt to enforce. There was no version of himself that existed anymore without the quiet, steady weight of her beside him.
And gods, he hadn't even meant to kiss her again. He was exhausted, wrecked, stretched too thin and still raw from everything—the ritual, the shadows still coiled in his spine, the brush of death that had come too close and whispered in his ear—but he had needed something real, something grounding, something that reminded him he was still here, still him. So he had tilted his head, brushed his mouth over hers with something deeper than hunger, something slower than desire, something that felt like a vow. It wasn't frantic or heated, not wild and consuming the way it had been the last time. This was softer, this was steady, this was him saying without words that she was it, that she was what tethered him, that she was what brought him back.
And Luna had let him. She had let him kiss her like she was his first and last breath. She had let him cup the side of her face and press his lips to hers like he could rewrite all his fears into something quieter. She had let him melt against her as his body finally began to give in to sleep's pull, his limbs relaxing, his breathing slowing, his thoughts growing quieter under the lull of her nearness. She had let him believe, for just a moment, that maybe they could rest here, like this, together.
And then—because she was Luna, and because she was chaos incarnate wrapped in silk and moonlight—she opened her mouth and completely shattered his grip on reality.
"I want to taste you."
The words dropped into the quiet like a lit match in dry tinder, and the effect was instantaneous. Theo went utterly, terrifyingly still, every muscle in his body locking up like he'd just been struck with a curse. His mind, still sluggish from the edge of sleep, barely processed the sentence before panic—and desire—slammed into his system like a freight train. His pulse spiked. His breath caught. His eyes flew open.
And for a solid two seconds, maybe three, his brain completely refused to cooperate.
Because there was no way—absolutely no fucking way—that she had just said that, that those words had just left her mouth in that soft, dreamy tone she always used when talking about star charts or the migration patterns of magical creatures or the crows that always watched them from the rooftops. She had said it like she was commenting on a cup of tea. Like it was obvious. Like it was nothing.
And yet, his body didn't think it was nothing. His body reacted before his mind even had the chance to catch up. His breath turned ragged. Heat shot down his spine, flooding his limbs, coiling low in his gut like something alive, something ancient, something feral. He blinked, his voice deserting him, his mouth opening only to fail him utterly as he croaked out the only sound he could manage: "What?"
She shifted beside him, entirely unbothered, entirely composed, and propped herself up on one elbow, the movement slow and lazy and deeply, unfairly sensual. Her pale hair cascaded around her shoulders like starlight spun into silk, and her silver-blue eyes locked onto him with a calm, steady intensity that made his skin feel too tight. And then—because apparently she was a madwoman with no sense of mercy—she clarified. She clarified. As if the original statement hadn't already sent him into orbit.
"Your cock, Theodore. I want to taste it."
He stopped breathing. Full stop. Just—ceased all respiratory function.
Every thought he had ever had promptly exited the building. His grip on the sheets went white-knuckled, his muscles tensed, his entire nervous system flooding with panic and arousal and complete and utter confusion. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die. He wanted to grab her and beg her to never say that again. He wanted to grab her and beg her to say it every night for the rest of his life. He wanted to know what he had done in a past life to deserve this torment. He wanted to know what gods she had bribed to come into his life and completely fucking destroy him with ten words.
And yet—he still couldn't speak. He just lay there, vibrating with tension, blinking at her like a broken automaton, his brain chanting some unhelpful mantra like this is happening, this is real, this is Luna, this is how I die. Because if she touched him now, if she even looked at him like that again, he was going to lose the last shred of control he had. Not because he didn't want it—gods, he wanted it—but because it would mean surrendering in a way he didn't think he could come back from.
Because if she put her mouth on him, that would be it. He'd be hers. Forever.
He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply, forcing himself to stay still, to not react, to not immediately roll her onto her back and give her whatever the hell she wanted, because—fuck, fuck, fuck—what was he supposed to do with that?
His pulse was erratic, pounding, a brutal rhythm slamming against his ribs, his entire body caught between the rapid-fire explosion of disbelief and the unbearable, gut-wrenching desire to just—
No.
He couldn't.
He shouldn't.
She was half-asleep, she had just cast protective spells, they were still reeling from everything that had happened, and this was absolutely not the moment for this.
And yet.
Yet.
His body had already made up its mind.
She shifted beside him, the mattress dipping, her warmth pressing closer, and he had to physically restrain himself from reacting, had to grit his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might snap, had to focus on breathing properly, because his cock was already responding, already fucking aching, already straining against the thin material of his pants in a way that was going to be a serious problem if she kept talking.
His pulse was erratic, pounding out a brutal rhythm that slammed against the cage of his ribs with every passing second, each thud so sharp, so loud, it felt like a war drum echoing beneath his skin, warning of the collapse that was inevitable, inescapable, looming just beyond the threshold of restraint, his entire body caught in the violent push and pull between the all-consuming disbelief threatening to knock him flat and the far more dangerous, far more visceral hunger that had rooted itself deep in his gut and was now clawing its way to the surface like something starved and feral, begging to be fed. And gods, he tried—he tried to tell himself no, tried to tell himself this wasn't happening, couldn't be happening, shouldn't be happening, that he was stronger than this, that he could pull away, that he could resist the siren pull of her breath, of her warmth, of the infuriating way she settled beside him like she had no idea what she was doing to him—but it was already too late, because his body had decided for him, long before his mind could keep up, long before he had even processed the words that had fallen from her lips like honey-laced poison, because she had shifted, just slightly, just enough to press her thigh against his, and that was all it took to destroy him.
The mattress dipped beneath her slow, sleepy movement, her body folding closer to his with a softness that should have been comforting but instead sent a vicious shudder rolling down his spine, because it wasn't just the warmth of her skin against his—it was the implication, the weight of her presence, the knowledge of what she had just said, what she had offered, what she was about to do, and fuck, he had to grit his teeth to keep from reacting, had to dig his nails into his palms so hard they left crescents of pain just to keep himself grounded, had to suck in ragged, shallow breaths because his cock was already throbbing, already twitching beneath the thin barrier of his pants, already aching so badly it bordered on agony, the kind of ache that made it hard to think, hard to reason, hard to do anything but want.
He forced himself—truly forced himself—to look at her, to meet her gaze, to try to find something that might stop him from free-falling into whatever this was, from giving in to the devastating gravity of her, and gods, he hoped she was teasing, hoped this was one of her strange, surreal, Luna-isms, something cryptic or absurd that he could brush off, laugh at, pretend didn't shake him down to his bones—but when his eyes met hers, he knew. She wasn't teasing. There was no mischief in her gaze, no joke waiting to be unwrapped, no illusion to hide behind. Her face was calm, unreadable in that way that only she could be, but there was something so steady, so certain, so hauntingly sincere in her eyes, like she had already decided what was going to happen and was simply waiting for him to catch up.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, dragging one hand up to press the heel of his palm against his forehead, as if he could physically block out the thoughts flooding his mind, as if he could contain the avalanche of need that was crashing through him, and his voice—when it finally came—was hoarse and raw and barely more than a whisper, wrecked from the effort of trying to stay upright in a moment that was steadily unraveling him from the inside out. "You... you don't have to."
But she didn't move, didn't pull back, didn't even blink. She just looked at him, gaze soft but unwavering, her hands already moving with a purpose that made his breath hitch, already sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming the planes of his stomach like she was cataloging him, learning him, claiming him piece by piece with every slow stroke. Her fingers moved to the waistband of his pants, to the string tied loosely at his hip, and gods, he should have stopped her, he knew that, but he couldn't, not when she was looking at him like he was something holy, not when her mouth was curling into a slow, deliciously dangerous smile that told him she knew exactly what she was doing, exactly what effect she had on him, and was about to enjoy every second of his unravelling.
"Jesus Christ, Theodore..." she murmured, eyes dragging down his body with slow, reverent heat that made his stomach twist and his hips jerk up involuntarily, and then she smiled—smirked, really—smug and sinful and entirely too pleased with herself, "Explains the confidence."
He barely managed to bite back a sound that might have been a groan, might have been a curse, might have been his soul physically trying to leave his body, because her fingers were already brushing against him, already closing around him, already learning the weight of him in her hand, and he was going to die, he was actually going to die. Every thought fled his mind the second she touched him—real, undeniable, intentional—and the sensation hit him like a shockwave, a bolt of heat that spread from the base of his spine all the way to the tips of his fingers, every nerve ending lighting up with pleasure and panic and want, and her breath caught too, her lips parting slightly, her eyes going wide as she felt the size of him, the heat, the sheer tension humming through his entire body like he was about to snap.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but let her touch him, let her explore him, let her memorize the feel of him under her fingers. And then—of course, because she was unholy and glorious—she smirked again, slow and dangerous, like she was just getting started, like she had only just begun to see how far she could push him.
His name tore from his throat, low and broken and helpless, "Luna..." a prayer and a warning all at once, his hands hovering near her, not daring to touch, not trusting himself to so much as brush her skin without losing every last ounce of restraint he had left. "I told you... you don't have to—"
That was when she laughed, quiet and sultry and devastatingly pleased, as if the very suggestion that she might not want this was absurd, as if she was already halfway through deciding which of his weaknesses she wanted to exploit next. Her pale hair fell forward as she tilted her head, her eyes catching the light just enough to shine, and then she whispered, voice low and thick and lethal, "Oh, Theodore."
And then, she moved.
She leaned down slowly, deliberately, and the heat of her breath against his cock nearly broke him, his hips jerking again despite himself, his fists clenching in the sheets to keep from grabbing her, from thrusting up, from losing what little control he still clung to. Her lips brushed over the head of him, so soft, so gentle, it was almost unbearable, a whisper of contact that was somehow worse than none at all, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't fucking think, couldn't exist under the weight of her touch. Her fingers held his hips steady, firm and commanding, keeping him in place like he was the wild one, like she was the one taming him, and not the other way around.
And then, she did it.
She kissed his cock.
Soft. Slow. Ruining.
The breath that ripped from Theo's chest didn't sound human, didn't sound like anything he could've controlled, didn't even sound like pain or pleasure—it was some ragged thing pulled from the depths of him, something raw and exposed and impossible to name, a sound that told the truth long before he was ready to admit it. His whole body locked, seized, coiled, trembling with restraint so tightly wound it might've drawn blood, every muscle straining under the weight of the sensation that had just surged down his spine like lightning setting fire to every nerve it touched—and just as he tried to catch his breath, just as he struggled to pull himself back from the edge, just as he thought maybe he could get a handle on it—she did it again.
But this time it was worse.
More pressure. More confidence. Her mouth opened with deliberate slowness, her tongue slipping out like she had all the time in the world, and she dragged it against him in a long, unhurried glide, so precise and devastatingly focused it made his thighs twitch, his back arch, his hands clench hard enough into the sheets that he half-expected the threads to snap beneath his grip. His breath came out in a broken whimper—sharp, high, wrecked—and the shame of it didn't even have time to reach him before she moaned against him.
She moaned.
Luna Lovegood moaned, low and ruined and hungry, and the sound echoed through him like a curse, like a spell, like something ancient and binding and irreversible. His body jerked in response, hips twitching upward, need tearing through him with such brutal force it was nearly dizzying, and before he knew what he was doing, his hands were in her hair—gentle, reverent, desperate—not to force her, not even close, but because he needed to hold something, needed something to anchor himself to, or he was going to fall apart completely.
"Baby, please," he gasped, the words spilling from him like blood, like confession, his voice raw and guttural, more broken than it had ever been, as if this moment—this unbearable, perfect, holy fucking moment—was something he couldn't survive without surrendering to it entirely.
And she didn't stop.
She didn't slow.
She hummed.
She actually hummed around him like this was nothing, like his unraveling was an offering she'd been waiting to collect, like the fact that he was shaking, trembling, gripping the sheets like he was holding on to the last threads of his own sanity—like that was her plan all along. The vibration tore through him like an electric current, and he swore, actually swore, full-body convulsed, because he had never in his life experienced anything that felt like this, never imagined it could feel like this, and Luna—Luna, with her star eyes and soft mouth and maddening certainty—was going to break him.
She moaned again, needy, desperate, like she was the one losing control now, and his entire body jolted like he'd been struck, his hips jerking forward instinctively, sinking deeper, and gods help him, she let him. She didn't stop. She just took it, just kept going, and the world tilted around him, his breath gone, his mind blank, his vision blurring at the edges as need swallowed him whole.
And just when he thought she couldn't possibly destroy him further, just when he thought maybe—maybe—he could get a hold of himself, she looked at him.
Not a glance. Not a flutter of lashes. She looked.
Big, round, silver-blue eyes staring up at him with a gaze so steady, so knowing, so unapologetically possessive it felt like being claimed. Like she was reading his soul and daring it to fight her. Her mouth was full of him, her hands pressed to his hips like she owned him, her entire body aligned with his like she had always known this would happen, and when he whimpered—actually whimpered like some man brought to his knees by nothing more than a girl's mouth—she smirked.
That little knowing curve of her lips that wrecked him worse than anything she'd done physically. That wicked, delighted, all-seeing smirk that said she'd planned this from the start.
"Fucking hell, baby," he groaned, every inch of him shaking, his hands flexing helplessly in her hair, every warning bell in his body screaming that he was seconds away from going off the edge, from crossing a line he wouldn't be able to uncross, from falling so far into her he'd never get out again.
And maybe she knew that. Maybe that was the point.
Because she never broke eye contact.
Because she hollowed her cheeks and went deeper.
Because she let him feel all of it.
And just before he completely shattered, just before the fire in his spine turned into something molten and irreversible, just before the tension building low in his gut finally snapped, she pulled back just enough to murmur, breathless, amused, wild with power—
"You taste like a fucking storm."
And then—then—she took him deeper than he thought physically possible.
And Theodore Nott, who had survived war, torture, loss, nightmares, and the literal haunting of a Skinwalker spirit, was utterly destroyed by the mouth of a girl who loved the stars.
She was a vision above him, a goddess carved from moonlight and madness, her confidence gleaming like a blade in the low light, her smirk sharp enough to cut through the fraying thread of his self-control. She knew exactly what she was doing to him—knew it in the way she moved, in the way her thighs caged his hips, in the way her eyes dragged over him like she owned him. And maybe she did. Maybe she always had. Because Theo was wrecked—utterly and completely ruined—and she hadn't even taken him inside her yet.
He should've warned her. Should've told her she was playing with fire. That she was tempting a man who hadn't known softness until she gave it to him and who wouldn't know how to let go of it now that he'd tasted it. But the words never made it past his lips—because she shifted, slow and steady, and wrapped her fingers around his cock like she was testing his soul for weaknesses.
His hands shot to her hips, clutching her with bruising intensity, his thumbs pressing into the soft curve of her waist like he needed her to be real, to stay, to never fucking leave again. And then—Merlin, then—she guided herself down.
Slow. Deliberate. Devastating.
His breath tore from his lungs in a raw, guttural groan, his spine bowing, his eyes slamming shut as she took him, inch by slow, agonizing inch, until she was seated fully, completely, wrapped around him like she'd been made to take him, like she wanted every unbearable inch of him, like she wasn't satisfied unless she felt him everywhere.
His hands trembled. His jaw locked. His muscles clenched so tightly it hurt. She was molten around him—hot and slick and pulsing in a way that shattered his brain and rewired his every instinct until all that was left was need, primal and raw and helpless.
"Luna," he rasped, his voice wrecked, shattered, more of a sound than a word.
She leaned over him, her hair brushing across his chest like a caress, her nails grazing his ribs, her lips pressing to his throat with a smile that burned. "I know," she whispered, smug and sweet and so, so cruel.
And that did it.
Something uncoiled inside him, something dangerous, something he'd been barely holding back for days, weeks, fucking months. His grip tightened, possessive, reverent, desperate, holding her still as he pulsed inside her, fighting the edge that was already so close it terrified him. She was trembling—just a little—but enough for him to feel it. Enough for him to know that she was just as far gone.
He could feel everything—every tight clench of her around him, every shift of her hips as she tested the drag, the stretch, the friction that had him choking on a moan. She was soaking him, already so wet that it was obscene, slick and hot and perfect. She rocked against him, just once, slow and teasing, and his head tipped back with a groan that might've been a prayer or a curse.
"Luna..." He was panting now, like he'd been sprinting, like his body couldn't keep up with the heat curling low in his belly, threatening to break him open. "I've never... never done this before."
She stilled, her breath catching, and then her hands were on his face, thumbs tracing the cut of his cheekbones like he was something sacred. Her gaze softened, warm and open and full of something that nearly destroyed him. "That's okay," she whispered, and fuck, it was like a spell, the way she said it. "You don't have to know what to do. Just tell me what you want."
His throat worked around the words, breath ragged, hands shaking where they held her. His eyes met hers, wild and desperate and filled with too much. "You," he said, hoarse and broken and real. "Fuck, just you. I want you to come on my cock."
And that smile.
That slow, curling, wicked smile that made him want to lose himself in her for the rest of his fucking life.
"I'll ride you," she said, her voice a purr, her hands trailing down his chest, over his stomach, her nails catching just enough to make him flinch, to make his cock twitch inside her. "And you'll touch my clit. Just a little. I want to feel you trying to hold it together while I fall apart on you. It's going to be so fucking good, love."
Love.
She said love.
And he was done for.
Theo could barely breathe, his lungs dragged tight with want, every nerve in his body firing under her touch, every muscle straining as she rocked against him with the kind of slow, deliberate control that told him she was doing this on purpose—testing him, teasing him, driving him right to the edge and keeping him there, hovering, burning, undone. Her hips rolled in a steady rhythm, deep and slow, so slow it was maddening, the tight, wet heat of her clenching around him every time she sank back down making his head spin. His hands gripped her waist, thumbs digging into her skin like he needed her to anchor him, to tether him to the moment before he completely lost himself in it.
She moved like she was meant to ruin him—languid, confident, sure of every reaction, sure of every gasp, every moan, every curse he breathed into her shoulder. And fuck, he couldn't stop watching her. Her head was tilted back, her lips parted on a soft, wrecked sigh, her body gleaming with sweat in the low candlelight, her breasts brushing against his chest with every slow grind of her hips, and he wanted to memorize it all—burn it into him, carve it into his bones, never forget the way she looked when she was taking him like this, like she owned him.
And she did.
Gods, she did.
"Luna—fuck," he groaned, voice raw, broken, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she clenched around him again, tighter this time, pulling a ragged sound from deep in his chest. "You're going to kill me."
She laughed, quiet and breathless, leaning down to press her mouth to the corner of his lips, her voice a silk-soft murmur as her fingers threaded through his damp hair. "Not yet," she whispered, biting gently at his jaw. "Not until I've had every last drop of you."
His control snapped like thread stretched too tight.
With a low growl, he surged upward, catching her mouth with his, one hand bracing at her back, the other tangling in her hair, dragging her down to him as he kissed her hard, open-mouthed and desperate, all tongue and teeth and heat. His hips bucked into her, harder now, meeting her rhythm with raw, unrestrained hunger, and she moaned into his mouth, her fingers tightening in his hair, her thighs squeezing around him.
Their bodies moved in tandem now, faster, messier, rougher, the slick sounds of skin against skin filling the room, her breath stuttering every time he thrust up into her, his name falling from her lips in broken whimpers, again and again and again like a spell, like a prayer. Theo couldn't take it—the way she felt, the way she sounded, the way she looked—wild and flushed and perfect, her body trembling above him, her hands gripping his shoulders like she didn't know how to let go.
"I'm close," she whispered, and those two words nearly undid him.
"Come for me," he begged, voice shaking, forehead pressed to hers, his thumb sliding down to circle her clit again, desperate, devoted, unrelenting. "Come on my cock, Luna. Want to feel you—want to feel it—please, baby."
Her entire body arched, her mouth falling open in a gasp that turned into a cry as her orgasm tore through her—sharp, hot, consuming. She clenched around him so tightly he saw stars, his breath catching in his throat, his vision white at the edges. She shuddered above him, her nails dragging down his back, her lips brushing his as she moaned through the aftershocks, and it was too much—she was too much.
He thrust once, twice more—then he was gone, spilling into her with a broken sound that barely passed as her name, his body locking up, his hands buried in her skin, every inch of him straining toward her, into her, because of her.
It was bliss. It was agony. It was everything.
They stayed like that for a long time, trembling, panting, hearts racing, skin slick and glowing, their limbs tangled, their bodies still joined. Theo's arms wrapped around her tightly, his face buried in her neck, trying to catch his breath, trying to come back to himself.
But there was no "back" anymore.
This was it.
This was home.
And when Luna whispered, "You're mine now," against his ear, he didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
He already was.
He wasn't thinking anymore, wasn't worrying, wasn't overanalyzing the way he always did. It was just them. Just this. Just the intoxicating feel of her wrapped around him, her body molding to his in a way that felt like fate. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that—her riding him, him tracing soft, lazy circles over her clit, both of them caught in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that built, and built, and built, until his breath was coming out in ragged pants and her thighs were trembling against his.
"I need—" Her voice was barely a whisper, breathless and wrecked, her fingers digging into his chest as her movements stuttered, as if she was right on the edge but waiting for something, waiting for him.
He could barely think straight, his head spinning, his entire body shaking with the effort to hold himself back, but still, he murmured, "Tell me what you need, baby."
She didn't hesitate. "More."
More. As if he wasn't already completely consumed by her. As if he wasn't already lost.
He shifted, pulling her down, rolling them both over in one fluid movement until she was beneath him, caged between his arms, completely at his mercy. He kissed her deeply, possessively, his hands roaming down her body, squeezing, claiming, memorizing every inch of her, until he reached the soft curve of her arse.
He hesitated for a moment, his mind hazy but still clear enough to register that this was different, new, something they had never done before. But when he slid his fingers lower, brushing against that tight, untouched place, she whimpered. And fuck, that sound—it undid him.
"You trust me?" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a growl.
"Yes," she whispered.
His breath caught, something sharp and painful and fucking terrifying lodging itself in his throat, something he wasn't ready to say yet, something that sat on the tip of his tongue, aching to be spoken, but instead, he pressed his lips to her temple, kissed her softly, slowly, before pulling back just enough to look into her eyes.
"Relax for me," he murmured, his fingers already moving lower, already pressing against her, already teasing, slow and gentle, circling, easing her open.
She gasped, her body tensing for a split second before melting into his touch, before shifting beneath him, adjusting, offering herself to him in a way that made his chest fucking ache. He stroked her gently, carefully, savoring every little sound, every sharp intake of breath, every tremor of pleasure that rippled through her as he prepared her for him.
When he finally pressed the head of his cock against her, he went slow, so fucking slow, watching her, waiting, making sure she was ready. And when she let out a soft, needy moan, when she clutched his shoulders and arched into him, he knew—she was perfect.
"Gods, Luna," he groaned, his forehead pressing against hers as he pushed in deeper, her body stretching to accommodate him, taking him inch by torturous inch, until he was completely buried inside her. He was shaking, his arms trembling as he held himself up, his entire body locked in place because fuck—he had never felt anything like this.
She was shaking too, her breath coming out in soft little gasps, her nails raking down his back, but when he brushed his lips against her cheek, when he whispered her name like a prayer, she sighed into him, her body relaxing, yielding, taking him in like she was made for him.
"Move," she pleaded, her voice raw, broken, desperate.
And fuck, he did.
He moved slowly at first, savoring the tightness, the heat, the absolute perfection of her wrapped around him, but then her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and all he could do was give her what she wanted.
It was a slow, devastating build, pleasure coiling low in his spine, threatening to snap with every thrust, every desperate moan that left her lips, every time she whispered his name like it was the only thing she could remember.
He was close, too close, barely hanging on, but he needed her to come again, needed to feel her fall apart before he let himself go. He reached between them, his fingers finding that perfect, swollen bundle of nerves, rubbing soft, teasing circles, pushing her closer, dragging her right to the edge until she was gasping, writhing, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded.
She shattered again.
She cried out, her entire body tensing, her nails digging into his skin, her thighs squeezing around him as she came, her release pulsing around him, dragging him under, pulling him down with her.
His rhythm faltered, his vision blurred, and then he was gone, pleasure crashing over him in waves, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside her, his breath ragged, his heart pounding, his name falling from her lips like a hymn.
He collapsed against her, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, his body still trembling, still aching, still reeling from the sheer fucking intensity of it all.
He almost said it then.
Almost whispered it into her skin, almost let himself admit what he had known for so long.
I love you.
But instead, he held her closer, kissed her temple, and let the moment stretch between them, knowing—when the time was right, when the words finally broke free, when he could no longer hold them back—she would already know.