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This won’t last, Luna knows, but she allows it anyway, so desperate to feel anything besides pain and fear and sadness.
Dean’s hands are cold, but they touch her just right, treating her like she is precious but not like she’s made of glass and his lips, oh, his lips.
Her hands knot in his hair- it’s gotten long during their time in Malfoy Manor, and it flops down over his eyes now in tight coils.
They are the softest thing she has ever touched.
Shell Cottage is empty, gloriously empty, and they are alone together- Harry, Ron and Hermione gone to save the world, Bill and Fleur to deal with the fallout from the Golden Trio’s break in- breakout from Gringotts.
Luna makes a noise of protest as Dean breaks their kiss. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” He asks her in a way that is too serious for the moment, his artist’s eye taking in every single dip and curve like he is memorizing her to paint her later- a moon he can catch and keep.
She doesn’t answer except to crinkle her nose in skepticism, knowing this is a rhetorical question. Luna cannot think of herself as beautiful- her breasts are too small, her body too lean, her eyes too large for her face. Dean gives a little laugh and palms her breast, leaning down to nuzzle her chest. And then nuzzles her stomach. And then further down. When he looks up from between her thighs, pointer fingers hooked around her plain blue cotton underwear, asking with his eyes if he may continue, Luna would swear on the danger of drowning in those pools of cognac, more intoxicating than any liquor could ever hope to be.
Luna has long believed in creatures who many would claim don’t exist; but when Dean enters her for the first time, velvet unto satin, she does not call out the names of gods and goddesses long dead. Instead, she chants his name over and over, this boy who has been her grounding point, her tether, for months, who looks at her like she is art.
“Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean.”
Like all good things, it cannot last forever. Afterwards they lay curled in the guest room bed of Shell Cottage, on white sheets that smell like sex, lavender and honey. Dean’s eyes flutter as he slumbers, though he holds her close, a hand that had been mapping constellations onto her skin now stilled on her hip. Luna looks at her hair- spread over his chest like snow over raw, exposed earth- and waits, feeling the ticking of a clock in her bones. Hopefully whoever he gets with after her treats him right- Dean is a good man. He has been through enough hardship.
Luna feels melancholy enough to wish, just for a moment, that person could be her.
Throwing on Dean’s shirt- an old, borrowed button up of Bill’s- Luna runs to the restroom, considering drawing a bath for her aching muscles, but willing to settle for a shower. She’s nearly alarmed by the sudden heat over her chest, until she realizes it’s round. Fumbling, she manages to claw Dean’s DA galleon out of the chest pocket, reading the date and time on it.
Today.
It’s today, then.
In an hour.
Shower forgotten, Luna rushes back to the bedroom, shaking the handsome boy awake.
“Dean. It’s time.” His cognac colored eyes fly open at her urgent tone, his hand reaching for his wand, the one he had made at the instruction of Ollivander. Dean scans the room for threats, just like they were taught in the DA, before returning his eyes to her, eyebrows quirked in unasked question.
Luna holds out the Galleon, unaware of the way the shirt moves to expose most of her nude body. “It’s time, Dean. Harry needs us.”