Luna was in the final stretch of her pregnancy—the absolute last days—and she was beyond done. Exhausted. Miserable. If one more person so much as breathed in her direction with a look of concern, she was liable to hex them into oblivion. Her body, once lithe and weightless, now felt like it had been overtaken by an entirely separate entity, a massive, unwieldy presence that made everything—breathing, walking, existing—an ordeal.
She was, in her own words, a giant, waddling melon, an overstuffed, magically expanded version of herself that had long since passed the point of glowing into something much more… feral. Theo had gently corrected her once, murmuring something about how beautiful she looked, about how ethereal she still was even now, but the look she had shot him—sharp enough to make him rethink every life choice that had led him to that moment—had shut him up immediately.
It wasn't just the sheer, overwhelming weight of her belly or the dull, throbbing ache in her lower back that made her want to scream into the void. It was everything. Everyone. Every little thing felt like an attack, a personal, targeted attempt to test the limits of her patience.
Theo? Obsessed. More than usual. If Luna so much as shifted slightly in her seat, his head snapped toward her like an overprotective predator, eyes scanning her every movement with the intensity of a man ready to fight death itself to keep her comfortable. If she sighed? He appeared. If she groaned in frustration? He was there, hands hovering inches from her body, waiting—practically vibrating—for the moment she might need something. A pillow. Water. A spell to float her so she wouldn't have to walk.
Once, she had merely adjusted the way she was sitting on the sofa, and before she even had the chance to plant her feet back on the ground, Theo had full-body lifted her like she was some delicate porcelain doll, carrying her off toward the bedroom with the clear, determined plan to force her to rest.
"Theo, I was just trying to get more comfortable," she had gritted out, limbs flailing slightly as she tried to convince him to release her at once.
"You shouldn't have to try to get comfortable," he had countered, his grip unyielding, his voice filled with obscene levels of worry.
Her death glare could have ended him, but to his credit, he was unfazed.
Lysander had been forcibly removed—well, tactically exiled under the guise of a much-needed "sleepover"—to the Malfoy household, where he was currently living out a life of luxury and bribery at the hands of an exasperated but ultimately powerless Malfoy. This decision had not been made lightly; it was not an overreaction, nor an impulsive moment of parental frustration. No, it was a necessity. Because Luna Lovegood-Nott had reached her absolute breaking point.
She had been sick of everyone in the past few weeks, but today? Today, she was something else entirely. A menace. An unholy force of nature. A walking storm cloud brimming with unfiltered rage, her very presence sending shivers through the foundation of Nott Manor. And Theodore? Theodore fucking Nott? He was on the thinnest ice known to mankind, ice so fragile that it barely even existed beneath his feet, ice so insubstantial that even the gods themselves would not dare stand upon it.
Thinner than parchment. Thinner than the microscopic line between devoted husband and unbearable nuisance, a line that Theo had not only crossed but obliterated, to the point where he was now residing in an entirely different dimension, orbiting reality itself.
Luna had already yelled at him more than fifty-two times. It was not an exaggeration. It was a fact. She had counted. And it wasn't even nine in the evening.
It had started before dawn, before the sun had even considered rising, when Luna had simply tried—tried—to sit up in bed, only for Theo to react like a lunatic, launching forward as if she were about to plummet off a cliff. His eyes had been wild with concern, his body already halfway out of bed as if preparing for some urgent, life-threatening mission. His voice had been breathless, fraught with unnecessary intensity, filled with all the unnecessary drama that made her want to scream.
"What do you need? I'll get it for you," he had practically pleaded, hovering over her like a human shield.
She had glared at him through sleep-heavy eyes, voice scratchy with exhaustion, her entire being vibrating with barely restrained rage. "To sit up."
Had that stopped him? Of course not. Because why would it? Instead of allowing her the basic human decency of moving under her own power, he had cradled her, assisted her, pressed a hand to her back as if she were some delicate, breakable thing incapable of basic motor function.
"Theo," she had gritted out, her fingers digging into his wrist with enough force to bruise, her patience thinner than it had ever been in her entire life. "Stop touching me."
Did he stop touching her?
Absolutely not.
Instead, he had spent the entire morning lingering. Hovering. Breathing down her neck like some insufferable, overbearing, possessive demon hellbent on making her life miserable. He wouldn't stop kissing her, pressing infuriatingly gentle pecks to her temple, to her shoulder when she sat down, to her forehead every time she sighed, like he thought he could kiss the irritation out of her. By noon, he had earned his thirty-seventh scolding of the day, but did that deter him? No. Because Theodore fucking Nott was many things—ruthless, intelligent, devastatingly attractive—but he was also, and above all else, a fool.
He was still doing it.
Still following her around like a cursed, lovesick puppy, touching her at every opportunity. A hand on her lower back, a brush of his thumb over her knuckles, an unbearable, featherlight touch to her stomach every time she so much as paused mid-sentence, as though he was checking on something that he could not physically check on.
She had spent three entire minutes glaring at a potted plant, willing herself not to pick it up and hurl it at his stupid, beautiful head.
Did Theo take the hint?
Of course not.
By eight o'clock, Luna was convinced he was doing it on purpose, because surely no one—not even him—could be this oblivious. She had yelled at him for kissing her. She had yelled at him for hovering while she reached for her tea. She had yelled at him for existing too loudly while she tried to nap. And still, the absolute lunatic had the audacity to sit beside her on the sofa, sigh dramatically, and press yet another kiss to her temple.
She snapped.
"Are you incapable of existing without breathing directly on me?!"
Theo blinked, lips still slightly parted from where he had just kissed her. His expression was one of complete, absolute, moronic confusion, as if he had no idea what she could possibly be upset about.
Her voice, sharp as a dagger, cut through the air like a spell cast with full, murderous intent. "Answer wisely, Theodore, because I am one spell away from making you experience a level of discomfort you have never known before."
And Theo? Theo, in all his foolish recklessness, had smirked.
Smirked.
The gods were testing her. That was the only explanation.
"You like me too much to hex me, Moonbeam," he had murmured, his voice smug, slow, a challenge wrapped in warmth. And then, as if the first offense hadn't been enough, he had leaned in again, pressing his lips just below her jaw, brushing the skin there with infuriating slowness.
A beat of silence.
"Bobsy, bring me my wand."
Bobsy yelped.
And Theo?
Theo ran.
Because for all his foolishness, for all his arrogance, for all his absolutely insufferable behavior, even he knew—deep in his bones—that he had finally pushed his wife too far.
Getting ready for bed was nothing short of an ordeal, a nightly battle that Theo had learned to navigate with the caution of a man tiptoeing through a field of cursed runes. He had been reckless once—once—early in the pregnancy, when he still believed he had rights in his own home, when he still thought he could suggest things like let me help you, my love or maybe you should get some rest.
Those foolish, naive days were long behind him. Now, he had evolved, adapted, learned. He knew better than to speak when she sighed dramatically as she struggled to pull one of his shirts over her head, he knew better than to offer assistance when she glared at her own swollen feet as if they had personally betrayed her, and most of all, he knew better than to even breathe too loudly when she huffed and puffed her way under the blankets, muttering curses under her breath about how her life was ruined and how he was solely responsible for it.
So he sat there. Silent. Bouncing his foot like a child begging for sweets, antsy, restless, his knee bobbing up and down with a nervous energy that refused to be contained.
Because unlike Lysander, who only ever wanted sugar, Theo wanted something far sweeter. Something he ached for, burned for, something that he had been denied again and again in favor of back rubs and foot massages and fetching snacks from the kitchen at all hours of the night.
He wanted her.
He wanted to sink into her, to feel her wrapped around him, to taste her on his tongue, to drink her in like she was the only thing keeping him alive. He needed her, and yet here he was, starving, suffering, denied access to the very thing he craved most. It was unfair. It was cruel. And worst of all, she knew it.
She turned her head to look at him, her silver-blue eyes narrowing in pure unfiltered disgust, her entire face twisting as if he were something filthy, something obscene, something that needed to be exterminated immediately.
And oh, fuck, he loved it.
Her fury, her impatience, her sharp, cutting glare—it only made him want her more.
"What do you want?" she snapped, her voice sharp and merciless, cutting through the heavy silence of the room like a blade pressed against his throat.
Theo swallowed thickly, the lump in his throat making it nearly impossible to speak. His body was betraying him, his fingers curling into the sheets, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his mouth parting, but no words coming out.
"Nothing…" he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, though they both knew it was a lie.
Luna bristled, her eyes flashing dangerously, her lips curling in something that was not quite a smirk, but not quite anger either.
"Tell me."
His pulse skyrocketed.
His hands tightened on the sheets.
His body throbbed with the sheer force of his need.
It all came spilling out like a dam had finally collapsed inside him.
"YOU!" he burst out, his voice hoarse, desperate, shaking. "I WANT YOU! I NEED YOU! I NEED TO TASTE YOU!" His breathing was uneven, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with unfiltered, unrestrained longing. "Please, please, pleaaaaseeeeeeee—"
He was a mess, an absolute disaster of a man, a pathetic little thing, undone by her, wrecked by her, and she just stared at him.
Stared. Blinking. Unmoved. Unimpressed.
And then—
Oh. Oh, she smirked.
A slow, knowing, devastating smirk that sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through his body, a smirk that told him everything, that confirmed what he already knew in the deepest parts of himself.
She adored it. She lived for his suffering. She relished in his obsession. And Merlin help him, he would burn for her.
Luna moved slowly—deliberately—as if she had all the time in the world, as if she wanted him to suffer, as if the way his breath hitched and his fingers twitched at his sides fed something deep inside her. She knew what she was doing to him, she knew the effect she had, and she dragged it out, savoring every second, watching with sharp, calculating amusement as the composure he fought so hard to maintain crumbled at her feet.
He was so easy, wasn't he? So predictable in his desire for her, so pathetically enthralled by the mere idea of touching her, tasting her, devouring her. And he thought he was dangerous. He thought he was the one people feared. But in this room, in this bed, with her—he was nothing but a man reduced to his basest, most primal form, trembling, aching, waiting.
She moved lazily, stretching her limbs like a spoiled cat, her silver-blue eyes flicking over him with the kind of slow, deliberate gaze that made him feel completely exposed, as if she were peeling him apart piece by piece. And then, as if sensing just how much torment he could endure before he snapped, she lifted her hips, the hem of her nightgown dragging painfully slowly up her thighs, teasing the barest glimpse of soft, pale skin beneath before shifting back down again.
His whole body locked up.
He didn't breathe. He couldn't.
It was cruel, the way she played with him, the way she made his own anticipation work against him. The longer she stretched this out, the more he burned, the more he ached, the closer he got to breaking apart entirely.
And then, just as he felt his restraint begin to fray at the edges, just as he thought he might explode from the sheer force of wanting her, she reached out—casually, effortlessly—and touched his face.
Her fingers skimmed over his jawline, feather-light, tracing the stubble there as if she were considering him, as if she were deciding whether or not he was worthy of whatever came next.
And then, with that maddening, devastating voice of hers, she whispered, "The love of my life is begging… begging for me?"
He shuddered.
"Yes," he rasped, barely able to form the word, barely able to think beyond the white-hot need pounding through his veins. It wasn't even a word at this point—it was a surrender, an offering, an admission that he was hers to do with as she pleased.
Her lips curled into something wicked, something pleased, something that told him she had no intention of making this easy for him. "If you beg more," she murmured, her nails dragging so lightly down his throat, pausing right over the spot where his pulse thundered beneath her touch, "you can have it."
He broke.
Completely. Utterly. Shamelessly.
He begged—pleaded, prayed—words spilling from his mouth without thought, without pride, without dignity. He had none of that left anyway. Not when it came to her. Not when she held him like this, dangling him over the edge of something so unbearable, so desperate, that he would have done anything—anything—to make her end his suffering.
And oh, she knew it.
She knew she owned him.
She watched him unravel, watched the way his hands fisted in the sheets, the way his lips parted in wordless desperation, the way his entire body strained toward her like he was on the verge of collapse.
Only then—only when she had wrung every last bit of control from him, when she had left him a shaking, ruined mess, when his voice was nothing more than a whisper of desperate prayers on her skin, when his hands trembled with the force of his restraint, when his eyes, dark and blown wide with hunger, could do nothing but follow the slow, deliberate movement of her legs parting—only then did she finally grant him mercy, finally open herself to him, finally give him the permission that he had been dying for.
And it was like something inside him snapped, like the thin thread of his control frayed and burned in an instant, like he had been holding himself back for too long, teetering on the edge of madness, and now, with her spread before him, her breath coming in soft, hitched gasps, her body pulsing with anticipation—he was free.
But he did not rush. No, he was too obsessed with her for that, too entranced by the way her skin shivered beneath his touch, by the way she was already panting, already falling apart before he had even touched her properly. He needed to take his time, needed to make sure she felt just how much he worshipped her, how much he lived for this, how much he would burn for her.
He started slow, dragging his lips across the smooth expanse of her thigh, teasing, lingering, breathing her in as if he could commit every inch of her to memory, as if the scent of her, the warmth of her, the taste of her skin was something he could never get enough of. And he couldn't. He never could. He never would.
His hands were firm but reverent as they slid up her body, fingers splaying against her waist, his touch leaving trails of fire wherever he moved. He kissed up her stomach, his lips brushing over the soft swell of her belly, the heat of his mouth lingering on her skin as if he was marking her, as if he wanted her to feel him long after he was done.
He dragged his mouth higher, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to her ribs, the curve of her breast, the delicate skin above her heart, all the while listening to her, watching her, drinking in the way her breath hitched, the way her hands flexed against the sheets, the way her entire body responded to him as if it belonged to him completely.
And when he finally, finally took her nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just enough to make her whimper—she arched beneath him, her body offering itself to him, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tugging, pulling, desperate for more, desperate for anything, and he felt it, felt the way she trembled beneath him, the way her thighs clenched, the way her breath turned ragged, and fuck, she was so close already, so on edge, so ready for him, so perfectly ruined beneath the barest of his touches.
"Look at you," he murmured against her skin, dragging his teeth along her flushed breast, flicking his tongue over the hardened peak again just to feel the way she gasped, just to hear that tiny, helpless sound that made his cock ache. "So sensitive, my little angel… haven't even touched you properly, and you're already falling apart."
She let out a breathy moan, her fingers tightening in his hair as if she needed something to hold onto, as if she was losing herself entirely.
He loved it. He lived for it. But it wasn't enough.
Because he knew her body. He knew every inch of her, every spot that made her tremble, every kiss that made her whimper, every touch that sent her over the edge. He knew what she needed, knew how to make her break, knew that she could take so much more, that she wanted so much more.
So he moved lower, dragging his mouth down, pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses over the swell of her belly, over her navel, down, down, down—until he was exactly where he needed to be, until his breath was hot against the slick heat of her, until she was panting, her thighs trembling around him, her body practically begging for what came next.
And then—finally—he put his mouth on her.
And she broke.
She arched, her entire body shattering with pleasure as his tongue moved against her, slow at first, slow and teasing, tracing deliberate, tormenting patterns that made her whimper, that made her hips jerk, that made her thighs clench around his head as if she couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn't letting her go.
Oh, no. He wasn't done. Not even close.
She came with a cry, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers fisting into it as if she was trying to anchor herself, as if she was trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pleasure crashed through her, as her body shook from the force of it, as she drowned in the intensity of what he was doing to her.
He groaned against her, his tongue lapping up every drop of her pleasure, savoring her, drinking her in, and when she finally collapsed back onto the bed, boneless, ruined, wrecked, he grinned against her skin, licking his lips like a starved man, his voice thick and filthy as he rasped, "My little angel… needy little slut… haven't even fucked you yet, and you've already come for me?"
She let out a breathless sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, her body still shaking with aftershocks, her hands weakly gripping at his shoulders, and he laughed—low and dark and full of promise—as he moved up her body, pressing his slick, heated mouth to her jaw, to her lips, making her taste herself as he whispered, "Should I stop?"
She turned her face away, still trying to catch her breath, still trying to compose herself, but he wouldn't let her. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to see the hunger in his eyes, the way he was barely holding on to whatever was left of his restraint.
"Why would I?" he murmured, smirking as he trailed his fingers between her still twitching thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles against her overstimulated clit, watching the way her body shuddered, the way her breath hitched, the way her legs tried to squeeze shut around him but failed. "You think it's embarrassing?"
She let out a soft, wrecked sound, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Wait," he whispered, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth, "until I fuck you."
She whimpered.
He grinned.
"Wait," he growled against her lips, pushing her thighs apart again, sliding himself right against her slick, sensitive heat, making them both groan, "until you come on my cock."
Her breath caught.
His grip on her thighs tightened.
And then, with a wicked, filthy smirk, he murmured, "Now that… that would be embarrassing."
~~~~~~
Turns out, what she really needed to finally send her body into full-blown labor was not endless cups of raspberry leaf tea, not all the gentle walks through the manor gardens that Theo had practically forced her to take, not the ridiculous amount of massages he had given her, trying to "ease the tension" from her body in hopes of coaxing their child into the world—no, what she needed was multiple mind-shattering orgasms and a cock that was absolutely too much, too big, stretching her in ways that had her trembling, leaving her in such a state of blissed-out exhaustion that she barely even noticed how her body was preparing itself for what was to come. Because when she woke up, disoriented and groggy, blinking against the dim glow of early morning, she immediately felt something off.
At first, she thought it was just the remnants of the night before, because Merlin, Theo had ruined her—fucked her within an inch of her sanity, left her a quivering, spent mess in their bed, so completely wrecked that he had carried her to the bath afterward, cleaned her with gentle hands and even changed the sheets before tucking her against his chest with whispered praises, rubbing soothing circles on her belly as he murmured about how perfect she was, how beautiful she was carrying their child, how fucking obsessed he was with her. But no, this wasn't that. The sheets were dry when they fell asleep. She was sure of it.
Now? Everything was soaked. And not in the fun, fuck-me-stupid-again way.
She gasped, her entire body going rigid as realization slammed into her. "Theo!" she shrieked, panic wrapping around her lungs like a vice.
Before she could even take another breath, there was a loud crash, the door slamming open so hard it practically came off its hinges, and Theo barreled inside like a madman, gun drawn, his entire body radiating lethal intent. His sharp eyes scanned the room like he was expecting to see an intruder, his muscles tense, ready for a fight.
But there was no intruder. No threat. No immediate danger—just Luna, sitting in the middle of their absolutely ruined bed, hands clutching at the sheets, eyes wide with panic, her very pregnant body frozen in place as she processed what had just happened.
Theo's wild gaze landed on her, the gun lowering slightly as his brows furrowed. "Moonbeam?" His voice was thick with concern, his heart still hammering from the sheer terror of hearing her scream like that. "What's wrong?"
Luna's breathing came in short, panicked bursts as she gestured frantically to the wet sheets beneath her. "My water just broke," she announced, her voice sharp, unsteady, completely on edge. "Do something!"
Theo stared at her. Then at the bed. Then at her again. His entire body locked up for a single, stunned moment before his instincts kicked in, and suddenly, he was moving.
"Shit— okay, okay, I got you," he muttered, already reaching for her. Before she could protest, before she could even think, he scooped her up, lifting her effortlessly into his arms like she weighed nothing at all, his grip firm, unshakable. And then—before she could even blink—they were gone, the world blurring around them as he Apparated them straight into the master bathroom.
Luna gasped as the sudden shift made her stomach lurch, her arms instinctively clinging to him as they landed in the massive, dimly lit bathroom. Everything was ready—just like she had wanted. Just like she had planned.
Because despite all of Theo's insistence that she should deliver at a private hospital where she would have the best possible care, despite his relentless worrying, despite his paranoia—she had been adamant about having this child at home. Just like she had with Lysander.
And Theo, as much as he had fought her on it, had still made sure everything was prepared. The massive birthing tub was already filled, warm water steaming lightly, candles flickering along the edges of the room, casting a soft, golden glow over the space. Towels were stacked neatly beside the tub, healing potions, cooling cloths, everything set up precisely the way she had wanted it.
Theo wasted no time—his movements were fast, efficient, even as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He placed her down gently on the padded bench beside the tub, hands moving over her quickly, checking her, making sure she was okay, making sure she wasn't in pain. "Breathe, baby," he murmured, brushing her damp hair from her face, his touch achingly tender despite the sheer panic in his eyes. "You're okay. You're safe. I got you."
She glared at him, her hands digging into his arms. "Theo, I swear to Merlin, if you don't stop hovering like a panicked first-year, I will cut your dick off," she snapped, her breathing still uneven, the first wave of pain starting to creep in.
Theo ignored the threat completely, his attention already shifting. He waved a hand, sending out a nonverbal summons to Bobsy and the rest of the elves, who would immediately start making themselves useful. And then—because as much as Luna had insisted on it being just them in this room, he was still not an idiot—he sent out the silent alert for the mediwitch, who was already waiting just outside the door in case she was needed.
Because fuck no, Theo was not about to risk anything going wrong. Not when it came to her, not when it came to their child, not when it came to the one thing in this entire godforsaken world that mattered more to him than anything else. He had spent years orchestrating every detail of their lives to ensure her safety, to make sure she never so much as brushed against the kind of danger that followed him like a goddamn shadow, but here she was, in the final stages of bringing their second child into the world, and he was fucking useless.
Absolutely, completely, fucking useless.
He had fought wars, had taken lives, had stared death in the face without so much as flinching, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the absolute terror of watching his Luna, his love, his entire fucking world, in the grips of pain that he couldn't take away, couldn't fight for her, couldn't fix—not with a wand, not with a gun, not with a single damn thing that he knew how to do.
And as if that wasn't enough, as if the chaos wasn't already reaching critical levels, he had to deal with fucking Parkinson, who had apparently decided that if Luna was in labor, then so was she.
Because, of course, if Luna was about to bring a child into this world, then Pansy Parkinson simply had to make the moment about herself, despite the very inconvenient fact that she wasn't pregnant and therefore physically incapable of actually going into labor.
But that minor detail didn't seem to stop her from storming into the birthing room like some kind of deranged queen declaring war on the entire concept of men, medicine, and logical thinking, because apparently, if Luna was pushing, then so was she.
Theo had barely been able to register her arrival before she was at Luna's side, hurling absolute filth at him every time he so much as breathed in a way that displeased her, alternating between aggressively coaching Luna through her contractions and hissing death threats at him with a venom that suggested she was seconds away from slitting his throat if he so much as looked at her the wrong way. He had never been so violently aware of the fact that Pansy had been born to be a menace.
At first, he had been too focused on Luna to even acknowledge Pansy's presence beyond mild irritation, too consumed by the sight of his wife, sweat-drenched and gasping through another contraction, too wrecked by the raw pain on her face to process much else. But then—then—Pansy had gone too far.
She had shouted at him, actually shouted, with a level of authority that suggested she had somehow forgotten who the fuck he was, telling him to stop hovering like an incompetent wanker and to for the love of Merlin, put that fucking gun down before you accidentally shoot someone.
And that was where he drew the fucking line.
Because one, he was not hovering, he was protecting, and two, the gun was necessary, because fuck no was he going to let his guard down for even a second with Luna in such a vulnerable state. He didn't give a shit that they were in their own goddamn home, that the room had been secured. He knew better. He always knew better.
But no, Pansy—the bane of his existence, the thorn in his goddamn side, the woman who made it her life's mission to be as inconvenient as humanly possible—had dared to bark at him like he was some disobedient schoolboy, had dared to roll her eyes and gesture wildly at his weapon like it was some kind of offensive accessory rather than a fucking necessity.
And maybe—maybe—Theo had snapped a little.
Maybe he had given her a look so dark, so pointedly lethal, that anyone else would have immediately shut the fuck up and reconsidered all their life choices. But not Pansy. No, never Pansy.
Instead of backing down, she had squared her fucking shoulders, lifted her chin, and doubled down, unleashing a rapid-fire monologue of absolute vitriol, calling him every single creative insult she had at her disposal, from "trigger-happy tosser" to "emotionally constipated psychopath" to "gun-toting motherfucker with a god complex"—which, honestly, was a bit much, even for her.
Theo, who had just spent the last nine months in a constant state of absolute, unrelenting anxiety, who had just witnessed his wife's water break all over their fucking bed, who had not slept properly since the moment Luna had told him she was pregnant again, who was already losing his goddamn mind with worry, had reached his limit.
So he had put the gun down.
Not because Pansy had ordered him to—fuck that—but because Luna, his Luna, had reached out, grabbed his wrist with a strength that should have been impossible given the state she was in, and yanked him toward her, looking him dead in the eye and saying, in a voice so sharp it actually sent a shiver down his spine, "Theodore, if you do not put that bloody thing down and get your useless arse over here, I will personally see to it that you never get to put another baby in me again."
And that was how Theo found himself standing there, unarmed, silently fuming, while Pansy smirked like she had just won a goddamn war, her sharp brown eyes daring him to argue.
But Theo didn't argue.
Because Luna was gripping his hand so fucking tightly that his bones were starting to creak, because she was in pain, because she was the only person in existence who could get him to do anything just by looking at him a certain way.
So, instead, he stood there, seething, glaring absolute murder at Parkinson while she acted like the goddess of birth, as if she was the one having the fucking baby, as if she was the center of the universe, as if she wasn't already planning a goddamn hostile takeover of this entire birthing experience.
Theo hated her.
Luna, on the other hand, just gritted her teeth through another contraction, shooting Pansy an exhausted, but appreciative look, and Theo realized with absolutely crushing certainty that this was going to be the longest fucking day of his entire life.
°°°°°°
Neville needed to come and get Pansy, because by the end of it, even Luna—who had the patience of a saint, who could tolerate Theo at his worst, who could calmly converse with literal murderers and make them feel like they'd been blessed by the stars—had reached her limit. And when Luna lost her temper, it was a spectacle that not even the bravest of men dared to challenge.
It had started with little sighs of irritation, then escalated into pointed glares, then gritted teeth, and then, in the final moment, when Pansy had leaned just a bit too close, offering yet another unwanted piece of dramatic encouragement, Luna had snapped, her voice slicing through the air like a whip: "For the love of God, Pansy, get out before I kill you."
And that was when everyone realized that it was over for Parkinson.
Neville had been summoned instantly—whether by the will of the universe or a desperate plea from the house-elves who were equally done with the chaos, no one knew. But one second, Pansy was in the birthing room, practically huffing with self-importance, and the next, Neville had appeared out of nowhere, exuding the calm but exhausted energy of a man who had spent years dealing with this exact kind of behavior and was, frankly, just a little bit dead inside because of it.
He didn't even say a word at first. Just grabbed Pansy by the elbow in a way that was both firm and deeply resigned, and began dragging her from the room as if he were escorting an overly enthusiastic drunk woman out of a bar before she could throw a punch at the bouncer.
"I wasn't finished," Pansy huffed, her heels clicking aggressively against the tiled floors as Neville escorted her—read: forcefully removed her—through the Nott Manor corridors. "Luna needs me, Longbottom. I was helping."
"Helping," Neville repeated flatly, his voice as dry as a desert, his grip tightening just slightly as she squirmed against him, clearly indignant. "Pansy, you're five seconds away from getting thrown out of here. By Luna."
"She wouldn't dare," Pansy scoffed, lifting her chin as if she had not, in fact, just been on the receiving end of Luna Lovegood's fury. "I'm her best friend. She loves me."
"Oh, does she?" Neville said, arching a deeply unimpressed brow. "Because I specifically recall her threatening your life about thirty seconds ago."
Pansy huffed dramatically, yanking her arm out of his grip as they reached the living room. "You're being ridiculous. Luna just needed to vent. She appreciates my presence."
"Luna appreciates your presence when you're not acting like you're the one pushing out a child," Neville deadpanned, guiding her toward the very plush, very luxurious armchair in the center of the room. "Now, sit. Wait patiently like a good girl."
Pansy gasped, her mouth dropping open in pure outrage as she whipped around to face him, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes narrowing with indignant fury. "Did you just command me like I'm some common peasant?"
Neville sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. "No, Pansy, I didn't command you. I asked you—politely—to sit down and behave before Luna personally ensures that your future child is raised without a mother."
Pansy's jaw dropped even further, her entire body bristling, but Neville just stared at her, his expression blank, his patience very nearly nonexistent. They stood there in complete silence, locked in an intense staring contest, a battle of wills that would likely end with one of them murdered if left unchecked.
Finally—finally—Pansy scoffed, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder in a grand display of false nonchalance. "Fine," she snapped, flouncing dramatically toward the armchair as if she were the one allowing herself to be removed from the situation, rather than being forcefully expelled by an entire room of people who could no longer tolerate her existence.
Neville watched as she dropped onto the chair, crossing her legs with the kind of haughty defiance that suggested she was seconds away from filing a formal complaint against every person involved in this grave injustice.
"Good," Neville said, voice clipped, his shoulders relaxing slightly now that she was finally out of the birthing room.
Pansy lifted her chin. "I will be having words with Luna when this is over," she informed him primly, her expression one of great importance.
"I'm sure you will," Neville replied, not even attempting to hide the sheer apathy in his voice.
Pansy narrowed her eyes at him. "And you will be apologizing for that tone."
Neville snorted, rubbing at his temples, before looking at her with the kind of expression a man wears when he has long since stopped fighting battles he knows he cannot win. "Sure, Bloom, immediately."
Pansy gasped, scandalized, clutching her imaginary pearls as she glared at him, her entire body vibrating with rage.
But Neville? Neville just turned and walked away.
Because fuck that.
~~~~~~
Theo had spent his entire life convinced that there was no more room in his heart, that it had already been stretched to its limits, first by Luna, then by Lysander, and that the love he felt for them was all-consuming, unshakable, an unmovable force that left no space for anything else. But the moment the mediwitch carefully placed a tiny, pink, blue-eyed angel into his trembling arms, he realized—Merlin, he realized—how wrong he had been.
Because Seline Nott wasn't just any little girl. She wasn't just his daughter. She was a piece of his very soul, a fragment of something so inexplicably powerful that his breath hitched, his chest tightened, and for the first time in years…okay months, Theodore wept.
He wept like a child, unashamed and undone, because fuck, he had thought himself a hardened man, someone who had already felt the greatest depths of love, who had already discovered the highest peaks of devotion.
But no. Because this—this tiny, delicate, perfect creature, wrapped in soft blankets, blinking up at him with the same blue eyes he saw every morning in the woman he worshiped—this was bigger. This was more.
This was something so staggering, so catastrophic, that he shook from the weight of it. His hands trembled as he cradled her closer, as he brushed a reverent finger against the soft skin of her cheek, as he counted each perfect little finger, each impossibly tiny toe, feeling like he had been handed the entire universe and was still too small to hold it.
A daughter. His daughter. Their daughter.
His chest ached. His heart threatened to burst. He had never known himself to be weak, but in that moment, he would have dropped to his knees if not for the fragile weight in his arms keeping him upright.
Luna was still resting in the warm water of the bathtub, her body wrecked from labor, her face pale with exhaustion but her expression so peaceful, so soft, as she reached out weakly, her fingers twitching with anticipation. And Theo, still dazed, still unable to properly breathe, didn't hesitate as he knelt beside the tub and carefully placed Seline onto Luna's chest, ensuring that their daughter's fragile body was safely against the skin of the woman who had created her, who had carried her for months, who had given her to them.
He didn't know who he was more in awe of—his newborn daughter, or the woman who had just given her life.
"Look at that, my love," Theo murmured, his voice cracking, thick with an emotion too immense to name. His hand remained steady, cupping Seline's impossibly tiny head as she settled against her mother, her little body curling instinctively against Luna's warmth. "We made a girl. A baby girl."
Luna, who had spent the last several hours cursing him to the depths of hell, melted the moment she saw her. Her breath hitched, a strangled little noise escaping her lips as she blinked through the haze of exhaustion, her eyes fixed solely on their daughter. "She's gorgeous," she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief, with wonder. "Thank you, my moon. Thank you for this. Thank you so much for this gift of a lifetime."
And Theo? Theo shattered.
Because fuck, if he had thought he was gone before, if he had thought Luna had already claimed every last part of him, then this—this moment, with his wife and daughter curled together in the warm candlelight, with Seline's tiny fingers gripping weakly at Luna's skin, with the overwhelming realization that this was his family—this was the moment that truly destroyed him.
~~~~~~
As the evening stretched into the quiet hours of the night, Theo moved with the utmost care, placing Luna into their bed as if she were made of the most delicate porcelain. His hands, always so steady, trembled slightly as he pulled the blankets over her, tucking them around her exhausted frame. He had watched her endure the most primal, powerful act of creation, had held her hand through every agonizing contraction, had whispered reassurances through clenched teeth while she screamed through the pain, and yet somehow, after all of it, she still looked ethereal. Soft moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, bathing her in an otherworldly glow, illuminating every fine feature, every trace of exhaustion, every line of her breathtaking face, and all Theo could do was stare in awe.
He had thought he had reached the peak of his love for her, that there was no way his heart could expand any further, that he had already loved her to his very limit—but then his obsessive love disorder reared its head once again, proving to him that there were no boundaries, no edges to his devotion. His love for Luna was a bottomless thing, an abyss he would gladly fall into over and over again without ever needing to be caught.
He slid into bed beside her, careful not to jostle her too much, mindful of her exhaustion, mindful of the sacred moment they had just lived through.
He cradled her into his arms, as he had done a million times before, but tonight, it felt different. It felt like he was holding the very fabric of his existence, the reason for his breath, the purpose of every heartbeat that thundered in his chest. She sighed softly against him, her body melting into the warmth of his, her exhaustion evident but her trust in him absolute.
His fingers traced slow, reverent patterns along her back, as if he were memorizing her all over again, as if he hadn't already committed every inch of her to memory a thousand times over.
His voice was hushed, thick with emotion, a raw whisper against the crown of her head. "Between seas, galaxies, and moons… I truly was lucky. " He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, inhaling the familiar scent of her, the scent that had always grounded him, calmed him, consumed him. "I stepped on the same land, and dreamed under the same stars, as you. And if ever the world overwhelms you with hardship, if your shoulders grow heavy beneath burdens too great to bear, if your eyes fill with a sea of tears so vast you fear you might drown, I will be the sand on the shore to dry them for you. I will be the lighthouse in the storm, the arms that catch you when you fall, the home that you will always return to, no matter where the tides take you ."
He tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer, as if his body alone could shield her from every possible sorrow, every ounce of pain, every cruel twist of fate that dared to touch her. He would not allow it. He would not allow anything to take this from him, from them. Luna Lovegood had always belonged to the sky, to the stars, to the cosmos itself, but somehow, by some divine intervention, he had been gifted the privilege of holding her here on Earth. And he would not let go. Not now, not ever.
Luna stirred against him, her body exhausted but her heart impossibly full, cocooned in the warmth of his embrace, safe in the arms of the only man who had ever known how to love her in all her wild, untamed entirety. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm, the way it thrummed against her skin like a desperate confession, a silent vow that needed no words. He had always been this way—intense, overwhelming, a fire that burned only for her, consuming, devouring, and yet, somehow, never destroying.
She exhaled softly, her breath fanning against his collarbone, and though her body ached from the miracle she had brought into the world, though exhaustion tugged at every muscle, she found that sleep could wait. Because he had spoken to her with the raw honesty of a man who had no walls left to hide behind, who had stripped himself bare in the darkness of their room, offering her every ounce of devotion he had left in him. He had given her poetry, spoken her name like a prayer, promised her the world as if she didn't already hold it in her hands—because he was her world, and nothing beyond the two of them truly mattered.
Lifting her head just enough to meet his gaze, she reached up, her fingers trailing the sharp lines of his jaw, her touch featherlight but reverent. "My Sun," she whispered, her voice hoarse from exhaustion but filled with something deeper, something endless. "You speak as though the stars had mercy on you by letting us meet. As though fate played a hand in it." She smiled softly, her fingers tracing the curve of his lips, as if to map the devotion he wore so openly for her. "But I do not believe in fate, nor do I believe in chance. I believe in choices. And I have chosen you, again and again, in every dream, in every breath, in every lifetime where the universe allows it."
She shifted slightly, her body curling further into him, as if she could melt into his very being, as if they could be stitched together by the unrelenting force of their love. "And if I must walk through fire, I will not fear it, because I know you will always be there, your hands outstretched, waiting to pull me through. If the sea calls my name and tries to drag me beneath its waves, I will not be afraid, because I know you would sink with me rather than let me drown alone." Her thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth, memorizing the way it trembled slightly beneath her touch. "And should the sky one day collapse, should the heavens above us burn to nothing but embers, I know I would find you in the ashes, because no force in this world or the next could ever separate me from you."
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in, listening to the way his breath hitched, the way his body tensed like he was struggling to hold himself together. When she spoke again, it was barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of every vow she had never needed to say aloud. "You think yourself lucky, my love, to have walked the same land as me, to have dreamed beneath the same stars, but don't you see? You are the land I walk upon, the foundation that steadies me. You are the stars I dream beneath, the constellations that light my way. You are not simply in my life, Theo. You are my life. And no matter what storms may come, no matter what trials we may face, I will always, always choose you."
Her fingers curled into his shirt, her grip tightening as if she could anchor herself there forever. "You say you will be the sand that dries my tears," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling the way he trembled beneath her lips. "Then I will be the tide that always finds its way back to you, no matter how far I may drift." She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her silver-blue eyes alight with a love so fierce, so unwavering, it stole the breath from his lungs. "And when the world grows dark, when the weight of it all becomes too much to bear, I will not let you stand alone. I will hold you as you hold me. I will be your peace as you are mine. And if you should ever find yourself lost, my love, I will guide you home."
She pressed her lips against his, slow and deep, tasting devotion, tasting forever. And when she finally pulled away, when she finally allowed herself to rest against him once more, she knew with absolute certainty that there was no force in existence—no war, no fear, no darkness—that could ever tear them apart.