It always had a degree of roughness.

Depending on his mood, their lovemaking might take place on his bed, or against a cold wall.

He'd push into her, hard and insistent, watch as her eyebrows clenched and her mouth fell open.

"Barty…" She'd gasp, and he'd quiet her with a rough kiss.

This was how it would go, every time familiar-in a way, and every time unknown-in a way.

It would always end with a fair amount of panting, foreheads meeting, and body fluids mingling.

"Barty, I…" Luna would whisper; and in that fractured sentence, he would be startlingly aware of the taboo of what they were doing.

The frightening realization would splash down on him like a bucketful of cold water. In that moment, that fraction of a second, he would tense up, preparing to pull out and make a dash toward the exit.

"…love you." She'd complete, a lock of white-blonde hair flopping in front of her face.

He'd tense up further, eyes locked onto her face.

"I…"

(…love you….)

He was used to pain.

Pain was comfortable in a way, something constant and merciless. Pain hurt…but only in a flat, bothersome sense. It never truly hurt.

But this…this new emotion.

This could hurt.

It was too soothing, too welcoming.

Too good to be real.

"Iloveyoutoo." He'd gulp out.

And she'd except that rushed declaration, dreamy eyes soft and calm.

Just as always.