A/N: Written for the Last Ship Standing Competition on HPFC, from which I was inspired by the prompts of a character giving/receiving a hug, the phrase "Stop it, please!" and the song Cha-Ching (Till We Grow Older) by Imagine Dragons (more specifically, the lines What is with you? / Oh oh oh, / I never seen this side of you.)

The title and quote below are both from the song "My Moon" by Mary Lambert, which is every bit as beautiful and perfect as she is. I mean, I'm just saying, if she wanted to marry me, I wouldn't say no. But I would say, "We're gonna have to move, Mary, because some little shits think it's not okay for us to be happy together."

Anywayyy, thanks to my darling Sammie for betaing!

"'Cause you are the moon,

And I am but the sea."

My Moon, Mary Lambert

Barty is the brightest thing in this darkness; he far surpasses any star, doesn't burn but glows, not look at me shine but notice me shimmer, and you never could look away, could you?

He's the moon, the ever-present crescent that stops the darkness taking over.

The thing with Barty is that he commands the sky quietly. Secretly. From behind the clouds, the cloak of night, he is silent and deadly and oh so devoted, and he might be the one thing that stops you from running.

"The Dark Lord," he breathes, "wants you."

He traces his tongue along your jaw, kisses his way along your throat. You tremble under his touch, revel in the need and the want of his fingertips as they push your robes from your shoulders.

"The Dark Lord," he breathes, "can give you everything."

He bruises your hips with his fingertips, leaves scrapes and cuts along your back, nips at your neck with his teeth, in between choruses of RegulusRegulusRegulus.

"The Dark Lord," he breathes, "is everything."

You want to believe it, you really do.

"And I," he breathes, "can be your everything."

(And if he's the moon, then you're the tide, and you know you will follow him forever.)

The Mark burns into your skin, and Barty stands behind you with his damn infuriating (beautiful, moonshine) smirk, and his own left forearm bared, skin painted orange from the burning of the candles around you. It looks wrong, you think, that he should be so bright, that he should be anything but silver shine and white-hot burn.

"Everything," he mouths, eyes glinting, lips quirked into that smile that he always presses to your lips, that smile he keeps for you.

"Everything," you mouth back, and the burning doesn't hurt quite so much after that.

"It's not that bad," he says. "They're not people, Reg. They're not even worth the guilt."

You swallow and you stutter and you choke on your words, caught between what you want to say and what you should say, and instead, you just fall quiet. You're good at that, aren't you?

"Don't you worry, Reg," he says, slinking closer with that roll of his hips, footsteps soft and silent on the carpeted floor. "I'll be with you."

And then he is close enough for you to feel the heat of his body, smell the cigarette smoke that lingers on his robes, taste the promise of his words, bask in the moonlight of Barty and all that he is. He wraps his arms around you and you feel safe here, even with the thought of what is to come – they're not people, not worth it – and burying your face in the crook of his neck makes everything seem that much brighter.

(Sometimes you hate how much you love him. You know how wrong he is but you just –

can't –

pull –

away –

You are the tide, and he will always drag you further and further into the darkness. And a part of you wonders what will happen when the sun comes out and there is no Barty to keep you sane.)

Her eyes are rolling back in her head and her limbs are twitching, body convulsing pathetically, spine arching and legs kicking, and her voice, that desperate, piercing scream that is tearing at her throat, clawing its way out of her mouth, sends shivers through your body, and you want to scream right along with her, want to shout, "Stop it, please! Barty, stop!" but Barty is laughing and grinning at you, excitement evident in his dark eyes and –

"Please," you choke. Just one word, soft and desperate.

Barty's wand hand drops, and the woman on the floor slumps into stillness, her harsh pants the only sound echoing through the room.

"What's wrong, Reg?" Barty asks. There is a dangerous edge to his voice, a warning. A hint of you should be okay with this and she's not even worth it and whose side are you on anyway?

"I – I want you," you lie, and then you are on him, tearing at your robes and scraping at his skin and trying to forgetting everything about the girl lying motionless on the floor, all you need is to forget, Barty was always so good at helping you forget, until –

He murmurs, "Avada Kedavra,"into your mouth, and there is a flash of green light as you open your eyes. You watch, in that split second, as the green light throws itself across Barty's face, and feel sick to your stomach at the realisation that this, this green-tinged Barty with death on his tongue, doesn't look wrong at all.

And it should. It should.

"You were saying..." he purrs, his lips finding yours again, and you are lost enough to let him fuck you no more than four feet from the dead girl's body.

And you can't help but think, as he kisses along your spine, that he's supposed to be moon-bright beauty, elegant and ethereal and perfect, but he is sick and he is wrong and you can't keep going on like this.

(But you are just the tide, just the tide.

And you will always, always follow.)

The cave is empty and cold and you long for the warmth and safety of your lover's embrace. It is dark here, so very dark, and you can't help but miss that silver shine.

You wonder if this was where Barty was pulling you all along, or if you have fallen away from him, back down to earth, crashing against rocks and nothingness. Alone.

It is dark here, but at least that means it is dark enough to spend your final moments dreaming.

Cold, slimy hands pull you under, and water fills your lungs, but in the darkness behind your eyelids, Barty presses his lips to your temple and says, "I love you," and when you look at him, he is not green or silver at all, just soft white skin and dark brown eyes and cupid's bow lips pressed to your skin.

It is dark here, but then everything goes darker still, and Barty is no more.

Nothing is.

(Because you are but the tide, and the tide will always, always crash.)