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lacollectionneuse1967 · 4 months

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remembering you - part 2

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the truth of your and theseus's shared past comes to light at a very public venue.

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: romance.

warnings: brief but GRAPHIC descriptions of gore (war flashback).

part one / part two

“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that wasn’t expected of me.” The curse of the good son. The thought comes to Theseus unbidden.

Even joining the magical resistance at the beginning of the war felt like some preordained line of reasoning that he only had to follow.

He’d vowed to his parents that he’d always do what’s right for his community. He’d been asked to help, so he did. In all realms of life, he tried to be helpful and do what was asked of him.

He didn’t have to think about it.

But then: You.

Y/N swept into his life and spun his head around, turned his whole belief system upside down. He can only think of one other girl who struck him so profoundly, reached inside his chest and tugged him back into his body and the present moment, but that was years ago, and their encounter had been so brief…

The principles by which Theseus lived his life were simple ones.

Restraint. Generosity. Order.

All dashed to pieces with the touch of your lips. When you'd asked him to kiss you his only thought had been "Mercy." He’d started undressing you by instinct. He’d taken you on his desk, it seems more like an unwieldy fantasy than a memory.

He’s at home now. Dumbstruck at his kitchen table, glass of whiskey untouched.

He has the strangest desire to call his brother.

Newt, of all people! But he was probably galavanting around the world looking for Wrackspurts or trying to teach a Doxy to play fetch. They hadn’t spoken in so long, and Theseus had been negligent when it came to showing interest in his brother’s work besides that. He couldn't call on him now.

Theseus just needs someone to tell him what to do.

He doesn’t know what happened in his office. He just wanted to put his hands on you and then, once he did, he started burning up inside and couldn’t stop.

Y/N, Y/N, Y/N….

Your name was like a drumbeat driving him to insanity. A trance-inducing chant.

“What’s become of me?” he thinks, helplessly, head in his hands. “I’ve gone mad.”

He was supposed to marry well, unfussily and unremarkably. Find a respectable woman from a good wizarding family after building up his reputation as an Auror. He’d never touched a woman the way he'd touched you, so brazenly, so honestly, so entirely overcome with desire.

He’d never thought much of love.

Even before today, he’d been distracted at work. Powerless, really. Writing to you occupied his every thought. Even when you took a little longer to respond, what he felt wasn’t impatience but agony. He hung onto your every word. His default daydream had become storming down to the Department of Magical Games and Sports and standing before you, making you see him, he loved you and he wanted you to deal with it too.

“Tomorrow,” he thinks and it eases some of the tension. He blows out the candle floating above his kitchen table and gives up on the whiskey, snatching the glass and pouring it down the drain.

Tomorrow he’s decided to tell you that he needs you, that he loves you, although he’s not sure what it means yet. Maybe that will help him clear his head, silence that roaring need. Confessing to you will be like letting blood.

Yesterday your beauty had taken him by surprise, discomposed him, yes. But he reminds himself that he knows you. From your letters.

He loved you then too.

And, aside from his feelings, he doubts there are any real secrets now between you.

-----------------

You want to ask Theseus if he dreams about the war too.

You wonder how many people in Britain return there, to that same reeking, muddied place lit-up with gunfire, in their dreams every night. You wonder if you could meet him there.

But no, Theseus wasn't in the trenches. He wouldn't know about how the mud is different there. Evil. Cursed. You'd long given up on trying to describe it to your sister, make her understand.

No wizards, not even those a part of the underground resistance, were in the trenches.

Your powers were wasted down there, how silly and indulgent magic seemed with people dying everywhere, dying badly, with less dignity and honor than stray dogs.

You remember trying to use magic wherever you could anyways. You remember your hands and your medical knowledge being, shockingly, more useful. When a man's limbs are shattered in opposite directions, when a man's face has been shot off, when a man is bleeding out, when a man....

You remember that first night, after Theseus and your family had left you, the numb-shock of seeing a man's brains for the first time. The sensation that came over you was less startling and more like paralysis or ice water. They were grey and had splattered onto your face and the ground before you. The men shoved his body over the top of the trench, throwing him at you to save him, not realizing he had a hole in his head. You stared at the soft, grey chunks on the floor and your mind unfeelingly conjured up images from the kitchen: chicken hearts, boiled ground meats, uncooked egg whites. It was so random you'd almost laughed.

War made the grotesque banal.

And all for what? That pointless tract of wasteland. Bodies at various states of decay, laid out like a rotting carpet.

You wonder what Theseus did to get called a war hero, you didn't think there were any heroes in the Great War. To you it was a tragedy of gross political malpractice.

They made a grave of your home in France. You couldn't have returned there, not ever.

You only ever went back there in dreams, where you couldn't seem to remember that the war was over.

It made you feel guilty in a distant, half-realized way, how you never wanted to talk about it or think about it in your waking life. When your siblings wrote down your name in a tribute to the combat nurses at last year's Armistice Day, you'd been blind with rage. Inconsolable with a nameless, blooming betrayal. "Nameless" because you couldn't say what they had betrayed.

Which is why this year's Armistice Day, today, you'd resolved to avoid all grief celebrations and talk of glory and war and to think only of the future. Of happy things. Of Theseus.

Theseus.

Yesterday you'd slept with him.

You'd actually taken him into your arms and body and then just let him take and take and take. You'd only asked for a kiss, but you'd found yourself unable to say anything but yes and please to him.

This fact made you blush the whole way home. Made you unfold his "goodnight" message from days before and read it again and again just to see the ink of his writing on paper, just to prove that what existed between the two of you was real.

At work yesterday he'd kept writing to you, just like he promised. Afterward, at the end of the day, he came to your desk and walked you to the Atrium, kept his hands in his pockets and looked at you fondly when you spoke, with an attention like sweetness. He was a gentleman--what happened in his office aside--indisputably so. You'd felt good and safe by his side. Like you belonged there.

Until you got home.

It was your mistake to open up to your sister. It didn't help that she kept saying that she couldn't believe you, that she'd kill him, that "it's all so unromantic."

You spared her the details, but you wanted to just blurt out and admit that it was the both of you begging for the other at intervals.

He'd gotten down on his knees, for crying out loud! He didn't coerce you into anything. All he coerced were inappropriate noises from your mouth, but, no, you couldn't tell your sister that...

Your argument continues in the morning, picks up where it left off right after breakfast.

"I just feel like you gave up more than you bargained for, Y/N. Because you like him so much you're more at risk of-"

"I didn't 'give up' anything! God, I can't believe you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"No, it's fine, really!" You're grabbing your keys and shoving them into your purse with force, pointedly not fine. "For the record, he was the one who said he liked me. And I was the one who asked him to kiss me, again! I'm not a child. The only thing I'm at risk of is finally getting what I want."

Your sister cries easily, famously. You can see it mounting now in the tremble of her lip. It almost topples over into a sob when she whines, "I love you Y/N! I don't want you to get hurt."

"He likes me! He's my friend. We've been talking for weeks."

"What if he..." your sister hesitates and for some reason it humiliates you, her censoring herself for the sake of your feelings.

Your shoulders go rigid.

"What?" you snap. "What if he what?"

She shakes her head but when you don't relent she speaks grudgingly.

"What if he does this a lot? Casual sex. Spontaneously sleeping with women. Maybe even coworkers. I just want to be sure you're on the same page, Y/N. He means so much to you, I know that, and he always has. But he doesn't even remember you...."

Sick. You feel a swaying illness in your chest and gut. For a moment you taste bile.

Her words hurt so bad that you don't even feel pain, the fight in you just dies instantaneously.

He doesn't even remember you...

"Okay," you say, staring blankly at her. "Okay..."

"Y/N-" your sister stands from her chair suddenly, but you jerk away from her.

"It's fine. Theseus can do what he pleases. Thank you for your concern, but I don't want to talk about it anymore."

You leave for work.

------

The chaos at the Ministry mirrors the chaos in your head, which isn't any real consolation.

Whizzing baubles and streaming banners are still being put up in the Atrium, the center of which lies a hulking, rectangular platform, scattered hauntingly with red poppies. It sort of reminds you of gallows, though you doubt anyone else would appreciate the humor in your observation.

The Ministry always did some sort of luncheon or memorial for Armistice Day.

Speeches, honors, sometimes a little parade, sometimes, conversely, observing four minutes of silence. The thought of being asked to go on stage horrified you more than the Western Front had.

As you walk to your desk, you think about Theseus again. You think about the war. Both inevitable, given the circumstances.

You think about the service he rendered your father and your siblings that night. You think about the chivalry he demonstrated in letting you hold onto your girlhood for a bit longer, his hand framing your face as he left it untouched and denied you a kiss.

You think about him letting you stay for the Battle of Verdun, and how it never made sense to you and it still doesn't now...

You have to know.

"I'll tell him," you think. "I'll tell him today."

------

There's a memo waiting for you at your desk. It makes your heart patter in gross relief.

"He likes me. He likes me," you remind yourself.

Your sister's words this morning must've really gotten to you.

"Urgent matter for the Interdepartmental Liaison of the Department of Mysteries!!!"

You roll your eyes. You're smiling stupidly at the paper as you write your response.

"Theseus, you can't keep writing 'URGENT' at the beginning of all of your memos. It's cryptic and dishonest and it loses its intended effect."

"Okay, fine. I was just going to ask if it would be terribly uncouth if I asked you to meet me in my office before the memorial so I could kiss you a bit?"

The thought of him putting his hands on you affects you more than you'd ever admit. You look around the office, blushing, as if anyone could read the paper from so far away. This man was driving you insane.

"Well, that's one way to honor the troops. You are a veteran so I suppose there's no turning you down."

You want to see him, you do. But you have a mission today from your Department. It couldn't wait and he couldn't know.

You're hoping to use the Armistice Day events to talk to Mr. Bragg, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or maybe sneak into his office. Too much time has elapsed already, you need to find out whether or not he is really betraying the Ministry for Grindelwald.

Theseus's reply is surprisingly earnest.

"Huh, I always thought today was more about honoring the fallen than honoring the veterans."

"True. Maybe no kissing until it's over?"

"Deal. I'll see if I can write you into my schedule."

"Not funny."

"If you want to see me so bad you could always commit a crime and I'll come arrest you?"

"Hey, you're the one who asked to see me!! And threatening me with a good time is beneath you."

You see a lone blot of ink fade-in from where his quill is pressed down onto the paper on his end. He's trying to decide what to write.

When the words come at last they are so simple and candid and enticing. Theseus has never been afraid of honesty or affection.

"I like you so much."

You laugh aloud. If he was here you'd kiss him breathless.

"Yes, you said that already."

"Forget the kiss, I'd kill even to hear your laugh in person. To see your face."

"I like you so much too."

-----

You're the last person from your level to make your way down to the Atrium for the Armistice ceremony. The noise from below sounds more like a motorcade than a memorial. Honking trumpets, trilling drumroll, applause. Funnily enough, you think your coworker Ana is the one speaking now, snatched the microphone from the Minister of Magic himself.

In fact, by the looks of it, you might've missed some of the ceremony already.

The Atrium is packed with people. Ministry workers brought their spouses, some their entire families. Well-dressed witches and wizards not affiliated with the Ministry have also come in droves.

You scoot along the edge of the room, moving sideways towards the stage, craning your neck to find Mr. Bragg.

The periodic sound of applause crashes down like heavy rainfall, the way it drowns everything out. It's a bit stuffy from all the body heat, and your clothes cling to your body uncomfortably.

As you approach the stage, you stop pushing forward and look up in shock to see Theseus's face. He doesn't see you, and you're glad for the chance to just look at him outright. God knows you could look at him forever.

He's waltzing down the steps of the platform smiling broadly. His gait is relaxed, he's comfortable in his skin despite the attention of being on stage, which is something you envy. There's a ribbon on his lapel and a red flower stuck in his suit pocket, a few men and women are trailing behind him.

They must have just honored the wizards who fought.

Next would presumably be some ceremony for the Ministry workers to honor their dead. Last year they'd done a magical memorial with floating lanterns. This year you'd been told it would involve stones, or maybe it was flowers? You didn't want to stick around.

It was painful enough carrying your losses inside of you, seeing loss and grief paraded and exploded all around you didn't feel therapeutic or healing for you the way it seemed to feel for the rest of the nation.

"Y/N!"

You turn without grace, neck jerking painfully. The sight of Mr. Bragg's face startles you, makes you feel found out. It's difficult for you to rein in your surprise. You have to shout over the sound of Ana talking onstage.

"M-Mr. Bragg!"

The older man smiles. He's with his department friends and his cheeks are rosy. Drunk, maybe. They're holding the flask between them like schoolboys, drawing more attention to it really.

It seems disrespectful to you. Most Ministry workers waited until after the memorial ceremony to start celebrating the end of the war and drinking to "peace."

But Mr. Bragg and his colleagues look positively jubilant.

"My girl! I was just telling these gentlemen how we have a real Unspeakable in our midsts now! Tell them how good the Department of Magical Games and Sports has been treating you, why don't you? Better than the Department of Mysteries, eh?"

The men he's with laugh and jostle him, they're about to turn back to the stage.

You're still reeling, sputtering from surprise, but you have to spit it out now, take your chance.

"Mr. Bragg! Wait!"

His colleagues' eyes go wide in delight, one of them looks as if he's about to bark an inappropriate comment. Mr. Bragg looks taken aback at your newfound attention.

It was nearly 1930 and some of the men in the Ministry still had such backward ideas about women, even coworkers, it took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

"Yes, darling?" Mr. Bragg's answering smile is eager and smug. Self-satisfied.

Gag.

"Um, I was hoping to talk to you in your office after the ceremony? About my position as liaison." He looks suddenly bored, turned off, so you give him your most flattering smile and add, coyly, "Alone. If you're not too busy, that is?"

That seems to gratify him. He adjusts his jacket impressively in front of his colleagues. One of them wriggles his brow indiscreetly and nudges him.

"Of course, Miss Y/L/N! It's about time you and I had a good talk, one on one."

Again, gag.

You smile, and it's a strain to, before bowing your head in thanks and moving on.

Well, at least that was settled. You could drill him with questions after the ceremony and, during the ceremony, you could poke around in his office for evidence of betrayal. It was perfect.

Too perfect.

It was your mistake for lingering near the stage. For coming at all, really.

It sends a jolt of liquid panic down your spine when you hear your name, magically amplified for the whole crowd to hear. It booms throughout the entire Atrium. It's bizarre to the point of feeling dreamlike.

"Oh, and is that Y/N? Miss Y/L/N! Please join us on stage! Everyone, how can we forget to honor our wartime nurses?"

This isn't real. If the crowd hadn't parted to stare at you after all of Ana's pointing, you would've continued walking away.

A man jumps off-stage to escort you to the staircase.

You're past the point of being able to speak or object.

Once onstage you stare out at the crowd unseeingly. The tops of so many heads. You'd rather be at the summit of some great height, looking out at some cloudscape. Your fear of heights seemed healthy, whereas your stage fright was a simultaneously useless and formidable thing.

You regret befriending Ana. You regret telling her about the war, telling her anything about yourself at all.

You are sweating.

And, impossibly, Ana is still talking.

"-and at only sixteen years old! As a volunteer wartime nurse, Y/N Y/L/N stayed for the entire ten months of brutal fighting at the Battle of Verdun in Northern France. 300,000 dead and 400,000 wounded. She saved countless lives, muggle and wizardkind alike, indiscriminately. These combat nurses were the foundation of-"

Her last commendation draws some uncomfortable shifting and impressed gasps from the crowd. It's a mixed reaction, as views of blood purity were equally mixed.

Ana, in an asinine but expected turn of events, is still talking.

But you're no longer listening. You can't.

There are so many people in the crowd, but your gaze locks on Theseus almost immediately. You see his expression change in realization, his eyes widen and his jaw flexes, almost undetectably.

When he tears his gaze from Ana to you, you turn away.

He knows. Even if he doesn't remember, he knows.

You only know Ana's finished talking because of the crashing noise of applause, like the shore breaking on a cliffside. Your ears burn. You keep your head low as you exit the stage.

This isn't how you wanted it to happen.

You're torn between wanting to explain yourself and wanting to escape. Heart hammering, cutting through the crowd, you choose the latter.

You make for a secluded alcove of the Atrium, far from the crowd at its center, and sit on a marble bench.

You never lied to Theseus. If anything he was the one who lied. He said he'd remember you. He'd promised.

"It's okay," you repeatedly run your hands over the material of your skirt, over your thighs. It's meant to be reassuring, grounding. You don't feel like it's working. "It's okay, Y/N."

You'd like to say it was the stage fright at work, but no. It was the way he looked at you that was so upsetting. He looked at you like the earth was shattering.

"Y/N!"

Your head lurches upwards from where it's bent over.

It's shocking to you, the sight of him. As shocking as it was to see him in his soldier's uniform, standing in your doorframe on that night all those years ago.

"Y/N," Theseus walks over with heavy footsteps. He looks winded and undone, like he'd run to find you. His voice is weak. "It's.... How can it be you?"

There's a desolate longing to your returning stare. Your chest hurts. You're shaking your head, trying to dispel some of that tightness in your heart.

"You said you didn't need a name to remember me...."

"Did you remember me?"

"Of course," you're speaking so fiercely, he doesn't deserve it but you can't help it. "Right away."

Why is it more embarrassing to be the one who remembers? It's even more embarrassing than being forgotten.

"That's why I stopped writing to you that day," you add pathetically. "After I saw your face at the Ministry, I'd put the pieces together. All it took was once glance."

Theseus sits down beside you on the bench, still looking adrift. At a loss of what to do with this information.

"You must be disappointed," he says at last. "And you must think me a fool."

"Well... I don't think you're a fool," you hope that doesn't reveal your disappointment, but his pained wince suggests the opposite.

"I should have known," he says with newfound vigor. "You really haven't changed, have you? Even after your coming-of-age, you're still as stubborn as ever."

That makes you laugh, dreary as the sound is.

"I didn't come of age I just sort of... came through."

He laughs at that. "You know, I've seen far more of your siblings."

"Really?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"No, not really..." None of you liked to talk about your father's death or the period surrounding it. Too painful.

"Well, I spent a good week with them. With your father too, obviously. I had to make sure he was receiving proper care."

"Did you speak to them?"

"Your sister didn't understand much of what I was saying, the same for your father. But I spoke with your brother often, his English wasn't half bad."

You groan. "What did you talk about?"

Theseus seems pleased. Eager to demonstrate to you how much he remembers.

"Of course I asked him if you really were a combat nurse, had to make sure I didn't just send a teenager to her death," Theseus explains. "So he told me about the first time you came to help out in the trenches. Some story about the men catcalling you, telling you ways to make yourself prettier, and you shouting 'It's not my job to be beautiful!' at them and tightening the tourniquet of the man you were working on. Your brother told me he yelped so loud that none of the other men dared to bother you again."

You laugh breathlessly. It's so strange to hear the memory come out of Theseus's mouth. Everything about this feels impossible. Ridiculous.

"Did my brother share any other anecdotes about me?" You turn to Theseus with a wry look on your face.

This is oddly pleasant. Doesn't feel so awful anymore, unearthing the past together.

"I wish," Theseus's smile is toothy and endearing. Sly look in his eyes. "Naturally I asked almost exclusively about you. When he talked about you he called you by some pet name? I tried to use it to find you after the war before I realized it was only a nickname."

That makes your heart stir.

It was stupid. Impossible.

An unhappy coincidence. Those were all that seemed to keep you apart.

Theseus had tried to find you.

But [your brother's name] was so young at the time, he'd only ever thought of you as [your nickname] and never "Y/N." It wasn't his fault.

"I was so curious about you," Theseus continues. "Although I was proud of myself for not kissing you... You were too young. And I was relieved it was me who left last and not one of the other poor sods who came along, who knows what they would've done if a girl like you asked for a kiss."

"I wouldn't have asked them!" you protest, and his smile as he shirks off your playful hit splits your heart, you love him so.

Theseus raises an eyebrow, still smiling. "No? I thought you just wanted your first kiss before the battle. Didn't matter from who."

You shake your head.

"No.... I didn't even think to want to be kissed until I saw you. And until I realized my life was going to change forever. I'm an opportunist, I guess..."

The last part is meant to be a joke but he's not reacting accordingly anymore, he's hanging onto your every word.

And he's definitely looking at you too seriously for you to admit that you found him severely attractive. And kind. Observant and receptive, like he saw through you. Mostly handsome.

"I just," you cringe at yourself. Cower away from his searching eye-contact.

"What?" he prods. His smile is teasing this time, like he's hoping to charm the truth out of you.

"I just wish..." you wince at the words as you say them. "That you would've remembered me. It sounds silly, but I used to think about that night a lot as a girl. I handed over my siblings and my father to you, and I would've given you my first kiss, and more than that maybe... I still don't understand why you let me stay and fight in Verdun. I suppose it makes me feel even more silly, knowing it didn't mean as much to you."

The more you speak the more you watch his expression dampen. Theseus purses his lips unhappily.

"I'm new at this, Y/N."

"New at what?" You don't know what he means.

"And I'm already messing it up, aren't I?"

"Theseus," you say. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

"I just," he dips his head back in frustration. "I have thought of you and that night, often. I just never imagined you as a grown woman, Y/N. During the war, you'd become something like a guardian angel in my mind. Forever sixteen. But when I met you two days ago, I knew..."

It's so difficult for him to find the words it seems. He keeps grimacing and shaking his head to himself.

"I knew when my body reacted that way to seeing you. Every part of me rejoiced when I saw you sitting at your desk. It wasn't like meeting you for the first time, it was uncanny. Like... immediate recognition. It felt like I was remembering you, Y/N."

You place a hand over his sympathetically. It's warm under yours. It still makes your head spin, touching him at all.

"You made such an impression on me, Y/N," he reassures.

"I was just a girl," you say, dismissively. "I was naive."

"You were courageous, more than me or any of my men. Braver than all the British Ministry. It shook me, meeting you. Reminded me why I decided to fight, I'd become so jaded."

You have nothing to say to that. He fills in the silence.

"So you didn't want to become a nurse after all then? After the war, I mean."

"I never wanted to be a nurse, I just..." Death all around you. You just wanted to stop feeling helpless. "I wanted to help."

"I never wanted to be a soldier," Theseus offers congenially. "I just wanted to do what's right. That night you reminded me why I was there in the first place. You reminded me to be brave. I was ashamed of how little I thought of the muggles. And there you were, going off on your own, risking your life for them. Before you, I just wanted to minimize losses. But you made me want to save people."

Your lip wavers. You're staring into his eyes, into that pure blue, that dark sea. It's entirely inappropriate, but you'd like very much to kiss him now. You won't ask this time. You'd like to press yourself against his suit, no words can articulate what you feel for him, but maybe you could show him.

But then he speaks again.

"Y/N," there's a guarded, defensive edge to his tone that makes you hesitant. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer this at all, but I have to ask. Was that your first kiss yesterday? In my office."

You can't help but bristle. You're embarrassed. The look on your face reveals everything, so there's no use in hiding it. Damn him.

"Yes," you admit, hotly. "Was it obvious or something?!"

He groans, looks pale. His reaction horrifies you further.

"I shouldn't have done that," he's saying, he looks like he's going to be sick. "Falling all over you like a dog---I should've made it gentle. Sweet. Demonstrated an iota of self-control-"

"It's fine," you raise a hand, made shy by his self-deprecation. "We didn't do anything wrong."

That does give him pause. Theseus stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. He has to recompose himself.

"You're right," he relents with a gentle shake of his head. "We didn't. I just mean... I would've made it good for you, Y/N."

"It was good," you insist. You're not sure if he's talking about kissing anymore.

"Let me try again, I'll get it right this time."

Your heart races.

You wonder when you'll get used to this, the knowledge that he wants to touch you, that he's going to give you what you want. Wonder when your body will stop reacting like a prey animal's every time you're near him, so strong is his effect on you. You want to run. No, you want to bare your neck, submit. Let love kill you.

Your sister's words from this morning are the only thing stopping you.

You have to close your eyelids before speaking.

"Theseus, do you...."

"Yes?" his smile is almost too dazzling for you to formulate a response.

"With other women... Do you do that sort of thing often? Not that it matters..."

For a stunned moment he doesn't react.

Then he is laughing at you. It startles you and hurts your feelings.

"Y/N, I don't--Oh, Y/N!" He hurriedly moves to reassure you when he notices the look on your face, reaching out and grabbing your arm. "Oh, no! I wasn't laughing at you, I swear."

"Theseus," you groan, hiding your face, humiliated.

"No, no," he says again, trying to gently pull your hands away so he can look you in the eyes. His hands are firm and persistent. He's still half-laughing as he speaks. "It's just that I've never done something like that before. Y/N, I don't know how to say it better, but I am dreadfully in love with you."

You look up sharply, instantaneously, to read his expression. It is serene and sincere.

No sign of a prank, no sign of a psychotic break.

Oh god. Your stomach plummets. He loves you.

He loves you.

"Theseus, I-"

"Y/N!"

Once again, Mr. Bragg has taken it upon himself to surprise you. You jerk away from Theseus on the bench.

Theseus closes his eyes and doesn't turn to greet him, his wrath is only barely veiled.

"Mr. Bragg!" You stand abruptly. "What-What are you..."

"The ceremony is over!" He seems annoyed that you don't remember, his pride bruised. "If I'm not mistaken you and I have a date in my office?"

Theseus makes a comically disgusted face, looking between you and Mr. Bragg in rude astonishment. If you weren't afraid of offending you might've been amused.

"He means an appointment, Theseus," you hiss in clarification. That seems to sedate Theseus if only slightly.

"And yes of course," you say to Mr. Bragg with a placating smile. "I'm all yours."

---

next part here

-----

author's note: part 3 (LAST PART) incoming! i had to break this part into two because it was getting too long :(

hope you enjoyed! more drama and smut in part 3

(spoiler: mr. bragg sucks + drunk!Reader and caring!Theseus)

#theseus scamander #fantastic beasts #theseus x reader #theseus scamander x reader #hp fanfic #fbawtft

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oncasette · 4 months

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𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂. send in a character + a scenario for a blurb + 𝗨𝗠𝗕𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔

annnddd another one just for fun lolzies. theseus + the prompt “that’s the sixth time you’ve complimented me today.”

"you smell good," you hum as you dig your face further into your fiancé's lap. his feet were propped up on the coffee table in front of the couch, one hand splayed wide to keep the small paperback open in front of his face while the other toyed with the lacy hem of your slip where it rested at the tops of your thighs. your nose edged along the waistband of his bottoms and the warm cotton he'd pulled out of the dryer barely a half hour ago.

"darling, are you feeling alright?" he asks as he tabs his book and drops it onto the other end of the couch beside your feet.

"fine, love. just happy," you say. "why?"

"well that's just the sixth time you've complimented me today," he chuckles. his hand smooths out over your skin and you can feel the heat seeping into your bones.

"i can't compliment my betrothed?"

"your betrothed, huh?" he asks as he taps on your hip to get you to sit up. his grip tightens as he helps to situate over his thighs so that you're straddling him.

"mhm," you buzz. "you can't take it back now, either. i've got a ring to prove it."

"is that right?" he leans forward until your noses are touching.

"that's right," you say. he pecks your lips once, twice, before he's kissing you fully. his head tilts and his tongue breaches the gap between your lips.

"mrs. scamander has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" he asks once he's pulled away. his fingers come up to brush back the hair that's fallen into your face. nodding, you press forward to reconnect your lips.

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #harry potter #fbawtft #harry potter imagine #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts and where to find them imagine #callum turner #callum turner x reader

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maximwtf · 8 months

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can I request an animagus!reader x platonic!Newt Scamander where the reader has just become an animagus, and Newt finds them in their animagus form (maybe a lynx or kneazle) and takes them in? He doesn’t know it’s the reader and the reader stays in animagus form to see what happens and mess with Newt

Platonic! Newt Sacamander x Animagus! Reader

Words: 2350

Google docs pages: 4

Warnings: None, I believe

Opening: The reader is a new kneazle animagus who gets found by Newt on accident. The reader recognizes Newt from some time ago, but decides against changing forms to see how far they could go before Newt would realise who the creature truly was.

AN// Any pronouns for reader! Haha, I didn’t even realise how much I missed writing for this man. Thank you for the request, I hope it's to your liking. (Oh, and thank you for the other requests I’ve also gotten, I’ll get to those as soon as I can! ^^)

“Are you lost?”

You hadn't meant to change forms now, but after completing some…unofficial work as some might call it, you had to make sure no one was after you and it just kind of happened. Not that you hadn’t been trying to turn for the first time, you had been but without any success. There wasn’t much time to get used to the form, but you knew enough about magical creatures to pinpoint what your form might have been. It also turned out your new form was a great getaway, especially from places where there were kneazles roaming around anyway. No one would pay no mind to your escape.

Only, while checking that no one was after you, a man passing by noticed you. You being too busy frantically looking around caused you to not notice him though. This allowed him to get rather close, but far enough to not be able to touch you. The surprise of a wizard staring at you caught you off guard, and as much as you’d hate to admit it, a hiss left your muzzle. Your movements, as far as you knew, weren't too graceful either, most likely resembling an injured animal rather than a kneazle used for guarding. The man took a respectful step back, kneeling down to your level. You stared back at him with a fierce expression, trying your best to scare him away. Surely, like most people, he knew that the kneazles around here were used as guardians. For all he knew, he could have gotten attacked by you, not that you’d do that to him of course. Your speckled fur rose up, big ears pinning back as you showed your sharp teeth to him. The man didn’t seem afraid, even more oddly…he seemed to try and relax even more. At this point, you knew that even a real kneazle would have come to the conclusion that this man was to be trusted, but you were no house pet. You didn’t need to be taken back to your home, you didn’t even live here. No matter how kind this man was. But he did seem insistent on trying to get your trust, for whatever reason that may have been for.

Newt offered out his hand. The kneazle seemed more scared to him rather than trying to chase him away. This kept him persistent on trying again, thinking that the creature might have been hurt for the way it was moving. “Did you get lost? You’re quite far from home, if you did.” He smiled, keeping his hand out before his eyes lit up. “Would you like a treat?” He kept speaking in a calm tone, not wishing to scare you.

It was when he had begun to speak that the realisation had hit you. The wizard trying to get you to come to him was someone who you had met briefly before. Newt Scamander, you remember his name being. That must have been why he seemed so calm around you, ignoring any warning signs that you had given him. It now felt like he knew how to handle your form better than you yourself. Embarrassing, but thankfully you’d never have to admit that to him…

The realisation must have calmed the way you looked, and the wizard had taken that as a ‘yes’ to his offer. You watched as Newt opened the briefcase he always carried with him, putting it against a corner of a house. The place was so far on the edge of the living area, no one ever came there. Except for you and him it seemed.

Keeping your eyes on the man, you saw him climb into the briefcase, soon a hand poking out as if the wizard was inviting you to join him. Reluctantly you took a couple of steps closer, looking down into the briefcase. It seemed like a house, not even a small one that was. At the bottom of the ladder you saw Newt again, he was holding a piece of meat in his hand which he showed to you and then placed down on a table, coming back to the end of the ladder. He held out his arms, asking for you to come down. He did still believe you had just gotten lost, but perhaps you could have some fun before ultimately you’d have to reveal yourself to him. Before that though, you’d have to figure out how to turn back…

With that, you stepped down and allowed Newt to catch you. You looked around the briefcase as the wizard set you down and held out the treat yet again, lowering it to you. The thought of eating in your animagus form almost made you recoil but if that was what had to be done in order for your plan to work, you’d do it. You took the rather small piece of meat from him, munching it away while he leaned on a table. When your eyes travelled back to him, he seemed to be thinking.

Thinking of what to do with you now. It was getting quite late, and he didn’t want to bother the residents at night by knocking on their doors, asking if someone had lost their kneazle. Which meant he’d either have to let you wander the night alone or keep you in the briefcase until the sun rose up again. Which of he chose the latter, of course. “Right, I suppose you’re going to have to stay with me. It’s okay, we’ll find your home tomorrow.” He smiled with the same gentle smile you had seen before and reached down to you. Newt waited for you to sniff his hand, as if letting you recheck if you trusted him before he allowed himself to pet your head briefly.

A gush of air hit your face as Newt pushed himself away from the table, and walked to the kitchen, continuing on to a place in the ‘house’ that you had heard animalistic noises from, your heightened senses allowing you to smell other creatures in that area. With cautious steps you followed along, watching as he fed the other creatures. You knew he was well informed on magical creatures, and it showed. All the creatures had their own assigned habitats, and Newt seemed to know exactly how much and what to feed them. Heck, as far as you knew he was treating you like you had read all kneazles should be treated. It rather warmed your heart to see him care for the creatures so deeply, even if some may have claimed them as dangerous and as something to never go near.

Though, the feeding meant that you had time to explore without his attention being on you. Your paws turned, trotting back to the kitchen area where after some thinking you decided to jump on the counter. It wasn’t a graceful jump, and as much as you’d hate to admit it, you did have to drag yourself up to be able to fully stand up. While walking to the other side of it, you made note of what had been on it. As you were about to jump down the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor almost echoed in your ears before you could cast a look towards the man. He seemed almost just as surprised to see you on the counter, a playful smile on his face as he got closer. “Be careful, I haven’t yet checked you for injuries!” You jumped down, running away but not far enough to not hear him. “Hm, were you looking for food as well?” Newt’s voice spoke again as he made sure that nothing on the counter was broken. “Come on then, you’ll get some too.” He hummed, seemingly happy to have a visitor.

You had made your way to where the habitats were, eyes wide as your much smaller form marched past huge creatures, some you had never even seen before. While in your thoughts something had managed to sneak up on you, tugging your tail for a few times. A rather rough hiss came from you while turning around, finding a small, almost blue-ish creature sitting behind you. As soon as it saw the opportunity, which was the clear confusion on your face, it scattered away. Your gaze followed it run and get picked up by Newt. The expression on his face looked as if even without seeing he knew the creature must have met you. “You met Teddy, then?” The creature named ‘Teddy’ climbed onto his shoulder, not keeping it safe for much longer as Newt picked you up as well, carrying you as he walked.

You didn’t look, but you felt his eyes on you every now and then. As if he was thinking about something, making notes of your behaviour.

The wizard had heard the rather odd hiss coming from you earlier. He had his doubts about you, thinking that maybe you lacked some of the high intelligence the kneazle usually had or perhaps it was something else making him suspicious of you…or perhaps you were just injured. Either way, he set you down, you only now noticing he had brought you back into the kitchen. “Be careful around the habitats, better not get too close when they’re eating you see.” He spoke to your animagus form, as if you’d understand. Of course you did, but he didn’t know that.

A bowl was placed on the ground, slightly under the table so he wouldn’t accidentally step on it or kick it while walking by. “There you go.” Another smile. While sniffing the food, you could feel his eyes examine your form, but he couldn’t find any signs of bruises or injuries. With that he retreated himself to his room, and as if no time had passed the sounds of writing began to chime from behind the curtain he seemed to use as a door.

You were not eating again. Not in this form at least. Though, you were getting thirsty but there was absolutely no way you’d be able to turn on the faucet without him noticing. So it became a waiting game. Waiting until he’d fall asleep and you could figure out how to turn back to your human form.

Eventually the waiting paid off. The noises of writing and pages being turned stopped and you could have sworn you heard the bed sheets move as he settled down. Some of the creatures had calmed down as well it seemed, even better for you.

With a couple of careful glances to your sides and a long sigh, you sat down and closed your eyes. What felt like hours of concentrating worked, you were back to your human form. It felt oddly nice to be standing on two legs, to be able to reach the countertop without having to jump on top of it. Though, the first couple of steps you took were clumsy.

You opened some of the cabinets and soon found a glass which you filled with water a couple of times and drank. To your fortune and maybe to Newt's misfortune he had left some bread on the counter as well, a night snack for you.

While working on preparing some food for yourself, someone had woken up. He was staring at you from the corner of his bedroom and it didn’t take long until you could feel eyes on your back. Assuming it was either the ‘Teddy’ creature or one of the free roaming bird-like ones, you turned around calmly only to find Newt staring at you. You froze and it almost felt like time had done the same, but the environment soon warmed up as Newt laughed gently. “I thought there was something odd about the kneazle I rescued.” He walked closer, leaning on the kitchen table. He seemed calm enough on the outside, but you still felt the need to apologise. “I- I’m sorry, Newt. I should probably leave, I know you don’t like-” The stutter mixed ramble was interrupted by Newt putting his hand up. “It’s quite alright. Only a surprise to meet you again like this.” He spoke, a hint of awkwardness in his voice but he seemed to hide it well. “You never told me you were an animagus?” He asked, Newt's voice now filled with interest as he got to bring up the topic of magical creatures once more. “Not necessarily a registered one, so I don’t tend to bring it up…” You grinned a little awkwardly, scratching the back of your neck as you retreated from the countertops and seated yourself around the kitchen table. “Ah, I see. I’m assuming you don’t use the form often then either?” Newt hummed, taking your earlier spot. “ He reached into the cabinets. “O-oh, no. I- This was actually the first time it worked.” You said, knowing your clumsy movements in the form must have seemed odd to Newt. The wizard’s eyes moved back to you, slight worry mixed with interest in his eyes. “Are you feeling alright?” The question slipped from him so suddenly. You blinked a couple of times. “Oh yes, I suppose. Got some getting used to, I suppose.” You tried to smile, only now feeling the exhaustion from the changes. Newt took a moment to say anything. “Would you like some tea? I was coming to make some for myself earlier but..” He smiled. You bit your inner lip in embarrassment, not letting it show. “Sure.”

#newt scamander #fantastic beasts and where to find them fanfic #harry potter #fanfic #fanfiction #x reader #fantastic beasts #fbawtft #fbawtft x reader #newt scamander x reader #animagus

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findmeinasunshower · 1 year

Text

𝑩𝒐𝒘𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒔: 𝑵𝒆𝒘𝒕 𝑺𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓

word-count: 2k

summary: Mr. Scamander introduces you to his bowtruckle...and he may or may not be falling for you as he does.

warnings: none :)

“You have a bowtruckle in your pocket.”

Newt halts in his fiddling with the locks on his case and looks up at you through the wispy, caramel hair that’s constantly obscuring his eyes from your view. You’re perched on one of Tina and Queenie’s dining room chairs. Jacob carried it into the living room for you earlier when you all first arrived. Newt had offered you his seat on the well-worn, but plush lounge, but you had refused, stating that you can handle having a conversation without a cushion, thank you very much.

Your legs are crossed daintily at the ankles, and you lean forward as you consider Newt. Or, more specifically, Pickett, who has clambered up his shoulder to huddle shyly behind his neck. Only the creature’s eyes and the sprig on top of his head can be seen, and you smile sweetly when you make eye contact. Newt blinks at the way your perfectly curled hair flutters around your eyes like curtains in the breeze when you move. He can tell you’re curious, and realizes that you’ve never seen a bowtruckle before. The corner of his mouth turns up fondly at the thought.

“That I do,” he responds, shifting in his crouch as he finishes locking up his case.

“Why?”

Newt finds himself blinking once again at the bluntness of your question, and he tilts his head up to look at you fully. Your gaze meets his inquisitively, and he’s quick to look back down before you can see the blush spreading across his cheeks. He rolls out of his crouch with a small sigh until he’s sitting on the ground with his back against the lounge, legs spread out in front of him. “Well,” he starts, “I keep bowtruckles in my case, but Pickett has what Queenie calls ‘attachment issues.’”

You raise your eyebrows and an amused smile creeps across your face. “Attachment issues,” you repeat, encouraging him to elaborate.

Newt backtracks, eyes flicking to the ceiling as he thinks of a way to explain. He holds his hand up in front of his shoulder, encouraging Pickett to wrap his spindly limbs around his thumb and pull himself up. Once his little friend is standing comfortably on his palm, Newt runs a gentle finger over the sprout at the top of his head. “He doesn’t like his tree,” he clarifies simply.

You chuckle softly and lean forward out of your chair to get a closer look. “But aren’t bowtruckles guardians of their trees?” you ask. A pleased warmth spreads through Link’s chest at your knowledge of one of his creatures. You laugh again when he nods in confirmation. “Why doesn’t he like his tree?”

“He says the other bowtruckles bully him.” Newt shifts to cradle Pickett in both of his hands and sits up, crossing his legs. He regards you with a small smirk, green eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I have a suspicion that he’s actually just sensitive.” He whispers the last part as if it’s a secret, making you giggle and Pickett whirl around to glare adorably at his keeper.

Newt frowns right back down at him. “What?” he asks incredulously. “You and I both know it’s true.” You’re absolutely delighted when the bowtruckle blows a raspberry, and Newt rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Again, that behavior is so beneath you, Pickett.”

You snicker and slide off of the dining chair and to the floor so you’re sitting next to Newt on one hip, with both of your legs folded on top of each other. The magizoologist flushes bright red from the tips of his ears to his chest when you settle next to him, despite you maintaining a respectable distance between the two of you. He’s glad you’re too occupied with mesmerizing Pickett to notice his current state—The little creature had shied away from you when you first moved closer, but now he’s watching in fascination as you conjure flowers about the size of the pads of Newt’s fingers out of the tip of your wand. Pickett watches them all the way as they shoot up to the ceiling only to gently float back down to the floor.

“So,” You shoot a baby blue flower across the room, causing Pickett to reel around in search of it, “Does that make you Pickett’s tree?”

Newt whips his head around to look at you with wide, green eyes. “What?” he splutters. You grin at his reaction and unthinkingly magick an array of tiny, yellow flowers to rain around Pickett. The soft petals tickle Newt’s hands when the flowers land in them, and he finds he quite likes the feeling.

“Like I said,” you continue, “bowtruckles live to guard their trees. And if Pickett is always with you…” You fix him with a teasing smile underneath your lashes, “...that makes you his tree.”

Newt gapes at you, jaw moving up and down as he tries in vain to come up with something to respond with. What does one say when a beautiful acquaintance compares you to a tree? He swallows to clear his dry mouth and mumbles: “I suppose it does.”

Your lips spread into a wide smile and you snicker giddily at the baffled expression on the magizoologist’s face. At this point, Pickett has clambered up the lapels of Newt’s white collared shirt so he’s perched on his collarbone. And while you look back at the creature, Newt finds it impossible for him to tear his gaze from you. You twirl your fingers in a “hello” to Pickett, and if his heart wasn’t already melting at that small movement, the way your nose crinkles when you smile warms him completely. Newt’s mouth twitches up once again, and this time a glint of his teeth shines through his smile.

A breathy laugh escapes from his lips when you raise your wand and resume your flower shower. You look back at him at the sound, smile dropping slightly when you see the way Mr. Scamander is looking at you.

You’ve only known him for a couple of days, but from what you’ve seen, he’s never held a significant amount of eye contact with anyone. He tends to keep his head bowed, raising his eyes only for certain amounts of necessary eye contact. This close, you can see flecks of golden-brown hidden in his forest green eyes, like the first hints of autumn that appear in September. You find yourself searching for every last one of the beautiful imperfections while he maintains stunned eye contact with you. You get to see up close as his eyes soften, beholding you as if for the first time.

Newt’s eyes flick down to your lips briefly before raising back up to yours, and your cheeks flame at the minuscule gesture. You look down at your lap in an attempt to hide your flaming cheeks and notice Newt doing the same out of the corner of your eye.

“Miss (l/n)?” Newt’s quiet, husky voice penetrates your being, and you stop tapping your knee nervously. You look back up at him through your lashes to let him know you heard him and his eyes falter from his own lap to your eyes and then back again before he smiles bashfully. “Would you like to meet the rest of my creatures?”

A soft, but still shy smile spreads across your face. “I would love to.”

A full-on grin breaks across Newt’s face and he scrambles to his feet, gently guiding Pickett up until he’s perched on his shoulder. Then, he holds out a hand to you, and you smile as you allow him to pull you to your feet. Neither of you are quick to let go of the other’s hand, and you find you quite like the feel of his worked, calloused fingers in yours.

Newt’s the one who lets go first, but it’s only to reach down and flick the locks of his battered case back open. You watch as he pries it open and lets the top end fall to the floor with a thump. He stands back up to his full height and huffs out a breath and you look at him curiously when you feel him look back at you with a subtle smile. “Ready?” he asks.

Your heart flutters, and you feel like the sudden lightness in your chest has the power to lift you off the ground. “Ready.”

~*~

Jacob steps over the Goldstein’s threshold with a relieved groan and holds the door open for Queenie. He scans the living room tiredly, and what he sees has him suddenly much more awake. His jaw drops slightly, but he schools himself enough to say, “Um…Queen?”

“Hm?” Queenie bounces clumsily into the flat after him. She catches Jacob’s shoulder to stop herself from tripping over her own two feet, and her blue eyes widen as she takes in the living room. “Oh, dear.”

“‘Oh dear?’” Jacob parrots, closing the door behind his girlfriend. “What the hell happened in here?” When the two of them and Tina had left two hours before, the Goldstein’s living room was meticulously clean, thanks to the elder of the two sisters. Now, it looks like a meadow exploded. What seems like thousands of flowers lay scattered across the carpet and the furniture, most of them concentrated around Newt’s closed case in the middle of the floor.

Queenie’s careful as she walks further into the room, for some reason doing her best not to step on the tiny blossoms. “We’re lucky Teeny got called in,” she chimes. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy to see this.” She snorts softly and then giggles, returning to her examination of the sitting room-turned-field. “I just don’t know why either of ‘em woulda done it.”

Jacob turns around in a slow circle, face still scrunched up comically. “Where the hell are they?”

Queenie squints when she frowns. “I don’t know.” Her eyes flick down to Newt’s case laying inconspicuously in the middle of the carpet. She grins toothily and hums at her epiphany before scurrying over to the case and kneeling in its surrounding flowers.

“Don’t tell Newt I did this,” she whispers as she points her wand at the case and mutters, “Alohomora.” The locks flip open with a satisfying click, and Jacob walks over to join Queenie in peering down into Newt’s garden shed.

Queenie then proceeds to tip the entire top half of her body over the side of the case so her torso is dangling over the edge and into the other world.

Jacob splutters and grabs hold of the back of her calves just as she starts to slide. “Jesus, Queen, what’re you doin’?” he hisses, keeping his voice down in case Newt is close to the shed.

“Whoops!” is the only explanation she gives. Jacob sighs tiredly.

“There are a lot easier ways to do this, you know. Like climbing down the ladder.”

Queenie ignores him and turns her head to the side, blonde curls swishing into her face as she does. She blows harshly to get them to fall back out of her eyes before stilling once again, blue eyes flicking around the shed as she searches the thoughts of the different creatures in Newt’s tiny world.

It doesn’t take her long to find the two of you, but one, simple word reigns supreme:

Pretty.

Queenie smiles as the warm feeling you and Newt are taken with fills her up like a balloon. She swings herself back up into the apartment, and Jacob rips his hands off of her legs to avoid being sat on. Yours and Newt’s thoughts die down until all she can feel is Jacob’s confusion and Mrs. Esposito’s frustration because apparently Janey downstairs brought another boy in without permission.

Jacob frowns when he sees the way Queenie is smiling. “What?” he asks. She huffs and shrugs, still smiling, and Jacob raises his eyebrows at her slightly-crazed state. Her bob is now more of a frizzy pom-pom look and she’s practically twitching with excitement as what she just felt whips through her head like a summer storm.

“We best not bother those two for a while,” is her only explanation.

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valkyriepirate · 1 year

Text

Newt Scamander x Reader One Shot- Lean On Me

Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night and notice Newt's absence. You go searching for him in his suitcase to find him passed out over his papers and try to bring him back to bed.

Warnings: fluff, fluff, and more fluff :)

Word count: 1.3k words

A/N: I wrote this simply to satisfy my Newt craving. He is an adorable little cinnamon roll that must be protected at all costs.

#4- Lean On Me

You pried open your eyes and squinted in the darkness. The other side of the bed was vacant; you knew it without rolling over. Newt’s presence had become so familiar to you that when he wasn’t there, it was as if part of your heart had gone missing.

You sat up, rubbing your face groggily. There was a light on somewhere in the house. You slid your feet into your slippers and padded toward the source, hugging your thin nightgown to your body. It had begun to get chilly, especially at night, and oftentimes Newt found you cuddled up in bed, shrouded by a multitude of blankets.

The suitcase was propped open on a table in the foyer. A dim light glowed from within.

Yawning, you stepped over the rim and descended into its depths. The creatures weren’t exactly aware of the passage of day and night in the suitcase, but most had seemed to settle once the sun had set in the outside world. A few of the nocturnal ones hooted and hummed as you entered.

“Newt?” you called sleepily, lighting a candle from the cabinet. “Are you awake?”

You turned a corner to his study, a small nook by the stairs crammed with bookshelves and creature care appliances. There he was, sleeping sprawled over his desk, stray papers from his latest endeavor strewn about, hair ruffled and mouth open slightly. You smiled at the sight of your husband. You’d given up urging him to go to bed months ago, realizing that he all too often tried to heed your words but became so swept up in his work that he lost track of time.

You came up behind him, sliding your hands over his shoulders. “My love,” you kissed the top of his head. “Won’t you come up to bed?”

He started awake, blinking sleep from his eyes. “(Y-Y/N)?” He had a line imprint on his cheek where he’d fallen asleep on the table. He looked at his papers in confusion and began gathering them together. “What time is it?”

You ran your hand down the length of his arm and slipped your fingers into his ink-stained ones, preventing him from touching his work. “Time to go to bed,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear.

He stopped and leaned into your touch as you ran your thumb over his knuckles. He trapped your fingers, brought them to his lips, and nodded.

You helped him to his feet and sneaked a hand around his torso as you led him up the stairs. Newt, of course, was wholly capable of climbing the stairs by himself, but you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to close the physical distance between you two.

Newt didn’t seem to mind. You were the bolder one when it came to affection, but he always caught your touches and held you closer as if he could make them last forever. Often he would absentmindedly caress your arm or twirl a curl of your hair between his fingers. It was in the little things that you knew Newt showed the most care; sometimes a single touch from him said more than a thousand words.

You tugged him into the bedroom you shared and released your hold as you went to fold an extra quilt over the bed. Your tendency to hog the blankets on cooler nights left Newt searching for warmth, you knew, though it didn’t escape your thoughts that his lack of cover usually led him to snuggle closer to you. Perhaps that was part of your subconscious plan.

He stood on the other side of the bed, framed in candlelight. The fire shone around his hair just so, making it appear that he was crowned in a rubicund halo. He was unraveling his tie, his sluggish movements betraying how sleep-deprived he truly was.

You flattened the quilt and came to stand by him. “Allow me,” you said, taking the tie from his hands. Deftly, you undid the knot. You had made Newt’s tie for him countless times each day before he headed off to work to the point that you could do it with your eyes closed. You tugged it from his neck and tossed it to the dresser.

When you looked back up, Newt’s eyes were locked on you. When you first met, you found his inability to look you in the eye odd and yet a little endearing. As you two grew closer, he would hold your gaze for greater lengths of time, as if he had gotten lost in your eyes and was physically incapable of tearing himself away. Even now that you were married there was something vulnerable about it. It was like you were each seeing a hidden part of each other’s soul, like you were baring your hearts before each other and were unafraid of what it could expose.

Not breaking his gaze, you allowed your hands to trail down his chest, grasping the buttons at his vest. His heart was racing underneath your palms. Yours skipped a beat. You were melting under that look. Gently, you unattached each of the buttons and slid the vest off his shoulders, leaving him in an undershirt that was already popped open at the collar. On the undershirt you let yourself undo only the first three buttons; you knew if you went any farther your hands might never stop exploring every inch of his skin.

You pressed on his shoulders and eased him to sit on the bed. He reached up to hold your hand, but you knelt to untie his shoelaces instead. You set his shoes aside and he drew you back to your feet, slowly wrapping his arms around your waist.

“I don’t deserve you,” Newt mumbled, eyes flitting away and settling on your mouth.

You cupped his face in one hand and ran your fingers through his fluffy hair with the other. “The world doesn’t deserve you, my love.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into your hand. “But you deserve the world.”

Your heart seemed to liquefy in your chest, sending warmth trickling all over your body. You leaned forward to kiss his brow. When you pulled back, his eyes- half-lidded and aglow with the candlelight- were once again fixed on your lips. He pulled you closer. Softly, as if it demanded the utmost care in the world, he tilted his head up and pressed his lips to yours.

He kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were his, as if you would disappear from his arms at any moment. It was delicate and utterly sweet and ended far too soon.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth. His voice was shaky, and he was looking at you like you were a dream.

In reply, you kissed him again. You lowered yourself to sit on his lap and he scooted back, tugging you with him, your hips curved into his body. Your hands stroked his neck and once more found their way down his arms. He shivered under your touch. You smiled against his lips and moved the kiss deeper.

Newt leaned back and pulled you both onto the bed. You fell against his chest and dipped into the crook of his arm. Running the back of your fingers over his cheek, you whispered, “I love you too.”

Sleep was quickly claiming him, and you could feel its steady hold on you too. You kissed him once more, then rolled over and blew out the candle. You snuggled underneath the blankets, feeling Newt’s warm arm slip around your waist, his ankles entwining with yours.

You were entering a world of blissful dreams when you felt his soft lips on the crook of your shoulder. You cuddled closer to him, your back up against his chest, and smiled into the night.

“Good night, my love,” you said.

“Good night, my darling,” he said as he drifted off to sleep once again.

Masterlist

#newt scamander x reader fluff #newt scamander x reader #newt scamander one shot #newt scamander #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts #reader insert #harry potter x reader #harry potter #fbawtft

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asterllus · 2 months

Text

I was thinking about...

"Oh, Newt. You never met a monster you couldn't love." from Leta Lestrange, and it made me think of James with the Black Brothers.

Because: "Oh, James. You never met a tragedy you couldn't save."

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calimera62 · 7 months

Text

Grindeldore + text post meme

#grindeldore #gelbus #albus dumbledore #gellert grindelwald #fantastic beasts and where to find them #harry potter #harry potter is serious business #fantastic beasts #fbawtft #GGAD #my stuff

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forbiddengalaxy · 7 months

Text

Newt fell first but Tina fell harder.

The moment Newt saw Tina for who she was Newt fell, when he saw that she was just as damaged as him, but Tina took much longer to trust the fall. Couldn’t believe that there was someone out there who would admire her like that.

And she was falling before she said goodbye to Newt at the docks, but when he came back to ask to give her a copy she was a goner.

Look at ‘em, absolute goners.

#newt scamander #tina goldstein #fantastic beasts and where to find them #newtina #secrets of dumbledore #fantastic beasts #fantastic beasts secrets of dumbledore #fbawtft #fantastic beasts and the secrets of dumbledore #fbsod

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madisonshoneybun · 2 years

Note

Hello! I would love to see Newt with a girlfriend who his nifflers can't get enough of. As soon as she comes by they're all over her but they never steal anything shiny she's got on. Thank you! 💖

A Nifflers Love

Warning - None

Pairing - Newt Scamander x Reader

Summary - The nifflers love you. All they want is your attention. Whether you're wearing the shiniest necklace or the dullest watch they see you as something much more important.

A/N - OMG, I'm so freakin happy right now! Thank you so much for suggesting such a cute idea! I seriously can’t thank you enough! Prompts or ideas really get my creative juices following so feel free to make as many suggestions as you like! I’m more than happy to write them, especially such cute ideas like this! This goes for anyone who comes across this post too!

Words - 1132

________________________________________________________

Newt wasn’t surprised when all his creatures fell for you. It honestly made him even happier when he’d see how some of them got so excited to see you and would miss you when you weren’t around. But one thing he didn’t expect was the nifflers loving you as much as they did. When it was just the one, he was shocked to see Teddy make a bee line for you. The little thing crawled up your leg and held onto your neck. Newt reached forward to get her off, fearing she might take your necklace but upon closer inspection she was just cuddling close. She was rubbing into your neck and licking your hair, almost like she was trying to groom you.

You let out a giggled when she accidently licked your ear. “What’s wrong love? You want cuddles?” You asked, moving your hands to hold her closer to you. You held me like a newborn baby pressed into your shoulder. And you rocked her too, singing softly as Newt stared at you with admiration. God did he love you. Seeing how you handled Teddy made him fall in love with you even more and a small part of him began to wonder what you look like holding a real baby. His baby. A blush crept up his neck at the thoughts running through his mind.

Teddy almost seemed to be your familiar. [A/N: animals (some say animal-shaped. spirits) that serve a witch in various ways, whether as servants, messengers or even spies] She came with you where ever you went, just like how picket was with Newt. She’d sit on your shoulder, hide in your coat, or chill in a small bag you began to carry around just for her. Once she had her babies though, she stopped doing this. She mostly stayed at home but would still cuddle and nuzzle you whenever you stepped foot into your shared home with Newt.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Hello Teddy, are you doing alright?” You asked. She was panting and whining in pain. She was in labor and the most you could do to help was sit with her and speak to her. You brought your hand to rest under her head, rubbing your thumb against her face causing her to lean closer to you. Newt was with you as well, but he was there mostly to make sure everything was going well and that Teddy, and the babies, were safe. It was a long labor but eventually all 3 of her babies came into the world safely, thanks to Newt.

Once she was done, she nibbled at your hand, pulling your closer to her babies. You felt hesitant, seeing how tiny they were and worried you might accidently hurt them but Newt reassure you. You hand covered them completely, like a blanket. You wondered if they would like you as much as Teddy does, maybe they’d be different and go back to their normal way of just wanted anything shiny. You were so wrong.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Newt came back home, having been denied permission to travel once again. It was starting to weight on him and made him feel a level of sadness he’d never felt before. But walking into your shared home he tried to hide him feelings. Beginning to look for you so he could have some sort of physical contact.

“Y/n?” You didn’t reply

Newt’s first place to check was always the basement. It was the biggest so it just made sense but after a good look around he couldn’t find you. When he made his way back to the stairs, throwing a quick glance to where the Nifflers were held, he froze. They weren’t there and you weren’t there. Had they gotten out? Were you looking for them? He rushed back up stairs checking every room again.

Finally, all he had left to do was check the bedroom.

He walked over, gently turning the knob and peaking inside. The sight before him eased him immediately and brought the biggest smile to his face. He leaned against the door frame and watched you closely.

You had all 4 of the Nifflers on the bed. Your body curled into itself on your side while Teddy laid near your face and her head resting on your neck. Then the babies. They were all over, one laying inside your shirt nuzzling into your chest, another close to your stomach, your arm draping over it and hold it closer to you. And the last one had made a nest in your hair. It was by far the cutest thing Newt had ever seen. He wished you could stay like this forever, looking so peaceful and beautiful.

With a quiet sigh he walked further into the room and closed the door behind himself. He was trying to be as quiet as possible as to not wake you. He slipped on his shoes, undid his tie and gently folded his coat. He reached into the closet and grabbed a thin blanket. It had been pretty hot recently, so he didn’t want to make you overheat but even then he still worried slight about you being even the tiniest bit cold. Then, after laying the blanket on top of you and creatures he crawled in behind you. Slowly spooning you.

Even in your sleeping state you moaned and melted under his touch. His arm trying to gently rest under your neck and the other wrapping around your torso.

“Newt...” You mumbled in your sleep, moving a free hand to interlock with his. He chuckled, holding you. Every worry and fear washed away as you laid together. For a moment he felt like nothing else mattered and that later, once you had woken up, he’d open up to you about how he was feelings. And you’d be there to support him. Every step of the way.

- Masterlist -

#newt scamander #newt scamander x reader #newt scamander x you #newt scamander x y/n #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #niffler #baby niffers #fluff #newt scamander fluff

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lacollectionneuse1967 · 4 months

Text

remembering you

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the year is 1916 and you live with your family near the western front in france. after a chance encounter with a wizard soldier during the war, you don't think you'll ever see him again, although you're sure you'll always remember him.

nine years later, you find that the man not only works with you at the ministry, but he also happens to be the annoying auror who keeps accidentally sending interdepartmental memos to your desk. you develop a friendly, albeit anonymous, banter through sending each other notes, but the question remains--does he know who you are? and, if he does, does he remember you?

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: office romance. smut with plot.

warnings: 18+ smut scene. unprotected penetration. oral sex (fem receiving). dirty talk. mdom/femsub. fyi he begs for it.

author's note: i am not an expert on the wizarding world nor am i an expert on wwi / world history! with respect, i do not claim to be. this is a work of fanfiction.

1916, Northern France

How strange it was, being at home when it no longer felt like home.

Your memories from childhood were precious and few, almost unreal. It was uncanny to be back with your father at that small, unchanging farmhouse on the far outskirts of Verdun. Your school waited until the last possible minute to send its students home, as they would have been sending many students home to die.

The perpetual afternoon, summery quiet of the countryside that you were so used to took on a disconcerting edge, an unspoken terror. This was the silence of a stalemate, of a breath being held. Not far from here lay the trenches and, beyond that, the Germans.

The flat, low-slung lines of Meuse were an additional shock to you. You'd spent the last five years of your life in the high, rocky mountains of the Pyrenees, at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

The river-run grasslands around you now had a vacant, exposed quality to them, the trees bare of birds, the squat buildings in town possessing the hollowed-out feel of an abandoned amusement park.

Even before the soldiers came you'd felt like a sitting duck.

Your sister's scream was the first noise to break the deadlock silence of the night.

You run from the windowsill without looking back. Smoke smell pricks your nostrils.

Your front door is swinging frenetically on its squealing hinges, left open, gapingly and awfully so. There are three uniformed men in boots, heavy gear, standing in your living room, looking around your small, low-ceilinged house with barely concealed reproach on their faces.

The wooden floors creak weakly underfoot. Through the doorframe you can make out some distant fires burning, you can't see them but you can smell them.

The sharp, whistling sound of war planes tears through the air.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" One of the men says in mangled French. He's redheaded, maybe in his early forties. There's black soot on his face which makes his irises look so light blue they're nearly white. "English. Anyone speak English?"

Your younger sister cowers at the booming cadence of his voice, she doesn't speak English. One of her bare feet takes a step back.

So they're English soldiers at least, but you don't recognize their uniforms. The redheaded one is brandishing a wand. But that can't be...

"[Your sister's name]," your father is too sick to rise from his chair, but he beckons to your sister, feebly, calling her away from the door in French. "Please, darling. It's okay, he's a soldier."

"There are no wizard soldiers," you step forward, placing yourself between the men and your family members. They look to you in plain surprise. Your English is unaccented. "The British and French Ministries of Magic abandoned us, forbade any wizard from involvement in-"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Your gaze shoots to the man who spoke.

He looks young. He has a long face and short-cut, curly brown hair. Handsome but not roguishly, not like a soldier ought to be. Handsome in an upright, gentlemanly way, the kind of face that exudes goodness and inspires trust. He almost seems out of place in his uniform, dressed for combat.

"What do you want?" you ask warily.

The third, sunken-eyed man gawks and lets out an incredulous sneer.

"Ungrateful little-"

"Quiet, it's fine," the brown-haired man says, silencing his comrade before turning to you. "We're here to evacuate all magical families in the area. We've received prophetic intel that invasion is imminent, the battle will begin moments from now and will span months. Hundreds of thousands will die. Pack your family's things."

Your brother lets out a noise of trepidation, turning to your father.

Your father--paler every day, made older by his illness, slumped over in his chair. He could not even make it out to the front garden, nevertheless survive an evacuation. His eyes are twinkling acutely, buried like gems in his wrinkled, ruined face.

"Come on!" Says the redheaded man in frustration. His blackened, ash-covered face is frightening to your siblings, as is his anger.

He pulls the man standing in the back towards him roughly by the shoulder to hiss in his ear.

"I'd understand if it was an estate that had been in their family for centuries, some of the pure-blood families that we…" For a moment his whispers are unintelligible, but you make out the last words well enough. "But this little farm?"

"Little farm?!" You step forward again, bristling. "This is our home. Can't you understand wanting the dignity of dying in your own home?"

The handsome one looks sharply to your father in his chair then. It is like he is seeing him clearly for the first time, you can see it click in his mind.

"Your father is a Muggle..." he says sympathetically.

"And he is sick. He won't survive apparition. Besides," you protest. "The Germans haven't broken the line since the Battle of the Marne."

The other two soldiers are stilled in shock, aghast at the fact of you, a young girl, arguing with them at all.

"Please," you entreat them. "There's been no movement. This is trench warfare, sir. They won't-"

"They will," the redheaded soldier's voice is grave, uncompromising. "Tonight, tomorrow. I don't know when, but the Germans intend to bleed the French white. They will break the line at Verdun. It is certain."

If what they said was true, if there was a prophecy....

Your hope sinks away from you, you feel your palms go limp and bloodless.

For a moment no one speaks. The silence of the night returns from wherever it fled to, creeps and settles around you.

When you find it again, your voice sounds heartless to your ears.

"Take my siblings," you say.

[Your brother's name] shouts in objection, your little sister cries out.

"No! Y/N, you can't-"

"Not another word!" You order. The words burn you to say. "You will go with these men, I won't hear anything about it."

The redheaded man grabs your sister by the forearm swiftly, and the sullen one extends a hand to your brother. They apparate away in a solitary whoosh. You feel the last remnants of your heart tear away and leave with them.

When the last man, the handsome one, steps towards you, you shake your head and retreat, backing up against the wall.

"I'm not going, sir."

You speak firmly, but the man scoffs anyway.

The front door is still erratically swinging on its hinges like a weather vane. Your father's neck has drooped forward, his chin buried in his chest. He falls in and out of sleep like this lately. He grows worse every day.

The lone soldier purses his lips, his eyes gleam testily. You think he might grab you then, and it sends a tingle down your spine.

"I'm a war nurse, you know?" Your hands are trembling suddenly. No one to pretend to be brave for now that your siblings are gone. Your courage takes on a raw, desperate quality. "Or I want to be. I know enough to help."

"Miss," the man speaks sincerely. Unlike his comrades, he really looks at you when he talks, looks you dead in the eyes. It should be unnerving, but it isn't. You can't name what it does to you.

"I vow to take full responsibility for your father's health and safety. Home or not, he won't be better off here. I will personally care for and protect him, I promise you."

You swallow and nod. He's about to grab your hand when you speak again.

"And them?" You say. "The Muggle soldiers? Who protects them? You can take my father, but I will stay."

He makes a noise of gentle surprise.

"Miss, we're here to minimize the global wizarding community's losses. No magical blood needs to be spi-"

"I don't care about all that," your voice is sharper than you intended. It appears to have cut him to the core. 'Magical blood,' he'd said. But you've never been ashamed of being a half-blood. You've never been ashamed of being your father's daughter.

He frowns in contemplation, more to himself than at you.

"You want to stay so badly. Why?"

"I told you, I'm a nurse."

"You're a child."

"I'm sixteen," you bite back.

"Like I said," his rebuttal is delivered with a sly smile. You amuse him, though you're not sure why. "A child. Not even old enough for Muggle conscription."

"I'm no Muggle."

"No, you're... You're something else."

You bite your lip. Your words are braver than your feelings now.

"If what you say is true, the Muggles--the Allied soldiers--will need medical attention. A woman in town has been training me as a nurse. I've been to the front, I can help. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

His eyes don't leave your face, some silent assessment taking place within him. You're already thinking of what else you can say to him, how else to convince him.

"Okay," he says, unflinchingly. "You can stay." He'll turn a blind eye.

Your shoulders slump in relief.

He walks towards your father, who is still sagged over in a worrisome-looking unconsciousness, too deep to be sleep.

'No,' you think. 'Don't go yet.'

Mindlessly, senselessly, you feel a blooming alarm. Some death rattle, some dying burst of life.

"Wait!" You call out to him, stepping away from the wall.

The man turns. "The handsome one," you'd called him in your head, fancifully, maybe even teasingly. Nothing about it seems funny now. It never had to mean anything to you, people being handsome or beautiful. It didn't have to be about you. But this, it feels serious, personal.

You don't know what overcomes you, how you could act so boldly. He'll probably think you deranged, hysterical.

But you can't imagine he'll deny you.

You've seen enough soldiers these last two years of war to know what they want from women and girls, what they all inescapably hunger for.

"Kiss me," you say, and then add, "Please. Please kiss me."

He halts completely. When his brows knit together your heart shutters closed, meekly.

"Why?"

"I..." It's hard to admit, even now, the world burning around you. "I've never been kissed. I want to be kissed, just once, before I die. In case I do..."

You're losing your breath as you speak, your stamina sputters out.

You know how he must see you--naive, insane, maybe even pathetic. You can bear the rejection, but, suddenly, can't bear to face him anymore.

You don't hear his footsteps. His touch is so gentle you barely feel it, are still turning away when you notice his fingertips resting on your wrist.

When you look up at his face it's so unexpectedly close that you gasp. His eyes are blue, a deep and true blue. You were a fool to think him anything like the other soldiers you'd encountered. No, his expression was achingly kind and perceptive. Devastatingly handsome.

He smells like engine smoke and soap and spearmint. He smells like a man. It's intoxicating. It makes you shudder.

You close your eyes tight and hold your breath. There is the smell of fire and the echoes of distant warfare around you, but your entire body drones that out, pauses and prepares for this moment, readies itself to be kissed.

The man rests a hand on the side of your face, that alone is as intimate as any kiss, the warmth of his palm. He hesitates.

His lips on your forehead are not what you expect, but your body thrills anyway when you feel them press there.

But you are sixteen and you want a real kiss.

You don't even care who from. You want just this one selfish, childish thing in a warring world where no one is afforded childhood.

You stare at him in unhappy perplexity when he pulls back.

You might cry, you realize, and the swelling tears in your vision, they stun you.

"Live," he says, softly. Insistently. "You'll live to be kissed."

He turns to leave, but stops midway. Your siblings gone, soon your father too. The Germans invading. Your whole life taken in one fell swoop, one night. The last trace of your girlhood will be the sight of this soldier's back as he walks out the door of your childhood home. This, you know.

The man looks back at your face and asks you a question no soldier has ever bothered to ask you, not when they burst into your home, not even when you were cleaning their wounds and saving their lives at the front.

"What is your name?" he says.

"What's yours?"

"Theseus Scamander," he doesn't miss a beat. He's an open book. "Do you not want to tell me your name?"

"It won't matter soon enough..."

"Do you so badly not want to live?"

"No, I do. I am just no longer afraid of death."

The look in his eyes is so tender and considerate, it's almost painful.

"I don't need a name to remember you," he's smiling again, it's so strange and out of place and, you admit, heartening. "Good luck. Goodbye."

Theseus Scamander leaves with your father in tow, closing the violently fluctuating door, at last, on his way out.

----

1925, London, Nine Years Later

'It can't be,' you think to yourself. 'Improbable.'

It's just too soon. You've hardly sat down at your new desk when you receive the interdepartmental memo. It unfolds from its airplane shape mid-air and sways delicately, falling in a rocking motion until it's flat on your desk.

A memo already?

You have just been moved to the Department of Magical Games and Sports from the Department of Mysteries. The man who sat there before you was moved to a bigger, better office, had been some hunching, Quidditch-loving Old Boy who wore long socks and smelled of moth-eaten cotton. Allegedly his name was Mr. Byrne.

A real success story in his department, or, rather, your host department, as you'd been appointed Interdepartmental Liaison for the Department of Mysteries. A new position. In fact, the only "above ground" position in your department, which was, expectedly, shrouded in mystery and sunken deep within the depths of the British Ministry of Magic.

In truth, you were also here on a mission. There had been rumors of conspiracy, political mutiny. Grindelwald supporters who had infiltrated the British Ministry of Magic. And the top suspect was the Head of the Department you'd been moved to. You'd been instructed to investigate, discern the truth of the rumors.

This would usually be a job for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but they had also been compromised. Or so you'd been told...

Your new position meant that you were to be kept in the dark more often than not, but it also meant having a desk above ground and being around other people. Luxuries.

No more time travel experiments, thought experiments, or, thankfully, demented blood purity experiments that always made your half-blood boil. You could live without all of that.

Still, none of that explained you receiving an interdepartmental memo before you'd even settled in.

You lift it from your desk in annoyance.

You do a double-take at the words, blinking hard at them.

"Holy hell," the memo reads. "When I told you I wanted to investigate some cursed Gobstones I didn't mean I wanted you to send them to my office, fuck's sake. Next after-work pint is on you, my friend."

You scoff.

It must have been misaddressed. The unfortunate writer must not know about Mr. Byrne's relocation.

It's beneath you, and childish, but you can't help but write back.

It's the sort of enchanted parchment that you can just write your responding message on. The ink disappears into the scrap of paper and appears wherever your mystery correspondent may be.

For your own amusement, you try to picture their reaction the best that you can.

"First of all, 'Holy hell'? 'Fuck's sake'? How dare you," you write. "Second of all, I'm not your friend and I most certainly will not be paying for an 'after-hours' pint. If I'm not clocked in, I'll have nothing to do with the Ministry."

It takes him so long to write back you nearly forget about it, have already gotten to unpacking all your silver nibs and ink pots and lining them up in the drawer like little soldiers, just how you like.

"Who is this?" Comes the message.

It's so dry, the response, so worried and perfunctory, that you nearly laugh out loud.

But something about the formality and genuine concern in your mystery messenger's script compels you to reply with mercy.

"Relax. Mr. Byrne's desk has been moved. If you want to write him, he has the big office on level seven with the view of the Atrium now. Lucky bastard. I'm at his old desk. Was just kidding about being offended. You can say 'fuck' and 'hell' all you want to me."

His reply comes quickly this time.

"Oh, good. Fucking hell, I was scared for a moment there."

You smile in bemusement. Who knew anyone at the Ministry could have a sense of humor? You'd thought you were the only one. You can't help but write back eagerly.

"Damn, I should have lied and said I was the Minister for Magic."

"Have mercy. I think I honest to God would have cried."

"So, no after-work pint for me then?"

"Forgive me, where are my manners? Today. The White Horse. Not sure who you are, but pint is on me, sir."

"*Miss!!" You correct. "And I was only joking. I really meant what I said before about not wanting anything to do with the Ministry unless I'm at work and being paid for my time."

"How very patriotic."

There's nothing in his writing to indicate sarcasm, but it practically drips off the page. This person is cheeky, you realize. Sarcastic. And a little annoying.

You like it.

The Department of Magical Games and Sports is a sleepy, uneventful affair compared to the work you'd been engaged in for the Department of Mysteries when you were "below ground." You look around at your colleagues, your dreary officemates. They were relatively sedentary outside of Quidditch season. Sleepy, slow-moving creatures.

As interdepartmental liaison for the Department of Mysteries, a fabricated position, really, you were already bored out of your mind.

Maybe that's why you write back with unfounded enthusiasm.

"Mystery boy: Tell me something about you. Tell me something true."

----

London hadn't been kind to you.

It seemed you had a hard time of everything: finding a flat with your sister as two unmarried, unchaperoned women, making friends outside of work, making sure to look the right way when crossing the street to avoid getting hit by a bus ('They drive on the left side, Y/N. Get it together'). All these things had proved to be excessively difficult. Especially the not-getting-hit-by-a-bus part.

During the war, while you served as an underaged combat nurse on the frontlines, your father died, but your siblings lived.

They told you the soldier from that night, the one who denied you your first kiss, had kept his word. He'd done the best he could to care for your father and, more importantly, he'd stayed with him until the very end.

Your brother was still in France, working with magical aquatic beasts around les Calanques de Cassis, but your sister was here with you. She worked in some Muggle field you didn't quite understand.

Her, your brother, and, now, the mystery man you'd been writing to every day were the only real people in your life. The only people who really talked to and knew you.

Day by day you'd grown closer to the mystery man. What had started out as vaguely funny, sometimes hostile banter had developed into something more. You'd both genuinely warmed to each other.

"Morning, sunshine!"

You were so accustomed to reading his greeting with your morning coffee that you reached for it automatically, as soon as you arrived, hand sweeping wide over the expanse of your desk to pick it up.

"Hope you caught some bad guys today. Or at least got to enforce a law or two. Bye-bye, idiot." You sign at the end of most days. Or some other joking farewell.

It's a constant correspondence between the two of you, scrawled-in between assignments and research. On your desk there is your inbox, your outbox, the stack of parchment (whatever you happen to be working on), and, just to the side of that, the discreet piece of paper you use to correspond with the mystery man.

However, you do try to mitigate the sharing of identifying information. Even when he learns you're an "Unspeakable," or someone working for the Department of Mysteries, it does little to deter him.

"Keep your department's secrets," he writes. "I just want yours."

He volunteers information about himself, his initials ("TS") and even his department (Magical Law Enforcement), in the hopes that you'll reciprocate.

You do, but you offer unimportant, silly facts about yourself. Nothing that will help him identify you, though he's insistent that he'd know you anyway if you ran into each other.

"I'm an Auror. I fought in the war," he reveals one day. "Your turn now."

"Fine: I never learned how to swim. So if you want to kill me you should probably drown me."

"I'm considering it. I'll bring a bottle of water when I finally see you. Why won't you tell me something more about yourself?!"

"What do you want to know? Can't a girl working for the Department of Mysteries be mysterious once in a while?"

"It gets old."

"You're a liar. You love me."

"True on both counts. But one of these days I'm just going to show up at your desk. I know where it is, you know... Mu-ha-ha."

You write back dismissively. "Why show up? So I can berate you in person?"

Your heart pounds stupidly as you watch the message sink away. You don't want to encourage him.

It's been one whole month of your daily exchanging of magical notes.

You know his biggest stressors at work, you know what he finds irritating, what he finds funny. Know his hopes and dreams.

You hate to admit it, but you'd be completely adrift without it, without him. Even when you're back at your flat with your sister you find your hands moving to write whenever something weird or funny happens, just to tell him, instinctually. You find yourself missing him.

It makes you shudder, the thought.

You don't want anything more... You're both comfortable and satisfied with how things are now. It's really only him who jokes about meeting up sometimes. But you? You're afraid meeting him in person would ruin that.

Maybe it's easier to have a close relationship with him across the merciful distance of anonymity.

"Night night." He writes at the end of the day. He seems to get to work earlier than you and leave later, but he's learned to say goodbye right at 6:00pm, when you usually leave.

For some reason, the words don't disappear from the page, even when you write back beneath them. His boyish script stays put.

"'Night night?'" you write back. "Ouch. I'm not a grandmother, I do intend to go out for dinner after work. Why the bedtime message?"

His words fade in and your heart swells.

"I wrote it so you can put it in your pocket and save it for tonight. I get to say goodbye to you, and good morning, but not goodnight. Just trying to cover all my bases."

You smile and tear off the message, putting it in your pocket. On the remaining paper, you cast a spell for the same, lingering text that he'd gifted you.

"Okay. You can save and reuse this message: Goodnight then, T. Sleep well, I'll talk to you tomorrow, and tomorrow. And the day after that, too."

----

You're prone to daydreaming, you'll admit to that.

"You live in a world of your own!" your favorite professor at Beauxbatons would say fondly.

"Ditzy girl, that one!" your least favorite professor would scowl within earshot of you.

But it's so easy to slip away, especially when you have something, someone, to dream about.

You watch your feet sweep across the dark green tiled floors of the Atrium, but hardly pay attention to anything else as you make your way to the elevators.

You're chuckling to yourself, remembering something your mystery correspondent wrote yesterday. It was some outrageous story, so ridiculous you wouldn't have believed it if it came from anyone but him, who was honest to a fault.

It was about a disastrous trip he took with his younger brother and involved camping on a storm-logged beach, an angry Graphorn, and frantically singing some maritime folk song they'd been misinformed would calm the beast.

You're still smiling at the floor when you step into the elevator, or, more correctly, step directly into a tall man in a three-piece suit. You crash into him with a crushing momentum.

"Oof!" you redden immediately, try to catch your breath and sputter out an apology at the same time. "I'm so sorry, forgive me!"

But the man is engaged in a conversation with two other men in the elevator, laughing.

He doesn't look over to you, he just stills you with an attractive casualness, steadies your frame with a firm hand on your shoulder. You know you hit him hard, his nonchalance is for your benefit.

"S'alright. Sorry, miss," he says with a half-glance, before turning back to his conversation.

A half-glance is all you need.

The profile of his face in the elevator light. His exact height and the feeling of being next to him. His voice, for Christ's sake!

You go stiff, your face wan.

It was him. Unmistakably. The English soldier from that night at your father's house in France. From the last time you saw your father, the last time you felt like a girl...

You couldn't speak if you wanted to. You feel something like seasickness come over you, you don't dare open your mouth.

"Theseus Scamander," his colleague is joking. "I mean it when I say well done! We should've known our young war hero would make the best Auror in the department!"

"Really, really spectacular job, son!" The other man claps a hand over Theseus's back in agreement. They're both older, sort of brash men, they don't seem to sense Theseus's discomfort at being complimented.

Theseus is grinning bashfully.

"Just doing my job," he delivers with charm, shrugging.

"Nonsense! Tonight, we celebrate. I'm not taking no for an answer. I've actually felt somewhat of a mentor to you, when you first started out-"

"We ought to invite Mr. Byrne out with us!" The third man exclaims with revelatory fervor. "How has the old chap been? Do you still go down to the pub with him, Theseus?"

It is the second, overlapping wave of nausea that really does you in, digs in its claws and drags downwards. You feel your feet physically sink into the floor. You can't bring yourself to move at all, you drone out the rest of what they're saying. It's white noise, the buzz of flies.

Mr. Byrne.

War hero.

Auror.

Initials T.S.

God, how stupid could you be? No, that's not fair.

The chances of seeing him again were slim. The chances of the two of you working together were even slimmer. The chances of him, the soldier from that night, Theseus Scamander, being your mystery correspondent these last weeks.... It should've been impossible.

When the elevator doors ding open at level seven, you step past the men quickly, rudely, afraid they'll turn to say something to you. Even a belated greeting or perfunctory farewell you couldn't bear.

You don't know why you feel so shaken.

'It's not a big deal,' you tell yourself consolingly once at your desk. 'You were sixteen. So what if you asked him to kiss you?'

But deep within your core, in a space beyond words or reason, you know that it was more than that. You weren't embarrassed about a stupid non-kiss. No, you haven't been able to shake that night, to shake him.

You'd connected. Or, rather, he'd seen you. Something about his gaze and his words had cut through the fat of life, of circumstance, and he'd seen you for who you really are.

And he'd promised to remember you.

It's gutting, harrowing almost. Realizing he'd been writing to you all this time, unaware. Some sick joke from the universe with no punchline--because you decided then and there to stop writing to him, immediately.

Theseus realizes long before the end of the day.

After you crumple his unanswered "good morning" memo and push it to the far corner of your desk, another flies in.

"URGENT: Is it just me or is Mr. Byrne particularly dapper today? The magenta top hat I can forgive, even the monocle is pardonable, but the polkadot bowtie? Inexcusable. Unbecoming of the Ministry. Need your thoughts immediately."

You had seen Mr. Byrne's polkadot bowtie today. You still found the magenta top hat more scandalizing. You wanted to laugh, but felt too much like crying to give way to the urge.

Then:

"I'm dying. Dark wizard lead in Suffolk but I can't be bothered. Tell me some funny story about you telling the professors off in school. I'm relying on tales of your genius to boost my morale. The fate of the Aurors Office depends on you alone. T."

It's three hours before the next memo comes flapping around the corner like some wounded bird.

"Have I done something wrong?" Shortly after, "More importantly--Are you alright?"

You don't know why you can't leave them be, why you keep reading them with no intention of responding.

"Scaring me here, mystery girl. Write back and I'll stop harassing you, write anything at all. Even a little drawing or scribble will suffice."

"You're not liaising very well, Liaison... Sorry, that was a joke. Ha-ha. I know the Department of Mysteries isn't expected to answer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but I'd always hoped you'd still answer to me..."

You throw yourself into your work with rigor.

Even your Department of Magical Games and Sports officemates comment on it, commendably. They don't realize you're just trying to occupy your brain, distract yourself from the sizable pile of memos lying formidably on your desk until you can go home.

The last one comes late in the day: "Really--Are you alright?"

Your heart aches weakly.

But no, you know how persistent and how persistently optimistic the mystery man ('Theseus,' you correct yourself) could be. If you wrote back he'd want an explanation, which he'd inevitably refute, and, besides, you weren't ready to tell him the truth or to face him again.

Your head is a jumbled mess of half-formed truths and complicated emotions.

It's a few minutes before 6:00pm, but you click off your desk lamp anxiously and begin to organize your things.

The nature of your position for the Department of Mysteries required you to lock your work up before you left. It involves two spells and four charmed latches and bolts, and it takes some time. You sit back in your chair with a sigh, waiting for the process to finish. The soft, mechanical whirring and clicking noises are a comfort to you.

The frosted glass door to the office swings open thunderously, with the unnecessary force of someone unfamiliar with the delicate door.

You sit up straight in your chair, startled. A few of the workers behind you even look over in alarm, heads shooting up from their desks.

No. Fucking. Way.

Theseus's chest is heaving softly. He's looking right at you, purposefully.

He actually showed up to your desk like he always joked about doing. You want to feel angry, indignant that he'd betray your trust, but all you feel is a numbing shock.

The sight of his face alone would've been a shock. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Wavy, dark hair. Handsome as the day he left you.

He seems genuinely rendered speechless. The open part of his lips suggests that he had come with some speech prepared for you when he first burst in, although now he is, evidently, lost.

His eyes keep flitting up and down your form, lingering especially on your lips. It makes you flush. Yes, he gets a good look at your face, and at the small pile of his opened memos shoved to the far corner of your desk.

Whatever he expected to find, expected you to look like, this clearly wasn't it.

"Mr. Scamander!"

Your officemate Ana's voice from behind you makes you jolt again.

She walks over and places a hand on your shoulder tenderly. She seems to be completely unaware of any tension between the two of you, speaking to Theseus with ease.

"I'm sorry to steal Y/N from you, but I have to talk to her about an interdepartmental issue before she leaves. Can't wait!"

You wince at the mention of your name, but you're standing, bag clutched like a shield, and Ana is already whisking you past Theseus and through the frosted glass double doors.

"Y/N..." you hear Theseus echo, dreamily, as you pass, just before the doors close in his face and sever you from him completely.

-----

The next day you see him at a far distance.

You feel less shaken about things after having screamed to your little sister about it all last night. But she'd said something stupid about some "string of fate" that irritated you so much that you'd ultimately resorted to screaming into your pillow.

Regardless, you feel more secure. Less unsettled.

Still, the sight of Theseus's open expression in the Atrium, looking back at you in recognition across the crowds of businessmen and women just as the doors to the elevator you're in close--it's a bit haunting.

You gulp once in the safety of the elevator.

He saw you.

His eyes had drifted up and down your form, unreadably, before settling on your face. You didn't have time to react, and he was too far away besides.

Later, later than usual, a small memo floats onto your desk.

You don't hesitate, reaching for it, but the words aren't what you expect. No "good morning," not even anything referencing what had happened yesterday.

The words are so unexpected that his handwriting is the only indication that it's from him.

"You were so beautiful in that skirt this morning. So fucking beautiful. You look so enchanting in blue."

You flush deeply. So, that was what his look this morning had meant.

The relief comes delayed, second to your shyness at his flattery.

"Oh, thank God," you think.

He'd seen you, twice now, and hadn't recognized you.

He didn't remember. Or maybe he just didn't recognize you, it'd been nine years after all and you were no longer a scrawny, scrappy sixteen-year-old. But it was more likely that he just didn't remember.

You decide his not referencing your awkward encounter yesterday either is another mercy, so you go along pretending nothing happened.

"Are you flirting with me, sir?"

It's a comfort to be writing to him again.

"No," he writes back. Then, "Yes."

You laugh aloud at his candor.

"Y/N, I apologize for my outburst yesterday. I shouldn't have sprung on you like that, unannounced. Uninvited. I wish I could say I was afraid something had happened to you, but really I was just afraid you had stopped writing me for good. But then I just stood there like an absolute idiot, you probably had no idea who I was."

You huff at that.

"I knew who you were. I'm no Auror but 'Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' 'war hero,' and 'initials T.S.' aren't exactly subtle hints."

"Hey! I mentioned the war but never called myself 'hero.' I have a strong sense of propriety and I pride myself on it."

"How British..." you write back mockingly, unthinkingly.

"Are you not?"

Fuck. Well, you've already met.

"I live here now, and have for years, but I'm French."

The ink feels seared into the paper, how black your scrawl is, how you can't take it back. You don't know what you want from him. You wish he'd go away. You wish he'd never stop writing.

You wish he'd remember you on his own.

"Hmm..." he writes back.

Your heart is pounding. When he writes again your anxiety dissolves but your heart continues its steady, heavy drum.

"You're beautiful."

Your head is a scattered, overstimulated mess. You can't think straight.

He's still writing. The words fade in one by one.

"Why didn't you tell me you were beautiful? God, I didn't expect it, it took any coherent thought or word right out of me yesterday when you looked up at me with those eyes. And this morning, that skirt. Y/N, you should've warned me."

You laugh at the words on the paper, but your body's reaction to the thought of him writing them, thinking them, thinking of you, is anything but funny.

It feels overly warm in the office suddenly, and you are agitated. You stand and pace around your desk, fanning yourself with your hands.

Your fingers are shaking around the quill when you bend over your desktop to write back.

"Don't be dramatic, you'll live."

You worry you sound cruel so you add.

"And thank you. I don't think anyone has called me beautiful in a very long time."

He writes back: "Any time. And I highly doubt that. Y/N, I'm sure you've been beautiful your whole life. I can tell just by looking at you."

You don't know what possesses you when you write the next words:

"Can I come see you?"

There's a few, atypical beats before he writes back. It's excruciating.

"What, you mean at lunch?"

You look down at the small, oval face of your wristwatch.

Lunch is too far away. The bundle of nerves and anticipation you feel about Theseus, that swarming anxiety, is too unbearable to wait for lunch. You need to get him out of your system now, get him over with, and then you can move on and focus on your work.

"I mean now. In your office." You write back.

'Am I being presumptuous?' The thought makes you furrow your brow and bite your fingernail in worry. But then you remind yourself, 'Beautiful. He called you beautiful.'

It takes so long for him to reply that you almost write again to tell him never mind. But then his words come, like the sweet relief of rain:

"Yes, please. Level two, the very back left office."

You leave at once, smoothing down your skirt and brushing your hair back out of your face.

The anxiety ebbs and peaks at random. On the elevator ride you feel like you're dying. You recollect your confidence while walking to the wooden door of the Aurors Office only to feel another stab of panic as you make your way down the curved hall.

You feel so frazzled and worked up, too distracted to work or even ponder work. But you don't understand why until you push open Theseus's door, not bothering to knock. Until you're alone in the room with him, just the two of you behind closed doors.

He stands quickly upon your entrance, like a soldier.

For a moment the two of you just stare.

'Oh, God,' you realize with mounting dread. 'I am attracted to him. I am like this because I'm attracted to him.'

It feels terrible, awful, that sapping loss of power, that weakness in the knees. You haven't had a crush in your adult life, it's a trampling blow, the realization.

Theseus looks just as handsome as he always has, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, the sharp curve of his jaw.

He laughs and it breaks the spell of silence.

"Hello, you," his tone is fond but he still hasn't walked over to you, which is confusing and makes you shuffle aimlessly in place.

"Hi," you say, stupidly.

"Hi is all I get?" he jokes. "You know you've become something like my best friend in the office this last month. Actually, you probably know me better than my entire department."

You laugh bleakly, and you hope it dissipates the electrified energy between the two of you. That live-wire tension.

"I could say the same about you, actually."

He makes a strange, indecipherable expression then. It's both wry and lamenting.

"I don't want anything to change that, Y/N."

You frown.

"Why would anything change that?"

He doesn't answer you, changing the subject and turning his attention to the cup of quills on his desk, fiddling with the feathers.

"I... I didn't expect to react the way I did to seeing you for the first time yesterday. I've never reacted that way to anyone, anyone. When you told me you wanted to come see me here today, I panicked. I almost said no."

That hurts your feelings. "Why?"

He looks up from his desk. Your face burns at the sincerity of his expression.

"Because I knew it'd be harder for me to control myself if we were alone together. Harder to be a good friend and... behave."

He says the last word carefully. If he is calculated, delicate, you are anything but.

"I don't want you to behave," you whisper.

You step up to him, boldly. The tension is unbearable now.

"Y/N," he says warningly, disapprovingly. But the look in his eyes is agony.

"Kiss me," you say. The words come to you from far away, a train at the end of the tunnel, you pull them from that night in Verdun, from nine years ago. You need him just the same as you did then.

Theseus smiles reluctantly. The sideways tilt to his mouth is so captivating, it makes you want it more. God, he's attractive. Even more so now that you know him, are his friend.

"I can't," he says, pitifully.

But the look on his face, the way he's standing steadfastly behind his desk like having it between you will protect him, the way his eyes are flitting from yours down to your lips and back up again and again, that isn't saying no.

"Okay, have it your way. But I won't ask you again," you warn.

You want to admit that this isn't the first time he's denied you. He promised you'd live to be kissed, you've come back to haunt him for it now.

You would not ask him a third time.

Theseus groans loudly and puts his head in his hands. When you laugh he looks up at you disparagingly.

"You think that's funny, do you?"

You do. You find it cute. Maybe you don't realize the extent of his distress.

You reach forward to pinch his cheek, jokingly. He bats your hand away with an unwilling smile.

Then you're falling into him, losing your balance. He grasps both your hands in his to keep you from toppling over, the both of you laughing.

"Get off!" you shout gleefully.

"You get off," he retorts jokingly.

Pushing and pulling and touching, it's something like play-fighting the way you're both falling into and catching each other.

At last, he wrangles you onto his desk, so you're sitting there at the edge.

Your head is spinning. He grabs both your wrists, holding them together in a single, large hand.

"Hands to yourself, Y/N," is his gentle reprimand.

But you know, know from the soft pant of his breathing, the undone look on his face, lips half parted, that you've already won.

He doesn't cave into your will so much as collapse altogether, soundlessly, undetectably.

You don't blink, big, innocuous look in your eyes, staring up at him. Even when you're raised up, sitting on his desk while he stands, he's so tall that you have to look up at him.

"Please," Theseus says, and it's so attractive, his broken whisper. "I'm begging you, Y/N."

He drops down to his knees, one leg at a time with the heavy, hypnotized motions of a man defeated.

You gasp softly when his warm palms grip your kneecaps, rubbing gingerly over the sheer material of your tights, reverently.

A man on his knees, his curly head between your thighs. Your stomach plummets, burning low in desire.

You want him bad. Mind-numbingly bad, your whole body tingling underneath and keening to his touch. But it's too addictively sweet, him begging for it like this. You want to draw it out.

"Hm," you sigh, not responding, but you let your legs fall open under the guidance of his hands.

He moans at the sight. When he speaks again his voice is weak and ruined. Rough and pleading.

"Please, I'll do anything. Let me touch you. You're killing me, please."

It's almost a whine.

You can see that the fabric of his pants is stretched taut across his crotch--he's already hard.

His chest is rising and falling softly. There's a needy, trancelike glint in his eyes. He wants it bad, it's plain on his face. It's different from impatience, it's anguish.

"Kiss me," you say again. It's a demand this time. He gives in without a fight, rising up and capturing your open mouth in his.

It's a deep, languishing kiss. He kisses you like he wants to taste you, like he can't get enough of it. He grips your head by the jaw to kiss you better, deeper. When his tongue presses into your mouth you moan into his.

His hand sweeps blindly across his desk, clearing it with a crash. You jump at the sound but he grabs your face again, turning it back to his roughly.

"No," he murmurs. "C'mere."

And he's kissing you again, humming in approval when you tentatively push back against his tongue with your own.

With effort, you pull back to look at him. His pupils are blown out with desire, the collar of his dress shirt pulled open, revealing a collarbone.

"Theseus," you say, your whole body tingling with warmth. You say his name just to say it.

You're too shy to tell him that this is your first kiss, that you'd waited all this time.

It's startling, how quickly the tables turned. How deftly he took control of the situation once he had your permission to.

His hands pull down your skirt, worshipfully, that blue skirt he loves so much. He sets it aside, you're just in your sheer black tights now.

You understand why he cleared his desk now. You fall back with a moan when he flattens his massive hand across your crotch, spreads his fingers. It covers the entire expanse between your legs easily. It feels so lewd for him to touch you there now, but then he drags his hand up, sliding it over your stomach, the middle of your chest, up your neck.

"You'll let me touch you like this?" he asks.

You nod, quickly.

"Only me?" he inquires, sounding pleased. Maybe amused.

"Yes," you say, nodding again with urgency. "Only you. Nobody else."

"Fuck," he curses. He pulls open your blouse then, and disposes of that as well. You half sit up to help him with your bra. Whereas his movements are devout, seeming to worship every part of you, yours are frantic, crazed.

It's not just that you're in his office, at work, but it's that you want him badly. So very badly. It feels like the only thing that can make it better.

Once you have your bra off he pushes you back on the desk again. Places open-mouth kisses your neck, drags his teeth over the skin there then moves down. You gasp when he puts his mouth on your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue. He pinches your other nipple with his hand, rolling it gently between his rough fingertips.

"Hngh," you can't help but moan, writhe, throw your head back against the wood.

You almost want to cry out in disbelief when his head leaves your chest, sinking lower. He's on his knees again, pulling down your tights. You don't understand.

"Theseus, what-" you start, but you are silenced, the breath stolen from your chest, at the sensation of his mouth on your clit.

The moan that leaves your mouth this time is recklessly loud, carelessly so.

Theseus doesn't seem to mind.

"You taste so fucking good," he pulls back to say, his voice is ragged.

You're shy. The idea of him tasting and licking you, putting his mouth there makes you shy. But the pleasure that rocks through your entire body is too strong to deny. You'd never ask him to stop. You weren't capable of it.

Your hands go to his head, fingers wind through his hair automatically.

"Fuck," you say, involuntarily.

He's sucking your clit so well, you hardly notice when he brings up a hand, finger tracing the line of your wet slit, prodding in and out of your tight hole just barely, just to the knuckle. Kitten-fucking you with it.

He stops sucking to lick you up and down with his tongue, again and again in quick, steady rhythm, flicking the firm tip of it against your clit until you have to bite the back of your hand to keep from crying out. When he sinks his two fingers into your pussy fully, stuffing them in forcefully despite the restrictive tightness, still licking, that's all it takes for your orgasm to overtake you in pulses of unbelievable, unknown pleasure.

He removes his fingers and rises. His plush lips are slick with your arousal. He has a dreamy, dazed look in his eyes. The ravaged, destroyed look on your face seems to do something awful to him.

"Let me fuck you," Theseus says. It makes your stomach flip.

He doesn't ask, didn't say 'do you want to,' or 'can we.' He wants to take it from you.

"Yes," you mutter, spreading your legs again without thinking, head still laid back on his desk. Your orgasm made your limbs feel loose, compliant. Anything he wants. Anything at all.

Even the clinking sound of him undoing his belt buckle makes you swoon with yearning, makes your mouth water. He doesn't bother to take off his pants, just pulls his dick out, still staring into your eyes.

'God. Mercy,' you think. Even in his hand it looks huge. It's pretty.

He smiles crookedly at the widening of your eyes.

"You like my cock, baby?"

"Yes," you whisper. "Please. I want it."

He leans over you to kiss your forehead. You don't have the chance to reminisce, for it to remind you of anything, because then he is pushing into your wet warmth. He slides in so snugly, so smoothly, fits like a glove despite the stretch. The feeling of being so overfull is lewd and perfect.

He presses a hand to your lower stomach. He can feel himself inside of you there.

You gasp at the applied pressure.

He keeps his hand pressed there as he angles his hips back and then begins to fuck you. He wants to feel it underhand, how he's moving inside of you.

"Fuuuuucckkkk," you're incoherent, you know. But you can't help but swear, your whole body is vibrating with ecstasy as he drives his dick in and out of you.

"You're beautiful," he groans, throwing his head back. His entire world narrows down to this, fucking you, pumping his dick into your tightness and feeling you flutter and flex around him.

"Wait, Theseus I-" your second orgasm takes you by surprise. Your back arches off the desk, it hits you like a train, it's like an out-of-body experience.

"Fuck," He grips the back of your thighs to the point of pain. But you hardly notice that, you only feel his dick grow achingly hard. He pulls out at the last moment, coming into his hand. It spills out and between his fingertips anyway.

He makes a face of sore regret at the mess. You knew how badly he wanted to come inside of you, you could feel it, but you are grateful he didn't.

You have the strangest urge to get up and lick his fingers, but realistically you're too wrecked to move.

It takes a solid two minutes before either of you return to breathing normally and regain your bearings.

'What did we just do?' you think as you put your clothes back on.

You glance over to Theseus, he's fixing his tie in the small mirror next to the closed door of his office.

It was like you were a woman possessed. You can hardly believe your actions. But, strangely, you don't feel guilty or regretful. And your feelings for Theseus are stronger than ever. Consummated. You feel safe with him. Overjoyed, really.

He catches you looking at him in the mirror and turns. The look on his face is one of total contentment.

He comes over to you, runs his fingers through your hair gently. There's nothing but adoration in his eyes as he beholds you.

"I don't know how I'm expected to just sit back down and continue to do work on my desk now, after that. I'm gonna go insane, just knowing you're only a few levels away."

You laugh. It's an airy, light-hearted sound.

"I like you so much," he admits, brazenly, before you can even respond to him.

Your head is still a muddled mess, but this here is easy to admit. He could probably see it on your face anyway. Read you like a book.

"I like you too," you say. "I miss you already. Keep writing to me."

"I promise."

-----

part two here

author's note: what will happen when the truth of their past comes to light?? part two incoming!!! please leave feedback :)

comment/ask to be added to the taglist!

taglist: @msauthor

#theseus scamander #fantastic beasts #theseus scamander x reader #theseus x reader #theseus smut #fbawtft #hp fanfic

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eveneechan · 5 months

Text

Happy Fantastic Beasts Anniversary Day ✨

Compiling my FB fan animation that i made around 2019-2022 to celebrate the day

(Mostly focus on Tina Goldstein since she deserves better)

Wish if they can't continue the movie yet, at least they adapt it into other media like animation 🥺

#tina goldstein #newtina #newt scamander #fantastic beasts #queenie goldstein #goldstein sisters #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #jacob kowalski #credence barebone #aurelius dumbledore #crimes of grindelwald #secrets of dumbledore #porpentina goldstein

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rowniebow · 9 months

Text

the gift | newt scamander x male!reader

summary: bits of a love that began at hogwarts

pairings: newt scamander x male!reader

cw: fluff

word count: 1.7k+

an: this was supposed to go in a long, long, fic but im rewriting it so take my shlop of a rewritten prologue

masterlist

⭒

december 1912

a large pine tree protected you from the harsh winter, leaving your seats dry as could be. layers upon layers of chilled colorless cotton covered the grass before you two.

you sat next to a boy that had the stars written in his skin. he hunched over a family of mice: two small mice and a larger one.

you hid together, running away from the world as always.

you watched your friend. your knees curled into your chest and your eyelids hung over your tired eyes. the cold hammered the urge to cough against your ribs but you refused.

your friend's cold fingers were the only thing peaking out of his school robes that engulfed him. he used his trembling bones to scoot the apple slices he had brought towards the family, silently encouraging the tiny nibbles.

your eyes drifted to the white landscape surrounding you. you sighed, and brought yourself to your feet. the brown sweater that covered your school clothes hardly did enough to keep you warm, but you disregarded that.

the crystals crunched under your feet as you made your way through frozen field. snow slowly fell from the clouds. they mixed with the color of your hair. a smile painted your lips dry in the stabbing cold as you twirled, eventually falling in the soft bed of ice.

the boy you had abandoned under the tree with the mice and stars had been watching you dance under the clouded day. he gnawed on his lip before standing and making his way over to you.

the mice ran off, carrying a single apple slice with them.

he followed the footsteps that you left in the sea of white. once he arrived, he came to find you smiling up at him as you rubbed your hands and legs over the snow.

"what are you doing?" the lighter haired boy nearly whispered, not wanting to completely disturb the silence of the loud world.

"i'm making a snow angel," you continued smiling from the ground.

"a what?"

"a snow angel! do wizards not have that?"

the only response you received was a furrowed brow of confusion.

"come on," you dragged the lighter haired boy down next to you.

a chilled huff escaped the fallen's lips. the visible air exploded into the clouds.

"now, it's really quite simple. you just spread your arms - like this! then you move them up and down,"

your friend participated.

"then, you move your legs out real wide and move them side to side,"

he participated once more.

"than you've done it! a snow angel!"

the starry skinned boy furrowed his eyebrows in focus. he bite his lip and moved his arms once, then legs once, then arms once more, then legs again.

"can you-" you sat up, fighting the urge to laugh at your friend. "is it difficult to do both?"

the lighter haired boy only nodded, still trying his best to participate in the new activity.

"that's alright, it's enough, anyway. come on, step up!" you ushered. you stood together, side by side, looking down at your angels that laid so close they nearly held each other.

"and ta-da! you have a wonderful little angel that you've made." your grin was stupidly big.

a smile pulled at the corner of the starry boy's lips as well.

⭒⭒

january 1913

you made a beeline for your destination during lunch one winters day. christmas and new years had gone and passed. now, the most important day to you was coming up: your starry skinned friend's birthday.

you pushed the heavy doors to the transfiguration classroom open with ease, but hastily shut them soon after. the professor of the class quietly sat at his desk, quill in hand hovering over a parchment filled with notes.

"ah yes," the older man grumbled. "please do come in." the sarcasm weaved it's way through every syllable but you refused to acknowledge it.

"professor, please, this is no time for jokes."

the older gentleman sighed, placing his quill down gently on the desk. ink dripped quietly off of the sharp tip. "what is it?" despite his appeared annoyance, the professor uttered your name with expectance.

"so," you began pacing in front of the professors desk as you spoke. "as you know, a peer's birthday is coming up rather soon."

the professor sighed once more, but an amused smile played at the lips between his thick beard.

"well, i've finally come up with the perfect gift after all this time!"

"go on then,"

"i want to give him a memory."

"that's - alright, how are you going to do that?" the professor suppressed his laughter at the thought of his student, who has never been the most studious, attempting something as complex as any spell that has to do with a memory, or even enchantment.

"that's a good question, now, isn't it?"

"are you going to give him a pendant or something?"

"oh, now that's smart!"

the professor rolled his eyes at your lack of thorough thought. "you know, that's very advanced magic."

"i'm well aware. but, that's where my helpful, caring professor can come in and teach me!" you flashed a large, pleading smile at the older man who only sighed in response.

he eyed you up and down, "are you sure you want to do that? after everything-," the professor began to voice his worries over you: a student that he has taken under his wing to a personal level.

the smile on your face fell rather quickly at the words. "it's for newt, i can get over myself for him." your immediate tone change had the professor internally scolding himself. "will you help me or not? i can always go ask-,"

"no, i'll help you. if you're going to learn it you might as well learn it from someone who actually knows what they're doing." the professor stood with a grunt, mentally preparing for the hours of after school lessons he was committing to.

"great! that's lovely, professor, thank you so much!" you practically shook with excitement, running out of the door in a hurry before the man could take back his promises.

⭒⭒⭒

february 24, 1913

you two curled up together on the top bed of your shared bunk under a blanket: your bed.

candles littered their desks, causing the room outside of your blanket haven to glow a warm orange.

pools of wax surrounded the candles on your desk. the warm wax leaked onto the many papers of homework that you would later see and simply roll your eyes over.

newt, however, kept his candles in their holders or settled in small bowls. the wax dripped down and collected neatly all together, far from any papers or books.

under the blanket, newt held his wand similar to a quill. instead of ink, light dripped out. the light washed over the page and splashed onto your giggling faces.

the soft chiming of a clock sliced through the quiet laughter, immediately sparking your memory. you let out a soft, but extremely excited, "oh!"

you hurried from under the covers, newt slowly following after you.

you dug through the pockets of your school robes hanging over a chair muttering and cursing to yourself about where "it" could possibly have gone. a small breath of relief escaped the passages of your nose as you felt the tiny felt box in the midst of your pockets filled with nonsense.

you turned around shoving a small box into newt's hands. "happy birthday," you whispered. your eyes struggled to look anywhere but the single stripe on his sleep shirt.

a gentle smile played over your lips, though. one that enchanted newt and kept him staring for longer than he needed to. "y-you really didn't need to," he stuttered, finally taking the box from your hands.

"i wanted to." despite your appearance, your heart bounced against your ribs as loud as a it physically could.

newt hands shook lightly as opened the cream box with a gold ribbon around it to reveal a metal pendant that looked to have been poorly bent in the shape of a heart. it hung off of a small chain to make a necklace.

"what's this?" he tugged the necklace out of the box, inspecting the hand made heart.

"here," your voice shook as you gently took the necklace into your hands, pulling the heart in half to reveal the projected memory you had spent weeks working with your professor to get in to the pendant (that you also made and bent all by yourself. you were very proud of the funky heart).

"you've enchanted it," newt whispered under his breath, bewildered at the sight.

he watched the memory play out before him: one that had been pushed to the back of his mind but was revitalized as soon as he saw the familiar sight.

it was the your first trip to hogsmeade together. the day newt showed you everything and anything there was to show about the enchanting town he had been raised to know. the town itself didn't affect him much at all anymore, but he knew you'd find it absolutely stunning. he was so excited to introduce you to the magical world when you two were little.

you sipped on your butterbeers together. you loved the overly sweet drink, and newt made a face at the sugar that bit at his teeth. newt offered his drink to you with a frown at the taste. one that you laughed at, eventually pulling a laugh out from newt.

"did you do it?" newt's voice could hardly be heard. the fear of disturbing the silence ached within him.

"hm?" you hummed equally as quiet.

"did you learn the spell?"

"'course i did." you replied as if it were nothing, but newt was well aware of how it was a big something. "is it-, do you like it?" your whisper was shockingly shy and insecure. a rare vulnerability that newt understood he was privileged to hear.

"yes! i-i love it," newt's hasty response cut through the comforting silence between you two. but you only smiled.

"here, let me put it on,"

newt stood still while you raised yourself on your toes to reach around the tall boy's shoulders to his neck. newt, very aware of the proximity between the two of you, looked down at the quickly dying candles that were providing the only light in the room.

you leaned back down onto your heels, "there." you played with the pendant over his chest between your fingers, finally letting it fall against his clothes.

"t-thank you," newt stuttered your name, struggling to get anything more than a mutter our.

you smiled.

and the candles finally went out.

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