#‘Even though it can be difficult to understand we must carry on.

[flight0fthenavigat0r]

Change. It’s a fundamental part of life.

“I am aware that you miss him, but we have to adapt and move on. . . Even though it can be difficult to understand, we must carry on.”

[engagemythrusters]

So the reason I personally think Tech is appearing to be doing “fine” about the changes around him (loss of Crosshair and Echo, Havoc Marauder being stolen) is because he is absolutely not.

This guy is deeply autistic coded, to the point where it’s basically canon (the voice actor has mentioned he perceives Tech to be on the spectrum). And as most of us know, autistic people… we don’t do so well with change. We’re really, really bad with it. We like routines so much!

But wait—you may say—why does Tech act like he’s okay with change? Simple, really: you can’t form routines in a galactic war.

Obviously, there’s routines he could keep. Things like… like the order he ate his lunch, the way he brushed his teeth, how he preparde for battle, etc. That’s portable, for the most part. But he’s not in the same place every day. He’s not doing the same thing every day. He’s not even with the same people every day! Everything changes so constantly!

Not to mention, there’s so much grooming (not THAT type) that the clones go through. They grow up specifically for one thing and one thing only: war. Tech’s case was special, obviously, but that likely guaranteed even more grooming. He was special, like his brothers. I bet they had more hands-on training than most—and likely watched just as closely. So can you imagine what would have happened, had the Kaminoans watched him lose his cool over changes? They couldn’t have let that fly. That’s not going to work on the battlefield. If he can’t adapt, he’s dead.

So. Tech needs to adapt. Tech needs to not break with changes. He needs to cope.

How do you cope with something when you can’t cope? Stuff it deep down. Ignore it. Replace the feelings with something else (ie: working out, drinking, bingeing, etc.) and refuse to acknowledge anything else.

Tech can’t keep up with changes. Tech can’t deal with them. So… he doesn’t deal with them. At all. He doesn’t let himself acknowledge the way he would have used to. He bottles them, he ignores them, whatever you want to call it.

(So no fuckin wonder he kept lashing out at Wrecker. How much can a person keep inside before the dam cracks and something leaks through?!)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

If it’s alright, I have a question about Vil and Epel’s relationship. I understand that the accent changing plot line is just a cultural politeness thing that didn’t carry over outside of Japan, but the other parts of changing Epel’s behavior don’t quite make sense.

Why exactly is Epel being forced to call macarons his favorite food? And act very soft-spoken? I can’t see how these fit in with the politeness aspect of the table manners, no abrasive language, etc. It just doesn’t give a very good impression, especially in combination with the unfortunate implication of giving Epel a Southern accent for the “change your accent” plot point.

Before I get to responding to the questions posed by this ask, allow me to explain for those who may not be familiar with this controversy! This is so we can all go into reading this post from the same starting point.

I've made titles to denote the explanation of background knowledge and to denote responding to the questions actually asked to me! If you're already familiar with the Vil-Epel-accent debacle then feel free to skip the first section!

Disclaimer: I’m speaking on these concepts as I personally understand them. However, I am not a native Japanese speaker so I’d advise that you consult additional resources with a better understanding of the language and culture. Two resources I enjoy are Yuurei and MysteryShopTLs, who have both also addressed Epel’s accent and how it was localized.

The Accent, EN vs JP

It’s well-known that Epel is a character with a heavy accent who has been explicitly told by Vil, his dorm leader, to alter the way he speaks. In EN, Epel speaks with what appears to be a southern (as in, “from the southern United States”) accent. Therefore, when Vil tells him to stop speaking in the accent, it feels as though Vil is shaming him for his southern roots and culture. This has also led to fans (especially of the EN-only sphere) thinking that Vil believes Epel’s accent is “unrefined” and “makes him sound uncouth/uneducated”, which is why Vil tells Epel to cover it up. I have even received asks conveying as much in the past (here is one example).

In the original JP, Epel speaks in a way that does not closely resemble any real-world Japanese dialect but rather a blend of them. If you ask a native Japanese speaker, they would likely tell you that it is difficult to understand what Epel is saying and that it sounds as though he is speaking rudely or too casually. People could genuinely take offense to the accent because it can be mistaken as something else entirely. This is obviously very different than the real-world accent (which many people can still understand and wouldn’t perceive as rude) that Epel was localized to have. The decision to give him a southern accent, then, does not completely carry over its original JP connotations into EN.

What remains the same in both EN and JP is the reason Vil provides for telling Epel to adjust the way he communicates. As he says in EN, “Speak properly" to which Epel immediately assumes the command comes from a place of elitism/classism and Vil thinking Epel's manner of speaking is beneath him. Vil responds with, "Stop misinterpreting my instructions. I have nothing against your home or its dialect. What I object to is your attitude. Being proud of your home is all well and good, but there is a time and a place for that. The way you address your superiors is entirely unacceptable." (Keep in mind that before this, Epel was the one instigating a fight with Vil and subsequently got his ass whooped for disrespecting an upperclassman. As the victor, he declares that Epel must do as he says--that's the "culture" of NRC. The weak obey the strong, so if Epel wants to do whatever he wants, then Vil challenges him to beat Epel in a fight. Until then, the loser must obey the winner. Epel agrees to these conditions.) This may be a little hard for western English speakers to wrap their heads around, but MANY Asian countries, Japan included, run on a hierarchical system which is embedded even into their languages. Japanese, for example, has honorifics to denote the relationship between the speaker and the listener, as well as variations on the same word depending on the context ("boku", "ore", "watashi", "atashi", etc. are all valid ways to refer to oneself, "onii-san", "onii-sama", "aniki", "kyodai", etc. are all ways to refer to a brother, whether blood-related or not). In some cases, it's considered rude to call others by their first name unless you know them well, and even then it's not common to see a first name without an honorific. This is not as strictly adhered to in English, which is perhaps where a cultural disconnect occurs. What Vil is referring to in his instructions to Epel is what is known in the world of linguistics as "code switching", or changing how one communicates to suit the situation. Part of code switching is changing one's "register", or the level of formality you use. So for example, I could use a colloquial/casual register when I speak with my friends, but I may shift to a more polite and formal register when I speak with my professors, a boss, or an older relative. Vil, then, is critiquing Epel for not speaking politely to his seniors (something which is expected in Japanese culture, but not expected among those in similar grade levels in western cultures).

In the Harveston Sledathon event, we get to venture to Epel's hometown and hear how the locals speak. Indeed, we get more instances of people who speak in the same way Epel does. It's the Harveston dialect, which is so distinctive that it basically sounds like a whole different language. (There are also languages like this in real life; consider Mandarin and Cantonese; technically they are both "Chinese" but Mandarin and Cantonese speakers would not be able to comprehend one another even if they use the same written language). However, it's notable that Marja (Epel's grandmother) and the mayor of Harveston are able to code switch flawlessly into a more standardized tongue. They explain that this is a skill they have developed because it helps in communicating with tourists/visitors to the village and for whenever they travel to the nearby city to sell their wares. This reinforces Vil's point that there is a "time and place" for certain ways of speaking, which Epel needs to consider.

Macarons and Soft-Spokeness

Accent thing aside, some English-speaking fans take issue with Vil's stern treatment of Epel, particularly in instances in which Vil seems to be exerting significant control over his underclassman's behaviors. (Japanese-speaking fans largely do not hold the same sentiment.) Examples of this include Vil forcing Epel to state that his favorite food is macarons, as well as making Epel present as soft-spoken even when he's just among his peers. I will now be addressing both of these points. TO BE CLEAR, I am NOT trying to defend Vil but rather I'm just going to speculate about why the circumstances are the way that they are and/or why perceptions of his attitude may differ.

Starting with macarons! It is stated in Epel's official profile and by Epel himself in his Birthday Boy vignettes that his favorite food is yakiniku (Japanese grilled meat). However, macarons are also listed as his favorite food, and this is notable because he's the only character with two foods listed instead of just one. In the aforementioned Birthday Boy vignettes, Epel is quick to qualify his love of meats with, "Well, I do have one thing I like even more. It's, ah, macarons." When asked what he likes about them, he says, "They're... cute. And sweet! And they come in lots of different flavors." His voice here sounds hesitant, so it's not clear whether he's being entirely honest or not. He even admits in a whisper that, "[Macarons] are not very filling, but still." Epel again complains about macarons being good but not very filling when he has some in the City of Flowers/Fleur City. To this, Azul asks, "Why do you look so unimpressed, Epel? I thought macarons were your favorite food. [...] But was my intel mistaken? Would you prefer something with a stronger flavor profile?" Epel insists he is fine, and Azul responds with, "Excellent, then my intel bears out." This creates some confusion over whether Epel actually likes macarons or not. I doubt that the information Azul has on others is inaccurate. Plus, Epel states of his own free will to the player (who is interviewing him) that he also likes macarons. This leads me to believe that while Epel doesn't outright hate macarons, he does like them alright (but still prefers grilled meat more). The only thing he seems to have an issue with is how unsubstantial macarons are as a food item.

Now... why does Vil make him state that macarons are his favorite food instead of grilled meat? It's sort of touched on in Epel's Ceremonial Robes vignettes. In them, Vil chides Epel for his poor table manners and asks him to state his favorite food. Epel responds with grilled meat/barbeque, which earns him a smack from his dorm leader. (Vil actually smacks Epel multiple times in these vignettes as punishment, which ended up being another source of ire in the English-speaking part of the fandom; such a thing is more common in Asia and its media, so it's not seen as too outrageous in Japan.) "Do my ears deceive me?" Vil says. "I could've sworn I heard a word unfit to be spoken in this noble dorm. I will ask you again. As a student of Pomefiore–a dorm founded upon the tenacity of the Fairest Queen–what is your favorite food?" From this dialogue, it can be surmised that Vil's reasoning for drilling the macarons in as Epel's favorite food is because it is something that is more befitting of the regal "image" of the Fairest Queen and the dorm made in her honor. Vil seems to regard grilled meat as an inelegant food which does not suit the Fairest Queen nor Pomefiore.

The second thing the asker brought up is Epel's soft-spokeness. I guess I'm a little confused by this??? Soft-spokeness is a part of being polite; it ties back to volume control (ie "indoor voice" being softer than "outdoor voice"). I also don't recall a specific instance of Vil chastising Epel for NOT being soft-spoken at all times. He allows Epel to be loud sometimes and raises his voice himself. I feel like volume is not something that Vil harps on as much as other things like cursing or speaking politely to the correct authority figures (unless, of course, volume is important to the level of politeness required for the current conversation). I could be wrong on this though, so please let me know if you know of any specific instances of Vil being mad about Epel speaking loudly that I may have missed! What I do find odd is how... consistently (?) Epel tries to keep polite even when Vil is not around to monitor him. When Vil and Epel first met, Vil makes it clear that there is a "time and place" for Epel's accent, and it's not when addressing seniors. So... by the logic, shouldn't Vil be okay with Epel acting more relaxed or rowdy around first years or more casual settings in general? Why does Epel need to maintain the facade of being polite even when not in the presence of his superiors? Why does Epel seem to even act fearful about word of his misbehavior/rudeness getting back to his dorm leader and even make others swear they won't divulge the incidents to Vil?

One theory I'll propose is the entirety of book 5. Vil was insistent then on having Epel in the NRC Tribe. He wanted to weaponize Epel's cuteness, which he believed could compete with his long-time rival, Neige. This probably fed into Vil's demands for Epel to appear and act dainty and innocent, traits which Neige effortlessly possesses. Vil literally even refers to Epel as his "Poison Apple" that will help him defeat Neige. After book 5, Vil seems to have eased up on his rigidity. However, I will caution that this explanation may or may not align well with vignettes and/or event stories, which do not always work in a cohesive timeline with the main story.

Perhaps a more all-encompassing explanation is... this is probably because Vil is just very strict about how his dorm members present themselves at all times, since they are expansions of Pomefiore and of himself as the leader. Both the macarons and Epel's attitude are reflections of the dorm he (a celebrity who is very aware of the public eyes on him + his reputation) is affiliated with, and Vil won't have them poorly represented. He is the dorm leader, so he has the "right" to rule and impose his ideals as he sees fit. It's a similar situation to Riddle forcing the Heartslabyul students to follow silly, nonsensical rules (because they're tradition) or risk a scolding or a beheading. And again, Epel is following along because (as established in book 5), he has agreed to submit to Vil’s orders until he beats Vil in combat.

At the end of the day, I don't think Epel being forced to call macarons his favorite food is a huge deal. Is anything that big lost in claiming you like something that isn't your actual favorite food? It's not like Vil is forcing Epel to claim he likes eating something that would actually harm him (like, if Epel had an almond allergy or something).

What's more dubious is how VIl governs Epel's attitude and temperament at seemingly all times (to the point of eliciting some apprehension from Epel). Given the most generous reading, maybe it's Vil's way of teaching Epel maturity and how to keep his voice down since Epel had zero of it and acted loudly brazen when he first enrolled. It doesn't help Epel if he's quiet and well-mannered in very limited social situations; it has to be "generalized" or expand to other scenarios for Vil's lessons to truly be instilled in him. (Like... what would happen if Vil DIDN'T hold Epel in check? His classmates would not be able to understand Epel's speech, and he might get into trouble by picking fights with others.) This is a life skill that Epel lacks, unlike his grandma and the Harveston mayor, and Vil's teaching it to him via "tough love" (though whether you approve of his methods or not is up to interpretation). Recall that Vil also teaches Epel to embrace femininity as its own strength and to disregard outdated gender norms--this could be considered another "lesson". I doubt that anything Vil imposes is done maliciously, but rather comes from a place of wanting others to be better and to shine their brightest, even if that path is difficult or painful. Epel, as the rebel in this circumstance, of course does not enjoy being told what to do and misbehaves in small ways. There’s a limit on how much he can misbehave though, as it would hurt his pride to be reminded of his failure to one-up Vil. He's like a kid that doesn't want to be caught cussing or acting out by his parent. It can be seen as immaturity and an unwillingness to change or to grow up, but it can also be seen as someone who wants to freely be able to express themselves or to be their "truest" self. Epel is rowdy and headstrong, and it's difficult for him to repress these parts of himself. Given the least generous reading, Vil is oppressing and stifling Epel in many ways that extend beyond what his dorm leader position should reasonably allow him to do. In fact, a popular fan translation for book 5 is "The Beautiful Oppressor", as Vil is frequently shown limiting the liberties of his NRC Tribe members during their training arc, not just Epel's.

Which is the truth here? Why do those in the English side of the fandom decry Vil's actions and side with Epel whereas the Japanese side see little issue with this?

I wager that this predominantly comes down to, again, cultural differences. Many English-speaking fans are based in the west (particularly the USA and Canada, where the EN servers first launched), places which emphasize individuality and self-expression. Of course they would be more likely to take Epel's side, as he's the one trying to be himself and stand out in his own way. Meanwhile collectivism--an ideology which stresses conformity with a group--dominates in the east. They are more likely to see no problems with Vil's actions because, to them, he is acting in the ways he is to "guide" Epel and show him how to best "fit in" with Pomefiore and at NRC. I believe the whole "being soft-spoken" thing also ties back to cultural differences; speaking loudly is something else that can be considered rude in Japan, so it's entirely possible that Vil encouraging Epel to be soft-spoken is another element of politeness that did not translate well to English (as the western world tends to be much louder and more animated in their conversations).

What it boils down to is that the way Vil and Epel's relationship was written did not work well for a western audience, whose values and perspective is VERY different from the original audience TWST had. It appeals far more to a Japanese fanbase than a western one, and has resulted in many misunderstandings or anger about Vil's character because of this.

I'm not sure if I managed to adequately explain everything, but I hope that this at least helps you to see from a different perspective!!

[misseviehyde]

STUDENT BODY

Your girlfriend Natasha was really worried about what was going to happen to your relationship once you started to attend different universities. She'd heard that long distance relationships could be really challenging and difficult.

Sure - it was always possible to communicate online and see each other that way, but without physical intimacy even the healthiest relationships would falter. But Natasha was always full of clever ideas.

"Listen babe. I've had an idea. My family have been guarding a magic scrying mirror for generations. I can use it to astrally project my spirit into another person. It's frowned upon to possess another person, but if it's just so we can talk and touch and stuff, I don't see the harm. Make sure you choose someone who is a real asshole though, that way I'll feel less bad about possessing them.

***

A month later you headed to University and began looking for someone suitable for Natasha to possess. It didn't take you long to find your target. Chanel Grey was the obnoxious, entitled sorority president of the most exclusive sorority on campus and perfect for your needs.

It didn't hurt that you had a huge crush on the busty bitch and the thought of your girlfriend inside that smoking hot body was kind of appealing. Chanel was a total asshole as well, so your girlfriend needn't feel bad about possessing her for a while.

You waited until Chanel was out shopping on her own one day and followed her to the mall. She usually had her team of funkies with her, but today she was flying solo and this was your best chance.

Ringing Natasha you waited patiently as she prepared the mirror in her bedroom. "Okay babe, I'll see you in a moment or two I guess."

You hung up and watched Chanel as she browsed through an expensive rack of designer clothes in one of her favourite stores. Suddenly she put a hand to her head as if she were dizzy. Then with a grunt her eyes rolled up into her head and she swayed on her feet slightly.

Moments later she shivered and her eyes came back into focus... only they seemed different somehow.

Chanel looked around, then spotting you walked confidently over. "Heya babe. What a body you found for me. I wasn't expecting you to pick anyone this hot."

It had worked. It had actually worked. Natasha was now inside Chanel!

She giggled and admired herself in a mirror. "Wow - this bitch is super stacked. She must have boobs three times the size of mine. And how fit is this body? Guess she must work out."

Natasha stretched, clearly enjoying how it felt to be inside Chanel. She then did a cursory check of her body, checking her pockets and her handbag.

"And I'm guessing she's rich too. I would never be able to afford a store like this. I'm guessing this is her Daddy's credit card. I mean I could try accessing her memories to check, but that can be dangerous. It can cause memories to get entwined."

You nodded not really understanding what she was saying but agreeing nonetheless.

"Only problem you've made for us is that someone is bound to notice us talking if we aren't careful. Chanel probably wouldn't be seen dead with someone like you. I wish you'd picked someone a little bit more low key even if they did have smaller boobs."

Natasha grabbed your hand and dragged you into the store. She pulled you into one of the dressing rooms and began fumbling at your belt.

"I know I said no sex, but this body is making me super horny. I don't think Chanel is a virgin, especially if those XXX condoms she is carrying in her handbag are anything to go by."

Giggling Natasha pulled out your cock and she smirked when she saw it was already rock hard. It looked so naughty in Chanel's lightly tanned hands - another woman's hands.

"Wow, guess you like Chanel's body too. Don't try to pretend this isn't what you wanted when you picked her as your target. Guess you now get to be sucked off by little Miss Popular."

With a giggle Natasha slid her pink glossy lips round your dick and began to suck. It felt good... really good and looking down you couldn't believe you were getting a blowjob from the most popular girl at uni. Turning to look at the dressing room mirror, you couldn't believe how hot it looked to see Chanel Grey's pretty head bobbing up and down on your cock. She was so fucking hot and now she was your slut.

Suddenly Natasha hesitated and her eyes went a little wide for a second. A moment later she attacked your dick with a fresh wave of enthusiasm, only this time it felt even better! Natasha was doing something with her tongue you had never felt before and her lips seemed tighter than ever. She was also making eye contact now and little groaning sounds and together it was all too much.

You began to cum and groaning you ejaculated into Natasha's mouth. It felt really good and it was a big heavy load. "Mmmhppphhh," gurgled Natasha happily.

To your surprise, she swallowed all of your load. Normally Natasha hated the taste of cum and would spit it out, but now she was inside Chanel, she seemed to enjoy it. Delicately wiping her pretty lips, she smiled and let go of your cock.

"Mmmh, sorry if I zoned out for a second there baby," she grinned. "I accidentally accessed Chanel's memories on blowjobs. Damn but she knows her stuff and she's sucked some good dick. Bigger than yours I guess."

You felt a sudden irrational jealousy. It wasn't like Natasha had actually sucked someone else's dick, but her having those memories seemed wrong somehow.

"I wish we had time for you to fuck me properly, but we'll get busted if we stay in here any longer. Come on."

Sorting out her hair and makeup Natasha indicated you should wait a moment and she slipped out first.

You waited a few minutes, then slipped out too. Looking around for Natasha you cursed as you saw her with a group of hot looking girls. She'd bumped into Chanel's friends! She made eye contact with you for a second then shrugged. Desperate not to blow her cover she decided to just go with it and helpless you watched her walk away with them - just like the real Chanel would.

****

Hours passed when your phone began to buzz. You weren't expecting a phone call from an unknown number, but you answered and it was Chanel's voice on the other end.

"Sorry about that babe. I couldn't get away from those bitches. I had to access more of my... I mean Chanel's memories just to convince them I was her."

Natasha began to explain how she had spent the rest of the morning with the girls doing hot girl shit. Hair, makeup, nails, coffee, more shopping.

Natasha usually hated all that kind of stuff, so you were surprised to hear genuine enthusiasm in her voice.

"I was pissed off that you chose this body for me at first. But the longer I spend as Chanel, the more I'm starting to enjoy being beautiful and popular. It's a unique experience. I understand how this body possession could get quite addictive. It's said that if you astrally project for too long your soul can bond with the wrong body and you get stuck forever. Imagine that. Imagine if I was Chanel permanently."

Her voice was joking, but also had a strange undertone to it.

"Of course I'm only doing this for a bit at a time so should be safe. I'm gonna hop back to my own body in a second. First though I've been horny all morning and haven't got off yet. Chanel has quite the selection of sex toys and I thought you'd like to listen. Right now I'm lying on her bed playing with myself."

You felt your cock stiffen as Natasha began to describe what she was doing.

"Mmmmh I'm touching Chanel's big bitchy tits and rubbing her tight pink pussy. Her soft hair is all around me and I feel like such a hot slut. Her pussy and clit are more sensitive than mine, you'd love this tight pussy. I have a finger inside myself. It feels so fucking good. I can't believe how wet I am already. Ooooh fuck yes."

Natasha began to moan and pant, you imagined her arching her back and gasping like a slut as she played with herself. You wished you were there, you were so jealous.

"Yesssss, yessss, I fucking love this body. I'm gonna cum so good in a bit. Mmmmh think I'll try this big thick dildo to help me get there. I want you to imagine it sliding inside my tight cunt, stretching me out baby. Chanel's tight pussy gripping every inch as I begin to pump it in and out. Ooooh fucccckkk."

Wet sounds of pleasure and pants and moans of lust came down the phone and you began to pump your own cock faster. This was so fucking hot.

"Ooooooh fuck, it's never felt THIS good before. Mmmmmh my new body was built for sex. Ooooh shit I can take it deeper than ever before, I feel like such a hot slut. My pussy is gonna explode! Ahhhh ohhhhh fuckkkk."

A screaming gasping squealing squirt of pleasure blasted down the phone as Natasha began to cum and you creamed your own belly with more of your own cum. The thought of her enjoying Chanel's body was just too erotic. That had been so hot.

"Mmmh, think I might play with myself a bit more before leaving her body. She won't properly remember everything she did when I was in control, just the gist. It's her brains own mental defense helping to keep my possession secret. She'll think she did all of this. So long as I don't do anything too out of character - I can have this hot little body whenever I like."

And with that she hung up...

***

For the next week you looked forward to your girlfriends daily possessions of Chanel. As Natasha predicted, the popular girl didn't seem to notice anything amiss and she certainly didn't show any indication she recognised you at uni.

It was strange to see that pretty face look at you blankly. The same face that hours before had been sucking you off or kissing you. To your shame you began to fantasize more and more about Chanel's beautiful features and soft sexy voice than Natasha's body.

But there was frustration too. Mostly the possessions seemed to involve a quick blowjob or handjob, then Natasha would go off with Chanel's friends. There was never anytime to have proper sex. Natasha even refused your offers to eat her out or finger her. You had never actually gotten to see Chanel's pussy.

Her popularity and prestige made it hard for you to spend any time whilst she was Chanel and you began to regret choosing such an exclusive target.

Natasha was acted weird too. She seemed to have accessed more of Chanel's memories for some reason and even when in her own body was acting more aloof and haughty. She'd started working out, stopped wearing her glasses and she sounded like she was starting to treat everyone like a real bitch.

She also seemed to be enjoying hanging out with Chanel's friends and living the life of a popular bitch more than she should. Her stories began to focus more and more on how much she had enjoyed hanging out with her girls and bullying the losers on campus, than the chance to be with you.

You were shocked the first time she described bullying someone. Shocked at how full of glee and enthusiasm she was.

"Some dumb little bitch dared to get in my way in the store. Can you believe it? She walked right out in front of me and when she saw who I was tried to apologise. I pushed the little loser into a clothes rail and knocked her over. She won't dare complain to the Dean, she knows I'd destroy her life. I left her crying in the shop - it was SO funny."

The possessions were supposed to bring you both closer together, not push you further apart, but now you were really starting to worry. Natasha had even insisted you set up a monthly payment to Chanel's bank account so she could buy even more clothes and things - but she never wore them for you.

The first real betrayal came when you found out that Natasha had been possessing Chanel on some days and not even telling you. She accidentally let slip a story about having dinner with her girls and you realised she hadn't told you she was available that day.

"Oh yeah? So? I sometimes slip back into Chanel when you're not around or I just feel like some me time. Her body fits me like a glove these days, I can hop in with no resistance anymore and I enjoy living her pampered life for a bit. What's your problem with that loser?"

You were shocked to hear the venom in her voice.

"Oh did I call you a loser? Sorry babe - that's what Chanel thinks about you. I've been accessing more of her memories and it's hard to fight off her impression of you as a nerdy, worthless, loser. I mean - of course I don't think that about you. Anyway gotta go."

She cut you off abruptly and that was the end of that.

***

The next betrayal happened soon after.

Natasha had stopped giving you blowjobs when she possessed Chanel, saying she was too busy or didn't feel like it. If you were lucky, you'd get a disinterested handjob from her and even that was becoming rarer.

It was like Natasha no longer cared about possessing Chanel to spend time with you, but simply so she could BE Chanel. It was also clear she had pretty much accessed all of Chanel's memories now and it had affected her.

Natasha's old speech patterns were gone. Whether she was inside Chanel or not she now spoke like a bitchy valley girl. Now when she called you 'babe' it was with a hint of mockery and her pretty lips always had a cruel bitchy sneer and her eyes a glint of malice. She held herself with a haughty arrogance and her body language had become like that of a spoiled ballet dancer.

"Just look at me. I'm so fucking PERFECT," purred Natasha as she admired herself in her stolen body. "Sorry 'babe' no time to give that tiny dick of yours a blowie. I have to meet the girls for some shopping. I have a new set of lingerie I'm desperate to try. See you later loooooser."

Despite Natasha's increasing distance, the dirty phonecalls continued and it had become the only source of your sex life. You'd listen to Chanel/Natasha moaning down the phone-line and telling you about fucking herself whilst touching yourself.

Recently though Natasha had told you that you weren't allowed to cum unless she said so. She also would cut off the phone unexpectedly, or sometimes not even ring at all leaving you blue-balled and desperate.

Then out of the blue she contacted you to tell you she had an idea how you could spend more time together.

"I've been telling all my hot friends about my cute sissy male friend... in other words you! If you go along with it and play the part, then I'm sure we can hang out more. All you gotta do is come over and act like a girly gay boy and the sorority will accept you. Maybe you'll even finally get to fuck me."

Natasha took you shopping and made you buy a load of new outfits. They were much tighter and more feminine than you were used to. Skin tight jeans, a crop top that showed off your body. You looked completely different. "There. Now you look more like a twink. We'll get your hair dyed blonde and styled, then get you into some of my panties and no one will believe you're straight."

You couldn't believe you were going along with it, but told yourself it would be worth it to spend more time with your hot girlfriend in her sexy new body.

She led you back to the sorority house and the girls swarmed you. You remembered what Natasha had told you, so you acted as camp as you possibly could. Strangely it came quite naturally, like you'd been putting on a masculine front for years and this was actually who you truly were.

To your surprise you began to have fun - gossiping, giggling, hanging out with the girls. You didn't even feel horny anymore.

Eventually Natasha showed you up to Chanel's amazing bedroom. It was quite a palace - as befitted the head of a sorority.

Lying on expensive silk sheets, she made you strip and try on her panties. You were a bit uncomfortable when she suddenly took some photos of you, but she promised they were just for fun and she'd delete them later.

Soon Natasha had images of you dressed in her bra, panties - wearing her makeup. It was like playing dress up it was fun.

You had hoped that she would now lock the door and offer to sleep with you at last - but to your disapointment she told you that she was tired and that the girls would get suspicious if you didn't come out soon.

Putting on your new outfit, you left the house feeling dejected - and yet strangely satisfied. It was like something was awaking inside you.

You wondered what tonight would bring...

***

After your dress up session, you hadn't been expecting more contact from Natasha, so it was a surprise when your phone rang that evening.

She sounded horny, there was a slutty catch in her voice and an excitement you couldn't quite place.

"Mmmmmh, heya 'babe'. So I'm lying here in some new expensive lingerie and I also picked up a new toy at the Mall. Wanna listen to me get off?"

Without waiting for your permission you heard the rustle of clothing and Natasha's breath catching. "Ohhhh wow, it's like nine inchs long or something. This really is a magnificent 'toy'."

You heard Natasha moan and soon there were sucking, slurping and popping sounds coming down the phone. It was unusual for her to simulate doing a blowjob, you imagined her lying on her back with a dildo in her mouth. She was doing a great job, it almost sounded like a real dick she was sucking.

Then you heard a grunt of pleasure. A male grunt. Did she... was she ACTUALLY sucking another guys cock? You angrily asked her causing her to giggle.

"Of course not babe, you must be hearing things. Mmmmhhh I'm here all on my own and I'm soooo fucking horny right now. Ohhh shit he's, mmmmh I mean I'm putting it inside me and it feels so good."

You heard the sounds of heavy breathing, then a soft wet slapping sound that grew harder and faster till it was soon the hot sound of hard male flesh slapping against soft female buttocks.

"Ooooh fuck YESSSS. You fuck me soooo good, I mean... my dildo fucks me so good. Ahhhhh ohhhh fuck, this feels amazing."

You were sure you could hear grunting and laughing as Natasha's moans of pleasure grew and the sounds of hot heavy fucking filled your ears.

It sounded like she was bent over on all fours now getting railed hard. Her breathing was heavy, you could hear the bed squeaking and shaking.

"Mmmmmh imagine if there really was a guy here fucking me. A big stong Alpha Jock with rippling muscles and a big dick?"

The slapping increased and Natasha let out a gutteral moan of pleasure.

"Making me cum in ways you never could. Ooohhhh fuck, what would you do about it then you fucking loser? You'd probably just jerk off to the thought anyway. You're so pathetic. Isn't he such a fucking cuck baby?"

Male laughter filled the line and the phone slipped out of your numb hands as the screams of ecstasy pumped out of your phone and you jerked off to the sound of your girlfriend getting pumped.

***

"Of course I didn't fuck a guy last night," laughed Natasha as you confronted her later. "It's all in your mind, you're just losing it. You pay me to pretend to be your girlfriend right so that's what I do. It's all make-believe."

You gawped at her in shocked amazement.

"Don't you remember loser? You wanted to pay me regular amounts to roleplay as your girlfriend and pretend she'd possessed me. I've got the monthly payments to prove it."

You shook your head in disbelief. No - this wasn't right. She WAS your girlfriend.

Chanel/Natasha laughed. "Oh come on. I knew you were mentally unstable, but seriously? You actually believe I'm your long distance girlfriend possessing this body? I mean - magic isn't possible loser. Fucking hell, I was worried you were losing your mind, but this is the final straw. Our little arrangement is over. I'm not pretending to be Natasha anymore and don't try to cause any trouble. I have photos of you dressed like a sissy loser I could release at any time, not to mention proof you've been paying me to pretend to be your girlfriend. It's over 'babe'."

Laughing Chanel walked away shaking her head.

***

Picking up the phone you desperately rang Natasha's cellphone. You were so confused. Was Natasha really possessing Chanel or had you invented the whole thing in your head.

No one answered so you called Natasaha's sister. She sounded upset on the phone.

That's when you found out that Natasha had been in a coma for nearly two weeks. Apparantly her family had come home one day to find her slumped over a table, totally unresponsive. It was like she wasn't there anymore - zero brain activity.

"We tried contacting you, but you didn't answer any of our calls or get back to us. What the hell is going on?"

You hung up - stunned.

Running over to the sorority house you banged on the door and demanded to be led to Chanel. You found her in her bedroom dressed in sexy lingerie and looking particularly bratty.

You accused her of abandoning her body, of becoming trapped inside Chanel. You begged her to leave Chanel and go back to her old body before it was too late. How long before her family decided to switch off the incubator and let her old body die. You begged and pleaded.

Chanel just looked at you coldly.

"Listen here you fucking loser. There are two possibilities you are describing. In one, I'm actually your stupid long-distance girlfriend who has become addicted to being a hot popular girl, absorbed all of her memories and replaced her. In this scenario I'm a body thief who loves what I have become and doesn't give a shit about you or anyone else.

In the second scenario, you're a crazy repressed sissy who has gone off the deep end at University due to the shock of his girlfriend falling into a coma. Full of unresolved guilt, you've created an elaborate fantasy pretending that I'm actually her - when in fact I'm Chanel Grey, popular girl and sorority president and that's who I have always been.

What I wanna know is - how in either of these scenarios you think it ends well for you? I know which scenario the police and everyone else will believe. I have photographic evidence that you're a pervert who wishes he was a girl. I have payments into my bank account for role-playing your girlfriend, and I can detail all the times I sucked your dick for money.

You have nothing. No evidence, no proof that any of this is true. You just sound like a fucking crack-pot.

Now why don't you get the fuck out of here before I call my new boyfriend over and get him to beat the shit out of you?"

What choice did you have? You turned and ran.

***

Chanel Grey watched the pathetic sissy loser she had just bullied turn and run with a thrill of sexual pleasure. She enjoyed being mean to people and indulging her cruel whims. Toying with this loser had been really fun.

Walking up to the mirror she examined her perfect reflection.

Who was she?

She was Chanel Grey. She was rich, spoiled and popular. She had a boyfriend with a big dick that was coming over to fuck her.

Nothing else mattered really.

THE END

[221bshrlocked]

Everything's changing... It is a fundamental part of life. ...but we have to adapt and move on. Even though it can be difficult to understand, we must carry on. I may process moments and thoughts differently, but it does not mean that I feel any less than you.

We have to respect his decision.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Hello!! I was wondering if I may ask an aemond x reader request where his kid was getting bullied and then eventually gets hurt. And it can be modern aemond or not. Thank you !! Your writing is incredible !

Dad!Aemond does things to me, he’d be so protective of his bubs. I may have gotten carried away…

But thank you for your kind words anon x Hope you enjoy!

Lead by Example.

PAIRING: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader.

WORDS: 1,250.

WARNINGS: mention of bullying, fluff, swearing.

There was no doubt in your mind that your son was not okay. At the mere age of 7 years, you’d already noticed a palpable shift in his behaviour, from the happy, bright boy that he was to now isolating himself from the rest of the family. He had a tiresome, sad look on his face as the days wept by. You found that he’d stopped engaging with the toys that he so desperately would beg for your husband to buy, losing interest in his hobbies that he shared with Aemond and your eldest.

And you were not alone in observing this. Aemond and yourself, had been made aware of the bullying your youngest son had been enduring at school. The teachers had arranged for you both to come in a few weeks prior to the school, as you discussed the ongoing torment your poor son had been going through, which he rarely made a commotion of. Your son was much like his father in some ways, meek and quiet, he was too to himself, and would push away his emotions to the side as though they were nothing.

To your knowledge, you knew that Aemond also had a troubled childhood. Unable to fit in like most boys, he struggled with himself for a while, and always sought the approval of others, outdoing everyone, even himself at times. He did not take this lightly.

“Who are they?” Aemond snapped, his fists curling tightly as he tried to pace himself.

“They are boys just a year above Luke’s grade. We understand your concern, although you must know we are handling the situation currently. We are getting in touch with the boys’ parents to discuss certain consequences.”

“That’s not enough-” Aemond hissed.

“Let me chat with them,” He urged, you snapped your direction towards him glaring, as your hand reached over gently towards Aemond’s in an attempt to calm him.

He’d managed to catch your attention, as you pulled away from the evidence of your son’s torment. Terrible notes being passed around, degrading Luke and everything about him. Yes, he was smaller than an average boy of his age, and he was much more introverted and kinder than most. But these were qualities you clung to about your son, he was precious to you.

“Aemond please- The school will do what they can for now. Is there any possible way we could keep the boys separate from Luke. Just so he can ease himself back in?” You politely suggested.

“That would be a little too difficult, unfortunately. However, we can definitely urge the teachers on duty to keep an eye on Luke, to prevent anything from escalating or starting. In the meantime, we encourage you both to support him, we have a counsellor in the school if Luke wishes to talk to someone.”

****

“This isn’t good, Y/N… This isn’t enough.” Aemond uttered furiously, on the drive back home. By the stoic look on his face as you’d left the administration office, you knew he was far from satisfied of the school’s response to their son’s situation.

“Aemond, I know sweetheart-” Your hand reaches to caress his hair, as Aemond stiffens his grip on the wheel.

“But they’re on top of it. Once they get in touch with the other parents, repercussions will be laid. We just need to be there for Luke okay?”

He remained silent during the ride home, and you gave Aemond his space. This topic was delicate to him, as he too grew up with constant bullying. He was neve good enough, always pushed aside. No one should ever have to feel the neglect that he’d gone through, so you knew it pained him to know his own son was having a taste of the life he’d tried so desperately to erase.

****

“Aemond, please don’t freak out baby.”

“What? What’s wrong, are you okay? Are the kids okay?”

Despite your helpless warning, the panic set in Aemond’s tone. He’d just returned home from work, and you had the responsibility to tell him of an incident at school regarding Luke.

The phone call you’d received during day, made your heart sank like no other. “It seems Luke was caught up in a violent brawl on the school yard, he’s stable and settled right now in the nurses’ office, although he may have a broken nose. We urgently advise you or your husband to collect Luke, and seek medical attention.”

You hang up the phone without hesitation, and bolted.

As you hastily were directed to where Luke was crouching over the chair, his little, trembling hand gripping his bloodied nose.

“Mum!” He sniffled, his arms instinctively wrapping over you as he embraced you warmly.

“Oh baby, keep the pressure on your nose till the bleeding stops, okay.” You redirected his hand.

“My love, tell me what happened. We’re going to the doctors, you tell me everything.”

“We’ll be on top of this Y/N, rest assured those responsible for your son’s injury will be held greatly responsible and punished as befitting.”

You simply nodded and thanked the principal, before taking Luke’s bag over your shoulder, as your free hand held his shoulder, guiding him to the exit.

****

“Aemond, the doctor said he is fine. Not a broken nose, just some slight trauma that should heal in the next month. But please, don’t freak out okay.”

Aemond stormed past you, into the living room where Luke had been laying on the couch, mindlessly watching his favourite cartoon, where you told him to rest.

“Dad!” He yelled, trying to stand before Aemond stopped him.

“No, no you rest my boy. Who did this to you?” Aemond questioned, as his large hand cupped his son’s face, some bruising beginning to set against the skin of his tender nose. Luke looked up towards you carefully, trying to gather your approval of what to say.

“Aemond, it was the same boys. But please, the school are dealing with this as we speak-”

Aemond sprung back up, before turning towards you, an angry look on his face.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Y/N. You really believe that?”

“Language, Aemond!” You hiss, turning your gaze from Luke to Aemond before gripping him to guide him into the hallway.

“Y/N, they’ve taken their time, and look what’s come of it. I’m going to speak to the parents myself. I’ll handle it how I see fit.”

“Really, Aemond? You think intimidating them will be the best way to go about this? What about the example you’re setting for our son?”

“That he can and should defend himself by any means, yes.”

You give him a defeated look, rolling your eyes.

“Look, I’ll speak to the principal to arrange an meeting with the other parents and we can express our concerns there. No need to escalate matters or do anything you’ll regret. Please, Aemond.”

Your hands remained gripped to his sides, your eyes widened to plea. You knew Aemond could never deny those doe eyes.

His hesitant “fine” would suffice.

“But I’m teaching him self defence, we’re putting him into a combat sport. No son of mine will ever be tormented like that again.”

You smile weakly, nodding your head in agreement. You knew Aemond’s intentions meant well, and you wanted Luke to gain some confidence. His father was an outstanding example of how well he turned out after what he’d endured and you knew the same was possible for Luke, so long as you remained a family.

[sirianasims]

Chapter 43.5

Idiot.

The voice in my head is persistent. It’s been over two months but it’s not letting up.

I try to focus on the lines, struggling to keep the faint remnants of my Tartosan accent from creeping into Llama Man’s commanding voice. It’s always more difficult just after I’ve been home.

Idiot.

Images from the last year keep flashing by, little details seared into my brain. Her green eyes. Her smile. The delicate birthmarks artfully strewn across her face. I used to insist on kissing each of them goodbye before I left and it always made her laugh.

It was the best sound in the world.

Idiot.

The more recent images are a different story. Her tears. The look of shock and confusion in her eyes. She didn’t understand, of course, and some days I’m not sure I do either. Am I an idiot for leaving her? Or for letting myself fall in love with her in the first place?

Both?

“Alright, Paul, that was good, but let’s do an extra take just to be sure.”

I nod at the sound technician and start over.

“I’ve sent the files off to Mike. Personally, I don’t think he’ll demand another round, the last two takes were flawless.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry for dragging you in for pick-ups again, I’ve been feeling a bit off lately.”

“Hey, it’s a pay check. And I’m going to need it for the move. We want to get settled into the new house before my son’s wedding so we’re already packing.”

“Did you find a job in Henford yet?”

“Not yet, but my wife got an offer. We’ll make it work. My kid is the only family I have left, so if he moves abroad, we follow. And I never liked staying in one place for too long anyway, I get restless.”

“Well, best of luck over there, Charles. The new sound tech will have some big shoes to fill.”

“Thanks, Paul. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

Charles leaves, and I turn on the coffee machine.

I’ve just finished pouring two mugs when Lee arrives.

“Oh, you must have read my mind, love, I am positively dying for a coffee right now.”

“When are you not?”

Lee settles onto the sofa with a sigh.

“It’s been one of those weeks, deadlines put such a damper on my creativity. But how was Tartosa? Did you have a nice birthday?”

“It was fine. I didn’t feel like making it a huge thing, but my mother had arranged a family dinner at the vineyard.”

“Ah, just an intimate and completely non-threatening gathering with fifteen to twenty people, then.”

I lean back against the counter and take a long sip of the coffee to avoid responding. It’s still too hot, and I grimace as the liquid burns my mouth. Idiot.

Lee isn’t so easily deterred, though.

“So, that’s it? You’re just never going to see her again?”

“Lee, first of all, she blocked me. On my birthday, no less. So I’m going to take that as a big fat hint and respect her wishes. Second, I broke up with her because it was a dead end. She’s not going to settle down for another decade, and when she does, she’s not going to pick some fifty year old relic.”

Lee raises an eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, I said it. Sorry to break it to you, Lee, but you’re old. Ancient. Practically dust.”

“I’m choosing to ignore your hurtful remarks because you’re clearly heartbroken and out of your mind with grief.”

I snort. “Sorry. I’m fine, really, I’m just annoyed at myself.”

“For irrationally breaking up with the love of your life or for stubbornly refusing to reconsider?”

“For being an idiot in general, I guess. I knew it was a bad idea. I even told her as much the first time I met her. But then I just had to go back and talk to her again like a complete dumbass and she practically invited herself back to my hotel. How could I say no to that?”

Lee chuckles. “Oh, but you couldn’t, of course you couldn’t. I mean, she’s not exactly my type, but I can still appreciate the aesthetics, as it were.”

“Right? And that might even have been fine if it never went any further, but I got carried away and kept seeing her even though everyone could tell it was going to end badly. We’re both better off like this, I’ll get over it.”

Lee just looks at me over the rim of his glasses.

“Are you sure? I may be a dusty old relic but as far as I’m aware, the only way you could possibly know that she blocked you is if you spent your birthday trying to look her up.”

“Thanks, detective. It was a moment of weakness, you don’t need to rub it in my face.”

“I’m not trying to rub anything in your face, love, I know it’s not your thing. But you were clearly serious about her if you were planning to bring her to Tartosa. And just because the poor girl understandably got slightly intimidated, you drop her like a newborn giraffe. Why not give her some more time?”

“I didn’t… Lee, it was the sensible thing to do! I just turned forty, I can’t just spend years waiting for her to make up her mind and hope for the best.”

“I don’t share your fetish for monogamy, but I believe all relationships are like that, you can never be certain. But you’ve always been stubborn so I’ll just give you the usual break-up advice. Get a haircut, hit the gym, put yourself back out there. Will you at least see my stylist?”

“Never. I am not brave enough to let Jessica Clemons near my wardrobe.”

beginning / previous / next

[suuuupernovaaa]

kxuke - part 2

kxuke [ˈk’u.kɛ] adj. safe

Request from @myrealmstuff: Part 2 for Kxuke please, it's so beautiful.

+

Request from @hyunjinoak: Can I request Neteyam x reader story where the reader is pregnant and going through a really tough pregnancy complications and Neteyam is helping it? Nnd when the reader has difficult delivery (heavy bleeding / too long contraction or something like that) Neteyam helps reader and in the end have a healthy baby?

Part 1 [Summary: A Marine avatar, part of Quartich's team, is held captive by the Sullys. She is tough but damaged from an abusive upbringing on earth. Slowly, she and Neteyam fall for each other, and she is granted new life in her avatar body by Eywa. Neteyam's family is not pleased, but Neteyam asks her to be his mate. You should probably read Part 1 before reading Part 2.]

TW: blood, pregnancy

Watching the last remaining ship leave is surreal for me. Everyone I knew in my previous life now gone, suspended in sleep for six years, back to the planet I once called home.

It doesn't feel like home now, when I think it about it. It sort of feels like a nightmare; the abuse I suffered at the hands of my parents, multiple partners; the relief I felt when joining the marines, only to realize I had become the oppressor and abuser.

Never once have I regretted my decision to turn my back on my people. Maybe I should... but they never did a damn thing for me but use and abuse me, my entire life.

Though my new family was hard-won, they have never hurt me, or yelled at me, or made me feel little and stupid.

Tuk and Kiri were the quickest to accept me, with Lo'ak soon after. Then came Jake, because as it turned out, we had quite a lot in common. Rough upbringing. Marine background. Abandoning our race for a new one. You don't often meet other people in that situation. Our mutual understanding turned to friendship, and then a familial like relationship.

Neytiri was the hardest, but it was her mother's heart that got her in the end. It just came out, on a hunt, a story about my own mother, and something she'd done to me when I was barely out of diapers.

Something in Neytiri changed towards me in that moment, and she held me in her arms as I cried, and told me she would try to be a better mother to me.

Now I stand with my family, my mate Neteyam, and I place my hand over my swollen stomach as the cheering erupts around me at the joy and relief everyone feels. The baby is kicking again; he must be able to feel my happiness.

We are finally free.

--

The pregnancy has not been easy on me. I try every day to feel joyful about the new life I'm bringing into the world, and grateful to be staring my own family with Neteyam, but I am so tired, all of the time.

The simplest tasks have become exhausting, especially as the pregnancy has gotten to its final stages. Tsahik tells me I need to rest, and that she thinks the birth will be difficult... so that's something to look forward to.

Neteyam practically carries me in his arms everywhere we go, and dotes on me so aggressively that it sends me to tears at least three times a day.

Everything makes me cry. Neytiri tells me it's normal, but it feels embarrassing nonetheless. I burst into tears when Tuk squeezes my hand as we walk, or when I see another mother with a small child, and nearly every time Neteyam does anything nice for me.

Which is almost constantly. Neteyam is thoughtful, caring, and constantly going the extra mile to make me comfortable. I thought I loved him before, but I know now that every day, I will love him a little bit more - even when it feels like I couldn't possibly love him more, he does something so small but so meaningful, like bringing me home a flower for my hair, and my love for him explodes.

Just a few short weeks after the humans have returned to earth, I wake up in a searing hot pain, all around my abdomen, and shooting through my lower back.

"Oh my god!" I scream in English. "Neteyam! Something's wrong! Or, it's happening, maybe!"

Neteyam leaps up next to me, squatting beside me, grabbing my arm to support me.

"Happening?" he asks, also in English. It's so hard to speak in a second language when I'm in so much pain, even if I would consider myself fluent.

"Get Tsahik. And your mom!" I holler, but there are already footsteps approaching.

"I am here!" Neytiri says, running through the door. I guess that's a benefit to having your in-laws just steps away. "Jake is bringing Ronal. What do you feel?"

"Pain," I reply, switching back to Na'vi. "Here, and here," I gesture all around my waist, and my back.

Neytiri tsks. "Bah, back labor. It will be painful. Ronal will bring medicine to help."

I lean onto Neteyam, wondering what the Na'vi equivalent of an epidural is.

--

It is not until two days later that I hold my son in my arms. Looking into his eyes here, the pain of the past hours is already fading away in my mind.

The screaming, the blood, the pushing and tearing; the throbbing pain I feel even now... it doesn't matter.

He is beautiful. Four fingers like Neteyam, eyebrows like me, and his hair seems to almost have a reddish shine to it, but it could just be the sunrise. His cheeks are round and when he opens his eyes, they're a beautiful amber color. He has been attached to my breast since the moment he came into the world, but now, he is sleeping peacefully. Ronal has sewn me up and left medicine behind for me to take, and Neteyam's family waits outside until they're given the go-ahead to come in. Only Neytiri has met her grandson; I demanded she be there for the entire birth, and she did not leave my side.

It was the first time in my life that I truly felt a mother's love.

"Take him, Neteyam," I say. "Hold your son."

There are tears in his eyes as he reaches out and takes the swaddled baby.

"Remove his blanket, put him right on your chest. It's good for them, to be skin to skin." I don't know how much of my limited earth knowledge of babies will apply here, but surely that's correct.

"He's so beautiful, and warm," Neteyam says, holding his naked son to his chest. I lay the blanket over him, and Neteyam strokes his tiny back. "I love him so much. I love you so much." He looks at me, the tears falling freely now for both of us.

"You saved my life, Neteyam. I never imagined I would have any of this. I am so grateful to you."

Neteyam leans over gently, and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. "Thank you for this gift, Y/N. You are my treasure."

[draco-dormiens]

THE STRANGEST OF PLACES - Chapter Seventeen

draco x fem!ravenclaw reader / postwar au series

warnings: angst, strong language, a little steamy

wc: 2287

masterlist

pls let me know if you want to be tagged!! if your name is bold, i couldn't tag your blog :( tags at the end ♡

Chapter Seventeen - Hope is a Heartache

"To do what, exactly? Upset her even more?" Hermione snaps, and Draco lets go of her wrist.

"Granger-"

"I should scold you for making my friend suffer," she goes on to say, "do you have any idea how hard tonight is for her? What makes you think I'll allow you to make it worse?"

Draco stands, speechless. Hermione is heaving, her eyes hard and cold. He knows the look all to well. He lets out a deep, defeated sigh.

"Please," he pleads quietly, a tone Hermione has never heard before, "please. Let me go after her."

Hermione steadies her breathing, and straightens her posture.

"What are you planning," she asks cooly.

"I just want to talk to her," Draco says sincerely, "that's all. I don't want to hurt her anymore."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," Hermione mutters, "the damage is very much done, Malfoy."

"She's told you everything then, huh?" he chuckles sadly.

"As if she wouldn't," says Hermione.

It fell quiet for a few seconds. Hermione could see the turmoil in Draco's features. Momentarily she feels for him and the weight he must be carrying. Just then, from the corner of her eye, she spots Edward frantically looking around the entrance to the Great Hall.

"Go," Hermione speaks quickly, ushering Draco to move, "I'll distract Edward."

"Thanks, Granger-"

"Don't thank me," Hermione spits as she hurries towards the bewildered Ravenclaw boy. Draco could hear her telling Edward that Y/N isn't feeling too well, and that she just needs some time to gather her thoughts.

He rushes through the castle, panicking that you've retreated to your dorm and out of his reach. He makes haste towards the tower, thinking it must be where you've ran off to. Draco opens every door he comes across, skidding around each corner. When he passes the girls toilets, he hears a soft sob coming from within. He takes the chance, not caring who might see him running into the girls lavatory. The quiet whimpers echo in the dark space, and Draco comes to a halt. 

"Y/N?" He speaks out, his voice sounding like thunder against the silence. The sobs stop, and a few fleeting seconds pass. One of the toilet doors open, and out steps you.

"Why?" is all you say, beautiful eyes filled with tears. The shadow of the door hides your face, but he can see them glistening in the moonlight. Draco rushes to embrace you, but you step back into the dark. He takes a cautious step backwards.

"What happened back there," he asks gently, but you just shake your head.

"Nothing that concerns you," you mutter quietly. Draco fills with frustration yet again.

"Did he do something?"

"Draco, please," you whimper from the dark, "just go. Astoria will wonder where you've gone."

Silence yet again protrudes the atmosphere. A slight drip from a tap echos in the night as if it were a mighty waterfall. Draco runs his hand through his neat hair.

"Y/N," his voice cuts through the quiet, "can we talk? Please?"

Finally, you emerge from the darkness. Even though your eyes are red and cheeks wet, Draco still thinks you're the most beautiful person he's ever had the pleasure of knowing. His eyes scan your features, the spill of moonlight allowing him to bask in your beauty.

"Talking won't change anything, Draco." You whisper, and he moves to swipe a tear from your cheek. You let him do so.

"You look beautiful tonight," he whispers back, choosing to ignore the truth you spoke, "a true picture."

"Thanks," you swallow hard, moving away from the hand on your cheek. His heart hurts.

"I understand tonight has been difficult-"

You scoff, cutting him off as you aggressively wipe the tears from your eyes.

"Oh, please," you choke, "you know nothing, Draco. If you really must know why I'm sobbing in the loo, Edward tried to kiss me and I ran. I feel like the worst person on earth. None of this is his fault and I left him standing there like an idiot."

A new wave of hot fury enters Dracos veins. It's wrong, he tells himself, to be so wound up, but the sheer thought makes his stomach drop to his feet. He tenses, hands curling into fists, and he wants to go back a lay one right in Chambers face. He has no right to be so mad, and yet, he simply cannot stop himself.

"Are you serious?" He says lowly. You let out an annoyed sigh.

"Yes," you spit, eyes locking with his again, noticing how his have changed completely, "and you have no right to look so infuriated about it. I'm not your girlfriend."

That only pushes him further. His chest begins to heave slightly.

"I'm very aware of that fact," he says, his voice now dangerously low, "and yet, the thought of him anywhere near you makes me feel physically sick."

"This is your choice," you yell at him, voice bouncing off the walls, "we're in this sitatuion because of you, Draco," you take a sharp breath in, throat aching from the sheer volume you just spoke at, and his face is a picture of devastation. He stands, staring back at you as a broken man, his eyes glazed over with a white-hot rage.

"As if I need reminding," his voice does not raise, but stays at that low level, and the sound of it sends a cold shiver down your spine. He steps forwards, coming to hover above you, and you almost cower at his presence, "I haven't done this by choice," he goes on to say, "and yeah, it might be selfish, but I want you. So bad, and if Chambers had-" he stops himself and takes a breath, "I can't help it. You're just... everything."

It stings like salt in a wound. The reality of how far apart you are is incomprehensible. You want to shout and rage about how unfair the world is, but from the look in his eyes, he's already doing that inside his head.

"I'm everything except for the right person," you then say, voice wobbly, "I'm not a pureblood, I'm not one of your mothers favourites, and I'm certainly not good enough to be a Malfoy."

Draco pauses.

"Is that what you really think?" Draco's face is a look of pure shock, "that's fucking stupid."

"Is it?" you then yell again, "because before we started whatever this is," you gesture wildly between the two of you, "you hated people like me. It was bore into you, and deep down that's the reason you chose Astoria over me."

"Again with the fucking choosing," Draco then yells back at you, "no one's choosing anything, you know why this is happening."

"Because you don't have the guts to stand up to your mother, that's why this is happening."

The volume of your voices could rattle the glass in the window frames. Echoing in the dark, melancholy bathroom, the pain you were both battling through was spilling out of your mouths.

"This isn't entirely me," Draco then paces forwards, forcing you to back up, "you gave up before we'd even started. You were the one who said we needed space."

"That's rich, coming from you," you spat venomously, "I only said that because I had to."

He's inches from you now, your faces almost touching, your back against the cold stone wall. The sound of shouting voices was replaced with heavy breathing, and Draco's eyes were onyx, a mixture of frustration and pure want. The tension was building, the air becoming thick, as he inches even closer, brushing his lips over yours. "Please," you mutter, and he wasted no time. Within one swift second, his lips were on yours.

Large hands come to grip your waist, pulling you against him. His lips were soft, smooth, and felt like heaven against yours. You relax into his embrace, kissing him back with fervour. He moans softly into your mouth, sending a wave of electricity throughout your entire body. His hands wander, and you let them, touching, tracing, squeezing gently at your hips, and finally, one moves to cup your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. It's as if he can't get enough of you, the taste of the sparkling drink on your lips, the feeling of your body under his touch. His mind begins to wander to a sultry place, and as if you read his thoughts, your teeth bite down gently on his bottom lip. The sound it rips from him is almost feral. Trapping you between his warm body and the cold stone, his lips move from your mouth to your jaw, to your neck, nipping gently as you breathe his name. His movements falter ever so slightly at the sound, and a tiny, breathless moan resonates against your skin. What felt like forever was in fact only a few fleeting minutes when Draco's grey-blue eyes finally meet yours once more, both of you hazy with lust.

"So beautiful," he whispers, fingers now tracing your jaw, "my girl."

You take in a sharp breath, feeling an ache below your abdomen. Never had you felt this intoxicated with someone before, all this pent up frustration was getting the better of you both, and the nearest cubicle was looking like a grand bedroom to you right now.

Then a voice that could dull even the brightest of rooms penetrated the air like an unwelcome chill.

"This is the ladies room, you know."

Draco breaks from you instantly and spins with red lips and flushed cheeks, to be met with the worst person to break up your intimacy.

"Pansy," he breathes, panic flooding every vessel in his body.

He stumbles, trying and failing to ask what she's doing here, and your throat closes up as soon as you realise who had just seen you both embracing each other.

"I was a little late arriving," she then says airily, strutting forwards as her long fingernails graze the edge of a basin, "my parents don't agree at the best of times, so getting them out of the house together is a real struggle. But, you know all about that, don't you, Dray?"

The nickname tastes like acid in your mouth. She smiles a devilish smile, and you want the ground to swallow you whole. Embarrassment is outweighed by fear, because Pansy Parkinson was a godless woman. Due to her undying love for Draco, her jealous spurts have almost ended the universe several times, and, thanks to you, she had just witnessed her newest vendetta.

"Pansy," Draco says as calmly as possible, "why the hell are you here?"

"Oh, in the ladies bathroom, you mean?" she says, sarcastically, "well, I was only coming here to powder my nose, but it seems I've stumbled across something much more interesting."

Her eyes were gleaming with ill intent. Draco's knuckles were white. You, on the other hand, stood completely still, barely drawing breath.

"Pansy, please turn around and-"

"You're a Ravenclaw, aren't you?" she then says, cutting him off. Her heels click against the tiled floor as she nears you. Draco moves slightly to stop her getting any closer, and her dark eyes slide to meet his, "I remember her. Halfblood, right?"

"Pansy," Draco stresses one last time, his voice shaking with fury, "please, for the love of God, turn around and pretend you saw nothing."

She backs away slowly, stopping to stand and fold her arms, putting her weight onto one hip. She smiles that awful smile once more.

"You're parents don't know, do they?" she then utters slyly. The amusement in her voice is sickening. Then she gasps, dramatically putting her hand to her mouth, "and Astoria?"

"Why the fuck are you even here?" Draco then seethes, louder and more impatient, "McGonagall seriously invited you and your pathetic parents?"

"Now, now," Pansy giggles, "don't get mad with me, Dray. I merely came here for my own personal reasoning. I had no idea you were wooing a halfblood-"

He closes the gap between them, and Pansy lets out a genuine squeak of surprise. You grip your dress in a sorry attempt to ground yourself.

"Listen," Draco's low, dark voice returns, "all I'm asking is that you keep your damn mouth shut."

"Ashamed?" Pansy then whispers, eyebrow quirking. She's braver than she looks.

"Not even close," Draco then mutters back, his fists so tight his nails were digging into skin. Your body feels cold, a sweat trickling down your back. There was no way this could get any worse, but then Draco speaks again, "this woman is everything to me, and if you try and hurt her, I swear to God I will ruin your life, Parkinson. Don't forget, I know you too well."

Pansy swallows thickly, her mouth turning into a sour frown. A few suffocating seconds pass.

"Like I'd gain anything from telling," she then spits, "I'll keep your dirty little secret, Draco. Besides, wouldn't want your mother finding out how you chose to spend your free time."

She gives you a look that most certainly could kill a man, and you feel yourself physically shaking. Pansy locks eyes with Draco one last time, before turning on her heel and storming out of the bathroom like a scolded child. The silence once she disappears is deafening.

"Y/N,"

"It's okay," you manage to croak, "you don't need to say anything."

"She won't. She might be a snake, but for me she'd keep her mouth shut." Draco looks frantic, eyes all over your face. He was panicking, trying to convince himself that Pansy wouldn't betray him.

"This isn't about me," you say, concerned, "this is about you and your parents shunning you for a life time, over me of all people."

"Don't say that," he said, coming to cup your face in his hands, "they can do what they want to me. I just don't want you getting hurt anymore."

Even when his worst nightmare was close to becoming a reality, he was still all about you.

"Draco," you smile faintly, taking his hands from your face, "you're always thinking of others, and never yourself," you hold his hands in yours and press a gentle kiss to his face, "please, for me, think of your own feelings for once."

You make him feel so loved, so wanted, and if he could stay in this toilet forever he would. Your shiny eyes, gentle touches and kind words are all he needs to feel safe in this world. He presses his forehead to yours, and closes his eyes contently.

He wishes he had the courage to stay here.

"It's not fair," he whispers, and silent tears run one after the other down his cheeks.

"Life isn't fair," you then whisper to him, nudging your nose against his, "but I like to think that, maybe, in another lifetime, we're happy somewhere. Together."

There's a comfortable silence between you.

"Do you think Pansy will do anything?" He then mutters to you, clearly still worrying, and you bring him into a hug. He holds you impossibly close.

"I don't think she has the guts," you laugh lightly, but it's still sad, and deep down you're fearing the exact same thing, "Draco, you have more power over this situation than you think, and Pansy has no proof. I doubt your mother would believe her babbling."

He nuzzles into your shoulder. You're not sure if you even believe yourself, but Draco's body is relaxed in your embrace, and even if your words are fragile enough to snap, they did their purpose.

"At least I finally got to kiss you," he mumbles, and you smile through trickling tears.

"We better get cleaned up, Draco. Our dates will be waiting for us and we don't want to cause anymore suspicion," you say softly, breaking from him.

Before he can say anymore, you're stroking his cheek one last time and waltzing out of the bathroom, but not without one more look back at him. Draco remains frozen to the spot, unable to move a muscle. Both his longing desire and worst nightmare had come to fruition within moments of each other. Eventually he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket and leaves the bathroom, entering the hallway to hear the faint sound of music drifting through the castle. He has no intention of heading back to Astoria, so instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and heads for the outer grounds of the school.

The night air is cold. The grounds are bathed in a golden light from the castle windows, and he walks the path down to the Quidditch pitch. No one will be there at this hour, surely. He walks into the entrance. The stands are bare, showing the wooden skeleton of the arena. He halts once he reaches the middle of the pitch. It's silent. The distant hoot of an owl sounds as he stares at the stand you were sitting in during his practice. Life isn't fair, you said. Isn't that just the truth, he wonders. He then turns his attention to the sky and the stars that litter the inky blackness, and thinks back to your days stargazing in the tower. An overwhelming sadness protrudes him, as he takes a deep breath and mutters to the heavens;

"Aunt Bella, please pick on someone else for once."

disclaimer: i do not own hp or any of the characters in this story

dividers from: @firefly-graphics & @happy-ash-edits

tags:

@lovesanimals0000 @cappgyuccino @lightning1ce @onlygetaway @honeyyypeach @namelesslosers @ghostyv @mikadorbs @redactedhimbo @morganadpl @scarecrowscaresthomas @camille-1019 @valkyrie418 @animeloverfreak310 @budugu @marplest @torresbarnes @bunny24sstuff @champagneesupernova @serafilms @siriusly-parker-main @lovely-maryj @i-bitch-you-bitch @astablacksword @sun-fiower-seed @tinafuentes @venusjustleft @omgitstatertot t @aangsupremacy @ilovezy @leclerc16s @aslanvez @talesofadragon @hnyusui @3vasaur @the-skys-musical-echo @yeolsbubbles @idk-dolans @xx-kiraa-xx @sunbruized @vinkiesz @snickersmee @fandomrulesall-blog @astheraa @idkatee @marsanhwa @vintageoldfashion @63sucker @j-n-i-c-o-l-e @born2222die @anarchistsons

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

My top 5 favorite quotes of the show so far

I'm sure you all can appreciate how immensely difficult it was to narrow it down to 5 favorites

"Understanding you does not mean that I agree with you."

"Echo chose a different path, as did Crosshair. I have to respect their decision. Even though it can be difficult to understand, we must carry on. I may process moments and thoughts differently, but it does not mean I feel any less than you."

"Oh, I'm confident, I'm just not stupid."

"I have regrets too, Crosshair. All we can do is keep trying to be better. And who knows? There just might be hope for us yet."

"They found me." "Who?" "My brothers."

Honorable mention: "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!"

As an aside - the first 3 quotes not only make my list of top favorites from "Bad Batch," but are also on my list of top 10 favorite quotes from the entire Star Wars franchise.

[half-truths-and-hyperbole-louk]

Louk's Bad Batch rewatch part 29 !!!

we're in the second half of season 2 batchersss (was gonna say were in the end game now but I'll save that for tomorrow 😫)

The Bad Batch 2x09

her voice 🥲 she sounds so down it hurts

"sounds dangerous" *giggles* ilysm Wrecker 💕

Hunter sniffing dirt again hehe

Tech says "without Echo" and Omega immediately droops her head 😫

creeper peekin 👀

I love how Wrecker was carrying the case with one hand and Hunter needs two and keeps adjusting it 💪

Wrecker checking in on Omega 🤲

oop Omega dramatic sigh count 👀

Hunter lifting Omega up 🥺

"chain reaction, explosion got it 🙄" tbb dealing with teenage fett mood swings now

gentle hands 🤲

that is not your ship kid 👀

Hunter slams the highly dangerous explosives into the ground lmaooo

Hunter hearing the ship power up !!! his turns so fast and jumps over the stairs 🙌

the bickering batch

they're literally all so feral at each other rn 😮

Wrecker giving Omega water first 🥺

she's calling Echo for help 😭

Tech knows he disabled his comms... have they been chattin 👀

Hunter's senses on fire this ep 👌

Hunter pushing Omega in front of him and steering her out of the way 🙌

the Lion King ???

Tech: "protect the ipsium!" Wrecker: bruh 😑

the ipsium survived Hunter slamming it on the ground I'm sure it'll be fine

Wrecker: "why don't you carry it 😠" Tech: "fine" lolol

Tech is so strong omg he carried it like Wrecker 👀

Omega needs something to cover her face in this sandstorm 🥲 give her a helmet

THEY'RE SO SHITTY BOYS CALM DOWN !!!

Omega bby someone hug her !!!!! 😫😭

"what is your issue" 💔

how soft Hunter said her name 🥺🤲

Tech doesnt understand the emotional connection she has to everything but they probably all struggle to see that being soldiers, they're taught to let go of things, stay in the moment to be able to be the best they can, she's just a kid who wants her brother and her home back after just losing everything, I can completely understand both sides of this 🥲 I'm blabbing and it's not making sense anymore 🙃

"thats not the only mistake you need to fix" Hunter's dad mode applies to Tech now too

Tech: "but she said she wanted to be alone" 🥺

they're getting so much better at the whole dad/big brother thing 💕

Tech said her name so gently 😭

Omega and Tech having the same ideas 🥰

"I am fully aware you are capable of the task" 🥺

TECH BLINDLY FOLLOWING OMEGA WHEN SHE FALLS MY HEART

oop I forgot the 😫 Tech falls count: we're on 5 now

THE WAY HE GRABS HER IN THE WATER OML 😭 he was so desperate to save her

Hunter sensing they're in trouble 👀

Not only do I love Hunter's senses but I also love how aware they all are of him, like they all question him every time he pauses or looks off at something, they're all just so aware of each other 💕

Tech and Omega lying down out of the water 🤲

Tech emptying the water from his glasses !! 🥺

"we are alive" ~ bro I love how often he responds like this I can't wait to hear it again hehehe

Omega's wet droopy hair is getting so long 🥺

"the narrow crevasse" i love the way he talks he's so fancy 💅

Putting a bunch of quotes in bc they're iconic 💕

Omega: "everything is changing and you don't even care"

Tech: "I am not sure how I should care about change, it is a fundamental part of life"

Tech: "I am aware that you miss him, but we have to adapt and move on. That's what soldiers do."

Omega: "we're more than that. We're a family aren't we?"

Tech: "yes of course we are"

Omega: "why don't you act like it?"

Tech: "Echo chose a different path, as did Crosshair. I have to respect their decision. Even though it can be difficult to understand, we must carry on. I may process moments and thoughts differently, but it does not mean that I feel any less than you"

I have to put it all in bc this scene means so much to me 🥺🤲💕

Wrecker's scream and the big *fwosshhh* landing in the water vs Hunter's tiny *bloop*

Omega's wave 🫶

the way Hunter just tosses Tech's stuff out of the water and he's still holding Omega's bow is the difference between brother and dad

wet hair Hunter when 👀

Omega "see that wasn't so bad" Wrecker: 👍

Tech being almost as precise as Crosshair 💕

Tech and Omega looking at each other 👀🤲

Hunter noticing somethings different with Omega now after talking with Tech 🥺

CID 🔫 I want to hunt her for sport fr 😈

Omega quoting Tech 💕💕💕💕

oooohhhh this ep holds a special place in my heart fr

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

(Riddle) Headmage, were you just snacking/sleeping in class?! You need to set a better example for the other students! Furthermore, is this truly the best use of your time to be attending lessons instead of running the school?

Crowley does, in fact, have magic history lesson lines in which he is falling asleep in class and/or sneaking some of his lunch during the lecture 🤡 A real inspiration to us all...

I chose to give Crowley some chicken here because some have pointed out that Sage's Island looks like a drumstick 🍗 and he’s in a different class because I have another Crowley-staff interaction coming up that is Trein-based. I want to give the other teachers some of the spotlight!

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

"Wh-What...?!"

At Riddle's stern accusation, Crowley's consciousness snapped back into place like a rubber band. He bolted up on his seat and swiveled to face the boy.

It was difficult to take him seriously when a piece of fried chicken was lodged in his mouth—the result of trying to snack while falling asleep mid-lecture. (Thankfully, Crowley removed it before he spoke. Not so thankfully, he waved the drumstick at Riddle as though it added to his rebuttal.)

“I will have you know that I am nothing short of being the exemplary pupil. You understand that a mage must look after their health to be at maximum spellcasting potential, correct? Therefore, it is imperative that we receive adequate nutrition and rest—of which I am demonstrating!"

Riddle openly grimaced, but kept his volume low. "Self-care activities are not meant to be carried out during classes, but outside of them."

"Oh, how little you know, Rosehearts-kun!" Crowley sighed. "The life of a headmaster is a demanding one, I'm afraid. My schedule is packed to the brim with meetings and administrative tasls, I can scarcely catch a wink or sleep or a reliable meal.”

Riddle stared hard at the uneaten chicken leg. Crowley slowly hid it inside of his cape.

“A-Anyway! Even now, I am hard at work observing you students so that we may utilize your experiences to improve school curriculum and facilities. If I wished for a small reprieve, could you truly hold that against me?!"

"Headmaster!”

The bark came from the front of the lecture hall, belonging to a man in a black and white striped fur coat. He thrusted his pointer in Crowley’s direction, the crimson dog’s collar and white gemstone affixed to it catching the classroom lights. His students followed where it led: to Crowley.

“Do you have something to share with the class,” Crewel inquired tightly, “since it seems you are preoccupied with chattering during my lesson?“

“Erm… N-No, not at all, Professor Crewel! I simply found myself so engrossed in your materials, I was overcome with a myriad of emotions!!”

His colleague arched a brow.

Crowley loudly cleared his throat. “Y-You may carry on as you were!”

“Contain yourself next time. My patience can only be worn so thin,” Crewel warned. “Now then, if you’ll turn to page 225 in your textbooks…”

When the teacher looked away, Crowley practically melted, becoming one with his chair.

“Whew…! Professor Crewel looked as though he was going to flay me and then turn my lovely feathers into a new jacket!!” he lamented. This time, softly. “Oooh, why must these tragedies and misunderstandings continue to plague me?”

Riddle shook his head. The smirk on his mouth made no attempts to be sad, only satisfactory. “I did try to caution you.”

He returned to following along with the lecture, leaving Crowley to his slacking.

[aphroditelovesu]

you can make a love letter from yandere klaus mikaelson to his beloved, upon learning that she suffered a miscarriage, of their second child together.

Sweetheart,

Today, as the darkness of the world tried to envelop me, my thoughts were all with you. I feel a deep pain for every tear that flows from your eyes, for every moment of sadness you have to endure. I wish I could be by your side, holding your hand, sharing the burden of this pain you carry.

I understand that words may be insufficient to ease the agony you are going through. A piece of our future was taken prematurely, and that's a pain only those who experience it can truly understand. You must know that you are not alone in this. I'm here, even if from afar, keeping you in my thoughts and in my heart.

Remembering the happy times we shared, the light you brought into my life, I hope we can find strength in each other to get through this dark time. I know this is easier said than done, but together we are capable of facing any adversity.

We must overcome all this pain for our daughter. For our Hope.

Our journey has always been marked by challenges and tribulations, and this is just one of them. Though it's difficult right now, I believe that one day we can find peace and healing. Until then, I'm here to support you, dry your tears, and embrace your pain. Whichever path we choose to take, know that I am by your side, unconditionally.

We will be always by your side. Always remember that.

With all the love,

Klaus.

[worrywrite]

In the month I've been offline, I've read a fair bit more Discworld. Namely Going Postal and Equal Rites (currently working my way very slowly through Small God's).

These are my thoughts on Going Postal.

Going Postal, like much of Pratchett's work, is a lot of things. Most succinctly, and most prominently, it's a good story.

Less succinctly, and less prominently, it's a story about stories that need to be told by people who don't have the words to tell them. It is also about one man with only words and no story.

I find Moist to be an incredible character. Not because he is a good character--though he is very well written and I can only imagine the precision it takes to write the actions of Moist in one line and any other character in the next. Moist, is by all accounts, a man who is good at lying; and throughout all of the book, that is about as much as we know or need to know about him. And it is spectacular that the story balances on the wings of his hat when he is so nondescript beneath it. He has a history, sure, and it shows it's face in a few moments. But his charm and his skill is in being a nobody. In this way, he is the perfect everyman who is both nobody and everybody--whoever he needs to be and whoever he can be. It is an excellent way to write a conman and it is surprisingly difficult to do.

What is more beautiful, however, than characterization is the work of words. Letters are stories that must be told. The mail must be delivered. But it is not the letters themselves that matter and this is not some self congratulatory remark about the work of an author acting as the conduit for their contrived narrative. There are several groups of persons whose stories must be told. There are the postmen themselves, a tradition of people left behind by the developing world after they themselves were carried away in what they did. There are the golems, which I have many thoughts about and a great deal of love for, many of which literally have no voice but an immense amount of history to convey. And there are the dead men in the overhead, who are kept alive in name only.

And that last part, I think, is the most important. It is where the story begins, it is where the heart of Going Postal's narrative lies, and it is where the plot hinges. It is, also, perhaps what few people really think about when they inevitably type GNU into the tags or in their header or at the bottom of any post or web page.

The dead men in the overhead are, by all accounts, *there*. We don't see Death come for John Dearheart. I don't think Pratchett would have included that scene at the start of the book, but I think it's worth seeing it that way; it's worth thinking about it in that way, that Death didn't show up. John is murdered, in the prologue, and in such a way that we understand exactly what happens by the end of the book. But we only see Death come for Anghammarad in the novel. And while Death does not, necessarily, come for every dead character in a book (not even all the "important" ones), he appears only once in Going Postal. I'm getting carried away.

The story begins with two people. Anghammarad first, many years before, and then John Dearheart. Both are dead before the end of the novel, and Death comes only to one of them. Because John is still in the overhead. How literal that is is up to you, but I think it's actually pretty literal.

And while John and the rest are in there, constantly traveling along the clacks with their names and becoming one with the cryptics that make up the function of a telecommunications network, no one is telling their stories. Their lives and, perhaps more importantly, their deaths must be told. Their names are a message in the system, but the message is never truly delivered. It just goes on, just as much in storage as the letters in the post office. A letter must be delivered, it contains a story that must be told.

And so, Moist must tell the story. He is the storyteller, by trade and function in the novel. He plays his winning gambit in the standoff with Gilt by telling the story of the dead men in the overhead and signs it with their name. And while he sees this as a horrible betrayal of their memories, it really isn't. It's not a lie. The only lie in Moist's message is who signed it, and it works because no one could bear it if it was a lie. And in a way, it isn't.

I would like to carry on, but everything else I want to talk about for this book is about the golems or how cool I think Adora Belle is, and I don't think I've seen enough of them to really articulate what it is about them that is so beautiful. So more on them later probably.

[persage]

DIFFERENT - S. HARRINGTON

Summary: When you and Steve Harrington find yourself partners on a school project, you quickly realize that maybe he's not the jerk you thought. But that's not enough for you to let go of your fears.

Words Count: 2.5k

Tags: Mostly Fluff. Jealous!Buckley Reader x Insicure Steve Harrington. Family Trauma. Set Before S1.

After a huge writer block, here I am again hope you like it!

3 weeks ago

"Here we are" When you reach the Harrington residence, it's as big and rich as you've always imagined. Steve throws the door open and sets his keys on the table while he watches your eyes drift around the house as you walk further inside. He gestures to the stairs and when you walk in his room you are impressed by the lack of object, photos and posters: it's so simple and plain that it doesn't even feel like someone's room, least of all Steve Harrington. Also you notice that there are no pictures of him in the house, not even family pictures, just an old photo of his parent's wedding where they don't even smile and you know you must not jump to conclusions but you can't help but find it sad. 

Steve feels suddenly nervous, it's not the first time he has a girl in his room of course, but the way you study the space around you, as if you really care, is something new for him. It's oddly intimate, even if he feels like you don't like him at all and you he's an idiot and -also- you are here only cause you have to work on a project.

"My parents won't be home till late so we've got the place to ourselves," He says to distract himself from the fact that y/n Buckley, Carol's Perkins's cute childhood friend, is standing right here in his room. The silence puts him on edge so he keeps talking. "Good thing my parents aren't here to be honest."  

He notices your confused - and maybe even a little disgusted- face.

"Oh don't get me wrong it's just that they are so loud, they scream so much, it's annoying." He sees your face fall, pity written all over your expression. Why doesn't he know when to shut the fuck up? Why did he tell you something so personal? You smile at him, trying to hide the embarrassment and gesture to the bed.

" Can I?" You ask. He nods and he thinks that for some reason it's nice to have you here, within the walls of his room.

"I like your room." You say. "Except for the wallpaper"

He laughs "It’s the only thing I actually chose actually. You know, my mom is obsessed with this house, no pictures, no posters, no paintings. Especially not chosen by me. I ruin everything apparently."

"And she lets you keep this horrible wallpaper? Absurd" He smiles. "You know, I've always wanted a Tears For Fears's poster"

"That's better Harrington."

Present Day

You are chatting with Carol in front of your locker though you are not really listening to her, it's same old story: something about dumping a boy or shit like that. You don't want to be a bad friend, but with Carol it's getting more and more difficult to maintain a good relationship. Being one of the cool kid has gone to her head and sometimes you've got the feeling you're losing her for real. 

"And I said no,  I mean,  he has to fight for me... "

You spot him at the end of the corridor, he's coming towards you. Brown eyes, perfect hair and a big smile on his stupidly handsome face.  You roll your eyes, trying to sound more annoyed than you actually are. "Please, not again. "

"What?" Carol turns and see him. "Oh..." She bits her lip as Steve Harrington passes by and winks at you. "Hi Carol, hi y/n"  He stops,  looking at you "You're really beautiful today"

You lift your eyebrow. "I always am,  Harrington" You fake a smile,  taking Carol's hand and carrying her away towards  the cafeteria, before he can add anything You hate the fact that he’s a completely different person in school than he is in private, that he’s so cheeky and stupid, like he always needs to prove something to people.

"I don't understand why you keep rejecting him, he's hot and he seems really into you" Carols comments, struggling  behind you.  "He's an idiot" You reply.  Liar.

"Well, he is my friend and he' s cool guy". 

You shake your head. You don't wanna tell her the truth, 'cause even if Carol has been your friend since you were three years old you don't really recognize  the sweet girl you've known anymore, and you don't trust  her with your secrets. You can't tell her how you have grown to like Harrington, to care about him, cause the person you've feelings for its completely different from the one she knows.

"You're becoming so boring y/n"

**

"What are you staring at?"Steve asks, laughing as he throws you a pillow.

You throw it back at him, flushing as you look away, "Nothing."

"You looked like you were spacing out."

"I was."

"About what?"

Shit. You certainly can't tell him what you are really thinking. He's cute. And smart in his own way.

He is gentle, attentive to your needs: that you are warm but not too much, that you are comfortable, that you don't take the burden of the work only on your shoulders even if you are better and faster than him. He's even bought your favorite cookies and you don’t even remember telling him how much you like them. He's a total surprise, like a ray of sun in the clouds.

"I was thinking about our project, maybe we should change something." You say

"You're a bad liar. It's already perfect, you have thought about every detail." Steve looks at you like he knows and it makes your hear jump in you chest. What is happening to you?

"Focus on studying Harrington! You are the worst project partner ever."

"But you are the best y/n" He replies, seriously, moving to be near you. "I'm glad you are here" Although you  try to pay attention to what he is saying, you can't help but be distracted by the way he tucks your hair behind your ears. You want to say something clever, or even sweet, to tell him that he is different from the guy he appears at school. Before you can, there's a ring on the doorbell. "Oh, that must be the pizza"

"You've ordered pizza?" You ask, speechless.

"Only for you, partner"

**

Eyeing him as he sits across the cafeteria with Tommy and other friends, you can't help but think how Steve Harrington shines like nobody else in this room and you hate yourself for such a silly thought. Carol has just finished telling Tina about your exchange with Steve this morning.

"I don't understand you y/n" Tina says.

"I mean... He is a well famous knob, I don't wanna be just another name on his list."  You reply gazing at him as he laughs at something. That's the fact: you hate Steve Harrington cause he is not an asshole, not at all. He is kind, careful, nice and sensitive and a whole amount of adjectives that you wouldnt have attributed to him if you haven't find yourself spending so much with him for the stupid literature project.

Still in front of the rest of the world he changes completely, no more a good guy just another douchebag.

"Yes but, you know I've slept with him and he's... So. Good. " Tina winks at you.

Steve caughts your gaze and smiles at you before you can tear your eyes away from him muttering an "I don't  care, Tina." Blushing.

In spite of everything in his eyes, in his smile, you don't see the person he pretends to be. Also you know perfectly well that If you allow yourself to give in to his compliments and jokes, you will find yourself heartbroken.

Oh how you wish to be touched by those hands

"If you don't care then I'll go out with him" Tina states, drinking her coke. "He's asked me out a week ago"

And that's it, the final crack in your heart. "You go girl" You reply casually, playing perfectly your part.

**

By now Harrington's house is familiar to you, you know the smell and the sounds, the floor creaking in some places, the lights that occasionally jump, the garden. You know how Steve drops himself on the bed and how he sits at his desk, but you’re still nervous at the door. And you realize there’s still a million things you need to know about him, about his childhood and his family, and you’re shocked because you care, you care about everything that it's his, actually. You’re afraid you made a mistake, while waiting for him to open up and holding a poster and a vinyl that maybe you shouldn’t have bought. Maybe you’ll make him fight with his parents . "They are strict" He has said once, without adding any details, leaving you with bad sensation. The way his gaze darkned, which lasted only an instant, made you think the situation must be worse than you have imagined. Maybe for this stupid poster, you’ll get him in trouble, but when you have walked past the music store you saw it, you have thought of him as a child, the most innocent creature on earth. He wanted a poster, and you have got him. The Vinyl, that’s an extra. When he opens the door you don’t even realize it, lost in your thoughts.

"Oh y/n, sorry I expected to see you later. I'm still cleaning up." Steve says, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment.

"Excuse me, it’s... I haven't realized, you know... timing."

Lie, the truth that you couldn’t wait to see him. His big dark eyes are on you, he smiles as lets them slide on the objects you hold in your arms. "What do you have there? Things for the project? " He question, leaning towards you to peek. You walk away, laughing. "Why don't you let me in first?" He steps aside. "Sorry again for the mess" But there’s nothing more than a few out-of-place items to say the least. "When my parents are out, I always leave a mess."

"It is more tidy than my house, imagine... My sister Robin is a disaster and I am not less."

"I didn’t even know you had a sister. How much more do I have to find out about you?"

"I’m a mysterious girl Harrington," you chuckle, but he stays serious as he watches you carefully. "You are." You clear your throat. "Let’s start solving the first mystery." You hand him the vinyl and he his mouth, surprised and happy.

"Oh my god y/n, but...." He stutters something meaningless, a mixture of agitated and festive verses. The truth is that for years no one has given him a spontaneous gift, even his parents, and when it happens that a gift is given to him on his birthday or for some occasion it is never something that is really for him. They are anonymous gifts, made without thinking about him, without taking into account what he wants or likes, without knowing him. He doesn’t care about something expensive, no, Steve loves small gestures.

He loves your small gestures.

"There is more" You open the poster in front of your body so that he can see it well and Harrington’s expression is priceless, he looks like a child on Christmas Day.

"I can’t believe it" He whispers. He gently grabs the poster from your hands, incredulous and you notice a slight flicker. With a quick gesture he rests it on the sofa next to you and now there are you hips hin his hands and Steve Harrington holds you in a warm and strong embrace, which makes you feel more at home than ever before in your life. "No one has ever done so much for me." He whispers to your ear.

"I didn’t do anything." You reply.

"You heard me y/n, for real"

**

He is in the yard, joking and laughing with his friends avoiding to look at you on purpose. On the contrary, your eyes never left his figure. The truth is that Steve doesn't understand, sometimes he feels like he has hope with you, other times he see a wall between you two even during  your project it was as clear as sun that there was a spark, despite your initial coldness. He felt like you liked him. Not like, like him. Like him just as a person, in short, he' has believed for a moment that you could see something in him. The gift is a final demonstration, or so he thought. Things got worse at school, until you ended up ignoring him. And part of him just wants to run up to you and ask you what’s changed, the other part is terrified that Tommy might make fun of that. And in his heart he is aware that it is precisely this need of him to have to please everybody at all costs that has driven you away. But he can’t crawl to you, not in front of Tommy, its not something King Steve would do.

"I know you want him dead, but glaring at him isn't the right way to kill him" Robin Comments. She is sitting next to you, not looking up from her book. It's not common for you and your  sister to spend time together being so different from one another, but here you are, watching the basketball team's practice.

Watching Steve Harrington.

"Then why calling it a death stare if they don't die?" You ask annoyed, finally taking your eyes off of him to look at your sister.

"'Cause it doesn't work if you switch from an I wanna kill him type of look to an I wanna fuck him hard type of look, don't you know? " She explains. You don't answer, words don't come up at your mind and also you didn't think Robin could really notice your little, silly annoying crush on Steve. Not once.

"Why are you so upset, anyway?" She asks.

"Isn't it clear? He has slept with all my friends and... And I'm just the one who's missing he keeps  insisting being so... I don't know... Sometimes it's a douchebag, sometimes the sweetest boy on earth. Oh God, I'm going crazy"

"Look, Y/n we are the ones sitting there, observing him like perverts, not him. From what you told me he hasn't even tried that hard, in short, he could have done a lot more, if a compliment every now and then is enough to make you want to jump on a guy ... Maybe it's because you like that guy more than you you want to admit. "

You shake your head.

" He is Steve idiot Harrington, I can't like him"

"Oh yes, you totally don't."

"Bullshit, I don't like him, he is an asshole" You say once more.

She sighs at your stubbornness but before she adds something, you continue. "Also he has asked Tina out."

Robin smiles. "Smart move Harrington."

"What?"

"Y/n he's been avoiding to look since we arrived and he's totally failing. I don't like him at all, I think he is an idiot but you are not and if you really like this douchebag that much maybe he's something more than what I think, I also really really doubt it but that's another problem... I mean I believe you are clever enough to understand if he's just using you, but you will never know for sure if you don't give him a chance. "

You quickly realize it's true, you give your sister a smile and without saying another word you take your backpack and head quickly towards him. He spots you and bite his lower lip to hide a smile, while he walks in your direction too.

You take him by his arm and you drag him to the locker room, while his mates call him back and Tommy yells "Get in Harrington" you remember why you wanted to avoid Steve in the first place. You have learned one thing in life: to really understand someone observe the people they surround themselves with. Under this assumption Steve should be a bad person, yet he looks at you with eyes full of something you can't define and apologizes with disarming sincerity. "They are not so bad" He says referring to his friends. "It's that sometimes they forget respect"

"Isn't it the same?" You ask. He smiles. "Would you ever get angry with a monkey because it's rude or stupid? That's the same thing with them. "

"Monkeys are not stupid" You reply.

"You always have to have the last word don't you? " He chuckles, but he doesn't seem nervous. You stay silent. "Do you need something for the project or... Something else?"

"Stop it" You demand.

"Stop what?"

"You know what I mean" You say frustrated.

"No, please, really tell me. " He is lost and sincere.

"Stop... Acting like you care about me, like you really like me and then asking Tina out." And you know it's not fair, the Tina part, but you can't help yourself.

"Oh so you are jealous!" He exclaims as he suddenly realizes it and he is happy, like genuinely happy. You don't know how to react.

"What?! No, I'm not jealous! I'm angry because you're a asshole and you are using my friend and me" You reply, more frustrated by the minute.

"I'm not using her, I know Tina well enough to understand what I can do with her. We are friends too also I have never done everything wrong to you, Y/n." He seems hurt, he is biting his nails in anxiety and he has a  disappointed expression on his handsome face.

" I... " He starts to leave, but you grab him by the arm. "What's up?" He asks. "I'm an asshole, mh? You've been repeating it for as long as I've known you."

"You confuse me. But I don't think you are ... but you act like one, often."

"Not with you.  never with you."

You look in his eyes. "I know, but... I'm scared." He caresses your face, his soft finger tips between your h/c hair.

" So I better not fucking this up"

You nod. "I wanna know you better Steve Harrington."

"I'm honored" After a moment of silence he continues,  his voice firm and low. "I'm serious, I've never been so serious in my life" He takes your face between his large hands, his finger on your burning cheeks.

"Also I asked Tina to lie to you." He whispers leaning his forehead against yours, laughing while you punch him on the chest. He join your lips in a wet but sweet kiss. He had waited so long to taste your red lips, he can't believe this is  really happening, from the moment you have walked in his house showing sincere interest in him, he has known you were different and he has fallen for you quickly. He smiles against your mouth.

"You're an idiot Harrington "

"I agree."

[silvertonedwords]

Together, Chapter 4: Sunday

It's heeeeeeeere. Seriously though, this is long. Comment if you can. It's like being taken out for dinner after a difficult exam. My favorite thing to know is which gesture or moment or line of dialogue touched you the most.

__

Dear Tina,

As I start to write this letter, it is Monday evening. It was grey and damp in London today, as it often is this time of year. Teddy becomes unaccountably cross in this sort of weather. Years ago, I attempted to convince him to move back to the wild. He always came clamoring back and chattered as if to scold me, and I had to accept that we are companions for good now. It worried me at first for his sake, you understand, although he seems to lead a happy existence. Not that you would know it from how he’s looking at me right now. I’ve dropped a sketch into the back of this letter. I hope it does his peevish expression justice, and that you can imagine him sitting, as he is now, on the corner of my desk while I write to you.

Theseus stopped by this evening for his usual visit. He drank three cups of tea, and even came down into the menagerie for a few minutes without grousing about whether I have the proper permits for the building and expansion charms. (Is this something we’ll need to discuss with regards to my case when I next come to New York? Are there such rules in America? I imagine it would be frowned upon for you to have a guest who might be in violation of those rules? You know I don’t set much store by these things in general, but I will do whatever you think is reasonable, or at the very least, learn which creatures in particular to keep quiet for a few days. I’ve been involved in quite enough risks to your career as it is.)

Theseus seemed alright today. That time I wrote you of a few weeks ago was the last when he arrived at my flat too inebriated to have a sensible conversation. He speaks of Leta more often than he used to. He also seems to enjoy when I tell stories about her from school, many of which he hasn’t heard before. You’ve mentioned that you enjoy when your colleagues who knew your father speak of him. I think perhaps Theseus feels the same. It makes them closer for a moment, doesn’t it, to know that they were real for other people, too? 

Theseus mentioned to me, as you have, that you saw each other last week. I suppose I should’ve thought that you would both attend that conference in New York—you had mentioned that it was an international affair—but somehow I hadn’t. He brought you up first thing. He said that you had the chance to speak several times. Not that his opinion need carry much weight, but he said that he liked you very much, and that you are “both clever and reasonable, a rare combination in an auror”, which I would’ve thought was obvious. You described speaking about your encounter at the French Ministry, but I must say that he did not bring up that part of your conversation with me. He was gracious about it, you say. Perhaps I sell him short. 

I do believe that will remain my favorite spell that you have ever cast, although I am open to something else taking its place. I remember your face as you cast it—so determined, so calm, and so delighted after.

Auror affairs aside, Theseus seems to think it his duty to investigate everyone with whom I spend any time. I have always found it tiresome. He has always been that way, as an elder brother, you know. He seems to think that it is his job both to warn me how the world will be, and to protect me from it. Perhaps this is something you understand more than I. I am hardly similar to Queenie, of course, and Theseus did not have to become a father or mother to me, but he is so much older, and our parents were so often busy with other concerns, that he took on something of that role. Perhaps elder siblings are often like this.

I remember one incident very clearly. I must’ve been about ten years old, so Theseus would’ve been eighteen or so, having just left school and started auror training. He took me aside one day to assure himself, in quite a serious manner, that I would of course be giving up “all of that creature nonsense” when I went to school. I now believe that he was worried that he wouldn’t be there to keep an eye on me, and that I would be lonely. He had seen, I think, that I did sometimes wish for friends, even though I rarely seemed to be able to make them. As a model student, he probably also found the prospect of my being around his former teachers and fellow students rather daunting. I say I believe this now. At the time, I was so enraged that I refused to speak to him for several weeks.

You and I are similar, I believe, in that we will not change ourselves simply to please someone else. I was like that from a very young age. I imagine you were too. I imagine you sometimes, all of eight or nine, telling older children off for being cruel. 

I do not mean to suggest, by the way, that you have ever done anything like this story I told to your sister. You and Theseus are similar in some ways—you both carry heavy responsibilities, and you are both stubborn—but you are more flexible, more creative, and more curious than he is. 

My mother apparently asked Theseus who I’ve been writing. She’s noticed me with your letters, you see, and told Theseus that I “looked far too enchanted for them to be letters of business”. I think I must look pleased when I receive letters from any of the few people to whom I write with any regularity—Lally, for instance, and Jacob—but she is perhaps right that it is not quite in the same way. Theseus told her some part of the story of how we met—he does not know it all—and I must say that she is rather taken with you. I had mentioned you before, but it seems she had never been certain of our still writing to each other. 

I turned around in the menagerie last night to say something to you, before I recalled that you were, of course, an ocean away. Sometimes, when I’m carrying out the more mindless chores, I compose my letters to you in my mind. Not word for word, exactly, but I store up the things I’ve meant to tell you, and the questions I want to ask. I like how it almost makes you my companion in the work. I can almost see you curled up in a camp chair with a book or a report for work, reading away and keeping me company. I have just the chair—it’s very comfortable, and right now it’s set up next to the shed because it’s one of Dougal’s favorites.

You mentioned before that your apartment feels lonely, and I said that I am glad for the creatures, as my home never feels empty. I don’t know if that was right. It’s different when there’s a particular gap, a place that isn’t filled, isn’t it? Like your sister.

In reading over these last lines, I wonder if you will see disappointment—ridicule even—that you have not planned a visit, as I have offered. I don’t mean to suggest so. I only wish to be honest with you. I think perhaps, in our letters before Paris, I did not say enough.

All this to say, if you see an article proclaiming whatever exploits the papers have invented for the imagined figure of Newton Scamander, best-selling author, this week, I do hope you will ignore them entirely. Unless they say that he checks his mail every morning for letters from a certain American auror, devours them in minutes, and then reads them through carefully at least twice more, they are mistaken.

I must go for now. I can hear the young nifflers growing restless, and I cannot risk leaving them for too long. If you see Theseus again, promise me that you will not let him take himself too seriously. It is good for him.

You didn’t say last time how your research into Grindelwald’s associates is progressing. I would like to hear. And someday, you must tell me how you and Lally became friends.

Write me something, even if short, by Friday, if you can? I have a signing event on Saturday, and it will be much more tolerable if I have a letter to look forward to when I get home.

Be safe, and look after yourself. 

Yours,

Newt

-&-

Newt drifts awake slowly. He laughs softly when he opens his eyes. Tina still sleeps facing him, with her dark hair fanned across the pillow, and her hand curled up beside her face. His smile is one of fondness, and of such relief. How often, these past months, has he wished that they were beside each other?

He reaches out and carefully brushes her hair from her forehead. It has grown so much longer than it was when they were last together.

She’d been different then—his one day in New York a few months ago—jumping at the slightest touch, and looking away whenever he accidentally caught her eyes on him. It hadn’t felt like rejection, hadn’t stung him at all in that way, but it had made him ache to be of more comfort. Sometimes, especially when she’d written about Queenie, her mood in her letters had felt dark. While reading them, he’d often wanted to board a ship back to New York. He’d ached to at least write more plainly, I love you. But he’d known from the tender but sometimes cautious tone of her letters, from her trembling smile and tearful eyes and tight grasp on his hand as they said goodbye, that she wasn’t ready to hear it. 

Last night, he’d woken at a similar time with the cool almost-panic that he might’ve imagined everything. To have gone through such a day as that with her, and then to have fallen asleep alone in the same cot as always…

Tonight, he wakes only with relief that they are together. 

Full of seeming contradictions as she is—gentle and stubborn, cautious and bold, strong and tender, perhaps it should not surprise him that this week has been the same. She wasn’t ready, until, one day, she was.

He closes his eyes to think back over the past few days. Yesterday morning, when he’d walked into her room, and she’d held him until he calmed. Her boldness as she’d led him away from the party. That cautiously hopeful look in her eyes after she’d first closed the apartment door, as though he could possibly want anything more than to kiss her back. Her fingers in his hair. Asking him to hold her and melting into him. The way she looks at him, always, Merlin—it’s familiar of course, the tenderness and laughter and slight hint of a challenge in her eyes—but there are also parts that he hadn’t known she’d been holding back. A sort of lightness. She looks almost giddy when she looks at him, and it makes him giddy, too.

She’s remarkable. He’s often thought apathy to be the worst of human traits—towards each other, towards creatures. Tina is a wonder to watch because she cares so deeply. And he is, somehow, one of the things she cares about. 

She begins to stir. He opens his eyes to see hers.

She smiles, and his lips tug into a smile as well, before he has even noticed. “Hi,” she says.

She skims a few fingers along his jaw. “Hello.”

She sighs, closes her eyes, turns a little bit closer. Her knees bump into his thighs.

He wants…he wants…

He shifts closer, closer, until he can slide one arm beneath her ribs, the other around her waist, and push his face into her neck. Her breath stumbles for a moment, but then her arms come up around his neck and she weaves her fingers into his hair. 

She strokes his hair slowly, from his temples around and down to the base of his skull. Pleasant shivers chase each other down his spine. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“Mm.” He draws his hand down to the center of her back. “I am,” he murmurs, relaxing against her. He feels her lips at his temple. “’s a lot. And good. Feels…”

“Yeah.” 

So good. He lets out a shuddering breath. His voice grows quiet, pleading. “Don’t stop?”

“I won’t.” Her hand is still tangled in his hair, stroking slowly. She draws it down his neck, his shoulder. Her movements are slow and easy. She finds a gentle pattern: her hand combing thought his hair, then skating down his neck, across his shoulder. He whimpers and burrows closer, his hands settled on her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through her cotton pajamas.

Somewhere, someone must’ve come up with a word for this feeling, though nothing adequate comes to mind. To want and be wanted. To value and be valued. To love and be loved in return, and to feel it. He is in a state of restfulness just shy of sleep, where everything is calm and yet somehow acute. 

He hears her sniff once—tears? He fumbles blindly for her hand. “I’m fine,” she murmurs, tucking her chin over his head.

He hums questioningly.

“You’re so relaxed.”

He tries to follow what she means through his sleepy haze. “Should I not be?”

“No. I mean yes I just…” He hopes these are the not-bad sort of tears, like the kind during the wedding when Queenie and Jacob stomped on a glass and he caught her eye. “Nobody wants me around this much.”

“Rubbish,” he says, his voice muffled by her skin. 

She laughs and sounds a little tearful. Her hand moves through his hair now, from his temple back to the base of his skull. Merlin, it feels nice. 

“You’re remarkable.”

“So are you,” she returns. She continues to card her fingers through the back of his hair. Her breathing calms, and whatever it is, it does not seem urgent or painful, for she is also deeply relaxed against him. “Sleep,” she whispers. 

He hums again, this time in assent, and she laughs softly, her voice warm against his ear. Within a few moments, he has drifted back to sleep. 

-&-

When Tina wakes, Newt sits at a small table just past the foot of the bed, writing a letter. He must’ve been quiet when he got up, for she is a light sleeper by force of professional habit. She had not considered that they might be well-matched in this way. Of course, working with creatures, he must be skilled at moving quietly. 

She observes him for a moment. His messier-than usual hair, and the way the light bounces off of it. The soft smile pulling at his lips. The cotton shirt and trousers he sleeps in. His fingers spread across the surface of the page. His sun-warmed and faintly scarred chest just visible through the deep v of his shirt, and his muscular forearms where he has rolled up his shirtsleeves. He is beautiful. She knows what his skin feels like, now, but still she wants to touch.

“Morning,” she says.

He looks up. She thinks she will never tire of his expression when he sees her: the wonder and tenderness that soften his eyes. “Good morning,” he says. 

Tina sits up in bed, bending her knees, the blankets pooling at her feet.  She wraps an arm around her legs. “You’re awake early.”

“Time change, I’m afraid. Besides, once I woke I--” he looks down, smiling, “Now that I’ve gotten a bit of rest, I’m too exhilarated to sleep.”

She understands that all too well. Now that he’s here, she’s been sleeping soundly, but last week, she’d sometimes tossed and turned for an hour or more, thinking about what the next few days might bring. 

She’d thought all these changes might feel unsteady for a while. That it would feel strange to enter into parts of each others’ lives that they hadn’t known before; sharing meals, early mornings, late nights. Sharing a bed. But for her at least, this kind of intimacy feels oddly natural. “This doesn’t feel strange,” she says, looking down and stretching her feet against the soft, worn linens. “Is that strange?”

He looks at her again, and this time, his gaze lingers. “No. It’s not.” He begins to smile. “At least, since I haven’t startled you like yesterday.”

Tina bites her lip against a grin. “I raised my wand at you, didn’t I?”

“Instantly. Very good reflexes. Slightly startling.”

She shakes her head, delighted, as she will almost always admit, by his teasing. 

He leaves the letter and makes his way to the bed, sinking onto the mattress beside her. 

She slides her hand onto his wrist and up his forearm. Her fingers pass over a few thin scars. 

”I should’ve expected you to be awake by the time I reached your room. The aurors I knew during the war were light sleepers. So’s Theseus. I thought you would be.”

She melts a little at the thought of Newt trying to place such knowledge of her. “I am,” she agrees. “You’re not, are you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Except when something’s wrong with one of the creatures. Then I seem to wake easily.”

She smiles. “Like a parent.”

“I suppose so,” he agrees. He fingers the collar of her pajama shirt. 

“What?” she asks. 

“Looking, so I remember. You weren’t in bed anymore when I woke yesterday.”

She looks down with an almost shy smile, warmed by his attention. 

They both watch as he takes her hand and brings it to his lap. “Tina, may I ask you something?”

“Mm?”

“What upset you last night?”

“Last night?” He draws circles into the back of her hand with his thumb. 

“When we woke, I mean. You seemed—you were crying.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t look worried or judgmental; just curious. 

She searches for the right words to explain what it feels like that he actually wants to be around her—and not only through touch, for that is but one sometimes-manifestation of it—but around her as a being.

Perhaps it shouldn’t take her breath away. He actually wants what she has to give. He looks at her—at things that other people have told her are too much, that she should dampen; her intensity and determination, stubbornness and curiosity, her love for him—and he enjoys them. He seeks her out. He wants more. She’s known that for many months, but to experience it in so many new ways feels both wonderful and unfamiliar. 

She imagines he must know the feeling, at least a little, although perhaps he’s better than she is at ignoring what blinkered people think. She’s heard the snide comments that get made about him. She’s even heard some misplaced ones by people, like Theseus, who care about him. Mostly, she wants to turn around and snap at those people that whatever they’re describing is exactly what makes him extraordinary. What do they mean to say? That he’s too kind, too dedicated to his work, too uninterested in the opinions of those who have no imagination, too committed to bringing about change even when it is hard? The more she knows him, the more of himself he shares, the more drawn to him she feels, and it’s just a wonder, sometimes, to notice him feeling the same about her. 

“I wasn’t upset, I was—“ he squeezes her hand, and her lips turn up briefly in gratitude. She looks at him. “You were so content. With me. Because of me?”

“Yes.” He looks slightly bewildered. 

She laughs at her own muddled words. “I felt…” 

“…loved?” he offers at last. 

She nods toward their joined hands. 

Carefully, he tucks her hair behind her ear. His fingertips graze her shoulder as he combs his fingers through the strands. He presses his thumb along her hairline, and her eyes slip shut. 

A deep rumble makes them both turn to the shed door. “That’ll be Dorian. Bark much worse than his bite. Probably wants his breakfast.”

“I should go get changed and things.”

“And work down here?” he asks hopefully.

She laughs. “Sure.”

Newt stands and heads out the door. 

Tina lingers, looking around the shed. Her surroundings are not quite familiar yet, but she knows that they will be. 

Will she wake here, many years from now, and remember this morning, this Tina? By then, one of her favorite pens and a few letters that she needs to answer will rest on that table. She’ll leave a pair of boots in the case, and when they aren’t traveling, they will have a shared home outside of it, with a kitchen table where they talk over tea, and a shared bed, and—. Their little habits will be familiar and largely unspoken. She’s in no rush to get through these wonderful days, but what a pleasant future to dream. 

She has just stood when Newt re-enters the shed, walks over to her, and drops a gentle kiss to her cheek. She feels his hand skim over her hair. “Forgot to do that,” he says. 

She giggles, and almost doesn’t recognize her own carefree delight. Newt grabs the shawl she’d worn down to the case last night. He drapes it across her shoulders, adjusting its weight until she takes over, her hands brushing his. His earnestness makes her stomach jolt pleasantly, but it also chokes her throat with something else. “I won’t be long,” she whispers. 

He nods, then backs away as quickly as he’d come. 

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and stay that way as she climbs the ladder into her apartment. 

-&-

Tina takes a sip of her coffee and folds one leg beneath her on Newt’s camp chair, attempting to gather the patience to read the next case report before her. It is the last of the week by Auror Preston, and is almost certain to be dense and difficult to follow. Its heft, at least, attests to the fact that it will be longer than it has any need to be.

Newt had offered her his desk, but when she’s catching up on case reports over the weekend, she prefers something more casual. Besides, this seat makes it much easier to glance up and watch Newt as he works. She has not accomplished as much work this morning as she usually might, and she does not care. 

Newt’s been in this section of the case for the past quarter of an hour building a new splint for Harriet’s growing wing. He has glanced at her every so often, as she has glanced at him. Sometimes, their eyes meet, and a thrill goes through her at the intimacy of it. Their own little world in the case, and all the things they’ve finally managed to say. 

At one point, she catches him smiling at her.

“What?” she asks.

“I wrote about this. You sitting there.”

“You did,” she agrees, warmth filling her chest.

She looks to his writing desk beside her, trailing her fingers along its edge. He often wrote to her from this desk. She imagines him sitting here with his tattered newspaper clipping—later her professional portrait from work—his head bent over fresh parchment; his strong, gentle hands grasping a pen. 

She can just imagine him looking to Teddy or Pick or Dougal for a moment, speaking to them briefly, and then turning back to the page to add their greetings. She can picture the paper filling up with his handwriting, which, contrary to her first suppositions when they’d met, is neat and graceful and somehow suits him exactly.

Above the desk is a series of shelves where Newt keeps a variety of haphazardly stacked papers. One pile seems to contain letters, while several others consist of field notes and sketches. On a couple of the shelves, she sees her own letters, with their familiar blue seals. 

“My favorites are on the left,” Newt says.

Tina spins to his voice. 

He continues looping twine around a piece of wood. “You keep your favorite letters on the writing desk in your bedroom.”

Tina blushes faintly to have been found out. “I do,” she admits.

She finds he’s looking at her, and shakes her head at his teasing smile. She looks back to the letters and gestures to the shelf in question. “May I look at them?”

“Yes.”

She stands and retrieves the letters from the left-most shelf, sliding them out with care, then drops back into her chair. She begins to look through them. Even though she wrote every word on these pages, it feels oddly like stepping into Newt’s space. 

The topmost letters are recent and familiar. First is her letter written immediately after Queenie’s return: scattered, happy, and grateful; and second, the letter she’d sent right after, when Queenie and Jacob had told her that they were going to marry, and that Newt had promised to attend. She skims her own words with a laugh for her excitement. Newt is still working on the frame, but she can see out of the corner of her eye that he’s glancing up every so often to watch her. 

The next letters are older. First, the very first letter she’d ever sent to him, which is familiar because she’d thought so much about what to write. And next, a letter congratulating him on finishing his manuscript. She would blush at her own exuberance, but she meant every word.

Next is her first letter after Paris. Kind, tentative, sad, exhilarated, tender; and, she’d hoped, healing to some of the wounds she’d seen in him on that trip. Looking back, she’d seen more clearly his fumbling confusion and hope and the slightly subdued way he’d looked at her, and she’d realized that in her own pain, she had unknowingly caused his. She touches the page gently, grateful that this is among his favorites. Its creases are worn, and the edges slightly frayed as though it has been carried around and read many times. She likes the thought of her words as a steadying reminder that things between them were well again—indeed, that things between them had never truly been broken. 

She, too, has kept several of his first letters after Paris among her favorites, along with his unsent letters from the time when they’d stopped writing.

Tina had arranged a portkey home a few days after Paris. Newt had gone with her to see her off, and as they’d waited, he’d handed her a bundle of letters. At her confused look, he’d explained how he’d kept writing, and how they were rightfully hers of course, and would she like to have them? She remembers gathering them up and trying not to cry, lest he worry he’d done something wrong, when in fact she did not have words for her relief and joy and gratitude. 

She’d brought those letters with her to bed many hours later, and had stayed up late reading every one. It had made her feel less alone, even as she shook with everything she’d lost. The thought of Newt continuing to write to her, telling her about his life and his work, wondering how her cases were going, writing cautious questions about why she’d stopped writing. Even when he must’ve been hurting, he’d respected her, valued her, cared for her so much. She’d felt so abandoned after fighting with Queenie and seeing that stupid article.  By Queenie and by him. It had been such a comfort to have those letters to remind her that at least one of those things had never been true. 

Shaking her head at her wandering thoughts, she carefully folds her letter and slips it back into the pile, taking up the next. It is from about six months ago; an everyday sort of letter with little stories from her day. And then, a long letter in which she remembers writing mostly about her parents. She has a few similar favorites upstairs; the letters about ordinary days that bring life and immediacy to ink and paper, and others with stories about his childhood or family that filled in the foundations of who he is. 

There is another letter responding to his request that she comment on a few new passages meant for the second edition of his book. She grins, remembering how pleased she’d been that he wanted her opinion. 

And then there is a letter she’d sent just after his visit to New York in July, describing how much she cared for him, and how much she missed him. She touches the words with light fingers. 

“Is that from July?” He asks. 

She looks up. “It is.”

“When I read that, I wanted to turn around and came back.”

“You didn’t,” she says gently. It’s such a relief to be able to talk about these things together so openly.

He rubs one index finger over a knot he’d just made.“That wasn’t what you needed from me. It was hard, but I knew…I knew that.”

She feels a rush of gratitude, and yet a touch of sadness. He doesn’t blame her for keeping him away, she knows that, but still it was hard for them both. 

 “It’s the same with creatures, you know. Especially the ones who’ve been hurt, or—what they need most is the space to feel safe again.”

“Yes,” she whispers, blinking back tears. She is…she is so in love with him, his kindness and intelligence and honesty and care. 

She’s kept so much bottled up lately, letting things out in her letters to Newt, or in quiet moments alone or with her few true friends, and then carefully putting everything away again so that she could face the next day. It feels good to feel. 

“Newt, could I…could I come hug you please?”

She looks up to find him nodding towards his work table. She sets aside the letters and walks to him. At first, she loops her arms around his neck and leans close and it is a gentle, soft hug. Then, he wraps his arms tightly around her waist and shoves his face into her shoulder, his hands pressing into her sides. She melts against him and holds him tighter. Perhaps he’s needed this too—perhaps he’s also been hiding things away. Knowing how hard this year has been on her, and on him as well, it couldn’t have been easy for him to be so far away. She’s begun to suspect that one of the ways that Newt looks after people is to be completely fine, even to himself, until it turns out that he is not. She rakes her hand through his hair—he likes that, she can tell from the way his shoulders relax—and feels as much as hears him let out a heavy breath. At last, he pulls back enough to look at her, and smoothes her hair back behind her shoulder. 

She laughs with how light she feels, hiding her face in his neck. He wraps his arms around her, turning them gently from side to side. 

“Will you come with me to check on Harriet?” Newt finally asks. “She’s taken a liking to you.”

Tina lifts her head. “Of course I will.”

He smiles. 

“What?” She asks with a smile in her voice. 

“Do you remember what we were like on my first visit, when we drank tea here?”

She chuckles warmly, resettling his shirt collar. “I, for one, was entirely innocent of staring at you whenever you turned your back.” She’d meant to sound teasing, but her voice is thick with emotion, remembering how those first days had been, feeling him see her and value her and watching him experience the same from her.

“Completely,” he agrees. He watches his thumb trace the line of her neck, as she presses gently into the touch.

And then, almost to herself, she adds. “I would catch you lookin’ at me…and you’re wonderful you know, runnin’ around lookin’ after the creatures. You’d grab my hand to drag me along like it was nothin’ and…” 

He kisses her jaw softly. “I hoped that someday we would—perhaps not exactly—well, I didn’t not hope that we would be…here. It’s very, very nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been hoping for it for rather a long time.”

“For how long, then, Mr. Scamander?” she asks teasingly.

But his answer is in earnest. “Since about two days after I met you.”

She smiles more tenderly at his words. “Me, too,” she admits, her voice soft and warm.

“How much do you have left to read?”

She looks back. “There are only two more reports that I have to read today. Let’s check on Harriet first, and then I’ll come back and finish. After that we should go for a walk or somethin’. Get out for a bit.”

“Tired of case reports?”

“It’s not the most excitin’ part of my job.”

“Aurors.”

“Hey,” she nudges him. 

His eyes are full of laughter. “Come on then.” He tugs her with him toward the forest. 

-&-

“The next month or so shouldn’t be too busy, if nothing changes with Grindelwald, of course. January’ll be a headache though.” They’re walking along a heavily wooded path about forty miles outside the city. Both of them bundled up against the cold before they apparated out here. The tree coverage is thinner because of winter, and the exposed branches and bits of ground are blanketed by a light dusting of snow. 

“What’s in January?” 

“We hire out of the trainee class. I’ve seen it, obviously, but it hasn’t been my problem before. There’s all kinds of politics between the departments. Angry parents or family friends who think someone we passed over last year or the year before should get another chance. People from departments who have nothing to do with investigations always seem to think they know best. And the head auror pretty much gets none of the credit and all of the blame, no matter what happens. It’s a nightmare, honestly.”

“I could come stay with you for a week or two? Keep you company? I’ll promise Queenie not to let you eat hotdogs for every meal.”

Tina stops walking and looks at him. “I’d love that,” she says earnestly. “I’ll be at work most of the time. And I’ll definitely be in a temper.”

“I like your temper. Well, generally. When it’s not because of me. Well, sometimes then, too. As long as you’re not really angry.”

She narrows her eyes, but she is not really cross with him. A moment later, a smile spreads across her face. “Okay.”

She ducks under a tree branch and leads them down the path to their left. 

“You’re goin’ to Spain next month aren’t you? For research?”

“Yes, I am,” Newt agrees. 

“For how long?”

“For a few weeks, depending on what I find.” He tries not to be nervous as he offers, “I’d like to stop in New York on my way back.”

“It’s not exactly on the way.”

“No,” he admits. 

Her smile is exhilarating. “I’d love that.”

He looks down, pleased. 

“I do want to come to England, whenever I can get away.”

“That would be wonderful. You’ll like it, I think. You were only there for a few hours, before, and that was…”

“A terrible trip?” After Paris, they’d spent a few stressful hours being questioned by the Ministry, and only a few stolen minutes together over the next two days before her portkey back to America. “Mostly, anyway. I wasn’t angry with you anymore, and that was…” 

He reaches for her hand and squeezes it, their leather gloves catching briefly. “Mum might be a bit…much, when you meet her.”

“That’s alright.”

“I’ve never brought anyone home, you see. I think she’d given up on the idea. She’s been asking when she’d meet you for months.”

“As Theseus said.”

Newt nods, hearing the smile in her voice. 

“I’m excited to meet her, too.” 

They walk in silence for a few minutes. Newt watches a fluttering wisp of hair that’s escaped from the pins she’s used to keep her hair out of her face. Her cheeks are bright from the chill. She has wrapped a deep blue scarf around her neck, and wears a wool coat the color of charcoal. Merlin, it’s lovely to see her, and not only imagine her and her voice in her letters. “I wish I could’ve met your parents. I would’ve liked them, I think.”

“I think they woulda liked you. Queenie’n I were talkin’ after you left New York—right after you left, only two or three days—I said somethin’ about how much Poppa woulda loved talkin’ to Jacob—he baked, you know. And she said—she said that Momma’n Poppa woulda loved you the minute they saw how you looked at me.”

Newt brushes her arm with the back of his hand, and she turns to smile at him, although it is a sad sort of smile.

She gathers herself a moment later. He thinks that it is not because she is avoiding the pain of it, but rather because it is a familiar wound. “What will your father think?” she asks. 

“He’s…difficult.”

“You don’t mention him very often in your letters.”

“We hardly see each other. He wishes I lived a more…conventional life. He has since I was a boy.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “I’m used to it, I think.” Her hand grazes his arm. There’s something about her presence that keeps him from shoving away the uncomfortable memories.

“I suppose he also wishes you’d choose a more conventional girl?”

“If he’s going to be so proud of Theseus for his job, he’s hardly entitled to say anything about yours.”

He can hear the smile in her voice. “I doubt he sees it that way.”

“Perhaps you should tie him to an office chair. That worked brilliantly with my brother.”

She laughs. He’s good at making Tina laugh, he thinks, and proud of it. 

“My father always thinks he knows what’s best. Perhaps he’ll see that I’m happy, and be glad. Perhaps he’ll only be disappointed that you have no intention of forcing me to take a dull office job at the Ministry. He’s always said that everything that disappoints him about me is…that it would disappoint any potential wife as well, if I ever found someone who would take a magizoologist with no ‘real employment’.”

“Then he’ll have the disappointment of being entirely wrong.” Her voice is firm. Newt catches her hand to briefly slow their walk, and closes the small distance between them. He kisses her hand as she turns to face him. Her eyes are bright and tender and just a touch indignant. For a moment, she looks at him, and he wonders if he understands a bit what Queenie had said about her sister. You need a giver. How it feels to have Tina’s strength and kindness with him. 

He’d thought touch might be an adjustment once they finally…and it is, to a degree, but he feels free of judgement, and that makes such a difference. He could pull away or ask for more or less, and she is never anything but curious, gentle, understanding. He hopes he is never anything less to her, either. Figuring out this part of themselves together feels good in ways he hadn’t quite imagined before. He is able to simply be present with her.

They begin to walk again. 

“Your potential wife, then?” she asks, repeating his words of a moment ago.

He hadn’t even thought—of course she is. In fact, potential seems terribly unnecessary. “Oh, I—”

But she is smiling and leaning towards him, and her lips touch the corner of his mouth. He stops her before she can pull away, opening his lips over hers and sighing when she responds in kind, their hands tangling between them. They manage to pull away only after several entirely pleasant minutes. She tugs his hand to bring him with her down the path, and after some trying, he convinces his feet to work again, feeling happy and dazed and rather thoroughly kissed.

“My aunt, before she died—she used to say similar things to me. She wanted me to be more…”

“Boring—” Newt says.

As Tina finishes “—ordinary.” She laughs and agrees. “Yes. Less myself.”

Newt has never been fond of this aunt who took the sisters in after their parents died. He doesn’t like the way she treated them, even if he’ll never meet her. “Utter rubbish,” he declares, still holding her hand. He isn’t ready to let go of it yet.

Tina’s voice goes soft. “Why can’t parents love the children they have?”

Her question hangs between them for a moment.“Yours did.”

“They did.” 

He looks down. They haven’t spoken about having children, at least not explicitly. But that has not kept him from thinking of it. Tina would be such a wonderful mother. He almost says it aloud, but the last thing she’d written when they’d circled around the subject was that the thought of having children in such uncertain times terrified her. “We would,” he finally says. 

She spins to look at him, but she does not seem surprised, and he wonders if her thoughts had taken a similar direction. Her expression is soft as she answers, “Yes, I hope we would.” She gently stops him at the edge of the path, leans forward, and kisses him. He closes his eyes as she pulls away, too lost in sensation to start walking again. Eventually, she tugs at his hand with a beautiful laugh, and they resume their walk. 

“Was Theseus a little like your father with you? Before you and I met. Is that where he got…”

“Yes, he was.”

“He wanted you to be less…Newt.”

He laughs. “Yes.”

“He’s learning.”

“I suppose he is.”

“Older siblings. We worry in the wrong way, sometimes. I’m not excusing him, mind you. But I get it, a little, I think.”

“You are just a bit alike. Not too much.”

She laughs. The expression lights her eyes in a way that he thinks will always take his breath away.

“He thinks well of you.”

“And I think well of him. His respect is worth having, you know. He’s a good man.”

“I suppose he is.”

“He’s told me a few stories from when you were little. Did you really keep an entire litter of kittens in your wardrobe for a month without your parents finding out?”

“I did. They were sick and needed a lot of care.”

She grins. “I’m just picturin’ the moment when Theseus found them. How old were you?”

“Eight, perhaps?”

She looks at him fondly. It is impossible to be anything but happy, when she looks at him like that. 

“Do you make a habit of asking him for stories about me as a child?”

“Hey, Queenie’s here now. I’m sure she’ll reciprocate.”

He finds he’s delighted at the prospect. “You were stubborn as a child, I’m guessing.”

“A little,” she admits.

“And you were showing signs of magic before you walked.”

“Mmhm.” She tilts her head as though not quite agreeing with that one, but he can guess from her half-smile and faint blush that he’s just about right.

Newt grins. “I never thought I’d be with someone who—with anyone for starters—but with someone who shared anything in common with my brother.”

“Next you’ll tell me you were resolved against Americans.”

“No, that suits me very well. You tend to communicate more bluntly, which I very much prefer. Not that I’d ever thought of it before…”

“I arrested you?”

“Tried to arrest me.”

“Newt Scamander.” He looks at her. “Alright. Tried to arrest you.”

He squeezes her hand, and enjoys how she drifts just a little closer. 

“I forgot—I’m supposed to ask you for an autograph.”

“Certainly, love,” he agrees, perplexed but amused. His fans tend to make him uncomfortable, but Tina is a wholehearted exception. “What for?”

“One of my deputies has a sister who’s a fan. The funny thing is, I don’t think he knew that I knew you. What happened two years ago—the details haven’t exactly gotten around. He figured I’d be able to contact you because of Theseus.”

Newt laughs. “Why do I feel as though Theseus would enjoy having that credit?”

“He certainly would.”

“He did offer to, erm, create a meeting, as it were.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wrote yesterday that I wouldn’t—”

“—shut up about me?” she quotes, teasing.

“Yes. He determined who you were rather quickly, you see—I think it was months before Mum put together the auror who’d been in the papers with me and the woman I’d been writing—and he tried to convince me that it would be an easy thing to send me on some errand to New York for his department. Never mind that they denied six travel permit requests before Paris. When I pointed that out, he said that he could just as easily invite you to some meeting in London. I think he was imagining he’d call me into his office and surprise us both.”

“He’s as bad as Queenie,” Tina says, laughing.

“He is,” Newt agrees. 

“At least he asked first?” She offers.

“Queenie does have the upper hand in guessing when her meddling might be welcome.”

“You spoke to her when you brought her back, didn’t you? About—about everythin’.”

“Yes. There was time, occasionally, as we travelled.”

“And you spoke about me?”

“Of course.” He looks at her, wondering what brought on the question. “She wanted to know how you were. Whether I thought that you would forgive her. And I wanted to know…”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to know how I could help you be happy.”

She stares at him. He wonders for a moment if he shouldn’t have said it. Then, he sees tears begin to slip down her cheeks, and draws her into his arms. She holds him tightly, shoving her face into his neck. And she begins to cry in earnest.

“Tina.” He rubs her back, and she clings impossibly tighter.

“I—I wasn’t—” she manages. “I wasn’t—for so long.”

“I know.”

“I was so lonely.”

“I know.” He drops a kiss into her hair. For several minutes, they hold each other, and he thinks as he had on Friday that Tina has not had enough of this in her life, particularly in Queenie’s absence. Perhaps he hasn’t either. The relief of someone whose presence and grasp reassures her that it’s alright to let go sometimes. 

She laughs through her tears. “You must think I’m crazy, cryin’ so much when I’m so, so happy.”

He begins to stroke her hair. “No. I don’t.” He’s honored that she feels so safe with him. 

At last, she lifts her face and swipes away her tears. He patiently thumbs away the ones she’d missed.

“Shall we go home?”

She looks around them. “Let’s walk a little longer?”

“Of course.”

-&-

Tina shushes Newt, laughing under her breath as they tiptoe up the stairs and he slips his hand into hers. They’ve both tugged off their gloves, and his skin is cool and rough and familiar. 

“Tina!” a voice calls from below them. They freeze. “How’s your sister?”

“Very happy!” Tina calls back. They’d told the landlady a somewhat-abbreviated version of the somewhat-truth, that Queenie had been away on a trip with her fiance (chaperoned, of course), and that they’d returned to be married.

“You got yourself a fella yet?” she calls.

Newt and Tina look at each other; he, with barely suppressed mirth glistening in his eyes; she, trying to decide whether to be offended at the assumption that she needs a fella, or to give in to the butterflies filling her stomach at the idea of Newt as her fella.

Mrs. Esposito clearly finds an answer in her silence. “Uh huh, I thought so! All those letters I’ve seen you carrying about. I hope it’s not that British friend that Queenie was telling me about? He sounds so odd.”

Newt, pushed beyond his limits of self-control, drops his forehead onto her shoulder from behind her, laughing under his breath. 

“Shh,” Tina admonishes, blushing and grinning and nearly laughing despite herself.

Newt uses their joined hands to guide her around to face him, and presses a kiss to her forehead. He is a step below her, and has to lift his head to reach. 

She stares, wide-eyed, as he tenderly strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. Covering his hand with hers and leaning into his touch, she tries very hard to keep her voice from wobbling as she calls back, “of course not, Mrs. Esposito.”

Whatever response the landlady gives is lost to her as she grabs Newt’s hand and tugs him the rest of the way up the stairs. 

The moment the door has closed behind them, she backs into it, pulling him with her. Their mouths crash together, frantic and a little clumsy, and he slides his hand around her neck to steady them, his fingers shockingly cool beneath her scarf. She cannot get enough. With their bodies pressed together like this, he surrounds her, and there is nothing but Newt’s lips teasing hers apart, and his cold hands and warm body against hers, and his answering whimper when she moans into his mouth. 

He slides his hands beneath her coat at her shoulders, shoving until she opens her arms and the coat falls to the ground. She tugs at his until his coat falls, too. 

“Tina,” he murmurs, kissing along her jaw. 

She hums, holding onto his suit collar lest she float away. He brings his hands back to her neck, and then he stops kissing her for a moment, guiding her to stand more fully so that he can unwind her scarf. Their eyes catch, and her stomach leaps at the sight of his, even though she’s known, for months and months, that he loved her. 

She smiles at him, gently taking the scarf from his hands and tossing it onto a small table near the entryway. 

He weaves his fingers into the ends of her hair, leaning forward to kiss her again. This kiss is slower, and she basks in the feeling of it, the way that time has stretched out this weekend, the hours and hours of precious time in which to learn each other, to settle into being together. 

Newt’s other hand skims down her back, nails just barely making contact over her blouse. Every touch is so much, it’s almost overwhelming. She wraps her arms around his neck, and feels that it is overwhelming in a good way, like laughter or tears that have been held back for far too long. Then, his lips catch on hers, and it is very hard to think of anything at all.

She brings one hand around to tug at his bow tie until the knot slips loose. She pulls at the ends of the tie until it unravels completely, feeling his throat move against the back of her fingers. 

His hands are so gentle, roaming across her back, moving through her hair. 

She breaks away to kiss his neck, shivering and smiling at the way he hums and melts into the touch. His hand joins hers and yanks his tie out from his collar, then drops it to the floor. 

She gets her hands under his jacket, helping him shrug out of that as well. They both laugh when his arms get stuck halfway down the sleeves. He steps back a little to shed his suit jacket properly. 

When he returns to her, he cups her face, and seems to be studying her. 

“Newt?”

He watches strands of her hair slip through his fingers. 

She weaves her hand into his hair. 

“I didn’t know what to make of you when we met. Why I—But then we came here and you said you were always alone and I thought maybe, we’re not so different. Not that I wanted you to be. I wasn’t glad that you were…”

She shakes her head. 

“But. I think that was the first time I really saw you.”

He looks up into her eyes. His fingertips skim the sensitive skin just beneath her eye. 

“Have I said something?”

She smiles tenderly. 

“No, no. Of course not. I only—that early?”

“Yes. That early.”

She bites her lip, her gaze bright and happy.

They stumble back into the apartment, kissing with abandon. She starts on the buttons of his vest, her knees weak as he begins to kiss her neck. He gasps against her skin each time her fingers brush his chest. 

“Is this alright?” she asks, working her fingers beneath his vest and braces.

“Merlin, yes, Tina.” She feels his tongue brush her neck and whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut as the touch sears through her.

His hands are on her hips, bringing her with him. They fall onto the sofa in a tangle of eager limbs.

For a moment, they simply look at each other. His hands are on her hips, his thumb gently soothing her skin over her blouse. Hers settle on his neck.

“Hi,” she says, fixing a lock of his hair which is sticking out at an odd angle, and feeling not the slightest bit bad for having been the one to make a mess of his hair in the first place. 

 They are not sitting properly on the sofa at all, but rather turned into each other, with her legs bent and half draped over his. 

He surges forward to kiss her once more. His hands leave her, but only to tug off his vest and throw it aside. He skims his lips over her pulse point, and she whispers his name and slides her hands down his chest, searching for more—more of him, more of being so marvelously close. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, his lips skimming along her jaw. She tugs his shirt free from his trousers, sliding her hands beneath to map his bare skin and the scars that mark it. 

“Yes. Yes.” He combs his fingers through her hair, and then his hands move down her back, and delve beneath her blouse, onto her bare skin.

“Merlin’s beard, that feels wonderful.” He presses his forehead to her temple. She doesn’t know if he means her hands on his back, or his on her back. Wordlessly, she claims his mouth with hers. She feels his fingers tracing every ridge of her spine.

Eventually, their kisses slow, stretching out until they are catching their breath between each one, and then stopping completely. She threads her fingers between his, and he kisses her shoulder through her blouse, and they both laugh, in pleasure and at how they’ve been carried away.

She lifts his hands between them, drawing circles across his knuckles. “I kept noticin’ your hands.”

“My hands?”

“Mm. When we met. I think that’s what I saw first.” She kisses his knuckles, then the back of his fingers. His hand shifts reflexively in hers, and he sighs. “When we were in that cell, and you explained everythin’ to Jacob? You were twistin’ your hands together. Everything cruel and unjust in the world makes you so angry and so kind. And I wanted—I wanted to hold your hands. So much. Even though we were in such a mess, some of which I’d caused.”

Newt strokes her cheekbone with his thumb.

Tina resettles the collar of his shirt, and realizes that the top few buttons are undone. She laughs, hardly remembering when she did that. He leans back, his eyes falling closed. 

She sees a mark peeking out from beneath his shirt collar, and reaches beneath the fabric to touch it. He shivers. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be. ’s nice.” 

“This is from when you rescued Teddy.” She recognizes the placement and shape of the scar from the story he’d told her in one of his letters.

He nods, his eyes still peacefully closed. Carefully, she traces the scar, all the way across his chest to the tip of his shoulder. 

Newt sighs, his body utterly relaxed under her touch. When she has satisfied herself in learning this particular mark, she turns and tucks herself into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. He holds her to him.

She stretches, and her shirt rides up, leaving his hand in contact with bare skin. “From auror training?” he observes, tracing a ridged mark on her hip. 

“Yeah.” She yawns. “Shoulda let a healer fix it instead’a Queenie.”

“I like learning these things.”

“So do I.”

“Supper?”

She turns her face into his neck, her lips skimming across the top of his collarbone. “In a few minutes?”

-&-

“What’re you drawin’ then?” Tina asks, looking up from her book. Their dishes from supper click faintly behind them as the spell she cast washes them and puts them away.

Newt sits up a bit from the arm of the sofa opposite her. He offers her his leather-bound sketchbook, which is open to a page nearly full of pencil drawings. She reaches to take the book from him. Their calves and ankles brush as they shift closer. 

The drawings look like texture studies of some sort of pattern, perhaps of feathers. Newt has written in notes among the drawings, noting which patterns belong to each part of the creature’s body.

The tips of his ears redden slightly as he reaches over and turns the page. She is met with a drawing of herself, as she looked on Friday, with her hair curled. 

“When did you draw this?” 

“That night. I couldn’t sleep until I’d…”

He trails off, and she looks up, smiling, almost teasing. Then she returns to the drawing, tracing her own features to feel the reverence with which they were drawn—the mix of serious study and joyful exuberance. 

“You could look through it. If you want to.”

“Oh. Yes. I’d love to.” She glances up at him for a breath, then back down, and carefully opens the worn leather spine more fully, turning back to the beginning. She knows he draws—he’s often mentioned it, even in the first days of their acquaintance, when she asked after sketches she’d found lying about in the case. He’s also sent her a few little drawings as part of his letters. But being invited to peruse a whole sketchbook feels different, somehow. 

Teddy looks up at her from that first page, mischief in his eyes, making her smile. She rests the book atop her bent knees and settles in to look, turning the pages slowly. She feels Newt’s gaze on her, and his presence is warm and intimate, with their quiet breaths, and the occasional rustling of clothes. 

There are little sketches of landscapes—large and small—plains, trees, rivers, then close-up drawings of creatures, only some of which she recognizes from his book. Sometimes a touch of color has been added in, but most of the pages are pencil or charcoal and ink. A drawing of a sunset or sunrise. Pickett perched on the arm of a chair. The details of various leaves. 

He has a keen eye for nature and for creatures in particular, of course, but he is almost equally skilled at noticing the details of the man made, even if those drawings are less frequent. A cobblestone street. The arch of a window. A bustling train station.  

She laughs when she turns the page to find a portrait of Theseus, trying to look stern but really almost laughing, and thinks that Newt has captured his brother exactly right. 

Newt slides his hand beneath the cuff of her casual trousers and onto her ankle. His skin is rough and warm. 

She turns the page to a sketch of Jacob, who looks worn and tired as he sits on a stone wall, his shoulders hunched. Opposite that is a portrait of Queenie, smiling cautiously through tears in her eyes. Tina’s breath catches. She is completely taken with the honesty of his drawing. “This is from when you were with them? A few months ago?” She holds up the page, and Newt nods. 

He begins to circle the knob of her ankle with his thumb. She sighs faintly at the pleasure of it, stretching out her toes and rolling her shoulders. Her head goes sort of fuzzy in a nice way as she turns to the next page. 

Several pages follow with drawings of various creatures. The niffler sleeping sprawled on Newt’s desk. Harriet, much younger and smaller, nosing at something on the ground. There is precise detail in the creature’s posture—her bent legs and tilted head. Mixed among them she finds texture drawings of fur or feathers—Newt working out how to capture a texture or light. 

And among all of that, more portraits of people—some she does not recognize, and some she does. Another sketch of Jacob, and of Theseus. The creature assistant she’d once seen in a magazine, who she now knows as Bunty. Lally. 

“That’s Mum,” Newt says of a sketch of an older woman. Tina traces the resemblances between her and her sons, studying the kind, determined expression on her face. 

Newt runs a finger up the tendon at the back of her ankle, then down again. He circles his fingers and the very tips of his nails at the base of her calf. 

The drawings go briefly out of focus. She could turn her face into the sofa cushions and float for hours as he touches her. A shiver runs up her back and neck, and she would almost feel silly for enjoying such a simple thing so much, yet it feels so good. Her mind is pleasantly clouded and distant, and even as she goes back to the sketchbook and turns the page, she feels as though the whole world has gone soft and still. 

She hadn’t had much physical contact with anyone for months and months, not until Queenie returned, and of course these past few days. Perhaps for others it’s easy, natural, ordinary, but to have his hand brushing her skin…It feels…she hadn’t known how much she’d been missing this. 

She thinks for a moment to consider how Newt’s reacting, whether anything’s too much. As she does, she sees that his breathing is slow and even and calm, and his shoulders are as slumped with relaxation as hers. Until she’d grasped his hand on the way to the apartment Friday, he had seemed to be holding himself back at the wedding, as though he had to keep his hands at his side or tangled together lest he forget himself and reach for her. Perhaps it is a relief for him as well. 

“I have others for work. For the book and such. This one is just for me.”

He switches his hand to her other leg. She’s never known her skin to be quite so sensitive.

“Oh, I also—one moment.” Resting one hand on her knee, he bends suddenly away towards a couple of loose note pages he’d brought up, which now rest on the floor beside the sofa. He brushes them aside and picks up a slim leather-bound book beneath them, bending back to offer it to her.

 This book contains older drawings. Tina at the dinner table, her face turned shyly away. Jacob with his ill-fated case of pastries. Queenie laughing, surely at something Jacob had said. Tina and Queenie embracing in the subway. Jacob stepping into the rain. And again, and again, Tina finds her own figure on these pages. In the glittering dress at the speakeasy, and in her pajama shirt and coat at the Ministry, and on the city rooftops, her hair windswept. Sleeping fitfully in a chair at Flamel’s. Pointing her wand with a look of pure determination. Looking back at him as she reached for a portkey back to America.

A dashed together portrait of her on the docks.

“I drew that on the ship, that night,” Newt says.

She traces her own figure. It is drawn with such love. She begins to tear up. “Good tears,” she promises. “They’re beautiful.”

“Are they?”

“Of course.” She finds his hand and squeezes it. A yawn forces its way past her lips.

“Tired?” Newt asks.

“Mm.” She closes the sketchbook gently and smoothes her hand over the soft cover. “And I have work in the morning.”

“We should sleep. I’ll go settle everyone and change.”

She hesitates for a breath. They do this now, don’t they? Share a bed? “Where would you prefer to sleep?”

“Your bed’s more comfortable,” he confesses. She lets out a breath, relieved that he expects to share a bed with her as well, no matter where they are. “I’m used to the menagerie, but Dougal will come get me if there’s trouble.”

She squeezes his hand. “Alright.” 

While Newt is changing, she packs her work bag with reports and letters. Friday had been a bit of a whirlwind, with the wedding and all, but she doesn’t intend to work extraordinary hours this week. Not while Newt’s here.

She has only just finished readying herself for bed when Newt reappears. 

He climbs into bed first on the side against the wall, and Tina follows, lying on her side facing out towards the room. Even with a little expansion charm, the bed is small, and only a few inches separate them. Newt rests his hand on her hip. 

She brushes her hand over his and laughs softly. 

“What?” He asks, sounding amused. She feels the pillows shift as he resettles his head. 

“I was thinkin’ about you, in this bed two years ago, pretendin’ that you weren’t still wearin’ your vest and bowtie, and that you were gonna go to sleep.”

“I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Of course I noticed.”

“You brought me cocoa.”

“I was checkin’ up on you.”

“Is that why.”

Newt’s hand hovers above her shoulder, and then he begins to trace the seams of her pajama shirt and the lines of her shoulder blade with gentle fingers. Her hum of agreement turns to one of pleasure. 

Newt adds, his hand never stilling across her back, “That’s what you wanted to think.”

She shifts a little, and his fingers brush her neck. “Mm. What’s that s’posed’t mean, Mr. Scamander?” She enjoys teasing him with his surname, a little reminder of how they started, and hopes the fact that their bodies are mere inches apart conveys that she means to put no bite into it. 

She hears his smile in his voice, and relaxes. “You didn’t have to be kind to me. You wanted to keep an eye on me, but you offered me dinner, and a bed. Your bed.”

“Yes?” she concedes, trying to guess his line of thought. 

“In fact, you practically dragged me here. You seem to be making a habit of that.” 

“You didn’t seem to mind. And anyway, I did not drag you,” she protests, fighting a smile. 

“Mm, true, I was very willing, at least on Friday. That first time I was simply intrigued.”

“You were bein’ very suspicious.”

“So, naturally, you brought me here.”

“To keep an eye on you.” 

“But you were…kind.”

“Are you tryin’ to suggest I brought you cocoa because I liked you?”

“I am.”

He runs a single finger down the column of her neck, as light almost as a gust of wind. Then, he threads his hand into her hair and lifts it out of his way, smoothing the strands carefully against the pillow. He returns to tracing light lines out from her neck to her shoulder and back. “Feels nice,” she murmurs eventually, sinking contentedly into the pillows. She can feel him smile, perhaps at the sleepy tenor of her voice.

He skims his knuckles down her spine, and up again, then lightly circles the back of his hand against her back. 

They stay like that for several minutes, the only sounds in the room the rustling of fabric and their even breaths. Tina lets her mind drift unhurriedly between the present moment and memories that pull her in. Newt tucking her hair back at the docks. Queenie laughing at dinner the night she returned. Newt’s sad smile as her portkey took her away from London. The excited-anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach as she bought a copy of his book a few days after it came out, so proud of him, so confused and hurt, and wondering what their future held. 

“Hey, Newt?”

“Yes?” His fingertips are following the shape of her shoulder blade. 

“Why did you think I’d stopped writing?”

“Hm?”

“Last night you asked me how I’d explained the magazine article about you. I mean, what I assumed you were thinkin’.”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t ask you what you thought. About me.” His hand stills. “Would you tell me?”

The slow touch resumes. “I can try. If you like.”

“You don’t have to if you—”

“—no, I’d—I want to.” She holds her hand out to him, resting it on her hip. He slides his hand into hers a moment later. 

“You said in one of your letters that after you saw the magazine article, you put my letters away.” His voice is warm and close.

“I did,” she agrees. He runs his thumb back and forth at the base of her neck. “I couldn’t look at them anymore when I thought…”

“I was the opposite, after you stopped writing. I must’ve read each of your letters a dozen times during those few weeks, trying to understand…” Newt lets out a heavy breath. “At first, I thought you might be upset about what I’d said about aurors.”

“You mentioned in Paris.”

“Mm.” He skims his knuckles across her shoulder, and doesn’t speak for a few moments. 

“But you changed your mind?” She asks. 

“It was all I could grasp from our letters. But I thought you’d practically agree with me. And you’d known what I’d meant, I hoped.” 

“I had.” He runs one finger along her hairline to ease errant strands of her hair behind her shoulder. Then, she feels a few fingertips along her shoulder.

His fingers still once more. “I liked you.”

She smiles.

“And you liked me. I thought.”

“Newt,” she whispers. He briefly presses his forehead into her hair, and kisses her neck. She reaches over her shoulder to touch his hair, then settles her hand back beside her.

One finger taps against her shoulder. “I know you did, obviously. But, then, I wondered.”

“I understand.”

“You seemed to like me. When we sat in the case together. And at the docks when I left. And in your letters I thought…But people don’t like me, you see. Or they—they act like they do, and then…It’s terribly confusing. And you’d felt so different.”

She’s seen the way he seems to curl in on himself around new people. Newt isn’t shy, not really, and he isn’t fearful, but he can be wary, and from the casual way he’s written her stories about school and childhood that made her breath catch in her throat, she can guess where this wariness was learned. She couldn’t bear this story if he wasn’t close, she thinks. At least she can feel in his ease with her that all is well, now.

“Sometimes, I would think perhaps you hadn’t really liked me in the way I…But that couldn’t be right. You hadn’t seemed—you were— The way you were in Paris. I didn’t understand it. You were hurt and angry. But you cared.” He presses his forehead into her neck again, and she reaches her hand back into his hair. His voice is muffled against her hair. “Did I seem very different when you first saw me in Paris? I tried not to be. I wanted to be myself. I wanted you to remember why you’d liked me, before.”

“If I’d needed to be reminded, it would have worked in about two seconds. But I didn’t. I’ve always thought you were extraordinary.”

He resettles on the pillows just enough to speak clearly again, but it seems, cannot help bringing her hand to his lips to kiss. “It took you a few minutes. To develop that opinion of me."

“That’s true.”

“Not too many.” 

“Fewer minutes than I admitted to myself, that’s for sure.” 

“The thing is, I never thought I’d—I was content with my life before. Then, I met Jacob. And you, and Queenie. And there were these…gaps, where there never had been before. But if you didn’t want—me, there was nothing I could do to—but I hoped. I would say something to you and you would smile, or stare at me. And when we finally spoke, and you looked at me, and took a step closer, I thought…perhaps I’d been right to hope.”

Tina rolls over to face him.  Cradling his head between her hands, she studies his damp eyes and trembling smile. And even though his tears have almost begun to fall, he looks relieved and happy. She drags his mouth onto hers. He hums in surprise, but catches on quickly, sliding his hands down to the small of her back to press her closer. She curls one hand into his hair. The kiss becomes deeper, open-mouthed, breathless. She kisses his jaw, his ear, his neck. His hands go slack, and she tugs at his hair, and he whimpers, making her smile. For several minutes she feels only his warm hands and body and their mingling breaths and the spine-tingling good of kissing him. 

When they part, he lets out a wordless, rough sort of noise, and chases after her for one last kiss. He threads one hand into her hair and cradles her head, and she wraps an arm around his neck, arching into his touch. He rests his forehead on hers to catch his breath. 

“When I read those letters you’d never sent, I wanted so much to look after the man who’d written them. You seemed bewildered, and hurt, and sad.” 

He sniffs. “But I’m not, now.”

“No.” Tina is smiling, tearful. “You’re not.” She tucks her face into his chest. That time doesn’t sting anymore, not nearly in the way it used to. It seems that’s true for him, too. It’s becoming simply a part of their story. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks. His hands have returned to stroking through her hair.

She curls her fingers into his shirt. “It might sound odd.”

“Mm?”

“I’m not—I don’t always show what I’m feeling. I’m not open like that. Like Queenie or...I’m sorry that meant that you wondered, but, I’m glad you saw eventually.”

“I haven’t wondered since.”

She kisses his chest through his shirt. “People never seem to see how much I care about things. They seem to think that because I’m…I appear strong, so I must not feel…”

He tucks his chin over her head. “I don’t understand how.”

“I know.” She brings her hand down his neck and under the edge of his shirt, and fingering the line of a long-faded scar.

“Tina, do you remember when we met—?”

“Completely forgotten,” she teases.

He nudges her shoulder. “At MACUSA, when we were being interrogated. Do you remember when they found the obscurial that I’d preserved in my case?”

“Yes.”

He plays with one of her hands. “I still remember the look of betrayal on your face. Like everything you’d perhaps begun to think of me had been wrong.” He kisses her wrist. “I wanted you to see me. So badly. I needed you to understand—it didn’t matter so much if you agreed with what I’d done, but I needed you to believe me when I explained why I’d done it.”

“I remember.”

“And you did.”

“I did.”

“You see me, I think. When other people don’t. Or wouldn’t.”

“Yes,” she breathes. She tightens her hand in his shirt and tucks one leg over his, wishing they could stay here forever. 

“It was agonizing. That interrogation room and the cell. You were scared and crying and…Merlin it was horrible to watch. I felt…”

“You hate to see anyone in pain. But seeing me in pain hurt even more.”

She feels him nod above her head.

It is scary, she thinks. Making yourself vulnerable to this. And it is good. 

He draws light patterns across her back. She sighs happily. His fingers skim up her neck. 

“Keep goin’?” she requests.

And so he does. He rubs her back, at first above her shirt, and then beneath it. Sometimes he switches to combing her hair with his fingers. 

“I sleep well next to you,” she murmurs, half asleep.

“So do I.”

“I wasn’t sure I would. I’ve shared a room with Queenie or the girls at school for most of my life, but…”

“I wasn’t sure how it would be either. I sleep next to creatures often. But not people. Only during the war, really, and that was—”

“—very different,” she agrees. 

“Are you comfortable?”

“Very.” He laughs softly. “I’ve got you.”

She smiles, wondering, as she drifts into sleep, if he, too, is remembering the first time he promised that.