Newtina, Stargate, The West Wing, Buffy, Parks and Rec, ASOIAF, and anything else that strikes my fancy.
(This is a sideblog btw, message me if you're interested in my personal.)
Multifandom blog, but I use a 1-2 posts per day staggered queue to keep followers from being bombarded by my clusterfuck of feels. (#NotAllHeroesWearCapes)
fangirl challenge - [30/50] female characters ♡ tahani al jamil “I haven’t been this upset since my good friend Taylor was rudely upstaged by my other friend Kanye, who was defending my best friend Beyonce.”
“You aren’t tired?” Newt murmurs, shedding his coat at the door.
She turns to face him, shaking her head as she smiles softly. “No.”
He crosses the few feet between them, taking one of her hands in his, their fingers slotting together. “You’ve eaten?”
“A couple of hours ago, on the train.” She rests her free hand on his chest, and then traces the edge of his waistcoat, his shirt collar, until her hand settles on his neck.
He takes half a step closer, their breath mingling. His eyes wander to her left side, his hand following in a gentle touch. “Your shoulder, where you fell—you said in your letter that it was—it’s not hurting you?”
“No, not right now,” she breathes.
“Good,” he whispers, his swallow audible in the scant space between them. He reaches to cover her hand on his neck, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Newt.”
His eyes flutter open.
“Kiss me.”
He surrenders willingly, hands threading into her hair as he slants his mouth over hers. She gasps her approval, reaching between them for the fastenings of his waistcoat, a shiver rushing up her spine. His mouth is insistent on hers, and she pushes back with equal fervor, smiling into his mouth when a whine sounds deep in his throat. His hands wander down her neck, across her shoulders, her back, onto her hips, pulling her closer as he burrows under her jacket and tugs her blouse free from her trousers.
Her hands clench when he touches her bare skin, each callous and scar welcome, familiar after the two months she’s spent on assignment in Russia.
“Merlin’s beard, I’ve missed you,” he says into her skin, lips skimming over her neck. “I didn’t think it was possible how much.”
She grasps the hair at the back of his head and drags his mouth back onto hers, whimpering when he steps forward and crowds her up against the wall.
Newt pulls back a few inches to tug his waistcoat down his arms, reaching to help her do the same with her jacket. He reaches for another kiss, heated and open-mouthed from the start, then drags his lips away, breathing heavily, their gazes meeting as they both smile.
Tina makes quick work of his shirt buttons, laughing when he’s momentarily tangled in his haste to remove it. It is his turn to laugh a moment later, when she raises her arms over her head, and he nearly unbalances them while tugging at her blouse to remove it.
“Out of practice, Mr. Scamander?”
He laughs breathlessly, resting his forehead on hers to catch his breath. She pushes the hair from his eyes, pausing when his expression melts into concern.
“You—you said it was a minor thing.” He fingers the angry red mark that stretches across her collarbone, his voice a little shaky.
Tina shivers, her head falling back against the wall. “It took us an hour or two to reach a healer. It’s just a scar.”
He looks into her eyes, fingers probing the injury gently, just to be sure, but however much it hurt at the time, that’s only a memory now.
Satisfied, Newt fits his hand over the spot, then bends forward to kiss it. The touch is delicate at first, but changes, becoming heated and full of intent.
“Missed you,” she breathes. Tina tugs at his hair, holding him in place, her knees feeling weak. “Mercy Lewis, Newt, I–.” She presses her eyes shut, clinging to him.
“You’re alright.” He cradles her face, his thumb sweeping across her cheek. His eyes lift to hers, and the contact lights her chest on fire as much as any touch. Newt takes her weight easily while she works to free them from their last layers of clothing, both huffing relieved breaths when they finally touch again. He pulls her into his body, both reveling in simply having the other close once more. His voice is muffled against her skin. “I’ve got you.”
“Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile. He used to mess my hair and call me “little sister,” she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.”
