Warning: there's some smutty goodness in this, as well as mentions of menstruation and self-confidence/body issues. Also, warning for technically underage sex, though it's by no means graphic or descriptive - at the time this story was set, both participants were the legal age of majority (16). If this is something that could potentially bother you, walk away now.
Tina Goldstein is eight years old when she learns about sex for the first time.
It's Queenie who asks the inevitable question, all wide-eyed innocence and strawberry curls. Mama doesn't seem fazed by it; instead, she gathers her girls close and gives them a truncated lesson on the particulars of human mating, including how to tell if a union has been blessed.
"But before all that can happen, you girls need to grow into the flower of womanhood," Greta Goldstein tells her daughters and kisses each of their heads in turn. "And that won't happen for another eight or so years for you both. So you've plenty of time still to be little girls."
"Yes, mama," they agree solemnly and are treated to extra meat and fried potatoes at supper, their father beaming at them proudly.
Tina is 10 years old when her mother and father are taken from her.
Bad enough that Papa had to leave for such a long time, sent to South America to help lay the foundations for a dragon reserve they'll never benefit from; now, as his greenish, sweat-shiny face stares imploringly through the quarantine glass, she swallows hard and wonders about funerals and flowers and how to fold all these things into her new paradigm.
"Be brave," Ensel Goldstein implores his oldest daughter. "Be good to Queenie; be strong for her. She is so frail…"
He and Mama are dead two days later.
Tina cannot bring herself to look at the flower arrangements at their funeral.
Womanhood comes early for Queenie, all of 13 years old and sobbing brokenly when she discovers carnal roses dotting her snowy underthings.
Tina soothes and reassures her as best she can, reminding her of their talk with Mama all those years ago (smothering a familiar pang) before helping Queenie with the cotton cloths and uncomfortable belt that mark her new status.
Queenie changes into a nightgown and crawls into bed despite it being barely noon, and Tina can't help but notice how fragile she looks, how childlike her peaked face against the heavy red quilts.
True to her nature, Queenie seems to blossom after she's adjusted to her new status, and uses the appeal of her sex to tease and flirt shamelessly. She has the male population of the school wrapped around her delicate finger before long, always at her beck and call.
Tina feels pale and scrawny by comparison, dowdy, and she tries not to take it as a personal slight when she makes it through her third and fourth year without being visited by her own roses. She develops breasts, small and high and firm; her hips widen and round out, same as her thighs; but no blood yet, no signs of her body's receptivity to adulthood despite her new and craven yearnings.
The only time she can truly forget her failings is when she slips her hand between her legs at night, rubbing and tweaking until she drowns, and drowns, and drowns.
Queenie's more than a year into womanhood when Tina is kissed for the first time.
Her dorm-mate initiates it, a lovely, dark-skinned girl in her year named Mae. It happens over their Transfiguration textbooks, and Tina takes a long moment to blink at her before leaning in for a second kiss, cradling her tender jaw while mapping the inside of her mouth.
"We mustn't be caught," Mae breathes, "or it'll be a scandal."
Tina knows she's talking about more than their identical gender, so she nods as the other girl steps away, smoothing her dark hair before taking up her quill.
She is 16 years old when Mae takes her to bed.
They spend the night pressed together beneath the protection of their strongest privacy charms. The other woman's body is a revelation, and Tina quickens with the knowledge that the only risk inherent to this act is shame — and even shame pales in comparison to her own needs, needs that are capricious, sometimes sapphic and not always within the confines of her control.
The morning brings no awkward scenes. They dress in comfortable silence and part with a kiss. Only when they reach the door does Mae hesitate, fingering the collar of her dress nervously.
"I don't think this can happen again," she tells Tina, refusing to meet her eyes. "I'm...when I graduate, I'm supposed to be married." Mae sighs heavily. "I don't want him, and I'm afraid of what he's going to do to me, but…"
Tina pretends to sympathize when she nods. "It's okay," she manages past the lump in her throat. "I understand. Thank you...for last night."
"It was my pleasure," Mae sighs, almost too low to hear, and precedes Tina out of the room.
True to her word, it doesn't happen again.
Mae treats her like a stranger, and Tina tells herself she is okay with this until one day, she is, and she finds herself forgetting what Mae's lips had tasted like.
Tina signs on for Auror training a week later, one of the only women in the program. Being considered at all is thanks to the war raging overseas, though Tina's excellent marks in Defense Against The Dark Arts and Transfiguration certainly don't hurt.
Her instructors speak glowingly of her to the MACUSA representative who comes to the school, a broad-shouldered, terse man who calls himself Graves and moves with a tightly-controlled sensuousness, a sense of power radiating off of him.
Tina squirms uncomfortably through the entirety of his lecture, her center heating up with sheer want the longer he paces in front of her.
It's his face she pictures when she slips her hand between her legs that night.
Roses spot Tina's white step-ins at the very end of her sixth year. She notes this change to herself with a sense of bittersweet relief before Summoning her sanitary belt.
Queenie squeals happily and throws her arms around her when she plucks the news from Tina's head. "I told you," she breathes. "I told you that you weren't defective, Teenie. See? It just took a little while."
Tina accepts her sister's kiss and hug in turn, and endures her enthusiasm with all the grace she can muster.
She's smiling when she returns to her studies.
Tina excels her first year in the Auror training program, something which seems to surprise everyone except her.
Director Graves congratulates her personally when she's approved to move on to the next phase, and she tries her hardest to contain her blush as a familiar, wanting ache spreads throughout her midsection.
There hasn't been any relief outside of her own hand since Mae, and she's growing anxious and needy with it — but she can't be caught with a woman and she lacks the confidence to approach a man. So she directs her sexual frustration into her work and isn't at all surprised when she excels by leaps and bounds to the front of the class.
"Keep it up, Goldstein," Graves tells her one evening, his eyes heavy upon her. She spends the rest of the night imagining his head, his fingers, and other parts of him between her thighs, and trying not to feel guilty about it.
The issue of her sexual frustration resolves itself a few weeks later when a young and comely trainee named Leif transfers in from the Midwest.
The attraction between them is instantaneous, and they go through the appropriate steps of human bonding rituals until she asks him back to the tiny apartment she shares with her sister and pulls him into bed. Once there, he's a willing and enthusiastic partner when she experiences first his fingers and mouth before rolling an army condom on him — held carefully in stasis for just this purpose — and mounting his cock.
His broad fingers leave bruises on her hips and thighs, and she marks his chest and throat with her teeth. Still, neither of them can find room to complain when they part early the next morning, and training proves to be unaffected by their new understanding.
Tina and Leif study hard and pair off with different people. They enjoy their lunch and dinner breaks. Sometimes, they even go out with their classmates for a night on the town to flirt with other people.
Then they return to her bed, and he allows her to use him to scratch that persistent itch until they collapse into an exhausted pile and he kisses her to sleep.
Leif leaves a few weeks later, returning to Wisconsin with a polite farewell.
Tina is sad to see him go, though she's not silly enough to think she has an emotional attachment to him. He filled a gap in her life, one that they were both happy to share; now, she'll need to find a new partner, at least until she can get out on the streets and channel her yearnings into something productive.
In the meantime, she keeps her head down, weighing potential mates and satisfying herself with her hand until someone else comes along.
She takes two more partners during her third and final year of Auror training, a man and a woman. Both relationships end when she graduates. One of them goes on to become part of her unit, where they work together with easy professionalism; the other transfers out to California to be married.
It gets easier to control her urges once she's on the streets, actively channeling her frustration into productive things. The flower of womanhood is still unreliable and fickle, sometimes disappearing for months at a time before showing up for a two-week stint of misery.
She accepts this with equanimity; she has greater aspirations in life than marriage and children, after all.
Tina is 25 years old on the morning of December 6th, 1926, a day which begins like any other since her fall from grace.
It ends with a man in her bed, and not in the manner she most desires.
When all is said and done, she discovers her bedding smells like him: earthy and herbal and clean, somehow. Never has the scent of a man affected her so viscerally, despite her prior experiences; even after he leaves, returning to England with a tentative brush to her cheek and hair, she puts off changing her sheets for as long as possible.
In the interminable stretch between the publishing of Newt's book and his return to her, it's his face she pictures late at night, when the work is no longer enough and she burns for his touch.
Newt's on his third return visit when he fortifies himself with half a bottle of wine before leaning their foreheads together. He doesn't kiss her; instead, he lingers just so they're sharing breath, the fan of his lashes stark against his freckled cheeks until Tina is forced to ask.
"Kiss me. Please just kiss me."
Her voice sounds strained to her own ears, her lips tingling in anticipation.
"Yes," he sighs and proceeds to take her breath away.
For the first time since she developed breasts, Tina is finding that waiting, tolerating the persistent ache, isn't so bad.
Perhaps it's because of the kisses Newt steals with every visit; maybe it's the way he looks at her: as though she were the center of his universe, around which all other things revolve. Perchance it's because she's busy and satisfied at both work and home, content to hunt and capture Dark wizards to channel her urges.
Whatever it is, though she burns like a torch for him, the waiting is half the appeal.
"Does it bother you that I'm not a virgin?" Tina blurts one evening after a few glasses of wine, heat riding high in her cheeks.
Newt pauses in the act of taking a sip before setting his glass down, tilting his head thoughtfully.
"Does it bother you that I am ?" he asks casually and grins when she gapes at him.
On the final night of his visit, Tina waits until they're safely in the case to make her move.
She presses him against the wall to kiss the breath from his lungs, slotting her thigh between both of his to rub him in tight circles. "I want this," she murmurs against his mouth when he opens his eyes, and groans before leading him to his cot, tripping over the armchair and stumbling into the tools of his trade along the way. "I want you ."
They strip beside his mattress, grappling with their clothing and each other until she can drag her tongue over his bare chest, making him hiss. "Bed," he grits out and allows Tina to position him on the edge, seated so she can straddle his lap. He touches her just like she's taught him, rubbing gently and circling her core until her thighs tense, her breath hissing between her teeth.
"Are you sure?" she asks, catching his eye.
Newt kisses her in answer before drawing back, maintaining eye contact as she guides him into her body. She leans their foreheads together while marveling at the feel of him, gasping when his girth nudges all her sensitive spots as they slowly rock.
"How's that?" she whispers, sighing happily when his hands settle on her hips, steadying her.
"Wet," Newt gulps, squeezing her until she slows down. "Strong, and textured." He laughs, a little breathlessly. "I shouldn't be surprised by that, Merlin knows I've felt you with my mouth and fingers enough times, but…"
"It's not the same," she agrees and closes her eyes to move faster. Newt makes a low, delicious sound at that, and she moans while tipping her head back, relishing the happy heat blossoming in her core. He lays a line of scratchy kisses up her neck and jaw to her mouth, and sudden tears spring to her eyes with his tender, somewhat clumsy affections.
"Can you come like this?" His voice is tight, ragged, on the verge of crumbling.
Tina blinks away her inexplicable tears to take his hand, guiding his fingers between her thighs as his lips thin over his teeth. "I can," she soothes, and scratches his scalp, "if you do this."
He nods in understanding, touching her with sure strokes until she surrenders to completion, moaning as he suckles the inner swell of her breast. Tina leans against him with a gasp when the last of the pleasurable waves ebbs away, catching the lobe of his ear with her teeth.
"Come here," she breathes, sliding out of his lap to recline over the pillows, crooking a finger and spreading her thighs in clear invitation.
Newt's visibly trembling when he covers her, slipping inside as she wraps her legs around his waist. "That's it," she breathes when he rolls his hips, seeking and finding a satisfactory rhythm as she drags her fingertips lightly up and down his spine. "Just like that. You feel good..."
He hides his face in her hair, moving faster before scraping his teeth over her skin.
"Tina," he keens, voice sharp. She nods and scratches behind his ears, smiling when he catches her eye pleadingly.
"It's okay," she promises and presses her hips up to meet his.
Newt smothers his groan in her shoulder when he crests, hips snapping until he shudders to a halt. He nuzzles her sweaty skin as they calm before pressing his forehead against her chest.
"That was even better than I imagined it would be," Newt declares, and kisses her lingeringly. "Thank you, Tina."
"The pleasure was all mine," she says and cleans up the warm trickle of his seed with a flick of her wand.
She is 30 years old as she waits for her flower to bloom yet again, only this time her nerves are for an entirely different reason: she thinks her body may have succeeded at something for once, and her hands shake badly with each trip to the toilet.
Please, she thinks, and she can't be sure if she wishes for the familiar spots of red to visit her, or to stay away. Please…
Tina Scamander nee Goldstein is 33 years old when she comes into the full flush of womanhood, laboring to bear their child as red roses blossom between her thighs.
"Hello, little one," Newt greets their son with a broad smile, green eyes positively dancing. He kisses the boy's brand new forehead and tiny fingers before returning to her side, slotting himself against her in his familiar way. "Your Mum and I are very happy to finally meet you. You've made these last few months very difficult for her, you know."
"He couldn't help it," Tina says softly, and allows the baby to wrap his chubby fist around her finger.
"I realize that." Newt passes the baby over to nurse, helping Tina figure out the best way to slot a nipple into his tiny mouth before settling in as low cramps work through her, a result of his suckling. "Are you happy, darling? Do you need anything?"
She thinks for a moment, recalling her mother in a fond light when she had explained the particulars of womanhood, of childbearing to her fascinated daughters. Like flowers in a garden, she thinks, and looks at her son's raven-wing hair, her husband's freckles, feeling the tired dampness between her thighs. Like roses in bloom, full and rich but impermanent.
"I am perfect and perfectly happy," she decides and lays her head on his shoulder as he slides an arm around them both.
Thanks, as always, to kemara for beta- and proof-reading. Come on over and say hi to me on Tumblr at katiehavok, if that's your thing.