Warning: smut! This was originally published on Ao3 January 12th, 2017 and is being included here for the sake of my own ego.
Tina watches him from across the room, faintly concerned and growing impatient with the crush of people around him.
The signing sessions had been his publisher's idea, though Newt had expressed reservations. In the end, the publishing house had worn him down by pointing out how important it was for Newt to acknowledge his fan base. The offer of a sizable advance on the next edition of the book certainly hadn't hurt, and Newt was eventually won over.
He agreed with no little grace and went along with the signing, grumbling the entire way, to be promptly thronged by swooning, perfumed, mostly female admirers, and Tina was not jealous. She was not, because Newt was demonstrably miserable, hunched into himself and fervently avoiding eye contact, and if the rigid line of his neck and shoulders grew any tighter, he'd either snap or crumble to pieces. It physically hurt her to watch him, and as was so often the case, this new understanding of him was equal parts terrifying and wondrous.
Queenie must have picked up on the run of her thoughts because suddenly she's beside Tina and murmuring in her ear. "You know it ain't like that," she says, and Tina quashes her momentary irritation. The other woman is only trying to help, after all. Queenie senses this, too, and nods. "All he can think about is how much he'd rather be somewhere quiet. With you. Also, that all the heavy smells make him feel kinda sick."
Reassuring pronouncement made, Queenie winks and floats away on her own draft of perfume and sunshine, while Tina resumes her hawk-eyed assessment of the crowds. Newt lifts his head and meets her gaze at one point, looking abjectly dismal. His fingers are stained with the peacock-blue ink he favors, the precise same shade as his greatcoat—and for such an innately humble man to make a single concession to vanity charms Tina in ways she cannot articulate.
After a small eternity, the clock chimes to signal the end of the scheduled session, and Tina springs into action. She swoops in behind Newt and calls upon all her Brooklyn-bred forbearance—and not a little of her Auror training—to haul him out of his seat and guide him through the crowd. He is pliant and uncomplaining as she leads him through the room, and when she takes his arm to Disapparate them away, he heaves a great sigh and murmurs his thanks.
"Anytime," she responds, chancing a slight smile, and swirls them into the void.
Once safely behind locked doors, she helps him out of greatcoat and suit coat and watches him loosen his waistcoat and bow tie. He hesitates for a moment, eying her cautiously before he loses the waistcoat entirely and lowers his braces. Then he sinks into the couch with his fingers knotted behind his neck, eyes closed and mouth bowed in discomfort.
"Headache?" she asks, and she's careful to keep her voice pitched low.
He shakes his head and rolls his shoulders. "Not so bad as that, no. I'm just—tense. I don't much like crowds, and all that buggering perfume made me feel rather ill."
Tina hangs her coat and clucks sympathetically before moving behind him, hands cautiously dropping onto his shoulders. This thing between them is still tentative and new, despite their mutually proclaimed intent, and she finds herself treating him like a skittish animal at times. They've kissed, and there have been many heated touches, but that's as far as they've allowed it to go. Tina is quite certain his British sensibilities are what's holding him back, because desire has been writ large on his face after every attempt at more fumbled to a halt, and she is frustrated by his reticence.
"Is this okay?" she asks, careful to keep her touch light, her tone detached, as she sinks her fingers into his shirt and kneads. She's decided already that he will most likely turn her down, and she steels herself for rejection.
It's a sign of how stressed he is when he nods once, short and sharp, before rolling his head back to meet her eyes. "I'd be most honored, Miss Goldstein," he murmurs, and there's a flash of humor there, a bit of her Newt, so she smiles and sets to work.
The muscles in his shoulders are rock-hard and tense beneath her hands. Tutting, she kneads and rolls them between her fingers. As she pinches and rubs, Newt's eyes drift close and she watches the lines of his frame start to relax. She works at the knots until they are pliant and loose, then rubs along his neck. Wrapping her digits around the upper knobs of his spine and rolling them causes him to make a low sound of contentment. Smiling to herself, Tina trails her hands up and over his scalp and he purrs. She likes that sound so she lingers for a moment, petting his hair and watching the last of the tension leak out of him.
He opens his eyes and catches her wrist. "Come here, Tina."
She allows herself to be pulled around the couch and into the circle of his arms, and she's beyond pleased when he hauls her into his lap. Newt kisses her, slow and lazy and undemanding. He does a thorough job of it, and when they come back up for air, she discovers that something altogether different has gone hard and tense against the swell of her bottom.
Newt becomes aware of his new predicament at the same time she does, and his ears flush pink. He doesn't hide or look away, and Tina silently gives him credit for his bravado. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "It's purely physiological, I assure you—a response to, ah, deep relaxation. Just ignore it, it will go away on its own."
Tina has always been the studious, prickly older sister, but she's far from innocent. She's not a virgin, though all encounters up until now have been short and perfunctory. She's also possessing of a wide streak of impetuous humor—she knows she should leave it alone, she should not open either of them up to potential embarrassment—but instead, she wriggles against him, very slightly, with a smirk. She is gratified when he sucks in a quick breath and his eyes widen, lips parting in a shocked huff.
Newt studies her face for a moment, sensing the impish run of her thoughts, before turning the tables on her by grasping her waist in iron-hard hands and dragging her down onto him, rocking his pelvis upward in one quick jolt. Suddenly, the room is far too warm, the air too thick for sufficient breath. Tina watches him reassert control of himself and quickly realizes she doesn't want that. Scrambling to make him stop with the self-imposed suffering, she grinds down on him and takes his hands in hers.
"We've been slow and careful, right?" she asks and waits for his hesitant nod before continuing. "I'm not saying we should do anything else, but I could...take care of that for you. I think I just proved I'm good with my hands." She leans forward to kiss him, pouring all of her want into it, before drawing back and taking in his face.
She watches his pupils crowd out all but the barest hint of green at the edge of his iris. His lips part, drawn tight at the corners, and she can read the cost of controlling himself clearly. Operating mostly on instinct, and desperate to return Newt to his boneless state, Tina shifts until she's straddling him and that insistent hardness is pressed against her center. She's wearing the black skirt he loves and there's little more than her step-ins between them, so she carefully does not think about how intensely good he feels because this is entirely for him and he needs to be convinced.
She kisses him until he's breathless, until he nods and begs against her lips. "Yes, Tina, please..."
Newt trails his mouth over her jaw. The rasp of his stubble distracts her terribly, so she pulls away and reclaims his lips before he can stammer an apology. She moves her mouth downward and over the column of his throat—textured and salty with sweat—to taste the small sounds he makes, before dropping a kiss onto his chest.
Tina knows, intellectually, that she could keep going. She could peel off his shirt and lave his chest with kisses, learn the detail of every scar she's felt under her wandering hands and kiss the line of hair that starts at his navel. She also knows that doing so would either blow his control entirely, or cause him to stop, and then she'd have to watch him limp around for days while studiously avoiding her eyes. She makes a calculated move to bypass his shirt by moving off his lap and pooling herself at his feet, while her hands go to the placket of his trousers to firmly palm what strains beneath.
She hesitates for only a moment, faced with an unknown variable, and lifts her head. Newt catches her eye, and his gaze is so fiercely heated that it gives her the courage she needs. She draws a few deep breaths to bring the tremble of her hands under control before she opens the buttons of his fly. Newt's eyes slip closed as she works, and his long, slow breaths gust over her hands. She parts his underwear with the same steady confidence and takes a moment to collect herself before reaching in and pulling him out.
The first things she notices is the texture, warm velvet over stone. He is larger and hotter in her hands than she would have expected, and a fissure of warmth runs through her to pool in her belly. Before her wondering eyes, she sees that this part of him is built much like his hands: elegant and capable and ropey. It is also quite freckled, and she has to ruthlessly bite her lip to contain an inopportune snort of laughter.
Newt senses her humor anyways, because his eyes harden when he opens them, and he seems on the verge of protest. Alarmed, she tightens her hold on him and flicks her wrist upward, feeling triumphant when his stare turns hazy. Tina does it again and his eyes drift closed, so she allows it to become a rhythm, alternating the tension of her grip and the speed of her movements, and watches him carefully.
Newt is boneless to the point of melting into the couch, and his breathing roughens while she works him over. She observes his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallows, and she tracks what causes that result so she can repeat it. After a few minutes of this, trembling hands cover her own and halt them.
"Wait," he gasps, and he frees her hands before repositioning them, bringing her to the base of his shaft and firming her grip. "Like this, Tina." He guides her firmly, from base to tip, and directs her into an odd half-swirl before sinking back down. He hovers for a few strokes until he's confident she's capable of torquing her wrist at the angle he needs. His hands relax against his thighs while he stares at her through heavy-lidded eyes.
Tina finds her hands doing what they need to do on their own and takes this opportunity to watch her Newt come apart under her, shameless and open and free in a way she hasn't witnessed before. She places her head on his tense thigh and makes small sounds of encouragement, watching the part of him she holds flush deep red as she dismantles his defenses.
Newt groans once, deep in his chest, and maintains intense eye contact. He twitches in her hands with another sound and she watches his lips part, pulling back from his teeth. His head falls forward and his hands curl into fists when he gasps her name, incredibly loud in the silence of the room. Another plaintive gasp and he pulses where she holds him. His breathing stutters to a halt while his hips snap up once, twice—then pearly fluid spills over her hand at the same time her name tumbles from his mouth, and he is loose and trembling and released beneath her.
She murmurs as she eases him through it, stilling her hands when he shakily clasps them. Looking up, she finds Newt wonderfully debauched, hair tangled, lips parted and cheeks flushed, and the warmth in Tina's belly cools and retracts. He is observably done with everything, so she remains still as he fishes about for something to clean her up with before shrugging and using his waistcoat.
He tucks himself back into his trousers while Tina rights her skirt, and lays his head in her lap when she climbs onto the couch.
It takes a while for Newt's breathing to even out, and when it does he presses his face into her stomach before rolling to look at her. "Thank you," he says, and she knows he's not just talking about how they've defiled the furniture.
She smiles back at him, the small, secret smile she only allows him to see, and pushes an errant lock of hair off his forehead. "You're welcome, Newt," she whispers and leans down to kiss him.
They kiss until he mumbles against her mouth, and she pulls away to raise an interrogative eyebrow. "I said, I should like to try that again sometime—on you." The surprising forwardness of the statement renders her speechless, and it's his turn to look at her cheekily. "Don't act so surprised, Miss Goldstein. Surely you know by now that I'm quite infatuated with you. Just please, do make sure you keep your garters on when the time comes. I find them most...stimulating."
Tina bursts into surprised laughter and swats him on the shoulder. Newt rolls to absorb the blow before catching her hand and laying a wet kiss on her palm. "I'll keep them on if that's what you want. But you are an inappropriate ass and I may not let you try for a while!"
If she sounds doubtful of her own conviction, he doesn't respond to it. Instead, he grows serious and meets her eyes.
"Yes," Newt says, reaching to cup her cheek. "I may be an ass, but I am entirely yours. I'll try to be better about showing it, Tina." She is absurdly touched by this gesture, and unwarranted tears prickle the corner of her eyes. Newt runs a thumb beneath to wipe them away, then absently sucks it into his mouth before rolling his head further into her lap, settling down with a sigh of contentment.
Tina strokes his hair as he drowses and eventually falls asleep, cradled by her thighs and snoring lightly. She sits awake a while longer, flitting her fingers over him, allowing him a well-earned rest and marveling at the wonder of it all.