Archive of Our Own ^beta

It doesn’t happen often. It just…does. In the heat of the moment, pressed behind Newt as he fucks him roughly, he curls a hand between them, and rather than stroke Newt to completion, it settles, palm flat, low on Newt’s stomach, as the words simply pour out of Percival, suggestive and lewd:

“What would they all think seeing you when I’m done—round and heavy, but still needy for more?”

It’s never entirely explicit. In the thick of things, the clinical definition is never used. But eventually, weeks later, something in Percival’s mind bites hard and the itch returns with enough fury to send him hissing into Newt’s ear once more.

“How’d you like that, sweetheart? Laid up and fat with whatever I’ve pumped into you?”

It never fails to send a heated shiver down Newt’s spine, his knees quaking as he collapses face down into sweaty pillows. From a purely technical standpoint, Newt can’t get pregnant, not without magical intervention, but goodness, some days it genuinely feels like it’s not been for lack of trying. And they’ve discussed it outside of sex. They’re adults. Adoption is on the table, though the house is a bit full.

…It wouldn’t be bad.

With the distant click of the front door’s shutting announces Percival’s leave for the afternoon—a meeting with the gallery owner who’s agreed to showcase some of his newest expedition photos—Newt’s mind drifts back to all the filth poured into his ears. He’s never really considered parenthood before. He’s certainly got plenty on his plate already, but as he wraps up what meager chores exist on the ground floor (mostly a bit of finer food prep for everyone down below), the longer the concept percolates quietly in his mind, the harder it becomes to ignore. Newt scoops Teddy off the kitchen table, tucking him snugly under an arm. The Niffler wheezes unhappily, reaching out, clawing in vain for the remnants of breakfast’s scrambled eggs.

“Really, one of these days, I'm going to stop being so lenient and tell Percy you’re going behind his back and eating far more than what he partitions off to you. Then it’s a real diet for you. Chunky.”

Oh, Teddy complains, carrying on in a series of grunts and squeaks and squonks, but there’s no meaningful riot. When Newt doesn’t relent, somewhere partially up the stairs, Teddy settles in the man’s arms with a quiet (but clearly over-dramatic) huff.

On the first floor, down the hall, Newt lets himself into Percival’s room. It’s the only place in the townhouse with a mirror large enough for what Newt needs. There are others around, here and there; Newt is guilty of largely ignoring the one in the bathroom, spare for making sure he’s not gotten any creature by-products caught in his hair or smeared on his face or neck before he meets with folks, but even that usage is dicey. Percival though, for a man always intent to look his best, whether the day’s plans have him scheduled to trek through humid jungles or wade through the bustling business district, nothing less will do than a full length mirror.

Since the last accidental outburst of Mooncalves gleefully stampeding up from the basement (it had been a nightmare getting them back down two flights—they simply have no down genes for anything more complex than a ramp), while the man’s long vertical mirror rotates on its stand, back and forth, it’s otherwise been bolted soundly to the floor, precisely at the angle that avoids the glare from the window and flawlessly catches Percival with the best splash of morning light. Thinking about walking in on the man mid-dressing, fingers threading his neck tie through practiced loops—it makes Newt’s throat embarrassingly tight. Silly, handsome fellow.

In front of that mirror, Newt looks down and rubs Teddy’s head, scratching his neck. “Bear with me a moment?” 

Teddy blinks up at Newt questioning, only for Newt to untuck his shirt and unceremoniously shove the Niffler underneath, rounding the fabric along Teddy’s backside and under his bottom.

“There we go!”

Family is, as a concept, so near and so utterly far from Newt. His childhood was kind, his mother loving, his brother… Well, Theseus is his own special kind of wonderful, even if the two of them have had their strains. But a branch all Newt’s own… He’s never thought overlong on it. Devoted and loving, Percival would, without a doubt, be an incredible father. The distance from MACUSA’s let him breathe and learn to actually live, rather than simply going through the steps—caring for himself in the tightest margins possible to keep working as efficiently as possible. Watching the change in real-time has been nothing short of stunning.

Turning himself into profile, Newt scrutinizes himself and his shape, stringy as ever, spare for the bump provided by the perplexed Niffler sniffing his stomach. Cradling Teddy, Newt unbuttons his vest single-handedly and, with some juggling, shrugs out of it. Short the garment, it helps provide him a slightly clearer picture. 

Percival, Newt thinks, resolute, while he’d be an amazing parent, the man would carry horribly. With a youth spent watching his mother breed fancy Hippogriffs, while no expert, Newt thinks himself a decent judge of temperaments. Percival is, for the greater part, cool-headed and collected, but older than Newt (even as a Wizard, sturdy and stronger than any Muggle) he’d crumble to the paranoia and worry of carrying in his forties. He’d likely be crankier, short-tempered, and… Mm, no. He wouldn’t do at all. Percival is a stalking, prowling defender. He’d be just as useless with child as Theseus, who, despite his prowess leading others, is filled to the brim with hidden neuroses, that he’d crack and cry over the slightest provocation. It never once occurs to him that daydreaming about one’s brother being pregnant is strange. To Newt, it’s all purely logical. 

Unlike them, he’d be a wonderful mum-dad.

He’d have to slow down a bit. That wouldn’t be easy and Newt recognizes he’d likely fight any pleas to take things easy with tooth and claw. But with Percival and Bunty already able and willing to keep up with the (often literal) heavy lifting, there’d be no loss of care for his creatures… So strange and novel, the idea of creating something new—a little person with hopes and dreams all their own. It’d certainly be an experience, at any rate, an adventure like none other.

Newt wiggles a finger between the gaps of his buttons and nudges Teddy gently. “What do you think?”

Teddy pokes his head out, looking left and right before he realizes his and Newt’s reflections are staring back. The Niffler studies it, then looks up to Newt and trills.

Newt frowns. “No, I’m allowed to call you chunky, because you are. This is different. Or…it could be, at any rate.” He smiles and chuckles. He doesn’t quite feel silly for entertaining the thought, but he certainly feels different. Mindful of Teddy’s head and neck, he eases the Niffler free and tucks him up in the crook of an elbow. “Say, let me word it this way,” he tries. “How would you like a little baby sibling? A little Newty puggle?”

Teddy blows him the hottest raspberry.

“Oh, you’re the rudest little creature in the world today, aren’t you? This is what I get for shorting you eggs, isn’t it?” Striking back out—there’s always more to do—Newt seals the bedroom back up and leaves the thought for another day.