gahh this took so long

The Inevitability of Our Story

Request: I was listening to Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis himself and I couldn’t help but think about Newt while listening to it idk its such a Newt song and then i thought of you and well, it sounds like a possible fic idea ;) ;) I know you have so many requests but i just wanted to put this out there, also to tell you that these kinds of songs remind me of Newt and then you and your amazing stories. Anyway, have a good day!

Word Count: 3,979

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Requested by @dont-give-a-bother but also tagging @red-roses-and-stories @caseoffics @myrtus-amongst-the-stars @ly–canthrope @thosefantasticbeast2 @benniesgalaxy @studyforthreehands @whatinbenaddiction


                                                  I. For


Newt’s quill scratches against the parchment and he mumbles words under his breath, reading over his manuscript. Thunder outside rumbles, raindrops thump against the glass panes, and you plod over to Newt, dropping into the open spot next to him. He hardly notices as your forearm brushes his lightly, or the way you hum softly before tapping the back of his hand.

“Newt?”

“Yes?” He mumbles, eyes still scanning over his messy handwriting.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?” The word is distracted, his attention only half on you. This manuscript is important. He’s almost finished editing his chapter on bowtruckles and other leafy beasts; best friend or not, he doesn’t want to pause his work until he gets through the last page of it.

“Why do mooncalves only emerge during full moons?”

He doesn’t look up from the parchment. “They have an affinity for it.”

“But why?” You question, resting your chin in one hand as you play with the leaf of a potted plant sitting on the table.

Newt glances up at you, wary. “You really want to know?”

You nod, lips puckered in confusion as the leaf turns a shade of blue.

His heart twists, chest warming as he sets down his quill, and Newt shifts, uncomfortable with the sudden change of his heart’s rhythm. “It’s only a theory right now.”

You meet his eyes and smile. “That’s all right. I’d still like to hear what you think.”

Newt tries to ignore the feeling in his chest. “Could it wait a couple of minutes? I’ve almost finished here.”

“I’ll wait.” You say it with another smile, reaching out to squeeze his arm gently.

Though he was unaware of it, Newt has been on the precipice of falling for quite some time. Only a lack of free time had prevented him from considering this, considering asking you on a date. It would really only take a gesture, a small nudge, to knock him off that cliff, to convince him to ask you out.

Your soft squeeze of his arm is that nudge.

He lifts his quill again, throat dry, fully prepared to edit more, but Newt can’t tear his eyes away from the gentle slope of your nose or the way you narrow your eyes at the color-changing leaf.

Three pages of the chapter still need to be edited, but Newt flips the notebook shut, taking a deep breath, praying the strange feeling will disappear after a good night’s rest. “The moon’s a signal to them.”

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anonymous asked:

please please please could you write a fic in which nico turns legal drinking age and percy convinces him to get ridiculously drunk and percy stays sober because he has to drive nico home but nico wakes up the next morning in percy's bed with the worst hangover????? i crave the percico

Gahh, sorry this took so long. My muse has been dead, but I finally got  around to writing this for you! It’s more of a morning after type thing, but I had some fun with  hungover nico!

***

There’s been a lot of times in his life where he’s woken up somewhere he didn’t know. Actually it happened so often he should  probably be worried. Usually it was when he accidentally shadow travelled, or sleep walked or something. 

But this was strangely different.

He was comfortable, his legs tangled up in a dark blue duvet. His head was buried into far too soft pillows (also blue), and he seemed to be wearing cotton pajama bottoms, which he took a wild guess were also blue.

Oh, and he had a raging headache.

“Fuck.” He swore, turning to press his face into the pillow, trying to ignore the familiar scent that told him exactly who’s bed he was in. “There’s a rendition of the battle of troy inside my brain.”

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