(Sorry for any mistakes in Part 1, I had a bad migraine while editing and I'll make sure they aren't there when I post the whole thing on AO3. Also if you can figure out which classical novel I'm shamelessly referencing with the Occamy's name, you'll get an infinite supply of cyber-cookies!)
Newt awoke with the feeling that he had slept for weeks. He tried to stretch his sore limbs and found them trapped under the Occamy’s weight. The serpent snuffled in his sleep and wrapped tighter around Newt, who couldn’t help giggling. The part about Occamies being cuddly after mating was probably not going in his book.
“I’m not leaving forever, silly,” he chided, extricating himself from the heavy blue coils as the Occamy head-butted him like an oversized cat. “I’ve got hungry mouths to feed, you know!” His whole body ached as he wobbled to his feet, but it was a pleasant satisfied ache. A trickle ran down his bare thigh, and he reached behind himself and rubbed his fingers over his puffy rim. They came away slick with silvery semen. He rubbed it between his fingers, still scarcely able to believe that the previous night had actually happened. More spilled out as he walked back to his shed and picked up his clothes, but he was sure that enough had stayed inside to do the deed. He patted his belly, imagining the thousand miniscule events happening inside it as the Occamy’s seed stirred to life within him, and went about the day’s duties with a vacant grin on his face.
He decided to name the Occamy Woland, after a dashing Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who had chained him up in the dungeons and flogged him with various implements in many of his earliest erotic fantasies. He did have to sit detention in the dungeons once for his entirely truthful claim that a Murtlap had eaten his homework, but that was the closest his fantasies had ever come to reality.
The next few days were spent travelling, searching for an untouched location to release Woland. Having found a patch of forest that seemed suitable, he set up camp there, letting Woland out for longer periods each day, watching over him as he grew accustomed to hunting in his new home. Between the travels, the work that went into maintaining such a sizeable collection of animals, and his book, Newt had little time to dwell on the idea of pregnancy.
And then, on the morning of the fifteenth day after mating, he discovered that he could no longer buckle up his belt all the way. He threw off his clothes and rushed to the mirror, turning this way and that. Sure enough, there it was: the very beginning of a bump. Newt folded his arms around it protectively, his heart hammering. He was sure that this was what it felt like to have wings.
That evening when he went to check on Dougal, the Demiguise blinked at him shyly and pressed a gentle pink paw to his abdomen. Newt stood still, barely daring to breathe as the elusive creature stroked and prodded, finally resting his fluffy head against Newt’s skin and chirping. Then he ran to his shelter, and returned with a folded banana leaf. Inside the leaf was a selection of berries and flowers, and even a snail shell and a little polished red stone.
Newt cried a little as he hugged Dougal and thanked him over and over for the gift. He supposed pregnancy made one emotional. Nothing he couldn’t deal with.
Then the morning sickness started.
Suddenly, Newt was finding the smell of his own cooking so disgusting, it sent him bending over the toilet bowl. He tried to drink sips of water and nibble white bread and crackers, but even that wouldn’t settle, and he grew sicker and weaker by the hour until he could barely drag himself to the bathroom. For the first time in his life, his suitcase felt claustrophobic and suffocating. He lay down to sleep in a tent that night, hugging the precious case to his chest and taking it with him every time he had to run behind a bush to vomit.
He had just fallen into a fitful sleep when something nudged his shoulder. He sprang up, suitcase in one hand and wand in the other, but it was only Woland, returning from a hunt with some unidentifiable pheasant relative in his beak.
“Sorry, dear,” he muttered, settling back down and trying to ignore the sudden rumbling in his stomach. “You’ll have to find your own way back in. I’m much too sick to be useful.”
But Woland didn’t even look at the suitcase. He dropped the bird carcass in front of Newt, slithering back and staring expectantly. “For me? I appreciate it, I really do.” Newt gulped. The smell of raw meat had always been distasteful to him, but now he found himself salivating. “You’d better eat it yourself instead of wasting it on me.”
The Occamy blinked, seeming to understand. He dug his beak into the carcass, working delicately to tear off a small strip. But instead of swallowing it, he held it out to Newt. When Newt didn’t respond, he pressed it against his lips as though feeding a fussy baby. The copper taste was too much for Newt to resist. He opened his mouth, letting his mate feed him, chewing every piece of flesh slowly to savour the dark musky taste. Between the two of them, they finished the bird in half an hour. Newt slept with a full belly that night, and was not bothered by nausea until morning.
They worked out a routine, with Woland hunting every night and resting through the day, waking up at regular intervals to make sure Newt had eaten and groom him with his beak (a process which, although pleasant, only made Newt’s red hair twice as messy as it usually was). The constant supply of fresh meat kept the morning sickness at bay, and Newt soon found himself functional again, although he was growing heavier and getting backaches if he bent over too often.
They could have continued like this until the birth if it had not been for Frank the Thunderbird.
Newt did not blame him. In fact, he should have made provisions for the inevitable rowdiness of adolescence instead of being shocked when Frank made the entire suitcase rattle with thunder for two days straight. With a heavy heart, Newt realised that he had been selfish; that he had not acted in the best interests of Frank, who needed to go home while his personality was still plastic enough to accept the imminent changes, and Woland, who had lost one lifelong mate already and would surely not be able to cope with losing another. Rescue, rehabilitate and release did not become rescue, rehabilitate and fall in love with just because Newt wanted it that way.
“I suppose this is where we say goodbye,” he told Woland as he received one last head scratch. The Occamy seemed to understand, his huge eyes staring into Newt’s, filled with endless love and sorrow. “Don’t you worry, this isn’t forever.” Newt stroked the feathery cheek. Woland bent into the touch, eyes falling shut with contentment. “I’ll be back in six months’ time with your babies. Time flies when you’re busy flying and fighting and doing everything else you can’t do when you’re with me. I’m just a boring old human, after all.” His voice cracked, and he wrapped his arms around Woland’s head, showering his beak and iridescent scales with kisses.
“I promise,” he whispered as the Occamy coiled around him one last time, growling protectively. “I promise, I promise!”
That night, Newt buried his face in his pillow and cried until he choked. Picket the Bowtruckle sat on his shoulder, chirping and carding his tiny hands through Newt’s hair. After a while he seemed to grow bored and scurried off, leaving Newt alone with his misery. Not that Newt blamed him.
Suddenly, Newt heard scuffling under the bed, the sheets were ripped half off his body with a loud thump!, and after more scuffling, something warm and fuzzy pressed itself against his cheek.
“You…!” Newt shouted, grabbing Niffler by the scruff of the neck. Then he saw Picket staring hopefully from atop the bedpost, and melted.
Dougal was the next to join, rubbing the tension from Newt’s shoulders with clever fingers. Then there was a growl that sent several pots clattering to the floor, and Mittens the Nundu plopped herself across Newt’s back with a contented yawn.
It was rather hard to breathe, but Newt didn’t mind. “You’re a Bowtruckle of upstanding character,” he told Picket, peeking out from under Mittens’ spotty hide. “I hope you didn’t let the Erumpet out too!” He laughed, and felt tears roll down his cheeks. Niffler snuffled sympathetically, prodding him with his long nose. “And you’re not quite as mean as I thought,” he said, giving the small creature a cuddle and breaking into sobs once more.
Pregnancy did make one rather emotional, after all.
The next morning, after reluctantly wriggling out of the pile of snoring creatures, Newt found that he could not button up his trousers at all. He made a mental note to buy some new clothes in Bombay, and, heart fluttering somewhere in his throat, pressed his wand to the straining curve of his belly. He watched the life-seeking spell travel through his insides, picking up one… two… three… four pin-sized beating hearts.
Four additions to the species, he thought, gasping softly as the spell revealed their tiny curled bodies; the stubs that would one day become wings. Their eyes, almost as big as their heads, were shut in sleep as they rocked within the life-giving fluids inside their eggs.
No, not just that. He stared at himself in the mirror, smiling and smiling. They’re my children…
Ovoviviparity 2/3
Newt awoke with the feeling that he had slept for weeks. He tried to stretch his sore limbs and found them trapped under the Occamy’s weight. The serpent snuffled in his sleep and wrapped tighter around Newt, who couldn’t help giggling. The part about Occamies being cuddly after mating was probably not going in his book.
“I’m not leaving forever, silly,” he chided, extricating himself from the heavy blue coils as the Occamy head-butted him like an oversized cat. “I’ve got hungry mouths to feed, you know!” His whole body ached as he wobbled to his feet, but it was a pleasant satisfied ache. A trickle ran down his bare thigh, and he reached behind himself and rubbed his fingers over his puffy rim. They came away slick with silvery semen. He rubbed it between his fingers, still scarcely able to believe that the previous night had actually happened. More spilled out as he walked back to his shed and picked up his clothes, but he was sure that enough had stayed inside to do the deed. He patted his belly, imagining the thousand miniscule events happening inside it as the Occamy’s seed stirred to life within him, and went about the day’s duties with a vacant grin on his face.
He decided to name the Occamy Woland, after a dashing Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who had chained him up in the dungeons and flogged him with various implements in many of his earliest erotic fantasies. He did have to sit detention in the dungeons once for his entirely truthful claim that a Murtlap had eaten his homework, but that was the closest his fantasies had ever come to reality.
The next few days were spent travelling, searching for an untouched location to release Woland. Having found a patch of forest that seemed suitable, he set up camp there, letting Woland out for longer periods each day, watching over him as he grew accustomed to hunting in his new home. Between the travels, the work that went into maintaining such a sizeable collection of animals, and his book, Newt had little time to dwell on the idea of pregnancy.
And then, on the morning of the fifteenth day after mating, he discovered that he could no longer buckle up his belt all the way. He threw off his clothes and rushed to the mirror, turning this way and that. Sure enough, there it was: the very beginning of a bump.
Newt folded his arms around it protectively, his heart hammering. He was sure that this was what it felt like to have wings.
That evening when he went to check on Dougal, the Demiguise blinked at him shyly and pressed a gentle pink paw to his abdomen. Newt stood still, barely daring to breathe as the elusive creature stroked and prodded, finally resting his fluffy head against Newt’s skin and chirping. Then he ran to his shelter, and returned with a folded banana leaf. Inside the leaf was a selection of berries and flowers, and even a snail shell and a little polished red stone.
Newt cried a little as he hugged Dougal and thanked him over and over for the gift. He supposed pregnancy made one emotional. Nothing he couldn’t deal with.
Then the morning sickness started.
Suddenly, Newt was finding the smell of his own cooking so disgusting, it sent him bending over the toilet bowl. He tried to drink sips of water and nibble white bread and crackers, but even that wouldn’t settle, and he grew sicker and weaker by the hour until he could barely drag himself to the bathroom. For the first time in his life, his suitcase felt claustrophobic and suffocating. He lay down to sleep in a tent that night, hugging the precious case to his chest and taking it with him every time he had to run behind a bush to vomit.
He had just fallen into a fitful sleep when something nudged his shoulder. He sprang up, suitcase in one hand and wand in the other, but it was only Woland, returning from a hunt with some unidentifiable pheasant relative in his beak.
“Sorry, dear,” he muttered, settling back down and trying to ignore the sudden rumbling in his stomach. “You’ll have to find your own way back in. I’m much too sick to be useful.”
But Woland didn’t even look at the suitcase. He dropped the bird carcass in front of Newt, slithering back and staring expectantly.
“For me? I appreciate it, I really do.” Newt gulped. The smell of raw meat had always been distasteful to him, but now he found himself salivating. “You’d better eat it yourself instead of wasting it on me.”
The Occamy blinked, seeming to understand. He dug his beak into the carcass, working delicately to tear off a small strip. But instead of swallowing it, he held it out to Newt. When Newt didn’t respond, he pressed it against his lips as though feeding a fussy baby. The copper taste was too much for Newt to resist. He opened his mouth, letting his mate feed him, chewing every piece of flesh slowly to savour the dark musky taste. Between the two of them, they finished the bird in half an hour. Newt slept with a full belly that night, and was not bothered by nausea until morning.
They worked out a routine, with Woland hunting every night and resting through the day, waking up at regular intervals to make sure Newt had eaten and groom him with his beak (a process which, although pleasant, only made Newt’s red hair twice as messy as it usually was). The constant supply of fresh meat kept the morning sickness at bay, and Newt soon found himself functional again, although he was growing heavier and getting backaches if he bent over too often.
They could have continued like this until the birth if it had not been for Frank the Thunderbird.
Newt did not blame him. In fact, he should have made provisions for the inevitable rowdiness of adolescence instead of being shocked when Frank made the entire suitcase rattle with thunder for two days straight. With a heavy heart, Newt realised that he had been selfish; that he had not acted in the best interests of Frank, who needed to go home while his personality was still plastic enough to accept the imminent changes, and Woland, who had lost one lifelong mate already and would surely not be able to cope with losing another. Rescue, rehabilitate and release did not become rescue, rehabilitate and fall in love with just because Newt wanted it that way.
“I suppose this is where we say goodbye,” he told Woland as he received one last head scratch. The Occamy seemed to understand, his huge eyes staring into Newt’s, filled with endless love and sorrow. “Don’t you worry, this isn’t forever.” Newt stroked the feathery cheek. Woland bent into the touch, eyes falling shut with contentment. “I’ll be back in six months’ time with your babies. Time flies when you’re busy flying and fighting and doing everything else you can’t do when you’re with me. I’m just a boring old human, after all.” His voice cracked, and he wrapped his arms around Woland’s head, showering his beak and iridescent scales with kisses.
“I promise,” he whispered as the Occamy coiled around him one last time, growling protectively. “I promise, I promise!”
That night, Newt buried his face in his pillow and cried until he choked. Picket the Bowtruckle sat on his shoulder, chirping and carding his tiny hands through Newt’s hair. After a while he seemed to grow bored and scurried off, leaving Newt alone with his misery. Not that Newt blamed him.
Suddenly, Newt heard scuffling under the bed, the sheets were ripped half off his body with a loud thump!, and after more scuffling, something warm and fuzzy pressed itself against his cheek.
“You…!” Newt shouted, grabbing Niffler by the scruff of the neck. Then he saw Picket staring hopefully from atop the bedpost, and melted.
Dougal was the next to join, rubbing the tension from Newt’s shoulders with clever fingers. Then there was a growl that sent several pots clattering to the floor, and Mittens the Nundu plopped herself across Newt’s back with a contented yawn.
It was rather hard to breathe, but Newt didn’t mind. “You’re a Bowtruckle of upstanding character,” he told Picket, peeking out from under Mittens’ spotty hide. “I hope you didn’t let the Erumpet out too!” He laughed, and felt tears roll down his cheeks. Niffler snuffled sympathetically, prodding him with his long nose. “And you’re not quite as mean as I thought,” he said, giving the small creature a cuddle and breaking into sobs once more.
Pregnancy did make one rather emotional, after all.
The next morning, after reluctantly wriggling out of the pile of snoring creatures, Newt found that he could not button up his trousers at all. He made a mental note to buy some new clothes in Bombay, and, heart fluttering somewhere in his throat, pressed his wand to the straining curve of his belly. He watched the life-seeking spell travel through his insides, picking up one… two… three… four pin-sized beating hearts.
Four additions to the species, he thought, gasping softly as the spell revealed their tiny curled bodies; the stubs that would one day become wings. Their eyes, almost as big as their heads, were shut in sleep as they rocked within the life-giving fluids inside their eggs.
No, not just that. He stared at himself in the mirror, smiling and smiling. They’re my children…