fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme | Prompt Post #1

And one time she told someone about her own.

No extreme underage or noncon for this prompt (rape fantasy is fine), but otherwise, anything goes.

Assigning kinks to people is my kink. Look out for my fill!

NA is excited about your fill too :D

Before I get started I gotta ask, are you ok with one of the people fantasising about violence if it doesn't involve rape? Just want to make sure I don't start off on the wrong note!

OP. I'm excited that you're filling this, and that's completely fine. To clarify, the only things I don't want to see as far as non-con goes are one of the characters actually getting raped or raping someone. Fantasies are fine. Fantasizing about violence is also OK, and I'd also be OK with actual non-sexual violence happening as part of the fill. Thanks for checking!

(Thanks for letting me know, OP! This turned out a lot more artsy-fartsy than anticipated. I'll hopefully do most of the other characters tomorrow)!

i. Tina

As adults, they told everybody that they had raised each other.

Tina’s mind was the first Queenie ever touched, marvelling at the soft spark of connection that passed between them. It was like reading a storybook that felt both comfortingly familiar, and exciting in its strangeness. Queenie read and read, no matter how often she was told that it was impolite. They were sisters, after all.

Despite their difference in age, they went through puberty together. As children, they had shared socks and sweets and textbooks, now they shared secrets and lipstick and grief. On their bed at Ilvermorny, one would pretend to sleep while the other touched herself. Queenie knew that Tina wanted, more than anything else in the world, to be an Auror for MACUSA. When she saw a room in the MACUSA headquarters in one of Tina’s fantasies the night after a particularly difficult O.W.L, she giggled and decided her sister had gone career-mad.

Then she saw that the room was a torture chamber.

Of course, it made sense. Tina, the girl who stuttered and dropped her textbooks everywhere, the girl who was told by professors that she was too meek to be an Auror, became an avenging angel in that room. The pretty boys from her first fumblings grew into evil men who had done things too terrible to name, and they screamed for mercy and fell to their knees before her. Repent! shouted this other Tina, dark and lovely, as the real Tina slid a hand up her thigh. A lash of the whip; fingers tweaking a nipple. A knife parting skin like velvet; a hand parting her nether lips; the blood welling forth like roses as she sighed and tangled her limbs in her nightgown. The smell of flesh sizzling under a brand prompted her to slide her fingers deeper, and the choked confession heralded white-hot pleasure rocking her body like a flower in a thunderstorm.

It distressed poor principled, honourable Tina greatly. Her fantasies spun in a hellish zoetrope in her head, accompanied by devils screaming shameful! Disgusting! Psychopath! Queenie said nothing, for she knew that it wasn’t polite. But Tina became her own torturer, especially when the dreams started. Dreams that made her gasp and writhe, in which she pointed her wand at the condemned man and uttered that beautiful word: Crucio!

“Teenie, darling,” Queenie told her when she woke up sobbing. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“I’m sick and evil,” Tina cried, wriggling out of her sister’s embrace. “You've seen what’s in my head. I'll never work for MACUSA! I should be locked away. I'm a danger to society!"

“You’re not,” Queenie said gently, winding a lock of Tina’s hair around her finger. “You couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I could!”

“Couldn’t, baby. You still cry during The Fountain of Fair Fortune.” This got a smile out of Tina. “In any case, you do realise that people actually do this kind of thing consensually in the privacy of their bedrooms, right?"

That statement left Tina thoroughly confused. But Queenie knew of some seedy no-maj bookstores, and she used her charms to get Tina a pile of rather scandalous novels relevant to her interests. Her poor sister blushed and told her to take them back, but in the months that followed, her fantasies moved out of MACUSA and into four-poster beds lined with fur and silk. Steel combined fetchingly with leather, and the grizzled backs of dark wizards gave way to pale sweaty skin flushing red beneath the flail.

“You just gotta land yourself a British husband someday,” Queenie whispered to her during Potions. “I hear caning is their national pastime!”

yess, sadist!Tina is everything <3 And is absolutely my headcanon from now on

and I adore your Queenie *_* I can't wait to see more!

Wow, after this great start I am really looking forward to the rest of these!

OP here! Holy shit, this is good, and so much hotter than I was expecting when I made the prompt. I actually really love the fact that you've gone in an artsy-fartsy character study direction instead of pure crack, though pure crack is good too, , and as the other commenters noted, the way you write Queenie and Tina is perfect. Eagerly awaiting more!

ii. Jacob

He always smiled, always gazed at the world around him with a child’s wonder. His mind was full of light, not white and glaring but soft orange-gold. She called him Mister Marigold sometimes, and he batted his eyelashes then broke into fits of giggles and smiled down at his feet, as if he was unworthy of looking at her.

It was easy to forget that he considered himself unworthy of many things.

She saw it when a gentleman with a Boston terrier walked into Jacob’s bakery, asking for a dozen “monkey cookies” for his son’s birthday party. The tiny dog grew bored, sniffing first at a lady’s shoes, then pushing its flat snout under her skirt to lick at her ankle. The lady tutted indignantly, and Jacob smiled and said that it was his fault, he should have been faster with the pastries. But then he imagined what the view must have been like from the terrier’s position, and fire flickered within him.

At first Queenie thought it was just a simple voyeur’s fantasy, but the theme of looking up at a woman towering above him remained consistent. He would watch women walking their dogs at the park, marvelling at how the animals walked step in step with their mistresses, and Queenie realised that he wished to become a dog himself. Not a fierce attacker but a lady’s lapdog, more for decoration than anything else. A sweet, benevolent creature, knowing nothing but the desire to please and obey.

If he was overcome with love for his beautiful mistress, if he lavished her feet and ankles with his tongue, growing drunk on the smell of her and thrusting his hips against thin air, she would shriek bad boy! and push him away. If he inched his head higher up her silken leg, reaching for what he so badly craved, what so easily could have been his, she would call him a silly horny thing and send him to sit in the corner, because no matter how hard he loved, he was unworthy.

But she would not hurt him, and a few minutes later she would wrap her perfumed arms around him and stroke his head. And he would bury his face in her soft breast, whimpering his perfect wordless devotion, knowing that even though she were an untouchable goddess, she knew that he had worshipped her the only way he knew how, and she loved him back for it.

Queenie understood perfectly. War was what Jacob was used to, and the world was simply too wide for him sometimes. In his bakery, he was praised for his talent and his kindness. But dogs and soldiers were praised for obeying.

Coincidentally, the one thing Queenie didn’t like about Jacob was how much he apologised. Displeasing her seemed to be the biggest tragedy that could befall him.

“Babe, I dropped your coffee,” he whined, standing in the doorway of their bedroom one morning. “One of your flying brush thingies just came at me, and I got a fright and broke the mug. I’m so sorry baby, I’ll buy you a whole new coffee set today, promise!”

“Aw dear, that’s okay,” she said, smiling. “I never liked that green mug anyway.”

“I’m just so sorry, Queenie.” He looked like he was on the verge of tears. “I’m such a big klutz. I have no idea how you—“

Queenie wasn’t listening. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a red leather collar, which she dangled in front of his face.

“Shut up,” she purred. “Or you’ll be a real bad dog, and bad dogs don’t get to wear these.”

Jacob did shut up, mouth frozen in a perfect ‘O’. So Queenie pressed her naked body against him, thigh flush against the hardness in his pyjama pants, and fastened the collar around his trembling neck.

iii. Newt

Sometimes, when the world around him became too loud, too fast, too sudden, he got the urge to bite himself.

The very first time he and Jacob had stayed with the sisters, Queenie had caught him in the act. She had come to bring cocoa, and Newt had slipped his wrist from his mouth when he’d heard the door open. But she had seen the spit-slick welt and had felt his mind racing like a fox with greyhounds tearing at its flanks.

He loved Tina, that was plain to see. But sometimes he wondered if his heart was big enough to contain her, for he had given all of it but a few dark corners to his animals. Truly, he gave them everything he had and more, and Tina admired him for it. But what she didn’t know yet, was that sometimes they were ungrateful. Queenie had never seen him naked, but she knew that his skin was marked with scars because he carried them in his mind like a map. If a new one was forming, he would press his fingers against it instead of biting himself, relishing the memory of giving the creature that had inflicted it the gift of his own blood.

Whereas Jacob glowed like a faraway star when he gave reign to his fantasies, Newt burned like fiendfyre. Much like Tina, but she was the destroyer whereas he offered himself up for destruction. He would lie curled up in his suitcase, surrounded by animal sounds, and imagine them creeping closer. Imagine teeth and claws sinking into his flesh; having them take by force the only gift they could not give him.

He would struggle and scream for help in his fantasies, but the beasts were stronger. He scratched four red stripes down his thigh in imitation of a nundu’s claws seeking the most tender meat in his body. Dragons tore his belly open to feed on his organs, teeth following the path his hand took down to his ginger curls. Hippogriffs and thunderbirds splintered his bones and stuck their heads inside his ribcage as he stroked himself. When he reached his climax, he saw them ripping in half his quivering red heart.

One night, after he’d made a few of the clingier animals cranky by spending the whole day with Tina, Queenie caught him wishing they would rape him. He shoved three fingers inside himself, imagining the long prehensile penises of erumpents and the rough barbed ones of graphorns tearing at his insides as he screamed, reminding him to whom he truly belonged. Beast cock goes here, Leta Lestrange had once scratched into his upper thigh with a quill. When he pulled his fingers out, he was disappointed that they weren’t slick with blood.

“Queenie,” Newt said shyly after dinner after the others had retired, leaving her to supervise the washing up, “Could I please talk to you for a minute?”

“Any time, dear!” She giggled. “Why, you’re practically my brother!”

He flicked his wrist dismissively, but he wasn’t smiling.

“You said Leta was a taker,” he told the floor between his toes, “and you were absolutely right. But the problem is, and this is utterly stupid and you’re well within your rights to tell me to go to bed, but I feel like I need a taker. I only feel happy when I give more and more…”

He trailed off, a blush kissing his cheekbones.

“Oh, dear Newt!” She longed to put her arms around him, instead she leaned closer and took on a conspiratory tone. “Let me tell you a secret. There are two types of takers in the world. One will take out of selfishness, and move on to someone else once you’re so drained you can’t give any more. The other will take because you desire to give. She will appreciate your gifts, and return them one day when you need it the most. Do you understand?”

Newt looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.

“It’s so confusing,” he said sheepishly. “I feel like everyone around me went to a school that teaches how people think, but I never got my letter.”

“Not everyone. Just me.” Queenie beamed. “Besides,” she whispered, “I had to tell your fiancée the exact same thing!”

That night, she planted one of Tina’s favourite erotic paperbacks in his suitcase.

I am really digging Queenie Goldstein: Kink Therapist! She should open up a counseling practice.

SO GOOD, anon. I love the connection between the xeno stuff and the masochism - generally, the way you connect these characters' kinks with their psychological states without it being a "oh, they have X kink because's they're Fucked Up" thing. I don't want to TMI, but as someone with my own submission-related kinks and fixations that have occasionally manifested in rather scary fantasies, Newt seemed very real.

(Thanks so much for the comments, kind anons! To the above anon, I'm so glad that the whole "associating kinks with psychological factors" thing didn't come across as heavy handed and that the Newt chapter connected with you! Personally, the most real for me was Tina. I'm a big sadist/dom and I've had my share of frightening fantasies too.)

iv. Credence

Whereas Newt bit himself, Credence sucked his thumb.

A year after Newt had taken him on as an assistant, the young man was unrecognisable. He no longer walked with his head bowed, or clutched his scarred hands in front of his face when he spoke. But Queenie found that he dreamed the sweetest dreams when he fell asleep with his thumb between his lips.

For Queenie, his desires didn’t burn. Rather, they unfolded like the pearl-pink petals of a flower, delicate as gossamer and yet strong enough to shrug off the hard outer shell of rot and ruin. But strong was not a word Credence would use to describe himself. Strength meant fighting, running, surviving amidst decay. Weakness meant rest, so weak was what he longed to be with his entire being.

Credence had never had a girlfriend. Queenie could see the marks of cigarette ash on his soul, where he had stamped on each tiny flame before it had the chance to bloom. But there had been a woman who loved him once. Credence wasn’t always sure if she had actually existed, or if she was simply an idea that he had willed into being. She was so strong, and he buried her so deep, that not even Mary Lou could have destroyed her. When he sucked on his thumb, it was her breast he was sucking on, fanning her sweet life-giving milk across his palate. She was soft, and she loved to smile as her velvet hands rubbed the knots from his back. She loved him not for what he had done or who he had grown up to be, but simply because he was.

Tina gave Credence warm milk with honey every night when he and Newt visited. He always drank it as if he had never seen food before, peering shyly up at her through his dark eyelashes, but Queenie knew that he wished she would give it to him in one of the little glass bottles Newt kept for orphaned baby animals. He considered stealing one sometimes, but stealing was bad. He did, however, take old bits of towelling that had been put aside for cleaning, and wrap them around his hips in place of underwear. His soul glowed like an ember when he walked around the house secretly dressed like this, and when night came, he would pop his left thumb in his mouth and slip his right hand between his legs, letting the warm towelling scrape the back of his hand as he stroked, piercing the silence with broken cries of mommy… mommy!

Once, Credence grew bold and took sips of milk and water throughout the day. Then he sat down to read a tome on the history of magic, and as the liquid made itself felt, he sighed and squirmed and pressed his thighs together. Queenie had to go to the ladies’ room twice, just from looking at him. Finally, he dropped the book and ran to the bathroom, where he knelt in the bath and stripped off all his clothes except for the diaper he had made. Please, mommy, let me pee, he whimpered as he shook and chewed his lip and lost control, flooding the cloth with piss, tears welling up in his eyes as most of it overflowed into a golden puddle around his legs. He wept, rocking and hugging himself with thin arms, and when he could weep no more the world somehow seemed brighter, as if washed by a fresh spring rain.

“Good morning, Miss Goldstein,” he whispered, peeking out from the suitcase as Queenie sat and chewed her toast the next morning. She smiled, deciding against berating the poor boy for not using her name for the thousandth time. “Could you please teach me how to do a cleaning spell? Newt’s sleeping. Molly had a rough birth last night. Molly’s a murtlap,” he offered in explanation. “I’d like to clean the grindelow tank before he wakes up.”

“I’m sure he’ll be tickled pink when he finds out!” She beamed, knowing at once that the grindelow tank was only the second of his concerns. His eyes widened as she held a dishcloth under the tap, then pointed her wand at the soaked fabric. “It’s a nice, easy, point-n-shoot kind of spell. Say it with me: Tergeo!”

“Tergeo!” he repeated, miming flicking a wand and smiling the toothy smile she knew was the genuine one. “Thank you, Miss Goldstein!” He ducked back into the suitcase like a prairie dog.

Queenie chuckled. Tomorrow, she would teach him how to waterproof things.

OP again. I'm so pleased to see more of this posted, and these are every bit as good as the first part. I agree with the other commenters: you did a great job matching kinks to characters and making it convincing, insightful, and hot, and it didn't come across as heavy-handed at all. Newt's part was my favorite for, um, reasons, but Kowalski's really showed that innocence he had in the movie along with some very interesting character moments (But dogs and soldiers were praised for obeying.), and Creedence's yearning for a mother and childhood he never knew was both believable and sad. I can't wait to read the next parts.

This is a lovely series, and I love how understanding and open-minded your Queenie comes across. It makes her very IC, and reminds me of her first encounter with Jacob in the film. Will be checking for more, keep up the great work.

v. Graves

He wanted to believe that he hadn’t changed at all.

He held the same job at MACUSA. He read the same newspapers, drank the same coffee, tied his shoelaces in the same zigzag pattern he’d used since he was a child. But the eyes that stared, the voices that whispered, were new. He sometimes wondered who gave people on the street the right to know him better than he knew himself. Who issued them a warrant to search his soul for the villain who had worn his face? Is that really him?

Queenie had barely known Graves before the incident, but in the year that followed he became a close friend to Newt and Credence, and by extension a friend of Queenie’s. He did not trust easily, but he trusted her to bring him coffee when his body burned from the curses that had been hurled at him and his office spun and shrank to the size of a matchbox.

Graves hid himself so well, that when Queenie discovered a pair of pastel pink stockings stuffed behind his wastepaper basket, she could be forgiven for thinking he had found himself a mistress. But there were things he couldn’t hide from her, such as the corset he wore under his shirt squeezing the air from his lungs like the arms of an insistent lover. Or the way the lace of his crimson undergarments caressed his cock until he grew wet like a girl. So he angled his mirror so that his face was out of the reflection and gazed at the work of art he had moulded his body into, one hand rolling a nipple, the other reaching between his thighs to fuck himself with a fountain pen.

Queenie leaned against the oak door, taking a second to bask in his pleasure. She was glad he was finding time to relax.

He grew bolder with each day. He bought a sleeveless silver dress and a pair of heels to match. They hurt his feet, but he relished every blister. Makeup kits took up residence in his desk drawers. They were laced with enchantments to correct facial flaws, softening his jawline, lifting all signs of age and torment from his skin. Freed from the confines of Percival Graves, his heart soared. Back in his cage at work, his thoughts rushed to clubs and speakeasies where he danced on silver feet, drunk on love and giggle water, lustful eyes crawling over his body not because of what he had done but because he was beautiful. Faceless men slid their hands up his thighs, tugged the flimsy straps of his dress down his arms, pushed aside his panties to shove their fingers up his...

Cunt, he said aloud, working the filthy word over his tongue and liking the way it tasted. He fell asleep at his desk for the first time in a decade, carried away on a tide of writhing bodies, fingers and cocks and tongues all worshipping the disguise he had created.

Graves was lining his eyes when Queenie brought him his coffee. He flung the brush away as though it had stung him and cowered with his hands over his one finished eye and plump red lips. “You mustn’t tell,” he babbled. “Please, Miss Goldstein, please, I’ll be ruined…”

“Darling,” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on his twitching shoulder. “You look absolutely stunning!”

“I swear I’ll never do this again!” He reached for his handkerchief, but she pinned his wrist to the desk.

“You’d murder this beautiful, helpless young lady?” she cried, fanning herself in mock horror. "Percival Graves, don't you dare bring that nasty cloth an inch closer to her face!"

“I’m in no mood for theatrics,” he grumbled, but lowered his hands anyway. He’d made an impressive smoky eye.

“Oh, but you are! You’ve been working too hard. When was the last time you drank something sweeter than coffee? Or listened to some jazz?”

“I don’t know,” Graves admitted, picking up the brush and tucking it into its container.

“Well then,” Queenie leaned in, whispering. “What say you to a girls’ night out?”

oh but this is a TOP contender for my favorite fill on the whole meme and each and every part just makes it better and better!!

Lovely as always! You are excellent at assigning kinks to characters, and this is just overall a fantastic fill - probably my favorite! Everyone is very IC, and Queenie is a complete sweetheart. As for Graves, I think a night out with Queenie might be exactly what he (she? I actually kept wondering if your Graves would rather be a she, or if it really was just a kink) needs. <3 I'm looking forward to the next part, though I'll be sad to see it end.

I just love how you write Queenie so much, I don't want it to end!

OP here - this is beautiful, just like all the others, and I love the exploration of having your identity stolen and being forced into the spotlight versus claiming a wanted identity for your own. I'm also really loving your Queenie's warmth and kindness, and the thought of her and Graves befriending each other in the aftermath of the movie's events. I don't feel like I'm quite as good at expressing how much I love these as I want to be, but they really are amazing.

This continues to be absolutely delightful. Queenie is the fairy godmother of kinks and I love what you did with Graves here.

(I was in the land of no Internet for a while, and coming back to see all your comments really made my day. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. Anyway I meant to write Jacob/Queenie smut but it turned into fluff and h/c whoops idk)

v + i: Queenie

They were lying in that syrupy-sweet zone between lovemaking and sleep, when Queenie nuzzled Jacob's neck and whispered, “I want to put a baby in your belly…”

“Whoa,” he whistled, taking her seriously. “I don’t think we’re ready for a baby yet!”

“I’m just playing, silly!” She batted him on the nose with her finger and he chuckled and caught her hand in his own, bringing it to his lips and crowning it with a chivalrous kiss. His moustache tickled, so she giggled too and nestled against him, the crook of his elbow softer than any pillow and his sleepy thoughts more comforting than any lullaby.

The exchange milled about in Jacob’s head the next morning as he laid out croissants with butter and preserves for their special Sunday breakfast. Queenie made the coffee, looking up to admire the red leather band peeking out from beneath his dressing gown. It had to be the most successful gift she’d ever given him – after taking it for a few spins in the bedroom, he’d taken it to wearing it whenever he was alone with her. It made his thoughts fuzzy and warm.

“Babe,” he finally said as he spread strawberry preserves on his croissant. “You can tell me, you know. If you really want kids. I don’t know how the… the magic part of this works, and I don’t think I’d make a very good mom anyway, but--”

“Aw, sweetie!” Queenie put her hand over his, stroking the burn scar he carried from his very first foray into baking. “I don’t think we’re ready either. I really was just playing around.”

“Playing around?” He lowered his voice, as if people with delicate sensibilities might be listening. “You mean, like we play around with the collar?”

“Yeah, baby. Just like that.” Queenie realised, with a shiver, that she had never before loved another mind enough to reveal her own. Now, in the clear light of day with her thinking properly, this was difficult. This had to be handled properly, precisely, or he’d… he’d…

“You know I like taking care of people.” She felt her face heat up, suddenly feeling small and ridiculous. “So I guess I’ve been thinking, there’s no better way of caring for others than being a dad, you know? I mean of course that ain’t true, moms care just as much, I’m getting all muddled up here…”

“Hey,” Jacob was staring at her as if hooked on every word, his croissant untouched. “You don’t have to try so hard, babe. I just wanna understand, that’s all.”

Deep breath. Queenie grappled for his mind to see what he really thought of her, but her hold slipped and she was left in darkness.

“I-I just think you’d be so pretty and helpless if you were an-- an expecting mom,” she stuttered, her voice breaking as she struggled in a peat bog of embarrassment. “I just wanna do everything for you. Make sure you’re warm and full and well-rested, and rip apart anyone who tries to lay a finger on you.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she dashed them away furiously. “And you’ll be mine, mine forever with my baby inside you, so you can never, ever--”

Leave. The word choked her, burning her throat like hot black tar.

“Oh no, baby.” He was on one knee beside her, wrapping his arms around her, dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief. “Don’t you cry! I’m such a big ol’ nosy puppy!” She smiled in spite of herself as he tugged on his collar and stuck out his tongue. “I gotta ask questions all the time. That’s just the trouble with me, and I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” She sniffed, feeling like an utter idiot. His golden warmth was back, drying up her tears like the sun after a thunderstorm. “I was just scared, sweetie. Scared you wouldn’t understand, and you’d think I was messed up.”

“Oh, you’re messed up all right. Look, your makeup’s running everywhere. You look like a real wicked witch!” Jacob giggled, suddenly leaning in to rub his nose against hers. how Eskimos kiss, he’d told her the first time he’d done it. “But the thing is, I’m messed up too. So’s Tina, and Newt, and Credence and Mr. Graves. And you hold all of us together. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to any of us, Queenie Goldstein!”

Queenie began to cry properly, but these were a different kind of tears. She cried, washing herself clean in Jacob’s endless love and devotion, cried until she choked and began to laugh like Jacob's wicked witch, and he was laughing too, kissing her everywhere until she was sure she would melt away.

After she had washed her face and they had returned to the abandoned croissants, Jacob pouted at her with an odd glint in his eye.

“I’m hungry,” he whined. “But I’m too tired to move. Junior’s been kicking all night and I couldn’t sleep. Won’t you please feed me, babe?”

She giggled like a little girl, then put on a mask of seriousness.

“Of course I will, darling. I’m here to take care of you forever and ever.” And she picked up his croissant and brought it to his lips, then kissed a strawberry line from his cheek.

Ahhhh this is adorable! Thanks so much for sharing this lovely fic with us :)

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I looooove this fill! The last line of Tina's part made me giggle, was perfect. Then Jacob's fantasies were so adorable, and the ending was such a nice emotional twist from the lightness of his puppy thoughts into Queenie's knowing, kinkier ones. (I'm into puppy play myself, so I loved that whole section!) And Newt's was so visceral, I could get into his head more than is probably healthy, but I love Queenie trying to nudge his and Tina's fantasies in a more consensual (dare I say healthier?) direction and towards each other. I'm babbling now but I wanted you to know how much I'm loving this.

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