grave leg

Hey Cuck I’m here with your husband in your room, I took this picture last weekend when you threw a party. He took me upstairs and couldn’t control himself . He was telling him how he really needed great sex because you couldn’t handle him. I started to grind my ass against his junk and asked him what would we do if you found out. He said he didn’t care that he just needed to have me that nigh, he graved my pipe and pressed me against himself. I felt his dick and i slowly started to push my shorts down exposing my ass. He bent me over the dresser and ate me out slowly giving my hole sweet little kisses and soft bites while jacking me off. After eating me out for 10 minutes I pushed him to the bed, he took his dick out and I sat on his thick headed cock . He was fucking me senselessly until you started knocking on the door at that point he graved my legs and fucked so hard against the door ignoring after a while you gave up and left humiliated back to your friends. We finished fucking and cleaned our cum covered bodies with your pillow. He laid down, hugged me . I laid my head on his chest and we passed out until the next day.. I can’t believe he made you sleep outside and that you fell asleep outside the door spying on us hahaha 🍆💪💙

thegaypumpingthroughyourveins  asked:

Fic idea : Newt (or whoever else) was hit by a spell and they need to have Graves now. Right fucking now. He doesn't care that Graves is in an important meeting, he bursts the door open and quickly walks to the other man, climbing on his lap and kissing him.

Originally posted by karlrincon

Consider it done.

WARNINGS: NSFW, non-con to dub-con, sex or die

Keep reading

thegaypumpingthroughyourveins  asked:

Graves innocently licking a lollipop, not noticing the way Newts eyes follow his every move.

Now with 1000% more vampire!Graves with Newt being in on the secret


Graves was looking pale. As to be expected from a man who refused to acknowledge the basic necessities of his nature for days at a time. Newt didn’t know exactly how Graves had survived this long without launching into a murderous spree, but that didn’t mean that his methods were exactly healthy.

“Here,” he said, digging in his pockets for the lollipops that he’d decided to carry with him for precisely this kind of moment. 

Graves looked shifty about accepting a Blood Pop, but Newt knew it to be a difficult thing to resist for a vampire. “Thanks,” he said, unwrapping it.

Ten minutes later, Newt was only just beginning to grasp the depths of his mistake. He’d never witnessed Graves when he was feeding before, but he understood now why Graves might try to go for long periods of time without feeding.

Eyes lidded heavily, Graves licked all over the lollipop, which wasn’t large but still made his mouth open wide to accommodate it between his fanged teeth. His mouth seemed twice as red as before, and his tongue too – a deep, bloody red that matched the lollipop. The treat had a hard outer shell that melted to reveal a syrupy center. Graves made a soft noise of surprise when he realized – a grunt that eased into a sucking inhale as he licked away what stuck at the corner of his mouth.

He licked and sucked at the lollipop with a hunger that had Newt swearing to himself. It was wrong to imagine Graves going after anything else in the same way that he did blood, but that did not stop the deluge of mental images. (Graves between Newt’s legs, mouth opened wide to accept the length of Newt’s cock, the thick groan as his mouth was filled to the brim.) Newt trembled at the thought of those fangs near his cock.

Graves sucked the little stick clean and then looked forlornly at it before turning to Newt. His eyes were limned with red. His cheeks were just faintly pink. His hunger barely satisfied.  

Newt dug around in his pockets again before handing a second lollipop over. He had six left. Newt silently resigned himself to a long afternoon.

anonymous asked:

My primary school's field shared a fence with a grave yard so we used to play this game where we climbed a tree on the field, jumped off it into the grave yard and legged it through the gap in the fence about 10 meters away. The winner did it without the dinner ladies noticing.

The term “primary school"always sounds so fancy

actual fairy!Graves headcanons

- Grindelwald decided he was too much of an inconvenience, and then he decided the man was pretty, and what better way to anger the Director of Magical Security than by turning him into a magical creature, the same ones that his kind would gladly hunt down and kill ? 

- Very painful magical ritual, yada yada. By the end of it, Percival Graves is but a tiny, 10 cm high fairy with silver and black wings, aching all over. 

- The Director is indignant. He gives Grindelwald the middle finger and tries to fly away, bite the man, do anything to give him a piece of his mind but Grindelwald just mockingly coos at him before placing the tiny man in a glass jar. 

- That’s where he stays for God knows how long. Grindelwald takes the habit of talking to him, teasing him about the fact that no one has noticed he’s been replaced yet. 

- Graves tries to break his glass prison multiple times, but his magic has been suppressed and changed - the most he can do is make flower crowns appear in thin air. Grindelwald died laughing the first time that happened. 

- Graves is not deterred. He keeps trying, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Grindelwald comes home to find the fairy slumped against the glass, eyes closed, snoring, the shining white light surrounding his body greatly diminished. 

- He changes. Graves’ hair grows longer, but all his body hair is gone. He’s paler, more delicate, more like -well- an actual fairy, and he hates it. 

- He catches himself humming one day as he passes his fingers through his hair, trying to disentangle the knots, before he stops and wonders horrified what the hell it is he’s doing when he should be trying to escape. 

- He asks Grindelwald for clothes. His own human face stares at him and smirks, before conjuring a see-through black dress out of thin air and ordering him to put it on. Graves glares and fumes but does so anyway. “Cute,” Grindelwald whispers as Graves back away, sitting down in a corner of his prison, hands hugging his knees, trying to regain the little dignity he has left. So what if he has to wear women’s clothes? All of this is temporary. He’ll break away eventually, find a way to return to his normal body, and Grindelwald will be sorry. 

The dark wizard doesn’t come home one day. Graves waits, and waits. 

And waits. 

Was he captured? Graves is thrilled at the idea. But will they have the good sense to come looking for him? 

Did they discover who he really was, or was he killed wearing Graves’ face? 

One, two, three days pass. The apartment stays silent. Graves is hungry, restless, anxious. At least Grindelwald kept him fed. He tries to scream, call for help, send a patronus, anything - but his tiny voice is powerless, and his magic feeble. 

Finally, finally- he hears footsteps. He gets up immediately, using the glass as leverage, turning his head in all directions to see where the sound came from. “In here!” he croaks out, though his voice sounds pitiful even to his own ears. “I’m here!” 

And then a - man- walks into the room, blue coat billowing behind him, freckles and green eyes searching around until they settle on the glass jar. His face widens into a smile, and Graves stares, awestruck -because damn him if this stranger isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s seen in days - before calling out, “Tina! I found something!” 

Tina. Tina. 

Graves’ legs shake and give out under him. Tina Tina Tina. She’s not dead. 

Grindelwald made him believe he’d executed her. 

She’s not dead, and she’s here, and she’s an Auror, and she’ll know what to do. 

“Oh, you poor fella,” a voice says near him, and Graves jumps, not having noticed the man come closer and stare at him through the glass. “Come on, we’ll get you out of here. You must be famished. How long have you been here…” 

He introduces himself as Newt Scamander, magizoologist, and simply opens the lid of his prison before taking him by the waist delicately and placing him in his hand. Graves wants to scream. Hours of frustration and magical energy wasted trying to break the glass, and all it took was the twist of a human hand to set him free.

Fuck Grindelwald. 

“Can you understand me?” Newt asks cautiously. Graves frowns. 

“Of course I can,” he says, hating how weak his voice is. Newt’s eyes light up. 

“Wonderful!” and then he starts babbling, as if Graves cared, “What kind of fairy are you? I’ve only met a few who could speak our language and they were not Americans, but-”

“I’m not a fucking fairy,” Graves interrupts, glaring, and it certainly has the effect of shutting Newt up. 

“Percival Graves. Director of Magical Security at the MACUSA until a certain asshole decided to take my place. Pleased to meet you.” He gives Newt his tiny hand to shake. 

Newt gives him his little finger, and Graves wraps his hand around it, trying to make his grip firm. 

“Well, Mr Graves,” Newt says, quickly recovering from his surprise, “You need to feed, and rest, and then we’ll see what we can do about your current situation.” 

Graves hears a gasp behind him and sure enough, Tina is here, staring at him, mouth open, eyes full of relief and shock. 

“Stop gawking,” he mutters. Tina bites her lips, as if she was trying to suppress a laugh. 

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just, I’m so happy to see you, but hm, you look, well…” 



“… Different,” Tina finally says. 

Yeah. Yeah, he can only imagine. 

Damage (Jay Park)

Requested by anon

Prompt: “After all this… you still want me?”, angst

Originally posted by aomgwithkids

     Jay’s brow creased as he saw the name on the screen of his phone. It was your mother’s. She hadn’t called him maybe ever, and it was late on a Thursday night, a very strange time for her to be calling in the first place. He picked up, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hi!”

    “Jay,” her voice said shakily and instantly he knew something was very, very wrong. “You need to come to the hospital right now. She… she was in an accident and she’s in surgery now. I just…” she took a deep, ragged breath, “You should come.”

    “Holy shit, is she going to be okay?” Jay asked, his chest tight with sudden anxiety.

    “They don’t know. We’ll tell you everything when you get here.”

    He sped to the hospital, his heart pounding, trying to push back the rising panic in the back of his head, and when he arrived, he found your parents sitting in the lobby of the hospital with cups of coffee clutched in their shaking hands, their faces haggard and pale as they explained that you’d been in an accident and you were currently in surgery for extensive damage to your facial bones and on top of that you had several broken ribs, an injured leg, and possibly a bad concussion.

    The three of them sat in the lobby in awful, heavy silence for hour after hour, as the monitor which indicated the status of all the surgeries going on got emptier and emptier until just one was still ongoing- yours. Your parents sat close but Jay stuck to the end of the couch until your mom said, “Come here, Jaebum,” and pulled him in as he shifted over, wrapping a tight arm around his shoulders. He lost track of how many times he silently prayed as the minutes ticked by and he couldn’t have distracted himself even if he wanted to.

    It was just past 4:00 in the morning when the screen showed you had moved to recovery and just minutes later, the doctor emerged from the hall.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

would you ever write a gradence star wars AU? not meant to be a request or to pressure you, just curious if those particular two jams of yours might ever result in a mashup. :D

Signs point to yes, noni-wan :3

The healers’ aides on Kyor Wen wore uniform jumpsuits of dove grey trimmed in green.  The color put Graves in mind of Initiates’ robes, or the mist that clung to the cloud forests beyond the Temple.  

A jumpsuit didn’t do much for anybody, even the young man of alarming beauty who was checking Graves in, but the color suited him.  MedCorps Assistant Barebone, read the badge at his breast.  He leaned over the medical droid’s display panel, attentive.  His hair fell in dark waves to the nape of his neck.  

“There’s a prescription for an anxiolytic–”

“No thanks,” Graves said.                                        

Dark eyes flickered up at him, then down.  "Just the analgesic, then.“

Graves stretched his right leg.  He’d torn a ligament or two clawing free from Grindelwald’s den, but the ache was mostly phantom now.  "Low dose,” he said.

He studied the young man, feeling a pull that was only part physical.  The Force swirled around him, around the two of them, in deep currents–not agitated but distinctly in motion, impossible to ignore.  Graves hadn’t felt the like since it had dragged him by the nose to Tina, back when she was a scrawny sprat, but this boy was too old to become a Padawan.  Too old by far. 

Even so, his presence in the Force was tremendous.  "How’d you wind up in the Corps?“ Graves asked. “If it’s not too cruel of me to ask.”

“As an Initiate I had problems with control,” said Barebone quietly.  

“Lots of Initiates have problems with control.”

“Mine were unusual.”  The dark eyes gave nothing away, but Graves felt a glint of old hurt through the Force. “No Jedi Master would have me.”

Graves grunted.  "Cowards.“  

It earned him a wan, fleeting smile.  The medi-droid blipped, whirred, and dispensed a payload of painkillers. Barebone handed the packet of capsules to Graves.  

"Your plan of treatment is rest, meditation, exercise in moderation, hydrotherapy, and cognitive sessions with a Healer.”

“Can’t wait,” said Graves.  It all sounded tolerable, actually, except for the last on the list.  He stuffed the pack of meds into the depths of his cloak.

Barebone glanced at the droid’s display again, then at Graves, eyes fixed on the general area of Graves’ shoulder.  His head bent with deference and doggedness in a peculiar mix.  

“The sessions are mandatory, it says.”

Grousing was beneath a Jedi, as was hiding a hand in his sleeve to flip the bird at Coruscant and Master Seraphina.  Graves settled for rising from his seat and smoothing his cloak.  "Where can a guy get a drink around here?“ he asked.

"The refectory serves wine with meals.”  Barebone spoke with clinical disinterest.  He poked at Graves’ chart with one long, elegant finger. Lucky chart.  "The commissary stocks other legal intoxicants.“  

"You don’t drink.”

A headshake.  So much for that tack.  Graves tried again.  "You play sabacc?“

Barebone opened his mouth, as if to issue another rote no, then paused.  His expression changed.  He blinked, mouth hanging on faint startlement, then straightened and stood eye to eye with Graves for the first time.  The Force swelled.  

Graves tilted an eyebrow, mildly enough–or so he thought.  Barebone promptly looked down again and colored.  He curled his hands into his uniform sleeves.

"I don’t, Master Graves.  But I’d like to learn,” he said.

Gravebone Merman/Captain AU

@gravebone–hell  OK here is part 1 cause i wanna make more now

comment, reblog, and like for more <3


Born with the black mark, the dark tail, smeared with a dirty white underbelly, a powerful, thrashing limb, Credence was immediately abandoned at birth.

In his world, in the fantastic, imperfect society that he’d been born into, his birth was an omen of danger, the boy himself deemed as a threat to their peaceful living. As such, he was left, moments after his birth, ditched in an open sand shallow, reef sharks encircling the young with dark, piercing eyes. Having thrashed around, able to swim, though poorly, right after being introduced to the cruel reality he was facing, Credence’s pale, thin skin broke open and seeped a reddish liquid into the water, thick and viscous, flowing in magnificent ribbons from his wound. The first animal to strike had only done so because it smelt the spill of blood, body churning so rapidly, so swiftly, that there was nothing the infant could have done to avoid the attack. The blow never arrived, the teeth never sank in, and instead a body presented itself as a barrier and defended the young man. Gnashing an array of sharp, serrated teeth, the boy’s saviour growled menacingly at the encircling group of reef sharks, a thick, tough tail of a shark swishing in a threatening motion behind him. Outcast had saved outcast, for what else were they to do for one another.

Credence was raised in an unorthodox manner for his people, transient, never staying in one location for longer than a month, constantly fleeing persecution, having to live in a world that did not want him. The one who had prevented his death, only minutes after his own mother abandoned him, was condemned simply for the fact that he was born with the tail of a shark. Having survived on his own, the vagabond shark lived on the edges of reality, damned for being different, hated for the way he was born despite the fact that he could do nothing about it. It was all explained to Credence when he was of age to comprehend.

In his world, the oceans, the water, society was sculpted by merpeople, by their traditions, customs, beliefs, even if they were outdated and critical. The orca and the shark were two of the condemned deities, and anyone born with their tail was to be killed, essentially what Credence was left for. Raised by an often aggressive, temperamental, and condemned guardian, Credence’s childhood was rough, nearly nonexistent considering the hard realities he was forced to see at such a young age. His life was difficult to say the least, and it was only made worse by the death of the only other he’d ever known. The day he found his body, sunk, bloodied, gnawed on by scavenging fish after facing against a fierce traditionalist that had simply wandered upon the shark, was the day Credence lost a part of him.

The images of the corpse would still haunt him, mostly in sleep, and he would retain the scars of the past mentally just as he did physically. For a few days, mourning the loss more than anything, Credence simply swam around in circles, his tail, scarred with multiple gashes, claw marks, all self inflicted from when he damned himself for being born with the tail of an orca, flicking in the water anxiously, pondering uselessly as to what he should do. In the end, the young man, having just become 18 a few weeks earlier, simply swam off with no direction in particular, searching for a reason to live.

—- 4 Years Later —-

Heavy boots sank into the shallow sandbar, water splashing up and wetting Graves’ pant legs. The man shook his foot from the wet and took a hard step forwards, gait awkward in the unstable sand, but determined nonetheless. Percival shook the sweat from his hair, running a rough hand through the damp locks, greying in some places to his annoyance. He squinted, turning back to the ship and horizon, the sun’s glare glinting brightly in his dark eyes. Behind him, gruff ship hands anchored down the ship, sinking the iron deep into the warm waters. Stomping unto the beach, feet leaving large boot prints in the white sand, Graves swiveled his neck, taking in his surroundings. It was here, he decided, that they would make port for at least the next couple nights.

As a cartographer by trade, buccaneer by personality and hobby, Graves was given the task to map out the islands in the more remote areas of the Caribbean by the trading company he worked for. The task was mutually beneficial, getting Graves out of the way of business, since he usually was around begging for an offshore assignment, and also allowing the man to sail as he seemingly always yearned for.

A deep breath of salty air enthralled the man, scenting not only the ocean, but the vegetation of the thick jungle ahead of him. A knowing smirk played across his lips and he huffed, lifting his feet from the sand and trudging forwards, into the lush greens, pulling out his cutlass, making a short, shrieking sound, and hacking at the inhibiting vines. He’d make his way around the island alone, returning to the crew only when he was satisfied with his venturing. No one objected.

Credence swam lazily along the shallows, following a small school of fish that skirted the edge of the shoreline. He’d been attracted to this island over and over, enticed by the small river that flowed out from the island’s center. At times the young merman would thrash his way up the shallow waters, spraying water in all directions as he powered against the currents, and gawk at the jungle and the odd creatures it held. Credence had known the inhabitants of the water all his life, and to him, it was the land that proved to be the most interesting. Humans were at the top of such list.

In the four years since living completely alone, Credence had seen many ships, odd, floating vessels that carried humans, and observed them from afar, piqued by the way that humans looked so much like he did. Yet, he never dared to try and communicate or even show himself to them, fearful of their reaction to him. If even his own people would refuse to love or accept Credence, how was he to expect compassion, sympathy, or even pity from another race? Instead, he watched the people on the ships at night, observing their silhouettes in the dark, finding what he assumed to be the males more interesting than the rare females he saw at sea. Humans were interesting, violent creatures. Credence had seen more than enough cruelties by humans, the murder of he fellow sea creatures in ruthless, bloody manners that had always left him shaking in terror and unable to sleep for days. Whales, sharks, thousands of fish, and even the occasional dolphin fell victim to the evils done by the humans, and everytime he saw a travesty, too frightened, too weak, to help, his heart broke. Yet, despite all of the death that surrounded the land-dwelling species, they also possessed an intense intellect and emotion that the exiled merman saw from afar. He’d seen humans mourn their own kind, and even other kinds of creatures in rare occasions, seen them joyous, distraught, hopeless, hopeful, and all emotions in between, and their dynamics drew his attention whenever they were present. Thus, it was rather surprising when Credence had not noticed a human that would soon impact his life greatly.

Percival had been trotting the shallows for a few hours now, wet, sweaty, tired, but still not finished. His cutlass sat at his hip, sheathed, wiped clean of plant tissue, but ready to be pulled out a moment’s notice. Graves watched the small fish flit about the water to his left, tiny, shiny bodies glimmering in the falling light. Suddenly, a large, flash of black streaked across his vision. Reflexes fast, trained to be so, Percival’s arm reached for the sword, yanked it out, and stabbed at the water all in a moment’s notice. A soft, painful ‘thunk!’ sounded, and Graves knew he’d struck something before he had even seen it.

Something sickeningly painful streaked up Credence’s tail, all the way from his fluke to his back, spreading through his body like a poison, and then returning to sting more than anything before right at the base of his black, leathery tail. A shrill, piercing scream sounded from him, raising above the water as he pushed himself up on his forearms and tried to see what had caused the pain. The stab did not register to him until he saw Graves’ cutlass embedded deep in his flesh, passing through and keeping the young merman in place in the shallows. Tears arose in his eyes, usually invisible in the water, but now blending with the sea water and dripping down his face. They came out of pain, of fear, of confusion, but mostly because of the burning sensation that set his tail afire despite being underwater. The black, shoulder-length locks of hair clung to Credence’s face and neck, an odd sensation since it was almost constantly in the water, but he barely registered it in comparison to the throb and sting that cascaded around him endlessly. Rather than more screams, his throat sounded with garbled whimpers, short wails, and general cries of confusion and pain. He wondered, for a brief moment, why he had been saved at birth if his life was only to throw hate and violence and suffering at him.

Dark red streamed from the location of Percival’s sword, the shiny metal now stained red, blood flowing freely from the wound he had made in the creature. Despite having seen the black tail, immediately thinking Orcinus orca even though orcas would not survive in such warm waters, Graves had no clue what he was looking at the moment he saw Credence. It did not take long though, for the man to discern that he had captured a merman, a creature thought to be non existent, mythical, until the moment he saw one. While a wash of pity and regret came over the captain, even greater was the voice that shouted for him to leave the thing in the shallows where Graves could easily take it captive. Mind muddled with excitement, confusion, denial, and a melangerie of sympathy clashing with self-interest, Graves left Credence to writhe and leaped through the water to pull the boy from the water and out on the beach where he could at least examine the thing better. He did so, yanking the thrashing figure so that its upper body lay upon the sand, breathing hard, still sobbing, whining pathetically, and its bloody, twitching tail, still pierced with the cutlass, anchoring him down.

“P-P-Please! T-T-Taa-Take i–it o-ow…out!” The cry was begging, Credence’s throat speaking in the air for the first time, creaky and broken, but working nonetheless. “M-Maa…Make it st-st-stop!”

A moment of hesitation washed over Graves, and he knew he must decide. Would he remain ruthless, domineering, without repentance, over this bewildering discovery, though it seemed to be but a young man gifted with a tail, or would Percival take back what he’d done and show all the compassion and regret that he was holding back? It was a quick choice, and he yanked the cutlass free, tossing it away, and immediately placed his hands over the wound. Halting the wailing of the injured and instead getting his attention. Their eyes locked, but nothing was said, Percival’s fingers hard against the fleshy, bleeding wound, and Credence’s face red, eyes sad, and lips swollen from biting them so much. None moved, or spoke, but they remained entranced by one another for a multitude of reasons.

“I’m…I’m sorry…Let me help you. I’m sorry…” The voice cracked, throaty, low, and not belonging to a man that was ruthless, only one that could pretend to be so.

It's kinda​ obvious, actually

Newt is not very good reading people, he’s an expert in magical creatures, sure, but that’s it. People are complicated because they are unpredictable, they usually say the opposite of what they're​ feeling or prefer to remain silent about their thoughts.

So Newt has given up on them for a long time. He has decided to focus only on his creatures. But sometimes, like now, he thinks he can guess what a particular person is thinking, sure he’s not Queenie Goldstein, but he can interpret certain behavior and make a quick deduction of it. It must be like he does with his creatures, right?

So he truly believes he has gotten it right this time. He’s sure Percival Graves hates him. He doesn’t know why though, but he knows the Director does not like him at all.

And he has plenty of evidence to support that fact.

It’s been from the beginning. When he arrived MACUSA looking for Tina, he found the man on his way to Tina’s office and introduced himself with a smile on his face. But Graves looked at him almost in shock and didn’t shake the hand Newt was offering. So Newt decided to turn around and run away from him.

So he has decided to avoid him as much as possible.


Newt accepts the job Picquery offers him because he enjoys being in New York and really likes being around Tina, Queenie and Jacob. But part of him thinks it’s a very bad idea.

Because when he goes to the President’s office, she’s not the only one in there, Graves is standing in a corner watching the whole exchange.

“What do you think, Mr Scamander?” Seraphina Picquery asks with a particularly​ kind smile on her face. Every now and then her glance lands on something behind Newt and he’s sure she’s looking at Graves.

“I-I mean… I appreciate your offer, but I have to travel constantly because of what I do and I don’t think I can stay in just one-” Newt gasps, because suddenly Mr Graves apparates beside him, so close he can feel the heat coming from his body. After the corner of his eye, he notices the wizard is tense. He has the impression is because Graves doesn’t want him there.

Picquery looks at the Director and rolls her eyes before glancing back at Newt.

“Don’t worry, Mr Scamander. You'll​ be free to go when you need to, just make sure to inform… Mr Graves before you go and return to your duties in MACUSA as soon as you can,” she says.

“Really?” Newt is so excited because no one has been this comprehensive before. He has been able to get a stable job because of that. Theseus will be so happy to hear that. “Well… if that’s the case… I accept.”

Graves relaxes or maybe that’s just Newt’s imagination playing tricks on him.

“Great, now Mr Graves will show you around and he’ll tell you about your duties,” she says and waves her hand. “You two are dismissed.”

When they’re alone though, Newt doesn’t let Graves talk, he refuses to be a bother and doesn’t want the Director to hate him more than he already does.

“Don’t worry, Mr Graves, I’ll ask Tina,” he tells him and he's​ sure it’s the right decision because the man frowns as soon as he finishes to talk.

He walks away, he definitely doesn’t run this time.


Newt’s given an office near Graves’, but he doesn’t use it, he spends the majority of his time with Tina. Or at least he used to until Graves shows up in the office and basically yanks him away from there.

“You enjoy being a distraction, don’t you Mr Scamander?” Graves asks and it’s the first time Newt sees the way his lips are quirking up. He wonders if the man is mocking him.

“N-no, of course not!” He gasps almost offended.

Graves laughs and Newt manages not to look as shocked as he feels.

“Well… Since you seem to despise being in your own office, how about you become my own… distraction for the rest of the day?”

Newt blushes and avoids his eyes. He feels his cheeks burning; he’s aware that Mr Graves only wants to be with him to keep an eye on him and his case.

“Alright,” he says, hating the way his voice sounds.

It’s a disaster; his Niffler escapes and takes Graves’ watch and by trying to catch him, Newt ends up falling all over the auror, with the damned thief in his hands, his face inches away from the Director and their legs intertwined. He tries to move away, but it’s very difficult with the creature in his hands. Newt suddenly feels Graves’ wand poking his leg.

He stops when two hands grab his hips almost possessively. Newt looks up and notices Graves flushed face and the way his eyes are closed and his teeth are gritted.

He must be furious.

“Please, Newt… stop,” Graves gasps.

It’s the first time he has called him by his given name.

Newt does as he’s told and Graves opens his eyes and stares at him for a couple of seconds before rolling them both over so he’s the one on top.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he breathes.

Newt blushes. Graves is definitely mad at him, only this time he doesn’t blame him.

“I’m sorry,” Newt says and he really means it.

Instead of rising, Graves leans in. Newt thinks he’s going to yell at him, but then someone knocks and the Director is suddenly standing beside him. Newt doesn’t notice when the man offers him a hand and he stands on his own, he decides to get in his case with the Niffler.


There’s also the way Graves is always looking at him, it’s an intense gaze that doesn’t go away unless someone else snaps the Director out of it.

It happens also when they are on a meeting and Newt wishes Graves stopped because he’s just everyone knows by now their Director is not a fan of his.

One day while he’s feeding his creatures, Tina reminds him they have to go to a meeting, he says he knows and he’ll be there, the problem is Dougal is not feeling well, so he stays until the demiguise falls asleep.

He’s late for the meeting, but he manages to sneak in the room without anyone noticing… The problem is that Graves is the one speaking at the moment and he stops once his eyes land on Newt and follow him around the place until the younger wizard sits next to Tina.

Newt can feel all the eyes on him, but he refuses to move his gaze from his own hands on his lap.

“You were saying, Mr Graves?” Madam Picquery clears her throat.

“Oh, yes, about the information we got from the goblin,” the auror continues, looking flustered for some reason.

He avoids Newt’s eyes for the rest of the meeting.


“You couldn’t be more mistaken, sweetie,” Queenie comments during lunch.

Newt blushes, he has been thinking about Graves and how much the man dislikes him.

“It’s quite the opposite, actually,” the witch giggles.

Newt looks at her, confused. What does she mean by the opposite?

He doesn’t believe her. Because if Graves doesn’t hate him then why he’s so grumpy all the time Newt’s around?

Like when Tina and him were talking about Dougal’s sickness and she hugged him to cheer him up and Graves just glared at them for a couple of seconds.

Or when Richards thanked him for helping him with pixies on his kitchen. He kissed him on the forehead while telling him he was the best thing on earth.

Newt swears he heard Graves growling behind them.

“Well… darling while I agree Mr Graves was definitely angry I can assure you he was not angry with you,” Queenie tells him with a mischievous grin on her face.

Newt doesn’t believe her.


Graves is usually opposed to the idea of letting Newt to go out and help them arrest wizards. But sometimes he has to, when there are dangerous creatures involved and he’s the only one who knows how to control them.

Graves stays close to him all the time though and they start to make a oddly good team.

That is until Newt disobeys one of the Director’s orders and runs towards the wampus to try to heal him. He manages to do it eventually, but not without getting himself injured. It’s not something to worry about, but Graves loses it, he rushes towards him. Newt tries to move, arguing he’s perfectly fine, but the auror keeps him in place, grabbing him by the waist.

“You’re hurt,” he almost growls, angry and scared.

Newt opens his mouth to protest, but the wizard bares his teeth at him.

“Don’t move until I tell you to,” he hisses and starts to check his wounds. But even though he looks irritated, his hands are gentle and kind when he starts to mutter healing spells.

When he finishes he presses their foreheads together and stares at Newt in the eyes. He looks calmed, but there’s a fierce determination in his face.

“If you do something as reckless as you did today, if you keep not caring about your own life, I swear Newt I’ll take you to my home and lock you in my bedroom forever, are we clear?” Graves​ whispers and the only thing Newt manages to do is nod.


When they have news about Grindelwald’s followers, Graves starts behaving even weirder than before.

He seems to appear anywhere Newt is at the time and looks at him like he wants to learn him by heart.

Then, one night, when he's​ about to go with the Goldsteins, Graves corners him. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days and the desperation on his face is almost palpable.

“Move in with me,” he gasps, the words come out of his mouth like something between an order and a plea.

“What?” Newt squeaks and he blushes when the auror leans in, burning his face in the crook of Newt’s neck.

“Please,” he begs this time. “Or at least allow me to follow you, to put a protection charm around you or just let me… please.”

Newt blinks a few times, before making sure he’s not dreaming.

“You’re… worried?” He asks and when he sees Graves nod he adds: “But I thought you hated me!”

“Hate you?” Graves looks up and frowns. “Who told you that? Newt, I’ve been in love with you since I met you!”

“Oh…” It’s everything he says. His heart is beating inside his chest like a drum.

“And I thought it was obvious,” Graves continues, amused.

Newt chuckles, flustered. Graves seems encouraged by his reaction because he kisses him on the neck, tracing a path up to his lips. But he stops before kissing his mouth and waits for permission.

Newt whines out of impatience and closes the distance between them. Graves moans and licks his lower lip until the younger wizard parts his lips.

“Move in with me?” Graves asks again, taking the man by the waist and pulling him closer.

“Yes,” Newt answers, breathless. “But we’ll definitely have to talk about those protection charms. Because I don’t need them.”

“Fine, my darling,” Graves purrs and Newt almost melts at the word. “But then you’ll have to let me be with you all the time, so I can protect you myself.”

“That’s not necessary, Percy,” he gasps, distracted by Percival’s teeth on his neck.

“It is, but we’ll discuss it later,” the auror whispers.

Newt sighs, knowing that man will drive him insane. What he just got himself into?

So. SO. Guess who (finally) watched Fright Night. Guess who has just had an hour and a half of Colin Farrell playing a vampire. Guess what this means.

This means that Percival Graves, salty, bitchy fucker that we all know and love, is about to get very intimately acquainted with what it means to be a demon of the night.

It starts, as most of Graves’ troubles tend to, while he’s with Grindelwald. In this universe Grindelwald has gone down the cliched route, added a bit of drama and flair to his life. I mean, come on. Look at the way he swept about in Graves’ coat, look at the pretentious last line he threw Newt’s way when he was captured. You can’t tell me Grindelwald isn’t a complete dramaqueen underneath all of that spiked hair and bleach.

He keeps Graves locked to a wall, iron manacles around his wrists that suppress and block the flow of magic. A wizard’s hands are his life - who ever heard of someone shooting spells out their nose? (Graves will damn well try to sneeze fire if it gets him free, but as yet the most he’s done is made sparks dance through his eyebrows. Not useful.) The manacles are raised above his head, chained in place in a way that makes his shoulders ache and his hands numb.

At first, that’s all Grindelwald needs. But Graves - Graves’ city is in danger. Graves’ aurors are in danger. He floods the manacles, wearing away at the enchantments on them bit by runic bit, working his way to freedom one hour at a time. Grindelwald has met his type before. Dedicated. Driven. He won’t stop until he’s free or dead, not unless Grindelwald breaks him first.

So he breaks him. How could Graves still fight for his aurors, Grindelwald reasons, if he himself is a dark creature that his aurors would kill on sight?

Grindelwald. Grindelwald, darling, allow me to introduce you to Percival Graves. He does not stop. Ever. You could kill the man and he’d come back as a ghost if he thought his aurors needed him to. Being turned into a vampire is a trifling annoyance that Graves stubbornly refuses to acknowledge beyond investing in some heavy duty sun-blocker potion when the burns get too bad.

Graves gets himself free, in the end, and he storms back into the mess that Grindelwald left behind. He marches down his corridors barking insults and dragging the junior aurors back to the practice room to have their asses handed to them in training and throwing an absolute hissy fit about the fact that Grindelwald failed to complete even a single item of paperwork. He tears through his aurors like a foul mouthed jarvey and grumps at Picquery when she doesn’t get out his way fast enough and everyone is so damn relieved to have him back.

So relieved that they don’t notice the way his hands shake. The way he clutches at his coffee like a lifeline, hiding behind his mug whenever anyone gets too close. The way he all but flinches back from people, the way he keeps his windows open in the middle of winter and drinks in fresh air like a drowning man to keep from losing himself in the smell of blood. He’s going mad. He’s surrounded by living, breathing, beating hearts and he’ll die if he doesn’t give in soon - but he’d rather die than do that. It puts something of a time limit on his work, trying to fix things, trying to get everything ready for the successor he hasn’t yet picked to follow him. It makes for a lot of late nights and early starts, a lot of saying fuck it to pretences and just working round the clock. The vampiric lack of need for sleep is a mighty handy thing.

It’s on one of these all nighters that he meets Newt at three in the morning. Why exactly Newt is in the auror department at three in the morning he isn’t quite sure, because his mind is preoccupied with other things.

Namely, the fact that with no one else around to provide background noise, he can hear Newt’s heartbeat echoing like a siren call through the empty room. Or the fact that the auror department smells stale, old papers and coffee dregs, but Newt walks through the middle like something sweet and pure.

Keep reading

hargreaves1999  asked:

Your stories and ideas are getting better and better. Thank you for bringing so much joy to my days! I love that you plan to incorporate beasts from all over the world into your stories. Have you thought about a pirate AU or a Master and Commander AU? Newt would fit the Stephen Maturin type a lot, maybe the younger brother of admiral Theuseus Scamander who he accompanies on his voyages. And Graves a captain in his fleet. Dread pirate Grindelwald as their foe? A naval love story.

Ahhh, thank you! And yes, building up the beasts directory is still going (if anyone has any they know of, I’m always happy to hear about them!).

Master and Commander I know of, but have never read. A pirate AU though… Hmmmmm…

We’d move this one out of the 1920s, I think. I’m almost tempted to stick us in the Napoleonic wars, but let’s go one better than that. Let’s aim for the late seventeenth century, a time when the Spanish were rolling in gold from the New World and Britain was… looking the other way, shall we say, from the many pirates who were harrying the Spanish ships. The British and the Spanish were also more openly on the outs; Theseus perhaps became famous for his daring and strategy as a young captain during the Anglo-Spanish war of 1654-1660, a war that ended with British victory, a collection of Caribbean islands added to the Empire, and a new admiralty position for Theseus. Fabulous.

Fast forwards now to the 1680s, and Europe is beginning to frown on the buccaneers that had been all but officially mandated before. They’re getting rowdy and hard to control, and really, it’s not quite the done thing to be funding piracy against one’s enemy in this civilised day. So. The pirates have got to go, and Theseus is roped into stamping them out.

This seems like a good setup, don’t you think? Theseus takes Newt, because Newt is eternally footloose and incapable of committing to anything - he’s supposed to be a scribe for the local businesses, but he keeps being distracted and using his materials to draw the many birds and sea creatures down by the shore instead. Perhaps the navy will shape him up? It worked for Theseus, after all.

Theseus himself is too busy to watch Newt directly; after not one but three incidents where Newt got himself in trouble chasing after manta rays and turtles, Theseus hands him over to one of his junior captains.

“Keep an eye on him,” he tells Graves.

“Hello,” Newt waves, uniform askew and fingers stained with ink. He smiles, distracted and crooked, and Graves decides to hate him on sight. Newt is so clearly unsuited for navy life and Graves doesn’t have time to mollycoddle the admirals’ younger brother. It’s ridiculous. Nepotism. Feh.

Still, Graves is nothing if not stiffly formal and polite, and he treats the wayward Scamander as well as he can - though with a brisk, detached air that makes it clear he is doing his job and nothing more than that.

Because that’s all he’s doing. His job. If he gets fed up with the awkward, gangly way that Newt wields a sword and decides to teach him how to do it properly, that’s just his job. If he gets curious about the notebook Newt is always scratching away at with his quills and ink, and if that curiosity develops into an appreciation for the lightning-quick mind that hides behind Newt’s dreamy smile, that’s just his job. If he pauses, sometimes, and loses himself in the way the candlelight paints Newt in gold and copper, if he stumbles over his words and excuses himself for a bit of fresh air on the deck, if he jumps when Newt lays a tentative hand on his arm and asks him if everything is ok -

It’s just his job.

Graves holds to that like a lifeline because what would Theseus say, what would he do if he knew the thoughts that Graves can’t control? If he knew about the nights Graves wakes up with the sheets tangled around his legs, gasping Newt’s name and aching for his touch? Newt is a damnably tactile person and he grabs Graves by the elbow to drag him to see the dolphins playing in the bow wave, presses up against him as he leans over the side to laugh in delight, and when he turns to Graves and babbles something about pods and bottlenoses, when the sun sparkles off the red in his hair and the breeze chases his freckles over his perfect face -

It’s hard, to remember that it’s just a job.

When Grindelwald attacks, he does it with cannons, with flaming tar and spinning ropes that take down the main mast. He doesn’t bother to take the ship - he has enough of his own in his fleet, enough weathered pirates unwilling to give up their easy spoils - but Graves? He has uses for Graves. He drags the captain back into his stained and salt-corroded brig in chains and lights the fuses, and the last thing Graves sees is Newt, silhouetted gold against the fire. One of the pirates blocks his view and Graves strains against his bonds, but the sound of the ship exploding is unmistakeable. The smoke claws for the sky. The water heaves with the shockwave. The pirates cheer. Graves falls back, defeated and numb.

And Newt was so much more than a fucking job.


(Newt was bleeding, salt water stinging against the stump of his leg and the raw, mangled mess of burns up his side; Newt was clinging to his dolphins and fighting the urge to sleep because sleep would be so much warmer and so much deadlier than the freezing wind; Newt was crawling up the beach with a single minded determination and staying alive through sheer force of will. Grindelwald, he spits, and glares at the hazy specks disappearing over the horizon. He has a captain to save and a grudge to hold, and Grindelwald will learn that a Scamander is a dangerous thing to make an enemy of.)