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Percival sitting by the windowsill, watching the rain fall and tracing the droplets with his fingers; a small smile on his face, with Newt’s head resting on his lap, the book in his hand forgotten as he drinks in Percival’s serene expression greedily.

Newt gently tracing Percival’s face; from his forehead down to the bridge of his. Brushing his left cheek softly before settling his fingers on Percival’s swollen mouth. Remembering last night’s love making with Percival’s whimpering his name so seductively as Newt takes him again and again and again.

Percival watching Newt tending the creatures in the suitcase. Newt dressed only in his white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Like this, with the sun shining so brightly on his red coppery hair, creating a halo; cradling a baby Occamy in his strong arms, murmuring “Here’s Papa.” with a bright smile that lights up his eyes when Percival steps closer; like this, Percival falls in love with Newt all over again.

Percival and Newt on their bed, with Percival kissing all of Newt’s scars reverently, worshipping his lithe body and praising him. Telling Newt how brave he is for saving the creatures, how Percival is so very proud of Newt’s pursuit. How beautiful Newt is inside and outside. How lucky he is for being able to call Newt “his.”

@funkzpiel @elenothar
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I mean, we’ve seen enough evidence in the movie that he likes to bite his wand because he needs both hands to handle the wee beasties.

so I’m thinking about Newt who has a biting kink where he loves to nibble Percy’s smooth, sharp jawline that the older man is yelping in surprise.

their kisses always start soft but they always end up with Newt pulling Percy closer by his collar, easing the buttons open until Percy’s graceful neckline is shown and then he will start to nibble to his heart content. his sharp incisors pressing on the warm scarred skin, licking and tasting salt on his tongue.

and when Percy is soft and pliant against Newt, unconsciously baring his neck for more, that’s when Newt bites. sinking his teeth against the flesh hard enough it will leave bruises, soft enough that it won’t break the skin.

@funkzpiel @fantastic-beasts-smut
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They’re so flipping cute.

Source: http://ift.tt/2tU9NMe

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It’s CANON that Newt and Tina hook up. However no where in canon does it say they DIDN’T hook up with Percival Graves as well.

So for all we know. It could be canon. Until it specifically says “they did not hook up with percival graves at least once” it’s entirely possible.
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Now, this post by @mamin-the-troll and @funkzpiel gave me an idea and I have to put it down until I haven’t forgot.

Newt and Graves both have an animagus form. They don’t know what is the other one, but they know that both are powerful enough for such a transformation.

Graves is a cat. Short black and white fur, mixed with tones of dirty gray. He’s quite of an impressive size, but he still doesn’t classify as a big cat.

The single disadvantage of him using his animagus form would be the fact that when he’s using it, sometimes his form’s instincts win over his mind.

Never wave something he may consider as a toy in front of him; he’s weak, he will probably end up tackling it to the ground and playing for hours.

Never let him eat raw fish/meat, grass or other things. The stomachache he gets later is awful.

Never let him be in company of other cats, males or females. He will try to mate anyone, really.

Graves’ pupils expand when he sees the pretty ginger cat and he starts purring, a low sound from his chest-

“Wait, director, no!” Tina yells and runs to catch him.

Late. Graves jumps and has his paws on the pretty ginger beauty. The other cat mewls under him and Graves’ purr becomes louder and and and -

The ginger cat shifts into human form and picks up a dumbfounded director, who’s still in his animagus form.

“There, there, Mr. Graves.“ Newt pets his head and coos at him.

Never let him in company of Newt Scamander, both human and animagus forms. He’s too weak. (He’ll probably try to mate with him in any form.)
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The spell of Scheherezade

  Love is not a spell, love will go bad, will migrate, will be expelled from the heart, will become an equal amount of despair and hate.

 But love will not disappear.

 So cursive stand is simply no use!

(Reprinted with permission)


I did the translation work with some help of my friends,and we are not professional…So there may be some mistakes…


PS: Why I can’t find my posts except the unclear one when I search tags I added?

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@hamelin-born​ asked: I feel like worldbuilding - would you be interested in giving me a gramander prompt to expand on?

@funkzpiel​: YES. Hmmmmmm… Newt is actually a Changling that copied Child!Newt’s form
when said child died from becoming an Obscurial. Percy ends up in
Wonderland and Newt is part of Wonderland in some way. Royalty AU where
Character A is King to Be, but taken away/kidnapped/etc etc and
Character B is either charged with retrieving them (or stumbles
accidentally upon them). ASSASSINS AU. Oh Oh OH Angel AU. Ghost AU. Spy

I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic response! But - well. The thing about angel AUs?

“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.“ - Macbeth, William Shakespeare.

(Also, to anyone reading this, please don’t kill me for what’s
probably going to be an extremely fictionalized interpretation of
Christian Mythology. Warnings for - I dunno, blasphemy? Maybe torture?)

Keep reading

It…this..how the hell do you breathe such life into an AU so quickly, woman! HOLY SHIZ-NIZ. 

There’s such a thing as possession, but there’s also such a thing as becoming - and what use do they have, really, for wings that burn like firestorms whenever they take flight?

I think my favorite thing, my absolute favorite thing, is how both angels cope with their past differently.

Newt devotes his life to healing in a an effort to curtail any living beings pain as quickly as possible. He is the help in the aftermath, the gentle hands in the waning light, the patient presence at the bedside - bringing pained souls home.

Percival is the shield. He is the flood gates. An endless basin, ready to take as much pain in and onto himself as needed if it means another soul never feels it. He is the front lines, the brave shot in the dark, the folded flag on a soldier’s casket - large hands that gently cover society’s eyes, lest they know the bitter truth of the world and wilt quicker for it.

But both of them have one thing in common - selflessness.

“She’s a Taker. You need a Giver.”

@funkzpiel  I reiterate what I expressed in the tags to the original post: You had better be prepared to live with the consequences  if you suggest Angel AUs to someone who has read Milton, Marlowe, and Goethe. Also, considering that I’m a hardcore fan of Good Omens, I devoured Neil Gaimen’s The Sandman (and also, to a lesser extent, the side-story/sequel of Lucifer) and was a fan of Supernatural for a while (before it ended, that is, and they started filming fanfiction on the air instead)… Well. You accidentally stumbled on just the right combination of things to set me off like a firecracker.

Also, here! Have a youtube link to a performance that I must admit was quite present in my mind while writing.

Thank you for all the lovely words! One of the things I enjoyed writing in there was how Newt and Graves’ respective habits are not entirely a reaction to coping with their shared past. It’s selflessness on both their parts, yes, but it’s also a choice - a choice that after living in pain and darkness unimaginable, they can be something different. The entity that was once compared to a burning hearthfire had been a soldier, the terror of the battlefield, for literal lifetimes of the earth, and now Newt can be gentle. The being that wore the memory of the night sky used to interrogate the beings unlucky enough to be captured alive, and now Graves can protect people, can make sure it never happens again.

They were literal demons, but when given the opportunity - this is what they chose.
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@hamelin-born​ asked: I feel like worldbuilding - would you be interested in giving me a gramander prompt to expand on?

@funkzpiel​: YES. Hmmmmmm… Newt is actually a Changling that copied Child!Newt’s form when said child died from becoming an Obscurial. Percy ends up in Wonderland and Newt is part of Wonderland in some way. Royalty AU where Character A is King to Be, but taken away/kidnapped/etc etc and Character B is either charged with retrieving them (or stumbles accidentally upon them). ASSASSINS AU. Oh Oh OH Angel AU. Ghost AU. Spy AU. (THROWS AUs AT YOU)

I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic response! But - well. The thing about angel AUs?

“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.“ - Macbeth, William Shakespeare.

(Also, to anyone reading this, please don’t kill me for what’s probably going to be an extremely fictionalized interpretation of Christian Mythology. Warnings for - I dunno, blasphemy? Maybe torture?)

They might have been angels once, in a time before time itself existed. They can remember it, at least - the Silver City, a Light that suffused everything, an absence-of-pain that seems even more miraculous in how they never noticed it. There’s pain now. There’s fear and despair and agony - what else would you expect to find in the dank, dark horror of the Inferno? It would be a blessing, a wonder, a kindness not to remember - but there’s no such thing as blessings here. Hell is the absence of anything even vaguely associated with the sacred, and kindness is non-existent.



It’s a strange almost-peace the two of them find together, huddled in the scant shadows of each other’s wings. They cannot - they can’t remember if they knew each other in the Before - probably not. But right now, they’re the other’s everything. They’re a soft voice in the middle of the screams. A touch that does not incite pain in a land where everything hurts. They’re both soldiers - and one of them may even be a general, but they doesn’t bother to keep track any more. They fight when they’re told to, they scour the Enemy from the face of existence, they tear weapons from the fabric of reality as they hurl it at whatever celestial entity they’re being set against now, whatever higher demon is launching whatever coup, and they don’t bother asking questions.

Not anymore.

They used to. The one that wraps him/her/itself in the memory of a night sky remembers that the other - the one whose imitation of a human form has hair that flickers and dances like flame and, unbound, stretches to their shoulders - well. That one used to ask questions. She/he/it asked fewer and fewer as time went by, until it does what it’s told to do, and retreats back to huddle against its partner in the moments between blood-death-violence-pain.

It’s not peace - not with the fires that stir in their feathers, a flame imperishable that was kindled when they were thrown from the Silver City. When they Fell - it still smoulders, even now. It’s not peace, but it’s the closest thing they have - and they have each other.

The one that wraps him/her/itself in the seeming of the night sky thinks privately to itself that it would have Fallen twice over just to have these fleeting moments with its other.

The one that flickers like a hearthfire knows to the depth of its being that it would fan the embers in his/her/its wings into an inferno if it would quench the other’s pain.

There is no escape from the dank, dark horror of hell.

Not unless you rebel.

And they might have forgotten, delirious with pain and memory and absence - (Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God/And tasted the eternal joys of heaven/Am not tormented with ten thousand hells/In being deprived of everlasting bliss? - Doctor Faustus, Christopher Marlow) they might have forgotten the reasons they fought in the Rebellion, but they did rebel, once. They can almost remember that.

And there is one realm, just one, that is under the sole purview of neither heaven or hell. One species, whose souls embody both limitless integrity and utmost depravity. 

And they are souls, essentially, souls that don’t have bodies per se. There’s such a thing as possession, but there’s also such a thing as becoming - and what use do they have, really, for wings that burn like firestorms whenever they take flight?

It takes a long time. It takes a very, very long time. And perhaps the true sorrow of the tale would be this: when they vanish from the Inferno, not one of the inhabitants cares.


They don’t forget, but they don’t remember all the time. It’s a blessing - and they can have blessings now. Now that they’ve carved away the greater part of what they were to become - this.

Newt Scamander has - had - two parents. He has a brother that loves him. He can remember having a thousand, thousand brothers, but not one of them was like Theseus. Theseus, who holds him when he cries, who defends him from bullies (it doesn’t matter that Newt remembers pain beyond description - it doesn’t lessen the torment), who smiles at him and tells him to follow his dreams and gives him his case. His case. He can be gentle now - Newt never, never wants to cause anything any pain ever, because he doesn’t have to. The Great War nearly tore him to shreds - because he thought that it was over, because he couldn’t do this, not again, not again, not again…

But he had dragons, and he had his case, he has people and creatures that love him, and he can help people. It’s the greatest blessing he can dream of, and sometimes he thinks he’s so happy - so thankful - that he might explode with joy.

Percival Graves is born to a duty, and he’s holding onto it with both hands and his teeth if necessary. Because while duty might normally imply a lack of choice, this is something that he’s diving into headfirst. Because. Because he can protect people. He can keep other people from hurting, he can make sure they never feel pain or fear or the touch of evil. (Sometimes he looks at himself and laughs quietly - who would have set a wolf to guard the sheep?). He can fight, and it can be for something good, something that he chooses - he could even retire, if he wanted to. He could stop fighting. (He doesn’t, but he could).

Grindelwald takes him and chains him, and Graves screams in an agony that’s all too familiar - but he still laughs quietly, when his tormentor isn’t listening. Because even if Grindelwald kills him, Percival Graves has done good things. Had protected people. It’s all he’s ever really wanted.

Later, Newt Scamander and Percival Graves meet for the first time as Newt breaks down the door and leads MACUSA into the cellar where Percival Graves - the real one - has been held captive.

It was worth it, Newt thinks, to fan the flames into an inferno.

It was worth it, Graves swears, to Fall twice over - once from the Silver City, and once into humanity.

They hold hands and rest their foreheads together - it’s a familiar pose.

Behind them is the shadow of wings.
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… All I can think of is Elrond face-palming so hard. He did not ask for all these badgers to suddenly set up a perimeter around Rivendell, nor the deer to come warn them of orc activity, or bears lumbering out from the woods to surprise an orc hunting party. The birds become even chattier than normal.

Whenever Newt is in the vicinity he acquires an entourage. Graves gets used to it eventually. (But not before nearly jumping out of his skin when Newt shows up with a wolf in tow one day. Misunderstood creatures. Right.)
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I drew them through tears because I read angst fic and I needed some fluff to stop my tears. (It didn’t work ; w ;;;;)

They’re asking me why I must hurt myself at this hour…

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Random Gramander Edits (because what else am I supposed to do with my life)

@funkzpiel @stylishbutdefinitelyillegal @elenothar
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Frankly, Graves thinks he should be used to this sort of thing by now. He’s switched species enough times that the entire situation is distinctly reminiscent of a game of musical chairs. Going from a giant wolf-monster to a giant lizard-monster is - far less of an adjustment then his original transformation, actually. Plus, there’s less shed hair (the stuff got everywhere). The whole speaking in tongues bit isn’t really any different then wearing a really good all-purpose translation charm, even though it’s weird sometimes to read menus and realize that he actually understands the meal names. And his suddenly greatly expanded tolerance to temperature extremes is distinctly useful.

(Newt, for one, almost misses the wolf - his lovely wolf, who snuggled with him beneath the full moon and who really appreciated belly-rubs. But Percy is free of the curse of the moon, free of the pain of transformation, and Newt quietly resolves to coax Percy into animagus training - with time and patience, he might yet have his wolf back).

This time around, Percival Graves has Newt, and that makes all the difference. Newt, who can explain to him exactly what these instincts are prompting him towards; Newt, who is encouraging him, Newt who he loves - and if he’s the same as Newt, now, well. Newt’s not a monster. Newt could never be a monster. So Graves is forced to grudgingly accept the fact that he’s not a monster either.

The time, the transition is almost - almost enjoyable. He has Newt’s undivided attention, for one, and while Percival isn’t petty enough to resent how much time Newt spends with his creatures, it’s still nice to have that unrelenting focus fixed squarely on him. Newt carefully, gently, introduces him to what it means to be a dragon - there are foods that make his tongue almost explode with flavor, there’s the almost debauched pleasure of near-boiling bath water against his skin, and don’t get him started on his own involuntary reaction the first time Newt shyly handed him a piece of what the human Graves would have dismissed as a particularly gaudy piece of jewelry. The odd little habits Newt has make sense now, and he feels - closer to his lover then he ever has before.

He could do without Newt’s constant attempts to trick him into flight, though.

And the hoarding instincts. HIS PLANTS ARE NOT A HOARD. (Newt: Yes, they are. This denial isn’t good for you, love.)

Frankly, most of the time he’s a bit surprised by how much he’s not really all that surprised about any of this.
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Parks & Fantastic Beasts: Percival Graves + Ron Swanson quotes
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Now I’m wondering what an Alpha Newt and Omega Percival would be like. Hm.

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Okay so hear me out. 

A hundred or so years ago, young(ish) auror, Jerry Dandridge, goes out to investigate a routine disturbance. Unfortunately it turns out be vampires and he’s killed and turned. 

Because of reasons MACUSA is disinclined to turn on one of its own, so they register him and let him go on his merry way. Providing he doesn’t cause too big of a ruckus or get noticed by No-Maj’s they leave him to his own devices. 

Along the way, his family marries into some of the more prominent Wizarding families and due to various genetic throwbacks, by the 1920s his identical great great nephew seems to be running his old department. And Jerry likes to check in every now and then and keep tabs on/annoy the guy. They are family after all.

Graves is fed up with his Vampire Uncle showing up all the time and having to keep him entertained and out of trouble. He somehow gets into his head that as crazy and homicidal as Jerry is, maybe he’s just lonely. So he gives him a desk job and gets Tina etc to keep an eye on him.

Hilarity (and possibly murder) ensues.

And sometimes Jerry gets called in as an expert witness for various cases cos he has literally seen it all before. And on one such case…

Percival: Would you please state your name for the record?Jerry: *sigh* Gary Dandridge.Percival: My god, Jerry, you can’t even get your own name right?Jerry: Actually my real name is Gary.Percival: Gary?Jerry: Right after I was turned - my Sire, he called me Jerry and I just didn’t think that I should correct him.Percival: That’s ridiculous! Your name is Jerry!Jerry: No, legally my name is Gary.
*hands over vampire registration card*Percival: Gary Dandridge. Jerry Dandridge. Gary Dandridge. Jerry Dandridge. Gary - Jerry - god, they’re both horrible. But Jerry’s better. I’m gonna call you Jerry.Jerry: *shrugs in resignation*Percival: Okay Jerry, do you remember a time… *gazes into the distance*… I’m sorry. I can’t get over the Jerry-Gary thing.Seraphina: Neither can I. Jerry, you can go. We need a five minute break.

WHAT IS THIS. @funkzpiel I feel like you would enjoy this


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(part 2) Stories of a Dark Lord start sweeping the continent as an oblivious Newt continues on - stories of a Dark Lord who commands the fiercest of beasts, who has no mercy on his enemies. And the stories grow in the telling, helped along by sightings of Newt with animals and how he takes down more poaching rings. They say there’s a new Dark Lord, drifting along the fringes of society, with no followers - a Dark Lord as of old, more interested in research and knowledge then conquest (cont)

(part 3). They say this is a Dark Lord all the more dangerous because he cares nothing for humanity, just for his own pursuits. Eventually, the rumor reaches Europe, reaches Theseus - who raises an eyebrow, and writes his brother a letter. Newt, meanwhile, is SO TERRIBLY EMBARASSED. He didn’t mean for the rumors to spread, he didn’t mean to - WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE CALLING HIM A DARK LORD THESEUS, THESESUS, THIS ISN’T FUNNY! (cont)

(part 4). Thus, Newt Scamander becomes an unwilling (and very grumpy) Dark Lord. Who doesn’t actually use dark magic. …I now simply have the mental image of Newt facing off against Grindelwald, and Grindelwald peering at him in recognition, going “Wait a moment, aren’t you Lord - ” Newt just /burns/ red. “YES YES ALL RIGHT LET’S FIGHT ALREADY. Please?”

None of them realize that Newt is not, in fact, a Dark Lord, he is a magizoologist who loves animals far, far more than he values his own safety. He just also happens to be very talented at dueling. 

Theseus, meanwhile, just about busts a gut laughing. Newt won’t talk to him for weeks after. 
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OH MY GOD - That was you! Back before I got more active on this blog, I ran into that on the Percival Graves tag and I fucking loved it. So when someone sent an ask in a little while back suggesting a Selkie!Graves fic, I actually didn’t do anything with it because that worldbuild/fic you did fucking blew my mind and I was just like - nope, that was already tackled perfectly, I’m not touching that with a 10-foot pole! Ooohhh I loved that so much, it was so gorgeous. The idea of Newt in control of the Wild Hunt, I lost my shit man. Lost it.
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@lectorel @stylishbutdefinitelyillegal

There is very little left now.

Percival Graves has been rescued from torture and imprisonment at the hands of Gellert Grindelwald. And despite all claims to the contrary, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement is most decidedly not okay.


After painfearagonyhumiliationpaindon’ttouchmepainbetrayalpainithurtithurtsitHURTS, Percival Graves is – empty. That’s the best description of his current state of being. He goes to work. He does his paperwork. He leads his aurors, stance firm and unfailing as he drags the scum of the Wizarding World to justice. I am fine. Director Graves tells himself, tells the world with every decisive footstep, every barked order. I am fine.

It is his mantra, and he mutters it with all the conviction of a convert hoping, desperately, that if he repeats it enough it might come true.

Percival Graves is not fine.

He comes home in the evenings, and just – stops.

Sometimes he manages to make himself a cup of tea. More often he doesn’t, and simply – sits. Stares into the distance, mind numb and hollow as memory drags him down like a rip current.  He sleeps very little. He only eats when prompted. He just – stops.

Sometimes Graves is vaguely concerned that no one’s noticed his slow decay, his subtle decline. But – it makes sense, doesn’t it? They didn’t notice when he was replaced by a genocidal psychopath. They didn’t notice when Grindelwald wore his face like a cheap suit. Why should they notice his breaking?

Percival Graves sits in an empty house in a darkened room and breathes.

There is very little left now.

He isn’t even curious when there’s a knock at his door. Or at the muffled curses that echo through unlit hallways as footsteps shuffle forward. He is indifferent to the tall body that blunders into his sitting room, or the sharp inhale as unfamiliar eyes land on his still form.

There is a hand beneath his chin, tilting his head upwards and Graves vaguely recognizes the individual in front of him. He’d arrested them once, hadn’t he? The memory is vague and unimportant, but it’s vaguely more interesting then the figure in front of him carefully calling him by name. Yes – a know associate of the Dark Lord (the other Dark Lord, the one who didn’t like humans very much). Graves had ended up releasing them; they’d committed no crime on American soil, and, technically, committed no acts of Black Magic (for all that their aura screamed with the cold of the Dark).

Graves notes their identity absently before letting his mind lapse back into perfect blankness.

There is an arm wrapping around his back, beneath his shoulders, and a sharp curse as he’s levered upright; Graves follows passively as the other magic-user urges them forward. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, not the squeeze of apparition as they clear the threshold, not the sick lurch in his stomach as they rematerialize beneath an undimmed canopy of stars –

There is a fire, and there are dark figures discernible only by the shape of their shadows lingering around the blaze. Heads turn as he is urged forward with a surprising gentleness – again, Graves follows. What else is he to do?

And there is a dark, dark figure sitting to one side of the burning logs.

The magic-user who is half-carrying him sinks to their knees, and Graves is forced to follow. He watches, vaguely curious, as they bow their head. And then – their voice is a whisper, a scream, a memory –

“My lord. Please. Have mercy.”

And this is the Dark Lord, this is the other Dark Lord, the one that Graves sank years of his life into finding, into hunting, into tracking without ever so much as glimpsing the man’s shadow, and faint curiosity strengthens into the first real emotion he’s felt in months as he raises his head and stares head-on at the seated figure.

(Later on, there will be tears and recriminations and explanations, there will be Newt practically diving off the log he was sitting on as he stumbles to Percival’s side, desperately trying to find out where the other man is hurt – he’d thought that the Director was bleeding out, that he’d been horribly maimed, that something was terribly, terribly wrong. There will be Newt sheepishly confessing how even though he’d never so much as touched black magic everyone still insisted on calling him a Dark Lord, there will be a rusty laugh bellowing from Percival’s throat because only you, Scamander, only you…)

There is a Dark Lord, they say. A Dark Lord who is terribly in his mercy, implacable in his fury. A Dark Lord, who has taken a consort, who has bound the man’s shadow and supped wisdom from his sighs.
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“Grindelwald escapee, thirsty for revenge”
Credit for the idea and photo @seasons-gredence​ xX
More Percival Manips [x]


Your thirsty-for-revenge and slightly crazy Graves is back

“You thought throwing me four hundred years in the past would be enough to get me out of your hair? Bitch I invented immortality just to tell you you were wrong.”

I can’t stop laughing. This is gorgeous, and I would really, really like to see Graves making history his bitch as he slogs his way back to the present day.



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