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auroargraves:

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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auroargraves:

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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natecchi:

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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funkzpiel:

hamelin-born:

@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?)

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.
rakasha: (Default)
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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.

Well. 

Almost.

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.
rakasha: (Default)
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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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mamin-the-troll:

Huh?

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…

@funkzpiel
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ofthelune:

Now I’m wondering what an Alpha Newt and Omega Percival would be like. Hm.

@funkzpiel
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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. 
rakasha: (Default)
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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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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.

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.
rakasha: (Default)
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fantastic-beasts-smut:

natecchi:

Okay, but Snow White AU?

Grindelwald asking his mirror who’s the most powerful wizard in the world and getting constantly images of this freckled idiotic guy who naps on dragons

or plays with nundus as with regular kittens

Grindelwald thinks his mirror is trolling him

or the wifi connection is bad? Spambot is on?

He manages to disguise himself

the bleached pineapple is fitting

it’s ridiculous enough so no one will ever doubt his intentions

He tries to poison the freckled guy

Feeds him with whatever poisons he has

It doesn’t have any fucking effect- what are you saying? You have antibodies? Well, shit.

He invents a poison. He feeds the guy with it. It doesn’t kill him. (Sucks. Grindelwald sucks at poisons.)

But it makes the guy fall in a state of deep sleep.

That will do, Grindelwald thinks.

The mirror shows his own mug when he asks again. Perfect. Marvelous.

Enter Percival Graves, a knight? A prince? Whatever you want him to be, seriously.

He finds the guy and thinks that cardiac massage and mouth-to-mouth respiration will help to get the guy conscious again?

What are you doing, Graves, he didn’t drown in the mountains, dude! He’s just asleep, man.

Surprisingly, the freckled beauty blinks his eyes open when he feels hands groping at his chest and an eager tongue pushing through his parted lips.

He kicks Percival in the gut, screams and then slaps his face one, two, three, ah, four, five, man, uh, six, okay, Newt! That’s enough, you’ll knock him out, seven, woah, eight.

Grindelwald is in front of his mirror, a cocktail in hand. He asks again while sipping from his drink. Bliss.

He spits everything out. Bleh, gross, man. The mirror grimaces at him. “Wipe me down, asshole.”

It says while showing him the freckled guy beating the shit out of a handsome man, a furious blush on his face.

This is the best thing I’ve ever read in my life
rakasha: (Default)
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Not mine! But it’s such a bittersweet, wonderful story concept that I couldn’t help but want to share it - someone’s writing it over on AO3.

To quote the summary provided on youtube: “Grindelwald’s curses aside, it wasn’t a relationship meant to last. At least not in the magical world…and not until the passing of a century.”

“OR: After the reveal of Grindelwald, Newt stayed in NYC to help find the real Percival Graves. After that the relationship between the two of them had developed to be more than that of MACUSA consultant and director. During a prisoner transfer gone wrong, Grindelwald escaped and had managed to hit Graves with a curse while killing Newt. Graves live on to modern day, throwing himself into his work in MACUSA, his magical force draining but sustaining his life like a perversion of immortality. Many years passed, he still looks the same, as Picquery and many of his old aurors retire and new faces show up. Including Newt.”
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“I fell in love in the back of a cop car.”
- Newt Scamander after he was arrested by Percival Graves because his Erumpant accidentally escaped again and trashed Percival’s apartment. (via ofthelune)
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OH. MY. GOD.

My thoughts are that I love this idea so fucking much. 

More under the cut, ‘cause it ended up hella long.

Keep reading
rakasha: (Default)
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fantastic-beasts-smut:

NEWTON ARTEMIS FIDO SCAMANDER KISSED PERCIVAL GRAVES ON THE CHEEK AND THE DIRECTOR BLUSHED AND STAMMERED FOR THREE DAYS STRAIGHT AFTERWARDS WHENEVER HE WAS IN NEWT’S PRESENCE PASS IT ON
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@lectorel

I blame you for the sudden plotbunny screaming in my head about how Graves (not that anyone knows it’s him) ends up being declared the ‘Dark Consort’ to the Dark Lord Blue Coat. (He is now the dubious step-father of a mulitple of dark creatures and dark magic users who cheerfully call him ‘papa’).

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