Wizarding World One Shots (Discontinued)

NEWT scamander x Percival graves

It's been a while, a long, long while since Graves has felt another person pressing against him, felt their lips on his. And this really isn't the time for it, it isn't exactly for the place for it either, but the walls of his house are closing on in him, trapping him in his seat and Scamander, Newt, is the only point of his suddenly claustrophobic home that seems to still breathe.

Only the man isn't - he's gone all but solid against Graves, holding his breath and quivering with the effort not to move. Still warm and still gorgeously alive and weird and so unlike everything in Graves' miserable trap of a house, but... still.

"I'm sorry," Graves murmurs, withdrawing. "I presumed -"

"What?" Scamander, Newt, asks shakily, his eyes flickering open. Their colour is murky and messy, just like the man, and his lips are left hanging slightly open, hint of pink tongue flicking to lick at them. He looks stunned.

"I presumed -" Graves tries to say again but Newt is still there, pressed close, staring at him with his eyes flickering to random points at his face. Graves fingers, still on the man's cheek, shift almost by themselves and he touches Newt's lips. They feel just as soft and full against his fingertip and Newt draws a breath - but doesn't pull back. He's not pulling back.

"I apologise," Graves says and then leans in again. Newt's nose presses against his cheek and he feels the desperate inhale the man draws, too deep and slow to quite be a gasp. This time the man has warning, Graves thinks, he could pull back any time - any moment now.

Except Newt doesn't. He shifts, half flailing, but their lips remain pressed together, and as Graves moves to explore that full, lush lower lip, he feels Newt's hand on him. Awkward and clumsy, they touch his chest, as if afraid, unsure whether to push him away or not, and then Graves gnaws gently on his lower lip and the fingers clutch on him.

Newt makes a sound, a muffled objection and Graves pulls back. "No?" he asks, moving his hand to cup the man's hot face, tracing his thump over the freckles. Even the man's skin is a gorgeous mess, he thinks wildly, fascinated by how pale his own skin seems in comparison.

"I don't - maybe?" Newt says, and he looks bewildered. "Just - what? Why?"

Graves shakes his head. Why - because he feels like he's about to implode on himself in this damn house and he wants something different. It's like there's a curse over him and he wants desperately to break it, and only hint of a solution he's glimpsed was in Newt's careless, wild little grin as he spoke of healing things, over replacing them.

He runs his fingers over Scamander's cheek, up to his hair - it curls and prickles at his fingers, thick and little bit coarse. "You feel so real," Graves murmurs in wonder. "It's as if... I'm wading knee deep in cold water and I haven't seen land in months but here you are."

Newt gulps, shaking his head a little. "I'm just - me," he says confusedly.

"Yes," Graves agrees, staring at his lips. "You're definitely that."

He kisses the man again and this time Newt, though still so startled and so confused, leans into it just a little. Graves directs his head a little with his hand, curling his fingers behind the man's ear - there's something there, a rough patch on the man's skin like grit, like dirt. The kiss turns and deepens and becomes hot and wet and delicious and very, very real.

Newt is breathing quicker now, drawing small hitched breaths against his cheek, shaking all over, and all of it's wonderfully visceral, the heath and smell of his breath, the feel of his tight, tense body, his hands clutching a little too hard on the lapels of Graves' waist coat. If his leg and arm didn't hurt so damn much, Graves would've already pulled him into his lap to feel all of it. Instead they kiss over the distance made by their bodies, but that's wonderful too, the feel of Newt pressed against him there, the warmth of his body through cloth.