#wolf!graves

Mr.Graves won’t ask nicely. If he likes it, he bites it!

Oh. Oh my god. Yes. 

Newt doesn’t come back to them quite the same; not that it comes to affect the aurors. No, they don’t mind. To everyone, Newt is fine! He smiles, he jokes, he looks at your cheek oddly when he speaks to you. He gets excited about his creatures, passionate when they’re at stake. To most of the world, Newt is not different at all. 

If it wasn’t for their boss, they’d honestly never know the difference.

But Newt is different. There’s a spark of wildness in his blood that doesn’t leave once he’s human again. A sharpness in his teeth that hasn’t softened, leaving little pinpricks of blood on Graves’ immaculate clothes. They don’t understand, at first, until the day the cool air dies in the building on during a classically scolding New York summer.

It’s not the first time they’ve seen their boss sans coat or with his sleeves rolled up - but it is the first time they’ve actually glimpsed Newt’s possessive bite marks. Crescent rows of indents along the flesh of his forearm, peeking out on his neck from the unbutton collar of his shirt. Sharp and bruised and angry looking. And without needing to see, they know there’s likely more. Livid rings of teeth marks on his thighs and his hips and his back and his ribs - covered in the animalistic signature unique to Newt’s pearly whites.

And when they hesitantly glance at Newt, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the man doesn’t regret a thing. There’s a hunger in his gaze that leaves them reeling - a predatory warning. Touch what’s mine and you’ll never touch anything again.

They never question it. They never bring it up. Mr. Graves is a strong man, and they trust in him to either handle himself or seek one of them for help, if he needs it.

No one considered that perhaps Graves had not come back quite the same either. Just because Newt isn’t covered in a mapwork of teeth imprints doesn’t mean nothing of the wolf still lingers beneath Graves’ skin.

No one even considered it until the day a foreign dignitary comes to visit, particularly keen on speaking to Newt. He’s sleazy and heavy handed in his advances, and the aurors all have the hackles up because oh hell no, you are not hitting on their boss’ man, when Graves suddenly appears.

“Mr. Moretti, such a pleasure to see you again,” and then, without missing a beat, he grabbed Newt by the shoulders and proceeded to rub the finely shaved line of his jaw against Newt’s cheek, Newt’s throat, Newt’s shoulder. Hips grinding against Newt’s side in a single lewd maneuver. The aurors are openmouthed and gawking. The dignitary is frozen, wide-eyed. “I trust your trip here went smoothly?”

And damn if Newt doesn’t look pleased as punch, just absolutely fucking preening at the stranger as Graves rubs his scent proprietarily across Newt’s skin. When finally he pulls away, he smiles with far more teeth than last the aurors could recall - and they can practically see the dignitary’s soul leave his body. He doesn’t so much as look Newt’s way again during the entire trip.

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 ;;;;)

Snout kiss!

For @funkzpiel because of this wonderful and perfect fic. Your fic make me wanna draw a lot more omg (Please excuse me but I think I won’t be able to stop doodling ; w ;). Thank you so much :D

Who haven’t read the fic please go and read it. It’s so amazing I wanna scream. Funkzpiel’s Newt is VERY ADORABLE and Wolf!Graves is FREAKING GOOD TO MY HEART!!! That’s all the reasons to read this fic!!!

You should honestly thank @anirishman; the’re the one who sparked the post. I’d like to think that, possessive as they both are, they lose their shit when one of them willingly succumbs or initiates something that would mark them as claimed to the other person.

Example: Graves just fucking mauls Newt on the kitchen table when he walks into the kitchen to find the man standing in its center, tea cup in hand, staring sleepily out the window into the garden in nothing but a pair of soft socks and one of Graves’ large shirts, buttons off by one set and skewed off his shoulder.