1251 Words

Inspired by the prompt on Tumblr:
"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" by fantastic-beasts-smut.
Inspired by axilarts' artistic contribution.

Link: post/159472740731/fantastic-beasts-smut-newton-artemis-fido?is_related_post=1

Percival Graves knew deep, deep down inside he was in deep, deep shit. But the knowledge was so deep down, that it might as well not have existed.

Or at least he wishes it hasn't, because Newt Scamander was distressed. Miserable. Devastated. And he would not stand for the status quo.

(At the very least, he consoled himself. It wasn't me.)

Percival Graves is a man of rationality, alright? Mind over matter and all that. It doesn't mean he neglects his bodily functions and health, because he is the goddamn director of MACUSA's security and well-being and all that, but there are still too many times where he wishes he would have used his goddamn brain.

Or maybe his self-preservation instincts, because he could have asked (read: ordered) Goldstein to give Scamander the Qilin on his behalf, and he certainly wouldn't be in this mess.

("Mess," he scoffs silently. "More like a chronic illness that won't go away. This is getting ridiculous.")

I'm certain you all want to know what kind of mess our one and only Percival has gotten into, right? Otherwise you wouldn't be here and that is a whole 'nother can of worms to get into, so I'll cut this short-

He didn't use his self-preservation instincts, and he knows he is in deep shit, because he gave custody of the Qilin foal in person, and Scamander was very thankful. So thankful, that he went from a miserable, because distressed was too weak of a word but devastated a tad too strong- but just a tad! Wreck (Oh god, his inner Seraphina groans. Do you even know what you are thinking.) of a wonderful person back to… a wonderful person. (Inner Seraphina just chucked a dictionary at his head, muttering his word choices are one of the many reasons why he didn't manage to become Head Boy, and he is really tempted to go and see a therapist.)

Back on track, Newt was the personification of sunshine and happiness again (Mercy Lewis Percy will you stop?), and all was right in the world of one Percival Graves, until the axis malfunctioned and bounced off into the void of outer space, never to be seen from again. (Melodrama is unbecoming of you. Seraphina. Fine, fine. Treat your self-preservation and rationality like that, sure. Smart. Wait what. Nothing! Get back to the story-telling! What no you explain-)

Because Newt Scamander gave him, him, a kiss on the cheek. A kiss.

So the axis had a field day and went on vacation and all that jazz, but you know what is worse? Do you?

He can't control the color of his head anymore. What kind of director of magical security and responsible for MACUSA's well-being can't do that? The ones that don't deserve the title, those ones.

He inhales and rubs his temples, the stacks of paperwork a mental afterimage. This is not the time for self-pity and doubt. This is the time to do something productive. You're here in an office, and you should damn well do some office-related things, like working.

And so he works, the stacks of paperwork gradually decreasing in number, a skill and phenomena achieved after hard and earned experience, when the door opens and Seraphina strides in with the confidence of a queen.

A queen which left arm suspiciously lingers at the frame for a minute while, and when his eyes focus on the background from which she came, Scamander is in full view, smiling at one thing or another-

And the door closes, with Seraphina's eyes crinkling in amusement at the corners, but face otherwise stony as ever.

"I see you have temperature fluctuations in your office again, Director Graves."

"Madam President," he smiles with too much teeth, the by now familiar heat returning with vengeance. "What brings you in my office?"

"Well," she drawls, and a corner of her lips rises. "I have suspicions regarding said temperature fluctuations Graves, and the consequences might be dire if you don't act upon them."

"What?" The word tumbles out before he can control his mouth.

A sigh. "Eloquent as ever."

"What do you mean with act upon them."

"Oh, you know." The door is opened again with Scamander still chatting with Goldstein. "Just me having MACUSA's as well as one of my old schoolmates' well-being at heart. Typical semantics, yes?"

Percival curses traitorous and backstabbing friends, cheeks still red and hotter than the fire of the dragon's Scamander so passionately rambles about.

"By the way," Seraphina opens the door again. "The Goldstein Sisters are always happy to give advice, so don't go too hard on them, alright Percy-dear?"

The door is quickly closed before the nearest object "Percy-dear" can grab, a paperweight gifted from a slimy ex-colleague, can collide with the target. He can just picture the stifled laughter overshadowed by the bang of the ugly paperweight's sound of impact.

Why did he have friends again?

It is later, much later than he would have preferred but who was he to complain, he can return the favour.

"So," he drawls, in the midst of a small debrief meeting with trusted individuals. "Did you know Goldstein here has discovered a way to disable opponents with minimal effort?"

The auror beams into the round with a touch of surprise. She? Being praised? By Director Graves? What's the catch?

Seraphina's nose twitches a bit, but is goes unnoticed by everyone else looking at Goldstein in awe.

"Go on," he encourages her. Not only is this a convenient way of payback, but it would help their auror forces as well.

"One just summons their torso." She elaborates. "It is safer than to summon their hair or clothing, because they can detach from the target, and if one summons a limb, who knows what might happen if it gets… stuck."

She doesn't need to explain further on that. "One could technically summon their wands, but not everyone relies on wands to do magic. Summoning their torso ensures that limbs and such stay attached, and it catches them off guard, which opens a wide array of opportunities."

This is the exact moment he has been waiting for, and he shows a memory of the execution. Porpentina Goldstein runs at the flying criminal and punches him in the reproductive area. The memory stops mid-scream, and a few of her colleagues are green.

Seraphina just looks smitten as she foregoes her composure.

"Are you feeling well Madame President?" He smiles, eye corner's crinkling as the only sign to the addressed that this is deliberate.

"It seems that you're undergoing some temperature fluctuations."

A moment of bated breath and disbelieved shock resonates in the room, but it is soon replaced by anticipation and terror.

"Eloquent execution of your concern, Director Graves." She purrs, an unholy glint in her eyes.

"I heard that Bake-kujira blood helps with that, I'm sure that our resident magizoologist wouldn't mind furthering his knowledge about that mysterious creature, would he?"

Pray tell, why did he have friends again?

"Also," she continues, slightly preening under Goldstein's cow eyes. "What am I hearing about you almost having an ulcer again?"

"It was something I ate," he reassures hastily. "I am perfectly non-stressed."

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting that I should sent our one and only resident magizoologist with a trouble magnet of a suitcase alone to the Japan Sea?"

Ah. He remembers the reasons again.

( But this is yet to be over, mind you!

Inner Seraphina sighs in response and pinches her nose.)