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A waltz through your bloodstream

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It's their first night back home, and as expected, Percival is exhausted.

His mind is a buzzing whirl of thoughts and emotions that refuse to leave, the purple of the hillside in England a reminder of their holidays. He stares at the break of dawn through the window of their living room, New York sputtering its excitement on the soaked pavement.

“It was an excellent trip,” Theseus argues as he sets their luggage down with a wave of his wand, the kneazles crowding at his feet in a chorus of merry meows. “Did you hate it so much? I thought you got along very well with my mother and step-father.”

There. Concern.

His lungs suddenly start hurting. Merlin, it’s so easy to feel shadows beginning to unfurl in his chest, a terrible hint at darker times of his life where fears would never melt away.

Are you regretting it? it spells in bright, bold letters. Are you regretting meeting my parents? Our trip? The fields and the veiny leaves of willow trees and pies fresh with vanilla each and every morning?

“He’s one to keep,” his step-father had said in the dying violet hour of their home in Bath. “He likes apple pie. He’s a good person.”

Theseus let out a laugh. “It’s not just about liking pies, Dad.”

If only liking apple pie made this world worthwhile for all its flaws and clouds of despair.

Percival sighs, cards a hand through his traveling-shaken pommade. “Baby, of course not, that’s baloney— how could you ever think that?”

For a while, there’s just the distant sound of their creatures brushing past his ears while a constant ringing make anxiety break through his skin; and the fact that Percival couldn’t muster up a proper answer to the other man’s question — a question he knows well, a question that asserts all of Theseus’ fears — makes it even worse. It crawls in his veins like a consistent tug at suffering.

He loves Percival with the fierceness of a first love; and first loves bring quiet awakenings as much as utter uneasy apprehension and ghost pains between shoulder blades.

“You’re scowling!” Theseus finally exclaims after a beat, reprovingly, a kneazle in his arms, and Mercy Lewis, Percival can breathe again. “As much as I would have loved to be one, I am the shittiest Legilimens ever, so I can’t exactly read your mind. If you don’t keep me posted on what’s going on in there,” and he gestures at his husband’s head with the tip of a finger, “I can’t be sure how you’re feeling if you don’t tell me.”

Percival can’t really manage a laugh at that, though, so he shrugs. “You are so very thick at times that I wonder why I even married the idiot you are in the first place.”

Theseus perks up, and he’s grinning so widely Percival starts worrying — a grinning Theseus is the bearer of either very bad news or very bad puns.

“You called me “thick”, Perce—”

Oh, fuck me.

“Merlin’s beard, don’t. Please don’t or I will have to fill the papers for divorce.”

“That will be the official name of my cock from now on,” and of course Theseus had to say that, of course he had to.

“Thes, for fuck’s sake,” Percival manages to exhale with exhaustion pulling at his lungs but still a hint of amusement showing through, “it’s such a turn off.

At that, his husband arches an eyebrow, smirk still in place and burning brightly, and he steps closer, reaches out to palm Percival’s ass; he flinches at the feeling of skin, Theseus being a cheeky bastard who goes directly for what he wants. “As if you weren’t the prettiest sight when you are sucking me off with all your might. Don’t tell me you hate it?”

The idiot has the audacity to wink, but there’s no denying it: the distant burn of his arousal is sharp and clear, and he wants Theseus so badly, so much that he can feel warmth taking over his belly.

Both hands end up sliding down Percival’s back and curving tighter around his ass, pulling them flush together; feeling the red-haired man’s lips against the pulse of his throat is enough to make him gasp, and soon enough, he is letting out a bitten-off moan.

“That’s it, I’m fucking divorcing you,” and Percival sounds rougher this time, voice stormy with affectionate exasperation and desire as his eyes flutter shut; that’s all Theseus needs, this the strain he can hear, bubbling under the surface and licking at the older man’s crimson-stained mouth. “Fuck.”


The British Auror holds Percival’s hand up to his lips, puncture wounds spreading like galaxies over his arm here in the protective circle of their embrace. He tastes his breath, the warm ghost of his exhale, and nothing seems to matter when it’s just them two against the world, especially as Theseus nips his lower lip in a possessive wave of mine mine mine.

Soon enough, there’s the curve of Percival’s shoulder under his teeth and the gentle hum of anxiety has lessened, replaced by a fierce need to mark and bite and brand as ownership, as personal property.

Animal, you’re an animal, but—

Oh. Merlin, Merlin, look at him, look at him spreading his legs for you and asking, begging for you, always for more.

Theseus makes a face Percival can’t quite read then says, “I really want to fuck you on the spot and make you scream until you’re hoarse.”

A grin and shards of laughter. “You’re absolutely frightening when you’re horny,” the Graves heir huffs, and he’s blinking back stars and fragments of happiness in the form of salted jewels. The cold sunlight of April rises and falls upon his cheeks like chiaroscuro.

“Is it not sexy talk enough for you, Percival Graves?” the red-haired Brit asks, nails grazing him through the fabric of his shirt; he feels another rush of satisfaction as Percival seems to melt under his touch, sliding his hand down further until it rests atop the bulge in Percival’s underwear.

Said-Percival seems to hold his breath as Theseus, charming, gracious Theseus hooks a finger under the necklace around his neck to pull him even closer; though he still manages a petulant, “it’s Graves-Scamander, you absolute cock,” and Theseus to add — because he never knows where to stop — a smirk and sprinkled words of delight in the form of “absolute cock? You’ll find I’m actually a pretty big shot.”

He kisses him again and now their bare skins touch and Percival shivers, a shocked blush on either side of his face in the dim morning light. The smell of just-made coffee and tea curls in a dance nearby, croissants abandoned and eggs forgotten, thank God, off the stove while their legs carry them to the bedroom, hands and arms unable to be apart for more than a sacred second.

“Yeah, and Big shot vanished our clothes without telling me.”

A giggle and Theseus’ breath is hot through Percival’s underwear, which makes him feel like he’s melting; and when the red-haired man pulls down his underwear to fit his lips around the head of his cock, Percival is quite sure he stops breathing, brain short-circuiting on its own— no matter how long they have been having sex for, it always feels special, new, similar to a flickering blue light.

A kiss roams the curving of his length, the foreskin slides back and forth, a tongue on his slit, and new beginnings happen when hands spread his ass cheeks apart; his hole flutters, puffy and eager to be fucked— it doesn’t take long for Theseus to murmur a soft spell that has Percival biting his lower lip to retain a growl and its following moans when the cold feeling of lube comes in contact with his rim, heel of his palm against his balls.

It happens to be so fucking tempting to suck Percival until he's squirming, but Theseus has other plans that involve some thundering heat to stop pooling in his lower belly so it can explode everywhere in large gushes of pleasure, right up through his skull.

Percival's body tenses every time Theseus slides his fingers in, his hole clenching around them, Theseus moving slow to let his husband accommodate the intrusion. He loves it, the sensation of being stretched, filled; can feel the thrill of having fingers pressed inside him, each knuckle reaching his rim for a well-deserved taunt, fucking him hard and in earnest, stretching his hole open.

His fingers are cool on Theseus’ rosy cheeks as Percival cups the patches of blotchy skin, loving how the redhead leans into the pressure, savouring the touch as if he had never known the brush of a beloved hand.

A long, contented sigh escapes Theseus; fingers still inside, he leans closer, brushing his lips to Percival’s ear and runs his tongue along the shell of it. “I need you, love—”

“Need you more,” Percival retorts in a groan against the underside of his jaw, which makes Theseus pull back to take a good look at his husband, who curls his fingers into the fabric of the bedsheets, cock straining eagerly against Theseus’ thigh.

It’s so easy to please him, to press the head of his cock to his hole so as to tease him completely; it turns Percival crazy, makes him moan and writhe for more, more, more, always more, makes him whimper, bruised and red, as Theseus’ filthy words ring through his ears—

“You’re such a cock slut, Percival, but you’re my cock slut.”

Well, fuck.

If he wishes to be silent for a moment, burying his head into the curve of Theseus’ shoulder, it doesn’t work; not when Theseus is opening him up with his thick cock, not when this fiery redhead has mischief and mightiness dancing in complete delight in his green eyes.


Theseus... has a bit of habit.

It is, in fact, that he can’t quite keep quiet while fucking the older man boneless; not that Percival minds because the utter filth that the British Auror smears in the air goes directly to his cock—

“You’re so gorgeous when you’re begging for my cock,” he growls, and Percival is starting to drool with want, saliva dripping down his chin before Theseus leans down again to suck on his jaw, on his full lower lip and then to lick into his mouth heavily.


“I love it,” Graves says, panting when they pull apart for air. Theseus’ fingers are digging into Percival’s pale, wide thighs — the results of many slices of cake and pasta cooked to perfection — which are scarred to no end but all the more beautiful for their imperfect shapes and crisscross pattern. “Only— yours, only for you,” he groans suddenly, dropping his head to the pillows, growling and biting at Theseus’ bronze-laced, silver-exploding wrists.

Love caught between them, he hums a pleased note against Graves’ neck as he pushes in, face in love and in fear.

Theseus hooks his arm underneath Percival’s leg and pulls it up to the other man’s chest, his cock sinking deeper inside of him. His eyes open beyond open, wild, the tight heat of being together an overwhelming winter.

Fingers grip a fistful of his dark, wet hair, tugging sharply on it.


Spring and the flutter of his raven eyelids, his mouth gone slack and gleaming, cherry red lips parted; spring happens to be the small shreds of light from outside that find Percival in order to soak into the deep, glowing blue scar deepening from shoulder to wrist, the almost teal colour coiling around severed and stitched together skin like a protection.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck , Perce, you’re—” and Theseus pumps his fingers harder into him, “you’re gorgeous.”

His tongue is everywhere, on Percival’s lips, on his chin, dragging up the stubble there, and he can’t think, can’t even start to comprehend what’s going on as his body unstitches, uncurls, unfurls, starts reacting and being.

Oh, does he relishes plenty in the wrecked moans of pleasure Percival cries out.

“Theseus— Thes, fucking hell,” he pants, his breath hitched on every inhale, blood sizzling, burning.

Once the Brit has found a steady pace, the room fills up with wet sounds and muffled cries, red lines on pale backs, knuckles in hair and toe-curling screams of pleasure.

“That’s it,” and his tongue is hot against Percival’s ear, “that’s it, baby, let go,” he murmurs, face rested against his husband's neck; he can’t help sinking his teeth into the delicate skin there, and it breaks, bleeds, marks, brands, creating a new area for galaxies and black holes.

Love and affection stutter in a weird rhythm in both their chests, Theseus’ fingers swirling circles at the base of Percival’s spine, at the base of his hips, rubbing slowly in rhythm with his open-mouthed kisses, as he grinds against Percival's ass.

He peeks up at the British Auror through fluttering eyelashes, at his husband, his anchor and everything; facefulls of wind handled with body and soul with the link of their golden rings, and it feels like a dam is bursting inside of Percival.

Lost in the feeling, his vision blurs as Theseus rides out his orgasm in sharp, quick thrusts, and waves of post-pleasure wash over him each time his husband hits his prostate, anchoring him down, trembling as the redhead thrusts into his clenching hole.

“Thes— Thes, plea—” Percival sobs, using his hips to shove back against Thes, every tendon in his neck is standing out beneath his skin.

His breath hitches with each shove; desperate moans and begging bloom in the crook of his throat, morcelled words tumbling from his lips like a waterfall, like a thousand flickering lights in the morning sighs until Theseus takes him gently through his release with a hand on his dripping cock and encouraging words of praise and love.

Fragments from above, in the end, and hands and lips finding their very double and soulmate, and Graves arches and hums, his fingers not missing a beat of his partner’s heart—

No more fears, just soft fire blending into ethereal smoke and dripping cosmos.

Percival wakes up to Theseus sleepy murmurs a few hours later, wrapped up in each other, legs tangled and happy sighs escaping the red-haired man. The older man wavers to a stop at some point, caught with the complete and utter affection that emanates from his husband.


Theseus grins sleepily. “Love you,” he murmurs, and Percival smiles to himself as he watches him fall back asleep; waits until his breathing is slow and back to a quiet slumber to press a long, heartfelt kiss to his nose, not enough to wake him up but enough for Theseus to radiate cheer right up to the rough pad of his tongue.

How you catch my heart off guard and blow it open with your sincerity and clarity; how you make me a better man, bringing me out of my suffering.

“And so do I, Theseus.” He weighs the words, tastes them on his tongue as he curls his fingers around a long strand of fire-copper hair. “So do I, more than you will ever know.”