Archive of Our Own

October 31st was the day all MACUSA employees dreaded, despite the stacking evidence ruling in their favor. For on that date, technically they had the day off. And technically they weren't required to go to the annual MACUSA Halloween Party. But technically anyone who didn't show up would be automatically jinxed, and forced to bear pockmarks on their forehead that spelled out "WURP" for a month.

But aside from that, the Halloween Party was much different from any other, primarily because employees did not show up already in costume. Instead, they arrived in front of Woolworth and formed a line. The lobby was reconfigured into a large room where the party took place. Anyone who stepped through the door would have a costume conjured onto them, the result completely random. That costume was charmed to be irremovable until it hit midnight.

Mr. Graves stood in line, waiting stoically for his turn. Up ahead, an employee stared at the door, sputtered and ran back to the end of the line. He shook his head. Coward. It was always best to just get it over with. Although there was a familiar dread in the pit of his stomach, he looked as blase as possible, with his hands in his pockets. He wondered what costume he would get this evening; hopefully not something as embarrassing as five years ago's, wherein he had just been appointed Director of Magical Security, but had to parade around in a Puckwudgie onesie throughout the entire night. He couldn't imagine anything worse than that, but when it came to magic, there was no such thing as rock bottom.

In front of him, the Goldstein sisters had flanked a trembling Newt Scamander, each one gripping him by the hand as they walked toward the door.

"I can't do this, it's going to be something embarrassing, I'm sure--" Newt was babbling. The girls were giggling and tugging him like he was a child being forced to go to school.

"Nonsense! Why, last year, Teenie here was turned into a house-elf. She had to spend the whole night wearing a pillowcase," Queenie giggled while Tina turned red.

"Hearing that only worries me more!" Cried out Newt in despair. Impatient, Graves overtook them.

"Excuse me," he said. He and Newt stared at each other briefly. Newt's complaints quickly died and he fell silent. Graves always wondered if Newt disliked him, because any time he tried to make small talk, Newt would give short, awkward answers. Although according to everyone else, that was just Newt being Newt. So Graves strode forward, steeling himself for what was to come.

He stepped into the building, and felt his clothes change shape. His coat was lengthening but retained its black color. His sleeves became dark and thick, and there was a tingling in his teeth. A cool breeze met his skin and the sensation stuck, his arms and face feeling clammy. When Graves opened his eyes he regarded his hands, which were still normal but slightly paler. His pants and shoes were unchanged.

But he felt it, a sting in his lower lip. He touched the corners of his mouth and found sharp fangs. Whirling about, he realized his coat had transformed into a cape.

"Booo!" Someone from the crowd yelled, a fellow male auror who was now wearing a slinky green dress, looking like a famous goblin singer. "No fair!"

Others groaned and clapped and whooped. Graves smirked. A vampire. He couldn't have asked for an easier, better costume.

He walked over to Picquery, who looked sour-faced when she spotted his garb. She was in a suit and tie, but her familiar headgear was gone and replaced by short, oily black hair that was parted in the middle. The spell had made her resemble the no-maj President Herbert Hoover.

"You got off easy this year, Mr. Graves," she said, radiating with jealousy.

"Not so bad yourself, Madame President," he retorted.

They looked back to survey the next victims. Apparently Newt and the Goldsteins had let others take their turn after Graves, because a man stepped in and immediately turned into a mermaid. Other partiers had to pick him up and conjure a bathtub to place him in. A secretary was turned into a strange anthropomorphic automobile that could only speak in beeps, and was followed by a janitor whose overalls transformed into Picquery's gown, familiar metal crowning his head. Everyone burst into laughter, even Picquery herself as she went to go shake his hand with Graves by her side.

Then, at last, Tina, Newt and Queenie entered together. They were still holding hands, and only let go of each other when wisps of white magic swirled about their clothes. Queenie developed a tall white poofy hat, and a similarly white button-down shirt. Her robes materialized into slacks and her heels were replaced by sensible black leather shoes.

"I'm a chef! Oh, how fitting!" She tittered, and laughed when she pulled out her wand, which had been transfigured into a rolling pin. Men in the room looked disappointed.

Tina cringed as her greatcoat disintegrated, her blouse and pants turning lighter. But when she was done, her garb was replaced by a blue, form-fitting dress that reached her knees. A headband with similarly-colored antennae adorned her head. The only truly bizarre feature of the costume was her now pointy, cyan-hued ears.

She looked down at herself and sighed in relief. A pixie. Everyone knew it could've been much worse.

Lastly, was Newt. To say the magizoologist was well-known in MACUSA was an understatement, as everyone recognized the lanky figure in a blue coat the moment he stepped into the building. Most found him endearing, others completely taken by his shyness. Not to mention his involvement in the Grindelwald incident. Needless to say, when Newt transformed, it was no surprise that everyone waited with bated breath. People whose views were obscured were even jumping to get a good look.

His famous coat dissolved, followed by his suit jacket, and then his vest. His pants melted into thigh-high black socks, and his white shirt vanished and was replaced by a very flouncy black and white material.

It took Graves a while to realize what Newt's costume was. But when he finally did, he couldn't stop staring.

For some reason, his mouth had gone dry. With so many elements to Newt's new elaborate outfit, he wasn't quite sure what to focus on. There was a white bonnet on top of his curly hair, a frilly choker with a black bow around his neck. His arms were now bare and covered only partially by short, ruffled sleeves that helped make up what appeared to be a French maid uniform. It was velvet-colored, hugging his slender body in a very unforgiving manner. This was mostly due to the ornate bodice with visible laces that criss-crossed over one another and running down the chest to the waist. A white apron fell over a poofy skirt, one that was much shorter than Tina's. The socks had white ribbons where satin met the pale skin of Newt's thigh, finished off by high-heeled shoes.

Newt in a French maid outfit.

The temperature in the room had risen by several degrees.

The previously silent crowd suddenly went mad, with several people jeering and uproarious laughter echoing throughout the room. There were wolf whistles, smirks coming from every direction. It was clear Newt's costume had won the night.

But Newt, understandably, looked distraught. He looked down, and immediately went pale. Panicking, he spun around and reached behind his back, trying to find a zipper. But to the crowd, it looked as if he was giving them a better view: the skirt billowed from his movements, and everyone got a good look at the white bow tying his apron at the back as well as a hint of what was underneath the skirt. The jeers grew louder.

Newt looked around with wide eyes. Graves was close enough to notice that they were brimming with tears. His cheeks were almost cherry red, and though it made for a rather fetching look, Newt was humiliated. He broke into a run, or at least tried to. He stumbled instead, teetering on his heels. Instinctively, Graves reached out and caught him by the arm to steady him.

As the crowd roared, Newt met his gaze for a moment and wrenched his arm away as if he had been burned. Then he took off, fleeing for the bathroom while Queenie and Tina raced after him.

"Newt, wait!" Tina called. Eventually, all three disappeared down the hall and everyone broke into whispers, excitedly gossiping about finally getting the famously private Scamander out of his shell, even if it had been against his will.

"Graves," Picquery said beside him. All traces of humor were gone from her face.

"Yes?"

"Stick by him tonight. The Ministry of Magic will have our heads if we let anything happen to their national treasure." Despite her professional language, it was clear she felt genuine sympathy for Newt. He had the tendency to bring out the soft spots in people. Graves took off, giving anyone that glanced at him a look of disdain. Sooner or later, the crowd would also come to realize that they had also been cruel.

He found Queenie and Tina huddled outside the men's bathroom. They were knocking on the wall and shouting words of comfort.

"Sweetie, please come out! It's not that bad, I promise. Most of them were actually very taken with you, I swear!" Queenie said. She then continued tapping her rolling pin against the wall.

When they saw him, they gave him matching suspicious looks. Although many until now doubted that they were sisters, Graves could finally see the family resemblance between the two. Though Tina's pointy blue ears were quite off-putting.

"Picquery sent me," he said, and their shoulders relaxed. "I'll handle this."

He entered the men's room and headed for the stall in the corner, the only one that was locked.

"Please, Tina -- Or Queenie -- I'd prefer to be left alone." Newt's voice shook.

"It's me," he said.

"Mr. Graves?" Newt suddenly sounded different, putting on a confident front. "Oh, I'll be out in a minute so you can use the stall."

"I don't need to use the stall. I just want you to come out of there."

There was a pause. "I-I don't think I can. I've decided I'm going to go home."

"Surely, you don't want 'WURP' stamped on your face for a month?"

"I don't care," Newt said hoarsely. "I'm used to humans being cruel."

Graves stared at the filmsy door separating him from Newt. He sighed and placed his hand on it. "Humans will always be cruel. But they are also very forgetful. Just finish the night, and no one will be talking about it after a while. I would know -- I've had far more embarrassing costumes, that were definitely less flattering, as well. Check my pensieve if you don't believe me. But if you leave now, you will remind people everyday for a month about tonight's incident. They've already seen you anyway. Please come out, Newt."

He could hear Newt's shallow breaths start to slow down. When the door creaked, Graves removed his hand. Newt was in front of him, auburn hair mussed but the bonnet still in place. It was apparent he had tried in vain to remove it. He was looking down at his hands, which were twisted in the fabric of the apron.

"I'm so--"

Graves cut him off. "Stop. Stop apologizing, it's a waste of breath. Just stay by my side so no one will dare bother you and this godforsaken night will be over sooner or later. Okay?"

Newt seemed to finally accept his fate, and even offered Graves a hint of a smile. He shifted side to side nervously under Graves' sharp stare. Graves tried not to notice that the skirt swayed with every movement. He wasn't meant to notice such things, since he had been appointed as Newt's guardian for the night.

They left the bathroom only to be confronted by Tina and Queenie, who started worrying over Newt immediately.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Newt told them. "I'll stay with Mr. Graves for a while, if that's alright with you."

"Of course," Queenie said with a wide smile. She looked from Newt to Graves, showing all her teeth.

"Thanks for doing this, Mr. Graves," Tina piped up next to her. "And, um, nice costume, by the way. Better than five years ago's, definitely."

He smiled wryly. "Of course. And to you, Ms. Goldstein. Fascinating ears, though the pillowcase was still far more memorable."

He left with Newt as Tina sputtered helplessly. When they returned to the lobby, sure enough, by that time, people had found other things to laugh at. A few even approached Newt and offered apologies, which he of course waved off.

There were no tables and chairs at the party, as in the past embarrassed individuals would try to duck under the furniture to avoid being seen for the rest of the night. As such, food and drinks were distributed by circling house-elf waiters. Even Newt, who had to wobble around in heels and thus settled mostly for half-hiding behind Graves' cape, eventually helped himself to some sandwiches.

Graves took a glass of firewhiskey from a house-elf's tray, and tried to offer one to Newt as well.

"Oh, no thank you," Newt said. Graves nodded and settled for downing the second glass; Newt felt vulnerable enough in this state, and losing his inhibitions would most likely be considered as an added risk.

"I never told you how much I liked your costume, Mr. Graves." Newt's hands were twisted in his apron again, and he was looking down and biting his lip. Graves contemplated advising him that if he wanted less attention, he shouldn't do actions such as that, as it would add more fuel to the fire.

"It's boring," he replied. "I love it." He waved his hand, flapping the cape in turn. "Makes it hard to eat, drink or speak, though. I think I've punctured myself with these teeth about fifty times now."

"Vampires are fascinating. Very interesting especially once you get to talk to them at length, preferrably after they've just fed so that they're not as hungry."

Graves did not know what to make of that. He'd never met a vampire, and he could care less if he never did. But Newt had lifted his head and was looking straight at him with admiration, a wistful look in his bright green eyes. Most likely recalling his strange vampire friends. As a result, Graves got an eyeful of the choker around Newt's neck. It was very ornate, and the black bow in the center was the cherry on top of a Newt-flavored sundae.

He stared accusingly at his empty glass and placed it on a passing elf's tray. The alcohol was making him think funny things.

The man in a dress who had booed Graves earlier walked by, but only had eyes for the magizoologist. "Y'know, Newt, If I could pull off a dress as well as you could, I'd never take this off," said the auror-turned-goblin-singer ruefully. He rubbed his bald head before leaving.

"I look ridiculous, don't I?" Newt said, with good humor this time. He had clearly noticed Graves' staring.

"No. You look attractive, Newt. That's why people can't stop looking at you." A funny expression crossed Newt's face, reacting in a way that suggested what Graves said was absolute hogwash.

"Well, you can't stop looking at me either." Newt spoke like the statements were mutually exclusive, as if it were impossible for Graves in particular to be attracted to Newt. But at this moment, there was a fire roaring within him, at the pit of his belly. That was definitely attraction. And while before, he had already noticed Newt's boyish good looks, the two had never spoken long enough for him to yearn the way he did now.

It didn't help that a lot of what Newt was doing out of sheer nervousness was coming across as coquettish, especially when he was dressed like that. He looked at Graves, cocking his head to the side innocently. He clasped his hands in front of him, and stood straight, occasionally smoothing down his skirt to prevent from showing too much. He chewed his lip, averting his gaze and reminding Graves too much of a servant about to be scolded. The way he took steps in his heels could be interpreted as doing so daintily. All that was missing was a curtsy.

Graves imagined Newt doing so and groaned. He had had too much firewhiskey. Alcohol and funny costumes did not mix well, as proven by so many Halloween parties before this one. He needed to be careful; the most expensive thing at stake here was his reputation. Until now, there were still rumors that he and Picquery had ended up naked together on the roof of Woolworth the day after the party a couple of years back. They weren't true, of course, for the culprits had simply been two people who had been costumed as him and Picquery.

Newt's questioning look morphed into a frown when Graves stood there, still not answering. "I'll leave you alone if my presence is bothering you that much."

"I was just thinking, sorry," he hastily replied. "The costume imbues the wearer with some of its traits, so admittedly I haven't been desiring food tonight but instead rather something... Bloodier." And it was true: his teeth hadn't quite stopped tingling since he first got them. The sight of Newt's exposed neck had been making his mouth water for quite a while, though that was probably due to sixty parts aforementioned attraction, forty parts vampiric tendencies.

"If I had my coat, I could've given you a vial of Nundu blood that I keep in my pocket for emergencies." Newt sounded disappointed in himself. Graves thought of possible emergencies that would actually necessitate Nundu blood, but came up blank.

"There's no need. Only a few more hours, right?" He bared his teeth, not missing the way Newt's eyes lit up as his gaze traveled downward to Graves' fangs. Or the visible bob in his throat as he swallowed. Huh.

A brief commotion interrupted their conversation. Someone covered in dragonscale sneezed, accidentally breathing fire onto another fellow who was apparently supposed to be a giant bowtruckle. The immolated man fled to the bathtub containing the mermaid and jumped in, causing everyone to laugh.

Graves watched as the two started to scuffle, splashing water everywhere. If the fight turned ugly, he would have to step in.

Behind him, he heard a voice call out: "Hey! Hey, Miss! Could you clean this up?"

Turning around, he and Newt were faced with a tall figure concealed in a suit of armor. He was holding a dripping wineglass, its contents now a puddle on the floor.

"Whatcha waiting for?" the knight said obnoxiously, addressing Newt. "That's your job, ain't it?"

A second person popped up beside Newt, dressed as a dementor. His arm was around him, hauling him toward the knight. "He's kiddin', babe! Just too shy to approach you like a regular joe. We actually just wanted to ask for a picture."

"Actually," Newt stammered. "I'd rather not--"

But the dementor-figure pushed him toward the knight, who was waiting for Newt with his arms wide open. He caught Newt with a clanging sound, the latter struggling to get out of his grip.

"You two, unhand him. Now." Graves was already striding forward, but the dementor-figure raised a hand. He was clutching a camera with the other.

"Stay out of this, will ya, Graves? The New York Ghost don't want your mug on the front page no more. We just need one picture for our feature story, that's all." Graves recognized the voice of the New York Ghost correspondent, a slimy son-of-a-bitch named Leroy who was determined to make the MACUSA look as incompetent as often as possible.

"Say 'Cheese'!" Leroy said suddenly. He raised the camera and took a picture. There was a bright flash and a loud sound of the shutter going off, and pain exploded in Graves' head.

He fell to his knees, holding his face. There were spots dancing in his visage, but through his fingers he could see Leroy turn around to face Newt, who was still in the knight's clutches and staring at Graves in horror.

"Your turn, sweetcheeks! 'Cheese'!" Leroy cackled. The knight shoved Newt to the floor, and then lifted the back of his skirt and petticoat when the flash went off once more. Newt, on all fours, made an indignant sound and twisted, trying in vain to wrestle his clothes from the knight's grip. Without a shred of remorse, the knight brought a hand to Newt's rear, slapping it. Newt yelped, while Leroy guffawed at the entire display.

Graves was in the process of getting back on his feet despite the overwhelming dizziness he felt. He had already vowed to kill them both. He now regretted being a vampire tonight; it gave him nothing but more weaknesses, meaning he couldn't get his hands on them sooner. So many promises to Newt but he couldn't protect him in the end.

However, Newt was stalking toward Leroy looking very much like he did not need protection. There was a blazing look in his eyes and he didn't care that the skirt was billowing, or that his laces and ribbons fluttered prettily from the movement, or that the cuffs of his poofy sleeves stretched as he drew back an arm. He then socked Leroy in the face, the dementor-figure collapsing in one hit. Newt took the camera from his grip as he went down, and tossed it on the floor next to him. With a well-placed heel he pressed down on it, causing it to splinter into several pieces.

"You bitch! You're payin' for that!" Leroy groaned, still huddled on the floor.

It was Graves' turn. Despite the burning sensation on his skin, he ran for the knight and tackled him to the floor. The action exposed a literal chink in his armor, an area near the elbow that was not encased in metal. His hands felt like they were sizzling as he clawed at the knight, bringing the arm to his face and biting down on the flesh.

The knight screamed in pain and tried to worm himself away, but Graves' grip was unrelenting. Blood seeped into his mouth. It tasted tangy, with a hint of bitterness, but he swallowed, ignoring the drops that trickled down his chin. To chomp into this monster of a man was satisfying on multiple levels. His head didn't hurt so much anymore.

"Mr. Graves! Mr. Scamander!" Picquery's voice snapped him from his reverie, and Graves looked up to see that a huge crowd had formed around them, everyone looking awestruck. Picquery might have looked intimidating glaring at him like that if she had not still resembled President Hoover.

She was beside Newt, who was flushed a delicate pink and gazing at him with too-bright eyes. Most likely, Graves now looked to be just another beast to him, which left him feeling somewhat mortified.

"Are you alright?" Picquery asked. Already, her gaze had turned soft.

Graves shrugged, still holding the groaning man's arm. Picquery sighed and beckoned forward the janitor who was costumed as her. He looked nervous.

"I'm giving you a sixty-thousand Dragot raise and funding all of your children's education at Ilvermorny from here onward. Now think of that, close your eyes, and then cast your wand at the dementor and say 'Expecto Patronum'". The man's eyes grew as wide as dinner plates, before he shakily raised a wand that now resembled Picquery's pink one. He closed his eyes and mumbled the spell. A silvery snake shot out of it and wound its way around Leroy, who screamed in pain.

"I'll handle the knight, Madame President," Tina offered, striding forward. She tugged the now bleeding arm from Graves' hands, giving him nervous glances all the while. With her newfound pixie strength she was easily able to haul the man to his feet despite him being much larger. Her antennae bounced all the while, but no one dared say anything. She pulled his arms behind him and cuffed him before leading him away, other aurors following suit with Leroy.

Graves' stood and looked around. Anyone he made eye contact with backed away slowly, fear in their eyes.

"Graves, your face," Picquery said, looking at him with alarm. He didn't know what she saw. Yes, his face still felt scalded, but as a vampire, he couldn't see his reflection anywhere. Newt stepped forward. He was nursing a bruised hand.

"I'll handle him, Madame President, I know just the counterspell."

"Your office is available, I presume?" Picquery was still eyeing him and he merely grunted out an affirmation. Newt walked over to him and grabbed hold of his elbow with surprising confidence. "Never a dull moment with you, is there, Mr. Scamander?" Newt grinned sheepishly at Picquery before leading him away. Head still hurting, Graves allowed the other male to bring them to his office. The sound of Newt's heels clicking against the floor as they walked was surprisingly comforting.

He sat down on his chair and glanced about woozily. Newt switched on the desk lamp, but the rest of the room remained dim. That made Graves feel slightly better. The magizoologist knew what he was doing, already creating an environment suitable for their needs. He stood in front of Graves, gazing at him with concern. Then, he bent forward to feel the sides of Graves' face.

He was at eyelevel with Newt's bodice. The ribbons were still fastidiously tied despite the night's commotion. Graves could not help but visualize tugging them open, one by one. He shifted uncomfortably, a hardness in his trousers. Newt's face was very close to his, studying the marred skin.

"How bad is it?" He croaked. Newt shook his head.

"There are boils from the camera flash, but nothing we can't fix. Can you show me your hands?"

Graves did so, turning them palm upward for Newt to examine. Hands left his cheeks and prodded the raw, reddened skin. Skin was peeling from his fingers, the worst of the damage covering the hand he had used to pin down the knight.

"His armor must've been made of silver," Newt noted absently, tracing the outline of burnt skin. Graves grit his teeth from the pain. He now had a grudging respect for vampires, having since learned that every other thing could maim them somehow. When he voiced this thought to Newt, the man let out a chuckle.

"Fascinating creatures, vampires. So strong and yet equally vulnerable like you said. They make up for it by trying to seem menacing all the time." His eyes and hands were still on Graves' palms. "Unfortunately they rely on blood magic to recover, and you got only a few drops in so it wasn't enough to heal you completely." Graves was suddenly vaguely aware that there were still bloodstains on his chin. "But since you're not a true vampire, I suppose the regular healing spells of mine will work."

Newt pulled back and fished around for his wand somewhere in his skirts. Graves closed his eyes. Newt was wearing provocative clothing and they were all alone. Ergo, his mind tended to go blank whenever Newt so much as moved. The swishing of frilly fabric entranced him more than he would care to admit.

"Aha," Newt said triumphantly, and tugged out something long. They both gaped as that object turned out to be a feather duster. Even Graves laughed out loud while Newt's cheeks turned bright red.

"Now this is just utterly ridiculous!" He protested. "As if there are no French maids that happen to be witches!" Looking well and truly embarrassed, the redhead tossed the feather duster onto the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. Was he actually pouting? Graves didn't know how to react to that.

"I apologize, Mr. Graves." Newt let out a resigned sigh. "I guess I can't help with your injuries after all. Unless, perhaps..." Graves witnessed the precise moment an idea struck Newt. There was a glint in his eye, followed by a lick of his lips.

"I-I could give you some of my blood," Newt said in a single rushed breath. The blush had spread to the rest of his face. Afterward he immediately looked like he regretted suggesting it. "But no, that would be... Disgusting for you, of course. I would never force you to drink from me, but I'm saying I would be open--"

"Can I?" Graves said before he could stop himself. He rested his hand on his chin, and, grinning, surveyed Newt from the chair. Newt was leaning back against the desk, covered in lace and satin that he was eager to unwrap. Newt had just offered himself on a silver platter, and the very thought of tasting him made Graves' mouth water.

Silence filled the room. Newt stared back at him, his hands tensing into balled fists.

"You... You really want to?"

"I'm hungry and my head hurts." He tried to sound as casual as possible, even though he was already picturing Newt writhing beneath him while he pierced his flesh and drank his fill. "I don't know why the costuming spell gave me such powerful vampire-esque instincts. But I should be asking you that question. Why are you so willing to let me have your blood?"

"For research, of course," came Newt's reply. Graves tried not to smile. Newt was a notoriously bad liar. "I've studied vampires but I could never trust one enough to let them bite me, in fear of being drained and converted myself. But naturally, I'm curious about the sensation and..." He looked at Graves, hypnotized by the sight of his fangs. "It would be a useful addition to my book."

"Alright then." The chair creaked as Graves adjusted himself. He settled his hands on his lap, almost wanting Newt to rescind his offer. Unbeknownst to the male across him, Graves' entire body was thrumming with arousal. An itching sensation spread through his mouth. Traitorous thoughts urged him to spring forward and pin Newt to the desk so he could suck to his heart's content. "For research?"

Newt hesitated before nodding. "For research."

Graves leaned toward Newt and took his hand. He gave the long, shaky fingers a tentative squeeze before lifting them to his mouth. Newt's fingertips twitched as they brushed against his lips. "Is this alright? I won't take much."

"Yes," Newt said, swallowing.

So he took three of Newt's fingers into his mouth, feeling them rest on his tongue. His fangs tingled upon grazing against the flesh, and unable to wait any longer, Graves bit down. The reaction was immediate. Newt went rigid, eyes widening by a fraction. He made a strange sound but did not pull his hand away. Graves tasted the initial spurt of blood: Newt's was unusually sweet. Drops trickled down his throat and he lapped at the flesh greedily.

The hand remained limp, allowing Graves to drink to his heart's content. And drink he did, relishing the way blood splashed against his tongue, the scent of copper driving him wild. He had quickly lost himself in the sensations, taking Newt's fingers further into his mouth. Newt was so willing, he felt like he could strip the flesh from his bones and Newt would not have minded.

A breathy moan reached his ears. Graves looked up and saw Newt hunched over, shaking. He was covering his mouth, eyes squeezed shut.

Initially thinking he had harmed Newt, he released the other male's digits. They slid out of his mouth with a soft pop, small red dots now peppering the skin.

"Forgive me, I went overboard," Graves quickly said. But his body and mind were screaming otherwise, demanding more, a wildfire of want spreading through his veins. He did not let go of Newt's hand.

"It worked," Newt told him softly. And he was right. When Newt's free hand ran down the side of his face, it didn't sting.

"Thank you." He could not help the disappointment from creeping into his voice. Their session finished too soon. A heavy silence now hung between them.

Newt's face was suddenly close.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Graves?"

So close that Graves could see how his pupils had dilated, now dark with unmistakable desire. He was leaning over Graves now, rather than on the desk. His warm breaths tickled Graves' lips. "Anything at all?"

He would never have suspected that Newt would be turned on by being bitten. Then again, before this, he presumed Newt could not be turned on by anything in particular. Yet here he was, crowding into Graves' space with half-lidded eyes, acting drunk from pleasure. He had asked Graves a question that a servant would usually direct toward their master, which was most likely intentional.

Graves decided he was going to indulge himself further. For wasn't that the point of parties such as these: to indulge every once in a while?

That is why he was able to say with ease, "Can I kiss you?" And Newt did not hesitate, diving forward and planting lips enthusiastically against his.

Newt was a clumsy kisser, but Graves did not mind as he thrust his tongue into that hot mouth and explored it. Both of them groaned as hands tangled in his hair. Graves bent his head a little to the side and Newt kept pace, until he bit down on those plump lips. With a gasp, Newt pulled back and touched his lower mouth, which was now shedding blood.

Their gazes met, Graves licking the remaining drops from his teeth before flashing him a smirk, fangs and all. Newt's swollen mouth was a firm line. "Fuck," was the next thing to come out of that sinful mouth, as well as a few flecks of blood, but it was soon pressed against Graves' again.

Newt climbed onto his lap. Graves wrapped his hands around the silk encompassing his slim waist. The skirt had accordioned around Newt's splayed thighs, covering Graves' legs. "God," he muttered. "Please, Newt, I need to taste more of you." He no longer cared how desperate or incoherent he sounded. Newt moreso, moaning in agreement. His hands found their way to Graves' shoulders and he moved languidly, trying to press as much of himself against Graves as he could.

Their lips disconnected. Newt's bonnet was slightly askew and stray hairs were plastered to his forehead. But the swollen lip and blushing cheeks were all Graves' doing, of which he was quite proud of.

Newt tilted his head to the side. Graves wanted to soil that pretty neck, but it was obscured by the irremovable choker. His fangs would get tangled in the frills and ribbons anyway. So instead Newt slowly pulled one of his sleeves down his arm, exposing a freckled shoulder. His pulse rate soared, hands squeezing Newt's waist, reminding him that Newt really was here, doll-like on his lap and offering himself to Graves for the taking.

Newt's glance turned shy but he gave a small nod. Graves closed the distance between them and sank his fangs into the junction between Newt's neck and shoulder. The resounding gasp went straight to his cock as a fresh wave of blood flooded into his mouth.

"Mr. Graves!" Newt cried out, squirming against him. Hands scrabbled at his back, nails digging into his cape. It reminded him of a prey fighting to escape his grip, but the hardness brushing against his belly suggested that running away was not at all in Newt's mind. Graves' hand traced the apron's bow tied around Newt's back and then traced a path up his spine, the other male arching into him. They shuddered as their chests bumped together, Graves continued to lap furiously at the wound.

Newt gripped him by the hair and tugged him away. He drew back with a petulant sound, not even close to done but Newt was kissing him again, letting his own blood seep back through his lips. Their kiss turned rough and he swallowed every noise Newt made.

Pale thighs were clamped around him. Bucking, Graves ground his hips upward, making his erection known to the lithe body perched on his lap. Under the layers of skirts and petticoats was one last soft material blocking him from Newt's skin. Curiosity got the best of him and he tugged at the edges of the frilly dress, exposing a pair of silk panties. A pink, swollen cock was straining against the garter, wet and leaking.

Graves swore loudly and stood up, maneuvering Newt so that he was bent over the desk. He ground his hips insistently against Newt's backside. Across them was a liquor cabinet with a glass pane, and through it they could see only Newt's reflection. The magizoologist had a full view of himself, dress askew and ribbons untangled, skirt bunched up at his thighs. A purple bruise had blossomed on his neck where Graves had bitten him, and his face turned a darker shade of red as he caught his own wanton expression.

Graves was invisible to the glass pane, and he didn't mind. Tonight, he was meant to play a monster (though Newt would hate him for using that term) and living up to his role is what got Newt on this very desk. He had watched and hungered, first for blood and now for something different. Never would he have foreseen himself ending this party gyrating like a brute against Newt's ass, but then again, no one had expected Newt to pull off a maid's uniform this well. Therefore, he could not be blamed for wanting the clock to strike midnight while he was buried inside Newt, as their costumes converted into their old ones. Graves was silently thankful that at least both of them had retained their genitalia for this occasion. He himself had not been so lucky a few years back.

"I didn't know if we could," Newt admitted, surprised. Graves wished that were the case, so he could dump his own silly-looking cape and tear freely at Newt's dress.

"They're spelled to be irremovable, but naturally, there are some exceptions." He emphasized his point by reaching around Newt's waist. His hand slipped into the underwear to squeeze the hardened length. With a groan, Newt rocked against him. Obligingly he moved his hand up and down until the other male was rutting against the desk, eager for release.

Graves fell to his knees, searching for a new spot to leave a mark. The back of Newt's thigh looked particularly tantalizing so he struck, nestling his fangs into previously untainted flesh. Newt's knees buckled and he cried out, jerking harder against Graves' hand. Moist pre-come trickled down his knuckles. Pleased, he kept his mouth fastened on Newt's skin and suckled enthusiastically. This mark was his new favorite one. It was easily concealed but Newt would feel it every time he so much as sat down.

Sitting back to admire his work, Graves traced the bruise that was quickly unfurling across the back of Newt's leg, right below his ass. The bitemarks were an angry red, lost among the freckles if not for the drop of blood that was trickling down from one of the two puncture holes. It left a crimson trail down Newt's thigh and stained the edges of his sock. Graves wiped it off before turning his attention to the lingerie that Newt had been working so hard to conceal.

He tugged them downward and, while continuing his ministrations with his other hand, pressed two fingers into Newt's hole.

"Please," Newt sobbed.

"I'm not sure if the servant should be the one giving orders here." He sunk his fingers deeper and, with a slow drag, pulled them back before adding a third. Newt tensed around him and he squeezed the cock with his hand to counter the flash of pain. When the pressure around Graves' fingers lessened, he practiced thrusting motions with them and synchronized those with the way he massaged Newt's erection.

With Newt shivering and pliant Graves removed his hands and drew a bottle of lubrication from his pocket. Years of experience at these Halloween parties had taught him always to be prepared so he took his time moistening his length. He stood up, knees brushing against the smaller man's legs as he stepped in position. The only movement came from the rise and fall of Newt's back as he remained pressed against the desk. The skirt had been thrown up over his hips and Graves caged it there with his hands as he slid into Newt.

The redhead's legs shook as Graves pinned him against the desk with his cock. Groans filled the room as he built up a rhythm, driving into Newt so deeply that his pelvis nudged the perky ass with every shift.

"Jesus, you are tight." The flush on his nape became more pronounced and Graves moved his hand to press down on the black fabric covering his spine. He felt him shudder beneath his fingertips. The muscle constricted around his cock, sending shockwaves through his body. The sensation forced him to pause and exhale loudly.

"More," Newt said insistently. He moved, jutting his ass against Graves' member and let out a satisfied noise when the auror resumed.

He gripped Newt by the hair, forcing him to look forward and watch himself slowly come undone. What a shame that face to face with his own reflection, and he still was oblivious to how gorgeous he looked. Graves was enacting the fantasy of many of the men at the party and the thought steeled him, making him fuck Newt that much harder in place of all the people that would never be able to. It was a mystery to him how Newt had ignored all the wandering gazes and intrusive touches, but somehow sensed Graves' attraction and presented himself when he knew he was wanted.

"So pretty," he growled into the soft curve of that neck he had sweetly ravaged. He licked at the wound he'd left. Newt was biting back whimpers as Graves quickened his pace. He arched and threw his head back, forming a sensual curve with his body and Graves transfered his grip to the choker and held him steadfast in that position. In the glass pane they watched the tears brimming at the corners of his green eyes, the slightly open mouth. His form undulated in the reflection, reacting to an invisible partner.

For a change of pace, Graves released Newt's hip and gripped his thigh, hiking it up so that he was balanced on one leg. It allowed for a different angle for ravishing and Newt's bewildered look immediately turned blissful and he whined, bucking against Graves.

Newt was, by nature, not a coherent person, so it was almost amusing that sex had turned him into someone noisy and straightforward instead. "Yes, Graves, right there, oh God," he whimpered and what could Graves do if not acquiesce to his frantic pleas? He continued to twist Newt's body to his liking until the magizoologist's voice reached a pitch that Graves hadn't thought him capable of making.

The desk edged forward with every creak. It was old, reminding him he really ought to replace it. That was the perfect excuse to break it now, which was, based on the way Newt thrashed, on the verge of happening. But then Graves would have to place an order for a new desk, spend months going through all the bureaucracies of paperwork and accounting and wait for one to be delivered and until then, where else would he fuck Newt and what if the new desk clashed with the room?

Upon realizing that fucking Newt constantly was now an ideal scenario in his head, Graves had a whirling series of thoughts that began with "how will I get him in a maid outfit again" and ended with him a vision of Newt greeting him in his own home with open arms, him then unwrapping the multitude of layers of cloth beginning with the blue coat.

But this would all have to be kept secret. And most likely tomorrow Newt would go back to interacting with him as little as possible. He would return to being the boring, stern Percival Graves sans fangs, and Newt would return to looking at him like he was an animal prone to snapping, and shrinking in on himself whenever Graves so much as said "hello".

With sobering clarity Graves came fast and hard.

His chest bore down over Newt's body as he coated his insides, spurting as his thrusts becoming shallow and infrequent. There was a spasm beneath him and with a soft cry Newt followed him over the edge.

The room was suddenly very quiet. Graves rested his cheek against Newt's shoulder blade before Newt pushed him off gently, straightening his back.

Newt turned to look at him and the shy smile had returned as he had predicted. But he let himself be tugged down to the floor, next to the exhausted redhead whose dress had sunk down to barely cover his arms and chest. His bonnet had finally come loose, indicating the spell was about to wear off. Graves tugged the white cloth free from the auburn curls and pocketed it. Maybe it would remain in his pocket, or maybe it would vanish, but he was desperate for a souvenir.

Newt reached across Graves' chest and pulled his cape over them both like a makeshift blanket. They lay on their sides, panting and revelling in their post-coital haze like a couple of teenagers. It was different. Not bad, but different. In fact, he found he rather enjoyed it, the quietness after fucking, Newt pale and peaceful in the dark. He reached and brushed a finger on one of Graves' fangs.

They laid like that on the floor until Graves felt his teeth start to shrink.

--

After every Halloween came Wand Day.

"Wand inspection. Wands out, please. No arguments, please." A goblin was droning on and on as workers lined up single file before a single table. The goblin sat behind it, hand out expectantly. Whoever arrived in front gave their wand and he would take it and pass it to a wizard, who would then ask what the last spell the magic-user fired. It had to coincide with the one produced by Priori. This was to solve any wand-related mix-ups from the previous night, identity theft-related or otherwise. But of course, people used it as an opportunity to shame each other any recently used spells that were considered embarrassing.

A witch at the front gave her wand to the handler and was claiming that she had used a bloodstopper spell.

"Priori incantato," the handler said boredly. Rather than a looping wisp of white that was the hallmark of healing spells, gelatinous fluid spurted from the wand, and people whooped. Lubrication spells were among the most common ones revealed post-Halloween. The witch turned scarlet and started insisting her wand had been used by someone else.

Graves was fast approaching the front. He felt at ease. He had not gotten a hold of his wand all night last night, meaning all he had to say was the slicking spell for his hair. Turning his head, he saw the Goldstein sisters and Newt together as usual. They were a dozen of people or so behind him. A thick yellow and gray scarf was wound around Newt's neck, shielding even the bottom half of his face from view.

"Take that silly thing off, I don't know why you've insisted on wearing it when it's the hottest autumn we've had in years." Tina was acting like a mother hen, crowding in on him but Newt wasn't paying attention to her. His green eyes were fixed on Graves instead but when he found his stare being returned, the tips of his ears went red and he turned away.

"Teenie, let Newt wear his scarf and keep his secrets." Queenie aimed a secretive smile at her older sister and the former immediately fell quiet.

"Wand out, please," croaked the goblin. So caught up in checking on Newt that he hadn't realized he was now at the front of the line. His face remained impassive as he pulled out his ebony wand.

In the same movement, a white cloth fell on the floor. It was immediately recognizable due to the ruffles and silk bows woven into the fabric.

"You dropped this," The goblin said, irritated at having to bend over and pick it up. He brandished it at Graves, whose throat went dry.

"That's not mine," he said, feeling the uncomfortable stares of many people behind him. There was no mistaking the bonnet for a different object.

"It fell outta your pocket, bub." The goblin's voice was growing louder in a room that went completely silent just so everyone could see Graves squirm.

He took it back reluctantly, fist closing in around it and hiding it from view. But the damage was done. There were giggles rising through the crowd. He turned around and met Newt's gaze, shrugging. The redhead was unreactive for a moment, before pulling down his scarf to reveal a grin -- embarrassed, his entire face flaming, but it was a grin nonetheless. The heaviness in Graves chest vanished immediately.

There was a smattering of mocking applause from the more daring individuals of the office, and whispers of 'Graves' and 'Scamander' were audible among the crowd. He felt he should have been mad or ashamed, but if the goblin wanted to wave the bonnet in the air and divulge Graves' discretions to the world, he found that he honestly didn't care too much.