Chapter Text
Someone is following him.
Graves knows this, as surely as he knows the halls of MACUSA or the names of his aurors.
He doesn’t know who, and he doesn’t know why, but he knows - he’s being followed. He has no proof, nothing to bring to Picquery or his aurors, but he has years of experience and his instincts, and he has no doubt.
It’s the wrong cadence of footsteps behind him on the street, the too silent night as he unlocks his front door. No matter what he does he can’t shake it - he’s followed to work, on his errands, home again. Someone is watching him, and someone is studying him.
They never seem to pass MACUSA’s doors. He’s followed to work and he’s followed home, but inside MACUSA is a refuge, and he finds himself seeking it out with evermore urgency.
Until one day it’s not.
He knows instantly that something is wrong. His shadow isn’t waiting for him at the door, it’s inside now, he knows it. It’s there, somewhere in the press of people flooding through the lobby on a weekday morning, somewhere in the crowd. Graves stops, feeling danger, feeling a threat, and he looks around through the sea of people filing in for work, and he sees nothing. The crowd jostles him and he moves on, feeling no more at ease.
He doesn’t understand how he could be followed inside MACUSA. There are a dozen different charms and hexes serving as wards on the outside of the building alone, and the idea that his aurors wouldn’t notice something wrong in their midst is absurd.
Yet the uneasy feeling doesn’t leave him all morning.
It sits in his office with him and watches him work. It accompanies him during training, a shadow, standing still on one side of the room as he corrects Watson’s posture. When he goes to see Picquery at the end of the day he hopes he will be left alone, and for a minute he is. The feeling flickers at the door as Percival steps in her office and he's able to breathe a little easier.
There are eyes on him the whole time he stays with the President, but no matter where Percival looks he can't see anything of interest other than the dark walls of Picquery’s office.
“Focus or go home, Mr. Graves,” Picquery says. “You're distracted.”
“Yes,” Percival agrees - then jerks as he notices something behind her. The air is different. Blurred, fogged, the same as when you're looking at the world through the smoke of a candle. It forms a vague shape behind her, something that could almost be called human, and Percival swallows and stands up. Picquery is oblivious. He needs to go. Whoever - or whatever - this is, they're after him, and he can't put the President in danger.
He makes his excuses and leaves her office quickly, leaving her perhaps annoyed or disappointed with him, but safe. He has no doubt that he is followed all the long way back to his own office, and his heart pounds in his chest with every step.
He locks and wards the door behind him. The feeling is back, smothering him, and Graves grips his wand tightly, bracing himself and straightening like the leader he is.
“Show yourself,” he orders, voice tight and controlled, loud in the empty space around him. “I know you're here. What do you want?”
He thinks he hears a chuckle, but that could be his anxious mind. He does not, however, imagine the hand suddenly pressing down on his shoulder. Graves wheels around, a curse on the tip of his tongue and heart hammering in his chest only to blink because there's no one here. Worse, the feeling is gone entirely. He is truly alone, for perhaps the first time in weeks.
He doesn't understand.
His eyes catch on something on his desk - a piece of parchment, the one he was writing his report on earlier.
Something has changed, but he doesn't know what.
Carefully, slowly, he approaches his desk and levitates the parchment in front of his face, making sure not to touch it. A flick of his wand and it starts revolving slowly, allowing Graves to examine it from every angle.
His notes are gone. The paper is blank, save for three little words written in cursive, dripping ink on paper almost mocking Graves in its sloppiness:
Who am I?
As soon as Graves reads the words they start to fade at the same time as the edges of the paper darken, slowly turning to ash in front of Graves’ eyes.
You'll find out soon enough.
The new sentence burns itself across the page, and the parchment's remains turn to dust before they hit the pristine floor.
Graves is left pale and shaking in the face of a danger he already knows is stronger than him. But he's the Director of Magical Security. He has no choice but to survive.
--
He's alone for the remainder of the day. He doesn't understand the logic behind this, what would cause someone to play with him like this - as though it were a game, and as though they believed there was no way he could win.
He summons his best investigators to his office, but they find nothing. It would help if Graves could tell them what to look for, but he can't. He has only ash and his own certainty. He tightens security around MACUSA, but he doesn't give any specific reasons why. He has the cold feeling that none of it will help. He's the one being targeted, it's time for him to do his job and put an end to it. He can't have this force, whatever it is, hurting any of his people to get to him.
His respite doesn't last.
When the feeling comes back it is stronger than ever, and Graves knows it is only a matter of time before the darkness reveals itself. He hurries home from work, hurries from home to MACUSA, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he tries to go through each day while ignoring the cold dread mounting within himself, burying its claws inside his heart and slowly making him paranoid.
At night he lays in bed, open eyes staring at the ceiling and he asks the force to cease this game and reveal itself. He gets no reply. Each time he asks, the feeling leaves and Graves believes he’s safe until it starts all over again. It seeps under the door of his office, curls around him at night while Graves twists in his bedsheets and clouds him when he’s neither at work nor home.
He stops asking. He stops, eventually, begging. Instead he waits.
And when it finally happens, Graves feels almost relieved.
Almost.
If it weren’t for the face of the man standing in front of him, his curved lips revealing the delicately sharp teeth of a vampire.
Graves steps back, raising his wand, his hands shaking. Grindelwald merely smiles.
“Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Graves says, “You almost drove me insane.”
“You almost drove me insane,” Grindelwald whispers in the dark. His breath fogs the air in front of him. “Do you have any idea how appealing you are, Mr. Graves?”
“Step back,” Graves says sharply before firing a first curse at the vampire. Grindelwald doesn’t move. The light hits him and he merely stumbles back a few steps before straightening up again.
“You and I both know that this is useless.”
“Expecto Patronum!” Graves rasps, waiting for the bright, familiar shining light of the wolf to protect him. But his wolf fails to appear, and when he looks at the alley again Grindelwald is gone.
Graves disapparates.
-
His encounter with Grindelwald turns the MACUSA upside down. Graves increases security again, trains his Aurors until they’re almost begging for death and he drills them all on vampires, what the world knows about them.
He sends a letter to one Newton Scamander and asks him to come to New York to share what he knows about these creatures. Quickly, the word - and the fear - spreads. Grindelwald is a vampire.
“People are panicking,” Picquery says to him one night. “Maybe that’s exactly what he wants.”
“Maybe.” Graves is quiet.
“Has he appeared to you again?”
“No,” Graves shakes his head. “But sometimes - I can feel him. It’s almost like he’s hesitating. Waiting. I wish I knew what for.”
For a moment the only sound is the fire crackling in front of them, casting shadows on the walls of Picquery’s office.
“Be careful, Percival.”
“I will try,” Graves says, finishing his drink in one long swallow, even though he already knows he’s lost.
-
He knows it. As surely as he knows the familiar feeling creeping up his spine, the ghost of fingers touching the base of his neck and softly stroking his skin.
“What do you want?” he murmurs as he lays in bed. The fingers retreat, and Grindelwald’s face flickers to life in front of him - a shift so subtle and fast, followed by words said so softly Graves might believe he’s dreaming.
“I’m trying not to give in,” Grindelwald says, thumb touching Graves’ lower lip. “It's the hardest task I've had to face in years.”
Interesting, Graves can admit that. “What does that mean?”
Grindelwald smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Sleep well, Mr. Graves.”
He’s gone.
Graves shivers. He wraps the blanket tighter around himself, curls up in his bed and holds onto the wand hidden under his pillow. For the rest of the night he tries to find the sleep which eludes him, jumping out of his reach as if Graves were the predator and slumber the prey.
He falls over the edge of exhaustion around three am, and the next day he’s late for work for the first time in years.
That morning Mr. Scamander gives a conference about vampires, which only serves to make them all learn that the fight is hopeless.
“When you meet one,” Scamander says, restlessly walking across the stage, “The safest thing to do is willingly offer them your blood and hope they’ll let you live. It calms them and works, most of the time.”
“What about the other times?” Someone asks in the crowd, and Scamander grimaces.
“Then you try to fight them the best you can with what you’ve learned. But as they are superior to us in every way, there is very little chance that you’d win no matter how powerful you are.”
“So there’s no hope?” Goldstein asks.
“I did not say that.” Scamander catches Graves’ eyes. “One vampire against an army of Aurors is outnumbered, no matter how strong he is. Learn to fight them and know them. Work together rather than alone. None of Grindelwald’s followers are, to our knowledge, vampires. We have a chance.”
“Why is that, Mr. Scamander?” Graves asks. “Why wouldn’t he put all odds on his side and build an army?”
“You tell me. I don’t know him as well as you do, Mr. Graves. I’m just a magizoologist.”
“Still,” Graves insists. “You must have an opinion.”
“Yes. And if I were to give it, I’d say that a man like him - proud and powerful - would probably consider vampirism a gift rather than a curse. And thus, if he chooses to turn someone, the person has to deserve it. He wouldn’t pick anyone out of a crowd. He’d take his time. Someone has to hold his interest. His followers are few and scattered across Europe and America - there have been, so far, no sightings of Grindelwald accompanied by one man or two or even three anywhere he goes. He doesn’t seem to have a second in command, or any close followers. Which doesn’t surprise me, as vampires are solitary creatures. Does that answer your question?”
“It does,” Graves inclines his head, fingers tightening around the scarf he holds in his lap. “Thank you.”
Graves tries to project the confidence he knows his aurors need to see from him but he feels as though the floor has dropped out from under him, leaving him dizzy and dangerously adrift.
Someone has to hold his interest.
Grindelwald has been following him for months now. He's been watching him. Appraising him. Almost as if he’d become one with Graves’ shadow. Was that what Grindelwald had meant by trying not to give in? Does Grindelwald want to turn him? To what purpose? To make Graves his?
Can Graves stop him?
A dozen questions rise on his tongue that he doesn’t dare ask and the briefing moves on, leaving Graves to the horror of his own thoughts.
He can’t bear to simply wait for it, to sit by while Grindelwald makes up his mind about whether or not to ruin him - but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s tried to fight Grindelwald every way he knows how, with curses and wards and every magical device known to him, and Grindelwald merely sits at his bedside and strokes his cheek, biding his time.
And if Grindelwald decides not to turn him - if he doesn’t deem Graves worthy of such a gift, what of him then? Will Grindelwald leave? Will he kill him? Graves can’t believe Grindelwald would simply let him go, not after all this. He must have a bigger plan - and Graves has the sickening thought that one way or another, his life as he knew it has already ended.
-
When Grindelwald finally reveals himself, people don’t notice him.
Graves had been expecting him. He’d been expecting him as he unwove the wards around his door each night when he came home, he’d been expecting him in the new murder case they found last week, in the dark alleys he walks in the evening to get to a safe apparition point.
Grindelwald is unpredictable.
Graves is so used to the threat of him hanging over his head like a Damocles sword that he doesn’t feel the change until it’s too late. Grindelwald doesn’t come for him in the dark. He comes for him in broad daylight.
Graves is talking to Tina in the hall of the MACUSA, below the great clock. Its hand has been stuck on emergency for at least a month, and Graves suppresses a sigh each time he passes in front of it. Tina hands him her unofficial report on the Second Salemers as per his request, and Graves thinks that it’s a shame to have her on probation in the Wand Permits departement for so long when she’s one of his most valuable Aurors.
She talks while Graves peers at her notes before he looks up at her, intending to congratulate her on the work - but his words die in his throat when he sees her face.
“Tina…?”
That’s all the time he gets before slender fingers close around his throat from behind, and Graves knows it's him .
The Director makes a strangled sound of surprise, his hands flying to his neck. Grindelwald merely kisses his earlobe, his teeth scraping against the skin. He shudders helplessly, cold dread filling his still beating heart. He’d thought that Grindelwald was coming for him. He’d known it. But he -
He doesn't want to die.
“Get away from him!” Tina yells, holding the both of them at wandpoint - unwilling to shoot when she might hurt Graves in the process. Her scream attracts the attention of everyone around them, and Graves wishes it didn’t - he doesn’t want to put them in danger. But he still wants to be saved.
There's a moment of silence before people recognize who exactly is holding Graves in his arms - Grindelwald’s wand pressed to Graves’ temple, a slow smirk pulling at his lips - and then the MACUSA erupts into chaos.
Graves tries to breathe, tries to think past the panic taking hold of his mind. What did Scamander say about vampires? An army of aurors against one vampire - they should have a chance, shouldn’t they? The hall is full, surely they can fight, organize themselves -
There's a ringing in Graves’ ears, and when it fades he realizes no one around him is moving.
Grindelwald lets him go and Graves stumbles in front of him, gasping, one hand over his throat to protect it. He wheels around to face his enemy, wildly looking around for support, back up - but no one is moving.
Tina’s mouth is open, the tip of her wand glowing with an as yet unspoken spell, which will never be cast. Graves looks at the stairs and sees Seraphina, her expression twisted in something that looks like fear, her foot half lowered towards the next step.
A woman’s cup of coffee is frozen in the air, contents inches away from spilling on the floor. Someone else seems to have been caught in the middle of an Animagus transformation, and Graves turns away from the sight, feeling nauseous. The clock above them has stopped ticking.
It’s like Grindelwald has stopped time itself to do with Graves as he pleases. It’s a frozen scene of madness all around him, and nobody can help him.
But he’s the Director of Magical Security, Graves reminds himself as he straightens up slowly. He shouldn’t need help, he shouldn’t need to be saved. He can still fight, and he will.
Grindelwald is smiling, surveying the scene around them with amusement, and he glances at Graves’ own raised wand, looking unimpressed.
“Do you think you can beat me?”
“I don’t have a choice,” Graves says, and opens fire without further preamble - only to reel back as Grindelwald lazily levitates a frozen person in front of him to take the blow. Graves’ spell was just a Stupefy, but it hits the defenseless wizard with a vengeance. Graves sees the red glow around their body, the way their eyes roll into their sockets despite Grindelwald’s body bind, and he is furious.
“You bastard,” he rasps, shaking. “You fucking coward. Fight me!”
“That’s not what I came here for,” Grindelwald says calmly. “And you know it.”
Graves shakes his head, attempting to deny it to himself even as he knows it’s true. Grindelwald is going to try to take him, here, in front of all of them.
“They can all see and hear us, you know. Everything that happens, they’re watching. They just can't move.”
“Leave these people out of it,” Graves says, hating the edge of desperation to his voice.
“Mr. Graves,” Grindelwald purrs, “this is an important moment - for the both of us. Don’t you want your friends to see it? Don’t you wish to tell them how you knew this was going to happen? Don’t give up on me now. You’ve been so brave. It’s only right that I give you a reward.”
Graves doesn't reply, his magic weaving a shield around the both of them, protecting everyone else from harm. Then he fires again, refusing to admit defeat so easily. He is the Director of Magical Security, he is a man with pride and unforeseen amounts of power, and he knows how to use them .
Either Percival Graves dies fighting or he kills, but he does not surrender.
-
The sun is falling outside.
Graves has become one with pain. His chest burns, his limbs are heavy, his voice has become a mere rasp.
And all the while Grindelwald merely bats his spells away. He doesn’t even use his wand, and Graves starts to wonder if the man even needs it or if it was for show, solely used to pretend he was human. But each time Graves falls he reminds himself of his duties, of what Grindelwald plans for him and he finds the strength to rise again and fight, just a little bit more, just a little longer. There's wetness at the corners of his mouth and Graves doesn't know whether it is sweat, blood or tears.
He continues. He keeps going.
When he’s forced to pause for breath Grindelwald seems to tire of the game. The vampire has barely broken a sweat when Graves’ knees give out under him and his wand clatters to the floor.
“Are you done?” Grindelwald asks, and Graves lets out a sound which might be a sob.
Grindelwald advances towards him, fingers curling under Graves’ chin, and he pulls him up. He holds Graves close, pressed against his own body, and Graves can do nothing to push him away. His eyes catch Tina’s over Grindelwald’s shoulders. She is frozen, but Graves sees the plea in her eyes.
No, God, please no, not him -
Graves wishes he could reassure her.
He clings to Grindelwald’s arms and pushes him away - weakly, but the intent is there. He scrambles back, trying to get up on shaking legs, and Grindelwald shakes his head before approaching him again. “This is futile. You know how this will end.”
“No,” Graves says, hating how pitiful his voice sounds. “No. Get away from me.”
Grindelwald hums. “It’s a little late for that now. Didn’t you tell them how I sit with you at night? Stroke your hair as you fall asleep? How you let me.”
Graves shakes his head wordlessly, somewhere between denial and dismay.
“This has been a long time coming, Mr. Graves. Neither of us can fight it. I, for one, have waited long enough to taste you.”
Graves wants to say he’s wrong. He wants to scream it, if he’s going to die he needs all of them to know that he didn’t want this, he would never want this.
The words lodge in his throat and stick there. How many nights had he spent under Grindelwald’s soft touch, unseen fingers stroking his skin, the barest hint of breath against his neck? He’d fought it, he had, but for how long? He doesn’t know how long it was before he realized he couldn’t stop it, and he doesn’t know how long after that he stopped trying, but it wasn’t long enough. He’d become resigned to it, and it became familiar - in the end, almost soothing.
He shakes his head again desperately as Grindelwald approaches him once more, and despair pierces his heart. He always knew what Grindelwald intended. If he was going to fight this, he would have done it a long time ago.
But he doesn’t want it.
“Don't,” he says. “Please.”
“Hush now,” Grindelwald murmurs as he gathers Graves into his arms. His hands rub over Graves’ back soothingly, as if Graves were something precious and Grindelwald didn’t intend to break him just yet. “You’re overreacting. It’ll be over soon, I promise. Let me take care of you - I can even make it good, you know that.”
“I - no,” Graves whimpers. “I never asked you for anything. I don’t want it - I don’t want you!” Graves shoves weakly at Grindelwald’s chest, but he can do nothing to escape his embrace. Grindelwald may be gentle but he’s firm, immovable, and Graves is trapped in his arms, too weak and tired to fight.
Grindelwald merely hums, ignoring Graves’ protests and placing featherlight kisses over the skin of Graves’ neck.
“No,” Graves sobs. “God, no, please -”
Grindelwald’s grip tightens around him, caging Graves in even as he keeps battling Grindelwald’s persistence.
“No! ”
“Sssh,” Grindelwald says, low and dark. Graves can practically hear the lust in his voice, the hunger, and he tries to twist his body to get away but it’s useless. He needs help, he can’t do it alone.
Graves’ eyes find the people all around them as Grindelwald deepens the kisses with lips and tongue, and he feels panic rising in his chest.
“Help me,” he croaks out, willing for something - anything - to disrupt Grindelwald’s focus. His eyes meet Tina’s again and he can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks at how utterly helpless they all are.
They were fools. He was a fool. This will happen, Grindelwald will get what he wants and no one is coming to save him.
“Would you prefer this to be painful or pleasurable?” Grindelwald murmurs in his ear.
Graves’ mind is reeling as he clings to Grindelwald’s shoulders. How can he possibly make a choice like that? He refuses to give in, he won’t let his last human moments be spent asking Grindelwald to make it feel good - he can’t, if not for himself then for the people around him. He can’t let them see their director submit to this - enjoying his own downfall.
But he -
He doesn’t want it to hurt.
So instead of replying, he bares his throat to Grindelwald, remembering what Scamander said.
The safest thing to do is willingly offer them your blood and hope they’ll let you live. It calms them.
Graves already knows Grindelwald intends to turn him. Because Graves has, despite himself, managed to hold his attention.
He doesn’t want to make this decision.
He offers himself to Grindelwald, and lets him take the choice out of his hands.
Grindelwald smiles. His fingers tangle in Graves’ hair, tugging down to tilt Graves’ head to the side. Graves follows, his whole body shaking in fright, screaming at him to flee -- but he can’t. He hasn’t been able to for months.
There’s nothing he can do. Maybe there never was.
Graves has the desperate thought that perhaps he can still stop himself from being turned into a monster - he can’t stop Grindelwald drinking from him, maybe even killing him, but when the time comes, he can die as himself. He knows what it takes to turn someone and he won’t let Grindelwald make him drink. He’ll hold onto himself and he won’t give in. Even as he trembles in Grindelwald’s arms he knows that he’s a man of willpower, and he’ll remain so to the end.
Grindelwald’s teeth scrape against his skin, not biting yet, barely touching but already flaying Graves alive with that single point of contact. Graves is gasping for breath, pulse racing, and he doesn’t try to stop the tears any more.
“Relax, darling,” Grindelwald whispers. “Everything will be all right, I’ve got you. You’re going to love it.”
Graves lets out a whimper, a small plea -
And Grindelwald kisses the skin one more time, almost apologetically, before bruskly turning Graves’ head to the side and biting down.
At long last.
Graves feels the moment that Grindelwald’s teeth pierce his flesh, feels the hot blood welling up around them, the sharp sting of Grindelwald’s teeth and the warmth of his lips. It’s as though everything comes to a stop in that moment, nothing else existing but Grindelwald’s teeth at his neck. It’s happening, and he couldn’t stop it. The thought comes to him unbidden that finally the game is over.
Grindelwald clings to him, sucking, letting out a low moan as if he was the one overwhelmed. He laps up Graves’ blood greedily before biting him again and again, tearing deep gashes into his skin. Blood trickles down Graves’ chest, staining his shirt; and it hurts, it does.
There’s also heat.
A painless, familiar and pulsing white heat traveling down Graves’ body from his neck and Graves shudders helplessly, eyes wide. His arms tremble as they slowly come up to wrap themselves around Grindelwald’s back to bring him closer. His mouth falls open and soon enough he is panting against Grindelwald’s shoulder, seeking an anchor.
The skin of his neck is sensitized, each pass of Grindelwald’s tongue, each new puncture of his teeth, sending shivers through Graves. Grindelwald’s lips are soft where they press against him, and each time he sucks it sends bursts of sensation down his spine so intense that he feels his eyes roll back.
It’s better than he could have imagined. He can’t stifle a moan, only half remembering why he should.
Pleasure pulses through his veins, sinking deep into him and making him feel as though he’s floating in Grindelwald’s arms. Grindelwald’s hand tightens at the small of his back in an effort to press his body even closer, and Graves’ own hand finds the back of Grindelwald’s head. He presses it there as though he had the strength to tug him closer, fingers clenching and unclenching as he struggles not to be swept away. He feels Grindelwald smile against his skin, and the vampire indulges him. He sucks hard, drinking the life from Graves’ veins deeply and the pleasure of it throbs with each slow beat of Graves’ heart.
Graves blinks heavily and his eyes fall shut. He’s tired, he realizes, too tired to force his eyes open again. It feels so nice to lay here, held secure in Grindelwald’s arms, and let it all wash through him as he drifts. He feels his hand slip from the back of Grindelwald’s head as his body relaxes, held firm and secure to Grindelwald’s chest. He’d tried so hard - after all the pain and fear he just wants to rest here in the warmth and the dark.
Graves’ heart is loud in his ears, like a drumbeat that resonates through his whole body. He listens to it growing quieter, and he lets it fill his mind. After a while he forgets what it is, but he likes to listen to it. He realizes distantly that the drumbeat is slowing down, growing fainter, and he wonders what will happen when it stops.
Eventually he feels Grindelwald shifting him, releasing his neck, and Graves is too weak to protest. His head lolls against Grindelwald’s chest, and all he's aware of are the points of contact with Grindelwald’s body. He's too tired for anything else to exist. He can barely even think, but he wishes Grindelwald would keep drinking. He feels himself slipping away and he just wants to rest. His body is so unbearably heavy, and each shallow breath takes the last of his strength. If he could just lay here while Grindelwald lapped at his neck and held him as he drifted off, that would be nice…
So nice…
There's something wet pressed to Graves’ lips and he doesn't understand why. He can’t turn his head away and the wetness smears across his mouth, messy, coating his lips. He has the vague, disconnected feeling that he should refuse it. There’s something wrong about it, something he didn’t like, but that all seems distant now.
Almost by reflex he moves his tongue to run over the back of his lips, to catch some of it and taste it.
It lights up his mouth like nothing he’s ever known before. It’s bright and rich and sweet, and it’s good. It’s exactly what he needs, he realizes, he’s never needed anything more. He licks more of the liquid from his lips, and with the last reserves of his strength he swallows.
It surges through him, filling him with bright warmth, and it’s not enough. He craves it, he needs more, and with the barest strength it gives him he opens his mouth and presses his tongue forward to lap from the source.
He licks, tentative at first and unsure of everything but how much he needs it. Then more intently as he feels the strength seep back into him, as Grindelwald’s blood fills him with warmth from the inside. He latches his mouth onto Grindelwald’s wrist and he sucks, swallowing down the precious blood and overcome with need. It fills him so completely, and he relishes how it flows down his throat. Every swallow is pure bliss, satisfying an ache deep within him and completing him in a way he didn’t know was possible.
He brings his hands up to clutch at Grindelwald’s wrist, pressing it into his mouth with a desperate abandon. He needs it, he needs it he needs -
“Easy there now,” Grindelwald murmurs, but Graves can’t make sense of the words. Grindelwald makes a move to get away and Graves growls , biting down on his wrist without thought to keep him where he needs him. His grip tightens, his only instinct to fill the emptiness inside him.
“Percival,” Grindelwald says softly. “I said stop.”
Graves whimpers with want, with the pleasure of Grindelwald’s blood over his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. The need doesn’t diminish. But there’s something else pulling at him, pressing at his mind, something that becomes harder to ignore the longer he keeps drinking.
“Stop,” Grindelwald repeats. His voice is lower, echoing around them and the pressure becomes unbearable. Graves pulls back, blood dribbling down his chin and eyes staring at Grindelwald in utter confusion. He doesn’t understand, he wants to keep going, he needs more of it. His throat hurts.
“I know, I know,” Grindelwald says sympathetically. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully wipes Graves’ chin and mouth with it, letting the tissue fall on the once pristine floor of the MACUSA when he’s done. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Graves isn’t sure what that means, but he finds himself nodding anyway, wide eyes looking at the vampire in front of him. He feels compelled to obey him, and he doesn’t question it. Graves instinctively knows he would do anything for him, and he feels almost happy about that fact.
Grindelwald smiles at him, and presses his hand down on Graves’ face, obscuring his view, covering his nose and mouth. Graves gasps but he doesn’t fight it. Grindelwald knows better, he knows what’s good for him.
He feels his consciousness fading, darkness falling around him as Grindelwald slides his arms under him and lifts him from the floor. Graves clings to Grindelwald’s coat weakly, snuggling into the warmth his sire provides as his eyes flutter closed.
He knows not what happens next, for when he awakes he is no longer at the MACUSA but somewhere unknown, naked body twisting in soft sheets, throat burning with need.