#gradencetrickortreat

[paopuofhearts]

CLEOPATRA If it be love indeed, tell me how much. MARK ANTONY There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd. CLEOPATRA I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved. MARK ANTONY Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

For the Halloween Prompt:

Should Percival be Antony or Julius Caesar to Credence’s Cleopatra? Alternately, Credence is Antony.

[Warning: minor scene of Credence/Grindelwald attempted noncon, defined as a creepy pass of pressuring.]

Grad school is kicking my ass so I’ve literally only managed to push all this out. It’s completely unedited and unrevised, so I apologize – but I’m way past the deadline so I feel like I need to get something out to you! I’ll probably go back over this during winter break [hopefully by then I’ll be able to focus on all this writing instead of thesis and platform and portfolio writings instead].

Annual Humanities Division Halloween Haunt!

The garish orange was blinding against the dark black background of the gaudy poster and made his eyes hurt. Furry brown bat cut outs clashed against the construction paper, fluttering off the sides as a silver cauldron of green bubbles frothed and spilled along the bottom edge. It was a horrifying eye sore – with several others posted up and down the corridor, garish pieces slathered together as if an embodiment of the holiday itself threw up all over the walls of the hallway. He had spotted a few others in the other buildings as well, dangling off community boards and hanging precariously next to unsuspecting classroom doors. He had even caught a glimpse of similar atrocities draped in the café he visited on his morning coffee run – how anything managed to make its way through the hidden labyrinths to the sacred depths of the hallowed Arts basement was anyone’s guess. No doubt there were more littering the upper levels of the Literature department as well.

But it did its job, at the very least – it pulled focus, enticing the grad students suffering through the mid semester slog of research to take a break and join the holiday festivities. It was exactly why Modesty had done up his face with a flourish of glittery makeup and shoved him out the door before taking off to her own undergraduate party with friends from her OChem class.

Friends.

Apparently he needed those.

Dress code: Recognizable historic / literary figures!

None of those awful stereotypes! No appropriation allowed!

Be creative, not boring!

The encouragement had been tacked on underneath the poster, pinned to the door of the large house across from the library on campus – a mindful afterthought that hadn’t managed to make its way to the other posters. The vivid exclamation points made his heart shudder in his chest, turning the blood in his veins to ice as his palms began to sweat.

Go as Cleopatra, snag yourself a king, Chastity suggested. She had forced him into an awful thing: a white jumpsuit made to imitate layers of linen – a “modern take” on the Prince Of Egypt adaption the Theater department had developed into an experimental straight play. He hadn’t been able to see it, but the outfits Chastity had worked on were nothing short of amazing. How she snuck one back from the mysterious void of the storage rooms, he would rather not know.

[“I made them. It’s only fair.”]

Modesty had straightened his hair, setting a golden circlet in the shape of a snake upon his brow and settling half a dozen wiry gold bracelets across his arms and wrists. She had even gone the extra mile to paint his eyes – deep, shadowy kohl and bright, vibrant blue. He was pretty sure the design was based on Elizabeth Taylor, not actual hieroglyphics. Someone was bound to tell him off – if not for the improper design, then at the very least for the fact that he was some pale pasty white kid decked out in ridiculously vague allusions to ancient Egyptian attire.

It was a nightmare, and he hadn’t even stepped through the doors yet.

But it was too late. A loud and rambunctious group of students rambled up, hands blindly reaching for the door as they raucously giggled at each other. Shrinking away, he couldn’t avoid being jumbled up into the widespread wall of costumed bodies, tossed out into the fray of the party inside. The music was blaring, a cacophony of stilted techno thumping against the walls as a woman droned in a shouted monotone. It was dark, the only lights coming from glow-in-the-dark stickers flung across the sparse bits of furniture and glow-in-the-dark paint splattered across the walls, dim purple UV lights strung up against the crown molding of the ceiling seams. It was tacky and disorienting. Trying not to stumble into some sanctimonious argument of Dracula vs. Lestat and the merits of the Cullen family, he quickly stepped into the next room.

This room was a bit brighter, though just as awkwardly decorated. Several table lamps were placed strategically in the corners and beside cheap beige chenille couches, covered in gauzy red scarves that threw the room into a bloody shade of red. Speakers were hidden beneath the tables, droning out strange atmospheric noises of wallowing and wails, reedy whistling of a nonexistent wind eerily pressing around the room. The Poe atmosphere was effective, but it had to be a fire hazard of sorts – though none of the occupants seemed to care. There was a heavy scent of smoky incense, curling wisps creeping against the darkened corners. He attempted to hide within such an alcove, tentatively sidestepping toward one such area to get a better view of the room, when a hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“Are you Cleopatra?” He spun around, coming face to face with a sturdy young woman assessing him curiously. Her short hair was done in a thick braid that barely reached her shoulders, and a plastic bow was slung unevenly across her back, the string pressing against her chest.

“Yes?” he answered warily. This was it – he was going to get yelled at, he was going to get kicked out, he was going to get –

“Great! We’ve been looking for a Cleopatra. I’m Tina – History department.” She grabbed his hand without warning, dragging him toward a corner by a tall bookshelf. “You?”

“Credence,” he said faintly, wondering why she of all people would need a Cleopatra. “Literature.”

“Even better! That’s his department too!” Before he could ask for clarification he was being welcomed into a small circle of loitering students huddled together over a book. Of course.

“It’s Minimalism. Its short, its ordinary, its mundane. The man is on an escalator for the entirety of the story,” the shorter man groused, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

“Its Maximalist! It’s a long rambling piece of nonsense full of digressive dribble!” a chubbier man exclaimed, waving his hands about enthusiastically. The first rolled his eyes.

“You aren’t even studying modern literature – “

“Post modern literature, Percy!” an energetic redhead crowed, easily slinging an arm over his shoulders. “And anyway, who cares? Where’s the fun in being stuck on an elevator? Now being stuck in Croatia – “

“Teeny!” A blonde woman shoved her way between the two, pretending she hadn’t interrupted such an important discussion as she pulled the strange woman that had kidnapped him to the other side of the circle. “Oh! You found one!”

Credence glanced at them nervously.

“Hello!” another redhead piped up. “That’s a wonderful outfit – a male Cleopatra, brilliant idea!”

“Thank you?”

“Perfect for our Marc Antony!” They pointed to The Minimalist, dressed in a deep brown leather chest plate – supple and buttery, shining smoothly as it hugged his form in all the right places. Gold paint swirled in intricate patterns threading between the golden rivets piercing the pieces together, matching the red wrist guards clasped on his arms and the thick red pteruges strips layered against his thighs, strands of golden fringe flickering as he moved. He wasn’t a history major, so he couldn’t judge the accuracy, but it was an impressive outfit that lovingly emphasizes the wonderfully sculpted ripples of muscle outlining his body.

“Percival Graves,” The Minimalist introduced himself, offering a hand.

“Credence Barebone,” he replied, allowing his hand to be taken into a gentle but firm handshake.

“This is Tina, Newt, and Theseus as our local Katniss, Peeta, and Gale,” the blonde woman continued. “My name is Queenie, and this is Jacob – “

“Hephaestus and Aphrodite,” the cheerful man cut in adoringly, grinning up at her like a lovestruck fool.

“Nice to meet you.”

“So what are you studying?” Newt asked curiously.

“Reformation literature.” Credence shifted, unsure of their reaction.

“Like – religious stuff? All that Milton and Pilgrim’s Progress?” Theseus prompted.

“I – well, technically.” Credence shrugged. “I study Reformation comedies. Like – the Country Wife. It’s a – little more – controversial.”

“Is that code for raunchy and promiscuous?” Theseus teased, waggling his eyebrows and laughing loudly as Jacob snorted. His brother – at least, Credence presumed they were related, given their matching appearance – elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Play nice,” Tina reprimanded with a frown, before turning her attention back to him. “My sister and I study modern history. I study counter cultural movements in America during the 1970s and 1980s, and my sister studies the impact of ethnic studies in education.”

“They’re with us!” Newt clarified. “I study the effects of nature on city development, and my brother here is studying the Balkan Wars.”

“I tried to convince Percy to join me, but he stuck with his boring post modern literature,” Theseus lamented.

“Modern literature,” Percival corrected. Theseus waved him off.

“What’s your opinion on it?”

“I – “ Credence flustered, unsure how to answer such a vague question correctly without disappointing any of them.

“Ignore him. He isn’t worth it,” Percival insisted, slipping his hand against Credence’s elbow. “Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat – let him gather his manners?”

Percival threw a reprimanding glare at the man, who cackled in response. Credence could feel the heat of Percival’s hand drifting to press against his lower back, carefully maneuvering him toward what he could only presume was a kitchen. It was comforting, if a bit embarrassing. He felt a shiver trailing down his spine.

The kitchen itself was a travesty that also made him shudder – fluffy white clouds of fake spider webbing cascading across the dining table in billowing curtains, plastic spiders dangling precariously in squished upon droves. Punch bowls and jello molds upon the table held all sorts of mismatched creepy crawlers – worms, octopus’, skeletons. Chain link centipedes were plastered to the cupboards, preschool levels of artwork sloppily thrown together. Cheap junk food haphazardly thrown into grotesque displays were crammed to cover every inch of available counter space. The Art department would have a field day with such an eyesore.

At least it smelled clean – the sharp scent of fake pine and a lingering undertone of bleach creeping through the atmosphere.

“What would you like – pretzels and chips?” Percival asked dryly, raising an eyebrow at the sad excuse for food as he peered over the offerings. He leaned over a gelatin mold, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You think they would get a little creative with the goods.”

“Picquery set up the good stuff in the upstairs office room,” someone called out behind them. They turned to see a young man in a bright blue sweater and dull orange pants grimacing as he tried to pluck a lego Cthulhu from his scoop of jello. “Abecedarians!”

“Think you should have gone with Captain Haddock if you’re using such language, Abernathy,” Percival tutted, twining his fingers with Credence’s and leading him out of the room. “Of course Sera set up her own area – come on then, she knows what she’s doing, most of the time.”

They weaved in and out of the crowd, clambering up the stairs to the second floor. There were no Halloween decorations, though there was quite a bit of commotion coming from the last room. They quickly made their way in.

Credence was pleasantly surprised to find far more tasteful decorations and treats displayed. Carved pumpkins sat grinning on either end of the lace covered table, smaller painted ones lining the tops of bookshelves. Fairy lights shaped like bats hung in loops along the walls, while a colony of paper ones spread in flight across the ceiling Fake candles were placed between books on shelves and cascaded from corners, illuminating white skulls and gray gargoyles peeking out of the shadows. The corner seams were filled with thin, knotty sticks and black vines, black roses artfully tacked onto them. Even the food was themed – a chocolate cake set like a graveyard with marshmellow skeletons, hot dogs wrapped in crisped biscuits like mummies, chocolate cookies slathered in icing with finely cut strawberries and blueberries set to look like eyes. There were so many twisted and grotesque foods Credence could hardly keep track.

“Percival, how nice of you to show up.” A tall woman slid up next to them, draped in deep red and white folds of a dress, a copper sword strapped to her back. He hair was wrapped in a shimmering metallic scarf to match. She stood proud and regal, scrutinizing Credence with a keen eye.

“Abernathy was singing your praises downstairs,” Percival said with nonchalance, pulling Credence to his side. He slung an arm around his shoulders – made slightly problematic, given the height difference neither had noticed. “Your department has outdone itself yet again.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Graves. Who’s your lovely Cleopatra?”

“Credence Barebone, English department – Reformation period. Who are you supposed to be tonight?”

“Oya, Yoruba goddess of storms. Does Credence Barebone know how to answer for himself?” she shot back, eyeing Percival with disdain. Credence settled himself, ducking his head in a way that gave an appearance of submission, but tilting it in a way that could also imply a challenge. He had plenty of practice in meek deference, but refused to waver under some stranger’s judgment.

“What do you study?” he asked – an innocent enough question, on the surface. She lifted her head, catching his game, a faint smile gracing her face as she turned her attention back to him.

“Remixed classical art. My current thesis is on the impact of Kehinde Wiley and Harmonia Rosales have on the interpretation of traditional pieces in a modern context of racial perspective. Have you heard of them?”

“Ah – no,” Credence admitted, shifting uncomfortably. She flashed her teeth, a wide smile too sharp and dangerous to be friendly. Like lightning – beautiful, but able to shred a man to pieces.

“Shame.” She turned back to Percival. “Do try the werewolf brains – the paper mache was quite an effort.”

Credence kept his head down as he watched her leave, a swirling hurricane of wild force that commanded the room. A trio of girls in the doorway parted for her like the Red Sea, giggling in awe as she strode past. A friend of Percival’s and a force to be reckoned with, and he had just blundered the whole first impression away.

“Never mind her,” his Antony said, nonchalant as he snagged a plate from the edge of the table. “We were going to open up a law firm together, once upon a time. She’s still a bit bitter we didn’t pass our LSAT.”

“We?”

“Theseus too. And Tina.” He picked at the food, taking small scoop of gelatinous brain, red food coloring dripping from the spoon. “Speaking of Theseus and Tina, what should we bring back to them?”

Credence tilted his head, nitpicking at the edge of his own plate.

“The – um – spider crackers?”

“No, come on – pick something you actually want. And please don’t say the caprese eyeballs.”

Credence studied the array on spread before them, a feast of holiday goods for the taking. His gaze settled upon a collection of cookies, dark chocolate brownies cut into circles, a dollop of sprinkle covered crème upon it, a coned chocolate kiss settled gently on top.

“The witch hats.” Percival shot him a crooked grin, wryly amused.

“A good choice.” Credence watched as Percival piled food upon the plate, bits and pieces of everything stacked high. Rather than following suit, he quietly left his plate on the corner. “Ready to head back down?”

“I need to find a bathroom.” They started back out the door, Credence trailing behind. He watched others pass by, laughing and nudging each other as they walked up and down the stairwell.

“Bathroom should be on your left.” He was pointed down a long side hallway, where several people lingered. “Come find us again when you’re done.”

The line was taking forever. He shuffled from foot to foot, beginning to grow impatient as he waited. Perhaps it would have been better to have simply gone back to the corner with his new found friends. Could they be considered friends yet? At the rate it took to get into the bathroom, perhaps they would think he had ditched them. It would have been better if only he had stayed –

A hand fell upon his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

“Well aren’t you a cute little thing.” Credence turned around, shrinking away. Before him stood a tall man with pale hair and paler eyes, decked in a toga and crowned with laurel. A Caesar – what were the odds of that?

“My apologies, where are my manners. Gellert Grindelwald – assistant professor for the modern literature department.” The man took Credence’s hand, bowing as he placed a kiss upon his knuckles. Old fashioned and uncomfortable, to say the least. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure of such a beautiful Cleopatra?”

He squirmed away, twisting out of Gellert’s grip.

“Credence,” he answered reluctantly, not wanting to be impolite. Yet his hand continued to roam, tracing across his shoulder and down his back.

“Credence. A lovely name for a lovely face. What’s a beautiful thing like you doing at a party like this, hm? Who did you come with?”

“No one.” He could feel the bottom of his stomach drop at the honest admission. The hand clawed at his belt, eager and excited.

“Oh? Perhaps you’d like some company then?”

“I’d rather not,” Credence admitted, still trying to move away. Gellert just moved closer, crowding into his space.

“A pity. Does that mean you have company here?”

“Yes, actually.”

“I can promise you I am much more entertaining than anyone else you’d meet here.”

Credence fidgeted, unsure what to do. Gellert continued to croon, attempting to convince him to leave. Several moments later, with panic flooding his veins and pulsing beneath his skin, itching to get away, he caught the eyes of his knight – his gladiator, his Antony. Gellert turned to track his line of sight, displeased at such a distraction. His face contorted with fury and disgust when he realized who was headed their way. With a sneer, he grasped the collar of Credence’s outfit, the strain on the outfit almost enough to tear it apart.

“I could ruin him,” Gellert hissed harshly into his ear. “I could ruin all of you. Now play along like a good little boy.”

The two wandered over, Percival standing tall and menacing and in need of a dramatic flair of a cape, while Theseus brooded behind with a sharp glare.

“Credence. We were wondering where you’d had gotten off to,” Percival started, leveling a cold tone as he stared unblinkingly at Gellert.

“Didn’t realize you got stuck with this asshole,” Theseus started, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He isn’t – that bad,” Credence attempted.

“He’s a fucking asshole who gets off on torture porn,” Percival growled, glaring furiously at Gellert.

“Now Percy darling, just because I didn’t invite you back to my little dungeon last Christmas – “ Gellert drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Fuck off, you prick,” Theseus interrupted loudly, shoving Percival to the side. “Leave the kid alone.”

Credence felt Gellert’s fingers dig into his back, nails scratching through the fabric. The hand clawed at his skin tightly – painfully. Credence stood as still as he possibly could, thinking of the cold marble statues outside the library, tall and unfeeling.

“He’s hardly a child,” Gellert pointed out. “What do you think, Credence – would you rather be off with these foolhardy Neanderthals, or continue our lovely conversation, hm?”

His body was frozen, heavy like lead, unable to move. He stared unblinking at the floor, wishing to be anywhere else. A beat of silence, and Theseus huffed in annoyance, nudging Percival as he turned and left. Percival frowned, but followed after, figuring it to be a lost cause. He glanced back once more, dark eyes piercing through the dim light, but Credence held his head down. Perhaps if he stayed quiet, Gellert would get bored –

“See, what did I tell you?” Gellert trailed his hand down, soft and gentle as it caressed the thin fabric of his outfit. Gellert’s face drifted closer, voice dropping several octaves into a whisper. “Now, where were we? I do believe you were about to tell me of this young Margery – “

His body blocked the hallway, and Credence shrunk back, plastering himself against the wall. Another hand found its way to his waist, a hand settling against it and sweeping downward.

In a fit of panic, Credence lashed out. His mind blanked, nerves firing too fast to keep up. Within seconds, he had shoved Gellert into the wall, pinning him there with a hand wrapped around the man’s neck. He felt wild with the adrenaline rushing through his veins as an overwhelming tempest of fear and rage tore through his bloodstream. His hand twitched and tightened against the pale column of Gellert’s throat.

“Come now, Credence,” Gellert rasped, both hands wrapping around Credence’s wrist. “Control yourself.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Credence growled, pushing harder against him. He could still feel the creeping tremors twisting against his skin, an unsettling film of disgust plastered against his body, seeping beneath his costume and into his bones.

“Mr. Barebone.” His head snapped to the side, locking eyes with none other than Seraphina Picquery herself. Her face was stone still as she took in the scene, mouth a firm line. “Perhaps it’s time you take your leave.”

Anger burned through him, a fierce spark of vengefulness blazing into a firestorm against his ribs. In a burst of blinding fury, he slammed Gellert’s head back into the wall, releasing him as he crumpled to the ground, clawing at his throat as he gasped for breath. Credence shuddered, face twisting as he snarled before shoving past Seraphina, a dark cloud bolting for the door. She watched him go, then turned her attention back to Gellert. The man smirked, chuckling under his breath.

“He’s a miracle, isn’t he?”

“Get out before I call the cops on you,” she sneered, rounding her shoulders back as she turned to the main room. “Everyone out! This party is over.”

Credence made his way to the library, the cold air biting through the whirlwind of his emotions and leaving him feeling like a naked, helpless child. Horror slithered across his skin, twined in the breeze that slid through the thin white linen hanging off of him. He stumbled into the bushes, heaving as he dropped to his knees. He blindly fumbled for his phone, dragging his body up against the brick wall of the library. His shoulder pressed against the rough stone, part of his outfit snagging against it.

Hey Cree. Chastity picked me up and took me to some haunted house they’re doing. We’re staying with Eve and the crew tonight. Hope you had fun!

He leaned heavily against the wall, swallowing hard. If he went home, he would be alone – the very last thing he wanted to be. But it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. He didn’t have friends, didn’t have pets, didn’t have anyone waiting for him to keep the vivid memory of hands creeping up his thigh and words whispered in his ear as the world closed in on him in the darkness –

“Credence?”

His head snapped up, eyes widening as he spotted none other than Percival, stopped on the walkway before him. He craned his head and saw the others making their way across the square on the other side of the street, laughing obnoxiously as Tina and Queenie burst into song. It looked as though they had taken their leave as well – the party dying down as the clock struck midnight, as it were. Which meant that Gellert –

Another wave of nausea had him doubling over, though his body seemed to be done with even attempting to dry heave. A bout of dizziness struck him, his hands gone clammy, body shaking apart. The next thing he knew was a distorted shuffling as a pair of sandals made their way into his view.

“Credence, are you alright?” A hand made its way toward his shoulder, and he flinched.

“Alright, it’s okay,” Percival assured, taking a step back. “Take your time. Here, try to match your breathing with my counting, alright?”

His mind was whirling far too fast, skipping over the numbers being listed as he tried to think of what to do. One, Percival was here, trying to calm him down, three, but why, he had left Percival, five, had gone off with Gellert, surely Percival hated him, eight, thought less of him, ten, wanted nothing to do with him, eleven, but maybe he could redeem himself, twelve, that’s why Percival was here for him, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

Slowly, Credence managed to come back to himself. Percival watched with a careful eye as the young man brought himself back from hyperventilating, steadily regaining his awareness. After a few more moments, once Percival had calmly made his way to thirty, Credence straightened himself, though he still refused to look up.

“Thanks,” he whispered, voice rough from – whatever had happened.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Percival prompted, not bothering to skirt around the issue. He was worried, of course, and wanted to know – so he wasn’t going to ignore it. Better to be blunt. But if Credence didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t push.

“It was – “ Credence glanced up from behind his fringe of hair, wary like a caged animal.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Percival assured with a shrug. There was a beat of silence as Credence assessed the situation.

“Gellert tried to – do things.” Percival frowned, gritting his teeth as he surveyed the area in hopes to find the man walking by. What he wouldn’t do to punch that smug bastards face in –

“It’s my fault. I – I should have listened to you.”

Percival placed his hand upon his back, a solid weight and comforting warmth that guided him back to the walkway.

“Do you live with anyone?” he asked. He bit his lip, shaking his head. “I’m going to give you some options, alright? Would you like me to walk you home and stay with you, or would you like to come to my place?”

“My sisters – if they – I don’t know how they would react to someone being there,” he managed to say. Percival nodded understandingly.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

“But I – “

“It’s not a problem, that’s why I’m offering,” he cut in calmly. He thought of his options, before finally caving in with a nod. “Let me call a cab then.”

The ride was a blur of lamplights flashing against his eyelids and the soothing hum of the taxi sailing down empty streets. Percival kept his distance, but let his hand rest between them, palm opened upward if Credence so chose to take it. So far, he was more content to huddle against the cool plastic of the door, leaning his head against the window pane.

Percival’s face was washed with a pale white light, brightened like a spotlight as he gazed down at his phone with furrowed brow. His fingers struck the screen in quick succession, pounding out rhetoric toward Seraphina, skipping words like stones on a lake of ice in an attempt to crack through her tight-lipped wall of excuses to figure out what truly happened. His face twisted in fury, and he finally flung the phone to the floor, unable to contain his ire.

The noise made Credence jump, head turning to see what had happened.

“It’s nothing.” Percival crossed his arms, straightening his back as he leaned against the seat. He looked almost regal – Credence could almost picture it, shifting the world away and painting in the crushed velvet and glittering gold of a palanquin, enshrining Percival in a mystic abyss of light curtains, sun shining through to offer but the glimpse of his strong silhouette peering through.

“You’re a very good Marc Antony,” he said, tilting his head to the side. The picture changed, warping in on itself, swirling into an arena. A sword as firm as his stance, solid and steady, face set in determination. Shoulders down and back, ready for whatever the world would throw at him. A soldier, a gladiator, a knight as it were – brave and steadfast in heart and mind.

[“You are a child unworthy of the grace of the Lord.”]

“Credence?” Percival’s hand came into view, gently brushing against his own in the space between them. “You’re shaking.”

“I – “ There was a moment, standing on the brink of something overwhelming, the edge of a cliff into the unknown. Terror pressed against his heart, squeezing tightly and shrinking his ribs, wrapping around his lungs so he could hardly breathe.

They slid as the cab turned a corner sharply. The moment collapsed, tension exiting is a rush.

It was over. Credence turned back to the window, watching the streetlights pass them by.

“It’s nothing.”

The corners of Percival’s mouth dragged downward, but he made no move to speak into the silence. Instead, he simply pressed his fingers into the spaces between Credence’s, filling the gaps and holding tightly. Credence bit his lip, but let himself be held. It was – nice. Too nice, perhaps. But – nice. Percival’s hands were nothing special – just as warm as his own, just as soft in the hidden places, just as rough in the calloused pads and knuckles. They were smaller, but wider – complimentary to his own, in a way.

They stayed like that, in comforting quiet, to the point where Credence began to lull off, nodding against the window as his eyes fluttered shut. But eventually, their journey came to an end. Just as he was about to dive into sleep, the car pulled to a stop.

“We’re here,” Percival muttered, clutching his hand before letting go to get out. Reluctantly, Credence did the same, managing to maneuver himself out of the car to sidle over to Percival’s side. Percival took his arm gently, carefully guiding him up the driveway and into the house. It was a nice home, to be sure – the typical American dream of a white picket fence and a small white porch.

Credence didn’t pay much attention, instead letting his mind drift.

“Are you hungry?” He shrugged, uncaring. “Alright. Well, here – sit down. I’ll grab you a blanket.”

Percival disappeared into the depths of the other rooms, leaving Credence standing awkwardly in front of a pristine leather couch. It looked far too expensive to even glance at, never mind touch and rest upon. Hesitantly, Credence ran a finger along the sewn seam of the side. It was smooth as silk, dipping beneath his fingertip – gaudy and ostentatious as a black leather couch was, it was also quite beautiful.

“It won’t bite, you know.” Percival stepped toward him, sandals shuffling against the wood floors. He carried a large pillow in his arms, a thick blanket tucked beneath it. “You can sit, it’s fine.”

Credence obediently did as told, sliding onto the seat as Percival took his place beside him.

“Do you want to talk, or just sleep?” As much as Credence wished to stay up, filling the space between them with poetry, waxing lyric on language and literature, delving into the depths of their respective fields – he was exhausted after the events he suffered through, and could feel sleep pulling at his eyes, tugging at his mind, dragging him away.

“Sleep, I think.”

“Lay down then.”

Percival gazed at Credence’s face, watching as the moonlight pouring through the curtains graced his pale face. The young man was quite beautiful, bathed in silver, curled up under soft black blankets.

He would put Cleopatra herself to shame.

Someday…

Okay first off apologies; I took this prompt while I was teaching abroad this summer, and when I got back I started grad school and realized I’d need more than one job to pay for it, so I have been absolutely swamped with work. I didn’t finish everything I wanted with this – but I wanted to post something out here, just to get it out here, so that the prompt was filled before Thanksgiving season. I’m so sorry I’m late with it.

Anyway! Gosh this prompt hit on all my academic enjoyments so I probably went way overboard on that instead of, you know, focusing on the Anthony / Cleopatra / Caesar bit in a more direct way. Like, overall I kind of followed the general plotline of how Plutarch wrote that mess of a threesome, with a hefty dose of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy take thrown in – Cleopatra gets all hung up on Anthony, tries to appease Caesar so Caesar stops going after Anthony, Anthony thinks she doesn’t love him, Cleopatra realizes mistakes were made. And then I tried to make the ending a bit happier, where they come back together and Caesar kind of just disappears. Probably too much influence and reference to cram into what I tried to keep as a light and abstract outline, so it probably ended up seeming more like it was just “woo Halloween costumes and some sad pathetic plot”, so. Apologies.

I also got really into the whole academia setting and spent way too much time dreaming up headcanons for that [wherein Seraphina, Percival, Tina, and Theseus were all Law focused undergrads who ended up failing their LSATs, so they went into grad school research with things they enjoyed most from their undergrad work, hoping to find work through that. Queenie and Newt kind of just followed their siblings along, though they’re the ones who got into grad school because they’re actually paid for their research, and then they met Jacob, who’s been doing research studies for far too many years, and foreign exchange student Gellert, who’s just all sorts of red flag levels of creepy. Credence took up grad school in hopes of getting funding to publish a textbook on Reformation literature so he can support his two sisters in their undergrad schooling, though Modesty will likely be the big breadwinner out of all of them since she’s the one going into Med school, but that’s also pretty expensive, so].

Anyway. It was my first attempt at any sort of holiday prompt type thing [the only other time I filled out a prompt was as an Anon on some Kink Meme way back in the LJ days; either way, I’m not much in on this practice]. Hopefully it wasn’t too terrible and did something for you. Woo.

[missmochii]

Another entry for the treat nº1 of halloween costumes, this time a football player xd

So, Newt found Percy's old football uniform, and it somehow fits Credence rather well hahaha okay I know nothing about football, I referenced it off of an nfl picture, I think it turned out okay.

[nettlekettle]

Beyond The Veil: A Spiritualist AU based on @gothyringwald‘s prompt for the @gradencetrickortreat challenge “Victorian AU. Credence is a medium/spiritualist. Graves is a sceptic”  * November 1899. “My paths are in the fields I know and thine in undiscover'd lands.” From the very beginning it’s clear that Credence is a singular case. The young man is starkly different to all the spirit mediums Graves has exposed as frauds - those thieves who manipulate the desperation of the grief-stricken. It’s an unassuming night and an unassuming setting – a frost touched night in November, the lamp-lit parlor of a wealthy host, the typical gaggle of society ladies and gentlemen that make up the circle. He expects the willowy girl who served the refreshments to take the chair. She seems the typical sort  - dainty, bird-like, with large saucer eyes. She has a fitting name too, Chastity, all holiness and light. The kind of name which pleases the hopeful bereaved. And yet, it’s the son who steps forward. He approaches the chair in a slow, resigned way, sits, folds his hands in his lap, and begins. Credence slips into his medium trance without any theatricality – no puff of smoke nor gibbering lip. One second he is lucid, the next suspended between conscious and subconscious states. His head tips loosely to the side, and a dark lock of hair falls into his eyes. “Credence?” asks Chastity firmly, “Are you ready to begin?” “Yes,” Credence replies in a low tone, “She is with me.” “Who is it that guides you?” asks one woman. “It is my little sister, Modesty” Credence offers in a soft voice. A little sister huffs Graves’ thoughts How perfectly chosen to play to human sensitivity. Yet despite his brain’s protestations, a tiny whisper of doubt whistles through his mind, for there’s an earnestness in Credence. His dark feline eyes are arresting when they alight on Graves’ own. There’s a searching curiosity in his gaze which seems to pierce both mind and soul. * January 1900. “Would breathing thro' his lips impart the life that almost dies in me?” A horrible gurgling noise bubbles up from Credence’s throat. He chokes and splutters fitfully.The other attendees gasp and titter. Graves feels Credence’s pain as a pang in his own chest. Credence shakes, his body knocking heavily against the back of the chair over and over and over and over in a creaking, rapping melody. Theseus’s deep voice booms suddenly from Credence’s slack open mouth. “Percival.” Graves feels sick with shock, and shot through with yearning longing. His dear Theseus! That dear voice, last heard more than a decade ago in an army medical tent, weak and failing, is now clear as a bell. Distinct. True. “Percival.” “Thes,” he murmurs softly, half to himself. “Percival,” Theseus’s voice intones, spewing forth from Credence. “Let me go.” “Theseus, please” Graves hears his own voice say, pleading unashamedly, reaching for Credence’s trembling hand. “Let. Me. Go.” Theseus half-shouts. The table rocks violently on its feet, sending a glass of water flying, shattering against the floor. Credence’s body convulses in the chair, cold sweat staining his starched white shirt under his arms. He wheezes hollowly, a horrible dry rasp. With a final shudder he collapses, a mouthpiece discarded. * May 1900. “Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt.” Italian sun plays across Credence’s face, and his skin is warm when Graves presses a kiss to his temple. Credence sighs a little then, expression tenderly sad as he looks at the rows of marble tombs which inhabit the Cimitero degli Inglesi. “I never asked them to come to me,” Credence says guiltily out of nowhere. “I never wanted it.” “- and yet, you did not shut them out.” Graves replies. They walk in silence through the graveyard, clusters of purple spring flowers around their ankles. Credence trails his fingertips over crucifixes and urns and angels. “I have been thinking lately,” Credence confesses, “that my Summerland will be Florence, with you by my side.” “Will you be able to find me?” Graves finds himself asking, “when we are but spirits? I will surely die before you do, my darling.” “Yes,” Credence answers with absolute certainty, “my soul will recognise its beloved, even beyond the veil.” 

[iamonlydancing]

a time of ancient ghosts

Or the one where Credence can commune with the beyond, Graves is a former naval officer whose career ended in flames, and the spirit haunting the Goldstein sisters’ house is something neither of them have faced before.

surprise art for my @gradencetrickortreat fill for @gothyringwald, the fanmix is here

[internalizedobscurial]

My painting for the Gradence Trick-or-Treat Hallowe’en prompt fest.

Trick 17

Prompt: Modern AU. Credence moves into a house in the province (with or w/o his family). He likes how peaceful the place is, but something seems to be off about the yew tree outside his window. Step by step, through old letters and photographs and some research in the local library, he gets to know the story of the man who lived there before. The day he finds out the name of the previous house owner, Percival’s ghost appears in his room. They fall for each other even though they both know it’s an impossible love.

There’s a beautifully written story as well, you can read it here.

@gradencetrickortreat @soughs @weconqueratdawn

[weconqueratdawn]

128 Yew Tree Drive  - Final Chapter now on AO3

Fandom: Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them Rating: Teen & Up Tags: Modern AU / No Magic, ghost!Graves, 1950s!Graves, Falling in Love, Pining, Tearjerker, Living Together, Domestic, Implied/Reference Past Child Abuse / Sexual Assault, PTSD, Anxiety, Recovery, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug Summary: Credence finally has a safe place to call his own and is beginning to pick up the pieces of his life. But when the house’s former inhabitant appears unexpectedly, it seems he might find more than just much-needed stability under its roof…

Yikes here we go, monogrammed handkerchiefs at the ready :0

I’m so sorry

Final installment for the @gradencetrickortreat prompt fest

*

Tina’s car had heating vents which rattled noisily and blasted warm air onto their laps. A half-eaten pretzel poked out of a paper bag on the backseat.

“Breakfast,” she said, when she noticed him looking. “Didn’t get time to finish it. Got another one here if you want it?”

Credence shook his head. “Thank you, but I already ate.” Not much, maybe, but he’d managed something. Mr Graves had raised an eyebrow at his untouched cereal; Credence had chosen to ignore him.

Traffic was favourable and the ride to Ms Picquery’s office wasn’t long; Credence regretted having to step out onto the cold damp parking lot. Weathered asphalt crunched under his shoes as Tina locked the car. He could have happily spent all day driving about, scenery reeling by on the other side of the glass.

They passed the short wait for Credence’s appointment in the company of a tall rubber plant and a pile of glossily-bland magazines which neither of them looked at. Instead, Tina rummaged through her purse for something she couldn’t seem to locate, and Credence studied the carpet. After about ten minutes, Ms Picquery’s secretary called them in.

Ms Piquery was the most self-possessed person Credence had ever met. She wasn’t warm and friendly like Tina; she didn’t smile much and she didn’t treat him like he was made of china. He appreciated this a great deal.

Today was their last meeting, and more of a formality than anything else. She asked how he was feeling and talked him again through what he should expect. He nodded seriously; he’d heard it all before but that didn’t matter. She reminded him to speak clearly and calmly: a few tears were fine, she said, but mumbling would help no one if the jury could not hear him. Tina winced a little at this, but Credence didn’t. He had much to learn from Ms Picquery. She was determined to win. So was Credence.

When they parted, she shook his hand. The next he saw her, it would be in court.

After that, Tina took him for lunch. She chose a different place this time, one a little distance from Ms Piquery’s office. It offered things like matcha pancakes and glazed pork lollipops. The two servers were his age and had matching black aprons and tattooed forearms. Credence squashed down a nervous giggle: Mr Graves would have hated it.

He ordered a plain burger and fries - the menu called it The Puritan - and didn’t smile back when their server made a suggestive joke about his “classic” tastes.

Even when the food came, conversation was not easy. The consciousness of events rushing to close weighed heavily upon their table. Tina tried hard to distract him with entertaining stories. Credence appreciated her efforts but felt guilty for being such poor company. Between weak smiles, he picked at his fries and looked out the window to the cemetery opposite.

There were two stone pillars either side of the entrance and fancy wrought-iron gates pulled wide open. Beyond them, smooth lawns rolled between mature spreading trees, studded with stubby grey headstones. It had an older air than the “Est. 1947” plaques screwed onto the pillars suggested.

When Tina paid the bill and gathered up her coat and purse, Credence explained he’d get the bus home later. “I’d like to walk a bit first,” he said. “On my own, if that’s okay.”

Read more on ao3

[braganzas]

the mystic light, the choir of smoke 

It's been ten years since vampires came out of the coffin and it's a cold night when Second Salem Church member Credence Barebone comes across the vampire Sheriff of New York.

Written for @gradencetrickortreat; prompt by @dailandin

(playlist)

[maggieandthedragon]

No one gets Samhain off in the Department of Magical Security and on a night where magic misfires and beasts go berserk, Credence thinks it might be best that he stays in the Woolworth Building with his caretakers. Queenie Goldstein, however, isn't letting the holiday go completely uncelebrated.

Featuring divination games, a surprising number of apples and no one being good at that talking thing. [for @nettlekettle, a very belated prompt fill for @gradencetrickortreat]

[dailandin]

A tie that binds

For the @gradencetrickortreat​ Halloween Fest

Pairing: Credence Barebone / Original Percival Graves

Summary:

According to the street orphans who frequent the Church there is a ritual that will summon a demon from the depths of Hell who will then grant the summoner three wishes of their choosing.

Desperate to escape from the abuse he suffers at the hands of his adoptive mother, Credence tries the supposedly magical ritual. No one is more shocked than him when it actually works.

(Alternatively: Percival Graves just wants to get to work)

[girlscanlikerobots]

There’s a devil waiting outside your door.

For the @gradencetrickortreat Halloween promptfest - for Trick No. 6, The VVitch AU, submitted by @clockhearted-crocodile 

listen 

(I couldn’t find the second track on playmoss - listen to it here)

[missmochii]

“Trick or Treat, Master Graves?”

At last my final entry for treat nº 1: slutty costumes, I wanted to ad a background and much more details but I had trouble with my wacom at the last moment so this is the best I could do if I wanted to meet deadline, hopefully in a couple of days I’ll be posting a more finished version for my deviantart and such…

whatever, happy Halloween to all!!!

ps: don’t know if I should tag this as nsfw xd

[theseavoices]

W.I.P.

For the @gradencetrickortreat prompt I’m working on…

Here is the finished picture   (NSFW)

[nettlekettle]

As the clock tolls 8pm on Samhain night, Graves sweeps Credence away to the moonlit fields of Wyoming for broomstick-riding lessons.

My fic for the @gradencetrickortreat prompt fest is now on A03! Thankyou to @unicornmagic for the wonderful prompt! I had a lovely time writing it. 

Happy Samhain everyone! ❤

[iamonlydancing]

“I fear the damnation of your soul,” Graves confesses in a low whisper, taking Credence’s hand and pulling it to his chest.

“You’ll be with me every step of the way,” Credence leans closer, dark hair falling over his eyes as he murmurs, “I’m always safe with you.”

Or the one where Credence can commune with the beyond, Graves is a former naval officer whose career ended in flames, and the spirit haunting the Goldstein sisters’ house is something neither of them have faced before.

The final of my gradence victorian horror story for @gradencetrickortreat!  Art is here, and the fanmix is here

[gradencetrickortreat]

The Halloween season is close upon us, friends! That means that posting for the Trick or Treat challenge starts soon. How exciting! We can’t wait to see what everyone will come up with. But, first, here are some posting guidelines to help you along the way.

The basics

Posting starts on the 1st of October 2017 CDT and ends at midnight on the 31st of October 2017. You can post any time between these dates. If you need an extension, please let us know, and we can figure something out.

Work

The minimum word count for fic is 1000 words. There is no upper limit. (And no limits for other types of work).

Your work must be new, and fill the prompt you've claimed.

Work doesn’t have to be beta’d but you are, naturally, more than welcome to have a beta look your work over if you want.

This isn't a gift exchange, but prompters have been encouraged to list their squicks, etc., so please remember to take note of these as you are filling the prompt. I'm sure everyone can understand how disappointing it would be to have your prompt filled and then not be able to enjoy it because it has one of your squicks in it.

As ever, the rules are no rape/non-con, no bestiality, no characters under 16 in sexual situations.

Posting

Work can be posted on your preferred site/platform. You can also post in more than one place, e.g. fic on AO3, and on tumblr (in full or to promote), etc.

If you post your work on tumblr it would be great if you could tag @gradencetrickortreat​ and/or use the tag 'gradence trick or treat' in the first five tags (so it shows up). That way, we can track what's being made and reblog it as we go. We will also collate everything into a master post at the end of the month.

If you are posting on AO3 we have made a collection for the challenge that you can put your work in (and we encourage you to do so, so everything is all in the once place there). There is a tutorial on AO3 on how to post to a collection (see also here).

You are more than welcome to post your work on AO3 anonymously. To do this, you have to submit your work to an Anonymous collection like this one as well as the Trick or Treat collection (if you want). 

Please include the prompt you are filling somewhere when you post the work.

As mentioned, we will be collating the work for a master list. We will be asking for the preferred link for your work (i.e. if you posted your playlist on tumblr and 8tracks, we will only link to one, so please let us know which link to include). But there will be more details on all the info we need for the master post later.

To make sure no work falls through the net, please also send in a message when your work is posted.

If you need to drop out it's OK, we understand, but please let us know in advance.

Still got questions? Feel free to send them our way, directly to this tumblr here or to either @gothyringwald or @graves-expectations. 

And remember: 

Have fun! :)

[weconqueratdawn]

Fandom: Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them Rating: Teen & Up Tags: Modern AU / No Magic, ghost!Graves, 1950s!Graves, Falling in Love, Pining, Tearjerker, Living Together, Domestic, Implied/Reference Past Child Abuse / Sexual Assault, PTSD, Anxiety, Recovery, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug Summary: Credence finally has a safe place to call his own and is beginning to pick up the pieces of his life. But when the house's former inhabitant appears unexpectedly, it seems he might find more than just much-needed stability under its roof...

My first gradence fic is up! The rest will follow soon, it’s all written, don’t worry :) And I’m trying out a header thing since external links aren’t appearing in the tags >:|

Written for @gradencetrickortreat prompt trick 17 from @soughs:

Prompt: Modern AU. Credence moves into a house in the province (with or w/o his family). He likes how peaceful the place is, but something seems to be off about the yew tree outside his window. Step by step, through old letters and photographs and some research in the local library, he gets to know the story of the man who lived there before. The day he finds out the name of the previous house owner, Percival’s ghost appears in his room. They fall for each other even though they both know it’s an impossible love.

Let’s just say I really ran with the “impossible love” part :0

*

Each morning, Credence pulled on his jacket and walked the twenty minutes to the grocery store. It had been Tina’s suggestion to create a routine and stick to it, one which involved leaving the house if at all possible. Since meeting her, he followed her advice as best he could.

There he would buy whatever essentials were needed - bread, milk, cereal - and something for dinner. One day at a time was how he kept going; how he’d kept going for so long. Maybe one day the future would not be such an arduous prospect, but at least now he could be content with his present.

The walk back was his favourite part - the feel of returning safely home gave deeper interest to the sights of the neighbourhood. The houses were all a similar type to the street on which he lived - lawns rose gently from the road, up to where porches and eaves protruded protectively. Everything was hushed and still, except for the dry rustle of leaves withering on the trees and hedges.

He met almost no one. Earlier, cars had rolled slowly down the sloping streets and wouldn’t come back until evening. Occasionally, a jogger sped past, earbuds in and eyes fixed firmly in front. Even if there had been anyone to spare him a glance, nobody would have. It wasn’t that kind of neighbourhood.

Three faded numbers painted on the mailbox welcomed him back. They were repeated more discreetly on the porch door, just under the paned window. One-Two-Eight.

Inside, the welcome continued. There was the same hairline crack in the floor tile at the bottom of the stairs, and there was the creaky floorboard which sagged just so in the dining room. Such small things, like the house had nodded him a cordial greeting and he had returned it in kind.

This morning, there was something different. Nothing to cause him alarm, though - just a simple oversight on his part. A lamp had been left on, next to the armchair by the sitting room fireplace.

Credence switched it off, and went to boil the kettle for tea.

Read more on ao3