#its one thing posting art - posting any sort of writing is like breaking your ribs open with a crab cracker

[nagdabbit]

I’d love to see 42 from the ace prompt post! Your writing has me weak🥺💕

HI LOVELY! thank you for the prompt!

full disclosure, my head went on weird this whole week and this one didn’t go where i thought it was going to when i started writing and i got distracted by how funny i think sex euphemisms are and i remembered that billy and steve are both idiots and then this happened... i hope you enjoy it!

~~~~

42. “You know I’d go anywhere you were, right?” 

He woke up kinda warm, kinda crowded and boxed in. Woke kinda… not alone.

The bed had been empty when he'd gone to sleep. Noticeably empty. Like the lonely kind of empty. Like the cold kind of empty. Like, Steve wasn't even home when he went to bed kind of empty. Like the Steve hadn't even set foot in his room in six months kind of empty. 

But he woke incredibly warm and crowded and breathing in a head of soft, wild, chestnut hair that had burrowed up under his chin. Six months ago, it would have been cute and completely normal. 

His arm was pinned between them, folded up against his belly. Steve's hand had found its way there in the night, and curled over top. That was familiar, too; Steve had always liked to hold onto whatever part of Billy he could reach.

Billy sighed into the soft waves, and placed his other hand over top Steve's. He curled his fingers against Steve's calloused palm, gently dragged his thumb in slow circles across the top of his wrist until he began to shift awake.

"Hey."

A soft hum, the slight dig of Steve's forehead against his clavicle as he tensed around a wide yawn, and then went lax. "Mmph. Hey."

"What's wrong?"

"Makes you think somethin' s'wrong?" he grumbled, still sounding half asleep. 

"Didn't think it would be something happy that brought you back into my bed without warning. So what's wrong?"

A sigh, a grumble, a frustrated little growl. "Kelly dumped me."

Ah, Kelly. Fifth in six months. Pretty, kinda stuck up. Billy had hated her on principle, but she seemed to actually like Steve.

Billy squeezed Steve's hand, then bent to press a kiss into his wild mane. "I'm sorry."

Steve scoffed, head twitching as he must have rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. You didn't even like her."

"I didn't know her," Billy corrected, though both accusations were true. "You okay?"

"M'fine," Steve muttered, shrugging a little. "More disappointed, than anything. But I'm fine."

"Yeah, fine enough you had to come see little ol' me," Billy teased, but he tried to keep his tone light. "What's wrong?"

Another sigh, then Steve burrowed closer, worming his face down between the lumpy pillow and Billy's cheek. "I'm tired."

"What kind of tired?" 

"Tired of everything."

Billy just sighed. He linked his pinky with Steve's and squeezed tight for a moment, until the hand between his squeezed back. Shifted until their temples were pressed together, until he could feel the gentle beat of Steve's pulse against his own.

"What if," Steve began, "I just left. Just ran away into the wilderness and hid out there until people stopped being stupid."

Billy snorted at the petulant tone. "You'd be hiding a long time."

"Yeah, but they couldn't find me, so."

"Yeah, well, I'd find you."

"Yeah? Go full Walden with me?"

"Of course I would.”

“Yeah?”

"You know I'd go anywhere you were," Billy murmured, twisting to press a kiss to Steve's temple. "Right?"

A little snort of disbelief, because Steve never seemed to believe him. Not about anything important, anyway. “Yeah, sure.”

“Of course I would,” Billy murmured, nuzzling down against Steve’s cheek. “I love you, dumbass.”

He had only a few moments of warning before he felt Steve got still and tense. A runner at the starting block. Billy managed to tighten his hold just seconds before Steve was sitting up and trying to move.

"Woah, hey, wait a minute! You running from me, or you running from this conversation?" Billy asked, holding tight to his hand. Steve was tense, looking away and toward the door like he wanted to escape. "Get back here, talk to me.”

“Nope, I gotta go,” Steve hissed, trying to tug his hand free.

“Not until you tell me what the problem is,” Billy said, keeping his grip on Steve’ shand tight. “C’mon.”

“No.”

"Tell me."

"You can't just--you can't say things like that," Steve said, still tugging to get his hand loose. He could have, easily, if he really wanted to. 

"Why not?"

Steve turned to look at him and frowned, "We won't work."

"That's dumb," Billy chuckled, rolling his eyes. "You mean with you being ace?" 

Steve froze again, eyes wide. "What?"

"You. Asexual." Billy tugged their joined hands again, hard enough that Steve tumbled back into the bed. 

"How--"

"You told me. Three entire times, in fact. You were even sober for one of them," Billy laughed, wrangling him closer. He got an arm around Steve's shoulders and pulled him close. "You're an idiot," Billy murmured, and pressed another kiss to Steve's forehead. "Which is weird, because I know you’re not stupid."

"Fuck you."

"Well, obviously not."

He grumbled, unhappily. "I did not tell you."

"You did. Once at that last party in Hawkins, before we left," Billy said, remembering a shit wrecked Steve dispelling every myth about his conquests. "That first week of Freshman year when you said you didn't want me bringing anyone back to the dorm. And then, like, two weeks later when you got stoned and drunk and decided you were going to be alone forever."

"I never--"

"You did. I have a blackmail folder of sound bytes if you don't believe me." 

"Yeah, well, that just proves my point--"

"It proves you're dumb." 

"Hey."

"Steve, sweetie, remember how, like, nine months ago you started sleeping with me?" Billy asked, flicking his forehead. "And you kept doing so until about six months ago? When we had that really nice conversation about what you wanted in a relationship, and how it was pretty much exactly what we'd been doing?"

"Yeah, and--"

"And I agreed with you, and then kissed you? And nothing changed, and it was great, only there were kisses and shit? And then a week later you showed up with that art asshole and introduced him as your boyfriend?" Billy asked, a little sweet and a little mocking. His last six months had been hell. They hadn’t been any less cordial with each other, but he’d missed having Steve close enough to touch. Missed just talking to him. "And then I went and stayed with Heather for two weeks? And neither of us talked to you for, like, an entire month?"

A sigh. "Yes, I remember that."

"Do you also remember how I cried for two entire weeks, like a fucking baby, because I thought I'd just been dumped in an excruciatingly humiliating way that I never would have thought you were capable of?" Billy asked, sweetly. "Or did you not notice because you were too busy with Silas, or whatever his dumb name was."

"Silas is a nice name," Steve added, weakly. 

"It is, and he ruined it. He ruined the name for everyone." Billy softened it with another kiss to Steve's forehead. "I forgave you when I realized you genuinely didn't know. And I know we never, like, said the words. But I thought it had been obvious."

"It wasn't!" Steve insisted. 

"Steve, the bed-sharing aside, two bros don't platonically make out without either a conversation about it first, or someone around with a camera and good weed." Billy pinched Steve's ribs, just to get him to laugh. "You're dumb. How are you this dumb? Ace courting rituals are basically the same as allo courting rituals. Just minus the horizontal tango."

At that, Steve snorted. "Oh, god, don't call it that."

"Don't call it what?" Billy asked, innocently. "Stuffin' the muffin?"

"Oh, my god," Steve groaned.

"The ol' dipsy-doodle? Hittin’ the skins?" Billy followed it with another pinch to Steve's ribs to get him to laugh. And then another, "Squat thrusts in the cucumber patch?"

Steve was squirming in his arms, twisting and laughing as he tried to get away. "No one c-calls it--"

"Laying pipe?"

"Nope, no!"

"I'm just saying, you don't wanna play hide the cannoli," Billy laughed, squeezing the top of Steve's thigh to give him a horse bite that had him bucking and cackling. "You won't be riding The Bony Express."

"I hate you, I--ah! Haha, f-fucking--"

He dug his fingers into Steve's ribs again, and didn't relent until Steve had nearly laughed himself off the bed. "C'mere, dumbass," he chuckled, and hauled Steve back against his chest. “Can we date now? For real, this time?”

“But--”

“Steve, I know. I get it.”

“Won’t you miss sex and stuff?” Steve asked weakly, but he wasn’t trying to get away any more. He had those great big eyes turned toward Billy, full of hope.

“I like you more,” Billy said, because it was true. And he thought he’d told Steve that already, but he didn’t add that part out loud. Steve didn’t need anymore of that, he was more fun when he was laughing and happy. They could be serious later. “I like you a lot more… than a little bit of afternoon delight.”

Steve groaned. “Jesus christ.”

“I like you more than the forbidden polka.”

“You’re gross, oh my god!”

“More than the four-legged foxtrot.”

“Nope, I’m breaking up with you,” Steve grumbled, biting down a laugh. He squirmed like he was going to leave, but Billy just tightened his hold. “Lemme go! I’m leaving.”

“Not without me, you aren’t,” Billy grumbled and rolled over to pin Steve to the bed. He nuzzled down into the crook of his neck, breathing deep. Blew a raspberry for good measure, just because Steve could no longer get away. He got a loud, joyful sort of laugh in his ear, and a swat to the back of his head. It was nice. Familiar.

“Yeah? You gonna stop me?” Steve asked, settling into the hold.

“Well, yeah.” He soothed the spot with a little kiss, relished in the feeling of having Steve so close again. Fucking finally. “Told you. I just wanna be wherever you are.”

#asexual fic #asexual fic collection #ace fic #harringrove #stranger things fic #my fic

[megabadbunny]

the art of inscription

Rose x Ten and Rose x Tentoo; a continuation of a DW Inbox Buddies fic I wrote a hundred years ago, resurrected and completed in honor of Rose x Tentoo week. <3 <3 <3

*~*~*~*~*~

It’s Gallifreyan, that much is certain. He can’t quite make out the script—no time for parsing out the arches that denote gliding vowels, the circles portraying sibilant fricatives, not when she pulls her cuff over her wrist so quickly it gives him whiplash—but even in that glance, the shape is unmistakable, the meaning undeniable. The way she can’t meet his eyes as she buttons the traditional cuff around her forearm only confirms it. The name on her wrist is his.

(Rose can’t read it, of course, but it mirrors his own writing exactly, echoing the spidery script that peppers the TARDIS console in a flurry of sticky notes, reminding him to fine-tune the propulsion system or repair the exotic matter trap. Some notes posted around the TARDIS bear Rose’s mark as well, with little scribbled cat’s-ears or bunny-faces or sly jokes, and sometimes, she’ll even try duplicating his writing, trying to match the lines and whorls.)

No, she can’t read the script on her wrist; yes, she still knows what it means.

The cuff slips and Rose smacks her other hand down on it, holding it in place and punishing it for ever daring to move at all, and only then does the Doctor notice how very hard she’s trembling. (The Doctor, for his part, doesn’t tremble; not on the outside, anyway.) He frowns. 

“You’re shaking,” he says. “Are you all right?” 

She nods. “S’just a little cold here.”

(It’s 27.6 degrees Celsius, and sunny.)

“So,” says the Doctor, shoving his hands in his pockets to disguise their fidgeting, “Yue-Lao Twelve, home to the infamous Pearl Island mystery, renowned planet of the so-called soulmarks. What do you think?”

“I think I should have believed you,” Rose replies, shaking her head. “But it still seems like a bunch of magic mumbo-jumbo to me.”

“Awww, Rose Tyler. With everything we’ve seen, you still think this sort of thing isn’t possible? Don’t you know better by now?”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right,” Rose says, flipping her hair over one shoulder and meeting his gaze with a flat stare. “Shall we go on a leprechaun hunt next?”

“Certainly!” the Doctor beams. “I’ve always wanted to find one.”

Rolling her eyes, Rose laughs, swinging one hand into his. Fingers fit together like strands of a braid and they bound away, in pursuit of any facts they can glean about this fabled Pearl Island event. And after a few moments, thoughts of this soulmark business have almost completely vanished from his mind; the Doctor can almost believe that the adrenaline speeding up his heartsrate is spurred on only by this newest adventure, nothing more.

(He is in no great hurry to check his own wrist; he already knows what he’ll see there.)

***

 A universe and a galaxy and a regeneration away, he panics.

“It’s like that one place we went to--you remember the one,” says Rose happily, looping an arm through the Doctor’s. As well as she can in the thin light of the moon, she inspects the underside of her wrist, which, much as it was several years ago, is now once again adorned with the Doctor’s disjointed chirography. “In the other universe. Something Island. Remember?”

“Erm,” he says, his mind racing to think of something he can say or do to play for time, and failing spectacularly.

“D’you remember?” Rose asks expectantly.

Yes is the correct answer, but the Doctor doesn’t say it, because he’s afraid of all the words that will come after (or more precisely, the words that won’t). So instead, he says, “Well” and “You see” and “Erm,” again.

Rose’s eyes narrow in suspicion. The Doctor’s hands twitch nervously with the need to hide behind his back.

“Oh my god,” says Rose, softly.

The Doctor gulps.

Her face breaks into a wide grin. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that,” he tries to protest, but Rose is too busy laughing. “You did!” she chuckles, lighting up the garden with her usual megawatt-bright smile as she teases the Doctor with a nudge of her elbow against his ribs. “You forgot all about it, you forgot all about that planet-of-the-soulmarks thing! Oh my god, for once I remembered something better than you!”

“You must be very proud,” the Doctor says wryly, and, still laughing, Rose nods. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, sighing; for a half-second, the name on her wrist is on full display, and even amidst the panic clenching his throat, the Doctor feels warmth, at the sight of it.

“It was Pearl Island, by the way,” he says. “In the other universe.”

“Yes! That was it. Pearl Island. Planet of mystery. Did you ever check back in with the rebels?”

“Indeed I did,” the Doctor replies, privately grateful for the chance at a distraction, and he steps away from the TARDIS, pulling his arm out of Rose’s grasp. “Fascinating story, actually, I’d originally planned to visit a decade later, make a progress report of sorts, but a timestorm near the Horsehead Nebula threw the TARDIS completely off-course--you know what they say, a timestorm a day keeps the Doctor away--”

“Wait, wait,” Rose laughs, catching up. “Show me!”

The Doctor’s mind goes blank. “I--what?”

“Oh, come on. I showed you mine both times, you kept yours hidden back then. You gonna show me yours now, or what?”

“Show you my what?” asks the Doctor, as alarm bells start ringing somewhere at the back of his mind. He picks up his pace.

“Don’t be daft. Show me your wrist, show me the soulmark-thing!”

The Doctor hesitates (but doesn’t let up in speed). “Of course I would, but it’s just--It isn’t as if it actually--It’s--it’s like you said last time,” he stammers, fingers opening and closing nervously. “Just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, isn’t it? Not really anything all that significant, wouldn’t recommend taking it too seriously in the end, it’s certainly not anything worth making any life-altering decisions over--”

Rose piques an eyebrow, in amusement or concern, he can’t tell.

“--and as officers of science, it would hardly do for us to make any sort of to-do over something that barely registers on Phleighton’s Rules for Psychic Governance, would it? Can’t be higher than .0348 PD’s, maybe .0349 PD’s, tops. Fascinating set of Rules, those, did I ever tell you how Phleighton came to write them? Did she write them in this universe? Let’s go--”

Rolling her eyes, Rose grabs his hand before he has a chance to react, anchoring him to her.

“--find out,” the Doctor squeaks as he tries to step back and yank his hand away, but it’s too late--Rose has already pushed his jacket-cuff back, revealing the underside of his wrist to the world. He flinches, unable to look down at his arm, only capable of looking at Rose as his blood pressure plummets like an anvil. He wills her, silently, to understand.

It doesn’t mean anything, he wants to tell her (wants to shout), but something has slithered into his vocal chords and strangled them. It’s incredibly common for Time Lords. Even if it wasn’t, it’s insignificant. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change how I feel. Please--

“You know how much I love you, right?” he blurts out.

Rose looks up at him and--and is that a smile?

“Of course I do,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Dumbfounded at this reaction, the Doctor looks down at his wrist, dreading, in cold sickening advance, what he knows he’ll find there. Except--

Except it’s not blank at all, this time. This time, his wrist has got Rose’s name on it.

Blinking, mouth open in surprise, the Doctor pulls his hand out of Rose’s, examining the mark on his arm. The name would almost be difficult to make out, if the Doctor wasn’t already familiar with Rose’s rushed and messy penmanship, but it’s there, clear as day. Rose Tyler. 

“You look surprised,” Rose chuckles. “What, didn’t think my name would be there?”

It wasn’t always, he almost replies.

He shakes himself. “Oh, so that’s what it says,” he replies instead, forcing on a grin. “Glad you cleared it up for me, couldn’t tell, what with the sloppy handwriting--”

“Oi, as if yours is any better!” Rose retorts, holding up her wrist for proof, but he ignores her words in favor of stepping forward to frame her face in both hands and pull her up for a kiss. It isn’t even something he consciously plans on doing; it’s as if his body has a completely separate mind of its own, and that mind is so glad that Rose’s name is on his wrist, it just can’t bloody help itself. It’s got to seal the deal with a kiss, lips on lips and comingled breaths and chests pressed close and one hand tangling in her hair. It’s a physical imperative, a sheer necessity, an utter need. All of it. (All of her.)

(Not that the Doctor’s complaining. Or Rose, for that matter.)

When he pulls back to catch his breath (stupid human lungs, how dare they), it’s to see a very flushed and smiling Rose, and secretly, he’s quite pleased to see that even after all these months, he can still elicit such a reaction from her.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, softly. “Are you all right?”

He beams at her. “Never been better.”

(He kisses her, again.)

#ficandchips #tentoo appreciation #tentoo x rose week #tentoo x rose #tenrose #soulmates #brief angst #brief angst with a happy ending #<3 <3 <3 #tentoo is the doctor #anti the turning of the tides

[ask-de-writer]

GONE TO SEA : World of Sea : Science Fiction : Part 8

GONE TO SEA

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

WORK IN PROGRESS (Word count unknown at this time)

copyright 2018

Writing started 2005

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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The disk sailed across to little Mala'klea who did catch it expertly. Beaming, she said, “Thanks, Mom!  This one is for Molly and her team.  We have more and can make them for anyone else that wants one!”

Mister Makle observed, “That is more than I have heard you say even when you were drawing up the boat plan.”

Mala'klea, cringing like she expected to be hit, looked about fearfully, and went silent.  Pele crouched beside her daughter and pulled her into a hug.  Mala'klea hugged back fiercely, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Pele spared a look for the shocked Recycle and Maintenance people in the big office.  Still holding her daughter, she told them, “Klea was one of the children that Mister Angerson was caught beating for refusing to pray to his God during their schooling time.  Instead of teaching them math, he was trying to force the children to follow him in his suicidal mania that he calls a religion.

“He was particularly brutal to those kids that he called pagans.  Since my little Klea follows our family's polytheistic beliefs, he beat her the worst of all.  The station's doctors found two cracked ribs and a hairline fracture of the right radius.

“Mala'klea refused to give in to his assault but he did manage break her trust in most people.

“Mister Angerson has been formally required to surrender his teaching duties and stay away from the children.  He has been forbidden to ever touch or speak to any of them.  His own wife and two children moved into our apartment to get away from him.  Trisha has filed with the station's Executive Committee for a divorce.”

One of the men from Molly's Maintenance crew said, “I know about the schooling problem.  I was on the jury.  What Angerson did sickened us all.  He claimed that God Himself ordered him to discipline the children for their unbelief and that God's orders override the Colonial Charter.  We all disagreed.  The verdict was unanimous.”

Molly volunteered, “That idiot Marcus cornered me once and tried to convince me that we are doomed.  God sent us all here to die by slow starvation for our sins.  Seems that we are all to be the Sacrifice For The New Covenant to preserve all of  mankind's colonies in space.

“He seems to forget that both the thymine and lysine that are our last real stumbling blocks have been spotted from orbit, even if they haven't been isolated to any particular organism yet.  In the meantime, the plants and animals that we brought along are filling the gap.  We will find what we need someday, probably soon.”

Pele nodded to Molly then gave her daughter another hug and asked her, “Do you have any sort of plan or working drawings for the boat that Mister Makle mentioned?  What are you thinking of making it out of?”

Everyone watched silently as Mala'klea went fearfully to Mister Makle's desk and, darting glances all about, brought her mother the pages of sketches.  She took one of the flying disks from Cora and wordlessly handed it to her mother as well.  

Pele's eyes lit up and she sat cross-legged in front of Mala'klea and patted her lap.  Looking meaningfully about at the other adults for silence, Pele said, “This is a wonderful start, Klea.  Please tell me about it.”

Mala'klea began almost inaudibly, “We can use old filter disks and rectangles to make the planks.  See, Mother?  The big side planks are the same width all along their length.  By keeping the angles of the side to bottom planks the same, it is just a long four plank dory, the same way that the old Polynesian voyaging ships were built.”

Mother gave daughter a quick hug and prodded, “How will you make the planks out of the smaller pieces, Dear?”

Mala'klea answered more confidently, “To make the flying disks we had to make a glue out of Moreson's eels.  Because of the messy way that they come apart when we heat them, we call them Goo fish.  We had to try several ways to get the glue right.  We had some of the disks stick together by accident.  That gave me the idea for laminating the parts.”

Pele nodded in happy seeming approval.  “Very observant, Klea.  How will you hold the planks and ribs together?”

The other children of Cora's Crowd almost bit their lips to keep quiet.  Cora stopped one of Molly's crew from speaking by whispering, “We have seen this before.  This is how Pele helps Mala'klea to stop being scared.  Let Klea answer for now.”

The man nodded understanding and held his tongue.

Mala'klea almost eagerly told her mother, “We can get strings from the mussels that grow almost everywhere on the Station's docks.  Cora figured out the glue and filter thing but it was Jason who thought of the string.  It was Matty that thought of making a boat.  I put their ideas together.

“We can use string that we make from the mussel threads to tie the parts together.  Once we are ready, we can laminate more skin over the joints to waterproof them.  We can lock the ribs into place the same way.  It is only a little different from the way that you were putting together the latest big Polynesian ship that you and your friends were building back on Earth.”

Pele grinned at her daughter, and looking her in the eye, pointed out, “Those planks and parts will need to be trimmed to shape, and many holes drilled in them to tie them together.  How will you manage that?”

By now, Mala'klea was answering eagerly and openly again.  “Jason and I made some knives and other tools out of Strong's shark teeth!  Jason brought them down here to show to Mr. Makle.  We can cut and trim the glued skin with them.  We made an awl that can make the holes.  When you were making that big canoe, you had a bow drill thing to make the holes but I couldn't remember how to make one.”

Jason silently handed a roll-up of knives and other tools to Mala'klea who unrolled it to show her mother.  Pele took the time to examine each knife and tool carefully.  She thoughtfully tested edges and checked the orientation of the natural serrations in the fangs that the knife and tool edges and points were made of.  One tool was made from a piece of flat bone with fairly coarse teeth carved into it for spreading and forcing glue into the skin.  The tool had the sheen of a waxy coating worked into the bone.  They all had handles formed of many layers of the skin and glue.  Each handle was carefully formed to fit the hands of the children.  Pele even examined the leather of the roll-up.

Nodding with a smile as she felt the softness of the leather, Pele asked Mala'klea, “Is this made out of some of the Strong's skin with your oil from the Goo fish worked in to soften it?”

Mala'klea smiled at her mother and said, “Yes, mother.  Mikal Novotnoy thought of doing that.  We all worked on different parts of it.  It is stitched with the mussel string.  We needed something that would keep the tools sharp and save us from getting cut on them.”

Pele gave Mala'klea another hug and stood up, holding the child's hand.  She said, “This is a really well thought out project, Klea.  I especially like the way that you gave credit for ideas to the others. I think that this ship will make a great project.  

“It will need you children to do a lot of math to figure out the details. You will need good language skills to present what you figure out to the rest.  We can use this project for a big part of you kid's schooling.  It will make a perfect demonstration of the relationship between what you are taught in class and the real world.  It will also be more fun than any lessons should be.”

Mr. Makle thoughtfully consulted his computer, accessing the Public Announcements.  Looking up he said, “You kids don't need to worry about Mr. Angerson any more.  He is forbidden to even come near to any of you, including his own family or your projects.  If he tries, we can lock him up.  The Executive Order implementing the jury verdict of child abuse was posted about four days ago.”

Pele looked over at Mr. Makle and asked him, “How can we keep him away from this project?  It will need a lot of room to build it and, because of their time in the classrooms, the kids won't be able to work on it all of the day.”

Mr. Makle looked cheerfully at the children of Cora's Crowd and said, “Maintenance will contribute building space for it down on Maintenance Dock C.  Its access ways all lock.  As soon as you are ready for the actual building to begin, let me know and I will formally reserve it for you.  Due to the suspicion of sabotage to the Reverse Osmosis Desalination plant, we have been given the authority to forbid access to ANY unauthorized personnel.  We can arrest trespassers if necessary.  C Dock is already equipped with surveillance cameras and alarms.

“We installed the locks, alarms and cameras because we are storing those new fiberglass boats that you have been making for us down there.  If we do have a saboteur, those boats could become a prime target.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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Return to World of Sea

#GONE TO SEA #World of Sea #Science Fiction #written by Glen TenEyck #Part 8

[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.

#gradencetrickortreat #gradence trick of treat #potterland

[jessicakehoe]

Beauty Water is The Book That Will Make You Rethink Your Daily Glass of H20

When Vancouver’s Tori Holmes was 21 years old, she became the youngest woman to cross the Atlantic ocean in a rowboat. After running into hurricane Katrina and breaking several ribs in a 60-foot swell, her desalinator broke, and she and her then-partner were without water for several days. It was a seminal moment that she describes in detail in her new book, Beauty Water, which launched this week. Holmes, a two-time cancer survivor and now a registered holistic nutritionist, has dedicated her career to the art of hydration and plant-based medicine, first with her Nectar juiceries, and now with this beautifully-designed recipe book of water-based elixirs for beauty, health and healing. We spoke to her about her favourite recipes, how the side effect of the medicinal Schisandra berry is horniness and why self care is going to change the world.

What inspired you to write this book? To help people feel well so that they can do well. Through my time at Nectar, I had the gift of interacting with thousands of people in relation to their aspirational health goals and where they were at as well as what really scared them. I’ve been very dedicated to providing products and services that meet them where they’re at and just push the boundaries a little bit now. I think this elixir book is a little ahead of its time, but I think the world is awakening. What’s happening in our planet right now with the emissions is the globe saying wake up and personal accountability is really what it comes back to and how can we do good for others. Self care is something that I’m a huge advocate for and it’s not just about having facials and massages. What I’ve seen in my experience of coaching people into their optimal wellness or their personal potential is that if you strengthen yourself, your capacity to lead to hold space for others, too.

Why water? I chose it as the conduit for the stories in the impact of these plants. My intention was to take hydration because, if you think about it, go East go West, any beauty or health ritual from the beginning of time comes back to hydration. So what if we were to take hydration and turn it into self-care rituals and water into a remedy, and think of plants as the body’s personal trainer? It’s a way to just elevate something that we already need to do. Even if you drink water for 30 days, you feel exponentially better, just the ritual of helping your cellular system turn over. Now imagine if you’re able to infuse antioxidants or vitamins and minerals or certain compounds that support the liver or the digestion?

How did you discover plant-based healing? When I was at sea, I pushed every single one of the four pillars of wellness —movement, rest, nutrition and spirit—to the breaking point. So to come back to wellness, I had to invest in rest. I hit my personal hurricane on land surprisingly when I got early stage breast cancer on the left side of my body, which is where I had broken my ribs. When I went to the doctors, they were very dismissive and really didn’t include me in my healing. They didn’t hold me accountable. They didn’t ask me questions. That was a really big red flag for me. I had to invest in nutrition and I had to invest in my spirit and my behavior and movement because I was off track and these are literally like a cycle. It’s not what you do in one part. It’s the incremental investment in all of these things that creates a wheel of wellness that creates momentum in your overall health. So I went to school for holistic nutrition. I was really fascinated by symptomatology of Chinese medicine and how they used plant-based healing to support wellness. It was like almost like with your body at this tug-of-war. It’s like just this slight push and pull. I started to think of my body as a body of water, like an ocean. And when I was in good health, it was just sort of a subtle swell and when I was in out of alignment, there was like a huge swell and ripples and the plants were like these little boats pushing the swell along. That’s how I use them.

You have organized the recipes according to different goals, such as stress management, detox, mood, and sexuality. They are all so important—how does one know where to start? The simple answer is it actually doesn’t matter. What’s going to create the biggest shift in your health is to just launch-and-learn. Choose one recipe. You could be choosing it based on flavor, you could be choosing it based on the ingredients you have in your home. Half of the health impact is just the commitment to using these recipes to support you, to just investing in yourself every day in a simple way. On a more directed answer, I believe digestion is at the foundation of all healing of our microbiome. So it’s the system that speaks to all the systems and if it is disaligned then everything is disaligned. That for me is the greatest pillar. So if I was going to pick up this book, I would choose one digestion recipe as foundational health and then I would choose one thing that is specific to my current need. I have a challenge sleeping and then some weeks, my mood feels better than others. So then I would choose a stress management or sleep or skin recipe to support my in-the-moment need.

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Recipe teaser. The Chia Mover, only takes 10 minutes to make and did you know that Chia comes from the same plant family as mint? ✨Find this protein and fiber-rich elixir in the book! And enjoy it’s benefits so so soon! Pre order on @amazon today. *⠀ *⠀ *⠀ *⠀ #BeautyWater #Wellness #WaterWithPurpose #BookLaunch #WellnessBook #Water #WellBeing ⠀ #Purpose #Heal #VancouverAuthor⠀ #Women #WellnessJourney #InsideWork

A post shared by Beauty Water (@beautywaterwellness) on May 25, 2019 at 8:56am PDT

There is a section of elixirs for women’s sexuality and libido, which is pretty cool. Tell me why that’s important, and what ingredients are the most potent. Schisandra berry has all five flavours and supports the gall bladder, liver, spleen, and pancreas. It helps regulate the hormones in the body and it also supports the digestion. So for me, it’s the one herb that’s like the foundation of healing. I would love every woman to have an intimate relationship with Schisandra berry. The only side effect is that you feel horny!

In the Beauty elixirs section, you write “When you’re well hydrated and your mineral levels are optimal, your cells are thoroughly oxygenated and you exude more pheromones. You literally have the It factor.” We all want the It factor. What are some of the best ingredients to achieve it? Antioxidants are a really great way to do that as they help bind oxygen in the body, called an ORAC [Oxygen Radical Absorbance Capacity] value. Some ingredients have a higher ORAC value than others. As an example, blueberries have about 15,000 units per hundred milligrams, and chaga, which is a medicinal mushroom, has 120,000 units per hundred milligrams. I have a love affair with chaga. It tastes absolutely incredible. The Chaga Coffee recipe is one of my favourites in the book. It’s how I get my game face on personally. Another of my tops is nettles—if I were going to have one food left on Earth, I would have nettles. It is so nutritionally dense. It grows wild all over B.C. It’s incredible for your skin. It’s incredibly high in minerals, it’s great for anxiety and reducing puffiness and it is a really great source of protein. It is a fully complete and complex food.

You talk a lot in the book about adaptogens. Can you explain? An adaptogen is almost like your body’s personal trainer. It will respond to the stress response in your body and basically support your systems coming into regulation. So it doesn’t do the job. It tells your body to do the job, which is a great way to probably explain an adaptogen. It helps our body manage the effects of stress and all of us in the 21st century are facing stress, and conceptually, we understand that we need to work our muscles out to maintain a fit and healthy and taught body. Well, our organs are the same. Some of my favorite adaptogens are ashwagandha bark that supports the adrenal glands and the cortisol on the body and reishi, which is a mushroom that is really supportive to the liver and the nervous system.

What is your own go-to recipe in the book and why? I love my blue green algae recipe for its agility. It’s something that children will love and it’s something that my parents love. It tastes incredible and it’s also just a really creative way to put a lot of nutrients and life in your body. It helps fight free radicals. I’ve served it as a lemonade, I’ve served it as a mocktail, I’ve even made it as a cocktail. I serve it as a hangover cure. I drink it when I feel like I’m about to get sick. So this is sort a go-to and I think everybody will love it. I also also absolutely love my Fo-Ti Fountain of Youth. It tastes like a Creamsicle and it’s a great way to manage the effects of stress on your body. For women specifically, it supports the hormones and it actually helps your hair to come back from graying after quite a few months. I grayed really young and so I love this herb [Fo-Ti] because it helps me break even with my gray hairs.

What do you hope people take away from reading and using your book? I’d want them to go away feeling inspired to start a relationship of self-care, whatever that looks like. To feel good about feeling good, whether it’s with your children, at your job, or just generally in the world. And I would want them to know that wellness can be as accessible as hydration. Empowerment is at the foundation of everything, and I think self-care is what’s going to change the world because behind self-care can come personal accountability. When we are in a state to feel well enough to be present, we can just make better choices.

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