#hyde draws shit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stories4thepack · 6 months

Text

Revenge is so sweet (part 5)

Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: Y/n is so screwed! (swearing, descriptions of gore/blood)

“You tore apart 2 boys!”

The sheriff screamed at you, not bothering to keep his voice calm anymore. You weren’t sure how he had found you, or how you had even gotten into the dark, interrogation room. All you were really aware of were the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, possibly even drawing blood.

“2 boys, for what? A few insults?”

“They insulted Wednesday.”

You muttered, uselessly hoping that would make him shut up. Instead, he stands up quickly, causing the chair to fall behind him. He’s at your side in a second, glaring at you with complete and utter hatred.

Were cops meant to act like this?

If you were a normie, you would probably be having a calm talk and might even have a glass of water

But Normies don’t break bones with their teeth.

“So he insulted that freak, the girl who can never cease to stick her nose in police business.”

You felt that horribly pain tingling across your body as you muscles all began to ache. You gritted your teeth, desperate to find some way to stop your shifting.

“You are going to be put away for a long fucking time!”

He screamed at you, the sound making you flinch. He paused, grinning before coming closer to your face. His breath reeking of alcohol. Your heart began to pound painfully, your lungs about to explode out of your chest.

“And you will never see that bitch again.”

You snap, ripping the cuffs from the table and pounding your fists onto the arms of the chair.

“Those boys talked shit about your son too! Yeah, the Hyde, the serial killer. The one the entire fucking country is trying to find.”

The sheriff grabs the scruff of your shirt, pulling you closer to his messy, un-shaved face.

“What did you say.”

He hisses, but you cannot stop your words. Anger flowing out of you, the urge to shift again becoming almost unbearable.

“I’m amazed you still have your job, your such a mourning mess that I thought they would give you leave. No, I guess your too desperate to find your son before the bullets do!”

He throws you onto the floor, the cuffs (still attached to your wrists) drawing a flow of blood from beneath them.

“Your too good for prison,”

You growl at him, almost willing your wolf to come out just to tear him apart.

“I’ll be calling animal control!”

He takes a step closer, as if to attack, but the door flies open, revealing three armed police officers behind it. They storm into the room, seizing Sheriff Galpin and forcing him away from you. You manage to catch a glimpse of Wednesday, before everything goes black.

———————————————————————

You followed Wednesday, paws padding along the earthy ground as the sun began to set. You could hear the faint sound of a siren behind you, but you couldn’t care.

“Are you going to release my hand?”

She asked calmly, looking over at you. Your heart sped up as you realised you were still holding it, dropping it slowly. If you were in your human form, you would of blushed. But your tail wagged happily as you began to bounce around her.

“Perhaps you have lost your mind, may I remind you that you almost killed two people back there. “

You froze, was she disappointed? Out of all the people, you thought she would be proud of you. You turned to her, jumping in her path and sitting down. Forcing her to stop.

“What are you doing mutt?”

She questions, watching as you growl lowly at her. Carefully sitting up and taking an aggressive step forward.

“Y/n, you do not want to play this game with me.”

She demands, remaining rooted to the spot as you take another step forward, baring your canines at her.

“Are you going to do this because I disapprove of your actions a moment ago.”

Another step forward, another growl

“If you are going to be this childish about it then-“

She doesn’t finish as you leap at her, great paws forcing her onto the ground. She sighs, attempting to get up before you force her down with a playful growl.

“Y/n, this is an immature reactio-“

You growl at her again, pressing your nose against her throat. You hear the way she cuts herself off, the way her heart beats a millisecond faster or perhaps it was your imagination. You stay like that for a while, smelling the blood beneath her veins and giving her skin a gentle lick, receiving an almost unnoticeable shiver in return.

“Are you going to tear out my throat?”

She asks, sounding almost board of your antics. But your playful revenge was not over yet

You rear back your head, fangs on full display before biting down on her throat, careful to not hit a major artery. She gasps, surprised by your actions and yet, relishing the short pain you are putting her through. You pull away, and Wednesday notices a slight grin on your bloody wolf face.

———————————————————————

“Do not move Y/n”

Wednesday demands. You were in her dorm room in Nevermore, only having regained consciousness a moment ago. You had sat up from her bed, a blanket still draped over your body. Both your hands were on her legs, her grip firm and yet gentle as she rapped a wet cloth on your wrists, cleaning the wounds.

“They are not that deep considering how tight those cuffs were.”

You nod, unable to truly form words. You can hear the wolf barking in the back of your head. The images of Wednesday lightly trailing her hand along your fur popped to mind, a smile growing across your face. Enid sits beside you, a hand protectively around your waist. It felt comforting, being with the two people you cared about.

“Shit.”

You hiss as Wednesday dabs alcohol against your injury.

“Be quiet, do you want to die of an infection?”

“Wednesday-“

Enid mutters, causing the Raven hair to lift her head. She gives the werewolf a glare. You stay quiet as Enid slowly nods her head towards you. Words being silently passed between the two roommates.

“Enid,”

Wednesday finally says, looking back down to the blood across your arms.

“Please go to the infirmary and bring me some clean bandages and an ice pack.”

“Icepack?”

You ask, as Enid rubs your shoulder before leaving quickly.

“You hit your head.”

Your crush answers, silence passing between the two of you. You wince as she wraps your wrists tightly in the cloth, holding it firmly in place.

“Why did you wolf out when they insulted me?”

Wednesday suddenly asks, keeping her eyes fixated on your injury. You swallow nervously, desperately trying to find a reasonable excuse.

“They were being mean. It upset me.”

You mutter, attempting to hide the way you blush as her eyes meet yours.

“Yet, they insulted you many times before me. They insulted me once and you wolfed out.”

“Well, your my Friend.”

You say far too quickly, you were terrified she would reject you. Terrified she would insult you and walk away. Enid returns before Wednesday can say anything else. You notice the way she hesitates. Perhaps noticing the way she may have interrupted something. You hoped there was going to be something to interrupt.

“I’m going to find Yoko, she might have news about Sheriff Galpin.”

Both you and Wednesday nod in response. Watching in silence as she leaves the room again. You eyes are drawn from the door by the sound of Wednesday hitting the ice pack to get it to work.

“I am going to have a look at the wound on your head.”

You nod, praying that she cannot hear the way your heart beats rapidly against your chest as she comes to the side of you face. You flinch as she pressed the cloth against your bloody forehead.

She ignores you and yet seems to be that little bit gentler with you. Your wolf begins to whine in the back of your head, making you blush as you feel her fingers moving hair out of the way to check the wound.

“Shut it.”

You hiss as your wolf barks at her in your head. Wednesday pauses and places the ice pack against your head before sitting in the chair in-front of you.

“The wolf?”

“Y-yeah! How did you know?”

You stutter, embarrassed slightly. She turns away, picking up the bandages she had placed on her desk.

“Enid mentioned it happens after the first shift.”

she mutters, turning back to your wrists before beginning wrap a bandage around one of them.

Silence

Again

WHY WAS THERE SILENCE????

“There was something that I wish to ask you!”

She says, finishing covering one of your wrists before moving to the other. You smile at her, your heart pounding against your chest as if you were going to shift again.

“why did you take a bullet for me?”

She looks up, and you see it. In her cold, dark (but deep) eyes. You can see why she was asking. Why you saved her, why you shifted for her.

Hope

It seemed stupid that you hadn’t seen it before, that the very desperate feelings that you were suffering with every time you heard Wednesday’s name….. she too was experiencing. Out of everyone, you thought you would be the one person to notice all her hidden thoughts.

But love had blinded you

“I think you know the answer Wednesday.”

You whispered, leaning an inch closer. She stiffened slightly, a ghostly action, but one you caught. You freeze, allowing her to come to you.

“Are you expressing your-“

She paused, obviously unsure of the right word to use.

“I like you Wednesday, I obviously like you!”

You laugh, feeling free from the secret you had kept for what felt like centuries. You suck in a nervous breath as the raven hair looks back at you. Her face remaining emotionless

“That is why you took a bullet for me, why you would of torn apart those two bo-“

You growl, grabbing her by the back of the head and kissing her firmly. It takes a moment, but she mimics your action, leaning further into you.

When you pull away, she chooses to ignore the stupid grin that had spread across your face. You eyes scan her face, catching the faint marks of your bite in the forest earlier still fresh on her neck. You chuckle, remembering the way you had behaved, like a puppy (a love sick puppy)

“You still taste of blood.”

She mutters, attempting to hide a faint smile. You chuckle, pulling her in again, feeling the way her hand finds it’s way onto your leg. When you finally pull away, your cocky grin is impossibly big. You look at her, intertwining your fingers with hers, ignoring the faint pain from your wrist.

“Well….doesn’t my revenge taste sweet?”

#jenna ortega #wednesday #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #fanfiction #Werewolf #Wednesday x werewolf #fanfic #Fluff

151 notes · View notes

randomperson0k · 1 month

Text

the evil thoughts got me fucked up and shit

OH forgot to mention: top 2 images are the final 'redesign', 2 images below are concept sketches i made for the 'redesigns'

tgs jekyll and hyde but they got evaporated by my evil headcanon beam and stitched back together by somebody who has no experience with using a needle and thread to the point where theyre more just like a seperate character

im sorry for my sins

PLEASE HEAR ME OUT BEFORE BITING A CHUNK OUT OF MY ARM. if anybody wants to read about my evil headcanon world all the stuff is below. wasnt really exaggerating when i said i ripped their character apart and stitched them back together though.

i do have a google doc full of everything i headcanon for tgs but some of that is embarrassing as hell so im just slapping the important stuff here

most of these 'headcanons' are here more because they make me happy than to actually make any sense. as a warning.

smokes fat blunt puffs it in your face anyways uh trans henry jekyll yeah (gets shot) ty person from the j&h community i was messaging that dragged me to the dark side and introduced me to the world of embracing my j&h trans headcanons. a true angel.

i really like more book inspired takes on j&h than the musical ones soo uhh.. yeah theyre the same person fully no j&h arguing thing. im soooorrrrryyy its just my preference for adaptations and i find it a lot more fun to play with story wise. also some other reasons but i wont get into those

polyamorous and bisexual (bi because... obvious reasons. poly because of that one couple they meet up with in the comic every now and then. my favourite ... ship (i think thats the right term?) in the comic. i love them.)

gas mask because it looks cool + chemical shenanigans ("oh but those didnt exist" shh. shhhhh.")

speaking of chemicals! they are much more into science. mostly does science-y stuff when theyre hyde though. they like to break into lodgers rooms and contribute to experiments.

facial hair. thats it. no further reasoning will be given

tried making jekyll in the concept redesign of him look older. failed SO bad im sorry i know its horrible.

hyde has pointy ears + pointer teeth (and green tongue because potion goop) + slit pupils because i am incapable of designing a human hyde. i have no idea why but i just cant.

earrings because 1: i have a bad habit of giving designs earrings and 2: i remember seeing a few headcanons of j&h with earrings and they were so tasty to look at so i had to do my own

bandage scarf thing from the beta tgs hyde design + newer tgs design that only shows up in the mind... world.... thing.

added the uhhh goggles from the old design too.

red and green hat because i couldnt decide if i wanted hyde to have the red hat from the old design of tgs hyde or the green hat from the current design. ripped it in half and chose both. great decision making i know

chunks of brown hair in hydes because why not. also red ring around one eye as like a weird variant of half heterchomia.

hyde has weird patches of green colored skin idk it just looked cool when i was fiddling with colors so i kept it

hyde has red scales in certain spots of the design. no further explanation

gave hyde black gloves to contrast jekylls white gloves + cmon. hyde probably touches the most gross revolting shit with the places they go to. they deserve some gloves.

changed their body type a litttttle bit just a smudge

i was going to give jekyll a cravat around the neck (a really bad designing habit of mine is to give characters cravats. not my fault they look so cool) both as a fancy thing + to hide lack of a adams apple buuttt the design felt way too clumped so im scrapping that. ignore the cravat in the drawing. grrr bARKBAKRABK

actually does sparkle visually/not just as a non-existent visual effect and people can actually see it. lanyon always swats them away because the sparkles get in his face.

hyde is more shorter than shown in the comic, more like book hydes height. like a foot or more shorter than jekyll. jekyll stays around the same height though. hydes probably the shortest one in the society.

permanent eyebags. does not sleep but cmon we all already knew that

hyde has a strong scottish accent instead of the other accent he fakes in the comic that i always forget the name of

has a cane like the og book. its a sword cane.... yeah i have a addiction, im sorry. (like half my own personal characters have sword canes)

i suck so bad at drawing shoes so hydes shoes look like ass but theyre supposed to be big boots since this guy probably walks through yucky mucky areas and stuff

i would totally write some oneshots or something like that of these guys going on adventures doing experiments and stuff yknow . (stuff like lodgers content and interactions, lanyon and hyde interactions because i enjoy secret identity and person said secret identity personal knows outside of their secret identity interactions, that one couple i talked about before interactions with jekyll/hyde and just in general random oneshots that make no sense) if i actually had any literacy skill

anyways im done my ramble. now you guys can shoot me

#the glass scientists #but like #i ruined it #sorry guys i sneezed on tgs j&h theyre trans and neurodivergent now #embracing my cringe #tgs hyde #tgs jekyll #but extremely torn apart #not literally torn apart i mean figuaritytuibjvbvkvj #posting this knowing its gonna get me on atleast 7 different peoples hitlists #ok im gonna go snore mimimi now #my tgs headcanon world

36 notes · View notes

sunlightmurdock · 1 year

Text

Ceasefire | 0.9 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley Bradshaw is in San Diego, summoned to Top Gun for the first time. Commander “Hyde” Simpson is his flight instructor, and she doesn’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

Warnings: ex-husband!beausimpson, divorce, age gap (rooster is somewhere between 26-28, reader is 38), power imbalance between instructor and student aviator, swearing, angst

…

Spotting him across the floor of a Navy gala, handsome and all-American, chiselled and stoic — convincing him to fuck you in the back of his sensible but stylish Cadillac that same night. You have always been too wild for Beau Simpson. His mother had tried to warn him about this; about you.

Maybe you were too much, maybe he was never enough — just doomed from the start, that’s all you know for sure. Making yourself smaller for him, making yourself tidier, calmer, you’re done with every single compromise that you’ve ever made for that bastard of a man.

Truthfully, Beau wasn’t that bad. If he had just listened earlier, or if he had just listened at all, you wouldn’t be half as furious as you are this morning. You’ve been psyching yourself up all weekend and there is no stopping you now. Days until Rooster graduates and he’s out of your class, a couple of weeks before his next posting.

Enough time wasted. Beau winds the hands on his watch, barely listening to Bernie listing off his plans for the end of his first week as a newlywed.

Your boots clatter loudly, thudding with each step along the hallway. You don’t bother knocking, you’ve spent enough time waiting for Beau’s permission. Armed with gossip that is more than enough to save your ass, you just about stop yourself from kicking the door open — opting for the handle instead.

The door swings open and slams into the wall, Bernie tenses and droplets of his lukewarm coffee spill onto his khakis.

Cocky as ever, your soon to be ex-husband smiles coyly from behind his grand looking desk, morning sun spilling through the blinds and illuminating the frosty blue of his eyes. “I don’t believe that we have a meeting scheduled, Lieu—“

“Cut the shit, you son of a bitch,” You interrupt him, eyes alight with fire as you carry forwards into the office swiftly enough to make Hondo stumble back and out of your way. You slam the papers down onto his desk, eyes wide, nostrils flared. He hasn’t seen you this fired up about something since he pulled the head off of Dylan’s doll and handed him a baseball. That was a big fight. Beau glances downwards, but he already knows what the papers are. “Sign.”

Beau squares his shoulders and narrows his ice-cold eyes at you, sitting back in his chair calmly.

Hondo swallows and smooths out his uniform, still tripping over his feet as he struggles towards the door. “I’m going to give you two some space.”

The door closes behind him and Beau raises his eyebrows expectantly at you, “Without my lawyer present?”

“Have whatever you fucking want, the savings, the assets — I refuse to spend another fucking second on this Earth as your wife.” You bite back, grabbing one of his dumb, expensive pens from the holder and slamming it down on the paper.

Beau scoffs and shakes his head, “What’s with the hysterics? — Is this about the wedd—“

“Yeah, it’s about the wedding.” You lean forwards and rest your palms on the desk, squinting your eyes at him seriously. Beau glances down at the picture of Taylor on his desk, silently terrified of the day that she looks at him as defiantly as you do. “It’s about you not keeping your damn hands to yourself.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back folding his arms over his chest, “I kissed my wife — sue me.”

Your pupils blow wide open. You lean in closer to him, the smell of his morning coffee filling your nostrils. The thought crosses your mind to just pour it in his lap. No, you've got something that will hurt more than that.

“Your wife,” You draw the word out, glaring ahead at him, venomous, “Went home on Saturday night and had mind blowing sex while you sat on your fucking own. Thanks for the parting gift, Beau. Now, fucking sign.”

He stares at you. Gaze hardened, used to people quivering and keeling over at his whim. Not you. You’ve never been that way.

He laughs and grabs his coffee cup from the desk, purely because it’s too early to be drinking scotch. Though, having this conversation this early on a Monday morning is having him rethinking things. “Sign so that you can go and be a whore? — Yeah, I’ll have to think on that one, baby.”

Whore. It’s practically worth reminiscing. The first word his mother ever said to you. Fitting, that he spits it back in your face now. He looks like her when he’s cold like this.

You don’t falter in the slightest bit, khakis fitting snugly around your curves as you lean further forward. “He graduates next week, and I’m introducing him to the kids. I’m serious about him.”

“Great, you’re fucking a high schooler.” Beau scoffed as he sets the mug back down.

You give him a second. That’s all it takes. Cyclone’s a lot of things, but he isn’t dumb. His face changes. Now it’s his turn. Pupils blown, nostrils flared, enraged.

“He’s — I thought that you were fucking kidding! One of your students? — Jesus Christ, Hyde!”

You glare at him, banging your hand against his desk, “Keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice down? — I’m going to make sure everyone who has ever thought you were worthy of a promotion finds out about this!” Beau shoves the desk and stands up sharply, jutting forwards like he’s going to tackle you.

“You say a damn word, and I’ll tell everyone about that fucking twenty year old that you fucked in our bed!”

Bernie. Beau stares at you blankly. Bernie, loose-lipped at the best of times and busy spilling secrets to Hangman for most of the reception on Saturday. Beau — who had been drunk out of his mind, and who had spilled his secret about the sharp-witted, young bartender who he had taken home the week before.

You watch your ex-husband scramble for leverage in his own mind; he’s already certain that his indiscretion is not half as bad as yours — you’ll still be in a much worse situation than he will.

Your lips quirk. “Did she tell you that she’s in flight school by the way? — That makes you her superior, huh?”

Studying a man for years leaves you with certain skills. The oh-so familiar ‘oh shit’ look has become one of your favourites. It suits him to look so dumbfounded.

You pick up the pen again and hand it towards him. “Sign — or you fuck us both over.”

His brows knit together just slightly. His head moves like he’s trying to shake it, just slightly. He takes the pen from your hand numbly as he searches your face. Looking for any semblance of the woman he loved.

“What did I do for you to hate me so much?”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. You stop yourself from leaping across the desk and shaking him, smacking him — cursing his name, because he still doesn’t fucking see it. He still has no idea.

He watched you slowly stop loving him every single day for years and did nothing to stop it. He reacted with fury and cruelty. Even now, he wakes up every morning with the intention to hold you back. A hot poker to your throat, there isn’t a single word that you can manage to say to him.

You exhale slowly and shake your head.

“I don’t hate you.” It’s the truth, you’re not sure that you ever could — even if he’s trying his best to make that happen. You stare at the floor, nudging the toe of your boot against a chip in the wood. “I hate that you made this such a mess, when it could’ve been over months ago. But I don’t hate you.”

It’s more of an answer than he probably deserves, he knows that. He holds onto his breath, turning his chin downward as he scrawls his signature on the dotted line, turns the page and does the same again. He knows where the pen needs to go — he’s been staring at these forms for once and waiting for you to change your mind.

Setting the pen down against his desk, he pushes the document back towards you.

“Who is he?”

“Don’t, Beau.” You sigh, picking the paper up from his desk and turning away. You open his office door and close it with more civility than he deserves.

It’s a hard time to get divorced — 8am on a Monday morning. It weighs on his mind through his morning briefings, the starts of his weekly catch-ups. The thought of you, down there in the classroom with those animals drooling over you. He taps his foot under the table as some two-star admiral drones on about unmanned planes.

“So, is Hyde as mean in bed as she is in the sky?” Javy grins, torso twisted to look back at Jake and Rooster’s desks behind him. There’s a movie playing on a projector in front of them about stealth maneuvers, but every time Javy looks forwards, all that he can think about is you moaning Rooster’s name this weekend.

Jake grins, leaning across towards Rooster, “Has she ever made you cry, Bradshaw?”

Rooster’s lips quirk, tugging at an amused smirk as he kicks back in his seat, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Does she make you call her Commander?” Javy grins, spurred on, his entire face consumed by the smile as he tries to stop himself from laughing.

Jake snorts at the idea, twirling his pen between his fingers, “So, you guys ever fuck on base?”

Rooster has been trying to look ahead and keep his mouth shut, and ignore their comments as much as he can, but they’re still his best friends — and he can’t pretend he isn’t proud of himself.

He leans just slightly towards Jake and lowers his voice, “She sucked my dick in the supply closet near pre-flight once.”

“No, she fucking didn’t!” Coyote whispers excitedly. Rooster swings his foot forwards and kicks the back of his chair, glaring at him. The three of them glance sheepishly back towards the front.

“So, Hyde sucks dick?” Jake whispers, deep in thought at the idea. “I woulda thought she was too mean for all that.”

Rooster’s lips quirk softly. He gives a gentle shake of his head and turns his attention back towards the screen. “She’s not mean.”

“Not to you.” Coyote replies with a small chuckle. Rooster smirks, then nods.

“No wonder after what we heard on Saturday. Oh, Rooster, fuck, I’m gonna—“ Jake stops abruptly as Phoenix turns around, bewildered. He gives her a small nod of acknowledgment. She glances between the three of them and then shakes her head, turning back towards the front.

Rooster bites his cheek and Jake and Javy snicker around him. He knows that he makes you feel good, and he’s proud of that. Jake and Javy can tease all they want. Rooster hopes they find someone like you someday.

“She does have nice tits.”

“Watch it.” Rooster bites. Jake’s lips quirk as he turns his attention back to the screen. He knew that he was going to get that reaction, he just wanted to see how far he could push Rooster.

As the video finishes, you dismiss the aviators to pre-flight and sit back in the office chair. Sitting at the back of the class, Jake and Rooster are the last to leave. Jake’s grinning at you as he walks towards the door.

“Cut it out, Hangman.”

He turns and winks back at you, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret, Teach.”

Turning, he finds Cyclone standing a few feet down the hallway. He’s out of your line of sight but he’s staring straight at Jake.

Jake remembers being back home in Texas, young and stupid with nothing better to do than hop into the bull’s pen and race to see if he could jump out before he was impaled. He has looked a pissed off bull in the eyes many times, and he recognises that look on Cyclone’s face.

“Seresin.”

Jake leans his head back and groans, knowing that he shouldn’t find this as funny as he does. He raises his hands in defence and starts to walk backwards.

“Alright, Sir—“

…

@cherrycola27

@mak-32

@khaylin27

@stoncms

@shanimallina87

@cool-ultra-nerd

@angelmavmurdock

@gingerbreadandpaper

@mizzzpink

@whisperofsong

@throwinsauce

@perpetuelledaydreaming

@n3ssm0nique

@jostyriggslover96

@thedroneranger

@abaker74

@marantha

@puckleee

@ghxst-heart

@diamond-3

@shawnsblue

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #ceasefire

234 notes · View notes

starrgazzer · 27 days

Text

The portrait of David Chiem (2024)

i was going to post this on the drdtdaily acc but i didn’t want to post david chiem twice in a row so :3 can you guys tell i like to do the ‘duality’ style when i draw david. like dr jekll and mr hyde type of shit because he’s silly!!

alt ver below cut

#danganronpa despair time #drdt #david chiem #drdt fanart #drdt david #this is referencing the portrait of dorian gray by the way #i mean the picture of dorian gray yeah uh fuck my life

40 notes · View notes

currently-tired · 2 months

Text

guys, i have been so insane about convergent evolution lately. (my ‘Lanyon takes Henry’s theory of duality a bit too seriously….’ tgs au)

wild. foaming at the mouth.

They meet! But they don’t know it’s each other! They fuck, and don’t know it’s each other!!! A relationship forms slowly... but they’re still torn over the person they loved, and continue to love so deeply. (They don’t know!!!!!)

Imagine this;

Hyde sees an oddly familiar, but incredibly handsome man. (He’s so damn familiar, for some strange reason, but they can’t remember where they saw him from…)

He glosses over that profound familiarity and goes over to proposition him.

(They’ve seen so many people in both bodies. Rich and poor. It’d be unusual if they didn’t recognize at least one someone in a room…)

Lanyon is trying to drown out thoughts of Jekyll in his other body. Hopefully while drunk, and roughly fucking his thoughts away.

The face of the man in front of them is familiar to him, yes, despite never meeting them before... (How unusual, for a person who is unique in appearance.)

To sate his curiosity, he lets the man flirt with him. Lets him drape himself over him, rest a hand suggestively on his thigh, and whisper in his ear.

Lanyon sees hints of Jekyll in that man. The Scottish accent [dulled by years in London, but still prevalent], and the fiery passion in his eyes.

Other smaller things. The way he sat down, leg crossed over leg. Something about his smile. The way he tilted his head…

That unshakeable confidence in his posture, even as he begged Lanyon to do filthy things to him.

(The features that were different, such as sharp claws and teeth, an insane glint to their eyes, and a high and raspy, almost shrieking voice, more of an exciting draw, then a downfall.)

Why not? He seemed so eager anyway…

It’d just be a one night stand. They’d never see each other again.

He’d never be faced with that man who was oh so much like Henry ever again.

So why the hell not?

…

[…They saw each other again, and again.]

They both bump into each other at the bar again. Stare at each other awkwardly, before drawing closer and closer, towards each other... (It’s still two strangers fucking. Nothing else. Nothing more, they assure themselves…)

Both happen to visit Blackfog on the same day. Happen to visit the same stall. A conversation is struck up and they rant about chemicals and alchemy (A relatively new interest of Lanyon’s, developed entirely by his interest in developing the potion, and a longstanding obsession of Jekyll’s), before ducking into an empty alleyway…

Time and time again, they find each other. Spend time with each other.

They become fast friends. They enjoyed each others company, the easy, effortless friendship, with a familiar dynamic that they slot into. (…Almost as if they had already known each other.)

And so, eventually they both begin to deliberately seek each other out.

Regular meetings at the bar, same table every single time.

Hyde shows him how to scale a building. Which foot-holes are too small, how to angle his foot, and which windowsills would support weight.

Snarky, and witty jokes, and friendly conversations are exchanged. (And for Hyde’s part, crude jokes, that always had a hint of intelligence underneath them; a glimpse of another side of the person Lanyon had initially only considered to be a hedonist...)

Lanyon showed them a cynical view of the world. Bitter, and dry, but when motivated or interested, passionate and opinionated.

And Hyde showed him his world. The joy and passion he had for everything in life. All the stupid shit they did, with absolutely no fear of pain or death

(If only they were like this full time! They’d grouse to themself. How nice would life be for them if Henry Jekyll wasn’t so damn numb, and sad!-)

As time goes on, they grow closer, and closer…

Hyde turns down invitation after invitation from perfectly handsome people because ‘Oh, he said he be here in… Ten minutes, sorry.” (Words said completely unapologetically, as they tucked away their watch.)

Lanyon drops a gala, because Hyde wanted to go to the park and catch rats for a rat census, and requested his help. (And if the two of them stayed just a little longer than intended, doing things they probably shouldn’t of, who cared?)

A one night stand evolves into some sort of shaky, undefined relationship.

Hyde starts to bring the man he doesn’t know is Lanyon chocolates and flowers. Other little presents and gifts. (He loved wine. And Jekyll’s own cellar would not miss a fine vintage…)

They start actively craving attention and love from him. (Something they had sworn against, after their heart break tore them apart…)

Jekyll ends up sitting in their office doing paperwork, bored or tired or angry, and imagining what HE would do if he was there. (Sometimes Lanyon, with his biting snarky comments, and sometimes that intense man, with a tease on his lips that always made his heart race…)

At a gala alone, wishing he had someone by his side. (But which someone..?)

Then he stuff the thought away in the corner of his mind, in favor of joining a conversation he prayed was interesting enough to draw this thoughts away completely…

Lanyon starts to look forward to the evenings. He strokes their hair tenderly, runs a hand up their naked spine. (No longer just rough touches, that they begged him for…

Soft fleeting things, that they never requested, but always accepted happily. Sometimes even with a purr.)

Alchemical books carried around all night, taken out of Lanyon’s bag and shoved forcefully into their arms, before he ran off back home for the night.

Their face, surprised at first, and then joyful and pleased when they saw what it was, burned into Lanyon’s retinas, and memory…

(Wait… Since when did seeing Edward happy make Lanyon so happy?..)

Both, a second away from whispering a certain four letter word, before choking it back…

Then, they both realize it’s gone too far. It’s no longer just a one night stand!-

(But none of them want it to stop…)

And Lanyon has to admit to himself that he’s falling for someone again, even through those thick walls he put up. And he also has to admit that their similarities to Jekyll are not the only reason he’s pursuing them. (…Or are they? Was Eddy just a replacement for Jekyll? They were so similar. But so different at the same time.

Which was it?-)

Hyde has to consider that their policy of being completely emotionally detached relationships is being challenged.

(Just one more time. There’s no emotions. Just good sex. I don’t care about him. He doesn’t care about me. It can’t be that bad! I would never let it get that bad!-)

Other times, they scream at the top of their lungs, and break things. How dare their heart betray them like this!-

HOW DARE IT MAKE THEM LOVE AGAIN!-

As Jekyll they sigh, and wonder if it is unfair. A betrayal, to love two people at once. (Both to themself, and to them…)

Could he truly devote himself to one now? Which?!-

(They did not have an answer for himself…)

Both shake, and lie awake at night, wondering, pondering. (Should I break it off? Should it keep going?

…How did I let this happen?)

But they’re both in far too deep to quit without broken hearts and pain…

And they don’t want to anyway.

#honk shoo posting #convergent evolution au #the glass scientists #suggestive content

29 notes · View notes

dustmint · 4 months

Text

Hi! I did drawings of this guy

I did a while ago bc I started planning more of this Au and now I sort-of have it mostly all planned out so, oops?

They're mostly doodles, The only thing I don't have planned out for them is what name they'd use (I was planning on making them use the name John Seek but I dont wanna steal Utterson's thing since he is the one with the "If he be Mr Hyde I shall be Mr Seek" but I also really dont want to use Henry Hyde or Edward Jekyll, pls help)

below this is a rant abt some basic things I planned for it

Basically the thing is Mind!Lanyon cut off Hyde's head and he became "one" with Jekyll again, So Jekyll had to leave Jasper with his presentation and rush to his office bc "Oh shit, transformation" but Lanyon was just leaving his office so he saw Jekyll in his very bad state lock himself, and after a while decided to go check up on him, got too worried and said "Fuck it, im going in" Meanwhile inside our Jekyll-Hyde guy is very panicked given that he looks different, not Jekyll nor Hyde and Lanyon saying he's gonna enter makes him panic so he basically jumps out the window, after a while of the two planning they decide that they have to go back to their office to grab HJ7 and see how the fuck they'd fix this, only thing is that no one recognises them as Jekyll or Hyde and their office is pretty much locked and watched most of the time bc Jekyll was declared missing and Lanyon is pretty sure it was a kidnapping

Also, the way Jekyll and Hyde work in this fusion thing is that both of them are in control of the body, they both have to be sure of what they're going to say or do, things like moving are simple enough but talking is more complicated bc both of them may be trying to say something like perhaps an apology, but Jekyll says "My apologies" and Hyde says "Terribly sorry" and since they don't reach an agreement they end up saying something like "Mtrrbly aposgirry" or they may even say both but in Jekyll and Hyde's voices at the same time (This may also happen if they feel shaken, very anxious or similar feelings to those)

And that's it! Sorry for how long this ended

#the glass scientists #jekyll and hyde #tgs #tgs hyde #tgs jekyll #kinda #its a mix of them both #also I made this as a means of coping with the emotional gut punch #once again sorry for the long rant #dustmint draws

50 notes · View notes

verysadghostieinacloset · 2 months

Text

So…Hi tumblr. This is a fic that I’m posting here so… enjoy it? Eheh.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandoms: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson, The Glass Scientists

Relationship: Edward Hyde & Dr. Henry Jekyll

Characters: Edward Hyde, Dr. Henry Jekyll

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Self-Harm, Blood and Injury, Murder, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Toxic Co-Dependency, mentions of mental institutions, Disassociation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Non-Graphic Gore

Language: English

Words: 3,603

Not beta read

Summary: Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

OR The aftermath of Hyde murdering Carew, but I mashed it with Glass Scientists.

OR OR Can I really call Jekyll my favourite character if I haven't torn him apart first?

Reap your self-destruction

Fuck.

This is atrocious, and despicable, and really in no way good for him at all. Dead- there on the street, sights for all to see; dead. Dead. Rotting and never coming back, hacked to the pulp of an unidentifiable, red mess, there in the street, half way in the moonlight.

Bloody, and messy, and all over him because he’s a murderer now.

Shit.

This is only half the issue; the fact that he’d murdered a man and that man is never ever ever going to come back to life, and that he’d see it, all the gore, and it was undeniably him who had done that-

He’d done it all with Lanyon’s cane. The cane he got gifted for his birthday some years back from his closest friend, such a tender memory, was the very same cane he’d used to beat Danvers’ body to fine, scarlet mush as it screamed. The thing had snapped with the bones and he’d lost it in the wreckage, carrying back with him the bloodied other half, all the way to Soho. There were no officers on his trail, at least, but he could not go back to the Society- not like this.

No; he’d rushed to his apartment, hands surprisingly steady, breathing calm as possible, (he is a psychopath, a madman, really. He was breathing so normally when Danvers could never breathe again, lungs collapsed in and it was all his fault, and he’d done it with Lanyon’s gift and-) uprooting notebooks and papers from dusty draws, feeding the fire to feed his desperation and ensure there was not a splotch of evidence against him.

Jekyll’s voice stuttered frantically in his ears, the entire time, and Hyde was distinctly aware of his incoherent rambling, no doubt consumed by the gruesome sight they’d both caused. He is only Jekyll’s anger, after all.

In any case, nothing was being helped, but he’d prefer it over silence. He did not want to be alone with what they’d done. At least Jekyll could provide the understanding they’d never get in the gallows-

No, no; they’re not there yet, they won’t get there, he promises, he promises, he promises!

The papers were stained with his fingerprints, bloodied with impressions of scarlet blood that didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t think too much about it, or he’d stop what he’s doing and get caught red-handed (literally) by the police. He didn’t have time.

With this thought, he threw the remainder of the papers to the fire, watching the angry thing rise with a defiant cackle and eat away at his sins. He’d doused the other half of the cane with gasoline- ‘reserved specifically for emergencies,’ Hyde had said when he’d brought it and right now was a fucking emergency- and fed that to the monster too.

It had flared madly, but there were only ashes left of his crimes. He’d killed the flames with water- pure, clear, safe; something he’d never be ever again- and not thought once before downing that wretched draught in his pocket. It’d swirled bright red then purple then green in mockery and he’d taken every last, bitter drop until he’d felt himself heaving.

Now, everything is too tight and too bloody, and the glass has shattered onto the floor and he’ll have to clean it or that’s proof against them and he’s putting them all in danger, all over again because he’s so reckless-

His bones pop disgustingly into place, bringing with them the sickly nausea that comes with the unnatural feeling of his insides turned out and replaced to make an entirely new man. Innocent, he could claim with this face and this voice. Innocent-

But his hands are still bloody! He has to get the blood off; just so it won’t stain Jekyll’s clothes, he tells himself- certainly not because it’s stifling and spreading and unstoppable.

Of course, he is completely logical, and sane; so he scrubs his hands over a basin of cold water hard enough that he thinks the skin will start to crack. The water is red. Not pink- not just stained- but so fucking red that he thinks he can dye something with the water and it’ll come out the deepest maroon.

That’s bad.

He needs to get rid of the water. It’ll stink up the place if he leaves it- well, it already is; the air is shimmery with a metallic scent that he swears to heaven will haunt his dreams. He doesn’t plan on coming back here, it’s not really his problem anymore; but the thought of leaving the water to go stagnant and rotten, with such a pungent odour as to tell the whole world what he’s done, makes his stomach churn.

So, he dumps it over the ashes in the fireplace, now clumped together, and watches the dirt drink up the river of red he’d made. It was all him, always him, every single part- the anger, the blind rage, the stab through the body, the cracking of the bones; every last bit of it is all him.

It might still smell, but at least the basin of blood is out of sight. At least it’s masked with the scent of something long burnt and no one can tell where the smell would’ve come from because there is no obvious source, no liability. Just that the room is a mess, and the fire has been put out with too many ashes, and some human is clearly missing from this place.

But that is not his issue ever again: he is human- he promises- not an animal, not a madman, not the devil. No; he is Henry Jekyll, in the blood-stained, ruined clothes of Edward Hyde- with whom he is in no way associated- and the tightness of his shirt makes him want to scream. Frantically (there is no time to waste, no time to waste, Hell is at his heels), he flings the doors to Hyde’s wardrobe open, shifting through the few clothes to find the only ones that could possibly fit him.

Again, safety measures- he kept an outfit of Hyde’s, Hyde kept an outfit of his. Just in case.

But, here, he had to be careful. If he left his clothes in a mess, he might give the police reason for suspicion.

‘Calm down.’ Hyde urges, though his voice is anything but calm, stuttering at every other vowel like a nervous child. ‘Do this logically. Don’t give the coppers a reason to suspect anything other than an escape.’ Yeah- that made sense! He could do that.

Henry’s hands shake quite violently when he looks down at them- they have been the entire time; it’s a surprise he didn’t spill the water earlier- but he’s sure he can do it. Just; take the clothes he’d messed up and fold them coherently and properly. It feels wrong doing such a mundane task when, not even an hour ago, he had murdered a member of parliament.

‘But it’s ok.’ Hyde pacifies, trying to keep his own voice calm. ‘You’ve done this before- it’s not difficult.’ No- he certainly hadn’t murdered someone before, thank you very much. ‘Folding clothes. Focus on folding the clothes.’ And he does. It’s messy and disorganised, but it can be arranged in a way to make the closet seem untouched. He heaves the biggest sigh since that body lay in moonlight, as he closes the closet doors. Nothing was taken. These clothes are his, he is fine.

‘The glass.’ Hyde hisses, just so Henry doesn’t forget. How could he? The shattered remains of the phial drip with hot, green formula, glittering in the streaming light like explosive stars. Where would he put the glass? He had pockets- pockets. The police wouldn’t suspect Jekyll to have proper connections to the murder- not after that fire.

Ok. This would all be ok.

He kneels on the carpet, just where he’d stood last as Hyde- the last time ever as Hyde. He would never come out again; Jekyll couldn’t afford it- neither could his other. Or the Society. Or everything else relying on him surviving this night. Then, with careful hands because he doesn’t want to nip himself (‘That pain would be inviting? The punishment we need. The punishment we must-’) on the glass and get even more blood stained to him, he’d had enough of the accursed substance tonight, he starts picking the shimmering shards from the ground.

Collecting the glass off the floor is easy- he just hopes to God (‘If God will listen to us anymore.’) that nothing about the few drops of potion on the carpet gets noticed. Otherwise, his pocket gets steadily heavier with the tinkling of the glass as it drops in, and soon enough, the last piece is in his hand (it’s shaking again, shaking with his breath, shaking because he knows there is only one way forward, one way to run, but he should be in the gallows, hanging like the murderer he is, all to Hell).

It’s no use. He can drop the last piece in with the remainder of the phial, but the edge cuts his fingers, slices clean into the skin and stings as red starts welling at the wound.

The careful facade of his calmness, of fixing his breath just until he’s out of Soho, shatters like the phial in his pocket.

There is blood on his hands. It’s red- it’s everywhere because he’s just murdered someone. He’s just murdered someone and they bled so much. He was a doctor- he knows how much a person can bleed before they die, that they bleed after they die too, that blood gets everywhere and never comes off and it won’t come off him because he’s bleeding and he’s a murderer and he’ll always be a murderer and nothing will ever change that.

Red. On his hands. He needs to stop it. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Hyde informs him, in some vain attempt to wake him up. ‘It’s your blood. All you need is a handkerchief.’ Right. A handkerchief to press to his finger then he can get out of here, leave this place forever and go home-

(‘The walk to your punishment?’)

No time to be hysterical. Just remember that. Hysteria gets you killed- or you end up in Bedlam. You don’t want that, Jekyll. I don’t want that. No.

He fumbles for a moment at the desk, searching for one, and finally breathing that shaky sigh of relief once he pulls one from the drawers. He presses it to the cut, watching as the scarlet invades the white of the cotton, trailing up and up through the fibres until he thinks the thing is doused.

Ok. Now, he can go home. Just- ‘My clothes are still on the floor.’ Mutters Hyde, somewhat urgently. Jekyll clenches his fist, squeezes his eyes shut as he nods- cannot force his breath to calm at all- and scoops up the bloody pile. He can take it outside to throw away somewhere. Yes.

It’s all so simple, if only he was calm-

He bundles the soft cloth between his arms; it’s drying stiff in the patches that are far bloodier. The roughness is a horror- instead, he tries to keep the softer parts running between his fingers, just to calm him until he can discard the wretched garments. Besides, the therapeutic feeling helps with the steady pain from his cut finger, handkerchief still clenches around staunching the blood.

For the last time, Jekyll turns his back to the room, surveying the wreckage he’d left behind, eyes shimmering in the fractured moonlight slipping in through the window. A wreckage like the body, discarded for the rats and writhing maggots, all done with such a holy gift that he had ruined. How dare he?!

There were still papers scattered to the ground, the last frantic writings of a madman. ‘Not enough to take us to court.’ Hyde promises; something softer, a hint more certain in his voice. Jekyll trusts him; blindly- what more can he do? For now, Hyde is the only one who knows, who will ever understand, who will ever get the feeling of his disgust and anger and pathetic self-loathing. When he hangs, Hyde is the only thing left to say goodbye to.

But with that, a murderer leaves his room, and stalks out into the thick mist of London night, hands bloodied beyond reparation.

He is breathless when he arrives at his street. The clothes (Hyde’s clothes. The last clothes Edward Hyde would ever be spotted in) have long since been abandoned in the back alleys of the city, a good distance away from his apartment in Soho. He’d stalked out of the borough on brisk legs, not risking getting a cab until he was rid of the wretched weight of ruined cotton in his arms. Besides, the walking had helped. Cold air in his lungs whilst it rushes through his hair was the blessing a sinner like him did not deserve, no matter if he found it polluted like the inner clockwork of his soul.

Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

He takes his key from his pocket, hand grasping the cool metal press of his door handle, a grounding weight to the inner dwellings of panic still clutching at him because there is still blood on his hands, he is still a murderer, Danvers is still dead. What is changing that? What is changing-

With a snap and a click (the breaking of bones, the snap of a cane, the click of his brisk footsteps away from the scene of a mutilation), the door stutters open uneasily, and, thankful at last for this one small shelter from the eyes of the world, for the heaving anxiety lifted off his shoulders of the police following him down, he steps in with a breath.

‘To your punishment.’ Hyde’s voice curdles sickly, reassuringly in his mind. After all, Jekyll knows he is right, has seen this coming from a long way. It was one of the genuine reasons he’d rushed home (does a reprobate have a home? In hell, perhaps? With the moulding images of rotten, unrecognisable bodies, ever consumed by mycelium and fungi?), with the throb of the cut gently increasing, Jekyll had- at some point- become desperate to inflict the harm on himself purposefully.

There had been a moment of respite between the cut and his loss of composure, between the initial slash and the blood flooding through, skin opening to his darkness, inviting all other monstrosities to peek in and cower at the evil in himself. Of course there had been. There always was this feeling of pride, of calm. Knowing you did well because you punished yourself, you got what you deserved, without bothering someone else to do it for you.

That is all waiting for him now, in the depths of this cold house, with his cold blood and rotting heart ever consumed by illogical fear. Who must he be afraid of? He is the murderer, after all.

He unclips the cloak around his shoulders, maybe the last thing holding the faint lines of his soul together in a clutch of vile tendrils, moving through the shadows to his room, and only then letting it drop when the door clicks behind him. With the stuttering of some broken, sick thing, he, frantically, stumbles to the ground near his bed, no longer desperate to keep the emotions threatening to consume him trapped in, no longer concerned with anything besides raw truth and the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks, and the wretched voice in his head.

He looks down, at the bloodied cotton pressed to his hand, focuses on the sting of it when he presses too hard. But, this is all he does in the moment, all he can bring himself to when he is the spluttering mess of a last breath gone wrong. ‘Now, you know what we must do, Henry?’ Hyde mutters, and it's all Jekyll can do to make himself nod along, to lift the sleeve of linen from his forearms, a patchwork of silver spider webs stalking up it on the underside, from days when he’d been obsessed with the concept of human pain and what it truly was.

No need for morbid curiosity anymore, not when he was intimately familiar with the causes of human pain, and how to make it, and what it did to one and his mind. ‘It sends someone to Bedlam. They should’ve done that to you so long ago, because look where we are now. Henry, isn’t the glass of our broken phial so pretty?’

To Bedlam. He doesn't want to go to Bedlam, he doesn't want to be locked up with the horrors he deserves because they are the horrors he’s caused. At the end of the day, he supposes Hyde is right- a man, human and whole, would never have reason to wonder about something so horrid as suffering, lest he was mad, and Henry is far past that.

He takes a shard from the heavy pocket at his side, with those ever shaking hands, and looks at it cradled so softly in his palm like it was something new and innocent and fragile and all that he never ever would be. It was pretty, he supposed, with the way the moonlight caught it, filtered in through the windows, making it sparkle like the last wings of an angel, and with its sharp edge gleaming in the anticipation of smooth skin. It would, obviously, look a lot more prettier doused in red, dripping down to the floor, stained with all the sinful stuff inside of him.

With a shaky breath, and a screaming desperation, he brings it to press cooly against the delicate workings of his veins, and closes his eyes stained with glass tears, wrists quivering because he knows he can't do this, can’t fall back into such a habit that had eaten away so hungrily at his life.

‘Having second thoughts? Then give me the control, give me your hand. What awaits us but the punishment you cower from, coward?’ That voice spits, in all its stuttering truth.

Jekyll knows he should be fighting for control, he knows he should be doing all in his power to deal logically with this, to not hurt himself, to lay his head down and sleep and hope that will fix the wrongs he’d caused. But none of this fixes Danvers’ body, lying still in the streets, blood splayed around him, left for the rats; none of this fixes the phantom feeling of blood under his nails and ribs cracking beneath his hands. No, logic is not for him to take right now, sleep is not his luxury, the only thing he must do is this.

So, he lets Hyde do it to him (lets him do it to himself), sits idly in his body, staring as the impressions of far rougher, crooked hands ghost his, and guide the edge of the glass down words into a sloping arch. Blood blooms from the cut with intricate pain, red and the last drips of green hissing into each other as they run down his arm in a careful rivulet. It’s not enough.

He brings his hand down, Hyde following his every move, once more on his skin, watching the edge of the glass get coated in thin scarlet. An adjacent cut mars the flesh, and tingles with the delight of sweltering pride in his chest. His heart clenches at the thought of this being his downfall, of this being the thing that finally snubs his disgraceful flame from the face of the world. He’d frowned at the thought of death, but musing it now, as Hyde cuts again and again and blood pools steadily into wood with each droplet, brought by hands that are (deniably) undeniably his, it is a simple thing. Maybe even right.

Again, the heavenly edge (a devil-send) of that curved blade comes to quietly stained flesh, where his tears fall and mix with the pain of his fear and rot and peace all slipping away from him.

Another cut befalls him (he brings the blade on himself). ‘Is it not so easy?’ Says Hyde, the haze in Jekyll’s mind too sweet and simple and painful to ignore the way his words curl like the body of a snake on its latest kill. And would a death like this, for him, not be so simple? All it would take was the careful positioning at the one place he’d been avoiding, to carve the final breath from his deceitful lungs. He could fall to hell so easily, he could destroy it all now and not have to reap the consequences because he doesn’t have to look to the future.

He can die, and rot here alone for days, with a body unfound and all his blood drained. It would be so easy.

The haze grows thick like honey, seeping into the crevices of his thoughts and clogging them with undeserved, unnerving peace. He can’t feel the pain anymore. Why can’t he feel the pain anymore? Why isn’t Hyde speaking to him?

Why is the floor so red?

With the quiet plink of a shatter, in the earliest depths of a winter morning, a shard of glass splays into ten, bloodied fractures.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the glass scientists fanfiction #the glass scientists #tgs #tgs jekyll #tgs hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #dr jekyll and mr hyde #writing

27 notes · View notes