#gothic literature crossover

[tenebris-lux]

Okay, this one made me laugh out loud a couple times. 😂

Erik: “The lock on your door is broken, btw.”

Adam: “How very queer, it was in perfect condition when I locked my door just a few hours ago.”

Erik: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

That was one instance where I was cracking up. And then later…

Erik: Plan A or Plan B?

*CRASH* “$@“$%*#*+!!!”

Erik: 🤨💡 Plan C, then?

Adam: oh god no

And just the way Hyde opened the door like, “WHAT.” while Adam’s all nervous at how fucked up this is becoming.

Also, Erik, the fuck’s wrong with you? You don’t want either Adam or Hyde to get their hands on you when they’re mad.

I hope it’s okay to respond to it like this.

Could I get a follow-up to Adam's nightmare? Maybe someone else in the Motley Crew coming to investigate the sound of him breaking the mirror?

I did roll to see which member of the crew would approach Adam and it rolled Erik.

.......

Frozen, Adam stared at the shards of glass and splinters of wood embedded in his knuckles. He barely registered the pain as blood dripped into the porcelain basin of the sink. He’d made such a mess of the mirror that shards and splinters littered the washroom from wall to wall. He needed to clean it now, it wouldn’t do to leave evidence of his wanton destruction. Trembling he knelt and tried his best to scoop up the debris into the wastebasket, cursing as his bloodied hands left stains on the tile. Served him right for his impulsivity.

Adam supposed he had no real need of a mirror anyhow; it wasn’t as though his reflection was a thing to be missed…

Before he could clean away the smears of blood, he heard a gentle cough. Two eyes, yellow as his own, gleamed at him in the dark.

“Erik…” It was no more than a grunt. Given that Erik had shown him nothing but distrust Adam was less than enthusiastic to find the infamous Phantom in his quarters. “How did you even get in here?” he grumbled as he groped behind him for a towel to mop up the blood.

“I heard the sound of something breaking and thought perhaps someone was in trouble,” Erik replied silkily, “The lock on your door is broken, by the way.”

“How very queer, it was in perfect condition when I locked my door just a few hours ago,” Adam hissed through gritted teeth. Erik wore his black mask, obscuring his expression but his smirk came through in his honeyed voice.

“What can I say? English locksmiths are woefully inept at their craft. Such flimsy and inelegant contraptions are prone to fall apart at but the barest application of pressure in the right place.”

Smug bastard. A muscle twitched grotesquely in Adam’s cheek, “Be satisfied then, that there is no danger and no one has need of you. Be gone, Erik! Vanish like the mock specter you are and leave me to my toils,”

“I would but you seem to be struggling. You can’t get glass up with your bare hands, you’ll need a dustpan or you’ll be stepping on tiny shards for weeks. I’ve smashed enough mirrors to know how to clean them up by now,” the arrogance was gone, replaced with something akin to resignation.

 Adam huffed wearily, “I suppose you are right; I seem to be making things worse for all my efforts to repair the damage. Such is my lot.”

“My large friend, you need to get that glass out of your hands before you try to clean anything up. Shall I wake Dr. Watson and have him attend you?”

Now Adam was puzzled, not only was Erik not being hostile, he was being downright helpful. To what end? Adam squinted at him, wishing that he could rip the mask off of the other man’s face and reveal some expression by which he could gauge his intent.

“What has inspired these fine new manners? Was it not you who spun tripwire through the corridor like a damned spider hoping to snare me in you web? Did I not find you crawling over the rafters just this morning spying on me? It fills me with suspicion for your motives that you should be charitable only at such a time as when I am vulnerable.”

Erik held up his slender hands, fingers splayed in a gesture of supplication, “I've come in peace! I have concluded through my observations that you are not my enemy. I don’t know what you are, perhaps I will never know, but as I am coming to accept that the world is full of vampires, werewolves and other such creatures of the night, perhaps you are not the most uncanny thing I’ll encounter”

Sucking in a sharp breath through flared nostrils Adam fought to keep his tone even and civil, “Why did you not simply ask? I would gladly have shared my tale and heard yours in return. I have seen what is under your mask, you are no less hideous than I am, though I would wager my deeds are darker even than yours.”

From under the mask muffled laughter bubbled, “You would lose your wager. I have committed crimes that the devil himself would shudder to think of. I confess when I first saw you and felt your hands, the genuine article of a living corpse, which I had only ever pretended to be, I was frightened.”

With a weary sigh Adam nodded, “I suppose that is to be expected, ugly or no, you are still just a man like any other.”

The mask tilted as the narrow neck holding up Erik’s head crooked, “How easily you say that. It pleases me to hear it. Thank you!  Please, let me show you that we are friends by allowing me to help you now. First, we shall tend to your hands. Let us go to Doctor Watson!”

Adam frowned, “I-I don’t know, he will be asleep. I don’t think we should wake him, not over this,” he felt suddenly ashamed, the idea of burdening his friend and greatest benefactor over his momentary lapse in self-control stung him.

“Who else would we take you to? Your hands are full of wood and glass, they can't be left until morning!You are being childish and difficult when I have extended you an olive branch and I don’t appreciate that.” Erik tapped his chin, the only part of his face that was exposed, thoughtfully. Through the holes in his mask his eyes narrowed in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Adam’s neck.  

“You know, I think Hafiz might have what we need, he is a well prepared and useful fellow, by now he is also accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night. He’ll be cross but he won’t refuse me, he never does,” Erik’s tone remained affable but Adam could sense he was beginning to find their exchange offensive.

“Your Persian friend? No, out of the question. I would feel guilty to no end if I woke him over this. Please, I have had worse injuries, just leave it until morning,” Adam begged him, feeling every bit as childish and difficult as Erik had accused him of being and hating himself for it.

“Nonsense, you’re just going to keep getting blood on everything if you’re not taken care of. Unless you know any doctors who would be awake this late it’s going to have to be Watson or Hafiz. Now, make your choice!” Erik insisted, notes of growing agitation tainting his speech. Adam shook his head stubbornly, refusing to be a nuisance to good people. Erik more forcefully reiterated his request that Adam make a decision, his patience, of which he had little, was rapidly beginning to ebb and a flash of temper colored his voice with a harsh cadence that even Adam found intimidating.

Before Adam could protest again there was a crash of shattering glass from down the hall followed by a loud string of colorful expletives and the sound of heavy thumping of someone hitting hardwood. Erik’s eyes twinkled almost maniacally, “You know… I think he’s a doctor, isn’t he? He certainly sounds like he’s awake…”

“Oh, Erik, no. He’s more likely to injure me further than he is to be helpful. For god’s sake, not him!”

But Erik was already heading down the hall and Adam found himself doubting Erik’s motives towards him were entirely benevolent. As they drew closer the thumping increased in speed in volume, each loud THUD punctuated by screeches of “FUCK!” and “HORSESHIT!”

“Erik, he is in a mood. If you value your life you will not touch that door,” Adam pleaded.  

The former Opera Ghost ignored him, a maddened energy fueling him to throw caution to the wind. Firmly, he rapped his knuckles against the door and Adam braced himself to grab the slender man and yank him back should Edward Hyde come out of his room swinging.

The door wrenched open so violently that Adam was shocked it didn’t fly off of its hinges. Edward Hyde stood in the doorframe, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, hands and cheeks marred with some kind of black, viscous, fluid that reeked of sulfur.

“Just what,” he snapped, “brings you to my door?!”

Rather than cower Erik replied rather cheerfully, “It seems our mutual friend here,” he gestured to Adam, “Has made quite the mess of his bathroom mirror and rather than do the sensible thing and wake Watson to tend to him, he wants to stay up all night leaking blood all over the furniture.”

Edward gave his hands a cursory wipe, his face darkening with momentary rage. He looked from Adam to Erik contemplatively, lingering on Erik in suspicion. He seemed to have an epiphany and to the shock of both the Creature and the Phantom his face smoothed. “Alright, bring him in, I’ll see what I can do,” he said, “I could use a break anyway,” he swept out a hairy, corded, hand, still slightly blackened and greasy, at the broken rack of vials and the abused chair and desk where he had vented his ire.

Erik and Adam exchanged looks, shrugged, and followed him into the laboratory… ..... Lucky for Erik and Adam, Edward passed his insight check and caught on that Erik was up to something.

[kusnechik]

Hey now play nice, at least you both have a taste for capelets!

[bedbabayka]

✨️Queer little man...✨️ Griffin about Hyde™

What the hell is going on in this discord rap battle?

[fanartsandstuff]

So- I Just Downloaded New Brushes And I Wanted To Use Them So I Made This Fanart Of A Fic I Am Reading ✨

It's pretty funny fic with cool premise so I recommend to check it out!

Also check out author of the fic @definatelymrhyde

[tenebris-lux]

I’m picturing Jack talking very confidently about something he knows fuck all about, and the other three know it and are looking at him like,

But waaay more judgmental and scary. Like, the moment before it gets violent.

I was just thinking about this

Dude, I wonder what would happen if we pinned Victor Frankenstein, Herbert West, Henry Jekyll, and Johnathan Seward against each other in a argument....

Like, I would pay money to see this, because we all know DAMN WELL John and Henry would cave in relatively soon within the argument, leaving Victor and Herbert to argue for the rest of the time...

[emiplayzmc]

Shitty Gravity Falls AU that mayhaps I am delulu about:

Gravity Falls x Jekyll & Hyde

I haven't much fleshed this out yet because this was literally just made up while reading Journal 3 and listening to the J&H musical OST, but what I'm MAINLY thinking about is like- 'what if Sock Opera was Jekyll and Hyde. Would that be fucked up or what.'

♤~~♡~~♤

It's the 1800s, and Dipper and Mabel are staying with their great uncle Stanley Pines, who's been living in the house that his brother, Stanford, lived in before mysteriously disappearing. In this AU Mason and Mabel would probably be moreso in their late teens / young adulthood

Dipper (more likely to be known as just Mason in this AU rather than a nickname) would be a man of science and logically much like Ford in this universe, but also still the mystery-loving Dipper we know and love :) He and Mabel would get it in their heads that they could find out what happened to Stanford, and they go snooping around looking for the clues as to how and where he disappeared to, breaking into an old, locked study of the house. Everything is messed up or destroyed except for many strewn about notes on the desk, and one vial of a mysterious liquid in a cabinet, surrounded by other smashed bottles of the same substance. They read the notes that Ford made about a substance he concocted that allowed him to give into his darker impulses, and soon after the two of them hurry to leave the room with the notes intending on keeping the fact they were snooping a secret - although not before Mason spots the bottle of potion.

The notes about the potion and Ford's experiences with the duality essentially act like a Journal 3 for Mason here, except much shorter and less otherworldly. Eventually Mason's morbid curiosity of the vial and Stanford's notes lead him to sneaking into the study again, and he drinks the vial in the cabinet.

Cue the arrival of Hyde - or in this AU, Bill Cipher / Bipper - causing mischief and hijinks across London and within the Pines family. And eventually, just like the original book (and like with Ford and Bill in the show), Mason gradually starts losing more and more of himself to the addiction of the potion / becoming Bipper while finding more notes and pages about how Stanford felt like he was losing his mind when the darker version of him took over, feeling like it was moreso a demon possessing him than an act of science in the end.

Mabel and Grunkle Stan would probably be the Utterson and Lanyon in this universe, trying to figure out why Dipper keeps disappearing / acting like a completely different person more and more often, and eventually having to find a way to save him before he meets the same fate as Stanford, or the original Jekyll & Hyde.

♤~~♡~~♤

Aka, Ford's the OG Jekyll in this AU and Dipper unknowingly follows in his footsteps lol. Again, I haven't fleshed much of this out, but I've always thought about 'what if Dipper and Bipper were Jekyll & Hyde parallels' but never really gave it too much thought? It seems like it'd be an interesting AU to explore mainly because I love the themes of goth literature, and I think the potential of Bipper / Bill's influence with Ford / Dipper goes SO WELL in this universe with the 'darker impulses' and the inherent HUNGER the two of them have for knowledge and the unknown that Bill manipulates in the first place, same as Jekyll being driven by his own impulses of needing to act out instead of being a prim Victorian man 24/7 paired with being a man of science.

[antigonenikk]

an ode to the color red

fandom: masters of the air, band of brothers

pairing: marjorie spencer/ronald speirs, marjorie spencer/gale cleven, gale cleven/john ‘bucky’ egan

warnings: crossover, grooming, child abuse, murder, cheating, daddy issues, smut, period typical homophobia, major character death

summary: “There is love in me the likes of which you've never seen. There is rage in me the likes of which should never escape. If I am not satisfied in the one, I will indulge the other.” -Mary Shelley

"“Call me Daddy.”

Again. He freezes. Eyes wide with desire.

“Say it. Say it.”

She’s going to scream in his face until her skin is just as red as her brain. She is going to destroy him. She wants it like this. Bucky is Gale’s Daddy. And Marge is Bucky’s. And Marge’s is Ron. Like one chain link fence, unending with the weight of its betrayal."

1945

She discovers them by accident. The wedding is still three weeks away. They’ve decided on a blue and white theme. Which…. Marge doesn’t like the color blue but Gale does. And her Father does. And so it’s okay. Really.

In actuality, Marge doesn’t want a big wedding. She wants to elope, like Mary Shelley did with Percy, and go on a tour of the Continent, and write poetry while her husband tries to drown himself on the Mediterranean Coast. But with the war that dream has become an impossibility.

And really, who is Marge kidding. It was always an impossibility. Sometimes she wishes the librarians never gave her such free reign as a child. Then she wouldn’t have been so influenced by the Romantics, Joyce and Shelley and Byron. Maybe then Casper, Wyoming and its barren hills and her high school sweetheart would fill her with love. The type of love she’s supposed to feel for the things that have been so good to her. Because they have. Or. She thought they had.

She met Gale when they were ten years old. Her Father had taken the belt to her hard the night before, and had dragged her along to the race track, where she sat uncomfortably on her hands, her knees crossed ladylike, trying not to wince. Beside her a little boy sat down. Three years older, maybe. He was skinny and underfed and wearing the ugliest suspenders. But he offered to play marbles with her on the grass, and sat with her for hours until their fathers came to get them, roaring drunk and laughing together. No one had ever spent so much time looking after her. After that it was a done deal. She was his creature. Handed over like a piece of worn silverware. There was no Marge. No Gale. Just MargeandGale. If you wanted one, you asked for the other.

At first it was nice. And she liked it when Gale decided on what she should wear, and what she should think, and what she should eat. It was very easy as a little girl to let someone else take the lead. And Gale loved to take the lead. Gale wanted certain things out of her. He did not want her to read her gothic stories. He thought they were morbid. He did not want her to drink, or talk with “loose girls” from school, or climb trees in Old Mr. Jenkin’s farms for apples. He wanted her to be a good person, with firm morals, who never slipped, and was always modest. He kissed her. And he would touch her, as they grew older and she grew into her prettiness. But never anything under the blouse. It was frustrating. She didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t know how to put it into words. Only that it was wild and it was the color red and it flew from the ancient Oak trees and would not leave her at peace.

Marge wanted to lose her virginity against a gravestone. A feeling that only intensified when her Mother died. Just like Mary Shelley. She wanted to be Mary, have everything she had. Her horrors and small griefs and immense talent. She wanted to lose her virginity on her mother’s gravestone, just like Mary did with Percy. But she was no Mary. She was mediocre. A bad writer. A worse piano player. A passable seamstress. And Gale was no Percy. He had no romantic ambitions, or love of history. He wanted an easy life. And so it was fine. She would finally, in three weeks, after years of waiting and waiting and crying and wringing her hands, she would finally have him inside of her. It would be worth it. She would prove to herself once and for all that she loved him. Him, and not… Well. The point was moot. She wasn’t at Georgia State anymore. The war was over. She was back in her little cage, and she had made peace with what she had to give up, what she wanted to give up. She stopped thinking about it. Stop thinking about it, Marge. The voice that reprimanded her sounded like Gale’s. It always did. Ever since she was ten years old.

But then she found them. They were in the barn, Gale’s barn, the one that had gone empty since his Father’s passing. She found them there, doing unnatural things to each other. Bucky, who she had thought was so handsome and charming when he breezed into town three days ago, was on his knees. His head to Gale’s… she didn’t even know you could do that. No one had told her you could do that. And Gale, with his head tilted back, was letting out little groans. She felt sick. It wasn’t right. She had given up so much. Had given eleven years to this man. She had given up her childhood home. She had taken care of the house while doing her homework after school, staying up all night to make sure her grades were good enough for him. She had sat in those pews for hours every Sunday. Hot and sour with resentment. She watched as he came down his Best Friend’s throat. She didn’t feel like crying. Really. Instead, inside her head, she started to feel a bit funny. Like she wanted to laugh. It was almost like she was Jane Eyre, really. And her evil Mr. Rochester had revealed his hidden secret at last. And then Gale whispered the word “Daddy,” and Marge had to run on silent feet back to the main house, stifling her laughter.

To think she had ever respected this man. Ever took his word for law. The type of man who called another man Daddy…

That night she lay in bed and contemplated her options. Back when Gale shipped off for flight school, when she was Seventeen, he had allowed her to apply for colleges. She had chosen Georgia State. It was in the south, like where Faulkner lived. But it was also in a big city. So she could run around, pretending to be Sonia from Crime and Punishment, doing her hair up in a bun, looking through book stores and writing poetry and drinking whiskey. And she could make friends. Real girlfriends.

______________

1942

Atlanta was hot. And humid. And the girls in her class were nice, but distant. Except of course for Birdie. Birdie wasn’t her real name. They had been assigned roommates at the beginning of term. And Marge had never been so glad of anything in her entire life. Birdie was a Fine Arts major, who desperately wanted to be a painter like Kathe Kollwitz. She had horrific black and white lithographs hung up all over their room, and Marge adored them. The hulking faces, the wide eyed starving children, the grieving mothers. They were incredible. Birdie’s really name, which they never mentioned after first introductions, was Dove. Her eight year old brother had been allowed to name her. A decision the family realized in retrospect was a grave mistake. But she had come out with white blonde hair and blue eyes and looked nothing like her Mother, so she had been handed off to a frightened eight year old boy to do with as he saw fit.

Their pasts, it felt like, were interlocked. Both of them growing up under the thumb of an older man. Except Dove’s brother was only ever half there. His presence was more an absence than anything else. Just like Marge’s parents. She was allowed to run free, reading and painting and lighting off fireworks. But like Marge her brother never let her have any real fun. No boys, no drinking, no dancing unless he was there to supervise. The two of them had pooled together their courage and decided they would make a break for it on their first weekend there, under the close watchful eye of the boarding house’s owner.

Their first stop was to a jazz club. The kind of thing that they would never be allowed to do back home. Best to rip the band-aid of rebellion off fast and with violence. They walked in, and it was like the whole world fell away. It was smoky, and loud. Marge had been to a dinner club once, the night before Gale shipped out. But that was nothing like this. The place was filled to the brim with soldiers of all sorts. Laughing and screaming and making fools of themselves. The two of them stood there for a moment, grabbing at each other, desperately nervous about looking silly. And then Marge felt a tap on her shoulder. And the rest was history.

______________

1945

In between the silverware which she hid under her floorboards, Marge kept his letters. They were all there. Some of them, torn and ashen from when she had half burned them after Gale’s return from the Stalag. She had thought. She had thought Gale was as good as dead. That was her excuse. The type of excuse even she didn’t put much faith in. She never thought he would get out. And then he did. And the silverware, and the looted Nazi flag, and the letters, and the slip with his phone number all went under the floorboards. She pulled out each letter, and set them in front of her in a circle. Ronnie would never call another man Daddy. That she was sure of. And there was no way he would give a damn about fucking her against her Mother’s headstone. God knows when she had brought the idea up to him, after her Mother had first died, he had gotten a hungry look in his eye. The sort of look that made her forget all about the nasty little tricks he liked to play on her. Or the way he got cold and mean and distant when she wanted to talk about her feelings. Or the way he would stare at her without blinking, like a hunter closing in on some sort of helpless prey. Well. Let him. She thought. He kept saying he wanted to steal her away. Kept raising the ante with more and more lavish gifts as he worked his way through Europe, leaving a trail of corpses behind him. Let him prove that he wasn’t all talk after all.

In the dead of the night she dialed his number. It rang once, twice, three times. He picked up.

“Speirs.”

“Ronnie…”

She felt like Catherine maybe, calling Heathcliffe home. Or like Jane Eyre still, returning to Rochester, finding the castle all in ruins. Only she was going to be the one to finish the job of burning it down.

He told her, as she put on the waterworks, that he would be there in two days. They would fix things. Together. Of course she couldn’t marry an invert. Of course she couldn’t be expected to carry the burdens of his sins. Marge didn’t care much about sin. Not in the way she should. Not even a sin like inversion. But the words were soothing excuses. The type that she could force herself this time to believe. She was very good at that. Forcing a belief down her throat until it tasted like the truth. Really, she just wanted Gale dead and fucking gone. It didn’t matter what it took to get there. For a second, she hesitated. Then she calmed her breathing, and listening to the rustling of the trees, and realized there was no other way out but through.

______________

1942

It’s New Year's Eve, and Marge’s Mother is dead. It’s New Year's Eve, and Birdie’s boyfriend is about to ship off. So she’s moping in her room, drawing sketches of dead dogs and crying about the fact that he doesn’t love her enough to marry her. She knows she could tell her friend about the death. And Birdie would drop everything. And they would hold each other and smoke bad reefer and fall asleep in each other’s arms. But she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want it to be real. To say it out loud…Marge is restless.

Ron is leaving soon. And their little game is coming to a close. Him. Taking her dancing when he’s on liberty at every bar in town, spinning her in his arms until she’s dizzy. Him. Listening as she rambles on about Keats and Byron and how romantic double-suicide must feel, nodding along. Agreeing with her completely. They are of the same mind somehow. Everything she feels about the world, he feels twice as strongly. She tells him she thinks the painting Birdie showed her of St. Thomas poking Jesus’ holy wound is the most beautiful thing in the world. He agrees, and leans forward, and goes on a diatribe about the erotic connotations of penetration, talking about some analyst named Freud. And wouldn’t Marge want to read him? The offer of it. Knowledge freely given is a high unlike anything she has ever experienced.

She opens the book he lends her that night and starts laughing. Two years past due from a library in the Northeast. What a little thief. She tells him that if she got married, she would follow her husband to Siberia, just like Sonia did. Even if he killed an old lady in cold blood? He asked. Especially then. Killing doesn’t bother her. It should. But if it’s done for the right reasons….Killing doesn’t seem to bother him either. The same red that flows in her from the those old Oak trees rests inside of him, bubbling up and over through his ears and eyes. Wrapping them both in string, tied about the middle, unable to escape.

That night, with two Sazeracs between them, he tells her about Carthage, and about Alcibiades, who rode into battle holding only a golden shield with the image of Eros, God of desire, on it. She can’t stand it. Grief and desire fight each other inside her stomach, each one intensifying the other. You’re sick. Gale’s voice says to her. She imagines Ron to block the thought out, naked and broad muscled, holding up a gold shield, bloody and broken by arrows, and squirms in her seat. When she opens her eyes he’s staring at her again, odd and still, like a snake waiting to bite. He lights her cigarette as she tries not to cry. And he talks about what it means to have a true warrior’s spirit. And she begins to understand what it’s like to be understood. Birdie, for all that she loves her, is too sweet to withstand the idea of killing. Relentless violence frightens her in a way it does not frighten Marge.

The game is up though. She knows this as she half listens to him, the smoke making him look hazy. And the late night conversations and the absinthe and the music and the laughter. It’s all gone up in flames. She owes so much to Gale. Her whole life, really. She can’t abandon him now. But, she figures. Ron is going away. And he’s so sure he’s going to die. It won’t hurt to keep writing to him.

Right?

__________

1945

Marge has a plan. Before Ronnie arrives, she wants to have her own fun. She wants to prove to him that he’s nothing. Gale, that is. She realized, last night, after hanging up the phone, that she had loved him. For the gentle curve of his face. For his air of desperation. For the odd sense she always got from him that he was meant to die young and beautiful, leaving her a pretty widow with a big house and haunted memories of her first love. Stupid little girl ideas.

But he had betrayed her. Had betrayed her sacrifice. The destruction she undertook of any sort of real personality she held inside of herself in honor of him, of the sacrifices he took to raise her and put a roof over her head. And so, she was going to prove that even his Daddy could be stolen from him, just in the same way he had stolen her from her own Father. The way she had been given over, like a piece of day old garbage. Again. Gale’s voice. Always in her ear. Red kept growing. It never stopped. Sometimes, she thought. Sometimes killing could be right.

She catches Bucky alone that morning, sitting on the patio, white shirt stretched over his muscled chest. She won’t let him fuck her. But she’s willing to do just about anything else.

She slides up to him, pouring him a lemonade. Putting on her best smile.

“Here you go.”

He looks up to her, smiling with what she now realizes is a smug superiority, mingled with hazy lust. He thinks he’s won. She wants to claw his little blue eyes out.

He takes the drink from her, and swigs it down.

“Thank you kindly, sweetheart.”

“No problem, Daddy.”

He whips his face back up to her. She can see the shock there clear as day. Sad, and lonely, and hunted. He cracks a grin. It’s fake. She’s good at telling a fake grin.

“What?” He croaks out.

She slides into his lap, as easy as pie.

“What?” She parrots back.

He seems confused. Poor baby. She puts her arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

“I don’t think it’s very fair. Do you? That you’re Gale’s Daddy, but not mine.”

She can feel him growing hard underneath her. He reaches up, looking torn, like he might push her to the floor. Like he might rip her clothes off right there and fuck her in the open like an animal.

“Marge. I…”

“I don’t mind. I don’t mind, really.”

She kisses his neck. And imagines he is another dark haired, broad chested man.

“I don’t mind it, but I don’t want to be left out. You understand?”

He groans, grinding himself into her. She straddles him, slipping his hand inside her the front of her dress, until she can feel his large palm cupping the entirety of her breast.

“Do you feel it? My heart?”

He grabs her then, like a dog longing for its master. He grinds up into her, fabric on fabric. It’s the most she’s ever done with a man. And she doesn’t like it. Instead she sinks to her knees, opening the fly of his pants, placing her mouth on him like she saw him do to Gale.

He grabs ahold of her hair, tugging too tight, and fucks into her mouth.

“Jesus…fuck…fucking whore–”

She grabs his balls then, just a touch too hard, hard enough to make him freeze with pain. If she kept squeezing. What then? If she never stopped? But the rage leaves her, or rather, it grows cold. She pulls off of him. Him, her willing captive.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

She knows what he thinks about her. Luckily for him it doesn’t matter. She sucks him down again, her jaw aching with pressure. He places his hands back in her hair, hesitant this time. She goes at it for what feels like an hour, until he starts panting hard, choking out,

“I’m gonna–”

She pulls off, and grabs him by the base. She wants something out of him first.

“Please. Marge, please. Sweetheart. I’ll do anything.”

“Call me Daddy.”

Again. He freezes. Eyes wide with desire.

“Say it. Say it.”

She’s going to scream in his face until her skin is just as red as her brain. She is going to destroy him. She wants it like this. Bucky is Gale’s Daddy. And Marge is Bucky’s. And Marge’s is Ron. Like one chain link fence, unending with the weight of its betrayal. Just like in a novel. Some novel… she can’t think straight. She needs to hear it from him or she’ll die.

“Daddy. Daddy, fuck.”

She puts her mouth back on him, and he’s coming hard, his body curling over her head, face scrunched up in agony.

She gets up when he’s done, holding the bitter tang in her mouth, and spits it into his glass of lemonade. He watches her like he’s seen a ghost as she straightens her clothes, fixes her lipstick in the sliding glass door, and heads back inside. Ten hours until Ronnie arrives. She has to run to the hardware store.

______________

1944

My Percy, I’m so sorry. I can’t do it anymore. Gale has been captured by Germans. I can’t stand the thought, even in my head, of being so disloyal to him when he’s this close to death. It was never going to last. Don’t wait for me. I feel lost and alone. The dorm rooms are so empty. I’m afraid sometimes. That I’m a bad person. For the thoughts I have. Something inside of me is broken. Some cog doesn’t turn correctly. The hands of the watch have all stopped moving and I’m stuck in a world I don’t understand, which does not understand me. Please forget about me. Your Mary

______________

1945

He drives up to the house around two in the morning. Marge is in her room, sleeping next to Gale, the same way she has since she was fifteen and her Father and Mother decided it would be best if she moved up to the Cleven’s. After all, his parents had just died, and he was eighteen now, and they would be married soon anyways. She remembers the last time she went to the Casper library was the day before she moved in officially.

She can sense that he’s on the property. She gets up, slowly, and on tip toes walks down the stairs to the front door. He’s waiting there for her. His eyes shadowed in the dark night. Marge has done her part already. She put the sleeping pills in their drinks, crushed and hidden under the tang of gingerale and whiskey. Now they’re both in separate rooms, dead to the world.

“Where is he?”

She takes his hard hand in hers, and leads him back up the stairs. The night is dark and gloomy. She imagines that instead of the boring plains of Casper that it’s the moors of the Scottish Highlands that stretch for three acres in each direction. This kind of house, well, there’s no one here to hear you scream in this kind of house. She knows. She’s done enough screaming in this house to last a lifetime. And no one, until now, had ever come.

He approaches their bed, unmade, and leans over Gale’s sleeping face. She realizes that Ron is seeing him for the first time. She had made sure, before, to never wear any sort of locket with his picture in it. She can’t tell what Ronnie is thinking, but she watches with rapture as he reaches his hands out and drops a pillow over Gale’s face. She had thought…maybe a gun, or…well. This way was better. Less interesting. But better. Easier to explain.

She can tell when Gale wakes up. He starts thrashing. Slowly at first, then like a fish out of water begging for air. The only word banging around her head is “Daddy.” Daddy Daddy Daddy DADDY. As if he hadn’t been her Daddy for years and years. Even when she betrayed him, going out on little dates with Ron, writing him love letters. Even then it was all Gale in the end. Ruler of her heart and her brain. Taking up room he had carved out for himself inside of her. In the end it was always supposed to be the two of them. GaleandMarge. Now. Now she was just going to be Marge. Marge alone. With Ron two steps ahead, cold and hard edged and filled with anger. She feels afraid of the future.

Out of the corner of her eye there’s movement. Quick as anything, Bucky bounds into the room, stumbling over himself, vertigo drawing on the drugs to make him as clumsy as a newborn deer. Marge screams. This wasn’t part of the plan. Ron doesn’t panic. Not even when Bucky reaches out and grabs her by the throat, tossing her into the wardrobe. She lands hard, and is reminded of her own Father, his hulking size, his tempestuous anger. She understands for a brief moment what Gale sees in him.

Then the noise like a firecracker. Bang. And Bucky drops. She looks up from the red. Up and up and up. Ron stands there, pistol in hand, like a God of death. She loves him. She needs him. She is deathly afraid. He turns, returns to the bed, and checks Gale’s pulse. He places the gun in Gale’s hand, wiping it off with a handkerchief. She clings to his back, pressing desperate little kisses along the back of his neck, clinging like a sea urchin.

He holds her close, turning her around, mouth pressing to hers, squeezing her so tight she can’t breath. He doesn’t check the bleeding she can feel at the back of her head from when she knocked into the dresser. That’s okay though.

“You’re not leaving me again. Not again. It’s finished.”

She nods. Where else would she go now?

He takes her hand and leads her down the stairs and into the car and out onto the rough paved roads.

“Where?”

She knows what he means before he even finishes asking.

“Take a left.”

It takes them twenty minutes to get there. The anticipation is killing her. He parks the car, and giddy like a school girl she drags him along, pulling her nightgown over her head. Laughing. This is what freedom feels like. Like fresh air from the pitch black night on your naked breasts.

They reach the gravestone and he’s on her immediately. His hands wander, up and down, grasping her breasts and her naked thighs, wanting to touch every at once, wanting to consume her.

“Daddy…”

She whispers it to him, and something seems to snap. He tosses her down onto the dirt, the back of her head hitting the gravestone. She starts to bleed even more. Red everywhere. She feels behind her and touches the engraved letters of her Mother’s name. Red in the air. He stays clothed, but shucks his wool coat, his tie, places himself above her, knees in the wet dirt, biting at her neck until she cries out in pain. He touches her, but not gently.

“It’s finished. You understand? You’re not getting away from me again. Not even another war. Not even another continent is going to stop me from getting to you.”

The words should scare her, but they don’t. She’s used to being owned. At least Ron is good at it. He keeps his stolen things close to the chest, treating them like a magpie. He guards his nest. He would sooner kill her before he let her touch another man. And he lets her do what she wants. All of that. It makes her love him more than she can stand. Her mind might belong to Gale. It might always belong to him. But her body, her heart, her soul. Those she can give away as she chooses.

He slides into her, and it hurts unlike anything she’s ever felt before. She grabs at the stone behind her, bending her back to get away. But she can’t. The pain and pleasure are mixing. She can feel herself bleeding down into the Earth. She’s finally gotten what she wanted. Finally. A sigh of relief escapes her, fluttering her eyes closed. All around her, inside of her, is him. Warm and dark. From him to her, from the Oak trees that surround them like a canopy. Red flows out of her into the night. She screams out a long, loud laugh. He smiles into her neck, biting even harder. She wants to live the rest of her life just like this.

[scarletgemstone]

au idea

disclaimer I own nothing everything belongs to the rightful owners please go and support them and be nice

universal monsters dark woods circus au

[piedalchemist]

*save (sometimes I really hate English)

[sacred-algae]

What if Jack Harkness and Dorian Gray were in a relationship?

It would be toxic as fuck, that's what. I now proudly present my third book:

Welcome to what's planned to be 19 chapters and 50k+ words of pure heartbreak and hot as fuck sex, with a bit of mystery thrown in for good measure. You're welcome.

(I promise I'll get back to updating when I can!)

[luneemeritus]

The Phantom of the Opera x Hazbin Hotel crossover AU (only Erik specifically actually)

So here I am making crossovers that no one cares about but fuck it these are my two favorite medias at the moment so. Here we go. (Please forgive my drawing skills I know it's not good)

Erik died in 1881 and went to Hell for obvious reasons.

He's a scorpion demon, and as he never sold his soul to any Overlord, he became independent and used his skills to handle himself. It's not easy, and he's been living in poverty and vulnerability during all those years, but it's nothing too different from his life.

He's poisonous, his venom is strong and he uses it frequently. It's not fatal because only angelic weapons kill sinners/demons, but it's still strong. He developed a new Punjab Lasso and has the power to hypnotize people with his voice, similar to his siren technique when he was a human. He discovered his pansexuality in Hell, every cloud has a silver lining.

So, years passed and now is modern days in Hell 🌈✨. Erik watched Charlie's fiasco in the TV and thought she was utterly pathetic. He doesn't deserve redemption after all, does he?... and even if he does, it's an impossible dream. No one cares for people like him, he's a lost case.

HOWEVER, after the news of Sir Pentious's arrival in Heaven spreads among Hell, Erik finally saw a chance of, maybe, at least finding a place to fit in. A place to not be completely alone for once. So he goes to the Hotel, yaaaayyy✨

.........…..........

Erik's relationships in the Hazbin Hotel

I think the person Erik would relate the most is Vaggie. They both have dark pasts that they deeply regret and that still affects the way they interact with people. They both use violence as their only coping mechanism to keep any kind of vulnerability hidden. They both have physical disabilities in their face and felt in love with a blonde walking sunshine with daddy issues that sing like an angel. Also Vaggie is a literal angel sooo...

As for Charlie... well, I think he would apreciate to know the best side of her instead of just judging her as a fool, but, I still think he would find her dreams and projects extremely utopic. And let's be real, Charlie is unintentionally condescending sometimes and she is not the BEST with therapy or healing mechanisms for sinners, Erik wouldn't let it unnoticed.

I think Erik would be fascinated by Lucifer. First, because he's the literal Angel of Music, an archangel, and like, the 'Lucifer' archetype is a lot similar to Erik. The 'fallen angel' casted out from his home and judged as the devil by everyone. Very tragic, very Erik-y. And Lucifer is also a dreamer, maybe more rational than Charlie, and he is naturally friendly so I think Erik would be fascinated.

Niffty scares the hell out of Erik but that's on everyone.

Alastor... uhm listen I'm not obsessed over Alastor as everyone else is so I'm not an Alator expert BUT. I think he and Erik would hang out well. Not friends, but like, having good conversations. They're both cultured and have very strange and cynical views about humanity (misanthrope bonding lol). I don't think Erik would be horrified hearing about the horrible tales about the Radio Demon's crimes, first because he hates himself and thinks of himself as nothing better, and second because he doesn't consider himself a target for Alastor's wrath. Also I'm pretty sure Erik would prefer old fashion rather than modern technology (could they shit talk about Vox together? maybe).

If Erik had met Angel before S1-EP4, my god Angel would annoy the Hell out of Erik. It would be funny though, imagine if Angel starts flerting with Erik and he's just like ? Bro? I'm a hideous gargoyle why ya wanna fuck me? But, he meets Angel post-season 1 in this AU so. Erik would probably envy how beautiful and confident Angel is, but I'm not sure if they would hang out that much. I think Erik wouldn't really have an opinion about Angel. They just exist next to each other.

Husk! Well I have a headcanon that Erik drinks... a little. A little too much. And I imagine him drinking at the bar and dropping insane Leroux lore to Husk. Lol. Husk wouldn't be surprised 'cause he probably heard much worse things but, yeah, their relationship would be this.

E: "So I fucked up everything"

H: "that sucks man, 've been there".

.........…..........

I won't do one for Pentious because he's already dead in this AU, but if you want to theorize how they'd interact feel free. anyway cringe ass aaaah crossover

[dross-the-fish]

"Do you know the story of Genesis, Adam?" Dr. Watson asked as he swept away the fallen locks of hair from the floor around the creature's too small chair.

The being nodded, "I know it well...though perhaps not as you should understand it."

"No? As I understand it God created Adam and then Eve and gave them dominion over the Earth," Watson was not an overly religious man but he made it his habit to attend church once in a while and on rare occasions he would even absorb the tired sermons recited with comfortable hollowness by a priest who knew them to the letter but had never in his half-a-lifetime in the pulpit stopped to consider their meaning.

"Oh no, Doctor Watson. That is not how it goes," rasped the newly christened Adam. He propped his elbows on his bent knees and brought his joined fists to rest under his chin, unblinking yellow eyes staring hard at the old man before him, "Not at all. The version of events as I have come to understand them are thus: God created Adam, despised and cursed him, and when Adam fell he dragged God by his wax wings into Hell with him."

Rage, such potent rage and depth of despair the likes of which Watson had never seen on a human face twisted the aberrant features before him and the old man halted.

"That is blasphemous," he whispered.

Adam leapt from the chair, toppling it and seized Watson's hand laying it against the Y shaped stitching on his chest where a heart beat so sluggishly it was nearly imperceptible, "Touch and feel then Doctor! I am blasphemy! I am heresy! Mark thou that I am the very proof that man should not think himself God lest he damn all he touches! If thy heart is too craven to accept the burden of a Godless Adam then revoke my name and cast me back into the wilderness. I shall return to haunting my barren rock and trouble man no more nor it trouble me!"

Summoning whatever steely nerve he could find Watson shook his head and set his shoulders, "No! No, you are here dash it all! I have taken responsibility for you and I say are a man, Adam. Once we make land back in England I'm going to find you a tailor and a tutor. You will be not merely a man! I give you my word that I will make you as fine a gentleman as ever there has been."

The creature took stock of himself, eight feet tall, sewn of animal and human corpses and stubbornly alive after one hundred and thirty years. Then he looked to the man before him, significantly shorter, rotund and bearing every sign of mortality from the wrinkled face sporting a broken nose never property set to thin greying hair, combed in a vain attempt to hide a receding hairline. But it was Watson's eyes that struck Adam, a deep blue that seemed to defy the weight of age, brimming with vitality and such boyish earnestness that Adam could not help but feel a little humbled under their gaze.

"If that is what thou would make of me then so shall I be. A civil man of culture and education."

Watson dared to reach out to pat him, "Precisely! Civil, cultured, educated and modern! Your peculiarity of speech, for one, will need to be corrected. Once I finish giving you a physical examination that will be the first thing to teach you."

Adam did not protest as Watson pulled out a roll of measuring tape and recorded the circumference of his chest. Watching the doctor work in his confident and diligent manner Adam couldn't help but allow himself to feel the barest spark of excitement. Perhaps Watson would finish the work Victor had started. Perhaps with fine clothing, good manners and an education to go with his new name Adam could finally be the one thing he had craved for all of his life.

Human.

[notnursenightingale]

He delighted in the energies of the passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature was capable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him little more than sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, he substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and they ceased to be unreal.

|| Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

[bedbabayka]

You can take me for what I am

I was born a wild man, hey!

Don't Crucify Me - Red Elvises

[science-of-co-habitation]

『ꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏʜᴀʙɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ』

MEMORY N°2 - Organisation Hazard

[fanartsandstuff]

WELL-It turns out if you drink only coffee and pull all nighter you can study and finish fanart. So here it is - fanart of chapter 2!

Character design for musical versions of Dr.Jekyll and Hyde taken from autor @definatelymrhyde and his drawings . I gave musical Henry different clothes bc why not. I think he look ~fancy~ in them.