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verysadghostieinacloset · 2 months

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Wrote a silly little fic about my best girl Ito and the trans experience :P I also wanted to explore the friendship between Jekyll and Ito, and Rachel and Ito.

This thing is filled with scientific and historical inaccuracy; it’s not a source of information, it’s a story. But I hope you enjoy because I enjoyed writing it ^^ ♥️

Category: Gen

Fandom: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic)

Relationships: Dr. Henry Jekyll & Virginia Ito, Rachel Pidgley & Virginia Ito

Characters: Virginia Ito, Rachel Pidgley, Dr. Henry Jekyll

Language: English

Word count:3,184

Summary: This won’t do, at all. She needs to investigate a solution to this feeling, naturally. Maybe if she can pinpoint the exact source of perplexity and worry, she can go about systematically and logically eradicating it? Yes, logic always works to help her calm down, just solving the problem like it is a maths equation or a chemical reaction can work wonders.

Wait. A chemical reaction?

OR Virginia Ito does some research- with the help of her two friends, Henry and Rachel. She also learns about acceptance along the way.

Can I prick your finger for science? (For self discovery?)

Ito doesn’t know what’s wrong.

She feels it; with every fibre of her being, brutal and cold, hugging at her shoulders and arms and stomach and legs, but she doesn’t know what it is. She’s been scrutinising it in the mirror for at least 10 minutes now- she’s wasting precious time when she should be studying- and she still can’t quite place her finger on it.

After all, there is no way it can be that same feeling of dread she’s been feeling for years, every time she looks in the mirror. No, it can’t, because she’s got long hair now, and everyone calls her Virginia, and ‘she’, and her life’s amazing because she can go out in amazing dresses.

But when she strips it all away, and stands with only soft linen covering her body, she feels something wrong. It makes her shameful, and a hint helpless, and she can’t stop looking at all the things wrong with her body.

Oh. It’s back. It’s stalking her. It’s not going away.

Which is honestly so rude of this feeling, curling itself dully in her stomach, trying to make her feel horrible about her body. How dare her mind play tricks on her and tell her she isn’t a woman? when she’s so clearly standing in front of the mirror, with shoulder length hair and a soft smile and a closet of warm colours that skirt her ankles.

This won’t do, at all. She needs to investigate a solution to this feeling, naturally. Maybe if she can pinpoint the exact source of perplexity and worry, she can go about systematically and logically eradicating it? Yes, logic always works to help her calm down, just solving the problem like it is a maths equation or a chemical reaction can work wonders.

Wait. A chemical reaction?

Of course, if the source the feeling stems from is this uncomfortableness in her own skin, is the doubt that she is really a girl because she looks like a boy beneath the layers of cotton and padding, then the solution would be to modify some part of her to change that, would it not? And is the human body not just a cluster of chemical reactions? Surely there was something organic that meant she was born this way, with spindly arms and a disappointingly flat chest, and differentiated her biologically from, say, Rachel? Right, and in such a case, all she would have to do is understand this compound to manufacture it artificially, and, in theory, once she’d prevented the compound in her body right now that made her look this way, and replaced it with said compound, it would work?

It seems too far-fetched, and Ito is a chemist, not a biologist. But then again, a society for rogue science seemed too far-fetched and yet here she was. What could she truly call impossible anymore?

“Doctor Jekyll?”

“Please, call me Henry.” He smiles at her, calm and practised, that same smile he’d given her the day he took her hand and led her to this palace of wonder. “Can I ask you a question?” She starts, looking up from the old notes he’d shown her, staring at him across the phials lined in metal on the table, one or two bubbling with some mediocre experiment she’d sought after to keep her excitement momentarily distracted.

“Of course you can, Ito.”

“You’re a biologist, right?” She approaches the subject cautiously, like she’d learnt to over the years, after the rejection and disgust of her own people, frowning in some places over her conduct towards the incoming topic, of the eagerness to change into something they thought her not. But they are gone now- and despite England itself being so uninviting too- something tells her, maybe, she can find peace here.

“I have studied biology and medicine, this is correct.” Henry raises a tentative eyebrow, as if contemplating her words, and what she may ask of him.

“Well…I’ve been thinking.” Pause.

“This is the perfect place for that, go ahead.” His ease relaxes her shoulders slightly, but there’s still the edge of fear about what he might do when she next asks, “This is an absurd topic,” Ito prefaces hastily, nerves getting the better of her.

“We’re rogue scientists, I’m sure it’s not too absurd.”

“But, say a..if a man wanted to appear as a woman- likewise, a woman wanted to appear as a man- and by this I mean, sound like, feel like, look like; is there, hypothetically speaking, some sort of biological chemical which differentiates the two and could potentially be…replaced?”

Henry studies her face carefully for a moment after she’s finished speaking. She cannot bring herself to meet his eyes, lest she find disgust or anger there like she had so many months ago, but she is certainly aware of his measured movements, of the stiff way he gives her his full attention and places his hands on the desk. Hot shame flushes her cheeks and regret roils inside of her, threatening to tear open her heart.

But then, respite, as he sighs softly. “Yes, I suppose.” Henry explains carefully, taking a seat opposite her. It’s all Ito can do to keep her breath from catching and her hands still. She glances up at Henry (mentor, kind of saviour, friend), and studies his eyes for a moment or two to find no hate all- surprisingly- just confusion and some concern.

“Biologically speaking, development of gendered characteristics begins when a child comes of age- when their body begins producing amounts of substances called hormones. Female hormones produce the desired effects of a woman’s body and emotion. Male hormones produce a deeper voice, more hair, a difference in emotion- anything that is different between me and you, is different because of the levels of each of these chemicals in our bodies. However, Ito, there is not much more I can tell you about them. They are a fairly new discovery, with very little knowledge surrounding the subject.”

Silence befalls them when Henry finishes talking, and Ito thinks on his words for a while. Soon, the atmosphere grows awkward, stiflingly so, and she can feel the way Henry’s gaze worries over her with healing curiosity.

“Forgive me for asking,” he clears his throat, voice stilted, weary. “What sort of research do you plan on undergoing?”

“I’m studying change.” Ito replies, somewhat uneasily.

“Change how?”

She panics, glancing away and racking her mind for the best way to explain. So far, and by his reaction, Henry has in no real way given her reason to worry at all, or let the feeling of her stomach roiling with fear latch itself to her. It infects her now, though, like growing disease, and she really dreads her downfall if she so much as opens her mouth.

“My hair wasn’t always this long.” She murmurs softly, a hand instinctively hovering near her hairdo. She meets his eyes begrudgingly, if somewhat fearful, and begs him silently to understand what she means. The last time she said it out loud, a world seemed to end.

Henry opens his mouth as if to press further, ask again because he didn’t quite understand. But then, she spies understanding dawning in his eyes like resolute kindness, and he nods gently, some semblance of a reassurance playing the smile on his lips. Something eases in Ito’s chest, like the world has lifted its fear from her shoulders.

“I see.” Is what he says next. “I won’t pry. But..” He looks like he’s contemplating something for a moment or two. Ito holds her breath, waits for ‘but I wouldn’t want you in the Society anymore’ or ‘but such conduct is improper and you’ll always be a male beneath it all.’ What she gets is; “You’re safe here. And so is your secret with me, if you want me to keep it.”

“Please do.” She answers hurriedly, anxiety still ebbing at her skin, she’s so sure her ears are deceiving her.

Again, Henry gives her a nod and that smile. “For what it is, you are a really courageous young lady, Virginia. And I’d hate for anyone to harm you so, if you find yourself ever in trouble, please don’t be afraid to speak to me.”

Ito lets out a shuddering breath at that, and the last whispers of panic fall away like snow sliding from glass. Henry’s smile is genuine, and that seeps out into his words, the way he looks at her like he means what he has said. Ito cannot seem to comprehend it, but at the same time, what is there to imagine?

“Thank you.” She feels something like tears blur her eyes and wipes them away hurriedly. ‘Lady.’ She seems to realise belatedly, as she sits there and looks at him. ‘He called me a lady.’ Her heart skips a beat, and then Henry chuckles slightly, getting up from his seat and returning to his work. “You’re very welcome, Virginia. I wish you the best of luck in your research and change. I’m sure you’ll do some marvellous things.”

Previously, Ito had convinced herself- ever since that fated day she left Japan and never looked back at the faces of the ‘family’ who hated her- that she would not rely on the validation of others for her comfort or happiness; that she was a woman no matter whatever anyone said or did or called her. She still retains that sentimentality, of course, but Henry’s words loosened something against her heart.

It felt good to be seen for who she really was.

Her mentor’s words had left her puzzled, she will admit. The substance she was looking for certainly existed biologically, but contemporary discovery meant that there was very little information on it, despite her searching for hours in local libraries for any type of biological papers on the topic. It made Ito somewhat distraught and her patience thin in some places, but the prior feeling of dread that had her so disgusted with herself had dulled down to manageable, so at least that was a plus.

Her excitement had been insatiable so that she sprung to work as soon as she could, grabbing her cloak and making for the libraries on foot, after she’d assessed every book on human biology available within the Society itself. The walk had served another purpose too; Henry’s reassurances had left her head reeling oh so delighted, but paranoia had followed it and some good old, polluted air was in order to clear her thoughts.

It hadn’t done much; perhaps given her space for a few epiphanies, none of which she could really claim because most of her walk was just the numb thought of hiding herself, of the way Henry had reacted with the most genuine attitude, of whether or not he meant it at all and she was truly safe.

This was proving quite difficult. Perhaps it would be safest for her to fall back on that mentality; if Jekyll did tell the other Lodgers (she doubts he would, inside, he’s too kind-), and they all gave her difficulty for it; well, it wasn’t new to her, was it? Would it hurt like her ‘family’? She doubts it, with how new this all is to her. Alas, no matter their reaction, she’d stick to her ideology through the thick and thin of it; once it came down to it, Ito didn’t need anyone to love herself.

As she traverses the hallways of the Society, back up the winding steps to her laboratory, she spots Henry midway to her room, walking somewhat briskly. For a moment, Ito is shocked (she’s not sure why; he is the leader of this place, after all- it’s only natural for the man to be working), but then she regains her composure and he waves warmly at her. “Good afternoon, Virginia. Is your research going well?”

“Well, not…I don’t have much information.” She replies, trying to avoid stuttering as her thoughts slot appropriately and calmly back into a coherent fashion. The way he treated her, his words, the distinct calmness in his voice of speaking to a friend made it impossible to think that she had worried over him betraying her like that. He did, after all, vow to her safety. (Who's to say he’ll be the only one like this? Is there good to this world?)

“Then you get your own information.” He reassures, and Ito’s mind stills, focuses solely on her project. He’s right; this is her passion and she won’t spend it worrying away about the possible perceptions of herself from others. “Is that not what rogue science is?” She finishes, not missing a single beat.

Henry smiles at her. ‘Yes.’ She thinks. ‘Acceptance is possible.’

Exasperated, but with newfound energy, Ito pushes open the door to her lab, fingers already coming up to frantically undo the broach holding her cloak around her shoulders.

She hisses in abrupt pain as something pinches her finger, and when she draws back, there is red beading at the very tip of her forefinger. It seems she was too frantic, because now she is bleeding lightly.

Ito rolls her eyes, sucking on the blood flow to stop it whilst she hangs her cloak up. Then, she walks over to her desk, arrayed with notes and the stray pages of copied out biology papers, a few phials nested amongst them.

Hold on. Blood.

She draws her finger back expectantly, and frowns down at it for a moment before something clicks. Of course! Blood transports every substance in the human body one way or another, and therefore must include hormones. The logical solution would be to study the reactions of human blood to distil it and gain a better understanding of the substance hidden within it.

Ito takes a clean phial and holds it under the running drip of her pricked finger, letting some of the liquid gather enough so she can test it.

Now, she wonders; will blood from other people breed the same results as her own?

“Rachel!” Ito calls out, hurrying down the corridor as she spots the day manager, strolling about. Rachel looks up with a confused squint of her eyes, and then smiles when she clocks Ito’s excitable figure walking towards her.

“Hello Virginia, I trust your day is going well.”

“Why yes, thank you. It quite is; it’s going fairly better because you’re just the person I need right now.”

Ito swears Rachel looks a hint nervous at her words, something red at her cheeks. It’s only faint. “I see. What would you need me for?”

“Can I prick your finger?” Ito asks, without quite thinking it through, far too excited about the breakthrough she’s looking for. If Henry’s previous words are anything to go by, to study the differences between what makes a female and a male, she’d need a sample or two of blood that wasn’t hers. And Rachel had been one of the kindest people to her since she’d arrived. And this really didn’t seem like a crazy request. Nope.

Mmhmm.

Oops.

Rachel gives her a weary look at this, eyes scrunching slightly at the corners. She seems slightly taken aback and yet not too surprised. “You want to prick my finger? For?”

“A blood sample; I’m researching something.” Ito beams, trying not to let embarrassment consume her, though she’s sure her cheeks are burning scarlet.

“Well,” Rachel blinks, and it seems to fall into place, now. Perhaps she was used to this sort of request from the other Lodgers? “I certainly prefer that wording…what are you researching?”

“Change.” Ito replies as easily and steadily as she could. She’s not wrong; it’s what she’d told Henry. But she doesn’t quite want this to escalate like that conversation had- not yet at least. Not from paranoia or anxiety but…she doesn’t know. It’s ok.

“The changes in biological structure.” She finishes, explaining away the blush on her cheeks somewhat proudly. Rachel chuckles softly. “I see. Well, yes, I suppose you can prick my finger.”

Ito gives a nod of thanks. “But Ito, please, next time just ask for a blood sample.”

Virginia blinks owlishly. “Asking someone to prick their finger is so much more fun.”

Rachel rolls her eyes in mock annoyance but there is no real hint of the emotion there.

Ito’s heart flutters at the encounter. With time, she finds that perhaps, she can tell Rachel.

“Henry…” Ito greets her mentor, one morning over a cup of tea, with the sweetest smile she could possibly muster because she’ll be very close to figuring this out and cannot contain her hope. Also, because she loves making Henry confused but unrelated.

Henry lifts an eyebrow in confusion. “Virginia?” He prompts cautiously, placing his teacup back on its saucer. The ceramic clinks against itself. “I have a request.”

“This early in the day?” Henry huffs lightheartedly, “What would you like?”

“Can I prick your finger? For science?” Ito doesn’t give herself time to hesitate, holds up a finger innocently in demonstration and stares Henry down.

He stares back, eyes wide in half suprise, but honestly, what was he expecting? “Pardon me, please rephrase that?”

“I would like a blood sample…for my research.” Ito elaborates, sheepishly shrugging her shoulders and lowering her hands.

“Well,” Henry sighs, his familiar smile making home on his lips. “Certainly an odd way to ask.”

“You and Rachel are no fun.” Ito informs him as he goes back to sipping his tea.

“Yes, yes. You can have a blood sample, Miss Ito.”

Ito is sure she’s spent more time than strictly necessary and healthy in close proximity to her desk, writing out notes and observations, so much so that it’s maybe the early hours of the morning.

Her lab, and herself, right now, are not the prettiest of things they could be; dyes staining the cuffs of her dress shirt- she’ll keep this one for experiments, she supposes; table scattered with filter parchment and observation reports; frantic notes scribbled into her book in hopes of her groundbreaking discovery.

She is right on its door- so much so that she can feel the end of her days dreading her dress, or her hair, or the mirror. It’s at her fingertips now, with distilled blood smeared over pages and dyed to identify the substances.

She’s pinned the chemical structure, the slight differences between female and male. The blurred line in between is tangible. Anything like this is tangible, truly: all she needs is the correct chemicals, varying amounts of carbon and water and phosphates, the make-up of her wants.

What she’s really missing is none of that; just to scrutinise it long enough until all her pieces fall together in the puzzle, slot into a wider picture and give her the right scope.

Bingo.

‘Well,’ She thinks, as it all lines up and the melody flourishes with the final shift in view and recipe. ‘This- change- is who I am.’

Ito smiles. It’s maybe the widest she’d ever smiled. She can’t wait to tell Henry.

#the glass scientists #tgs #the glass scientists fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #tgs henry jekyll #tgs rachel #tgs ito #trans fem character

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theinternetarchivist · 16 days

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I wrote a short sweet oneshot for TGS if you’d like to check it out!

Summary:

Robert Lanyon was not the best gift giver. Not by a long shot. He always found the gesture intimate, too intimate for his short lasting flings. But after gifting Henry what h thought to be a gift that would surely be forgotten in a week, Robert finds that his small gesture might have meant a lot more than he though.

Fifteen years later as Robert is desperately trying to discover the truth of Mr Edward Hyde's intentions with Henry, he's left remembering a life now long left behind.

#the glass scientists #the glass scientists fanfic #the glass scientists fanfiction #TGS #TGS fanfic #TGS fanfiction #Jekyon #Jekyon fic #Jekyon fanfic #dr henry jekyll #TGS Jekyll #dr Robert Lanyon #TGS Lanyon

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the-victorian-alchemist · 1 year

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You’ll be Visted by Sleep Chapter 1

New fic chapter up on my AO3! I’m getting back into writing by finishing up my drafts, including the chapters for this fic!

AO3 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/42813153/chapters/107550192

Rating - T

Tags - Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Henry Jekyll (The Glass Scientists) Has Issues, Henry Jekyll Needs a Hug, Fever, Post-Break Up, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Implied/Referenced Child Ab^s3, more on the implied side, no explicit mentions, Pre-Relationship, Platonic Relationships, Post-Relationship, Getting Back Together

Fic under the cut!

Nightmares were, unfortunately, a common experience for Henry Jekyll.

He didn’t know exactly when they began, only that he rarely went a night without his dreams turning dark. Most of the young man’s nights as a child were spent huddled up under blankets, waiting for the monster that lurked under his bed to vanish. Some nights, the little boy fell into an uneasy sleep that way, until he was dragged out from his refuge the next morning. By the time he was nineteen, they still hadn’t gone away, but Jekyll had gotten better at ignoring them. And at muffling any sounds he made that could give him away.

He had hoped that they would lessen coming to college, especially now that he had a roommate. Who was an older, wealthier student, for that matter! What would Robert say if he knew that Henry still had nightmares about monstrous beings that didn’t exist? He’d probably laugh in Jekyll’s face, calling him ridiculous for something so childish.

They had been roommates for a month at this point, and so far, Jekyll managed to keep the nightmares at bay, or just hid the rougher nights from Lanyon. This night, however, would change that.

The first big exam of the semester was tomorrow, and Jekyll was quite anxious about it. He had spent the entirety of the day studying, except for small, forced breaks that Lanyon made him take to eat and drink. He should be prepared for the exam. And yet, Jekyll had this lingering anxiety in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to do poorly on this exam. What if he failed? It would only show that he was incapable, and not worthy of being here among the other, wealthier students. The thought scared him more than he cared to admit.

“Oh come now, Henry! You have nothing to be nervous about! You’re rather smart, probably the most brilliant student we have here!” Lanyon grinned at the younger man, who fidgeted with his blankets nervously.

Jekyll turned red at the praise. “Still, I want to do well on the exam. Robert, what if I didn’t study enough?” He asked, laying down. He hugged his pillow to his chest, taking comfort in the feeling. “I don’t want to fail this.”

Lanyon sighed. “You worry too much, you know that? Get some rest, Henry.” And with that, he turned on his side and fell asleep. Jekyll blinked, but with a sigh, laid down himself. He didn’t immediately fall asleep, however, choosing instead to stare at the ceiling until his eyes drooped shut on their own.

He dreamed of nothing for a time. Something rather pleasant. Although, it most likely wouldn’t last long.

As if on cue, his dreams began to twist. He was in the class, receiving his grade back…a very low mark. There was a cacophony of voices swirling through his mind, classmates mocking him, the disappointment of his favorite professor, his mother…Everything he wanted fell apart in an instant, dreams slipping through his fingers like sand. He tossed in his sleep, whimpering and crying for everything to stop.

“Henry! Wake up, you’re dreaming!” Lanyon exclaimed, which caused Jekyll to scream, throwing off his blankets and panting madly. He stared at Lanyon, who stared at him with a mix of concern, yet relieved that the younger man was awake. A choked sob escaped Jekyll’s throat, startling Lanyon. His quiet, composed friend was breaking down in front of him, how was he supposed to handle this?

When trying to speak, Jekyll slipped back into Scots as he cried. He couldn’t care less, though. His dignity was already gone, Lanyon would never see him as a mature adult, or a sophisticated gentleman. He was still the same child from Glasgow, with too many fears and mistakes to fit into this new society.

Lanyon placed his hands on Jekyll’s shoulders, making the latter startle, but his features eased soon after, welcoming the gentle touch. After a moment’s pause, Lanyon reached one hand up slightly, which made Jekyll flinch. “Oh! I’m sorry, Henry.” He apologized, concerned at the sudden reaction from his friend. He should have asked first. “May…I help dry your eyes?” Lanyon asked, waiting as Jekyll’s face slowly shifted from fearful to curious. He nodded, a sudden craving for touch. Lanyon smiled, then, once more, lifted his hand, gently wiped a few tears away. Almost immediately, Jekyll leaned into Lanyon’s touch, the feeling almost making him cry more. When was the last time someone had touched him this gently?

“Can you breathe for me?” Lanyon asked, noting that Jekyll’s breathing had become rapid again. The former took an example breath, holding it, then exhaling, each motion in four seconds each. Jekyll took a shaky one after, modeling it the same way Lanyon did. Then he took another breath. And another. And another. Until he felt his breathing fall into a pattern. It would be alright now, he thought. Though, the fears from his dreams remained, and he stared at Lanyon with watery, tired eyes.

Lanyon frowned. He wasn’t mad at Jekyll in the slightest, but he needed to get the younger man to bed somehow. An idea formed in his head. He pulled Jekyll over to his bed, and sat them both down. “Come here, Henry.” Lanyon patted the other side of his bed. Jekyll eyed him cautiously, but climbed into the bed. He was about a foot away from Lanyon. “Closer, darling.” Now Lanyon eyed Jekyll, who blushed, but still crawled in closer, until he and the older man were mere inches apart. Lanyon wrapped his arms around the younger man and pulled him into a warm embrace. Jekyll was startled by this, but made no effort to move. In fact, he simply buried his face into Lanyon’s shoulder. Lanyon gently rubbed Jekyll’s back with each whimper that came from the younger man’s lips.

“That was a nasty dream, wasn’t it? It’s over now, though. You’re brave for getting through that, darling.” Jekyll flushed a deeper red. He didn’t feel brave, but the fact that Lanyon didn’t think he was childish soothed him. He relaxed a bit in Lanyon’s embrace, tucking his head into the older man’s neck. It was so warm, so safe. Jekyll hadn’t felt this safe in…quite some time.

Lanyon didn’t say anything after that, slowly rubbing Jekyll’s back while humming. He had little experience in giving, or receiving comfort, but he’d seen Gabriel do something similar when comforting someone. And it apparently worked, because Jekyll soon fell back asleep, small snores escaping him.

Once he heard the snoring, Lanyon pulled Jekyll in closer, the younger man hugging him tightly in his sleep as a response. He was precious like this, all cozy and sleepy. His rather handsome face relaxed into a smile, his hands gasping Lanyon’s pajamas, lips slightly parted as he breathed. The young man was charming, a bit shy, but so earnest, genuine. Seeing him rest after the hard experience he went through was a blessing.

And then it hit Lanyon. He was falling for Henry, wasn’t he?

#the glass scientists #tgs #the glass scientists fanfiction #tgs fanfiction #the glass scientists henry jekyll #the glass scientists jekyll #tgs henry jekyll #tgs jekyll #the glass scientists robert lanyon #the glass scientists lanyon #tgs robert lanyon #tgs lanyon #the typist's files

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blvvdk3ep · 7 months

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You haven't known the triumphs and defeats, the epic highs and lows of having to explain ao3 to someone who's never heard of it before

#top ten most humiliating moments of my life #I love my friends who aren't in fandoms #sometimes I dont know which of us is the scientist studying the monkey behind the glass cage and which is the monkey #fandom #ao3 #archive of our own #wattpad #fanfic writers #fanfic #y/n #fanfiction #just being like haha yeah it's just a website where I can be incredibly unwell about fictional guys nothing too weird you know

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residentroguescientist · 2 months

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Please help me why are there at least two TGS fics on Ao3 that involve Jekyll getting high on weed brownies and why did I have to discover them at 11:30 to midnight???

#the glass scientists #reading fanfiction is an experience guys #my parents’ room is literally on the other side of the wall from mine #so i literally have to bite my duvet so i don’t wake them up by laughing too loud

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tgshydestan · 4 months

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i be writing the most gut wrenching scenes with the most unfitting songs in my headphones. hyde be talking about how he wanna get brutally beaten up because he feels like he deserves it and my headphones are going “they be saying im a boss bitch im a boss bitch im a boss bitch”

#fanfic #fanfiction #the glass scientists #tgs #angst #boss bitch millionaires #dr jekyll and mr hyde #jekyll and hyde #ao3 #writers #ao3 writer

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dustmint · 11 days

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I have posted a fic :D!!

Summary below:

"It's just as real as you are, down here. Now, let's see how easy it is for you to snoop around the unconscious without a head...”

—

Mind Lanyon cuts off Hyde's head, this is surprisingly not a good thing

#the glass scientists #this thing has been sitting so long in my drafts collecting dust so I tried to undust it a bit and left it here #it has a bunch of hyde and jekyll angst there too as a treat :3 #it'll have a bunch of that probabky #and also #be aware that canon is whatever the fuck i want it to be #tgs #tgs hyde #tgs jekyll #ao3 #fanfiction #yeah the summary is lacking a bit ( a lot) but also #y e s

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screamingwiththewolves · 10 months

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What if like...Hyde was an "imaginary" friend of Henry's when he was a kid (Hyde, also kid sized.) and then his parents told him he was too old to have imaginary friends, and he was forced to ignore/suppress Hyde until he vanished into the depths of his mind, and the potion more or less just woke him up again o_o

#“drift away” intensifies in the background #not a theory (ok well a little bit. but i'm aware it's a stretch with current evidence XD)#more fanfiction fuel if anything XD #the glass scientists

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aliens-took-my-iwa-chan · 4 months

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the next chapter is up!

#that was not an aspirin #my writing #tgs fanfiction #tgs fanfic #tgs #the glass scientists

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thedarkone121 · 2 days

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"Oh, right!" Jekyll placed both hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Jasper, I want you to meet my daughter; Anne-Marie Jekyll. Annie here is our musician and the Society’s production designer. Half of the Lodgers wouldn’t even know how to present their experiments to a wider audience without her input!”

Jekyll stood straighter as he said this. His chest out and a proud smile wormed its way onto his face. Anne-Marie was smiling as she bowed in greeting, but Jasper could see the hint of redness on her cheeks.

Oh, this was his daughter.

Jasper looked between them.

Confusion swirled his mind.

////

The world of the Glass Scientists if Henry Jekyll adopted a little girl five years ago. Read the tales of different characters meeting Anne-Marie Jekyll for the first time and see how their reactions vary as pieces of how her life is turning out are scattered amongst the chapters!

Oh, and enjoy the image of Edward Hyde getting chased by an eleven-year-old.

////

Hey. Hey guys, look. I posted a fanfic. :)

#the glass scientists #tgs oc #tgs fanfiction #darky writes #tgs henry jekyll #tgs rachel #tgs hyde #tgs jasper #tgs edward hyde #oc: anne-marie jekyll

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mx-hyperfixation · 5 months

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wow did I actually write something for the first time in 6 months?

eerurghhnnnn I’m here to drop a little idk what it’s called

short little paragraph of a tgs inspired story

idk how it’s going to go I haven’t written it yet (update from after, idk I think it’s alright. Not my best writing, not my worst. Mildly inspired by something I wrote in English earlier today and The Hall of Memories from TGS)

I’d never get to him.

How I’d love to gauge through every chemical flavour of our good Doctor Jekyll’s brain… and to flood it with the crawling mould of his own depraved thoughts I was formulated to carry the elation of. Though, I’m left to continue feeling drained as the last bottle of absinthe from atleast a month ago… All while Doctor Goody-Two-Shoes prances around his society singing his songs of praise and a supposed silver tongue, I must do nothing but sit. And wait. And rot. Ive tried before to whisper unruly secrets of a thousand voices through his veins and bend him til he snaps but it’s simply futile. Ignored and discarded like the good load of forbidden cravings I’m apparently boiled down to. Can Jekyll even hear me down here? No, of course not. If I were not me, I’d perhaps Wonder what old, rich man he’s pitching to today… another stuck up posh bloke who’s dangling money like a tempting barbed fishing hook right infront of Jekyll’s very eyes. He’s a clever man, I know that; he’s me. They’re doing the same things I am. Blinding him with delusional temptations and delightful senses to plunge and smother him down in the depths of the numbness.

Of course he’ll listen to them Why never me?

it’s never me.

I’m all he was, is and will be. But for now… I succumb to the incomprehensible silence in the corner of his mind.

#Tgs #the glass scientists #edward hyde #tgs fan writing #fanfiction #Technically?

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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

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