parkersrevenge:
The Creature: I WANT SOMEONE TO SHOW ME SOME COMPASSION.
Victor/Felix/Society as a whole:
i don't do bad sauce passes
wallacepolsom
Today's Document
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

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Andulka
Cosimo Galluzzi
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
occasionally subtle
KIROKAZE
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Mike Driver
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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shark vs the universe
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@adxmeus
parkersrevenge:
The Creature: I WANT SOMEONE TO SHOW ME SOME COMPASSION.
Victor/Felix/Society as a whole:
Alrighty! I think I’m all caught up over here! I only owe one more starter for now, and that’s probably going to take 3.5 billion years to write because that’s how starters and I roll sometimes. I’m bouncing to le other blog for now. I’ll be back here when I’m caught up over there.
crackedportrait:
The world around him has returned to what it had once been. There’s no hope of betterment, no hope of finding that long wished for mate, no hope that change would break the curse of lonesomeness. There is simply no hope. He has not heard news of Vanessa Ives, such is a mercy for his heart still stung when his thoughts turned to her dark loveliness. A train of thought best left alone for it always led to the actions that stole another from his grasp. He’s a fool but this is not a startling discovery but something he has long known about himself. Quick and impulsive. He often causes his own misfortune. Angelique a bitter repeat of his dearest Sibyl.
Yet not all is dark in London, the great beast of a city still gifting him moments of sweetness and light, such as the giant of a man brightening his doorway. He’s a sight for sore eyes, monsters others have called and Dorian can think of nothing more sublime and holy than the creature he greets with a warm smile. “I have missed you, my friend.”
“Ha--?” The question that nearly formed was aborted, turned into no more than a breathy sound and covered up with a smile. So much had gone on in so little time, once grand plans knocked so terribly askew-- he’d nearly forgotten Dorian’s part in it, the grief of the family he’d found and lost overshadowing what had been meant to be with Lily and had not come to pass. He’d once thought to bring his bride here, to Selby, to Dorian himself to celebrate their happy union-- his mate and his only true friend, not counting Mouse. The monster had forgotten the gutting pain of envy when he’d spied her in his company, more taken by him than she could ever be by he. The creature remembered it now, confronted with Dorian’s radiant beauty, choking off sarcasm usually reserved for antagonizing his creator. Perhaps he really had come back too soon, but it was an error too late to correct.
“And I you, Dorian.” It remained true, even if the monster was in the grip of bitterness. Dorian Gray was to him a haven, a small but powerful reason to continue believing in the good within Mankind, though the lot of it seemed determined to impress upon him it’s meaner aspects. The man could scarcely be blamed for having been so favored as to be born so close an embodiment to beautiful perfection-- he could be blamed even less so for interfering in the creature’s dreamed up romance. He would not think so lowly of his friend as to think that he would do such a thing intentionally. Likely Dorian was waiting still to hear news of his nuptials... Or had he had cause to see the construction of Lily and by such a sight deduce their connection?
Caliban could not know just how much Dorian had unraveled, nor that he was now acquainted with his very creator, let alone that they had conspired mischief together.
“It is good to see you well-- the weather...” That strange plague that had felled so many! The monster suspected it’s origin, having once given haven to that dark beast at the root of it. He’d been meant to be involved once upon a time.... but, again, so much had happened. Now the world finally seemed still for a while, but all that had taken place left him reeling still, unsure how to pick up where they had once left off.
“There was sickness.”
ex-libris-blog:
Has there ever been a creature so alone? So utterly helpless? Was every new-born creature abandoned the moment they were born? Was this what life was? That upstairs window became my salvation and my tutor. I learned how people were. What the people of the village valued and what despised. How animals were treated. There was no doubt in my mind that I was an animal. How could there be a doubt? Was it not a countenance made for predation? Eventually I learned words. Your beloved volumes of poetry were my primers. From your penciled notations I learned that you favoured Wordsworth and the old Romantics. No wonder you fled from me. I am not a creation of the antique pastoral world. I am modernity personified. Did you not know that’s what you were creating? The modern age. Did you really imagine that your modern creation would hold to the values of Keats and Wordsworth? We are men of iron and mechanization now. We are steam engines and turbines. Were you really so naive to imagine that we’d see eternity in a daffodil? Who is the child, Frankenstein, thee or me?
Rory Kinnear as the Creature, Penny Dreadful, S01E03 ‘Resurrection’
<.< >.> ... uhh, why is there a tiny black horse I gotta clean up after?
shewhoworshipscarlin:
Sorcerer’s costume, 1880s.
@nyktxpolos
crackedportrait:
You’re invited to join us Friday, March 31, 2017 at 7:00pm EST to rewatch Penny Dreadful and join a night of dark fun
This is the thing I promised last week and failed on! We’re streaming season 1 episode 1 tomorrow through rabb.it. With any luck and continued interest, we’ll do an episode a week every Friday. A link to the room will be put out and circled around by myself and @crackedportrait. Please feel free to reblog this post though and spread the Penny Dreadful love, the more the merrier and all that jazz.
darkestdee:
Source | ^(OvO)^
Penny Dreadful - The Creature
ivyarchive:
Victor, no
; The Immortal Races
“What a simple thing it is to snap your neck. You are so fragile, you mortals. Such things of skin and air. Such things of the past. The future belongs to the strong, to the immortal races. To me and my kind. Look upon your master.” -- Caliban, to Victor Frankenstein.
You mortals? That’s a rather strange way of thinking of anyone who isn’t him, if in fact Caliban hasn’t crossed paths with something or someone else who is as supernatural as he. After all, Proteus was mortal enough to die, so why wouldn’t Caliban assume the same of himself?
The thing is, at the end of the first season we learn that The Grand Guignol, where he lives and works, is also home to the vampire creatures from Egypt and the under-explored white haired brides/familiars. Why shouldn’t it have been possible for Caliban and Dracula to have crossed paths? What if he did meet London’s own Dr. Alexander Sweet and found in him a friend of sorts? The first of his kind, he surely would have appealed to all that Penny Dreadful’s Dracula is; fallen angel, brother to Lucifer, vampire, sire of so-called night creatures, and avid fan of all beasties. And while we don’t meet him until the third and final season, that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been around all along, stalking Vanessa, gathering his minions and forces, and generally preparing for the future that he longs for.
Dracula’s ultimate goal and mission isn’t something he keeps completely secret either. Fenton is not much to him but a pawn, but even he is informed that his master is working towards eternal night and the emergence of “the hidden ones”. It’s not entirely far-fetched for Caliban to be a part of that number, as he is quite literally a being who lives hiding himself as best he can from normal people. Furthermore, while I think he’s completely mortal enough to die from a bullet to the brain, I also think he’s just preternatural enough to live on without natural end if nothing actively kills him in one fell swoop.
Beyond that, his telling Victor that the future belongs to ‘the strong, to the immortal’, could be taken as a hint that Dracula has shared a warning of what the transformed world will be like, such as the poisoned air that will slowly kill off the humans, and any other similar development-- obviously Caliban thinks it’s something he’s going to be able to survive, maybe hinting at having already lived through experiences that would’ve killed off the average human being. The even bigger neon sign being that he says “the immortal races” meaning he has definitely met something supernatural, something or someone that isn’t only immortal but has numbers enough to count as a whole race of beings.
Look upon your master also just sounds to me like a bit of borrowed dramatics from The Master himself.
In the end, it’s even possible that part of Caliban’s insistence for a mate matching himself or “his kind” is in part inspired by all that. In a quickly coming future of eternal night and frolicking immortal races different to his own, he wants to be one half of a full fledged pair of whatever it is they are.
Headcanon: Caliban has definitely met Dr. Alexander Sweet and has been made privy to his secret identity, Dracula, and all that it entails-- except maybe Vanessa’s name. He too is counted as a night creature, and offers his own humble home at The Guignol as a haven to Dracula’s minions.
aeipathy
(noun) A lost word, an aeipathy is classified as an unyielding passion or love of something or someone. A passion so strong that it could be considered pathological; it withstands, time, doubt, and change. (via wordsnquotes)
Page 238 of ‘Regional anatomy in its relation to medicine and surgery.’ {1891}
P.S.: Someone remind me when I come back from errands to put down my crack conspiracy headcanon that Caliban has totally met and possibly spent some time with Dracula. ♥
Tiny lil starter/plotting call!! I’ve got one starter left on my to-do list, and a lot of iconning and theme-making to work on, but I’m short on writing partners since this an ancient reboot pretty much. Send up a flare if you’ve got any kind of feels towards Penny Dreadful’s take on Frankenstein’s monster.
𝖆𝖘 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖛𝖊, 𝖘𝖔 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖜
winewomenwit:
The rats, the rats, the rats. They had left him to the rats. They had locked in a room, a cage, and peered on him and watched as the last threads of his restraint, finely spun and pulled too-taut already, were gnawed away by the sharp teeth and clicking claws of the rats, the rats, the rats. They stole his food. They climbed over his straitjacketed form at night and chittered in his ear. They nipped at his cheeks, his lips, his toes, hard enough to sting and he bled, he bled, he bled, gold painting the cold floor of the cell, but always it was gone by morning and no amount of anything–no shouting, no screaming, no crying, no begging, no bargaining–could work to convince them that the rats tormented him so when the doctors went away. He had cried until the salt in his tears had dried his face into leather, until he could call forth the water of them no more, and still they refused to believe.
But this, he became convinced, was the burden of a god. Divinity in secrecy. Quiet torments, small but innumerable, impossible to bear, and no sign of suffering despite their best efforts.
The rats, the rats, the rats. The fools. They left him be too long, too much time alone with the rats. Rats are not asps. They are scavengers, not predators, they can be whispered to, reasoned with, if one is willing to open oneself up to the divinity whose power it is to touch the instinct of all living things. He was Dionysus reincarnate, Dionysus divine: to seduce the rats to do his bidding was no great feat. He whispered promises of ambrosia and wine and they gnawed, gnawed, gnawed through the straps of his restraints rather than his flesh.
Stupid rats.
He broke their neck before he fled his cell.
Stone and mortar cannot hold a god. Just ask Pentheus–his head is with his mother yet.
Shaking and alone and bleeding and blind, as insensible now to the mortal world as he was removed from the warm skies of Olympus, the god stumbled down alleyways and fumbled around turns, snaking his way–like the asp, the asp, the asp–through the seedy streets of London. He was in no state to tend to himself, but he was better out and walking and able snap the neck of those things which would gnaw on him now than he was locked high away for the rats to nibble on.
Lost, and cold, and fading, his legs at last gave out beneath him, and Dionysus slid into a terrible cold puddle beneath a terrible cold wall on a terrible, cold side of the city. The edges of his vision were black. They had poisoned him too long with enemas and pills and lies; his divine life was fading, fading, fading fast, his thread stretching thin, ready at last to yield to the shears of Atropos. Twice born, once dead. He had a balance in blood to pay.
And yet a figure loomed in his flickering vision. Tall. Grand. Bold. Broad. And dark, dark. Dark even against the overcast skies of the city and the unwashed bricks of the slums. Godsend. Hades come for him personally. He smiled in spite of himself, mustering what little remained of his strength to lift one frail hand to him.
“Blood…of my blood. It has been too long. Take me…home.” Please he almost said–but could not, not as the light faded…faded…faded away.
And all blackness. And all was peace. But none was restful.
The call that reached his ears was nearly too sure to doubt, though it was delivered by the personification of London’s unfortunates. The monster should have doubted and even dismissed, as he had been taught by Men who thought themselves his betters, for it was at best confusion and at worst a scam, but he had long nursed in secret the kind and loving heart which his creator stitched within him. And though it was unlikely that any grave-robbed part of him was family to this fainted Man, or that he would have so eagerly reached for him if the recognition were true-- for it would have been marred by death and the ugliness of Victor’s work, the creature could not resist the invitation of familiarity... of acceptance.
He waited only a moment, only long enough to be sure that the man was well and truly without consciousness before looming over him, lifting him up from the stinking puddles ever fed by London’s perpetual rain. Left to the elements he would likely soon die, the cold sapping away his life little by painful little until he breathed his last. Caliban, ever quick to attach himself to the miserable and wretched like himself, refused Death this soul and hauled him away to the only sanctuary left him.
Cities like London were hardly repositories of abandoned buildings and lonely acres. Quite the opposite, the city was crowded-- overly so, teeming with starving hopeful poor who if they accomplished nothing else replenished their dying ranks all too regularly. That said nothing of the immigrants come from far and wide, seeking a plethora of dreams and opportunities. Lately even the rich and noble classes felt the discomfort of this crowding, which they naturally turned into a sport of sorts, inventing the trend of slumming since they were forced to share space with the unwanted. Indeed, few places were left at all for a monster of so frightening a visage to take shelter in. He’d been driven off from tenements and alleys alike by the fellow homeless who could not stomach the sight of him. The Guignol remained closed to him and too dangerous to visit often and he would not even in desperation return to the trap that had been the Putney’s... Gray’s home might have been a sanctuary if they had not been pulled so far apart by their own circumstances but that place too was temporarily shuttered to him, leaving only the lower levels of a run down little church where surprising superstition and the occasional performance from Caliban had rendered the lower levels “haunted” and thereby left alone for his use.
It was there that the man would wake, if he woke at all, surrounded by ancient paintings of Christian saints and low burning that cast more shadows than actual light. There the creature would be, clinging to those shadows, tending to the few personal belongings still left him-- one of which this man now was.