Nascentes Morimur

we all do things which cause us shame sins we have committed in the end, perhaps, we are more shadow than light indie Victor Frankenstein from showtime's Penny Dreadful nsfw/canon/semi-selective

[kiramillerx-archived-blog]

“ Well uh - thank you? I try my best to moisturize. ”

[xabyssus-blog]

"I rather meant the pigment. Such fascinating tone. Have you ever thought of how strange the human body is that we need skin to differentiate us?"

[xabyssus-blog]

@knxwwhxtscxming xx

He takes a breath that ensures she know his level of frustration. He cannot sleep when there are far too many threads of information flooding the current state of his mind. His eyes turn to her and slowly he shakes his head to negate the advice that she has given. "I cannot. There are only so many hours in the day. I will make sure I stay awake."

[notheavynlyarchived-blog-deacti]

@xabyssus liked for a starter

           “I hope you do not mind that I’ve stolen Miss Frankenstein away for so many dances tonight,” Dorian comments to Victor. He was being polite, but in honesty he didn’t give a fuck if Victor really did care. Lilly had caught Dorian Gray’s attention, and what Dorian wanted, he tended to find a way to get.

[xabyssus-blog]

Did he mind? Of course he minded. He had brought Lily here to have a good time. He had wanted to see her reaction to social situations. He wanted to watch the pink of her dress swirl across the floor as the lights dawned down onto her. He wanted to believe nothing could touch the atmosphere that he had created around her. And yet Dorian Gray had managed to cut between it and the thread was fraying. "Of course not. I brought my cousin here to have a good time as opposed to the loneliness of my home." he gives a smile but its hardly one once it fits onto his face. "You have given her just that. I should be grateful." he, however, is not in any sense of the word grateful.

[ofrxyal]

| A•B █►

        Trapped, once again imprisoned, as if her life meant no more than a continuous chain of entrapment in different shapes and forms; could she EVER be free?  Once a slave to society and her own father, then a  Q u e e n  to a country that loathed her, then hidden within the folds of her own hell, believing to be trapped in a punishment by God only to find out she had never actually died  ( or, well, once, but she hadn’t been AWARE of it at all ),  thus making such centuries feel like a  p r i s o n  too. Following that came The Law, her small brick cell echoing within the shadows of her mind, and the bigger room soon thereafter; free but still a prisoner, for if she left then they would kill her. Running, HIDING, once she escaped The Law, and now in chains, with an  a c h i n g  throat but absolutely no sign to give way to her hunger. Trapped, as if she were but a bewitched rose frozen in time while everything around her changed.

        Different but THE SAME.

        So how  d i d  she feel?  Fearful, trapped, angry, thirsty; she could spit one and a million words for the other to swallow, but none of them would make things better for her, none of them would break those chains. So what else COULD she do but feign calm, forbidding herself from moving an inch  r e g a r d l e s s  of the means with which her eyes followed the other as he moved; she wanted to force her arms out of those tainted chains, rip what she thought to be smugness from his face and drain him dry slowly, so he begged for mercy. But anger was weakness, and she did not wish to show thus at all.  “Is such a query truly SUPPOSED to make me think you  c a r e?”  She wondered within the note of a poised disposition; lacking any of the emotions beating inside her as she sat as straight as she could upon the floor.  “I am chained, after all, that alone CONTRADICTS the suggestion.”

- x -

[xabyssus-blog]

Of course her response made the most sort of sense. this was hardly an ideal situation for anyone and yet there she was, trapped and chained with no signs of being let out. Even if Victor wanted to unlock the chains it would not only reverse whatever progress he had made in studying her kind but it would also ruin the trust the others placed in him. He would much rather keep in tact what connections he's made during his tenure here. For a moment he doesn't look up at her, he merely continues with his fixing of the tools he will be needing to do further tests and he also has a vial blood on hand tucked away in the inner confines of his jacket for when she fully cooperated. That is what Sir Malcolm advised, after all it was his blood that Victor had taken for exactly this moment. "Yes, of course. Although this isn't the first time we here have encountered one of...your kind." he doesn't say it like an insult but instead there's a small taste of uncertainty on his tongue as he lifts his eyes to hers. "And the chains are merely for precaution, I assure you. Now will you allow me a few tests?"

[fertilitasetmortem]

@xabyssus

there was only so much witches could do before they proved useless once more. evelyn had done as much as she could, and, in the end, was dead and buried. hecate was nowhere to be found, leaving astaroth to watch as miss ives once more escaped her master’s clutches. pity, the mother monster had so much…potential, and yet she chose to live on in her m i s e r y.

left with no help, astaroth decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. slither in to their tightly wound little group, gain their trust, gather their secrets. anything to bring amunet to her father. but where to begin? 

victor frankenstein. so young, heart broken over the loss of his prized creation. vulnerable. but, unlike the witches they used before, the demon would not underestimate her targets. they were strong, all of them, even victor. but, his grasp of life and death could also prove a powerful asset to her.

and so she’d wait, wait for him to turn the corner before she moved, slamming straight into his front and falling onto her behind, white gown splashed with muddy water.

[xabyssus-blog]

It was as any other day seemed. Gray, damp, dank and dark. Nothing to differentiate it from the lifeless thrum of utter nothingness that has passed behind him in shades of often colorless candor. He tastes the moisture from the morning dew and a part of him wants to breathe it in and yet he still cannot appreciate the growing foundation of life when all else fails to compare to the mystery he has unlocked. The great sin of his life.

His head is down as he walks. Not out of meekness but he is rather lost in thought. Something is nagging at the back of his mind. Evil has been vanquished once more, Vanessa seems back to her old self and yet Victor knows everything has yet to be repaired. And in the end what did they do with the monsters that had grown within all of them?

He turns the corner, the rain splashing his boots and he almost stops to look ahead of himself, to watch the echo of the ending day disappear but instead he collides with someone walking in the same direction. A woman. Utterly fantastic. A groan slips past his lips as he glances down to note that she had fallen. This was exactly how he wanted to start the day.

"I apologize." he fumbles the words as he offers out a hand that is slick with the morning moisture. "Do forgive me, miss. I wasn't watching where I was going."

[fishalthor-archive]

 she had requested the country house. thinking that the main house would require more questions from Victor. because she had yet to tell him everything about herself. it was crazy the way you could love someone, be completely devoted for an entire year and yet say nothing of who you are. she knew small things about him, she knew his genius, she knew the fluttering flames of both life and death behind his wide eyes. she knew him. and yet they were strangers.

 they were strangers here in the quaint country home her grandparents owned. one of many properties. when she met Victor in London she told him she was an artist, scraping to get by. she did not mention the trust fund collecting dust in her name, she did not mention her grandparents or her mother. especially not her mother. she was dead, but she was every shadow int he room, she was every scar on her body. even the small barely there ones on her fingers.

 she feared her grandparents would think Victor was a mess. a mess of genius and ambition, a mess of someone that might be no good for her. not that they ever thought she was any good. taking her in had been a common at of mercy because their blood ran their her veins, not love. she used to wish for her father. but she never looked. set in the fact that no one would ever want her. and yet Victor wanted her.

 and maybe he was a mess. he was an addict, he was a disaster. but she guessed she was in some ways, too. and together they made the sort of chaos that she could never create on a blank canvas. she tried painting him once and all she had gotten was a blend of colors.

 she’s just fresh out of the shower now. and the scent follows her, it reminds her of her mother. her grandmother buys her that perfume every Christmas. she wonders if she knows how much it hurts knowing she’ll never live up to being her mother. she moves to sit on the edge of the bed. she wants to go to him but tonight she feels as if they are on different planets and she’s not sure why. sometimes she feels as if she’s not from this world. like she came up from the water and will never learn how to live here on the ground. her mother had told her that was where they came from.

 “it’s always quiet here…” she says and her voice is soft, tired. “does it bother you?”

[xabyssus-blog]

Did he mind the quiet? Hardly. If anything it was as though he belonged in it. To the shifting sounds and the endless heartbeat that persisted within it. Sometimes he felt he could taste the dark, the quiet there at the back of his mind as if he belonged to it. As if it were the lone home he had ever had. As a boy his home had been quiet, touched as it was with affection but always quiet. His mother's voice was quiet when she would sing him to sleep, her soft hands were quiet as she ran her thin fingers through his hair.

Layla was quiet too. Her soft breathing and the gentle flood of blood in her veins. She was quiet when she rested against him, quiet when she moved about the apartment they shared. Her kisses were quiet, mere whispers against his lips and the moans that so often slipped from her lips were quiet as well. She was a quiet fixture in an otherwise chaotic life. It seemed as though too much of his joint life was that way.

He can smell the soft scents coming from her hair and the way her soap from earlier clings to her skin. The way whatever she's sprayed lingers in the air. He breathes it in and holds it in his chest until it seeps right beneath his surface. He tells himself that it'll be the only thing he has left if she ever decides to walk away from him. Walking away was a fear, a desperate thread of fear that started the moment all of his mother's blood covered him.

Slowly he shakes his head, staring up at the ceiling quietly as he trails his fingers along the blanket that's covering him. It smells of cleaner and fresh Spring that taste more like peaked Winters than anything. He wonders how long she's spent in this room, why this had been her room. Why the wind outside hit the windows so insistently and the moon beat against panes in a silver assault.

"I like the quiet." he mentions, his eyes scanning the room until they land on her figure. She's so lithe sitting there, a pale outline against the colored background. She's always cut out from everywhere, measured and stapled from where she had actually come from. "Do you?" His question was more whether she liked it here than anything.

[etxrnly]

“ no more let Life divide what Death can join together. ”

[princ-asss]

I highly recommend never having feelings.

[wilsonpatricks-deactivated20191]

Gif Meme :: Anonymous asked: Penny Dreadful + Favorite Platonic Relationship ↳ Vanessa Ives & Victor Frankenstein “You are a beautiful monster. And there are those who could love you… and shall. Life awaits you.”

[vaneessaives]

(x)

[deeperthcnswords]

           he didn’t believe her. 

                   she didn’t expect him to yet that doesn’t stop her from making eye contact with him. if she looked away it means she’s guilty. he knows she lied just now and if she does anything other than blink, it’ll confirm it.

                       like to see you do better.

        the retort rests on the tip of her tongue, balancing there unspoken. he probably can though. grown-ups lie all the time. one of the reasons she steers clear of them. out on the streets no one notices a street urchin.

            “i’m not a child.” the words are quick to come out of her mouth, as sharp as Needle’s blade. she may be small but she’s not a child. children don’t see the things she’s seen. “’m almost an adult.”

[xabyssus-blog]

He scoffs tiredly because he is tired. Straight to the bones, he is. She seems defiant, unmovable really and he can appreciate that. He does appreciate it, he’s simply far too tired to care. Caring takes threads of thought and, for the moment, his mind has turned into a fumbled mess. He supposes sleep would fix it but he’s certain he doesn’t have the time for it.

“Right - of course. Children never say that.”

He’s said that many times himself, children often have it in them to wish for adulthood. Something he regrets. Something he tasted at a young age. Yet there are some who would still see him as a child - only he’s done wonders children do not have the capability to do.

“I don’t have time for this. You should run along.”

[xabyssus-blog]

~

[deeperthcnswords]

@xabyssus​

      “the door was open.”

           —— it’s not technically a lie. 

                           she might’ve jimmied it a little bit but if it was locked the way it ought to have been then she wouldn’t have been able to. all she wanted was shelter from a storm coming in —— should’ve fled before he caught her.

[xabyssus-blog]

“That is, honestly, the worst lie I have ever heard.”

It’s true. He knows he would never leave the door open. Not with his lab fully on display as it was tonight. Yet here this girl was, a runt she looked like. She was cold, there was a storm outside perhaps she sought shelter.

“This is no place for children.”

[drownedintofiction]

What’s on your Comic Con To-Do-List?

[ladyvanessa-ives]

“I’m absolutely having the time of my life playing Dr. Frankenstein. He’s such a layered, complex strong vulnerable poetic scientific punk rock and roll genius doctor of the Victorian age that you just it’s a constant delight to go and work on that set. And with the other actors and with John’s writing, it’s really brilliant. I’m absolutely loving it.” . Harry Treadaway.

poetry is a type of bleeding

[treadavvay]

Harry Treadaway interviewed for Access Hollywood [x]