Work Text:
September 13th, 11:56 PM
Dr. Henry Jekyll raised the vial of Formula HJ7 to the light, the pale green liquid inside sloshing back and forth mesmerizingly. The answer to all his problems grasped between his fingers. The good doctor worried his lip between his teeth. What if it was all for naught? Suppose he drank the potion it killed him? Or worse: he had to go on living this way!?
He knew how foolish it was to consume an untested alchemical substance, but the threat of death didn’t hold much weight in his eyes as of late. Worst case scenario, it would have no effect. He shakily set the vial down onto the table and lay his head in his hands. Why was this so difficult for him?
Henry’s lip nearly bled from how hard he was biting it now. He couldn’t do this anymore! God, this his was last resort, it couldn’t fail! Images flashed unbidden through his mind: dark, lidded brown eyes. Soft lips against his neck, trailing lower and lower. Whispered promises and praises muttered between euphoric gasps of air and the feeling of finally being complete.
And what’s more, the way his tempter had brought him tea, had chided him for working himself too hard, had played with his hair while they studied in bed. That unbothered smile, the flush across his freckled cheeks. The way he laughed at Henry’s jokes as if he were anything at all. The name he was given.
“Darling”
SMASH
Henry’s shoulders heaved and tears pricked his eyes as he stared at the shattered glass of his full-length mirror, now littering the floor around his shoes, reflecting distorted images of his red face back up at him. He had kicked his mirror in. Why did he do that? That was a gift from a dear old friend of his. A manic giggle started to bubble up from the cavity in his chest and he quickly swallowed it down. I’m losing it, the doctor thought.
At least he wouldn’t have to look at himself in one piece anymore. Yes, he rationalized, this was good. This was the start of a new life for Henry Jekyll! What better way to kick it off than denouncing his own reflection? It was art, really! Certainly not the violent impulse of a madman!
Yes, that was just the refresher he needed. With a new swing in his step, Henry stooped back over his lab table to update the time he had recorded and snatched the vial once again. He raised it to the ceiling with a laugh and a nod, miming toasting to the occasion. Then he tipped his head back and swallowed it in one desperate gulp.
Ah- that’s foul!
Henry screwed his face up as the bitter, salty flavor stung his tongue. He ruefully admonished himself for forgetting that this savior he had crafted for himself was truly just a combination of inedible magical ingredients and potent chemicals. He didn’t know what he was expecting, really.
And… it didn’t seem to be working. Panic wormed its way through his chest at the realization. Had he measured the salt incorrectly? Did he let it settle for too long? Oh, what a failure Dr. Henry Jekyll was! His one area of expertise, and he still couldn’t manage to-
Oh.
Oh.
What’s this?
The formula, which had felt unusually warm as it entered his gullet, now seemed to have heated even further as it travelled through his bloodstream, filling his body with a great tingling sensation. Henry made a face. It… wasn’t ticklish, exactly, but…
Oh.
Oh, that… that felt good… oh, Lord…
Henry clutched his stomach, letting out a rather pathetic exhale. Everything burned so deliciously. He hadn’t felt this way in fifteen years. The alchemist leaned heavily against his desk, trying and failing to control his breathing. Saliva pooled in his mouth and he vision blurred. This wasn’t meant to happen! He should have been terrified, but…
He couldn’t help but moan this time as another wave of pleasure pulsed through him, causing his legs to shake. He dug his nails into the hardwood of his desk, desperately trying to stay afloat amidst the onslaught of physical sensation. He couldn’t distinguish the pain he was experiencing from the pleasure—both were equally breathtaking and left him lightheaded.
Hot, viscous tears pooled in his eyes and he couldn’t swipe them away or risk losing his grip on the desk. An agonized sob tore itself from Henry’s throat and he dimly wondered how nobody had heard him. He shook all over. He needed something and he needed it badly.
He wasn’t ready to admit what that was yet, but his body moved of its own accord and he soon found himself thrusting his hips against his desk. He felt as though he were nothing more than a spectator, forced to watch as his lust—yes, lust—made a puppet out of him.
Henry hissed through his teeth, rutting into the side of the desk like a mindless humping animal. This wasn’t working. He needed-
Shit~!
The brunette’s rational thoughts were once again interrupted as his soul and body were rocked with intense need. A name left his lips this time, but that was just another shameful secret he would carry to his grave. What was one skeleton in his closet, after all? He had a very spacious closet.
The laboratory filled with a horrifying crackling sound as Jekyll’s bones warped and shortened. The man was on his ass now, desperately attempting to free himself from his trousers. His erection strained against the fabric with a dire urgency, throbbing painfully and creating a rather incriminating wet spot over his crotch.
Henry flung his trousers to the side at last and wrapped his trembling fingers around his cock, throwing his head back in relief. His blood felt like lava in his veins, igniting his nerves with a pain he had never experienced before. But he could hardly concentrate on the pain. His breath came out in ragged pants and a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. The air felt hot and humid and the scientist’s skin chafed uncomfortably with the cool floor, condensation dampening the surface.
Jekyll’s free hand came up to pull at his hair and even through his lust-addled mind, he was surprised to find it much longer than usual. His breathy whines, too, seemed to be gradually heightening in pitch. None of this mattered to him at the moment. He grasped a good chunk of thick, shaggy hair in his fist and yanked, forcing his head back to stare at the ceiling.
“Robert-! Mmh.. wh- what are you- doing~!”
In his mind, it was no longer his hands pumping his reddening cock and forcing him to bare his throat; it was all Robert. Robert… Henry groaned at the memory of his hands, his lips, his tongue, roaming over him with a near-frightening ferocity.
He pinched and twisted at one hardened nipple, bucking his hips at the sensation.
“Hah…. ah… ahh!”
His release was arriving quickly. Shamefully quickly. With a great deal of restraint, he took his hand off of himself to change position, now on his hands and knees. He spat into the palm of his hand and began to fuck into his closed fist. He was no longer thinking, only feeling. Colors and shapes and lights danced behind his eyes. He felt a horrible tearing in his soul, an unnatural and grotesque separation.
The man coughed, choking on the same salty, viscous fluid that had spilled from his eyes earlier. Nausea attempted to overcome him and steal his orgasm, but with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed, he beat back the sensation, deciding not to feel it at all.
Just like that! Right there! Yes, oh God!
“Fffffuck, fuck me, Robert, please, hnngh, I’m yours, your slut, take me, own me, use me!” Henry babbled to the empty room as his orgasm wrecked his very being, splitting him in two. He thrust into his fist with abandon, soon spilling thick ropes of come onto the floor. It just kept going. It felt like hours that he hunched there, milking himself dry.
He must have blacked out at some point, because the next thing he knew, he was sprawled in a sizable puddle of his own release, a wild mane of hair clinging to his forehead, his vest and undershirt now dwarfing his smaller frame.
He sat up, wincing at the terrible ache in his bones, and surveyed the mess he had made. Something like pride warmed his chest. Henry had never once felt this about the result of having given in to his passions before. Strangely, though, it didn’t bother him at all now. In fact, he felt wonderful. He felt like a new man.
He stood on unsteady legs like a newborn fawn and turned stiffly to the shattered mirror. His jaw dropped. It wasn’t Henry Jekyll he was looking at. This was someone new.
“Hello,” He found himself saying out of instinct. The broken reflection’s lips formed the same sound. He waved. The reflection waved. He stuck out his tongue and his reflection followed suit. He giggled, hopelessly tickled by this odd turn of events.
“Now, now… ain’t you a pretty thing?” This new creature couldn’t help but admire himself in the remaining shards of glass, turning, posing, bending over. He felt… confident. Desirable. Proud as a peacock. He felt…
“Free…”
…
The next morning, the city’s underbelly would be abuzz with stories of a cocky newcomer who called himself The Spirit of London At Night, whatever that meant. He had appeared from the mist like a spectre and disappeared again just as easily at dawn, leaving only a trail of gossip and speculation behind.
Dr. Henry Jekyll would clean the Society laboratory. He would light candles, sweep up broken glass, dispose of his ruined mirror, wash his clothes, and take his tea with honey for the awful strain in his throat. Nobody needed to know what had happened that night. Nobody would ever know.
He would slump against his desk with his head in his hands, trying and failing to scrub the filthy memories from his buzzing mind. The Society would come to life yet again and Rachel would soon be coming up to inquire about breakfast.
Henry would sit prim and proper, fresh clothes, thoroughly scrubbed skin and combed hair, content to forget about what had transpired.
And a familiar, sickly sweet voice would whisper in his ear.
“Hallo, Doctor~”