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YES THANK YOJ OMG
hehβ¦ i just bought a little collage of Stevensonβs short stories and novellasβ¦ Iβve heard really good things about markheim, gonna check that out firstβ¦ will update later :)
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This but with the book griffin and the movie griffin (1933)
My contribution to the Epic Universe craze

#darkmoor#invisible man#jack griffin#epic universe#dark universe#doctorjackgriffin#the invisible man#the invisible man 1933
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And here is part two.
the downfall continues..
part two of my invisible man fanfic. At this point I am wondering if I should whip out my old a03 account solely for this.
kemp and griffin wake up and talk a little! Spoiler, someone is growing attached! (1.127 words, 4 minutes)
By the morning, Kemp awoke to the most unpleasant ache in his back and for the first few moments, this out-shadowed all the questions and doubts that had accompanied him to bed last night. The stinging sensation nearly paralysed him, and it took him twice as long as usual to even lift himself up. He rose to his feet, cracking his neck while still grimacing in pain at the ache in his muscles, and nearly made his way out of the room and down towards the kitchen to get himself his usual morning cup, but a sharp voice stopped him in his tracks.
βGood morning, Kemp.β
It wasnβt particularly threatening, but alone the reminder that he was no longer alone prevented Kemp from pursuing his morning routine. There was the figure, wearing his clothes from last night, and this time, it certainly was no hallucination caused by the late hour. There truly was what appeared to be an empty set of his own clothes by the window, waiting for his awakening. The sleeves loosely fiddled around in the air, and there was a small silence between them.
βGood morning.β
Kemp eventually replied, voice hoarse with disbelief and slight embarrassment. Why, how would it appear if the invisible man knew that he all but nearly forgot about the guest in his own house?
βI believe I was not in myβ¦best spirits last night. I apologise.β
The words came out quickly, clearly practiced. Just how long ago must this man have risen, waiting, all just to present this apology? And what had he been doing all that time?
βI understand, and quite frankly, neither was I.β
There came an awkward chuckle from Griffin, and the figure came closer towards him, a hand that was as Kemp remarked, dressed in his red leather travel gloves, extended itself for a handshake.
βLet us shake hands and forget all that happened before. We are old friends, arenβt we? I hope for further cooperation without too many hindrances between us in the future.β
His voice was nearly proud now, as if this invisible menace was just certain that whatever he was doing was polite, proper, and overall gentlemanly. Kemp continued staring at his own glove stretched over an unseen hand. He was fairly certain he didnβt leave it out of its usual place, a small container in his desk, locked with a key, last night. Yet here it was.
βYou looked through my belongings?β
If he felt Griffinβs confidence just beaming after a good nightβs rest before, now he could almost see how his smile dropped.
βSo what if I was? You were out cold, snoring like a sailor with a pigβs head, I had to entertain myself somehow!β
There came the defensive, snappy reply, all good manners gone in the matter of seconds, as if blown away by a gust of wind. So he was right. While he was sleeping, this man must have taken the chance to rummage through every drawer and closet, searching for something of use, all while rearranging the perfectly fine order he kept before.
βWhy? What can possibly be the reason for you to just-! Itβs endlessly invading on my privacy!β
βIβ¦was cold.β
Cold. Of course, that was it. For a few moments, Kemp considered standing up, yelling, and throwing this pure headache of a man out of his house, but then again, some traitorous part of him softened at the outright pathetic sneeze that came in the tense silence.
βIβ¦β
He rubbed his nose-bridge, searching for some words, any words really to reply. After several prolonged minutes with just the faint sound of servants downstairs setting the table, and Griffinβs occasional sniffles being the background noise, he gave up.
βJustβ¦fine. You can have my clothes, this time. Just do not even dare to do this again.β
He knew he should have backed it up with a threat of some sort, just to give this statement more weight, but what could he even counter against a force that could unexpectedly squeeze the life out of him, unseen, and therefore never caught? And yet, there came an almost inaudible βI apologize.β That was well enough, and Kemp nearly reached to open the door to get downstairs to his dining room for breakfast, but just when he creaked it open, it was shut closed again, with considerable force.
βAre you a fool?! This is not your ordinary morning, mind you! We cannot have mindless servitudes just- prancing around your rooms while you eat breakfast, what if they see me?β
βWhat do you suggest then?β
Kemp asked with almost resigned annoyance this time, feeling vile satisfaction at the brief second of stuttering and grumbling he got in response.
βI suggest- goodness Kemp, you are the host here! I am but a poor soul that fate seemed to all but throw me in your hands, you decide what to do!β
Shoving the responsibility onto him now, how predictable. The sympathetic moment he had for the sick man took up most of Kempβs kindness, and now with a certain malice, he raised his head up high (something he avoided doing before) before replying.
βWell, I suppose I can arrange for my dinner to be brought here. I shall tell them that I am feeling ill, and therefore need more food and drink, as well as medicine.β
βGood. Good! I knew you had some brains left in you, Arthur!β
Griffin all but cried out, out of thin air switching to this terribly personal title. Kemp furrowed his brows, staring ahead where he assumed the manβs face would be, clearly not pleased. First name was something reserved for close company, family, and lovers only, and before he did not even think of sharing something so intimate with a man he barely knew. Yet here it was.
βKemp, you mean.β
βYes, yes, Kemp.β
If there was disappointment in his voice, he certainly did not show it. The heap of clothes went to hide itself in Kempβs bedroom, instructing the master of the house to make the necessary instructions in the meantime, and he obviously obeyed. Yet one thing stayed on his mind when the brunet talked with his servants, explaining his situation and half-heartedly waving off their concern. Griffin calling him by his name was not a mere mistake. When one took the time to think about it rationally, it made perfect sense. He had no-one, it hit him when he was faking a cough to comfort a worried maid. Not a house, not a single belonging, not even his own face, just a name and few memories he clung onto.
He must have felt like he at last found someone close when he stormed into his house. And that made Kempβs stomach twist in knots.
#goth lit#jack griffin#the invisible man#griffin#h.g. wells#writing#writing on tumblr#Fanfic#guys he STILL wants kemp#I tried my best to keep them Victorian your honour.
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My other account. I will reblog my actual writing onto this one for clarity though.
I fear I have gotten in too deep.
invisible man brainrot consumed my mind, so Iβve decided on writing a small something to amuse myself and potential other people.
kemp will get bullied and Griffin will be a sopping wet man with a fever btw. hereβs chapter one so far. (reading time: 7 minutes, 1.820 words.)
1:
Β The rain was thundering on that day. But no, not in the evening, as one would assume, tied to associations with sinister lightning in pure darkness, but this storm came in the morning, and many have slept through it, blissfully unaware of the agony it was causing another. In the early morning hour, two figures chased through the forests and land roads, one seen, one not. And while despite his obvious arguing about being βan honest tramp, even if a bit of a fool sometimes,β Marvel would say he had not gone around being anything but a dutiful citizen every day of his life, he most certainly had the genes and endurance for all sorts of offences to the law. The elderly man ran with the ability of a long-versed criminal, what caused endless frustration to the grunting and huffing voice behind him. The lack of screaming was the most unsettling part so far. When Marvel first dared the dash, the notebooks stuffed under the soiled coat, but the money traitorously jingling as he ran, there came a seemingly never-ending stream of all kinds of colourful curses chasing behind him. But that had its end soon enough, and now only heavy breathing and growling were all that indicated this presence.
Doctor Kemp however, had risen from bed just in time to witness this strange scene, one man heaving and panting running over the hill as if the devil himself had personal business with him. The cynic raised a critical brow, unknowingly watching this life and death battle with mild bemusement.
βHow most peculiar. Why, people really are delusional nowadays, arenβt they?β
He spoke to himself, as he quite liked hearing his own voice, leaning out a tad more, watching how the old man nearly stumbled and fell, but caught to his feet in a surprising notion of unexpected grace.
βAnd look at him go. I do wonder what heβs thinking. Perhaps one of these βinvisible manβ believers, certain there is something hunting him, when itβs nothing but a gust of wind.β
What Kemp couldnβt see of course, the distance hid that well, was that there indeed came dust and gravel, flying under the fast steps of apparently quite a tall man chasing behind the tramp. They ran through the forest and headed off into the village, and the doctor lost all interest there was in them then, returning to the duties of appearing intelligent and thinking about all sorts of smart things a man who had finished University would do. It was only later in the day when the unusual has returned. There came a knock at his door, and he even had personally descended to see to his visitor, yet the maid who came to open the door was greeted with nothing but thin air.
βNelly, who was that?β
βAh, βem village lads again. Playing oh so entertaining pranks once more.β
The servant replied, with an indignant shake of head turning away to run to the kitchen. Kemp however stayed, for there was a certain strangeness in all of this. Surely, children were more than known for such distasteful behaviour, and yet-
He went a few steps further down, stairs creaking under his feet, the sound so familiar at this point, the university man was certain he would recognise it in his sleep. That was when he heard a small groan of the wood to his left and he rapidly turned around. Undoubtedly, someone was trying to sneak past him, but instead of an intruder, there was nothing. Kemp blindly reached out his hand, and to his own astonishment, gripped a warm, breathing limb.
He at once jerked back, but what appeared to be blood was smeared on his palm. For a few moments, Kemp pondered about calling out for help, the sanest thing one could imagine doing in such an odd situation, but just when he had turned on his heel and opened his mouth, strong hands grasped his throat, restricting his airflow and making his eyes nearly pop out from sheer force. They struggled, some unrecognisable voice hissing curses in his ear that he couldnβt quite make out until the well-dressed man gave up, hands hanging limply by his sides, resigned to his mystical fate.
The Grip loosened, and along came a voice, that this time Kemp bothered to listen to.
βDamn you, is it that your head is filled with cotton or why else wonβt you listen to me? Itβs me, you flailing imbecile, use your ever so well-educated mind for once!β
βIt is you; yet who are you, I cannot understand it- wonβt you elaborate?β
The squeeze on his neck hardened again, and he held back a pained moan, not wanting to cause even further stress to his unseen captor, something he yet had to grasp fully.
βDonβt be a smartass.β
βI am not! I cannot possibly know who you are, sir!β
The last part was a wild guess, as Kemp highly doubted a woman could have such iron-clad hands and such a dark, gruff voice that nearly bordered on hysterical. Still, that had the wished effect. The hands let go of his throat entirely.
βGriffin. Jack Griffin from University, canβt you remember, you fool?β
At last, something he could grasp at. Griffin, Griffin...he most certainly heard the name before, and his mind raced, scrambling together the smallest bit of information he could recall. Just who was this Griffinβ¦he wasnβt in his classes, he wasnβt a professor, he was-
βThe tall, pale man well over six feet, almost an albino if you care for such in-necessities, with red eyes and a brilliant mind.β
Silence for a few minutes and Kempβs eyes stayed just as clueless.
βThe one who won a medal at chemistry?β
The words didnβt yet ring a bell, and the voice let out a frustrated groan.
βThe freak.β
That helped further than the vague description that was given before. Kemp was certain the voice wasnβt the happiest once his face lit up with recognition, and yet, in the end the ultimate goal of making his identity known was reached, wasnβt it?
βI see now. That Griffin.β
βYes, yes, be quiet now. You are alone in this house, arenβt you?β
βIndeed I am.β
βThat is well. I need food and drink, and warm- β
There came a loud sneeze, and Kemp felt the hand on his shoulder shiver with what he recognized as fever.
β-clothes. Warm clothes.β
βYou appear to have a cold.β
βMe? A cold?! Donβt be ridiculous, I am as strong as a stallion, I cannot succumb to a mere fever.β
And yet, when Kemp led the voice to his cabinet, the hand on his shoulder meant as a silent threat and warning was scorching with an ill heat.
He did as was asked of him, providing food, a plateful with cold ham and bread, drink, in form of several glasses of his best whiskey he kept for special occasions and the invisible man ordered he should open, and clothes, by lending him his warm woollen bathrobe, a small luxury he got himself for colder days. Yes, these were all things very dear to him, and now an unseen guest was selfishly taking all of these while still complaining about how miserable and hurt he was. Even if he in fact was, Kemp could not possibly forgive him dripping blood onto his fine garments. When he at last was demanded to hand over his cigarettes so that he could have a smoke, he damn near let something very ungentlemanly and hysterical slip out, but with gritted teeth he watched his guest puff out small smokes of cloud out into air.
Only in moments like these, when he remembered that the infuriating heap of his clothes was in fact all he could see, and the surreality of the situation came crashing at him like giant waves, but then Griffin would make some remark that made his blood boil, and he forgot it once more. It was odd, how a single man could cause this flood of emotion within him, anger, concern, frustration and fear all at once.
And not to mention how his attempts at being a kind man were outright refused.
βGriffin, do be kind, drink something warm and not alcoholic.β
βBe quiet, I do not need anything else.β
βGriffin, I beg you, allow me to inspect you if you have a fever, or a wound of some sort- β
βI am healthy! I am fine! Stop trying to nurse me like I am some incapable, helpless infant.β
That was as far as he got with polite asking. Only once the whiskey made the invisible man all pliant and less irritable, Kemp took his turn at inspection. There was no serious wound to worry about, and even though the string figure wrapped in his clothes did stir and try to get away from him when he, praying and hoping he was correct, bandaged the sore spot, in the end, a small, muttered βthank youβ was coaxed out of him. Maybe the illness made him easier to handle, but a few hours had passed since he first was confronted with this odd situation, and the initial annoyance and fear had ebbed away. Now, all that remained of the so threatening figure was a practically melting heap of clothes, quiet and probably drowsy with sleep and sickness. They sat quietly for a few minutes, Kemp too unnerved to break the silence, his guest not especially keen on small talk and perhaps stayed that way for many more. He was not aware how much time had passed by the time Kemp slowly sighed, and cautiously, as in this short span of time he already became well-acquainted with Griffinβs horrendous manners, stood up, gently tugging on the empty-appearing sleeve to follow him.
βDo rise. The hour is late, and I suppose you must rest.β
No response followed, and the graduate took the liberty to repeat himself. When no answer came a second time, a careful hand on what he assumed the otherβs head was, and surely enough, the invisible man was fast asleep with an elevated temperature.
βWhat a nuisance,β Kemp thought. And yet, when he dimmed the lights, put a blanket over the heaving with fast and irregular breaths body, he was behaving oddly tender. The same behavior remained when he let the door open just a creak and settled in resting in the room nearby, in case the other would need him. It was his need for answers, he told himself. He needed to understand just how a man out of flesh and bone could turn into thin air.
But that felt suspiciously like lying to himself when he closed his eyes and hoped the next day would bring more answers than questions with it.
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And here we go.
did I mention my Oc (Edvard Cornelisson btw) is utterly deranged? So worship can transcend love and friendship, boys and girls.
β-
βEdvard?β
A deep breath in, he reminded himself. If he breathed just a bit faster, he would throw up, this much was certain. But taking slow, steady inhales helped. With his panic, at least. That still didnβt resolve the fact that his wrists ached from the scorching sensation of the rope every time he tried to move his hands, or that his head was throbbing as if it was threatening to become its own organism, alive and heaving with shaky breaths.
βAh, youβve awakened. Lovely.β
Once, this voice made his heart flutter. Now, it made his skin tingle as if a dozen spiders were making their way up from his fingertips up into his cranium. Edvard has become this sticky, disgusting feeling and he hated both himself and Edvard for it.
βNow, now, donβt try to struggle. You wouldnβt want to make this hurt a bit more.β
βLet me go.β
βCanβt do that, Iβm afraid.β
βPlease.β
He pondered, and the lanky figure stepped in front of him, like a wax copy of himself, only if it was left by the oven for a bit too long-wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, it was all wrong. He used to joke that they looked like siblings once, both dark-haired and pale: Edvard seemed to take it to heart, too much perhaps, it seemed. The start was simple enough, just matching boutonniΓ¨res. Same flowers, fixed in the same manner. Come to think of it, he used to think it was even wholesome. No, the beautiful aspect has long slipped from this relationship, wilting with every small identical copy of himself he found in his loverβs behaviour. Same hat. Same clothes. Same manners, same smiles, same haircuts, same morals, same ideas, they only differed in face and body. And when he saw just what went up with a sparkle the second the candlelight hit his face, he wasnβt even certain of that. A carefully cleaned, well-sharpened pair of scissors.
βEdvard-β
He tried to call out to his better side, his reason, but the tired eyes just stared at him with an odd sense of detachment, entirely unfamiliar, yet he was certain he saw glimpses of it before.
βYou wonβt feel a thing, my angel. I just need your face, thatβs all. Nothing too personal. Weβve always been meant to be one, didnβt you know? Me and you, entwined together like your so beloved vines. Youβll be Edvard, Iβll be Oscar, and together- oh, together weβll reach heaven.β
The florist fell quiet after hearing these words, there was no reasoning with him now. Deep breath, but he also failed at these the second he saw the dollmaker pull out a syringe with Laudanum, the fuzzy numbing sensation hitting him like a sledgehammer as he timidly watched him pick up the sharp tools and move closer to his face.
βYouβre my salvation, did you know that?β
#Angst#gays#fucking homosexuals#Can you two just stop#Especially you edvard#idv fandom#Idv#victorian era
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my friend and I both have IDV ocβs, and as one sad mop of a man I am, I decided to give them angst. They cannot be happy and queer, Iβm afraid.
Read further if you want happy Victorian gayass interaction (I will make them miserable)
β-
βOscar!β
That name, easy, far too easy to call out. Arthur wasnβt usually one for shouting, but every time, it felt as natural as taking a breath, as blinking, as the steady beating of his heart. These five letters, almost like a gift from God. A God that was cruel, that much he knew. God didnβt feed them when he returned home from Fatherβs shop, empty-handed: his creations never sold well. God wasnβt there when Father died, didnβt take him up into a place of joy and peace. God didnβt even have mercy on him when he was born, for within the matter of seconds after his birth, he caught a typhoid fever and barely survived. His life felt like a terrible mistake, a coincidence since. All of his life felt like a dusty, narrow path from birth until death. That was until he met him. His muse, his saviour, his angel, his God. He has always believed in something superior, something better, something otherworldly, endlessly gentle and kind during the few times he prayed to a higher being. His beacon of light. A perfect beauty. Oscar.
βHmm?β
They were similar, far too similar, yet all so different. Even now, amidst the flowers, sun shining down on his hair, this unbearably perfect dark shade, he was gorgeous. His own hair hung flatly over his forehead, didnβt curl, didnβt glow and only stayed that dull dark brown that reminded him of dirt that should be swept out with a broom. Disgusting.
βYouβre picking flowers, I see.β
He carefully walked closer, admiring not so much the blooms themselves, but rather the man himself.
βOf course. Do you want lilies?β
Oscar always put care into the plants he chose to gift. He cared for them as if they were his own children, and while it was quite pointless and silly of him, Edvard believed it to be pure.
βI think I could accept lonesome rose stems with the sharpest thorns from you and would still adore it.β
He saw how the florist went bright red and looked away, shaky hands carefully putting the fragile flowers in his own hands. He knew that the care was pointless, that everything alive was destined to wilt within just few hours under his own care, and yet, he took them.
βWhite Lilies. My love is pure.β
Edvard muttered, staring at the bouquet, as he knew Oscar would be avoiding his eyes at the moment.
βYou memorised the book I gave you.β
βOf course I did.β
#idv#idv oc#I need help#Oscar and Edvard are possessing my mind#Can you guess who made who#victorian era#england#writing#writing on tumblr#oc#my ocs#my writing#gay men#gay love#fucking homosexuals
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