gr1ffins

[gr1ffins]

RUU

OHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYY GODDDDDDDDDDDDD

EVERYONE STAY CALM.

first of all, thank you for dedicating this fic to me😭 i am so flattered and thrilled. i was recently so sick, like get someone to drive me to the hospital sick, and this means so much to me. i think if i had griffin there to nurse me back to health i would’ve combusted on the spot 🙏

OKAY OKAY NOW ONTO THE FIC BECAUSE HOLYYY SHIT

Not to brag but i got early access to some of the dialogue y’all 🤚 AND I STILL SCREAMED WITH JOY WHEN I SAW THEM

Ruu you have such an incredible talent for immersing your reader. i genuinely felt like i was in 1830s London. the dialouge, the vocabulary, your ability to describe the characters and their personalities. i’m so incredibly floored by this piece, i have no words.

and by that i mean i have many words.

"Who's at the door?" You look around blearily.

"Me, you dolt." He steps back, returning his hand to the relative warmth of his underarm, and appraises you. "And why's it feel like hell frozen over in here?"

You dolt🥹 SOOO GRIFFIN. i remember when he says it to robin in that fifth chapter or something, this made me smile so big

"The Sheldonian might go, but it's not exactly a strategic foothold-"

You scoff. "Not a chance. I went with LeBlanc for maintenance there and it took a whole afternoon."

Griffin winces.

"I'm sorry you had to endure his company so long."

"Me, too."

I reread this specific dialogue sequence like five times. it scratched my brain SO good. it built immersion so well and established the relationship between the two and their history pretty well, while also making the world feel bigger. if that makes any sense

"I'll be alright. Thank you for bringing it."

Tugging on a glove, he waves you off awkwardly, already striding to the doorway.

this specific sentence of griffin was perfect, literally perfect. it’s so him. yes, he would be miserably awkward when accepting gratitude for his help. especially from you. this piece is really setting the stage for the vulnerable, or rather delicate state that their relationship is in, where neither can directly place what they are to each other. can’t admit they really care. MY FAVORITE EVERRRR

…and just inches from the handle, your hand lies totally still on the floor.

In the span of one, quiet moment, Griffin's lips part, frozen, daring his eyes to quit tricking him, daring you to move. The next sound is his footsteps, racing almost before he can realise it.

With no one around to see him, he runs to your side.

You're limp as a ragdoll, a pace or so from the kitchen, and look worse than yesterday. Splayed on the floor, your clothes are rumpled, the corner of a blanket barely hanging onto your arm.

Kneeling next to you, he sighs roughly and reaches to shake your shoulder. You're a furnace through your shirt.

"Wake up, for God's sake."

the concern and care and fear and doubt oh my god ruu you genius i can’t. i literally can’t. i cheesed SO hard reading this part. i’m convinced you and i are on the same wavelength for our adoration for hurt/comfort. his last dialogue there had me grinning like an evil villain. this part was one of my favorites of the whole fic

“I'll be alright,' my arse," he says drily as he hooks an arm around your back. Together, you stand, and you stumble against him.

"Do try not to swoon. You're hardly helping the case for the weaker sex."

"Oh, be quiet," you groan, unable to argue back with your usual wit, and he knows it.

THIS WAS ONE OF THE PARTS I GOT TO READ EARLY 🙈 YALLLLLLLLLL biting my lip and twirling my hair this is SOOOOOO GOOD STOPPPPP. this had me giggling and kicking my feet. I LOVE IT

You wake properly to a screeching, grating sound from between the stacks. Twisting, you wince at a twinge in your neck and squint over to where you can make out Griffin's shadowy figure hauling something upright. A cot, you realise.

He never sleeps here.

"Slumming it with the commoners, now?" You try to tease, though your voice is scratchy. "Is the palace undergoing renovations?"

He shoots upright, turning sharply your way. After a moment, he seems to force himself to relax. As you

stop. seriously stop. what. i had to put down my phone and scream. this is so peak. so good. so insane. you didn’t have to add this part but you did. he stayed.

But he stays.

You don't remark on it. In the grips of the fever, telling him to leave you had only kept him stubbornly nearer. So now that you're well again, you can see the danger in asking him to stay. You fear he might take you seriously if you comment at all, so you have to hope silence will bring the best result. That if you don't point it out, he won't examine his own behaviour too closely and retreat. That if you both pretend this is normal, it might become so.

HE. STAYS. OUGHHHHHHH RUU WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU.

both for this snippet and the last one, the way in which you convey griffin’s character is so true to the source material and feels so authentic. like yes. that is in fact him!!!! it’s incredible really, like i can’t emphasize enough or put into words how this makes me feel.

the very last paragraph here “that if you don’t point it out, he won’t examine his own behavior too closely and retreat. that if you both pretend this is normal, it might become so.” what if i died. what then. huh? what happens when this blew my mind and subsequently sent me spiraling in your dms. huh? LOST MY MIND OVER THIS. your writing is so spectacular i can’t even. no one contact me im in shock.

additionally:

Your silence wins you a walk together through the chilly tunnels and into an alley where snow crunches underfoot, sparkling in the blithe sunlight.

LIKE??? OKAY SO YOU’RE JUST INSANE. THIS WAS INSANE. the ability to tie the narrative and have your voice be so powerful throughout the story and guide it in such a charming and clever way astounds me. i need your reading list, like STAT.

"Do you feel worse than yesterday?"

"Yes, I do. You'd better go. We don't want you to get sick as well."

"It's too late, I'm afraid. I'm quite sick of you already."

absolute cinema. literally peak. i’m officially speechless this is everything to me. i will be here every day of the week to revisit this fic it has me in absolute shambles. i hope you know the power you command and the strength of your writing.

Snowfall | griffin x reader

➛Griffin Lovell x fem!reader ➛6.1k (this got out of hand)

➛ when the firewood stores run empty and you wind up sick with cold, it's only practical for Griffin to help out

warnings: many many hidden emotions, bickering, hurt/comfort, fever and sickness, fainting, concerned!griffin (but of course he'll never admit it) (he is everything to meeee), I put a mini Christmas market in a historically innacurate time period and location but let me have this (this is a very minor mention idk why I'm worrying abt it)

a/n: it's currently hotter than it has a right to be and I am hiding inside fantasising about being so cold you get sick as a way to cope lmao. I started this a bit ago, along with various other griffin ramblings, but this is the first one to become fully formed! I have to give the most enormous thank you ever to @gr1ffins for being so lovely and encouraging me to share this! your work is my gold standard for griffin!! I hope my self-indulgent hurt/comfort can add something to the fandom because it's all I have ksglhdsfk

moon and star dividers by @cafekitsune <3

When Griffin knocks and there’s no answer, dread drops instantly in his gut. He steps back with caution to survey the snowy courtyard for anything he’d missed. Then he begins pacing, trying to dredge up his memory of the latest password. Had the others neglected to tell him again? They know he always forgets. He stops to rap at the door again, loudly, and still nothing happens. Suppressing a shiver, he rubs his flimsily gloved hands together and resumes pacing.

A conversation enters his mind. That joke you had made, a pun he’s sure he had appreciated at the time. What was it?

Finally, with an experimental mutter, the door comes screeching open.

The inviting warmth of crossing a threshold doesn’t come. It’s scarcely warmer than the frigid air outside, though he shuts the door behind him.

Frowning, he gives his shoes a cursory wipe on the mat, keeps his coat on and strides past the rack to the fireplace. Charred remains lie there, cold and long burned out. A brief hunt for firewood shows up nothing but an empty bucket, and an empty stack outside, only a few twigs lying where the logs should live.

It’s not the most pressing matter. You should still be here.

He calls your name, tucking his hands into his armpits and strolling back inside. “Hello!”

Maybe you’ve gone out for fuel. It would make sense.

But then he spots the cot between the stacks, a small hillock of blankets piled atop it. His brows pinch further and he edges forward. Sure enough, between the gloomy morning shadows, there’s a mess of hair sticking from one end. He extracts a hand to flip back the topmost blankets. Your head emerges, a flush peaked high in your cheeks, like they’ve been pinched.

He says your name insistently, giving you a knee to the shoulder through the wad of blankets.

Your brows pinch, eyelids finally blinking open groggily.

“Hm?”

“Wake up, woman,” he says, exasperated, “it’s your whole job to answer the door, is it not?”

Blinking around, you finally lay eyes on Griffin and shift to sit. The moment you do, a flinch shoots across your face, a hand raising halfway to your head before you stop it.

“Who’s at the door?” You look around blearily.

“Me, you dolt.” He steps back, returning his hand to the relative warmth of his underarm, and appraises you. “And why’s it feel like hell frozen over in here?”

Still half-wrapped in the blankets, you look to the fireplace and groan, shrinking into your shelter.

“There’s no more fuel. We already took more than we should have from the nearest store. I wouldn’t risk going back there for a week or so. And it’s all damp with snow in the woods.”

You sound tired, but Griffin makes himself stop squinting at you and instead head to the kitchen for something to actually warm him up. You slowly follow him, dragging one blanket with you.

“Everyone needs firewood at this time of year. Grab some from a cart coming into town, or take it from Balliol. Their store’s out of sight. Heaven knows they’re keeping themselves warm enough in other ways.”

“I know,” you sigh, “just haven’t got round to it.”

You sink into a creaking chair as Griffin approaches the stove and pulls out two mugs.

“Well, you can’t do it now, with that fever.”

His eyes glint when you protest.

“Nonsense, Griffin, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just a little chilly-”

“Luckily for you, I have nowhere to be. Everyone seems to forget the empire goes on around Christmas. Anthony and the others won’t be done feasting for a fortnight, and the mail is overrun so correspondence will be slow.”

“So mature of you to abstain from the same festive cheer,” you drawl.

He gives you a dry stare, then rolls his eyes.

“In any case, Hermes’ top priority has now become firewood. I’ll get it.”

“Alright. Thank you, then. Will you be bringing extra so you can burn something down, to raise your spirits again?”

The kettle whistles and soon a steaming mug is slid across the table. You both cradle them like beggars as Griffin considers your joke with a half-grin, staring at some rose-tinted fantasy you can’t see, though you’re sure it involves bullets.

“The Sheldonian might go, but it’s not exactly a strategic foothold-”

You scoff. “Not a chance. I went with LeBlanc for maintenance there and it took a whole afternoon.”

Griffin winces.

“I’m sorry you had to endure his company so long.”

“Me, too.”

“But that means you know where the bars are, doesn’t it? Suppose you took them all out, then it might burn.”

“It would sooner fall on my head. No, thank you.”

You continue like that, weighing the possibilities for burning an increasingly long list of buildings while each sipping at your drinks and pretending not to shiver. Then Griffin sets off, and you drag yourself to the stacks, continuing to look over your most pressing project. In reality, your head feels stuffed with cotton and you end up staring at the page, raking your eyes over words that just won’t go in.

Eventually comes Griffin’s rap on the door. This time, you do head over to get it, if slower than usual.

He’s dragging a whole cart behind him.

Blinking, you move to let him through.

“So, Balliol is going to be a glacier for the holidays after all?”

“Don’t be silly,” he grunts, the cart bumping over the threshold behind him. You trail after him as he heads for the inner courtyard. “This is barely a fraction of what they have.”

“How did you get away with a whole cart?”

“‘Get away’ is a strong way to put it,” he shrugs, setting it down by the log store. “They’re just lying around. No one questioned it. Even got a shiny silver one.”

With his wolfish grin, he picks up a couple of logs to show the silver inlaid into the body of the cart, making it weightless to shift.

When you bend to help him shift them, he holds a hand out to stop you, waiting until you huff and drop the log.

“Griffin, I told you-”

“You look like a sleepwalker-”

“Hardly-”

“Just go inside and get off your feet. We’d better set the fire going first, in any case, before we put all this away.”

“Being a gentleman doesn’t suit you,” you grumble as you return indoors.

“I assure you, it’s hardly because you’re a lady. I fully expect you to be pulling your weight once you’re fit again.”

“I’m perfectly alright, Griffin-”

“Well, if you must do something,” he says, heading back outside with the scuttle, “go and sort something to eat.”

He has a point, so you tug your blanket tighter around your shoulders and head for the kitchen. You’ll be needing some of the wood in here for the range soon, too, you note. The silver keeps the thing efficient, so you don’t have to burn more than you need to as you get to work. Before long, there’s a promising crackle coming from the main room, and a pot of stew bubbling on the hob. However, it’s still long enough for you to truly feel dead on your feet, the way Griffin said you looked.

He pokes his head around the door. Of course, he only has eyes for the stew. You're grateful when he moves past to grab the bowls and begins to ladle soup into them. Without a word to advertise the fact, you slip past to collapse into a chair near the fire.

You mutually agree on foregoing your table manners to drink the soup at the fire, rather than in the makeshift dining room. Not that either of you have much interest in appearing ‘civilised.’ At last, you approach feeling warm through.

Things may be less busy, but Griffin apparently still has some appointments to keep.

“Keep the fire going this time, won’t you?” He says, fixing you with an odd look.

You return it with patient amusement.

“I’ll be alright. Thank you for bringing it.”

Tugging on a glove, he waves you off awkwardly, already striding to the doorway.

A violent shiver wakes you, and you immediately wish you were unconscious again. Your tiredness lingers, pressing on you like a physical weight. The pressure of it in your skull makes you wince, burrowing your face into the blankets and away from the light. But though you shiver, the covers are sweltering, smothering you.

Thrashing out of them as best you can, which is in fact rather sluggish, you screw your eyes closed and groan.

Your clothes stick to you as you rise, the floor swimming just enough to provoke nausea in your stomach. Determinedly clutching the thinnest blanket around your frame, you drag yourself over to the courtyard to use the privy. Outside, you feel yourself shiver again, but your skin is burning even more against the air of December. At least the contrast with the warmth indoors shows that the fire has been working, except, once you return, that heat becomes cloying.

Padding across to the kitchen, you stubbornly ignore the shake in your legs and try not to think about your old dorm. Even if it had been an inn and not a proper university lodging, at least there was a landlady to make hot drinks, and a fire that always roared through the winter months.

In the kitchenette, the sun is already chinking through the glass in the worst way, the light hammering a sharp pain through your head. It must be late morning already.

A worse surprise comes when you go to light the range and find it practically empty. Bracing your hands on the, as yet cold, metal top, you hang your head and blow out a breath. Your eyes are already blinking closed, but you have to get this running. Griffin will be along soon, no doubt, ready to goad you again if he’s the one who has to make tea for a second time.

You're half convinced someone’s sneaked in overnight to booby trap the Old Library with silver, because it’s never taken you this long to cross the room before. Each step feels more leaden, your head throbbing and breathing thick, sticking in your throat. You stare dully ahead and plough on. Some time later you find yourself at the range again, staring at it. You blink. Somehow, it seems you did bring the scuttle over, so you climb laboriously to your knees and set the range.

Right, tea. That’s what you need. For some reason, the thought of it only makes you grow hotter, as if the range you just lit is burning in your belly instead.

You hear your own teeth chatter as you haul yourself to stand, wobbling but refusing to grasp the range for support. The clouds set in again as you let your feet follow your vague plan, back towards the fireplace. But the fog is darker this time, and doesn’t part. The horrible swooping in your stomach when you stand doesn’t abate, and the rush of sparks across your vision swarms furiously, and your head-

It’s so, so heavy. The dark presses in, hammering, making you wince. Your breath sounds far away.

The cold stone vanishes under your feet, and you're floating, or sinking, you can’t tell.

Griffin knocks. It’s second nature, even though now he does know the password.

He waits. Eventually, he sighs deeply and mutters the right words, pushing his way inside. Thankfully, it’s a sight warmer than yesterday, so he rubs his fingers together and prepares to give you a hard time about falling so dead asleep again. Even more so when he reaches the fireplace and peers down at an almost-burnt-out pile of crumbling ash, only a few valiant embers still glowing. The one thing he had you swear to do…

He steps back to assess the room and track you down, but a hunk of wood beneath his foot almost sends him tumbling instead. Hurriedly righting himself, he stares at the errant log. Then another, taking his eyes trailing up towards the kitchen. The copper bucket lies at an angle, wood scattered out towards him – and just inches from the handle, your hand lies totally still on the floor.

In the span of one, quiet moment, Griffin's lips part, frozen, daring his eyes to quit tricking him, daring you to move. The next sound is his footsteps, racing almost before he can realise it.

With no one around to see him, he runs to your side. You're limp as a ragdoll, a pace or so from the kitchen, and look worse than yesterday. Splayed on the floor, your clothes are rumpled, the corner of a blanket barely hanging onto your arm.

Kneeling next to you, he sighs roughly and reaches to shake your shoulder. You’re a furnace through your shirt.

“Wake up, for God’s sake.”

With a couple more good shakes, your eyelids flicker. You don’t open them, though, only looking pained.

“You need to get off this floor,” he tells you, sitting back.

You visibly wince.

“Sorry, am I too loud?” He asks, even louder, bending to press his face closer to yours.

That gets a reaction; you pull back and cover your face with an arm, a muffled “Griffin” coming from behind it.

“Come, get up,” he taps your shoulder.

He does most of the work, hauling you by the shoulders and then letting you list against his side, but you weakly help him along with your strained movements. It’s quite the challenge, and takes up all of your attention so you don’t see Griffin watching you sharply. Once you're up, you groan and let your head loll forward against your knees.

“‘I’ll be alright,’ my arse,” he says drily as he hooks an arm around your back. Together, you stand, and you stumble against him.

“Do try not to swoon. You’re hardly helping the case for the weaker sex.”

“Oh, be quiet,” you groan, unable to argue back with your usual wit, and he knows it.

His grin passes quickly, though. He dumps you on a chair which you fold yourself into immediately, setting your head on the tabletop.

He stands for a moment, leaning back on the counter and folding his arms.

“So, you’re sick.”

You mumble something unintelligible, but whether in a language he knows or not, it’s clear that it’s insulting. He chuckles shortly and turns to make tea.

“Well, you got as far as lightning the range. Well done you.”

There’s no reply. He shoots a look sideways over his shoulder, but you're still slumped motionless in the chair. Better than the floor, in any case. He doesn’t trouble you again as he moves around in the kitchen, only shooting you a look when he puts something down too hard and it thunks.

“Go on, eat,” he says at last.

A few prods get you off the table. Thrusting a bowl of broth and a mug of tea towards you, and planting a spoon firmly in your hand, he traces your slow movements with poorly hidden alarm, his brows scrunching together. You look so genuinely weary, your eyes constantly pinching and slipping closed. It practically hurts watching the effort with which you lift your spoon.

He takes his own seat and drinks. Glances up at you incessantly, irritated with himself. Of course, he’s finished long before you, giving him little to do but fiddle with his mug.

Eventually, he stands abruptly and leaves.

By the time he returns, you've given up on the soup, although around half is gone.

“Come on,” is all he tells you, hovering warily as you stand to follow.

But you don’t fall this time, and he leads you to the fireplace. He’s dragged one of the wingback chairs out to sit in front of the now full and roaring fire (which Griffin had to set, again, though it had not quite gone out when he arrived). He leaves you there with another mug of tea, and a book, which you both know to be optimistic.

You sleep copiously, but it doesn’t feel like rest. More like being knocked out with a hammer. Sometimes half-awake, the threadbare fabric of the chair harsh against your skin, sometimes churning through dreams before starting awake with aching eyes.

You wake properly to a screeching, grating sound from between the stacks. Twisting, you wince at a twinge in your neck and squint over to where you can make out Griffin’s shadowy figure hauling something upright. A cot, you realise.

He never sleeps here.

“Slumming it with the commoners, now?” You try to tease, though your voice is scratchy. “Is the palace undergoing renovations?”

He shoots upright, turning sharply your way. After a moment, he seems to force himself to relax. As you shift in your chair, letting the side of your head rest against the wing, he drops his eyes and tugs at the bedding on the cot, although it's perfectly straight already.

“This place needs to remain functional. You can’t even stay upright long enough to tend the fire.”

The denial of yesterday is swiftly quashed by the rumblings of your headache, so you settle for a roll of your eyes.

“The spirit of Christmas lives, after all,” you muse, “seeing you’ve deigned to donate your time to the invalid.”

“I thought there was nothing wrong with you?” He snipes back. You catch a smirk, but it’s hidden in a second as he turns his back and marches to the kitchen.

Falling back fully into the chair, you try to get more comfortable. It’s no good; every way you arrange your limbs, they throb just the same with the heavy soreness of fever. Sighing, you tug at your blanket and let your eyes fall lazily to the table beside you. Even the book doesn’t tempt you.

You settle for the tea. Reaching for it, your hand stills when you touch the mug to find it hot. You’ve been sleeping the evening away, and Hermes doesn’t waste silver on frivolities like ever-warm teacups. Your eyes return to the kitchen door, Griffin somewhere beyond it among the sounds of the range.

When he returns, his eyes fall on the drink as you sip from it. He silently takes it once you’ve drained the mug, and you watch just as silently, but feel its warmth like a balm radiating from your stomach.

Fingers toying with the rim, he hovers there, a light frown etched over his brow. You simply raise yours, expectant.

“Well?”

He blinks back to you.

“You speak French, don’t you?”

The question takes a moment to sink in; he looks much too preoccupied for the question to be so mundane.

“Yes, you know I do. Why, are you trying to recruit the ambassador or something?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Spy on him, then? You look like you’re cooking some dreadful plot.”

“You’re not exactly fit for field work in this state.”

“I know, Griffin, but what do you-?”

He’s already halfway to the kitchen, leaving you to huff and sink into your chair. He’s too sharp to miss the point so completely unless he means to. Normally you would be hot on his heels to drill for answers, but this time your attempt to rise is cut short by a bubble of nausea and a protest from your pounding head.

You curl up and wish you could curse him.

But the next time you wake, your mug is back – soup this time – so you stare sulkily at his back but say nothing. Now he’s bent over the silver-working bench, tinkering with something you can’t make out.

You must have dozed again, though you feel no more refreshed for it. Time is like murky silt-water, drifting opaquely around you, weighing you down in its currents. This time, you can only tiredly flinch as you blink the grains from your eyes, surfacing to Griffin’s hand on your arm. It had been shaking you, but now he’s still, though he doesn’t remove it for a long moment.

Looking up, you see him through your fever-haze and the soft firelight. The harsh lines he’s formed of, rough haircut and dark brows are amber and hazy. The carefully neutral set of his mouth is betrayed by the wary attentiveness of his gaze, fixed on you.

The hand drifts away, and the memory almost evaporates like sand and water through your hands. You realise how much your face pinches to focus, how a nameless, encompassing pain makes you droop.

“Hungry?” he asks simply.

Your gut knots tighter at his words. You’ve slept half the day away, and yet all you want to do is sleep some more. The fire is feet away, but you feel its claws rake at you, and recoil.

You shake your head, too tired for conversation. All your earlier energy for words has left you.

“Drink something.”

You’re too preoccupied with the resistance your body is putting up to notice Griffin’s low, smooth voice, a tone you’ve rarely heard. Only when crouched, hiding around dark corners from prying constables. Your gaze is leaden, falling on the cup he hands you and focusing on each sip at a time. You half forget he’s there, even though he stands close by your side, eyes not leaving you once.

You must make it to the cot somehow. You tumble in, feet cold through your socks from the stone floor, but skin clammy and burning. There you drift, blankets stifling but something very cold dousing the flames in your face, your neck.

Eventually, you find yourself shivering but lucid, staring into darkness. You’ve given up guessing how long you’ve slept each time. Pushing down your weary, hopeless wish to feel the illness seep from your body and focus on the task at hand, you heave yourself upright to visit the privy.

You almost trip immediately, your foot catching something which clatters softly on the floor and sloshes water onto one woollen sock. Squinting down at it, you make out a bowl, water glittering dimly inside, with the darker shape of a rag draped on the rim.

Confusion furrows your brow, but your head is pounding too hard for you to stop and ponder. You reach for your boots, not bothering to lace them, only wanting to lie down again as soon as you’re able, and head for the privy across the courtyard.

You’re slow, and with the uncomfortable heat flushing your body, you don’t notice how badly you’re shivering until you’re standing again, numb fingers fumbling with the bolt. It’s as you step out once more onto crunchy snow that the courtyard door bursts outwards. As it bounces off the wall, Griffin strides through, face somewhat wild behind a candle that flickers furiously in the snowy air.

In your surprise, you halt. He, too, freezes. Then he’s lowering the candle, straightening out his features.

“Oh, good. I see you’ve not decided to try your hand at collapsing again.”

A scoff of startled laughter escapes you.

“It was only the once, Griffin. I’ll be alright for two minutes going to the privy.”

“It’s snowing–” a gust blows a thicker flurry of flakes between you as if to prove his point “–and I seem to remember you saying the same last time before performing quite the stunt, so forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“What if I don’t forgive you?” you grumble, tucking your arms tight around you. “Why not go home?”

You cringe at your words the moment they reach the frigid air. The toll of sickness is making you snappy, arguing for the sake of it. Which is really nothing new, when it comes to Griffin. Luckily so, because he simply sighs through his nose and brushes off your comment.

“You’d wake up an ice-block in the morning. What if you fell out here?”

“You’re the one keeping me out here!”

And then, with a blink, he realises how ardently you’re shivering, and feels his own cold too. He huffs a sharp sigh and stands aside, holding the door for you.

Your teeth rattle against each other as you pass him. Admittedly, you do have to focus more than normal to stay upright, but you aren’t about to let him know. Maybe you do fall a little too haphazardly into your cot, though.

Behind you, Griffin sets the bolt on the door and pauses there, hand not leaving the latch. He bows his head, listening to your stumbling steps and the creak of your cot. Shoulders slumping for a moment, he breathes in before straightening up again, making his footsteps silent on the flagstones as he passes the stacks, his meagre candle-flame glowing weakly through the thick shadows.

He’s unable to help the way he slows as he passes you. You’re shivering visibly under your tangle of blankets.

He doesn’t turn into the next alcove, where his own cot is. The glimmering candle shrinks through the dark library and sits on the silver-working bench until the sun rises.

When you wake to the milky light of dawn in December, you don’t move. The fever still sits heavily on you, your head leaden and eyes dry. You let them slip closed, even though you know better than to hope for rest, and sigh a slow, even breath.

As you lie there, miserable but resigned to your fate, the screech of a stool sounds, followed by footsteps, growing louder. Each noise makes your head ring, shoulders tightening in a feeble flinch.

The footsteps stop.

“Are you awake?”

You don’t open your eyes.

“Let me pretend I’m not for a while longer, please.”

For a moment, it seems your tired plea may have worked. Griffin moves away again, and there’s some clinking and rustling from the other side of the room.

But your hope is misplaced. He’s soon returning, so you flop onto your back, throw an arm over your eyes and set about trying to drive him away again.

“Griffin, I mean it. Leave me alone.”

He hums, his voice cutting with sarcastic pity when he speaks.

“Do you feel worse than yesterday?”

“Yes, I do. You’d better go. We don’t want you to get sick as well.”

“It’s too late, I’m afraid. I’m quite sick of you already.”

And then the cot dips as he sits by your legs. If you weren’t feeling so grumpy, perhaps you would have taken the time to be shocked by his voluntary closeness. As it is, you let your arm fall back on the pillow and stare despairingly at the ceiling.

“Were you put on this earth to torment me?”

“I would have thought you’d want to stop being sick.”

Blinking, you lift your head a little from the pillow, despite the ache it provokes. Griffin’s toying with a silver bar in his long, deft fingers, and spins it just so, letting you see the glint of triacle engraved there. Your frown deepens.

“I thought we didn’t have-”

Your eyes land on Griffin’s face and immediately your mouth shuts. It’s impassive, but deliberately so.

We don’t have any of Evie’s match-pairs, you had been about to say. Of course, no one speaks that rule aloud, least of all to Griffin, but it's glaringly evident from one look at Hermes’ supply of bars.

He looks down his nose at the bar, as if it means nothing at all to him.

“I thought it was about time we added it to our arsenal. Makes too much practical sense.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

You stare at him calculatingly as he drops the bar on your blanketed chest, but say nothing more. Picking it up, you turn it around to see the daisy-chain of words, Greek-Latin-French-English, all pressed decisively into the silver in Griffin’s spiky hand.

“What a perfect coincidence, then, that you happen to have a sick candidate on hand to test it out.”

He meets your teasing eyes with a dry look. Glancing down, he indicates the bar with a nod of his chin.

“Well, go on then.”

You feel your face soften to a knowing smile, and take up the bar before Griffin can notice too, and look away. Taking a brief moment to let the words nestle in your mind, letting their sense fill you up, you finally speak.

“Triacle. Treacle.”

The effect is immediate. The bar hums between your fingers, and then your throat is flooded with a sickly taste, the sensation of thick syrup clogging your throat, although you know it’s an illusion. You grimace through the onslaught, focusing on swallowing.

After a handful of seconds, you let the bar rest again on the blankets. When you breathe in, the air flows, cool and easy to your chest, all tightness gone. Your head is clear of aches so that it almost feels like floating, after the weight you’ve carried for the past two days. The cool wintery light from the windows is fresh and magical again, meeting your eyes without sending spikes of pain to your head.

“Did it work?”

A smile rises to your face unbidden, but you’re too relieved to hide it.

“You’re right, this bar is too good not to have in stock,” you say. “Thank you.”

Nodding stiffly, he averts his eyes, gathering up the bar and standing again. Before he marches away, you swear you catch the corner of his mouth turning up.

At first, you fall back into the cot, ready to bask in your newfound wellness. It doesn’t take long for you to feel too disgusted to stay in the oppressive blankets you’ve been sweating through during your fever, and you find you have too much energy to lie around in any case. You rise, wash yourself and strip the cot before making for the kitchen.

You may have been half-delirious less than an hour ago, but you’re still surprised to find Griffin at the range. You’re practically itching to be on your feet now with your newfound energy, and he’s not exactly known for his hospitality.

But when you peer over his shoulder, he elbows you away. There’s a lazy grin on his face as he hooks a chair leg with his foot, dragging it out for you. Then he’s smothering the growing smile on his face and turning away from your incredulous stare, back to the cooking.

“If I’m not mistaken, you wanted me pulling my weight,” you gripe, “isn’t that why you cured me?”

Griffin scoffs, turning away from the pan again to cast you a look.

“That, and you looked about to drop dead.” His frank eyes rake over you. “And you still resemble some Dickensian ghost. I’ll let you pull your weight when you have more of it. Now, sit.”

You glower for a moment longer, but don’t really know what to say to such an admission – because that’s what it is, you’re suddenly aware – so to your chagrin, you do as he says and sink into the seat.

“I’m hurt you think me so shallow,” Griffin says, affecting false nobility to cover its truth.

Then he’s bringing a loaf of bread to the table and sliding bacon onto plates.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Griffin,” you retort, though you can’t quite meet his eyes. You pretend to busy yourself with the food. “We both know you just don’t want to risk Christmas day without my cooking.”

“I don’t have time for Christmas.”

“And yet you ate three plates last year.”

You get a thwack on the shoulder for that. A snort of laughter from you and the tentative mood between you eases. You’ll think it over later, when your mind has had a little more time to cool from its fever. It was strange territory you had crossed moments ago. For all Griffin’s joking about your feeble state, it seemed to have genuinely rattled him. The new silver bar now sitting in your stores tells it plainly enough, even if neither of you are willing to look the meaning in the eye.

You stubbornly tuck into breakfast in favour of thinking.

Admittedly, though you feel a sight better than before, a weakness lingers in the wake of your sickness. You’re slower than Griffin, who’s already up again and at the range before you can finish your plate. Next, there’s a dish of curry being placed in front of you.

“Is this some kind of test? Because I told you, I really do feel better.”

“How much have you had to eat in the last few days?”

It’s a fair point. You can hardly remember, so answering his question is a hopeless endeavour. Sighing, you fail at hiding your smile and reach to help yourself to the curry as Griffin, for now satisfied, slides into the seat across from you.

After he’s convinced that you really are full, and that no, you won’t eat just one more slice, he still doesn’t vanish. He sets about tending the fire and even allows you to take and fill the scuttle from the newly replenished store, though he does take it quickly from your hands when you trudge back with the brimming bucket. The two of you settle into something like a normal morning; you finally take up your research again while he reads and scratches out a letter nearby. All the while, you can’t prevent your glances his way, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Anyone who knows Griffin, not least as well as you do, would expect him to skulk away again at the first opportunity, and resume his usual routine of unpredictable visits interspersed with a large dose of distance.

But he stays.

You don’t remark on it. In the grips of the fever, telling him to leave you had only kept him stubbornly nearer. So now that you're well again, you can see the danger in asking him to stay. You fear he might take you seriously if you comment at all, so you have to hope silence will bring the best result. That if you don’t point it out, he won’t examine his own behaviour too closely and retreat. That if you both pretend this is normal, it might become so.

Perhaps he’s finally feeling festive and charitable, and that’s all.

When you’re worn out of research, hungry and restless again, and find yourself staring out of the window at the bleak, innocent stillness of the snow-bathed courtyard, he silently fetches your coats. For once, you swallow down your temptation to chide him as he watches you dom your things, letting him satisfy himself that you’re bundled and buttoned up properly, while his coat gapes with holes like usual. Your silence wins you a walk together through the chilly tunnels and into an alley where snow crunches underfoot, sparkling in the blithe sunlight.

The pavements of Broad Street have been shovelled clear, while on the road grey slush is churned by hooves and clumped at the curb by cart-wheels. Rows of market stalls keep the charm of December alive, drawing the eye away from the unsightly remnants of snow. Holly sits sparkling from their rooves, the snow there preserved by silver to lie perfectly while floating lights glitter between the leaves.

Griffin scoffs at the frivolous use of the bars, but you nevertheless purchase mugs of spiced chocolate, and share from a brown paper bag of hot cinnamon pastries. A private smile steals unnoticed onto your face as you stroll past snow-capped buildings, letting warmth fill you up.

“I must be recovered,” you announce, munching happily on your treat, “no one’s run screaming from me, thinking I’m a ghost, like you said.”

“Not to mention you’ve managed to devour an ungodly amount of sweet things,” he sniffs from your side.

Affecting a large sigh, you polish off the sugar left on your fingertips.

“Don’t I deserve it after my ordeal?”

“Alright, that’s settled. You’ve evidently had it too easy of late. How about collecting a cart of coal this afternoon to make up for being so idle?”

“Excuse you! I’m still recuperating!”

“Well, if it kills you, you'll at least have a formidable career ahead of you once you turn into a ghost. I assure you that you’d be formidable at haunting.”

"You're right about that. For making a poor soul die for some coal, I'd douse every fire you ever make so you'd spend the rest of your life freezing."

"You see?" He says mildly. "You have just the spite for the job. I should think it a great career change."

“And you’re healed too,” you grumble, “for a moment I feared the spirit of generosity had really infected you. It’s reassuring to know you still don’t possess an ounce of mercy.”

“I can be merciful to those that deserve it. Certainly not to pastry thieves–”

You shriek with indignation and mirth as he snatches the bag from your hands, holding it at arm’s length to fend off your retaliation.

You notice you’re tiring of the outing only after Griffin begins steering you back home, as if he had sensed so before you did. As you duck into the dimness of the tunnels, your eyes don’t leave his shadow ahead of you.

I can be merciful to those that deserve it. You dare not open your mouth, because if you did, you would thank him, and that would be the most surefire way to chase him off again. But the words, and their truth, ring in your head the whole way home.

Thank you so much to anyone who read this!! I am always happy to hear what you thought, so please do let me know with a rb, comment, ask, anything if you enjoyed it!! And hopefully I will have more nonsense to share in the future💕💕

[gr1ffins]

FREEDOM

i have never in my life viscerally despised a professor or teacher like this before

[gr1ffins]

‘You and I Have Begun to Blur’

[gr1ffins]

—Fyodor Dostoevsky

[gr1ffins]

rereading it again cuz i'm a pervy loser but this right here...

“I can’t figure out if I’m doing something wrong,” You finally manage, voice thick. “You’re supposed to have the answers, aren’t you? Why can’t you tell me what to do next? What comes next?”

xydia u ate omg. this is bratty, but in a way i don't think i've seen in fics before. 'why aren't you helping me? why aren't u doing this for me?' what a cool iteration of a popular fic trope. me lowkey i can self insert so well here yes i WILL be having a wet dream.

ik u once said to never worry about being vulgar in ur asks but sometimes I'm grossed out by myself LMAOOO ur welcome to exile me :( <3

i’m throwing your other ask in here too!! (i’m not sure how to put a “see more…” on an ask, and i always feel bad flooding peoples dashes with the longer asks i get on here. i do treasure my long asks and want to put them all on my fridge and cherish them forever, but i know not everyone wants to see them😭)

so first i’ll go through the longer ask! since you sent it in first:

HELLO SWEETNESS!! i have been so well! just super stressed because my summer classes are tying up! i have the calc exam wednesday, and the final for that class friday (asshole move by the prof but what’s new). sorry i’ve been missing! i’m gonna try to at least repost things more regularly. and i saw your posts, ive been liking them and promising myself that i will read them when i get the chance to sit down properly. you might see me in your notifs under my main account with the blue yugi pic LMAO

SO HAPPY YOU ENJOYED TINY VESSELS! i put so much time into it, im relieved that it’s been well received. i never know with these nsfw fics😭 im extra relieved that the translation of griffins emotions through words and actions and especially the sex made sense and was coherent to his character. i think that’s what i struggled with the most tbh

that is the personality of the reader i’m writing for the mc of Crooked Teeth though! it won’t always be bold and precise, but i definitely want to write a character with enough grit to get under griffin’s skin. it’s a calculated front that i’m excited to explore in more depth that i think a lot of people will relate too. you’ll see, trust the process!

all the kinks in that fic were entirely self indulgent. lowkey letting griffin know you like being spanked is SO dangerous bc it’s the only form of pda he tolerates. he won’t hold your hand in public but trust he has no reservations playing a game of whoop ass in front of hermes. always be on guard you never know what he’s plotting

the creampie was for you🙂‍↕️ i remember, trust

many parts of this fic were tailored towards what people have expressed enjoying! the “dear” comments were for el, the creampie was for you, the bickering was for circi, the conflict towards the beginning was for scrumdiddly, and so on. i really do listen to what you guys tell me and try to make it count. we’re such a small community and im so grateful for all the support i’ve gotten, i like to try and give back where i can

you have been added to the taglist for sure!! crooked teeth will be the next piece i work on, and i will hopefully have the first chapter out sometime in late july once i’ve gotten majority of the chapters prewritten! in the meantime i think i might open headcanon requests so i can continue providing content, but i’ll have to see!

bratty reader… i’m glad someone sees my hidden propaganda agenda. i love brats. it’s a brats world. always project yourself onto the bratty tendencies i give my reader characters.

AND NEVER CONTAIN YOUR FREAK💔 sometimes i have to laugh in astonishment at the asks or comments i get, but remind yourself who wrote the fic in the first place and all doubts should melt away. you won’t out-freak me you can’t. if i posted all the ideas i really wanted to explore with griffin i would be publicly executed i swear

[gr1ffins]

hi sorry for loosing it in the tags of your fic i'm a bit unwell about the way your write griffin i will be rotating your griffin in my mind for the next few days (at least)!!! also it's past 1 a.m. so i may be a bit all over the place 😖

lots of love, el 💕

my sweetheart🥹 el you are my day one on here don’t ever apologize for your tags. i don’t think im even in any place to judge im always flooding your notifs😭😭

seeing your tags totally made all the hard work on that fic worth it🫶🫶 that fic seriously chopped years off my life LMFAOO

[gr1ffins]

taglist. @13-09-01 @scrumdiddlywhumptious @circinuus

Tiny Vessels

pairing. mentor! griffin (harley) lovell x fem!reader

notes. i cannot apologize enough for the delay on this. i was convinced i’d be done by 2k words, but it kept spiraling. in other news, this is the first official teaser for my long-fic Crooked Teeth, and can be considered a side-story or spin-off! there is information for what to expect from that story sprinkled throughout, so keep your eyes out. this can be considered part two of Lost Solace

content warning. afab reader, minor arguments in the beginning (they’re working through griffin’s fear of intimacy), fingering, p in v, unprotected intimacy, spanking, and the typical griffin nonsense. let me know if i missed anything!

work count. 5.3k

minors please do not interact!

Griffin has long since stopped inviting you to impromptu meetings in ominous bars and back alleys. The moment he trusted you enough to show you Hermes’s base, and his personal hideout, it became your responsibility to seek him out when you needed him.

Like tonight, as he sits at his work desk within his tiny, mildew ridden lair, turned to face you as you stand boldly before him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Griffin says, his throat bobbing. His eyes tell a conflicting story as they bounce between your face and down the lines of your body.

“Surely you don’t believe I am so naive.” You cock your head to the side, eyes narrowing.

The corner of Griffin’s lips crook up in that wolfish grin he so often adorns. “Well, you certainly can’t blame me for thinking as much.”

You huff, brows furrowing. “Is that a no?”

Griffin’s smile falters, his expression smoothing over again as he regards you thoughtfully.

He really is considering this.

For the past few months, he’s been very good at evading your attempts to crawl into bed with him. Sort of.

He’s good at indulging you, and has developed quite the appetite for pleasing you, sometimes to the point of punishment. But that’s all it is. Him, pleasing you.

Griffin does not let you return the favor, and does not at all seem interested in going any further mutually. At first, you considered it a scheme. Maybe he was trying to establish some further power dynamic, or maybe he was just nervous. But neither of those things really felt like the Griffin you’d come to know.

It had only occurred to you tonight, that perhaps the reason for his aversion was because he felt guilty.

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be that I want you,” You press further, brazenly. You’re tired of dancing around this subject with him.

“You have me,” Griffin answers, and you scowl.

“Sure.” You drawl, indulging his flippant dismissal. It wasn’t going to deter you. “I have you as an ally. As a guide and mentor, as you say. I even have you as my seat, when you’re feeling generous.”

Griffin’s face twitches.

“What I want to know is why I can't have you, all of you. I don’t mean to sound entitled, you’re allowed to say no, but that’s what I need.” You straighten slightly, feeling small beneath his gaze. “I need a definitive answer, I can’t…” You falter, swallowing down the growing tightness in your throat.

“Can’t what?” Griffin asks, crossing his arms over his chest. His hard-set eyes have you regretting bringing this up, regretting pushing a clearly sensitive subject when he’s so prone to vanishing.

“I can’t figure out if I’m doing something wrong,” You finally manage, voice thick. “You’re supposed to have the answers, aren’t you? Why can’t you tell me what to do next? What comes next?”

It’s a low blow and you know it.

You know that Griffin takes more pride and fulfillment than he lets on about being a figure of reliability in your life. You know that sense of purpose gives him grounding, regardless of how he insists neither of you should ever get too attached.

You can see it in the way he leaves letters of instruction, with small notes to stay out of trouble. You can see it when he keeps you to himself, selfishly shielding you from the rest of Hermes. You can see it now, toiling within him as he struggles to find another vague answer that will protect both against whatever imaginary enemy he’s invited within his mind.

Silence hangs heavy between you as Griffin chews the insides of his lips, until finally he heaves the heaviest sigh you think you’ve ever heard, and deflates. Not defeated, but worn, tired. It makes your heart stutter.

“Listen,” Griffin starts, running a hand through his hair and then dragging it down his stubble covered face. “It’s not that I don't want to. Trust me, I’d love nothing more, but it’s more complicated than that.”

You can see him searching for the words, the creases between his brows deepening with his frown. His fists clench and unclench as they drop to his sides. You want to reach out and touch him, console him, tell him that you understand; but you don’t. You can’t do any of those things with this uncertainty that’s been building each time he dodges your advancements without explanation.

“Once we cross that boundary— once you cross that boundary, there won't be any going back. I’m not convinced you know what that means,” Griffin says, his voice cold. “You will have to live with whatever it entails. You do things differently than us, so I have no way of knowing if you will break when — not if, but when — something happens.”

He doesn’t want to hurt you.

All the doubt and grief and resentment leaves you in a whoosh. It was about making sure you knew he wasn’t always going to be there.

Hermes is going to get him killed one way or another, and he knows it. He doesn’t want this connection to prevent you from continuing your work if something were to happen to him. Doesn’t want you to break when it does.

“Is that all?” You ask, taking care to ensure your tone doesn’t come across as dismissive. Your eyes soften at the sight of him, travel weary and endlessly drained from his endeavors, yet still putting in the effort to prioritize your peace of mind.

Griffin, still, does not look convinced. He squints at you, his shoulders raising as he practically bristles in his seat. “It’s a bad idea. I’m a bad idea, even beyond the death and mortal danger,” He says, defensively. “Is this what you want for yourself? Seriously?”

“If I didn’t, I would’ve told you well before I used your face like a barstool,” You say, smiling, genuinely smiling at him.

Griffin barks a laugh, though his posture remains closed. “Fine. I’ll think about it,” He concedes, slapping his hands to his lap.

Your jaw drops. “What?” You throw up your arms. “All that and you’re going to think about it?”

Griffin raises a brow, looking you up and down. “Weren’t you just saying how you aren’t entitled?”

You can barely contain your exasperation as you gesture harshly to your attire.

You had taken off your coat upon arrival. Griffin, used to you showing up unannounced, hadn’t even turned in his chair to greet you. It had given you the opportunity to slip out of your pants as well, leaving you in a thin bodice and your soft panties, which rode up your thighs enticingly.

“Yes dear, you look very nice,” Griffin says sardonically, and you consider strangling him. “I will take it into consideration as I decide what I'd like to do with you.”

It takes all your willpower not to flush from head to toe. “If you wanted to humiliate me, there are easier ways to go about it,” You fume, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Yes, but none get such a delightful reaction,” Griffin’s shoulders lower from their tense position as he leans back in his chair, teeth glinting as he grins widely. “You’ve gone soft on me. It's almost too easy.”

Fine. You could play that game too.

“Just as easy as it is to walk back to Babel and ask for an assignment in Canada,” You hiss, spinning on your heel to retrieve your coat. Griffin severely underestimates your capacity for spite.

“And what exactly will you do in Canada?” Griffin asks, standing from his chair to follow you, mirth lifting his voice. “York will survive well enough without you reeking havoc and terrorizing the locals with philosophies on insurgency.” Griffin’s hands find your waist, dragging you to him.

You smother your involuntary grin down. “How would you know? The people need me.”

“They need you to stay away. To stay here and focus on taking down the root of their problems, not becoming another one.” Griffin’s hands are unbearably cold as they find their way beneath the fabric of your bodice.

“Well I’m not staying.” You say, taking Griffin’s hands and forcing them from your sides. “There’s too much work to be done for me to sit here for however long it takes you to decide what to do with me.”

Griffin’s brows raise as you bend to snatch your coat off the floor, and only speaks when you manage to get one of your arms in the sleeves, “No, I've made up my mind.”

“Oh, have you?” You mutter, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

“One of us has to be decisive.” He shrugs. “And I’ve decided you’ll get exactly what you’ve asked for. We’ll see how long it takes for you to back out.”

You pause, giving him a long look. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“You’re terrible at hiding your competitive streak.” Griffin smirks, and beckons you over with open arms.

Letting the coat fall from you once more, you relent, allowing Griffin to sweep you into his arms and pull you closer. He's so rarely affectionate like this, even when he has you sprawled out before him, belly-up and vulnerable to his ministrations. To be held by Griffin, and for him to let you hold him back, is a rare occasion indeed.

You're greedy with it, throwing your arms around his neck and attaching your lips to his own, leaning as closely into him as your bodies will allow. He's saying something, low and chortle-filled, but it’s muffled by the desperate press of your lips onto his. Your hands trace over his back and shoulders, the featherlight dance of your nails up the length of his neck sending shivers through Griffin’s body.

It's only as your hands tangle into the grown-out roots of his hair that Griffin pulls his face away from your own to focus on dragging you both to his cot. He seats you on it as quickly as he can without throwing you on it, and hunches forward to run his tongue over your bottom lip again.

You tug at his shirt, just as you kick your shoes and socks off to wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. “Take this off,” You gasp between each suck of his lips.

”Awfully bossy today.” But Griffin complies, freeing one hand to work expertly at the buttons of his shirt until you can push it off his shoulders and rake your fingers over the planes of his chest.

You don’t know if Griffin ever had any partners before you, it’s hard to say, and a much harder question to ask. Though, it’s one you don’t think you particularly need an answer to. Since the first time you kissed, he improved more rapidly than you could keep up with. Griffin is good at picking up skills, and stocking them into his arsenal.

He's good at listening for what makes you sigh the loudest, and what makes you arch into his touch the most. By this point, he has you practically wrapped around his finger.

You’re desperate to catch up.

You paw and pull at his pants until he finally relents and reaches down to unfasten his belt, allowing you to work the fabric down his legs until he can step out of them.

He leans over you, forcing your back to hit the soft blankets upon the cot, still nipping at your lips and leaving you gasping for air. Griffin’s hands fumble with the clasps of your bodice, the little metal hooks evading his thin fingers as he growls with frustration.

You huff a laugh, taking your own hands to assist him in shedding the extra layer, breathing a sigh of relief when it comes undone and Griffin can eagerly yank it away from your body and toss it elsewhere in the room.

“Need me that bad?” You murmur, your lips curled with amusement as he licks at them.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Griffin grunts back, surprising you.

Any smart response you might have had to that dies on your tongue as Griffin’s hands move to cup your breasts, palming at them and pulling your nipples between his fingers. You lean into the touch, relieved to be in his grasp, however cold his hands might be.

His lips fall down your jaw and over your neck, nipping and sucking as he pleases. You lean your head back to allow him better access as he does.

It isn’t long before his mouth is replacing his fingers, and his hands travel down to the soft white fabric of your panties. Griffin tugs them down your legs slowly, letting them hang at your knees as he ghosts his fingers over your thighs, massaging and kneading as the softness he finds there.

You unwrap your legs around him to shed the panties, legs parted almost embarrassing wide as Griffin leans back to survey the sight of you.

He must like whatever he sees, because he gives you that bone-chilling grin, full of mischief and danger. The one with enough fire in it to light every bomb he carries. The one that makes your pulse throb in your core.

Griffin must know it too, because he’s on you in an instant, tongue and teeth roaming your chest then trailing his lips upwards until he can press them against your own in slow but firm kisses that leaves your head spinning.

His hands hold your legs wider, if that was even possible, his knees resting on the edge of his cot to stay propped up over you. They squeeze and smooth over your inner thighs, getting closer and closer to where you need him.

He's teasing you, which isn’t anything new, but the amount of time he’s taking to savor your growing need has you wondering if it’s about more than his enjoyment.

“Too scared to touch?” You dare to bait him to a challenge.

Griffin’s eyes are flinty as they meet your own. “We have all night, I intend to take my time.”

Your legs push against his hold, working their way around his waist and yanking him closer to you. Only the thin layer of his briefs separates your most intimate parts, heat rushing through the fabric as Griffin’s eyes dart down to observe the sight.

“But I want you in me now,” You say coyly.

Griffin’s hands hold your hips down to the bed to prevent you from grinding against him, but you certainly try your best. The rough fabric stains with the wetness that spills from you, and you know you aren’t imagining the throb of his cock.

“Careful what you wish for,” Griffin hums.

His hand finds its way to your core, curling over your slick entrance with a long thin finger and then dipping into you. You gasp, both relieved and annoyed at the intrusion. But Griffin seems intent on having you on his fingers first, as he slips a second one into you and starts fucking them both through your heat.

Griffin’s fingers move languidly, massaging and tender as they stroke your insides. He finds the spot that has you squirming beneath him with relative ease, a practiced motion that only builds your frustration.

He's so good at this, so comfortable observing you come slowly undone for him. All while he remains perfectly in control.

“You always hold back on me.” You writhe beneath him as his fingers stroke through you relentlessly, your voice airy and high.

“How can I make it up to you?” Griffin asks, watching you with calm but vaguely amused curiosity.

“To imagine I would be the one in charge,” You huff a laugh, “I thought you didn’t like being told what to do.”

“That would be correct.” Griffin affirms, his finger slowing, but working you open wider with scissoring motions that have you keening. “If you were smart, you would take the opportunity. Unless you like letting me be in control.”

You moan in response, grinding your hips against his palm and jolting as the heel of his hand presses to your clit.

“Wouldn’t be surprising,” Griffin chuckles.

“Fuck—“ You curse, angling your hips to grind and arch into the motions of his fingers and the rough edge of his palm against your aching clit. All the while, he watches you with that same damning grin, so pleased and proud.

Something in you threatens to tighten, and your cunt drips down the bend of Griffin’s wrist as your walls throb around his fingers. Your voice grows in pitch and volume, close, so close to—

Griffin’s hand slips out of you.

You whine loudly, only to be shushed as Griffin sucks his fingers into his mouth to clean them. All you can do is watch as he does, helpless and needing and so close—

But he ruined it, and you can already feel your climax slipping away.

“Why?” You ask miserably, body still tense.

“You seemed like you were enjoying yourself,” Griffin replied, popping his fingers from his lips.

“And you just had to ruin it,” You grumble, glaring at him as he lowers down to his elbows over you.

Your faces nearly meet, his breath fanning over your face as his eyes shine with mirth. “You will survive,” Griffin says smoothly, “I’m not so cruel that I would deny you entirely. Not after such a good show.”

“Doubtful,” You mutter, avoiding his gaze as he squints at you warningly.

But true to his word, Griffin delivers. His hips press forward towards your own as he grinds the outline of his cock against your soaking core, the fabric sending sparks through your body as its rough material catches over your clit.

“Aren’t you going to put it in?” You ask breathlessly.

Griffin fixes you with an incredulous look. “Going any further than this is too much of a gamble.” Irritation builds in the wrinkles of his expression. “Children are a commodity I don’t think anyone can afford right now,” He says, then adds, “Much less want.”

You blank-stare him, then burst into laughter, which only deepens the annoyed creases along his face.

“No, no,” You try to speak through your laughter, reaching at his shoulders as he moves to back away, grumbling something under his breath. “I just can’t believe you thought I would come in here and ask you to fuck me without any plans for handling that.”

Griffin’s lips pull into a thin line, suspicion pinning you to the cot as he raises a thick brow.

“I’m the medically inclined one, as you say,” You continue, and Griffin slowly starts leaning back into your touch. “There are ways to take care of that, ones that aren’t traumatizing.”

“That is the type of statement you open with,” Griffin says crossly, but his nose nudges against your own. “You didn’t have to wait until I’m in my underwear to tell me about that.”

“Oh, but you love lecturing me” You say, kittenish.

“I enjoy teaching you a lesson.” Griffin grabs you by your hips, and before you can fully process his intentions, you're being flipped onto your stomach.

You blink as he helps you onto your knees, leaving your face pressed against his cot sheets, and your dripping slit on full display for him.

It's an embarrassing position, one he’s never put you in before. But you would be lying if you said it didn’t ignite something within you.

Griffin is eerily quiet as he shuffles above you, hands still on your hips. His knees knock against your own as he moves further onto the cot, making space for himself between your legs.

Your cunt still aches with your ruined orgasm, this position only making you feel more empty than before. It is easy to forget your momentary amusement, the distant bitterness baiting you towards defiance.

Taking his sweet time, Griffin only tempts you further by running his long fingers over your lower back in appreciation of your delicate arch. It's comforting, but it isn’t what you need. You need him inside you, need to feel his skin pressed to yours in as many places as possible. You need him.

You nearly whine, frustration flaming in your chest as you impatiently jut your hips up towards him. Just as you feel the brush of his skin against your own, Griffin pulls his lower body away suddenly.

This time, you do whine.

“None of that. Either you behave or we take a break to focus on discipline instead,” Griffin says, his tone even. He sounds so utterly composed that you bury your face in the comforter out of embarrassment from your obvious desperation.

“You’re going to punish me for wanting you?” You mumble into the sheets miserably, the ache at your core throbbing.

Griffin pinches your side, making you yelp. “Don’t twist my words,” He warns, “A smart mouth will not get you far with me.”

“So you won’t spank me?” You give him a heady look, your lashes fluttering as you wiggle your hips at him, almost mockingly.

The corner of Griffin's lips quirk up. “Tempting offer.” His hand caresses over the curve of your ass, pausing to squeeze at it. “I’m not sure how much of a punishment it would be for you though. Maybe if you ask with that sweet voice of yours, I’ll consider it.”

You push your face further against the comforter, trying to hide the darkening hue of your face. “And whatever happened to ‘making it up to me’ ?”

Griffin’s eyes go dark. “Smart mouth, Dear,” Griffin says, just as his hand raises and then lands heavy over your cheek, shocking a half-moan from you. “It’s not a fair game unless you are the one winning, is it?”

There’s a ruffling sound behind you, the sound of his briefs hitting the floor. You make a high noise of desperation, trying to peek back at him—

His hand lands on your other cheek this time, as stinging and quick as the first. You bite your lip to muffle the humiliating sound that threatens to pour from your mouth.

“Patience,” Griffin reminds you, scolding as a teacher might. As he might, your mentor.

He leans over you again, his body shadowing you from the glowing candle light. He doesn’t radiate warmth or comfort, but something much more important. Something like security. Something akin to certainty that you’re guarded like this.

You angle your hips at him, keeping quiet but hoping he can see the pleading look in your eye as you blink at him blearily.

Finally, finally, you feel him. Phantom light as the delicate press of his cock meets your cunt. You nearly vibrate with anticipation, reminding yourself to breathe. You’ve waited for this for so long, embarrassingly long.

Your bottom lip trembles from its place between your teeth, fists curled tight into the comforter.

“Poor thing,” Griffin coos, but there is a near sadistic lilt to it, you can hear the cruel curl of his lips.

You still, heartbeat in your throat as the tip of his cock glides over your entrance. He slides through your folds, slick and warm and inviting. When he pulls back to do it again, he gets caught in the dip of your lips, nearly pushing into you when he moves to slide over your entrance again.

Griffin makes a low content sound, and you can hear the way his breathing grows more shallow.

It’s driving you crazy, not being able to see what’s happening, especially when you can feel Griffin’s eyes glued to where his leaking tip threatens to slip into you.

“Reminding you one last time, this is a bad idea,” Griffin’s voice wanes, an edge of carnal want rasping his words.

“Please just fuck me already,” You groan back at him, knowing better than to taunt him with your hips again.

Griffin does not need to be told twice. In a fluid easy movement, he pushes his cock into you. You gasp, body stiffening as he stretches you apart and forces himself deeper into your waiting heat. You’re so wet that the connection is almost instantaneous, making your head spin.

Griffin isn’t long, but he is thick. You have to shuffle your hips around and widen your legs a little, just to better accommodate the size of him. The stretch alone has you clenching down on him harder.

“Ease up, you’re…” Griffin makes a strangled sound behind you, caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp for air, “Tight.”

You moan back, leaning into his grasp as he holds your hips firm—perhaps to steady himself— and rocks experimentally into you.

You go slack against the comforter, jaw dropping open as his tip kisses your cervix once, twice, and then again and again.

He eases out of you, and glides back in just as smoothly. The wet sound of his cock spreading you open each time has heat rushing to your already flushed cheeks.

It feels good, so good. The way his hands run up and down your torso and over the curve of your ass, finding their way to your waist and helping you into a pretty arch for him. How he leans forward to press his lips to your shoulders and neck, teeth and lips undoubtedly leaving marks over the expanse of your skin. Him plunging into you with every rock of his hips into your own.

You tell him as much too, “Feels ‘so good,” You mewl into the sheets, clawing at them with weak fingers.

“That right?” He asks huskily. His fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you back to meet his thrusts as his hips smack into you.

Griffin’s rhythm picks up, pumping into you more quickly, and you swear you feel his cock twitch. You’re quickly becoming a mess beneath him, each drag of his dick as he pulls you back and forth along the length of him sending tremors through your body.

“Please,” You gasp, desperate and wanting.

“Hm?” Griffin leans close to your ear, bringing a hand up to lace it into your hair and tilt your head back so he can better hear you. “You’re a clever girl, use your words.”

“Harder,” The plea comes out as a whine, and if you were in any better state of mind you would be humiliated by how needy you sound. “Please, harder, Griffin.”

Griffin slows to a grind, rolling his hips into yours as deeply as your body will take him. The press of his cock head against your cervix has stars dancing in your eyes as your hips twitch in his hold.

“Griffin,” You moan his name again, reaching a hand back to try and claw at his skin.

His pelvis meets yours with a harsh slap, one that he repeats over and over again, returning to his former swift pace. The cot creaks precariously beneath you, but you hardly notice over the sound of Griffin fucking himself deeper into you.

It’s wet and loud and depraved. His groaning and your low moans. It’s all too much.

His name falls from your lips more times than you can count, each time spurring him further and further as he fucks himself harder into you, splitting you on his cock.

“Gonna cum,” You nearly sobbed, that mounting feeling from earlier building inside you once more.

Wordlessly, he slips out, and you choke on a whimper, peeking over your shoulder to protest or perhaps beg for him to continue; but the sight of him steals your breath away.

Griffin’s face is tinged with a crimson color over the curves of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, sweat gleaming from his forehead and over the harsh angles of his chest. He holds his cock tight around the base, his features tight with struggle.

“No—“ You gasp, realizing what he’s doing and reaching back for him.

Griffin halts, hand still wrapped around his leaking cock that twitches within his grasp, breathing heavy as he stares at you with half-lidded eyes.

“Inside,” You say, forgetting to feel embarrassed.

Griffin shakes his head. “I know better than—“

“Please,” You beg, letting your head fall to the comforter and arching the best you can for him, taking your outstretched hand to part your lips again for him. “I already told you there’s nothing to worry about, so please… cum inside me.”

Griffin stills, glancing between your pleading eyes and your cunt, which glistens invitingly under the dull candle light. He curses, face drawn into a tight scowl as he shuffles.

“You’re full of bad ideas today,” He breathes, releasing his cock and moving to hold your lips apart for you. “It’s going to get us both in trouble.”

In lieu of an answer, you take your now free hand and grasp his length, lining it up with your entrance and pushing your hips back into him. His cock head catches at your entrance, and for a split second you’re worried Griffin will pull away, but instead his hips meet yours in a harsh thrust that knocks the wind from your lungs.

Then he does it again, brutal and bordering on frantic as he pounds into you repeatedly. You choke on your moans, limbs melting as that coil threatens to tighten within you.

“You can handle it?” Griffin rasped from over you, though you weren’t sure if he was strong enough to stop now even if you said couldn’t.

You nod your head as quickly as you can muster, reaching a hand down to run circles over your clit. “Everything, I want everything. Please just cum inside—” The words spill from your mouth just as you spill over the edge, walls clamping down tightly on Griffin’s cock.

Your legs tremble with the effort to remain arched, even as your body tenses and jolts beneath him. Griffin is moaning in your ear, rough and low. He pumps himself through your orgasm, despite how you clamp down on him.

A moment later Griffin is cumming with you, his spend pouring into your cunt and filling your inside with white and heat. You whine, squirming at the feeling, but Griffin holds you firm.

Heavy breathing is the only sound in the room as Griffin manages to pull his softening length from out of your hole, leaning back to give you space.

You sink down to the cot, your hips and insides aching as you feel Griffin’s release spill from you. With your remaining strength, you roll over onto your back.

Griffin falls onto the cot beside you. It's a tight fit. The cot is made for one person, and it's a miracle it survived the abuse you just put it through.

“Next time,” You breathed, chest still rising and falling unevenly, “I want to watch.”

Griffin turns his head to face you, brows pinched. “What do you mean?”

You turn your head to face him as well. “I mean I want to see it when you’re inside me. I want to know if it looks as good as it feels.”

Griffin has the audacity to look sheepish as he faces away from you again. “No you don’t. You shouldn’t say crass things like that.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” You grin, rolling to lay on your side and slot yourself against him.

“You know, you’re supposed to be the reasonable one, but you’re a real piece of work.” Griffin huffs, but does not fight you as you throw a leg over him. Instead, his hand just finds its way to your hair, ruffling it perhaps a little harder than necessary. “I don’t know why I bother.”

You laugh, “That's what I'm here for though, right?”

Griffin squints at you. “I’m not sure I need you here for anything.”

“Nonsense,” You insist, pressing a kiss to his jaw lovingly. “You said it yourself, who else will keep you on your toes?”

Holding you just a little closer, Griffin’s voice lowers to a soft caressing murmur. “Who else would bend over so nicely for me?”

You hit his chest. “You can kiss me goodbye when I leave for Canada.”

[gr1ffins]

Tiny Vessels

pairing. mentor! griffin (harley) lovell x fem!reader

notes. i cannot apologize enough for the delay on this. i was convinced i’d be done by 2k words, but it kept spiraling. in other news, this is the first official teaser for my long-fic Crooked Teeth, and can be considered a side-story or spin-off! there is information for what to expect from that story sprinkled throughout, so keep your eyes out. this can be considered part two of Lost Solace

content warning. afab reader, minor arguments in the beginning (they’re working through griffin’s fear of intimacy), fingering, p in v, unprotected intimacy, spanking, and the typical griffin nonsense. let me know if i missed anything!

work count. 5.3k

minors please do not interact!

Griffin has long since stopped inviting you to impromptu meetings in ominous bars and back alleys. The moment he trusted you enough to show you Hermes’s base, and his personal hideout, it became your responsibility to seek him out when you needed him.

Like tonight, as he sits at his work desk within his tiny, mildew ridden lair, turned to face you as you stand boldly before him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Griffin says, his throat bobbing. His eyes tell a conflicting story as they bounce between your face and down the lines of your body.

“Surely you don’t believe I am so naive.” You cock your head to the side, eyes narrowing.

The corner of Griffin’s lips crook up in that wolfish grin he so often adorns. “Well, you certainly can’t blame me for thinking as much.”

You huff, brows furrowing. “Is that a no?”

Griffin’s smile falters, his expression smoothing over again as he regards you thoughtfully.

He really is considering this.

For the past few months, he’s been very good at evading your attempts to crawl into bed with him. Sort of.

He’s good at indulging you, and has developed quite the appetite for pleasing you, sometimes to the point of punishment. But that’s all it is. Him, pleasing you.

Griffin does not let you return the favor, and does not at all seem interested in going any further mutually. At first, you considered it a scheme. Maybe he was trying to establish some further power dynamic, or maybe he was just nervous. But neither of those things really felt like the Griffin you’d come to know.

It had only occurred to you tonight, that perhaps the reason for his aversion was because he felt guilty.

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be that I want you,” You press further, brazenly. You’re tired of dancing around this subject with him.

“You have me,” Griffin answers, and you scowl.

“Sure.” You drawl, indulging his flippant dismissal. It wasn’t going to deter you. “I have you as an ally. As a guide and mentor, as you say. I even have you as my seat, when you’re feeling generous.”

Griffin’s face twitches.

“What I want to know is why I can't have you, all of you. I don’t mean to sound entitled, you’re allowed to say no, but that’s what I need.” You straighten slightly, feeling small beneath his gaze. “I need a definitive answer, I can’t…” You falter, swallowing down the growing tightness in your throat.

“Can’t what?” Griffin asks, crossing his arms over his chest. His hard-set eyes have you regretting bringing this up, regretting pushing a clearly sensitive subject when he’s so prone to vanishing.

“I can’t figure out if I’m doing something wrong,” You finally manage, voice thick. “You’re supposed to have the answers, aren’t you? Why can’t you tell me what to do next? What comes next?”

It’s a low blow and you know it.

You know that Griffin takes more pride and fulfillment than he lets on about being a figure of reliability in your life. You know that sense of purpose gives him grounding, regardless of how he insists neither of you should ever get too attached.

You can see it in the way he leaves letters of instruction, with small notes to stay out of trouble. You can see it when he keeps you to himself, selfishly shielding you from the rest of Hermes. You can see it now, toiling within him as he struggles to find another vague answer that will protect both against whatever imaginary enemy he’s invited within his mind.

Silence hangs heavy between you as Griffin chews the insides of his lips, until finally he heaves the heaviest sigh you think you’ve ever heard, and deflates. Not defeated, but worn, tired. It makes your heart stutter.

“Listen,” Griffin starts, running a hand through his hair and then dragging it down his stubble covered face. “It’s not that I don't want to. Trust me, I’d love nothing more, but it’s more complicated than that.”

You can see him searching for the words, the creases between his brows deepening with his frown. His fists clench and unclench as they drop to his sides. You want to reach out and touch him, console him, tell him that you understand; but you don’t. You can’t do any of those things with this uncertainty that’s been building each time he dodges your advancements without explanation.

“Once we cross that boundary— once you cross that boundary, there won't be any going back. I’m not convinced you know what that means,” Griffin says, his voice cold. “You will have to live with whatever it entails. You do things differently than us, so I have no way of knowing if you will break when — not if, but when — something happens.”

He doesn’t want to hurt you.

All the doubt and grief and resentment leaves you in a whoosh. It was about making sure you knew he wasn’t always going to be there.

Hermes is going to get him killed one way or another, and he knows it. He doesn’t want this connection to prevent you from continuing your work if something were to happen to him. Doesn’t want you to break when it does.

“Is that all?” You ask, taking care to ensure your tone doesn’t come across as dismissive. Your eyes soften at the sight of him, travel weary and endlessly drained from his endeavors, yet still putting in the effort to prioritize your peace of mind.

Griffin, still, does not look convinced. He squints at you, his shoulders raising as he practically bristles in his seat. “It’s a bad idea. I’m a bad idea, even beyond the death and mortal danger,” He says, defensively. “Is this what you want for yourself? Seriously?”

“If I didn’t, I would’ve told you well before I used your face like a barstool,” You say, smiling, genuinely smiling at him.

Griffin barks a laugh, though his posture remains closed. “Fine. I’ll think about it,” He concedes, slapping his hands to his lap.

Your jaw drops. “What?” You throw up your arms. “All that and you’re going to think about it?”

Griffin raises a brow, looking you up and down. “Weren’t you just saying how you aren’t entitled?”

You can barely contain your exasperation as you gesture harshly to your attire.

You had taken off your coat upon arrival. Griffin, used to you showing up unannounced, hadn’t even turned in his chair to greet you. It had given you the opportunity to slip out of your pants as well, leaving you in a thin bodice and your soft panties, which rode up your thighs enticingly.

“Yes dear, you look very nice,” Griffin says sardonically, and you consider strangling him. “I will take it into consideration as I decide what I'd like to do with you.”

It takes all your willpower not to flush from head to toe. “If you wanted to humiliate me, there are easier ways to go about it,” You fume, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Yes, but none get such a delightful reaction,” Griffin’s shoulders lower from their tense position as he leans back in his chair, teeth glinting as he grins widely. “You’ve gone soft on me. It's almost too easy.”

Fine. You could play that game too.

“Just as easy as it is to walk back to Babel and ask for an assignment in Canada,” You hiss, spinning on your heel to retrieve your coat. Griffin severely underestimates your capacity for spite.

“And what exactly will you do in Canada?” Griffin asks, standing from his chair to follow you, mirth lifting his voice. “York will survive well enough without you reeking havoc and terrorizing the locals with philosophies on insurgency.” Griffin’s hands find your waist, dragging you to him.

You smother your involuntary grin down. “How would you know? The people need me.”

“They need you to stay away. To stay here and focus on taking down the root of their problems, not becoming another one.” Griffin’s hands are unbearably cold as they find their way beneath the fabric of your bodice.

“Well I’m not staying.” You say, taking Griffin’s hands and forcing them from your sides. “There’s too much work to be done for me to sit here for however long it takes you to decide what to do with me.”

Griffin’s brows raise as you bend to snatch your coat off the floor, and only speaks when you manage to get one of your arms in the sleeves, “No, I've made up my mind.”

“Oh, have you?” You mutter, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

“One of us has to be decisive.” He shrugs. “And I’ve decided you’ll get exactly what you’ve asked for. We’ll see how long it takes for you to back out.”

You pause, giving him a long look. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“You’re terrible at hiding your competitive streak.” Griffin smirks, and beckons you over with open arms.

Letting the coat fall from you once more, you relent, allowing Griffin to sweep you into his arms and pull you closer. He's so rarely affectionate like this, even when he has you sprawled out before him, belly-up and vulnerable to his ministrations. To be held by Griffin, and for him to let you hold him back, is a rare occasion indeed.

You're greedy with it, throwing your arms around his neck and attaching your lips to his own, leaning as closely into him as your bodies will allow. He's saying something, low and chortle-filled, but it’s muffled by the desperate press of your lips onto his. Your hands trace over his back and shoulders, the featherlight dance of your nails up the length of his neck sending shivers through Griffin’s body.

It's only as your hands tangle into the grown-out roots of his hair that Griffin pulls his face away from your own to focus on dragging you both to his cot. He seats you on it as quickly as he can without throwing you on it, and hunches forward to run his tongue over your bottom lip again.

You tug at his shirt, just as you kick your shoes and socks off to wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. “Take this off,” You gasp between each suck of his lips.

”Awfully bossy today.” But Griffin complies, freeing one hand to work expertly at the buttons of his shirt until you can push it off his shoulders and rake your fingers over the planes of his chest.

You don’t know if Griffin ever had any partners before you, it’s hard to say, and a much harder question to ask. Though, it’s one you don’t think you particularly need an answer to. Since the first time you kissed, he improved more rapidly than you could keep up with. Griffin is good at picking up skills, and stocking them into his arsenal.

He's good at listening for what makes you sigh the loudest, and what makes you arch into his touch the most. By this point, he has you practically wrapped around his finger.

You’re desperate to catch up.

You paw and pull at his pants until he finally relents and reaches down to unfasten his belt, allowing you to work the fabric down his legs until he can step out of them.

He leans over you, forcing your back to hit the soft blankets upon the cot, still nipping at your lips and leaving you gasping for air. Griffin’s hands fumble with the clasps of your bodice, the little metal hooks evading his thin fingers as he growls with frustration.

You huff a laugh, taking your own hands to assist him in shedding the extra layer, breathing a sigh of relief when it comes undone and Griffin can eagerly yank it away from your body and toss it elsewhere in the room.

“Need me that bad?” You murmur, your lips curled with amusement as he licks at them.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Griffin grunts back, surprising you.

Any smart response you might have had to that dies on your tongue as Griffin’s hands move to cup your breasts, palming at them and pulling your nipples between his fingers. You lean into the touch, relieved to be in his grasp, however cold his hands might be.

His lips fall down your jaw and over your neck, nipping and sucking as he pleases. You lean your head back to allow him better access as he does.

It isn’t long before his mouth is replacing his fingers, and his hands travel down to the soft white fabric of your panties. Griffin tugs them down your legs slowly, letting them hang at your knees as he ghosts his fingers over your thighs, massaging and kneading as the softness he finds there.

You unwrap your legs around him to shed the panties, legs parted almost embarrassing wide as Griffin leans back to survey the sight of you.

He must like whatever he sees, because he gives you that bone-chilling grin, full of mischief and danger. The one with enough fire in it to light every bomb he carries. The one that makes your pulse throb in your core.

Griffin must know it too, because he’s on you in an instant, tongue and teeth roaming your chest then trailing his lips upwards until he can press them against your own in slow but firm kisses that leaves your head spinning.

His hands hold your legs wider, if that was even possible, his knees resting on the edge of his cot to stay propped up over you. They squeeze and smooth over your inner thighs, getting closer and closer to where you need him.

He's teasing you, which isn’t anything new, but the amount of time he’s taking to savor your growing need has you wondering if it’s about more than his enjoyment.

“Too scared to touch?” You dare to bait him to a challenge.

Griffin’s eyes are flinty as they meet your own. “We have all night, I intend to take my time.”

Your legs push against his hold, working their way around his waist and yanking him closer to you. Only the thin layer of his briefs separates your most intimate parts, heat rushing through the fabric as Griffin’s eyes dart down to observe the sight.

“But I want you in me now,” You say coyly.

Griffin’s hands hold your hips down to the bed to prevent you from grinding against him, but you certainly try your best. The rough fabric stains with the wetness that spills from you, and you know you aren’t imagining the throb of his cock.

“Careful what you wish for,” Griffin hums.

His hand finds its way to your core, curling over your slick entrance with a long thin finger and then dipping into you. You gasp, both relieved and annoyed at the intrusion. But Griffin seems intent on having you on his fingers first, as he slips a second one into you and starts fucking them both through your heat.

Griffin’s fingers move languidly, massaging and tender as they stroke your insides. He finds the spot that has you squirming beneath him with relative ease, a practiced motion that only builds your frustration.

He's so good at this, so comfortable observing you come slowly undone for him. All while he remains perfectly in control.

“You always hold back on me.” You writhe beneath him as his fingers stroke through you relentlessly, your voice airy and high.

“How can I make it up to you?” Griffin asks, watching you with calm but vaguely amused curiosity.

“To imagine I would be the one in charge,” You huff a laugh, “I thought you didn’t like being told what to do.”

“That would be correct.” Griffin affirms, his finger slowing, but working you open wider with scissoring motions that have you keening. “If you were smart, you would take the opportunity. Unless you like letting me be in control.”

You moan in response, grinding your hips against his palm and jolting as the heel of his hand presses to your clit.

“Wouldn’t be surprising,” Griffin chuckles.

“Fuck—“ You curse, angling your hips to grind and arch into the motions of his fingers and the rough edge of his palm against your aching clit. All the while, he watches you with that same damning grin, so pleased and proud.

Something in you threatens to tighten, and your cunt drips down the bend of Griffin’s wrist as your walls throb around his fingers. Your voice grows in pitch and volume, close, so close to—

Griffin’s hand slips out of you.

You whine loudly, only to be shushed as Griffin sucks his fingers into his mouth to clean them. All you can do is watch as he does, helpless and needing and so close—

But he ruined it, and you can already feel your climax slipping away.

“Why?” You ask miserably, body still tense.

“You seemed like you were enjoying yourself,” Griffin replied, popping his fingers from his lips.

“And you just had to ruin it,” You grumble, glaring at him as he lowers down to his elbows over you.

Your faces nearly meet, his breath fanning over your face as his eyes shine with mirth. “You will survive,” Griffin says smoothly, “I’m not so cruel that I would deny you entirely. Not after such a good show.”

“Doubtful,” You mutter, avoiding his gaze as he squints at you warningly.

But true to his word, Griffin delivers. His hips press forward towards your own as he grinds the outline of his cock against your soaking core, the fabric sending sparks through your body as its rough material catches over your clit.

“Aren’t you going to put it in?” You ask breathlessly.

Griffin fixes you with an incredulous look. “Going any further than this is too much of a gamble.” Irritation builds in the wrinkles of his expression. “Children are a commodity I don’t think anyone can afford right now,” He says, then adds, “Much less want.”

You blank-stare him, then burst into laughter, which only deepens the annoyed creases along his face.

“No, no,” You try to speak through your laughter, reaching at his shoulders as he moves to back away, grumbling something under his breath. “I just can’t believe you thought I would come in here and ask you to fuck me without any plans for handling that.”

Griffin’s lips pull into a thin line, suspicion pinning you to the cot as he raises a thick brow.

“I’m the medically inclined one, as you say,” You continue, and Griffin slowly starts leaning back into your touch. “There are ways to take care of that, ones that aren’t traumatizing.”

“That is the type of statement you open with,” Griffin says crossly, but his nose nudges against your own. “You didn’t have to wait until I’m in my underwear to tell me about that.”

“Oh, but you love lecturing me” You say, kittenish.

“I enjoy teaching you a lesson.” Griffin grabs you by your hips, and before you can fully process his intentions, you're being flipped onto your stomach.

You blink as he helps you onto your knees, leaving your face pressed against his cot sheets, and your dripping slit on full display for him.

It's an embarrassing position, one he’s never put you in before. But you would be lying if you said it didn’t ignite something within you.

Griffin is eerily quiet as he shuffles above you, hands still on your hips. His knees knock against your own as he moves further onto the cot, making space for himself between your legs.

Your cunt still aches with your ruined orgasm, this position only making you feel more empty than before. It is easy to forget your momentary amusement, the distant bitterness baiting you towards defiance.

Taking his sweet time, Griffin only tempts you further by running his long fingers over your lower back in appreciation of your delicate arch. It's comforting, but it isn’t what you need. You need him inside you, need to feel his skin pressed to yours in as many places as possible. You need him.

You nearly whine, frustration flaming in your chest as you impatiently jut your hips up towards him. Just as you feel the brush of his skin against your own, Griffin pulls his lower body away suddenly.

This time, you do whine.

“None of that. Either you behave or we take a break to focus on discipline instead,” Griffin says, his tone even. He sounds so utterly composed that you bury your face in the comforter out of embarrassment from your obvious desperation.

“You’re going to punish me for wanting you?” You mumble into the sheets miserably, the ache at your core throbbing.

Griffin pinches your side, making you yelp. “Don’t twist my words,” He warns, “A smart mouth will not get you far with me.”

“So you won’t spank me?” You give him a heady look, your lashes fluttering as you wiggle your hips at him, almost mockingly.

The corner of Griffin's lips quirk up. “Tempting offer.” His hand caresses over the curve of your ass, pausing to squeeze at it. “I’m not sure how much of a punishment it would be for you though. Maybe if you ask with that sweet voice of yours, I’ll consider it.”

You push your face further against the comforter, trying to hide the darkening hue of your face. “And whatever happened to ‘making it up to me’ ?”

Griffin’s eyes go dark. “Smart mouth, Dear,” Griffin says, just as his hand raises and then lands heavy over your cheek, shocking a half-moan from you. “It’s not a fair game unless you are the one winning, is it?”

There’s a ruffling sound behind you, the sound of his briefs hitting the floor. You make a high noise of desperation, trying to peek back at him—

His hand lands on your other cheek this time, as stinging and quick as the first. You bite your lip to muffle the humiliating sound that threatens to pour from your mouth.

“Patience,” Griffin reminds you, scolding as a teacher might. As he might, your mentor.

He leans over you again, his body shadowing you from the glowing candle light. He doesn’t radiate warmth or comfort, but something much more important. Something like security. Something akin to certainty that you’re guarded like this.

You angle your hips at him, keeping quiet but hoping he can see the pleading look in your eye as you blink at him blearily.

Finally, finally, you feel him. Phantom light as the delicate press of his cock meets your cunt. You nearly vibrate with anticipation, reminding yourself to breathe. You’ve waited for this for so long, embarrassingly long.

Your bottom lip trembles from its place between your teeth, fists curled tight into the comforter.

“Poor thing,” Griffin coos, but there is a near sadistic lilt to it, you can hear the cruel curl of his lips.

You still, heartbeat in your throat as the tip of his cock glides over your entrance. He slides through your folds, slick and warm and inviting. When he pulls back to do it again, he gets caught in the dip of your lips, nearly pushing into you when he moves to slide over your entrance again.

Griffin makes a low content sound, and you can hear the way his breathing grows more shallow.

It’s driving you crazy, not being able to see what’s happening, especially when you can feel Griffin’s eyes glued to where his leaking tip threatens to slip into you.

“Reminding you one last time, this is a bad idea,” Griffin’s voice wanes, an edge of carnal want rasping his words.

“Please just fuck me already,” You groan back at him, knowing better than to taunt him with your hips again.

Griffin does not need to be told twice. In a fluid easy movement, he pushes his cock into you. You gasp, body stiffening as he stretches you apart and forces himself deeper into your waiting heat. You’re so wet that the connection is almost instantaneous, making your head spin.

Griffin isn’t long, but he is thick. You have to shuffle your hips around and widen your legs a little, just to better accommodate the size of him. The stretch alone has you clenching down on him harder.

“Ease up, you’re…” Griffin makes a strangled sound behind you, caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp for air, “Tight.”

You moan back, leaning into his grasp as he holds your hips firm—perhaps to steady himself— and rocks experimentally into you.

You go slack against the comforter, jaw dropping open as his tip kisses your cervix once, twice, and then again and again.

He eases out of you, and glides back in just as smoothly. The wet sound of his cock spreading you open each time has heat rushing to your already flushed cheeks.

It feels good, so good. The way his hands run up and down your torso and over the curve of your ass, finding their way to your waist and helping you into a pretty arch for him. How he leans forward to press his lips to your shoulders and neck, teeth and lips undoubtedly leaving marks over the expanse of your skin. Him plunging into you with every rock of his hips into your own.

You tell him as much too, “Feels ‘so good,” You mewl into the sheets, clawing at them with weak fingers.

“That right?” He asks huskily. His fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you back to meet his thrusts as his hips smack into you.

Griffin’s rhythm picks up, pumping into you more quickly, and you swear you feel his cock twitch. You’re quickly becoming a mess beneath him, each drag of his dick as he pulls you back and forth along the length of him sending tremors through your body.

“Please,” You gasp, desperate and wanting.

“Hm?” Griffin leans close to your ear, bringing a hand up to lace it into your hair and tilt your head back so he can better hear you. “You’re a clever girl, use your words.”

“Harder,” The plea comes out as a whine, and if you were in any better state of mind you would be humiliated by how needy you sound. “Please, harder, Griffin.”

Griffin slows to a grind, rolling his hips into yours as deeply as your body will take him. The press of his cock head against your cervix has stars dancing in your eyes as your hips twitch in his hold.

“Griffin,” You moan his name again, reaching a hand back to try and claw at his skin.

His pelvis meets yours with a harsh slap, one that he repeats over and over again, returning to his former swift pace. The cot creaks precariously beneath you, but you hardly notice over the sound of Griffin fucking himself deeper into you.

It’s wet and loud and depraved. His groaning and your low moans. It’s all too much.

His name falls from your lips more times than you can count, each time spurring him further and further as he fucks himself harder into you, splitting you on his cock.

“Gonna cum,” You nearly sobbed, that mounting feeling from earlier building inside you once more.

Wordlessly, he slips out, and you choke on a whimper, peeking over your shoulder to protest or perhaps beg for him to continue; but the sight of him steals your breath away.

Griffin’s face is tinged with a crimson color over the curves of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, sweat gleaming from his forehead and over the harsh angles of his chest. He holds his cock tight around the base, his features tight with struggle.

“No—“ You gasp, realizing what he’s doing and reaching back for him.

Griffin halts, hand still wrapped around his leaking cock that twitches within his grasp, breathing heavy as he stares at you with half-lidded eyes.

“Inside,” You say, forgetting to feel embarrassed.

Griffin shakes his head. “I know better than—“

“Please,” You beg, letting your head fall to the comforter and arching the best you can for him, taking your outstretched hand to part your lips again for him. “I already told you there’s nothing to worry about, so please… cum inside me.”

Griffin stills, glancing between your pleading eyes and your cunt, which glistens invitingly under the dull candle light. He curses, face drawn into a tight scowl as he shuffles.

“You’re full of bad ideas today,” He breathes, releasing his cock and moving to hold your lips apart for you. “It’s going to get us both in trouble.”

In lieu of an answer, you take your now free hand and grasp his length, lining it up with your entrance and pushing your hips back into him. His cock head catches at your entrance, and for a split second you’re worried Griffin will pull away, but instead his hips meet yours in a harsh thrust that knocks the wind from your lungs.

Then he does it again, brutal and bordering on frantic as he pounds into you repeatedly. You choke on your moans, limbs melting as that coil threatens to tighten within you.

“You can handle it?” Griffin rasped from over you, though you weren’t sure if he was strong enough to stop now even if you said couldn’t.

You nod your head as quickly as you can muster, reaching a hand down to run circles over your clit. “Everything, I want everything. Please just cum inside—” The words spill from your mouth just as you spill over the edge, walls clamping down tightly on Griffin’s cock.

Your legs tremble with the effort to remain arched, even as your body tenses and jolts beneath him. Griffin is moaning in your ear, rough and low. He pumps himself through your orgasm, despite how you clamp down on him.

A moment later Griffin is cumming with you, his spend pouring into your cunt and filling your inside with white and heat. You whine, squirming at the feeling, but Griffin holds you firm.

Heavy breathing is the only sound in the room as Griffin manages to pull his softening length from out of your hole, leaning back to give you space.

You sink down to the cot, your hips and insides aching as you feel Griffin’s release spill from you. With your remaining strength, you roll over onto your back.

Griffin falls onto the cot beside you. It's a tight fit. The cot is made for one person, and it's a miracle it survived the abuse you just put it through.

“Next time,” You breathed, chest still rising and falling unevenly, “I want to watch.”

Griffin turns his head to face you, brows pinched. “What do you mean?”

You turn your head to face him as well. “I mean I want to see it when you’re inside me. I want to know if it looks as good as it feels.”

Griffin has the audacity to look sheepish as he faces away from you again. “No you don’t. You shouldn’t say crass things like that.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” You grin, rolling to lay on your side and slot yourself against him.

“You know, you’re supposed to be the reasonable one, but you’re a real piece of work.” Griffin huffs, but does not fight you as you throw a leg over him. Instead, his hand just finds its way to your hair, ruffling it perhaps a little harder than necessary. “I don’t know why I bother.”

You laugh, “That's what I'm here for though, right?”

Griffin squints at you. “I’m not sure I need you here for anything.”

“Nonsense,” You insist, pressing a kiss to his jaw lovingly. “You said it yourself, who else will keep you on your toes?”

Holding you just a little closer, Griffin’s voice lowers to a soft caressing murmur. “Who else would bend over so nicely for me?”

You hit his chest. “You can kiss me goodbye when I leave for Canada.”

[gr1ffins]

Rules of a Gentleman

hello! how are you? i’d like to request something for griffin… maybe the reader is robin’s friend and griffin is unsure on how to approach her? also he’s like, afraid to open up and keep pushing his feelings away! could be modern au or canon

Griffin x fem!reader

Warnings: modern au, some cursing

Note: it is done!!! It´s not much concerning the opening up etc., but i hope you still enjoy <3

Words: ~780

Navi.

There are unspoken rules and while he is the first to declare the idiocy of the concept, he does adhere to them, sometimes. For one, he knows that one should not go for a friend's girl. And his younger brother's cute little friend is definitely - definitely - off limits as well.

He's cussing out non-existing gods for getting him into this situation, watching with narrowed eyes while you scutter through the kitchen. You're wearing an awfully lovely dress, he notes, and there is a hint of a smile lingering on the corner of your lips, as if it´s desperately clinging on to you. He tries to remember why he agreed to picking you up; but between Robin calling him gēge and your hopeful eyes brimmed with pretty lashes that flutter so sweetly, he didn't stand a bloody chance.

When you flit past him - murmuring about something that you had forgotten in your bedroom - he gets a whiff of your perfume or body-wash; whatever it is, it's floral (but what does he know?) and it smells so good, he wonders if you like flowers and if he should get you some.

It's even worse in the car. He briefly thinks about crashing the vehicle, just to get out of the situation, but decides against it. Amidst your rambling, a giggle bubbles up and his heart squeezes so tightly he has to catch himself from toppling over.

"Are you okay?" you interrupt yourself, the pad of your fingers hovering over his heated cheeks. He shudders at the hint of your touch, cursing himself at the same time.

"No, fuck, yes, I'm fine," he manages to bite out, cringing internally at how harsh he must have sounded. Nice going Griffin.

"But you're flushed."

"'s probably your imagination," he lifts a hand from the steering wheel to tap you on your forehead.

He can hear you pout as you shook your head, although, to his surprise, you do not pry. Then again, you tend to do that. Back off before he can withdraw. His jaw tenses, but he keeps quiet.

The festival is far too full for his liking. He squints, clearly unhappy with his situation, but still follows you, hands deep in his pocket. Then, for a moment, he loses sight of you. His back straightenes, nervous eyes flitting through the crowd. He pulls his hands from his pockets, about to push his way through the group in front of him. Finally, some people move to the side and he catches a glimpse of you - looking around, confused, evidently searching for him. His posture slackens again, and he gives a lazy wave. He grumbles when he sees how your eyes light up at the sight, but his voice is lost in the noise. When you fight your way back towards him, his body folds into itself even more.

"If you like, you can hold onto my bag, so we don't lose each other." Griffin flinches as your fingers brushe against his knuckles. "Oh, sorry," you murmur and he has to suppress a shudder at the sound.

He wants to reply - say anything - tell you to quit running, to look where you're going, to just keep close to him, before you get hurt or actually lost (Robin would kill him if that happened), but he only shakes his head - A little bit too aggressively perhaps he realises too late and curses himself. Still, there you are smiling at him with that sweet look in your eyes and so, clasping the band of your bag tight, he starts to lead you through the masses.

"If you like, I´ll buy you some mead," you playfully bump against his shoulder.

"Am I not supposed to do that?"

You furrow your eyebrows, a bewildered but amused smile playing on your lips

"I mean...you picked me up and drove me here..." Griffin shrugs and looks away. He jumps when he feels the tip of your finger lightly tracing his cheeks. "Sorry, they seemed a little pink."

For a moment, he simply stares at you, eyes wide in both surprise and what at first looks like anger, but you had learned to see right through him. (Damn you, he thinks.) A laugh escapes you.

"You´re so sweet, playing gentleman for me today?"

"Fucking Christ, don´t let it go to your head," he groans, eyes squeezing shut in exasperation. "Robin asked me to get you here safely, alright?"

"Sure, sure." He doesn't look at you, staring intently at some stalls farther away. Still, he can here the smile in your voice.

Carefully, you loosen his grip on your bag. He doesn't jump this time, there is only a twitch in his jaw and the blossoming red on his cheeks when your gentle fingers lace with his, letting you pull him through the crowd with that damning sweet smile of yours.

He was never good with rules anyways.

[gr1ffins]

glances

glances away

xydia. i love you. you're so sweet omg i feel so special AHHHHHH lmao i think i have to start pulling my weight & contributing to the fandom. i've been in fandom spaces for YEARS and i'd only consume and support the media, but never share any of my thoughts because 1) i was young and 2) i was very self-conscious lol. i will perhaps post a drabble soon as my first serious fanfic ever and dedicate it to you <3

THIS IS SO SWEET IM????

first of all thank you😭 you’ve been supporting me so consistently i don’t even have the words to express my gratitude.

second, i think you totally should!!! if you feel like writing something, do it! don’t question yourself, just write it and have fun! my messages are always open if you want to discuss it more, i’m so thrilled for you🥹

third, i’m like 75% done with the fic i think? it’s hard to tell until the scenes properly stretch out and i get a handle on how much dialogue there should be, but im going to try and cap it soon because i just want to release it, so keep your eyes peeled🫡

[gr1ffins]

xydia. i love you. you're so sweet omg i feel so special AHHHHHH lmao i think i have to start pulling my weight & contributing to the fandom. i've been in fandom spaces for YEARS and i'd only consume and support the media, but never share any of my thoughts because 1) i was young and 2) i was very self-conscious lol. i will perhaps post a drabble soon as my first serious fanfic ever and dedicate it to you <3

THIS IS SO SWEET IM????

first of all thank you😭 you’ve been supporting me so consistently i don’t even have the words to express my gratitude.

second, i think you totally should!!! if you feel like writing something, do it! don’t question yourself, just write it and have fun! my messages are always open if you want to discuss it more, i’m so thrilled for you🥹

third, i’m like 75% done with the fic i think? it’s hard to tell until the scenes properly stretch out and i get a handle on how much dialogue there should be, but im going to try and cap it soon because i just want to release it, so keep your eyes peeled🫡

[gr1ffins]

your prof is a total bum tf!!! anyway props to you for planning on confronting him about it, i have literally no backbone in college and i just take the L :( lmao but yeah you're clearly so hard working and intelligent proud of u <3

i think the worst part of all this, is that he’s the funniest professor i’ve ever had. he needs to pack it up and go into comedy instead, bc i can’t take another lecture of trying to not laugh just to spite him. it infuriates me.

i understand not wanting to do anything in college to stir the pot though. professors talk, and recommendations are everything. i’m luckily privileged enough that no professors opinion of me will ever dictate the opportunities i can afford.

thank you for the kind words <3 everyone being empathetic about this has helped me feel better about the whole thing. i was kinda coming undone yesterday LMFAO

[gr1ffins]

emotionally i am here again.

i’ve been working on a drabble (which has evolved into a fic bc i lack self control), and had to completely postpone and practically detach from reality for focus entirely on studying calc for the week because i had an exam today.

why was i freaked out? because on monday, he gave us a progress check quiz, and when i turned it in he (and i cant make this up) made a FACE, and then said to me “you know you’re always welcome to email me if you need extra help”. so, naturally, i think “great i just bombed that. how humiliating.” so i completely reroute myself and learn all of our topics from the ground up again to make sure im not doing anything wrong, because why would he say that and be so rude about it?

he hands back our quizzes today before the exam, and guess what? i got every question right, he just didn’t like the formula i used because i “wasn’t supposed to know it yet.” knocked off one point on every question simply on the principle that he didn’t like my method, despite my work and answers being correct. i was furious. i am still furious. i wasted so much time this week thinking i was going to fail calc 2 because of this asshole. don’t even get me started on what he put the the fucking exam.

all this to say, i’m sorry to everyone who has been trying to reach me in my inbox, i’m free this weekend finally and can get back to you, as well as finally finish writing that fic.

i have never in my life viscerally despised a professor or teacher like this before

[gr1ffins]

To continue my theory on this, I firmly believe Griffin was brought over from Macau to London at age 6, maybe 7. When Lovell travelled to Macau to collect Griffin, he stopped at Canton first, and got Robin’s mother pregnant with him.

This would make sense for Griffin’s story of being far too young to remember anything from that time. Maybe they went to Canton after Griffin was picked up, as Griffin himself says “I don’t remember if i ever went to Canton.” We will possibly never know.

So, my amendment to this post is that Griffin is Robin’s older brother by 7 years, or as close to 7 years as possible. This would make sense with the plot as well, as the second Griffin was out of Lovell’s house in Hampstead at 18 to attend Babel, Lovell could leave to go collect Robin and begin raising him.

This fact still breaks my heart, as Lovell did not do this with any of his other children, only Robin and Griffin. This so heavily implies that Lovell knew, even before Griffin started his first class at Babel, that he was going to fail. He knew from day one that he was going to need a backup for whenever Griffin failed to fulfill the purpose he had brought him to London for.

Imagine being raised by someone who so clearly believes you are a failure. Imagine how hard Griffin tried to fix that, how many hours he spent poring over assignments and trying to piece together his mother tongue to make it up to his father. Imagine how bitter and cold Griffin must have felt when he finally came to terms with that fact that none of it mattered, and that he was always doomed to fail, because that was the exact system he had been set up in.

He could never return to China, because he had been raised in England and being an Englishman is all he has ever known. He would never belong in England because at the end of the day he still looks like a Chinaman. That line about being lost at sea, about being without any coast. He wasn’t just saying that for Robin, he was saying it for himself.

Hermes is all Griffin has, it is his only flag to fly. It is the only thing he can die by because where else is he needed, truly?

Been up very late thinking about how old everyone is in Babel, because it’s not something ever directly spoken about in the book, save for Robin in the first chapter.

Kuang leaves just enough details for us to put together the ages of characters. I like that she doesn’t explicitly say things, and makes you figure it out.

Spoilers below!

‘So where are you from?’

‘Canton.’

‘I was born in Macau. I don’t remember if I ever went to Canton. So then, when did he bring you over?’

‘To London?’

‘No, you dolt, to Manila. Yes, London.’

His brother, Robin thought, could be quite an ass. ‘Six — no, seven years ago now.’

‘Incredible.’ Griffin turned left onto Banbury Road without warning; Robin hastened to follow. ‘No wonder he never went looking for me. Had something better to focus on, didn’t he?’

Chapter Five, pages 95-96.

The year is 1836, and this is Robin’s first year attending Babel, his first week in fact. We know that Robin was taken in by Lovell at 11, so he’s 18 in this scene. (‘…seven years ago now.’)

This confirms students are 18 when they begin attending Babel, and then 22 by the time they graduate in their 4 year. I’ll be using this as my basis.

We still don’t have any confirmation on how old Griffin is. Until a scene much later in the book.

‘Keep it,’ said Professor Lovell.

‘Sir?’

‘I have been staring at that bar everyday for the past five years, wondering where I went wrong with Griffin. If I had raised him differently, or seen him earlier for what he was, if Evie would still — but never mind.’ Professor Lovell’s voice hardened.

Chapter 15, page 268.

The year is 1839, Robin and his cohort have just concluded their third year at Babel. They are all 21 years old, maybe 20 if they have birthdays late in the summer. This segment implies that Evie was killed five years before this, in 1834, just two years before Robin arrived at Babel.

Let me restate this:

Robin was already 16 when Griffin killed Evie. And how old was Griffin when he killed Evie?

As they flipped through the ledger, another theory became more evident. Evie had been wildly prolific between the years 1833 and 1834, but by 1835, her research had dropped completely off the record. Not a single innovation in the past five years. They'd never met an Evie Brooke at any of the departmental parties or dinners; she’d given no lectures, no seminars. Whoever Eveline Brooke was, as brilliant as she'd been, she was clearly no longer at Babel.

'Hold on,' said Victoire. 'Suppose she graduated in 1833. That would have put her in the same class as Sterling Jones. And Anthony!’

And Griffin, Robin realized, though he did not say this out loud.

'Perhaps she was also lost at sea,' said Letty.

'A cursed class, then, that,’ observed Ramy.

The room suddenly felt very cold.

Chapter 13, page 230.

So, Griffin’s cohort graduated in 1833. They would’ve been 22, at that time. Evie died in 1834, so she was just barely 23, at best. Griffin died in 1840, so he was, at oldest, 29.

Same with Anthony and Sterling. It’s very likely they were all still 28, as during the hostile takeover over of Babel, Hilary term (January-March) barely began:

They'd chosen a good day for revolution.

It was the first day of term, and one of the rare days in Oxford when the weather was deceitfully marvellous; when its warmth promised more sunshine and joy than the relentless rain and sleet Hilary inevitably brought.

Chapter 26, page 447

Considering they died just before this, I think it’s safe to assume Griffin, Anthony, and Sterling were all 28. This means they were likely 24 when the story began.

So, to conclude, Griffin is Robin’s older brother by 6 years.

I do find it very in-character for Professor Lovell to have never told Griffin about Robin, even outside of plot reasons. It’s mentioned many times that Professor Lovell only speaks about things when he deems it absolutely necessary, and is otherwise very vague. He would have no reason to tell Griffin about Robin, because that would imply he cares to some degree.

It would be, in some strange form, acknowledging they are family. Why else would Griffin need to know? So yes, I think Professor Lovell would’ve completely omitted the fact Griffin has a brother, just as he did with Robin’s other siblings still in China.

It’s entirely possible that if Griffin continued to stay undercover at Babel, he would’ve just been smacked in the face one day with the fact he has a half brother. In the middle of Babel. The possibility makes me hysterical.

[gr1ffins]

Griffin's similarities with Lovell make me sick. He sounds like his father more often than not. It's almost like he looked upto his father at some point of his life. But that's the point right? The world needed both their qualities at the end. The world needed both Lovell's self centred, logical mind and Griffin's violence and Robin had to carry both their qualities in his softer heart to carry on. The process of Lovell leaving a mark on Griffin and then Griffin leaving a mark on Robin is almost prophetic. Robin almost transformed info Griffin in his last days. It's a complete cycle.

[gr1ffins]

even though he is super prickly and hates outward displays of affections, i do believe Griffin enjoys being that person for you. some small, unfamiliar part of him enjoys the normalcy you bring into his life.

reading a book on his cot, waiting for him to finish whatever it is he’s working on and just keeping him company in the evening. leaning against him to take a quick nap on the train while he watches out the window. finding little notes and doodles you’ve left hidden for him.

it’s those domestic, trivial human experiences he thinks about whenever you get hurt or go off on a mission on your own. it’s the things about you he thinks he might miss the most, if something were to happen. the way in which you just sing, breathe, and live in easy happiness, and how you bring it into his life like it’s always belonged there.

don’t ask him about any of this, god forbid, he’ll tell you those things are the exact reason he spends so much time away, where you can’t pester him with your nonsense.

[gr1ffins]

i like the idea!! you should get married to it, i'll officiate the wedding. i'm seeing sooo much potential for jealousy (griff being jealous of mc & sterling, but also mc being jealous of griff & another operative (maybe even dead evie but that's far lmao)), lots of second-guessing, tension, yearning, some nastiness from griff, DEF from sterling especially if he drops his veneer of civility around mc when it comes to british imperialist missions in burma (which was the whole political thing for their cohort), mc coming into contact with prof lovell (could you imagine the bitterness?? how they might see griff as the abused boy instead of the sharp mentor, and how that may translate to pity and how griffin hates pity yadda yadda im getting carried away LMAOO) etc etc. point is, you can do LOTS with this it sounds very yummy.

drawback is this is a lot of research especially for a long fic i worry for your health!! please take many many breaks. hope you've been well since yesterday <33 excited to see your work!!

verdict is in🎉 sterling will be mc’s mentor as you go undercover at babel.

this specific ask gave me such a devious idea i couldn’t answer it until i had sat down and written the entire scene out. when the chapter for it finally drops, i’ll finally disclose what it was that this made me think of, but until then be scared. be worried. prepare for the worst.

all your ideas were absolutely things i’ve been considering!!! i’m very excited to play around with sterling’s character since we know so little about him. i’m phenomenal at writing annoying assholes, so i’m going to have a field day with him.

PROFESSOR LOVELL. MAN. i’m gonna have SUCH a hard time writing him. i don’t think i’ll include him too much, but i do want to capitalize on that idea you just shared. i think it would be great for mc to start asking griffin questions, and perhaps get some tension rolling in their relationship. many ideas indeed. the same can be said about what i plan to do with robin and his cohort.

but yes!!! so much research. so much work ahead of me. i’m already overwhelmed just thinking about it. the good news is that im already halfway done with my classes!! i’ll be free before the end of june if all is well, and then i’ll have two months of literally fuck all to do except write, so i’ll be cranking these out in days probably 😭😭 we’ll see

and thank you for asking🥹 i am feeling so much better. i had so much work to catch up on for classes and it’s super miserable but im managing. im halfway done with a wip im planning to post in a few days if all goes well too!! so keep your eyes peeled