hello, please call me xydia. my main account is @floatinfantasy . this is my little self indulgent side-blog, and iâd like to share some simple rules with you:
âł this blog is strictly 18+. not all my content is 18+, but i simply donât want minors interacting with me or my work. if you choose to ignore my wishes and interact with my content anyway, and i catch it, i will block you.
âł i donât take requests, although i do love to share interests and thoughts with others! never be afraid to send in an ask, but please donât demand any work from me.
âł please do not repost my work onto any other platforms or feed my content to ai! i do not condone the use of ai, and i certainly donât condone taking someoneâs material. please be respectful.
besides that, thank you for dropping by! my ask box is open to anyone wishing to share their thoughts or just chat. feel free to make yourself comfortable and stay awhile.
Feel more than free to ignore this request, thereâs absolutely no pressure 𫶠But youâre like one of the only people on the internet writing for Griffin soooo⊠Could you maybe write something for him of when he realizes he has feelings for reader? Like the âoh shitâ moment? I also like to think of Griffin as someone who is very much in denial regarding his own feelings for a long time especially considering what happened last time he had feelings for someone. So bonus points if the reader is completely aware of their own feelings and very nonchalant about the whole thing. Reader knows they like him, so the figured might as well take it slow, eventually Griffin will realize it as well.
Once again no worries at all about writing this!!! Take your time and I hope youâre well!
Thank you sm that's so sweet!! There are a couple more, if you wanna check out my incredible moots @gr1ffins and @scrumdiddlywhumptious, absolute incredible works!!! (hope i didn't forget anyone, if so lmk!!!)
Home
Griffin x fem!reader
Warnings: modern au
Wordcount: 1k
You had long settled into a comfortable rhythm. He woke earlier - not one to sleep much anyway - and by the time you stumbled out of your bedroom, hair mussed and dream still clinging to your lashes, he greeted you with an amused "Look who the cat dragged out. Already?", flighty eyes unable to stop themselves from glancing at the tea he'd prepared, steeped to your own personal perfection.
You'd hum a thanks, sighing into the warm gust coating your skin, and then the taste, a sweet bitterness on your tongue, slowly pulled you awake.
In the evening, after boring events and secret meetings, waiting for him was a smell that made him realise that he was hungry, watching warily as you rose from your seat on the worn-out sofa to wordlessly prepare two plates. The silence was comfortable, at least it always had been. But lately, it had started to settle on him heavily.
"What'd you put in there?" he murmured, one night.
"Hm?" You briefly glanced at him before digging back into the food. His gaze remained on you, the flutter of your lashes as you relished, the tip of your tongue darting out to catch sauce attempting to run its course down the corner of your lips. His finger twitched.
"It tastes good."
You laughed. "Then say that."
"'s it those new spices you got?"
You hummed, trying to catch another potato with your spoon, though it proved harder than expected, always slipping down again. "Among other things, yeah."
"Did you go to the park?"
"What?" The spoon stopped mere inches before your mouth and the potato fell back unto the plate. You didn't seem to notice, looking at Griffin in surprise.
He shrugged, hoping you wouldn't see the red crawling up his neck. "The weather was good."
"I - yeah, I guess it was." You shook your head with a smile. "I went downtown for a bit. Got myself a new book."
"Nice," he nodded and turned his attention back to his food. The clink of your spoon lowering back on your plate made him tense and he started to feel a little sick. Briefly, he wondered, if you had mixed something into his food, but he knew better than to believe his paranoia.
"What is going on with you today?" you laughed. "Since when do you want to chat? Full stop but this late especially? Did something happen?"
He shook his head and mumbled a "forget it" and was glad that you didn't press. If he thought about it, there were many things he was glad about. For one, he was glad for your smile. Then again, lately the comfort settling on his body at the sight did not come. Instead, he would feel sickness pool in his stomach, settling heavy and uncomfortable.
He had started to notice how sunlight caught in your eyes. It made his frown deepen and teeth catching the insides of his cheeks. His hand felt like lead whenever he patted you on the head, pointedly looking away when you would inevitably look up at him with a laugh on your lips, his jaw tense. There was something about you, no matter how firmly he set the bounds to your familiarity, no matter how much he insisted to himself that you were just a friend, not unlike a sister; it all felt inadequate. It all felt off.
But pushing you away was impossible; you were always around, you had even started to plague him in his dreams. His bed felt lonely. It hadn't felt lonely since he had been a little kid, cruelly dragged out of his first home by his father (not that he remembered more than that vague loneliness, like he'd lost something he had never truly known).
He was glowering more than usual, muttering unintelligibly when you asked him to drive you downtown, but already shuffling to get his keys. You noticed, christ you had to notice, and yet you never said a word. Nothing more than a glance and that was it. You fell into the new pattern far too quickly, far too comfortably. And he hated that it pulled him even deeper into dread.
It was a comfortable afternoon when it happened. A Sunday; the streets were calm where you lived, and as the golden sun fell into the room, he watched as you busied yourself in the kitchen.
There was much he didn't pride himself in. But he was always true to himself, and, if you asked him, that was an indispensable trait to have.
So then why did his eyes linger on your gloss-stained lips? His jaw tensed and he pointedly looked away, shaking your hand off his shoulder when you reached out to check on him. He felt guilty for it, even more so when he sneaked a look to check on you and found you now humming away as you shuffled around the living room.
You were different from Evie.
The thought startled him, and he was unsettled, asking himself where the thought had hidden itself away until now. Still, it held truth. You were different. You were intelligent and sweet and true to yourself in the way Evie had always portrayed herself as but never truly had been. You were stubborn, too, and your tongue could be sharper than a blade and he liked to think he had a hand in that. But what undid him, finally, was you. You in your entirety. You when you stayed up for him, sleep clinging to your lashes, tiredly stumbling to sit him down to eat, your hand warm in his. You when you pulled Robin into a hug, squeezing him tight and swaying to have him laughing in your arms. You when you were exhausted and sad, tears pooling in your eyes and seeking him out first. Out of everyone. And lastly; You and the comfort you brought. All patience. All peace. And maybe, just maybe, he could see it now, vague and fuzzy around the edges, but there nonetheless. A life he hadn't entertained in a long time; if ever. One where his eyes would linger on your lips before leaning in, brushing away a stray strand of hair, and pressing his mouth to yours, finally returned home.
Babelâs sequel is going to be a book shifting between victories and griffins perspectives. My two favs. Literally my top two. I want yall to know I will be INSUFFERABLE when kuang eventually gets around to writing it
Some people seem to misunderstand that Kuang is painting Robinâs self-sacrifice as noble, when I really didnât read it that way. If anything itâs emphasized that he was looking for an opening, a justifiable reason to take the âeasy way outâ, as Ramy put it. He even admits that Ramy was right. Robinâs death is a tragedy not because itâs righteous self sacrifice but because he couldnât overcome his own itch to martyr himself rather than live in shame and grief and discomfort, yet persevering. People think the protagonist has to be on a pedestal to be worthy of being the protagonist, but Kuang really doesnât try to put Robin on a high horse. Before they join the effort to stop the war against China, before they seize Babble, Robin is a coward. Heâs frightened, complacent, and indecisive. Afterwards, before the Westminster Bridge falls, heâs reckless, combative, impatient, and borders on uncompromising because heâs now fully converted to Griffinâs philosophy of violence. But heâs never some knight in shining armor. Heâs not some shining voice of reason or revolutionary strategy. Heâs just a scared boy. Thatâs what he is. Thatâs what heâs always been.
Hello! I read both your Griffin Lovell headcanon posts multiple times, and I adored them! I recently finished Babel and have been yearning for more content about the characters :') I noticed your requests for Griffin were open, so is it okay if I ask for headcanons/oneshot (whichever one is more comfortable for you) for him with a headstrong s/o who shares his philosophy of violence being necessary to achieve liberation? But they're also super adamant about Griffin and the other members of Hermes being careful during their missions - basically kind of like a mom friend who would tear the world apart for them.
Feel free to ignore this if you're not comfortable writing it or simply don't want to!! This is also an appreciation ask for your writing <3 have an amazing day!! :)
Aaaah hii thank you sm. I focused more on the caretaking part, I hope that's fine đ
Griffin x reader
Warnings: allusions to terrorism and gun violence obv, slight injuries and blood
Wordcount: prob like 100 or 200 not including headcanons
At first he's super uncomfortable with you and how you dote on him
You reel him in with passionate discussions that last until late at night
A moment later you gently push a cup of hot tea into his hands because he coughed a little
He literally jumps like a cat
The next day you're helping him build bombs again
He's unsure how to act around you for the longest time. Always on edge because he doesn't know if he gets to rant with you a little, or if you're going to "treat him like a kid" (his words not mine)
Hates it when you get tangled up in a fight to protect him
Also gets frustrated with himself, because he only ever gets gruff when you or someone else gets hurt. Meanwhile you treat him so delicately
And in his frustration he only gets mean - and you don't even seem to mind - which throws him even more for a loop
He isn't exactly jealous that you get along with all of the members, but he does realise that he is unable to show his care as openly and easily as you do and sometimes - especially with you and Robin - he wished he could
He does get a bit used to your care after a (long) while. He's still tense, but he knows now to just let you do your thing
"You're hurt too," he rasped, but let you tug his coat off to inspect the wound on his shoulder without a fuzz. Not anymore. "It's just a graze. 'm not a kid."
You sent him a little glare and turned back toward the injury. "I only got a couple bruises."
"With how you went at that soldier after he shot at me..." he trailed off. Rough fingers suddenly brushed over your right cheek. Your lashes fluttered and you looked up at him. He couldn't help but shudder and pulled back, a drop of blood still clinging to his fingertip.
A smile appeared on your lips when he let himself fall back in his seat. "'s not nearly as deep as yours though. I'm clever enough to not get shot."
When you finished, you met his lidded eyes from your spot on the floor. For a moment, you only watched each other. The way his skin always creased between his eyebrows. The way his lips were pressed into tension even now, in the safe house. You laid your head to the side, trying to figure out how to help him relax, and somehow that was what finally broke him. He pulled you up, cursing under his breath.
He huffed a laugh, but didn't respond, deciding to just let you patch him up in peace. Still, you felt his heavy gaze on you the entire time.
"You're evil, you know?" but you only laughed, knowing his antics well enough by now. And although he pressed your face into his shoulder, you could still spot the little blush covering his neck. You cuddled closer into his embrace, feeling safe with his heavy hand sprawled on your back, keeping you securely against him.
And with his body finally settling under your comforting weight, you were glad he finally allowed himself to rest just a little.
Been up very late thinking about how old everyone is in Babel, because itâs 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 doesnât explicitly say things, and makes you figure it out.
Spoilers below!
âSo where are you from?â
âCanton.â
âI was born in Macau. I donât remember if I ever went to Canton. So then, when did he bring you over?â
âTo London?â
âNo, you dolt, to Manila. Yes, London.â
His brother, Robin thought, could be quite an ass. âSix â no, seven years ago now.â
âIncredible.â Griffin turned left onto Banbury Road without warning; Robin hastened to follow. âNo wonder he never went looking for me. Had something better to focus on, didnât he?â
Chapter Five, pages 95-96.
The year is 1836, and this is Robinâs first year attending Babel, his first week in fact. We know that Robin was taken in by Lovell at 11, so heâs 18 in this scene. (ââŠseven years ago now.â)
This confirms students are 18 when they begin attending Babel, and then 22 by the time they graduate in their 4 year. Iâll be using this as my basis.
We still donât have any confirmation on how old Griffin is. Until a scene much later in the book.
âKeep it,â said Professor Lovell.
âSir?â
âI 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 â but never mind.â Professor Lovellâs 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; sheâd 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!â
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,â observed Ramy.
The room suddenly felt very cold.
Chapter 13, page 230.
So, Griffinâs cohort graduated in 1833. They wouldâve 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. Itâs 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 itâs 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 Robinâs 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. Itâs 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 wouldâve completely omitted the fact Griffin has a brother, just as he did with Robinâs other siblings still in China.
Itâs entirely possible that if Griffin continued to stay undercover at Babel, he wouldâve 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.
Where did you get 1836 as the year they start at Oxford? Robin was taken from Canton in 1828 and he says that was 7 years before starting at Oxford. 1828+7=1835 so their first term would start October 1835
In the epilogue it says that Victoire was born in 1820, so she was definitely younger than that! Iâm guessing she choose to go to Oxford early because of her difficult living situation in France
Hello!! Thank you for asking, I appreciate you pointing this out, as I forgot to mention the specific page.
Page 59, Chapter 3:
âOxford in 1836 was in an era of becoming, an insatiable creature feeding on the wealth which it bred.â
HOWEVER!! You are absolutely correct. If weâre going by the synopsis at the back of the book, which clearly says Robin was orphaned in 1828, how can he have started school in 1836 just 7 years later? Thereâs no timeline where that works.
Same with Victorie! If weâre to believe she was born in 1820, then she would be just 16 in 1836. But sheâs never mentioned to be younger than the others. I would assume this is because of exactly what you said. She was determined to get out of her circumstances as quickly as possible. A quick google search tells me that students were allowed to enroll at ages 16-17, so it wouldâve been no problem for her.
Itâs odd though, in the book, it says that the Cholera disease didnât hit until 1829 (page 5). Now, if Robin was 11 in 1829, and then 7 years later (1836) he attended Babel, then yes he would in fact be 18. So if we ignore the synopsis on the back cover of the book and go strictly by the writing inside the book, Robin is 18, and itâs safe to assume Griffin was 18 when he started as well, since Professor Lovell wouldâve had them start around the same age I feel (but I could be wrong! Thereâs no way to know without directly asking Kuang to confirm this herself).
You make a very good point about Victoire being 16 at the start though! Thank you so much for pointing that out, I probably wouldâve never caught it.
My assumption here would be that whoever wrote the synopsis for Babel made a simple mistake. This is something that should probably be mentioned to Kuang at some point, if anyone ever sees her during her book tours. Iâm sure she would like to know.
Iâm really happy you caught Victoireâs age though! As it opens a range of possibilities for the ages of all the characters. Itâs sad to think that despite likely being the youngest, Victoire was the most mature of her cohort.
You know what else is weird though? In chapter 3, page 50, Ramy says:
âI came in through Liverpool on a ship four years agoâŠâ
But in his Interlude chapter, page 272, it says:
ââŠin 1833, Sir Horace Wilson left Calcutta to take on the position of the first chair of Sanskrit at Oxford University. Mr. And Mrs. Mirza knew better that to protest when Wilson proposed to bring their son with him to England, and Ramy did not begrudge his parents for not fighting to keep him at their side.â
If Ramy left Calcutta in 1833, for his first statement to be correct, the year would need to be 1837. So, thereâs some inconsistencies even in the writing. Maybe Ramy had forgotten how long it had been since he was in Calcutta. Maybe it had felt like longer to him than it really had been. Maybe it had been nearly four years, and Ramy was just rounding. Itâs hard to say.
Regardless! Thank you again for bringing this to my attention. I had so much fun jumping back into the lore again, even if it was just momentarily. If I forgot to mention anything else, please feel free to let me know!
how have you been? that's really all i want to know to now tbh like as curious as i am on crooked teeth and whatever i'm just soooo glad you're back i didn't feel much motivation posting without you here PFFFTTTT
really though so happy you're back <333333333 gimme alllll the updates!!!!
hello hello hello!!
i am so good, how about you? so much has happened to me i canât imagine explaining it all or even trying to give you the footnotes.
as for crooked teeth, it is definitely on hold. i am not in a position to be writing a long term fic right now, even if i have many parts already set up for it. expect some stand-alones in the near future as i get a grip on writing griffin again!!
iâm very happy to be back! i definitely want to write more for griffin and explore some themes with him that have been clawing at the back of my mind, as well as start posting art more consistently too!
bro itâs so fun to see other babel fans out in the wild⊠all ten of us go crazy
i was just wondering what your thoughts on evie were as a person? sheâs always been a character that stuck out to me weirdly enough⊠she seems to be idolized by nearly everyone (even made PROFESSOR LOVELL tear up??? HUH??) and yet she betrayed griffin seemingly with no qualms about hurting him. she mustâve been quite a person lolol and i was wondering what youâd think she was like and how she interacted with the older cohort
this is like my second ask ever on this site so⊠yk sorry if iâm being awkward or anything. giggles
yes all ten of us are holding this ship DOWN.
evie is a character i have a complicated perception of. we only know of her through others eyes. i think the part of her that always sticks out to me most is that lovell cried over her. lovell, who continuously dismisses robinâs concerns over his mother, and displays such extreme misogyny throughout the book. who says âshe was only a womanâ when robin puts him in the hot seat for basically letting his mother die.
lovell, who rarely shows any real emotion besides frustration and anger outside of this moment. he never confronts issues, never mentions problems from the past. he simply sweeps them under the rug and moves on. he held onto evie though, kept the bar that killed her and thought of her every day for five years.
it tells me so much about evieâs character, and yet so little.
clearly she was a charismatic character, for everyone who has known her has been influced and impacted by her in some way. babel literally kept her table untouched for over five years. again, this is during a time when women are worth practically nothing, regardless of if they were white or not.
griffin and sterling both loved her openly enough for everyone to know it (again, even FIVE YESRS AFTER HER DEATH), and who knows what other characters were in love with her. she was incomparable in an intellectual way. no one could even compete. she was a once in a generation talent.
sheâs described as âbright, brilliant, beautiful evie.â which makes me think that she was just the perfect example of a white girl in that era. she was likely witty and pragmatic, but kind and mindful of herself. and of course, beautiful. and white. and very likely privileged.
i think she was probably the ringleader of her cohort. whatever she wanted, would happen. if she wanted to go somewhere, they probably went. if she wanted something, someone probably bought it for her. she was likely trying not to trip on how many men fell at her feet to court her. but i imagine above it all she was a very good actor, and played the role of a perfect, polite, and humble student who just wanted the best for herself and her friends.
griffin has always been politically motivated. i think evie must of had some quality to her that made him genuinely believe she could be coerced into hermes, and for him to fall in love with her. of at least he perceived her that way.
but evie at the end of the day was someone malicious and plotting enough to hide her true intentions from griffin for nearly two years. and then lured him into what she knew damn well would be his death. i will not take any other argument, she KNEW what was going to happen to him and she was proud of herself for tricking him so well. she was surrounded by older, crueler influences (as well as a very tight knit relationship with sterling, who we know is insane), that likely taught her all she knew about being terrible.
i think sheâs a phenomenal representation of how students who are idolized or glorified in highly competitive academic spaces become twisted in some way. iâve seen what it does to people. that type of praise, attention, and circumstance completely changes your character. i do wish we could have seen it more closely though.
my ideal for a prequel to babel about griffin, would actually be a story told from anthonyâs perspective. as much as i love griffin i just KNOW he would be a terribly unreliable narrator, and i really want to see the situation for what it is. but a story about griffins life from his own perspective would be within kuangâs trademark agonizing painful storytelling style, so who knows.
Warnings: mdni, smut, make-out session, unlocked classroom (exhibitionism?) but no-one walks in, reader implied to be shorter, modern au, cussing (i just love making my boyfie cuss!!), could be a bigger age gap but i was thinking 22-24 and 26-29 however just go with what you prefer âșïž, reader implied to be not very experienced/a virgin (i personally see Griffin the same way actually), reader knows some Japanese, not a lot of plot i'm sorry i rly just had a clear vision of them getting together đŁ , ah also they don't use condoms bc i didn't wanna but obvi do in real life
Notes: the teased chinese!tutor fic đ€ i'm actively learning jp not chin so i have kept actual language stuff to a bare minimum. Starting a chin basics class this semester though, so i might edit the story accordingly!
Autumn Event
Wordcount: ~2k
You were late. And the man in front of the class you should already be sitting in was far too young and far too good looking for you to be thinking straight. You only gave a nod in apology and sat down, head lowered and cheeks burning in embarrassment.
His eyes, dark and piercing, stayed on you for a moment, but then he turned back to the board and you finally started to breathe normally again.
His name was Griffin Lovell, called in by Mrs. Tyler who got pregnant over the holidays and apparently still had a favour owed. Evidently not happy with this course of events, Griffin ended up teaching the class this semester. Strict, but - as you realised quickly - an incredible teacher. Although, you couldn't yet tell if his looks and "down-with-the-system!" demeanour hidden within the thinly veiled jabs at the educational system were going to amp up your motivation for the subject, or ultimately distract you.
"Right. And if we look at the hĂ n zĂŹ we've got äœ nÄ meaning you, and ć„œ hÄo meaning good," he explained.
There is a groan from behind you. "Please don't tell me we have to learn them too," someone grumbled. Griffin raised an eyebrow.
"Look, I didn't make you sign up for this seminar." He turned back towards the board. "Although you guys'll mostly use pīn yīn-" there was an exhale of relief. Griffin grinned "- you'll still learn some basic one's. Actually, you know what, someone come up here and copy these hà n zÏ." His eyes met yours and you cursed yourself. Never make eye contact when they are looking for a volunteer. He motioned you over with a tilt of his head. Hoping no-one noticed the slight shaking of your hand, you walked toward the board.
Griffin raised his eyebrows in approval when you copied the characters nearly perfectly and your chest bloomed with pride. He came up behind you, tracing the words with his fingers.
"That was good," he told you - way too close, still, your breath evened out - "But this one has to be longer and this one-" he pointed at the other hĂ n zĂŹ, "-needs to be a little bit rounder." He stepped back and suddenly you felt nervous again. "Are you studying Japanese?"
You turned around, hoping the blush couldn't be spotted on your cheeks.
"Yeah."
He nodded appreciatively. "It shows. Good work...?" You answered your name. "Right, thank you. You don't suppose you could introduce yourself in Chinese?" His grin made your heart skip a beat.
The way he gripped the board pen was sensual, you were convinced of that by the third week. By the fifth, you imagined them tracing your lips and dipping into you. His eyes flickered toward you when you shuffled in your seat.
It only went downhill from there.
You liked how his hair always fell messily, as if he hadn't bothered fixing it after standing up in the morning. His eyes shifted quickly, but his gaze always laid heavy and firm while listening to a student. Whenever he walked past you in the hallway after class, coat fluttering behind him, his smell made you want to curl up and fall into deep slumber.
The descend was fast.
Soon, you stayed behind after class. What started out with you asking questions about grammar you had already understood or found somewhere online, evolved into him asking about your interests. Often, you sat on his desk kicking your feet and told him about your latest read while he packed his bag. At some point, he told you to call him Griffin when it was just you two.
But his behaviour always shifted when you two left the classroom. Just a curt nod and he was gone.
You shouldn't have been disappointed. While he wasn't a university professor per se, he was still your tutor. And yet; the way he looked at you when you joined his rants on grading and politics gave you a rush; his eyes gleaming in a way that told you he wanted more too.
Fingers brushing against wrists, breath tickling your skin. Smart girl, a secret whispered in your ear when you wrote the right hĂ n zĂŹ on the board. The air was sizzling in every class, and his jaw was tense whenever you waited for him, doe eyes looking up at him as if he was the only one you had ever trusted.
However, the end of the semester came sooner than you had anticipated. As always, you waited for class to end and for everyone to leave the room. Only you and him now. Slowly, you put away your books and stood up. He didn't look up, but then again, he never did. Not at first, anyways. You did see him hesitate when you went for the door instead of his desk. Your heart pounded in your chest, the nervousness nearly too much for you to handle. Finally, you reached out to close the door. That made him look up at last.
You turned back toward him, walking slowly, as if giving him a chance to tell you off. He only watched you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. When you reached the table, you put down your bag.
"What are you planning?"
You only send him a little grin.
"Who knows."
He snorted but didn't stop you as you came closer. Then, his eyes widened in understanding.
"Are you sure?"
You looked at him incredulously.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're my student."
You rolled your eyes.
"Barely," you huffed, but paused. For a moment, you simply gazed at him. The way his messy hair framed his face, a light blush covering his skin. Finally, you smashed your lips against his.
A startled groan escaped him at the impact. His hands, as though by instinct, immediately found your waist, stabilising you; his hold warm and secure.
Your hands reached up, tracing his chest to cup his cheeks. Eyes fluttering in pleasure, you saw how deep his eyebrows had furrowed. You pressed closer against him, pushing yourself further into his body. He untangled himself from you with a curse.
Blinking furiously, you studied the way his cheeks flushed down to his neck, and his chest rose and sank erratically. His hands remained on your hips, holding you firmly, but shaking ever so slightly, doing everything they could to keep temptation at bay.
Gently, you let your fingers trace his reddened neck; fingernails lightly scraping the side. His hands twitched - for a moment tightening their grip.
"Fucking stop for a second," he rasped out. You laid your head to the side, smiling. "Piece of-" he laid his head back and groaned. "Can't fucking let a man live, hm?" His gaze returned to you and he squeezed your sides. "Right, fuck them, 'm officially not working here anymore anyways. Could barely concentrate with you in first row every fucking week, y'know that?" The "pretty girl," was pressed against your lips in a quiet murmur. He turned you both around and placed you on top of his desk. With his left hand he took hold of your throat, gently grasping you.
You whined against him and you could feel an awfully cocky grin gracing his lips. Trying to get him back, you traced your nails against his neck. He shuddered and moaned. Finally, his fingers - the ones you had been fantasising about - went to undo the buttons of your blouse, hurriedly pushing the fabric down your shoulders.
"You're dangerous."
A giggle escaped you, lips hovering over his. "Yeah?"
He snorted and pinched your cheek. "Fucking menace. Pretty menace. Didn't even lock the door." He placed a chaste kiss on your mouth, but was quickly drawn in by the feeling, failing to stop himself from deepening the kiss.
Your fingers found his belt, but he pulled them back up. Only when they locked around his neck he tugged your skirt up to pool around your waist. "Don't have a condom on me," he murmured against your lips.
"It's safe today. As long as you're clean, I'm fine."
He snorted and shook his head. "What happened to my smart girl, hm? Never looked to me this irresponsible," he flicked your nose and watched your eyes crinkle with a laugh.
"Only for you, Griffin."
Chuckling, he slid your panties off and dropped to his knees to part your folds. His laugh broke off suddenly and he watched in rapt attention at the way sweet pearls clung to soft hair; unperturbed even when you tried to pull him away, embarrassed by his staring.
He grinned up at you, eyes glinting, and he dove in; a kiss, tongue darting out and mouth closing around your clit to suck and make your back arch.
The broken whine you let out made him hum against you and he spread your legs threatening to crush his head.
Fingers traced the line from your knee down the slope of your inner thigh until they found your hole; gently dipping in to probe your wetness. Deeming you ready, he entered you, slowly pumping at first one, then two fingers, stretching you to prepare you for his cock.
For a moment, he considered making you cum for him now, but a quick glance at the clock told him he didn't have that kind of time. So, when he felt you were ready to take him, Griffin pulled away from you and stood up to undo his belt and free his cock. He grasped your chin and kissed you while his length laid heavy against your opening.
You pouted at him, disappointed that he didn't even allow a glimpse at his no doubt pretty cock, but he didn't give you a chance to complain, only gripped your hips tight and pressed into you with a low groan. Forehead to forehead, lips to lips you stayed, holding onto him as he filled you up. He cussed when he felt your heat envelope him completely. Your head fell forward, mouth agape at the feeling of being stretched out. Slowly, Griffin dragged his hands up and down your side, trying to calm you. His warm breath fanned against your neck, and you focused on that, letting the tension in your body fall away.
"Good girl," he murmured and placed a kiss on your temple. Carefully, he started to move. Hissing when your walls clung to him tightly as he pulled out only a little before pressing back in. To ease you into the feeling, he started with slow and gentle thrusts; hitting you not too deep. Still, he felt you shiver with every stroke of his cock, drawing sweet mewls from your kiss swollen lips.
Overwhelmed by you, he let his face drop to your shoulder. He breathed in your scent, hips stuttering and ripping a high pitched moan from you.
"Fuck," he reached up to cover your mouth with his palm. Lips slick from combined spit caressing his skin. He shuddered and pressed further into you, feeling you moan against his hand and making you shake in his embrace. "C'mon pretty girl. We're still in uni-" his murmur cut short by a groan when you clenched around him. "...Shit, fuck we need to be quiet."
He ground his hips into you deep, hoping to keep you quiet, but instead you choked against him, and he looked up, jaw tensing when he saw tears clinging to your eyelashes.
"Shit, you okay?" he let up for a moment and slowed his movement, gently brushing back your hair. You nodded vehemently, hands pulling him closer. A breathless laugh escaped him and he resumed his rhythm, heavy and thorough strokes that had your grip on his shouldes tightening, nails digging into him.
Griffin reached down to play with your clit, watching your eyes widen and lips parting while he kept his steady pace. When he finally felt your back arch in his hold, his lips crashed into yours, swallowing your moans as you came around him hard, pulling him right with you. His thrusts stuttered and he slumped against you with a groan, spilling himself deep in you.
He shivered, breath slowing, one arm circling your waist, the other reaching up so he could stroke your hair, helping you come down from your high.
When he felt a giggle tickle his neck, he looked down at you. The smile on your face was so genuine his heart squeezed and he couldn't stop himself from kissing you.
.
His touch was careful, gently adjusting your blouse and brushing away some stray tears. With a little grin you caught his hand and brought it to your lips to kiss the tip of his fingers. A blush rose up his neck, but his dark eyes softened in fondness. His fingers laced with yours and he pressed a last kiss to your mouth before picking up your bag and leading you out the classroom. He still felt light-headed, but the way your body leaned against his, utterly comforted by him, made this all so hard to regret.
âGriffin Lovell x fem!reader
â6.1k (this got out of hand)
â 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 thereâs no answer, dread drops instantly in his gut. He steps back with caution to survey the snowy courtyard for anything heâd 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 heâs 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 doesnât come. Itâs 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.
Itâs not the most pressing matter. You should still be here.
He calls your name, tucking his hands into his armpits and strolling back inside. âHello!â
Maybe youâve 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, thereâs 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 theyâve 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.
âHm?â
âWake up, woman,â he says, exasperated, âitâs your whole job to answer the door, is it not?â
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.
âWhoâs at the door?â You look around blearily.
âMe, you dolt.â He steps back, returning his hand to the relative warmth of his underarm, and appraises you. âAnd whyâs it feel like hell frozen over in here?â
Still half-wrapped in the blankets, you look to the fireplace and groan, shrinking into your shelter.
âThereâs no more fuel. We already took more than we should have from the nearest store. I wouldnât risk going back there for a week or so. And itâs all damp with snow in the woods.â
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.
âEveryone needs firewood at this time of year. Grab some from a cart coming into town, or take it from Balliol. Their storeâs out of sight. Heaven knows theyâre keeping themselves warm enough in other ways.â
âI know,â you sigh, âjust havenât got round to it.â
You sink into a creaking chair as Griffin approaches the stove and pulls out two mugs.
âWell, you canât do it now, with that fever.â
His eyes glint when you protest.
âNonsense, Griffin, thereâs nothing wrong with me. Iâm just a little chilly-â
âLuckily for you, I have nowhere to be. Everyone seems to forget the empire goes on around Christmas. Anthony and the others wonât be done feasting for a fortnight, and the mail is overrun so correspondence will be slow.â
âSo mature of you to abstain from the same festive cheer,â you drawl.
He gives you a dry stare, then rolls his eyes.
âIn any case, Hermesâ top priority has now become firewood. Iâll get it.â
âAlright. Thank you, then. Will you be bringing extra so you can burn something down, to raise your spirits again?â
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 canât see, though youâre sure it involves bullets.
âThe Sheldonian might go, but itâs not exactly a strategic foothold-â
You scoff. âNot a chance. I went with LeBlanc for maintenance there and it took a whole afternoon.â
Griffin winces.
âIâm sorry you had to endure his company so long.â
âMe, too.â
âBut that means you know where the bars are, doesnât it? Suppose you took them all out, then it might burn.â
âIt would sooner fall on my head. No, thank you.â
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 wonât go in.
Eventually comes Griffinâs rap on the door. This time, you do head over to get it, if slower than usual.
Heâs dragging a whole cart behind him.
Blinking, you move to let him through.
âSo, Balliol is going to be a glacier for the holidays after all?â
âDonât be silly,â he grunts, the cart bumping over the threshold behind him. You trail after him as he heads for the inner courtyard. âThis is barely a fraction of what they have.â
âHow did you get away with a whole cart?â
ââGet awayâ is a strong way to put it,â he shrugs, setting it down by the log store. âTheyâre just lying around. No one questioned it. Even got a shiny silver one.â
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.
âGriffin, I told you-â
âYou look like a sleepwalker-â
âHardly-â
âJust go inside and get off your feet. Weâd better set the fire going first, in any case, before we put all this away.â
âBeing a gentleman doesnât suit you,â you grumble as you return indoors.
âI assure you, itâs hardly because youâre a lady. I fully expect you to be pulling your weight once youâre fit again.â
âIâm perfectly alright, Griffin-â
âWell, if you must do something,â he says, heading back outside with the scuttle, âgo and sort something to eat.â
He has a point, so you tug your blanket tighter around your shoulders and head for the kitchen. Youâll be needing some of the wood in here for the range soon, too, you note. The silver keeps the thing efficient, so you donât have to burn more than you need to as you get to work. Before long, thereâs a promising crackle coming from the main room, and a pot of stew bubbling on the hob. However, itâs 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 âcivilised.â At last, you approach feeling warm through.
Things may be less busy, but Griffin apparently still has some appointments to keep.
âKeep the fire going this time, wonât you?â He says, fixing you with an odd look.
You return it with patient amusement.
âIâll be alright. Thank you for bringing it.â
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 heâs the one who has to make tea for a second time.
You're half convinced someoneâs sneaked in overnight to booby trap the Old Library with silver, because itâs 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. Thatâs 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 doesnât part. The horrible swooping in your stomach when you stand doesnât abate, and the rush of sparks across your vision swarms furiously, and your head-
Itâs 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 canât tell.
Griffin knocks. Itâs 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, itâs 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 doâŠ
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 â 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. Youâre a furnace through your shirt.
âWake up, for Godâs sake.â
With a couple more good shakes, your eyelids flicker. You donât open them, though, only looking pained.
âYou need to get off this floor,â he tells you, sitting back.
You visibly wince.
âSorry, am I too loud?â 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 âGriffinâ coming from behind it.
âCome, get up,â 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. Itâs quite the challenge, and takes up all of your attention so you donât see Griffin watching you sharply. Once you're up, you groan and let your head loll forward against your knees.
ââIâll be alright,â my arse,â he says drily as he hooks an arm around your back. Together, you stand, and you stumble against him.
âDo try not to swoon. Youâre hardly helping the case for the weaker sex.â
âOh, be quiet,â 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.
âSo, youâre sick.â
You mumble something unintelligible, but whether in a language he knows or not, itâs clear that itâs insulting. He chuckles shortly and turns to make tea.
âWell, you got as far as lightning the range. Well done you.â
Thereâs 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 doesnât 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.
âGo on, eat,â 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, heâs 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.
âCome on,â is all he tells you, hovering warily as you stand to follow.
But you donât fall this time, and he leads you to the fireplace. Heâs 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 doesnât 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 Griffinâs shadowy figure hauling something upright. A cot, you realise.
He never sleeps here.
âSlumming it with the commoners, now?â You try to tease, though your voice is scratchy. âIs the palace undergoing renovations?â
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.
âThis place needs to remain functional. You canât even stay upright long enough to tend the fire.â
The denial of yesterday is swiftly quashed by the rumblings of your headache, so you settle for a roll of your eyes.
âThe spirit of Christmas lives, after all,â you muse, âseeing youâve deigned to donate your time to the invalid.â
âI thought there was nothing wrong with you?â He snipes back. You catch a smirk, but itâs 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. Itâs 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 doesnât tempt you.
You settle for the tea. Reaching for it, your hand stills when you touch the mug to find it hot. Youâve been sleeping the evening away, and Hermes doesnât 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 youâve 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.
âWell?â
He blinks back to you.
âYou speak French, donât you?â
The question takes a moment to sink in; he looks much too preoccupied for the question to be so mundane.
âYes, you know I do. Why, are you trying to recruit the ambassador or something?â
âWhat? Donât be ridiculous.â
âSpy on him, then? You look like youâre cooking some dreadful plot.â
âYouâre not exactly fit for field work in this state.â
âI know, Griffin, but what do you-?â
Heâs already halfway to the kitchen, leaving you to huff and sink into your chair. Heâs 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 â soup this time â so you stare sulkily at his back but say nothing. Now heâs bent over the silver-working bench, tinkering with something you canât 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 Griffinâs hand on your arm. It had been shaking you, but now heâs still, though he doesnât remove it for a long moment.
Looking up, you see him through your fever-haze and the soft firelight. The harsh lines heâs 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.
âHungry?â he asks simply.
Your gut knots tighter at his words. Youâve 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.
âDrink something.â
Youâre too preoccupied with the resistance your body is putting up to notice Griffinâs low, smooth voice, a tone youâve 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 heâs 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. Youâve given up guessing how long youâve 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 youâre able, and head for the privy across the courtyard.
Youâre slow, and with the uncomfortable heat flushing your body, you donât notice how badly youâre shivering until youâre standing again, numb fingers fumbling with the bolt. Itâs 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 heâs lowering the candle, straightening out his features.
âOh, good. I see youâve not decided to try your hand at collapsing again.â
A scoff of startled laughter escapes you.
âIt was only the once, Griffin. Iâll be alright for two minutes going to the privy.â
âItâs snowingââ a gust blows a thicker flurry of flakes between you as if to prove his point ââand I seem to remember you saying the same last time before performing quite the stunt, so forgive me if I donât believe you.â
âWhat if I donât forgive you?â you grumble, tucking your arms tight around you. âWhy not go home?â
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.
âYouâd wake up an ice-block in the morning. What if you fell out here?â
âYouâre the one keeping me out here!â
And then, with a blink, he realises how ardently youâre 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 arenât 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.
Heâs unable to help the way he slows as he passes you. Youâre shivering visibly under your tangle of blankets.
He doesnât 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 donât 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.
âAre you awake?â
You donât open your eyes.
âLet me pretend Iâm not for a while longer, please.â
For a moment, it seems your tired plea may have worked. Griffin moves away again, and thereâs some clinking and rustling from the other side of the room.
But your hope is misplaced. Heâs soon returning, so you flop onto your back, throw an arm over your eyes and set about trying to drive him away again.
âGriffin, I mean it. Leave me alone.â
He hums, his voice cutting with sarcastic pity when he speaks.
âDo you feel worse than yesterday?â
âYes, I do. Youâd better go. We donât want you to get sick as well.â
âItâs too late, Iâm afraid. Iâm quite sick of you already.â
And then the cot dips as he sits by your legs. If you werenât 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.
âWere you put on this earth to torment me?â
âI would have thought youâd want to stop being sick.â
Blinking, you lift your head a little from the pillow, despite the ache it provokes. Griffinâs 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.
âI thought we didnât have-â
Your eyes land on Griffinâs face and immediately your mouth shuts. Itâs impassive, but deliberately so.
We donât have any of Evieâs 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 Hermesâ supply of bars.
He looks down his nose at the bar, as if it means nothing at all to him.
âI thought it was about time we added it to our arsenal. Makes too much practical sense.â
âMmm-hmm.â
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 Griffinâs spiky hand.
âWhat a perfect coincidence, then, that you happen to have a sick candidate on hand to test it out.â
He meets your teasing eyes with a dry look. Glancing down, he indicates the bar with a nod of his chin.
âWell, go on then.â
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.
âTriacle. Treacle.â
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 itâs 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 youâve 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.
âDid it work?â
A smile rises to your face unbidden, but youâre too relieved to hide it.
âYouâre right, this bar is too good not to have in stock,â you say. âThank you.â
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 doesnât take long for you to feel too disgusted to stay in the oppressive blankets youâve 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 youâre still surprised to find Griffin at the range. Youâre practically itching to be on your feet now with your newfound energy, and heâs not exactly known for his hospitality.
But when you peer over his shoulder, he elbows you away. Thereâs a lazy grin on his face as he hooks a chair leg with his foot, dragging it out for you. Then heâs smothering the growing smile on his face and turning away from your incredulous stare, back to the cooking.
âIf Iâm not mistaken, you wanted me pulling my weight,â you gripe, âisnât that why you cured me?â
Griffin scoffs, turning away from the pan again to cast you a look.
âThat, and you looked about to drop dead.â His frank eyes rake over you. âAnd you still resemble some Dickensian ghost. Iâll let you pull your weight when you have more of it. Now, sit.â
You glower for a moment longer, but donât really know what to say to such an admission â because thatâs what it is, youâre suddenly aware â so to your chagrin, you do as he says and sink into the seat.
âIâm hurt you think me so shallow,â Griffin says, affecting false nobility to cover its truth.
Then heâs bringing a loaf of bread to the table and sliding bacon onto plates.
âYouâre not fooling anyone, Griffin,â you retort, though you canât quite meet his eyes. You pretend to busy yourself with the food. âWe both know you just donât want to risk Christmas day without my cooking.â
âI donât have time for Christmas.â
âAnd yet you ate three plates last year.â
You get a thwack on the shoulder for that. A snort of laughter from you and the tentative mood between you eases. Youâll 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 Griffinâs 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. Youâre slower than Griffin, whoâs already up again and at the range before you can finish your plate. Next, thereâs a dish of curry being placed in front of you.
âIs this some kind of test? Because I told you, I really do feel better.â
âHow much have you had to eat in the last few days?â
Itâs 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 heâs convinced that you really are full, and that no, you wonât eat just one more slice, he still doesnât 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 canât 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 donât 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 donât point it out, he wonât examine his own behaviour too closely and retreat. That if you both pretend this is normal, it might become so.
Perhaps heâs finally feeling festive and charitable, and thatâs all.
When youâre 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 youâre 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.
âI must be recovered,â you announce, munching happily on your treat, âno oneâs run screaming from me, thinking Iâm a ghost, like you said.â
âNot to mention youâve managed to devour an ungodly amount of sweet things,â he sniffs from your side.
Affecting a large sigh, you polish off the sugar left on your fingertips.
âDonât I deserve it after my ordeal?â
âAlright, thatâs settled. Youâve evidently had it too easy of late. How about collecting a cart of coal this afternoon to make up for being so idle?â
âExcuse you! Iâm still recuperating!â
âWell, 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 youâd be formidable at haunting.â
"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."
âAnd youâre healed too,â you grumble, âfor a moment I feared the spirit of generosity had really infected you. Itâs reassuring to know you still donât possess an ounce of mercy.â
âI can be merciful to those that deserve it. Certainly not to pastry thievesââ
You shriek with indignation and mirth as he snatches the bag from your hands, holding it at armâs length to fend off your retaliation.
You notice youâre 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 donât 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 futuređđ
first of all, thank you for dedicating this fic to međ 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 wouldâve combusted on the spot đ
OKAY OKAY NOW ONTO THE FIC BECAUSE HOLYYY SHIT
Not to brag but i got early access to some of the dialogue yâall đ€ 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. iâm 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 doltđ„č 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. itâs 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. canât admit they really care. MY FAVORITE EVERRRR
âŠand 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 canât. i literally canât. i cheesed SO hard reading this part. iâm 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
âI'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 đ 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 didnât 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 griffinâs character is so true to the source material and feels so authentic. like yes. that is in fact him!!!! itâs incredible really, like i canât emphasize enough or put into words how this makes me feel.
the very last paragraph here âthat if you donât point it out, he wonât examine his own behavior too closely and retreat. that if you both pretend this is normal, it might become so.â 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 canât 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 YOUâRE 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. iâm 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.
rereading it again cuz i'm a pervy loser but this right here...
âI canât figure out if Iâm doing something wrong,â You finally manage, voice thick. âYouâre supposed to have the answers, arenât you? Why canât you tell me what to do next? What comes next?â
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
iâm throwing your other ask in here too!! (iâm not sure how to put a âsee moreâŠâ 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 themđ)
so first iâll 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 whatâs new). sorry iâve been missing! iâm 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 itâs been well received. i never know with these nsfw ficsđ 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 thatâs what i struggled with the most tbh
that is the personality of the reader iâm writing for the mc of Crooked Teeth though! it wonât always be bold and precise, but i definitely want to write a character with enough grit to get under griffinâs skin. itâs a calculated front that iâm excited to explore in more depth that i think a lot of people will relate too. youâll 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 itâs the only form of pda he tolerates. he wonât 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 heâs plotting
the creampie was for youđââïž i remember, trust
many parts of this fic were tailored towards what people have expressed enjoying! the âdearâ 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. weâre such a small community and im so grateful for all the support iâve 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 iâve gotten majority of the chapters prewritten! in the meantime i think i might open headcanon requests so i can continue providing content, but iâll have to see!
bratty reader⊠iâm glad someone sees my hidden propaganda agenda. i love brats. itâs a brats world. always project yourself onto the bratty tendencies i give my reader characters.
AND NEVER CONTAIN YOUR FREAKđ 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 wonât out-freak me you canât. if i posted all the ideas i really wanted to explore with griffin i would be publicly executed i swear
