#is it mentally ok to be this obsessed with tgg?

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Why is Grayson HAWthorne haunting me this morning.

Tell me this isn't him. (I'll fight you.)

But seriously who is this diva? And why do I want to get on my knees fh? 💞😜🥰🤓😉😉😉😫😫

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You cannot convince me that this is not Gray with Lyra's brother.

Xxx

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We all just conveniently forgot that Grayson Hawthorne has been on his knees multiple times, m'kay???

(WHY DOES NO ONE TALK ABOUT THIS???)

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The Harvard girl will always haunt the narrative.

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No. Because Eve can’t (she can with maximum therapy. But people will get angry with me if I say thst) be redeemed. I’ve been rereading and I hate her so much. (I don't) Like, she’s just not it. But the worst part? I got emotional reading what happened to her—for the longest time. And honestly? I would gut her brother. Her sister. Her parents. I get why Miss Girl turned out the way she did, but still. I just want her to find herself. Actually find herself.

And why isn’t Toby stepping in more?? Hello???

Who’s going to do a deep character analysis on her? Like right now. Someone call security. Restraining orders. Mellie and Eli are not safe. And when I get my hands on those parents? God help them.

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HEYYYYYY

can i req a lyrason fanfic?

pretty pleaseeeeeeee

Grayson and Lyra. ♡ One Shot.

Bedfic. Ummm. 1173 words.. shit.

The room was bathed softly in the early morning light, streaks of pale gold and sovereign blue spilling through the half-drawn lavish curtains. Outside, the world stirred awake, a faint hum of life whispering through the silence, but inside, it was warm and still. The sheets were tangled, the duvet half-kicked away, evidence of a restless night. Lyra Catalina Kane blinked herself awake, the weight of exhaustion settling into her already tired bones.

Grayson lay beside her, his face pale except for the feverish flush high on his cheeks. Even in sickness, he carried an air of unshakable perfection though the deep blooming plum beneath his eyes told a different story. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing his damp forehead. Still hot. Way too fucking hot. He still hadn’t shaken the fever that had gripped him yesterday, and now it was spilling into today like a deep brooding thunder refusing to go.

She sighed, quietly, carefully, and shifted to slide out of bed. There was too much to do.

The world didn’t stop for anything, not even for Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. But the moment she moved, his arm tightened around her waist like a vice. Unwilling and utterly unyielding.

“Grayson,” she murmured softly, her voice still rough with sleep. She twisted to glance back at him, but his eyes were shut, his brow furrowed as if even in his fevered haze, he was waging some internal war. His lips moved, words too faint to catch, but even so he buried his face in her neck, his breath warm and uneven against her skin.

“Don’t sweetheart,” he rasped, the word dragging out of him like it cost more than it should. His voice was hoarse, cracked, stripped of its usual authority, and hearing it made something sharp twist in Lyra’s chest.

“Grayson,” she tried again, gently, this time reaching for his hand where it clung to her hip. But he didn’t let go. If anything, he held her tighter, his rough fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt like a drowning man clutching at the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled into her neck. His voice was low, desperate, and foreign in its vulnerability. Grayson Hawthorne never asked. He commanded, he directed, he ensured things happened exactly as they were meant to. But this wasn’t that man.

Her heart cracked open, a slow ache spreading through her chest. “Gray,” she whispered, turning fully to face him now, her body shifting under his unrelenting hold. His eyes flickered open, heavy-lidded and glassy, the stormy gray of them dulled but still searching, still fixed entirely on her.

“Stay,” he said, barely audible. His voice cracked at the end, and the sound of it nearly broke her. “Just please just stay.”

Lyra exhaled, her resistance crumbling in an instant. “I’m not going far,” she promised, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. His skin was still so damn warm. but he leaned into her touch as though it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’ll leave,” he murmured, his breath catching on the last word. His arm tightened again, pulling her somewhat impossibly closer, until she was pressed against him completely, her legs tangled with his. “You’ll leave, and I—” He broke off, his face pressing into the crook of her neck like he couldn't nor wanted to finish that sentence. As if it would break him.

She had never seen him like this. In the thee years she had known the asshole she had never seen him so fucking desperate.

Lyra let out a slow breath, her hand slipping into his damp hair, fingers threading through the thick mess. “I’m here,” she said softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere, Gray.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her. He had held her so tight she couldn't move. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne, the arrogant asshole was undone. Though right now he was just Gray, her Gray, and he needed her. And she wouldn't leave

“Lyra,” he breathed, her name a soft exhale against her neck. His voice was weaker now, but there was a reverence in the way he said it, a quiet plea wrapped in too much emotion. “I can’t—” He stopped again, the words choking off.

“You don’t have to,” she said, her hand sliding down to his back, holding him as close as he held her. “You don’t have to say anything.” She kissed the top of his head, her lips brushing against the damp strands of his hair. It smelled like foreign berries “I’m here.”

He shuddered, a shaky exhale escaping him as he buried himself deeper against her. For all his strength, all his unrelenting willpower, he melted into her like he couldn’t stand to be anywhere else. His fingers splayed against her side, anchoring him to her, and she felt the faintest tremor in his grip.

“Fuck being busy,” he muttered, the words muffled but laced with a quiet, fevered determination. His hand slid up to her back, his fingertips pressing into her as though to make sure she was real, that she wasn’t going to slip away the moment he loosened his hold. “Just stay, sweetheart. Please.”

“I’ll stay,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of her own emotions. “I’m not going anywhere, Gray. I promise.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, she thought he might cry, but he just held her tighter, his face pressed against her neck. “Good,” he murmured, his voice cracking again. A different type of crack though.. one that meant something.

Minutes stretched into eternity as they lay there, tangled together in the warmth of their bed. The world outside could wait. The demands, the responsibilities, the endless push and pull of their lives—it could all wait. He needed her.

She stroked his hair more her fingers moving in slow, delicate patterns, and felt the tension in his body gradually ease. His breathing evened out, though it was still slightly labored, and she pressed another kiss to his head, murmuring soft reassurances into the quiet.

“I love you,” she said, the words soft but steady. She didn’t expect him to answer—he was too far gone, too fever-drunk and exhausted—but his arm tightened around her once more, and she felt his lips brush faintly against her collarbone.

“Love you,” he mumbled, the words slurred but heartfelt, and Lyra’s heart thumbed, the ache in her chest giving way to something warmer, something brighter. Something so exquisite she couldn't put words on it.

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Not proof read. I'll edit just now.. I'm sorry it's shit y'all.

[nonerrata-myarchives]

Is their anything Graybear isn't good at this point!!!???

He has a bitch. Me... He can play the violin, sing, swim, fence, speak a billion languages, write haikus, HE is beyond smart Photography, shake his ass (dancing), solve puzzles like a genuis, DRAW, great handwriting, wears ten thousand dollar suits like it's a normal thing, CALLS DOGS 'good girls', VERY ticklish. Alsoooooooo LONGSWORD.

Just fuck me at this point. (Oh wait @two-braincells-in-total already wrote me that.)

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Grayson being mean is what turns me on tbh.

Sorry if that offended anyone.

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Grayson "Sweetheart" Davenport Hawthorne.

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I'll die on this bed GRAYSON DAVENPORT HAWTHORNE is not a sub in bed.

Xan defo is though.

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I'm going to jail y'all I will literally download an illegal copy of TGG just give a fucking link.

Can you imagine how iconic that would be I would definitely have a mugshot of me while kissing my phone with the illegal copy.

Jude: do you know why you're in court today?

Me: shut the fuck up your honer I'm reading.

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My biggest flex in life is I get to cuddle with Grayson everyday and you don't.

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From this.

Too that.

Umm okay.

Jamie you sure you're number two on Hawthorne gossip sights?

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Grayson Davenport Hawthorne you give love a bad name.

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Unhinged theory.

Calla is Kaylee Rooney's daughter.

If I am correct we don't know anything about her mom. So let me tell you my fuck up I know is wrong of a theory.

When we think JLB we think puzzles, endless amounts of riddles and ofc the fucked up family tree. When on my search this morning I found my way to Hannah's page with her information and shit. I forgot that she had a sister named Kaylee that died on Hawthorne island. Bc I'm in need of a re-read obviously.

And if we put dates together. Technically it's very fucking possible. Also the similarities in their story. I will explain more later just a fucked up thought.

Anna and Simona can't remember if calla was on Hawthorne island because they are stupid. Jk

But if she was.

Both girls - Harthorne island.

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Additional add - Would fuck Grayson. And have his babies. . .

Not mine Pinterest.