anythinggoesbutme

[anythinggoesbutme]

your guys requests lately have been FREAKY

[anythinggoesbutme]

honestly all im going to say as a request is this...

savannah has a praise kink. like. really badly.

ESPECIALLY BECAUSE AFTER YOUR FIC GRAYSON IS NEVER BEATING THE ALLEGATIONS IT MAKES SENSE THAT SAVANNAH DOES TOO. and she claims she doesnt. but obviously rohan knows more lmfao.

(hey so no, no i have not been considering this thought since this like whattt- idk i just need smut rn for literally no reason loll)

Good Girl

[anythinggoesbutme]

Good Girl

Rohan Mercy x Savannah Grayson

Warnings: explicit sexual content, praise kink, slight degradation/teasing, rough sex, semi-public setting (library), language

Synopsis: Savannah insists she doesn’t crave praise—until Rohan proves otherwise in the quiet of Hawthorne House’s library.

Song: “Pretty When You Cry” — Lana Del Rey

Word Count: 1,151

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runnningoutofink @saythewordheiress @laurilovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe @joelmillerswifeyyy @hannahcharlie @shestheworst @iheartkars @hwqdbncxowasqebclo @valeriaemerald @sweet-girl-in-cabin-13 @liketheriverr @mads-xincai @writteninriddles @teddi-07 @moonlitbrews @tobyspalindrome

Savannah Grayson does not have a praise kink.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

It’s ridiculous. Needy. Weak. She doesn’t need anyone else’s validation—she thrives on being the smartest in the room, on proving herself, on winning. Not on someone whispering good girl in her ear. Absolutely not.

And yet.

When they’re working on a puzzle together, Rohan’s voice dips—low, lazy, casual—and she feels it like a spark under her skin.

“Smart thinking, Savvy.”

The words slide over her like velvet, uninvited and unavoidable. She pretends not to notice. Pretends she isn’t replaying them hours later when she’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched in the sheets.

It starts small. She solves something before him, and he’s leaning against the desk with that half-smirk, accent curling around the words.

“Sharp as ever.”

She rolls her eyes, mutters something about him being insufferable, but he catches it—the way her throat bobs, the way her hands tighten. He files it away.

Because that’s the thing about Rohan—he watches. He notices. And once he sees the way she reacts, he doesn’t let it go.

The night it happens, they’re supposed to be working.

Everyone else is scattered around Hawthorne House, and the two of them are holed up in the library. The fire throws flickering shadows across the walls, making the room feel older, closer, like something out of another century. She’s pacing in her dress—backless, of course, because Savannah never enters a room without making a statement—and he’s sprawled in one of the leather armchairs, a glass of whiskey balanced in his hand, eyes tracking her every move.

“You’re restless,” he says at last, amused.

She snaps, “I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, studying her. “Mm. You know what I think?” He waits until she stills, until she lifts her chin like a challenge. Then: “I think you like it when I say you’re brilliant.”

Her breath stutters. Barely. But enough.

She freezes, then turns on him with a glare sharp enough to cut. “Excuse me?”

Rohan doesn’t blink. He sets his glass down with deliberate care, then stands. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world to dismantle her. He crosses the space until she has to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.

“You heard me, love.”

“Don’t call me that,” she spits—because he knows she hates it.

His smile is all teeth. Dangerous. “Fine. Savvy. Better?”

She huffs, but he notices—oh, he notices—the way her breath comes quicker when he says it like that.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmurs, voice low as his knuckles graze the open line of her spine.

Her body betrays her. She shivers, jaw tightening as she bites out, “You are wrong.”

And that’s all the confirmation he needs.

He presses her back against the bookshelf, the wood cold against her bare skin, lips ghosting her ear. “You light up when I praise you. You try so bloody hard to hide it. But I see you.”

She bites her lip, fists clenched at her sides. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, dark and low, hand sliding down to grip her hip. “Say the word, and I will. But if you want me to keep going, all you have to do is admit it.”

Her silence is answer enough.

He kisses her—hard, consuming—and she melts, nails digging into his shirt. When he pulls back, breath ragged, he whispers, “That’s it. Good girl.”

The sound she makes is wrecked.

From there, it unravels.

His hands roam everywhere—slow at first, teasing, like he wants to map every inch of her. The open line of her spine. The curve of her waist. The slit in her dress that parts when his palm slides higher, rough skin against silk. She trembles under his touch, fury and want tangling in her veins.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“Stop—” she gasps, nails curling in his shoulders.

“You’re brilliant.”

“Rohan—”

“You’re mine.”

The word mine lands like a match to kindling. Savannah’s denial burns up in the heat of his mouth when he kisses her again—harder, rougher, stealing the very air from her lungs. His hand fists in her hair, tilting her head back so his mouth trails hot down her throat, scraping teeth over the delicate skin until she whimpers—an undignified, unguarded sound that makes his chest rumble with satisfaction.

Her fists bunch in his shirt, tugging him closer. She hates this—how much she needs it, how much she needs him.

He huffs a laugh against her skin. “Still going to tell me I’m wrong, Savvy?”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Not when his other hand slides beneath her dress, fingers tracing higher, leaving fire in their wake.

“That’s it,” he breathes when she shudders, pressing closer. “Good girl.”

The words shatter her composure. Her legs tighten around his hips before she can stop herself, and he doesn’t hesitate—lifting her, pinning her against the shelf with his weight. Books rattle and fall, thudding against the carpet, but neither of them cares.

Her hands fumble with his belt, tugging impatiently. “Off,” she demands, voice breathless and breaking.

He chuckles, sinful and satisfied. “Impatient little genius.” But he listens. The belt falls away, his shirt comes untucked, and her dress is shoved up around her waist.

The moment he pushes into her, both of them curse—her head thudding back against the shelf, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. The firelight flickers across his face, carving him in gold and shadow.

“Fuck, Savvy,” he groans, voice raw. “So perfect. Taking me so well.”

She clutches at him, panting, every thrust making her forget her own name. “Don’t—don’t say—”

“Why not?” he grits, driving deeper, each snap of his hips punctuating the words. “You like it. You love it when I tell you how good you are. How tight. How fucking perfect you feel around me.”

Her nails drag down his back, desperate, wrecked. “Rohan—”

“That’s it.” His pace quickens, relentless, his voice harsh in her ear. “Say it. Say you need it.”

She breaks, moaning into his mouth, too undone to hide. “I need it.”

“That’s my girl.”

The words push her over the edge. She comes apart around him, legs trembling, vision going white-hot. Her whole body clenches, wracked with release, and he follows seconds later—groaning her name like a prayer, holding her so tight it feels like he’ll never let her go.

Silence falls. The only sound is their ragged breathing, the crackle of the fire, the faint thud of a book slipping off the shelf.

Rohan rests his forehead against hers, still holding her pinned against him. His lips brush her temple in something almost tender.

Savannah, still catching her breath, mutters against his chest, “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

He grins, smug and satisfied, kissing her damp hair. “Oh, Savvy. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[anythinggoesbutme]

ALSOO HOW ARE YOUU?? <3

IMM GOOD (im working on your request rnn 🤭)

[anythinggoesbutme]

I would like to request a libbyNash fic where they're baking and things get messy and the while they're getting cleaned up , the tension starts to rise ( smut)

Taste Test

[anythinggoesbutme]

Taste Test

Nash Hawthorne x Libby Grambs

Warnings: explicit sexual content, kitchen/baking smut, messy/flirty tension.

Synopsis: Libby and Nash’s baking session turns messy—and deliciously heated—when chocolate and tension mix.

Song: “Sweater Weather” — The Neighborhood

Word Count: 1,096

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runnningoutofink @saythewordheiress @laurilovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe @joelmillerswifeyyy @hannahcharlie @shestheworst @iheartkars @hwqdbncxowasqebclo @valeriaemerald @sweet-girl-in-cabin-13 @liketheriverr @mads-xincai @writteninriddles @teddi-07 @moonlitbrews @tobyspalindrome

The kitchen smelled like sugar, cinnamon, and the faint tang of melted chocolate. Libby pressed her tongue between her teeth as she focused on whisking the batter, a streak of flour smudged across her cheek. Beside her, Nash Hawthorne leaned lazily against the counter, sleeves rolled up, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he was way more entertained by watching her work than actually helping.

“You’re not even stirring,” she accused, hip-checking him lightly as she scraped the whisk along the bowl.

“I like watchin’ you stir,” he drawled, Texan accent thick as honey, “got a real… rhythm to it.”

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing, but she couldn’t hide the way heat crept to her cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. That’s what they tell me.” Nash dipped a finger in the bag of chocolate chips, popped one into his mouth, then deliberately dropped another into the bowl. “See? Helpin’.”

Libby smacked his hand with the whisk, splattering batter across his wrist. He laughed, low and warm, before smearing it right back onto her arm.

Soon enough, it turned into a mess—flour streaking across the counter, cocoa powder dusting the air, batter dripping off the whisk as Libby lunged after him. Nash dodged easily, catching her wrists and pinning them with ridiculous ease.

“You’re trouble,” he said, lips quirking.

“You started it,” she shot back breathlessly, strands of hair slipping loose around her face.

For a moment, the kitchen stilled. His hands around her wrists were warm, his chest close, his eyes locked on hers in a way that made her heart stumble. Libby swallowed hard and pulled back, turning to wipe at her face with a dishtowel—anything to break the tension.

But when she glanced up again, Nash was watching her mouth.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

Her breath caught as he stepped closer, tilting her chin up. She barely realized she had a smudge of melted chocolate on her lip until he leaned down and kissed it away—slow, deliberate, tongue flicking to taste. The sound she made was half gasp, half moan.

When he pulled back just enough to look at her, his pupils were blown wide. “Sweet,” he rasped. “Real sweet.”

The air between them thickened, charged, her pulse skittering wildly. Libby licked her lips instinctively, tasting chocolate—and him.

And that was the last restraint Nash seemed to have. He kissed her again, harder this time, hands sliding to her waist, pulling her against him. She melted into him, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt, mouth opening under the hungry press of his lips.

The kiss was deep, filthy, his tongue teasing hers as if he had all the time in the world to savor her. He tasted like chocolate and whiskey, and when he groaned low in his chest, she felt it all the way down her spine.

Nash lifted her effortlessly onto the counter, crowding between her thighs. The mixing bowl rattled dangerously close to the edge, but she didn’t care—she only cared about his hands gripping her hips, the heat of him pressed against her, the way his mouth dragged down her jaw to her neck.

“Nash,” she whispered, tipping her head back, breathless.

“Yeah, darlin’?” he murmured against her skin, lips brushing, teeth grazing.

“Don’t stop.”

He chuckled, dark and low, before obeying. His hands slid beneath her shirt, palms hot against her skin, tracing up her sides until she shivered. His mouth worked its way down to her collarbone, sucking gently, tongue tasting her like she was another sweet thing he wasn’t going to share with anyone.

She tugged at his shirt, desperate, pulling it over his head in one rough motion. His skin was warm, tanned, muscles shifting under her touch as she raked her nails lightly down his chest. He hissed, eyes darkening.

“You keep that up,” he warned, voice rough, “I’m not gonna be able to take it slow.”

“Who said I wanted slow?” Libby shot back, surprising herself with the edge in her voice.

That was it—the last thread of his control snapped. Nash kissed her again, filthy and desperate, hands sliding under her skirt now, fingers pressing against the soft heat between her thighs through her underwear. She gasped, hips jerking against his hand.

“Fuck, Libby…” he groaned, lips brushing hers, “you’re already wet for me, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks burned, but she couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny the way she bucked against his touch, needing more. He hooked a finger beneath the fabric, sliding it aside, dipping into her slick heat. Her moan broke the quiet kitchen, echoing, making his grin turn downright sinful.

“Sound prettier than any song,” he drawled, fingers working her until she was trembling, head tipping back against the cabinets. “Could get drunk off just listenin’ to you.”

She clutched at his shoulders, gasping his name, and that was when he pulled his fingers away—only to sink to his knees between her thighs, dragging her underwear down in one smooth motion.

“Nash!” she squeaked, startled, but then his mouth was on her, tongue stroking, lips sucking, and she was gone—utterly undone.

Her thighs clamped around his head, body arching, the edge rushing up faster than she expected. He devoured her like she was his favorite kind of sweet, groaning into her as her hands fisted in his hair.

She shattered with a cry, trembling on the counter, and Nash licked her through it, kissing her thighs, murmuring praise that made her shiver.

Before her breath could even even out, he was standing again, mouth glistening, eyes wild. He kissed her hard—let her taste herself on his lips—and then fumbled his belt open, shoving his jeans down just far enough.

“Want you,” he groaned, forehead pressed to hers, “now, darlin’. Can I?”

“Yes,” she gasped without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “Please.”

And then he was inside her, slow at first, the stretch burning just enough to make her moan his name again and again. Nash buried his face against her neck, groaning, before thrusting deeper, harder, until she was clinging to him, nails scoring his back.

The counter shook, the half-forgotten bowl clattered to the floor, and flour dust swirled through the air like smoke. Neither of them cared.

All there was—was him.

And when they came undone together, sweaty and breathless in the middle of a disaster-zone kitchen, Nash kissed her temple, still buried inside her, and whispered, “Best damn cake I ever baked.”

Libby laughed, still shaking, still flushed, and kissed him back, tasting sugar, chocolate, and him.

[anythinggoesbutme]

In a Room Full of People

Rohan Mercy x Savannah Grayson

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, strong language, public-to-private sexual encounter.

Synopsis: Secret desires ignite between Rohan and Savannah at a crowded gala.

Song: “12 to 12” — Sombr

Word Count: 1,367

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runnningoutofink @saythewordheiress @laurilovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe @joelmillerswifeyyy @hannahcharlie @shestheworst @iheartkars @hwqdbncxowasqebclo @valeriaemerald @sweet-girl-in-cabin-13 @liketheriverr @mads-xincai @writteninriddles @teddi-07 @moonlitbrews @tobyspalindrome

The gala was a glittering maze of polished marble, sparkling chandeliers, and people who thought they belonged in a painting. Savannah moved carefully through it all, head held high, mask of polite interest in place. But she wasn’t looking at anyone else.

She was looking for him.

Rohan.

He stood near the far wall, dark hair falling just enough to shadow the smirk that always made her stomach twist. Even across the crowd, his presence was magnetic, pulling at something primal and insistent deep in her chest. Her pulse quickened. Every polite laugh, every fake smile around her blurred into nothing. He was the only thing she could see.

She lingered near a display of statues, tilting her head, fingers brushing against the cold marble as though lost in contemplation. Her body angled just enough to avoid his direct line of sight—but not too far. She stole quick glances, watching him move through the room with that deliberate, slow ease that made it impossible not to want him.

He noticed immediately. His dark eyes swept the room, locked on her, and that smirk deepened. He walked past her, slow, teasingly, brushing his knuckles ever so lightly down the bare expanse of her spine. The sensation was electric. A shiver ran down her body, and despite herself, she pressed forward, following him knowingly, pretending to study the statues.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered under her breath, voice trembling with the heat he’d ignited.

“I could say the same,” he murmured over his shoulder, low and velvety, sending a shiver straight to her core.

Her pulse spiked. Every nerve ending burned as she let herself follow him through the crowd. Each step was a struggle between restraint and desire, every accidental brush of his hand against hers a spark threatening to ignite.

Finally, a quiet service corridor opened before them. She exhaled, heart pounding, as he pulled the door closed behind them. Shadows pooled around them, and the distant hum of the gala became a dull background vibration.

Rohan turned, dark eyes smoldering, lips curving in that slow, dangerous smile she couldn’t resist.

“I’ve been waiting for this all night,” she breathed, voice trembling, breath shallow.

“And I’ve been imagining it for longer,” he said, low, rough, thick with desire.

Her back arched instinctively toward him, fingers threading into his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. His lips descended on hers, slow, teasing, deliberate at first, then insistent and claiming. Nails dragged lightly across his shoulders, down his back, grazing just enough to make him groan softly.

Rohan’s hands traced beneath her dress, mapping the curve of her spine, sliding over the exposed skin, memorizing every inch. Savannah shivered, her breath hitching as his touch ignited something fierce and urgent inside her. She pressed against him, letting the thin fabric of her dress separate them just barely, teasing, stretching every second of anticipation.

“Savannah…” he groaned, voice thick and ragged.

“Shhh,” she whispered, teeth grazing his jaw, lips pressing against the skin beneath, “Just us. Just here. Just now.”

The corridor became a private universe, small, dimly lit, containing nothing but heat and need. Every brush of skin, every whispered word, every tug of hair magnified the tension between them.

Her hands explored the taut muscles of his back, sliding beneath his jacket, feeling the heat, the strength, the tension he hadn’t been able to release all night. Rohan pressed closer, fingers digging slightly into her hips, pulling her to him as he moved one knee between her thighs, pressing firmly, the friction immediate, electric.

He shifted, pressing her back fully against the wall, letting her legs wrap tighter, hips pressing together. His hands guided her, lifting her slightly so she was flush with him. Her dress bunched at her waist, exposing her thighs and core, and she moaned, tilting her head back, letting her lips brush his neck, biting softly.

Savannah gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in slightly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his, grinding lightly, pressing against him in a dance they both knew too well. Every inch of contact, every soft groan and gasp, was a flame that consumed reason.

Rohan pressed into her fully, letting the friction ignite them, and then he leaned closer, voice low and husky. “I want to be inside you. I need you.”

“Yes,” she breathed, trembling, “I want you too.”

With a smooth, commanding motion, he positioned himself, pressing into her. The first push was slow, deliberate, and Savannah gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, body trembling as he filled her completely. Every movement, every inch, was a shock of heat and fire, every press driving them higher, faster.

She arched, pressing herself flush, wrapping her legs tighter, meeting every thrust with equal intensity. His hands gripped her hips, guiding, pressing, rocking them together. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, lips brushing, teeth grazing, skin sliding against skin.

“Rohan…” she moaned, tilting her head back, lips parted, hips rolling into him.

“Yes… god, yes,” he groaned, voice rough, low, desperate, “you feel… perfect.”

The corridor echoed with their moans, their groans, the rhythm of their bodies moving together. He shifted slightly, one hand slipping between them, fingers brushing her sensitive places, making her cry out softly, body arching into his touch.

Savannah’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, lips finding his again in hungry, heated kisses. Every thrust, every brush of skin, every whispered name, drove them higher. The tension built, pulsing, explosive, until their bodies trembled together, coiling, clenching, shuddering in simultaneous release.

The kisses deepened, roaming down her neck, her collarbone, lingering over the curve of her shoulder. Hands explored her sides, sliding over her hips, the warmth of skin against skin sending sparks through both of them. Savannah moaned softly, arching into him, pressing, grinding, letting herself feel every inch of him.

His hands slid beneath her dress, cupping her fully, tracing, teasing, memorizing. She responded instinctively, hips rolling, pressing herself against him, breath hitching with every touch. His mouth found hers again, hungry, claiming, exploring with an intensity that made her knees weak.

“Rohan…” she gasped, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer, grinding into him, heat blooming low in her stomach.

“I’m yours,” he growled, voice deep, rough, “right here. Right now.”

Every kiss, every caress, every press of skin was magnified, every second stretched into eternity. Their breaths came ragged, hearts pounding in unison, bodies pressed impossibly close. She traced the line of his jaw, down his neck, shoulders, chest, feeling the taut muscles beneath her fingertips.

Savannah arched her back fully into him, lips brushing his neck, biting lightly, teasing, making him groan low and rough. His hands slid lower, cupping, pressing, holding her to him as she moved against him, every nerve alive, every inch alight.

Time fractured. Every touch, every whisper, every sigh of pleasure was heightened, intensified, all-consuming. When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, bodies shivering slightly from the intensity, it was a world of its own.

Rohan’s groan mixed with her moan, voices choked and ragged, skin slick with heat and sweat, foreheads pressed together, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Their bodies still trembled from the intensity, clinging, unwilling to release fully.

When they finally parted, foreheads pressed, breaths shaky, Savannah brushed damp hair from her face, smirking faintly. “We should probably… go back,” she whispered, voice husky, still trembling.

Rohan’s lips brushed hers in a lingering, heated kiss. “Back to the crowd,” he murmured, low, rough, “pretend nothing happened.”

Hand in hand, they returned to the gala, trying to appear casual. Savannah’s dress was slightly rumpled, her skin still tingling, pulse racing from the intensity of their encounter. Every brush of fingers, every glance, every small accidental touch carried the memory of the corridor, the heat, the fire.

They navigated the room like nothing had happened, exchanging polite smiles and casual nods—but inside, the tension simmered, a private flame neither could deny. Savannah’s lips curved in a shaky laugh as they moved past guests, fingers brushing occasionally, stolen smiles shared, a secret storm burning between them.

Even in a room full of people, she realized, she would always find him.

Always.

[anythinggoesbutme]

Matthias Slater x Gigi Grayson Masterlist

I Don’t Do Feelings (But I’d Make an Exception for You)

Mimosas & Mayhem

[anythinggoesbutme]

Xander Hawthorne x Max Liu Masterlist

Collision Course

Radio Silence

[anythinggoesbutme]

Grayson Hawthorne x Reader Masterlist

Not Tonight, Darling

The Shape of Her

Steady Hands

A View of You

[anythinggoesbutme]

Rohan Mercy x Savannah Grayson Masterlist

*=smut

First Impressions

Whiskey On Your Name

Just Not in My House*

Fall Under

In a Room Full of People*

Good Girl*

[anythinggoesbutme]

Nash Hawthorne x Libby Grambs Masterlist

Sweetest Jealously

Craving You

A “Quiet” Morning

Downhill Into You

Whiskey Words

The Picture Says It All

Color Theory

Taste Test*

[anythinggoesbutme]

Jameson Hawthorne x Avery Grambs Masterlist

*=smut

Midnight Confession

Tethered

Scavenger of Hearts

The Morning After Mayhem

After the Cameras Fade

First Place, Last Call (1)

Second Place, Still Yours (2)

More Than A Gamble

Checkmate*

Bit of Trouble

Caught in the Act*

Two Truths and A Lie

Parked*

Security Breach*

Mirror, Mirror*

Office Hours

We We’re Busy Actually

Tight Spot*

[anythinggoesbutme]

Grayson Hawthorne x Lyra Kane Masterlist

*=smut

A Hand in the Dark

Flicker

Always, and Then Some

Unspoken Truths

Bitter is the Boy Who Waits (1)

Soft is the Boy Who Stays (2)*

First of Many

The Little Things

When You Can’t Stand

Click. Focus. Breathe.

Everything She’ll Ever Be

Escape Plan

You Never Kissed Me On Camera

Baby Steps

Raincheck

Passports, Rings, and You

Thread by Thread

When Ghosts Wear Familiar Faces

Back to You

All the Ways I Failed You

Unseen Arms

Blade to Blade, Heart to Heart

Forever in This Moment

Safe Harbor

Table for Four (And a Half) (1)

A Seat At Our Table (2)

Paper Hearts

Secret Hearts, Scattered Trust

Meet the Hawthornes

Counting Sheep and Heartbeats

A New Heir, All Worthy

Care in the Quiet

Worth Defending

Little Brother, Bigger Attitude

Say Something

Where You’re Weak

All That I’m Asking For (1)

All That I’m Hoping For (2)

You Before Everything

That Dress*

Things You Only Say At 2 A.M.

Evidence of Us

Golden Boy, Golden Key

Caught Between Her Thighs*

Gravity’s Got You

Touchy

Unresolved*

Just Casual? Right.

After Hours*

Make a Wish*

Sharp Tongues & Soft Hands*

Obey Me. Love Me*

I Didn’t Tell You Because I Knew You’d Come Running

You’re Not Even Wearing Shoes

Say the Word*

Say It Again*

How to Hold a Baby (And a Grudge)

The Place That Is Miles End

The Secretary Problem

[anythinggoesbutme]

it’s official i’ve made over 100 pieces of inheritance games fanfics.. now i gotta fix my masterlist

[anythinggoesbutme]

LYRA AND GRAYSON SECRETLY DATING - WITH A TWIST😈… Grayson’s secretary at the Foundation quits, and Avery’s like “we should hire someone we already know… like Lyra!” and because Lyra’s broke she agrees to the job, so BAM she’s Grayson’s secretary and they’re sneaking looks at each other while they’re working and having to pretend to be all professional around each other, and the whole time Avery and the brothers are like “hmmm, somethings off…🤨”

The Secretary Problem

[anythinggoesbutme]

The Secretary Problem

Grayson Hawthorne x Lyra Kane

Warnings: secret relationship, workplace tension, getting caught, fluff & angst mix

Synopsis: Lyra takes a job as Grayson’s secretary to keep their relationship a secret—but when they slip, the Hawthornes catch them in the worst way possible.

Song: “Secrets” — OneRepublic

Word Count: 1,981

Tag List: @anintellectualintellectual @aria-filomena @angelnextdooor @runnningoutofink @saythewordheiress @laurilovesbooks @sp3ncerre1dsw1fe @joelmillerswifeyyy @hannahcharlie @shestheworst @iheartkars @hwqdbncxowasqebclo @valeriaemerald @sweet-girl-in-cabin-13 @liketheriverr @mads-xincai @writteninriddles @teddi-07 @moonlitbrews @tobyspalindrome

The problem began with Avery.

Well it began with a lack of a secretary.

Not that Grayson would ever admit that aloud.

Avery Kylie Grambs, reigning queen of chaos, heir to the Hawthorne fortune, and occasionally a thorn in his side, had strolled into the Foundation office on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoon, tilted her head, and said, “We should hire someone we already know. Someone we trust. Someone like Lyra.”

Grayson had nearly choked on his coffee.

Lyra.

His Lyra.

His girlfriend.

The girl he’d been seeing—quietly, secretly—for the past four months. The girl whose laugh still lived in his head when he was drowning in spreadsheets and Foundation bylaws. The girl whose perfume lingered on his dress shirts after nights he absolutely did not intend to spend with her, yet always did.

And now Avery wanted her to be his secretary.

Lyra, of course, had said yes.

She’d looked at him over the edge of her glass later that night, sitting cross-legged on his couch, hair loose and falling in waves he wanted to tangle his hands in, and shrugged.

“I need the money,” she said simply.

“You don’t need to do this,” Grayson argued, pacing in front of her, his tie undone, his voice tight. “If you want money, I’ll—”

“Don’t.” She stopped him with one sharp word, her eyes catching his. “I don’t want you to hand me money like I’m some charity case. I can do this. I’ll be good at it.”

Grayson sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. He knew she would be good at it. Lyra Kane was good at almost everything she touched. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was imagining her outside his office every day. Her voice answering his calls. Her presence—always close, never quite close enough.

The problem was that he would have to act like she was just his secretary.

And Grayson Hawthorne had never been particularly good at pretending.

The first week was hell.

She showed up on Monday morning in a pencil skirt and a silk blouse, her hair in a neat knot at the back of her head. Grayson had frozen when she walked in, professional and perfect, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor of the Foundation offices.

“Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne,” she said smoothly, and he almost groaned out loud.

“Good morning, Ms. Kane,” he managed instead, voice clipped, precise, the same tone he used in boardrooms.

Her eyes sparkled, just a little, like she knew exactly what kind of game they were playing.

And it was a game.

All day, she was a model secretary. Answering phones, organizing files, drafting emails. All day, she kept her face serene and professional. But every so often, her eyes flicked to his. Quick. Sharp. Enough to unnerve him entirely.

When she leaned across his desk to hand him a file, her perfume wrapped around him, subtle and devastating. When she passed him a note during a meeting, her hand brushed his, and electricity shot up his arm.

And all the while, Avery watched them like a hawk.

By the end of the second week, Jameson was involved.

“Something’s off,” he said one afternoon, sprawled across one of the Foundation’s armchairs like it was his personal throne.

“Nothing’s off,” Grayson said smoothly, not looking up from his computer.

“Hmm,” Jameson drawled, eyes flicking between Lyra at her desk and Grayson at his. “Looks pretty off to me. Sparks. Tension. The forbidden workplace romance vibe.”

Grayson’s jaw tightened. “That’s absurd.”

Lyra, without looking up from her laptop, said sweetly, “You’ve been reading too many romance novels, Jameson.”

Jameson smirked. “So you admit it sounds like one.”

Grayson closed his laptop with a snap.

Xander wasn’t any better.

He appeared on Friday with a bag of bagels and a too-innocent smile. “So,” he said cheerfully, handing one to Lyra, “how do you like working for my brother?”

Lyra smiled back, all teeth. “He’s demanding.”

Grayson gave her a look. She gave him nothing in return, eyes bright and playful.

“Demanding,” Xander repeated, raising his brows. “Hmm. That’s one word for him.”

Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose.

The worst was Avery.

She had started this entire debacle, and now she seemed determined to uncover the truth she’d accidentally set in motion.

On Tuesday, she appeared in the office and leaned against Lyra’s desk. “So,” she said casually, “how’s working with Grayson?”

Lyra didn’t miss a beat. “Efficient. Organized. Professional.”

Avery’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm.”

Later, she cornered Grayson in the hallway. “You’re acting weird.”

“I am not,” he said flatly.

“Yes, you are,” Avery pressed. “You’ve been… different since Lyra started working here.”

“Different how?”

“Like…” Avery tilted her head. “Like you’re trying too hard not to be different.”

Grayson stared at her, every inch of him composed. “Avery, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re lying.”

That night, Lyra snuck into his apartment after midnight. She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her heels, and collapsed onto his couch.

“Your sister is going to figure us out,” she groaned.

“She’s not my sister,” Grayson corrected automatically, sitting beside her.

“You know what I mean.”

Grayson exhaled, leaning his head back against the cushions. “Jameson suspects. Xander suspects. Avery—”

“Knows,” Lyra finished.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it heavy between them. Then Lyra shifted, curling toward him, her head against his shoulder.

“Maybe we should just tell them,” she murmured.

Grayson’s arm wrapped around her waist almost without thought, pulling her closer. “And deal with the endless commentary? Jameson’s theatrics? Avery’s smugness?”

Lyra smiled into his shirt. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

He tilted his head, kissed her temple gently, and whispered, “You don’t know my family.”

The third week was worse.

Because pretending was exhausting. Because sneaking glances wasn’t enough. Because every time she leaned across his desk, he wanted to grab her hand and never let go.

And one night, when the office was finally empty, he snapped.

She was stacking files, her blouse wrinkled from the long day, her hair slipping free from its knot. He crossed the room in two strides, caught her wrist, and pulled her against him.

Her eyes widened, then softened, and she whispered, “Grayson—”

“I can’t do this,” he said lowly, his forehead against hers. “I can’t sit across from you every day and pretend you’re not—everything.”

Her hand slid up to his chest. “Then don’t pretend.”

And he kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. The kind of kiss that erased weeks of restraint.

They were careful, after that. Or at least, they tried to be.

Professional during the day. Secret smiles at night. His hand brushing hers when no one was looking. Her lipstick smudged on his collar after hours.

But secrets in the Hawthorne world never stayed buried for long.

And it was only a matter of time before someone caught them.

It happened on a Thursday night.

Of course it did.

Thursday nights at the Foundation were always the longest—last-minute board meetings, project deadlines, reports that mysteriously “needed Grayson’s signature before morning.” Lyra had stayed late with him, like she always did, typing up minutes while he triple-checked the numbers Avery was going to ignore anyway.

By the time the office emptied, it was nearly midnight. The city lights spilled through the tall windows, glinting off the glass table in the conference room, the only sound the shuffle of papers and the soft click of Lyra’s heels.

“You should go home,” Grayson murmured, not looking up from the document in front of him.

“So should you,” she countered, shutting her laptop. “But we both know that’s not happening.”

He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. She knew him too well.

Lyra stood, stretching, her blouse pulling just slightly against her frame. “I’m making coffee.”

“You shouldn’t,” Grayson said automatically, knowing exactly how the night would end if caffeine got involved.

“I’m making coffee,” she repeated, disappearing into the kitchenette.

When she came back, two steaming mugs in hand, Grayson finally looked up. And that was his mistake.

Her hair had come loose from its clip, falling around her face in soft waves. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows. She looked nothing like the crisp, professional secretary the world saw. She looked like his Lyra—the girl who fell asleep on his couch with her feet in his lap, the girl who kissed him like she didn’t care he was a Hawthorne, the girl who made him want things he’d spent years denying.

She set the mugs down and gave him that look. The one that stripped away every defense.

And before he could stop himself, he pulled her into his lap.

“Grayson,” she warned, half-scolding, though her hands were already on his collar.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured against her mouth, “what you do to me all day?”

Her laugh was soft, breathless. “Answering your emails? Filing your paperwork?”

“Tormenting me,” he corrected, kissing her like he was starved. “Every look. Every word. Every time you call me Mr. Hawthorne—”

“Mr. Hawthorne,” she whispered, wicked, and he groaned into her mouth.

It was reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.

Which, of course, was exactly when Jameson walked in.

“Grayson?”

The voice was too loud, too close.

Lyra jolted, nearly falling off his lap. Grayson caught her instinctively, but it didn’t matter—because Jameson was standing in the doorway of the conference room, his eyebrows sky-high, his grin positively feral.

“Oh my God,” Jameson breathed, looking between them. “You’re—oh my God.”

“Jameson,” Grayson started, his tone icy, but his usual composure was useless here. There was no spreadsheet to hide behind, no perfectly crafted argument to save him. Lyra was in his lap. His tie was undone. The evidence was… overwhelming.

Jameson’s grin widened. “This is better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

Lyra buried her face in her hands. “Kill me now.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Grayson muttered.

But Jameson was already backing out of the room, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I have to tell Avery—”

“Jameson.” Grayson’s voice was sharp, commanding.

Jameson only laughed. “Too late, Gray. The game’s up.”

They tried, of course, to do damage control.

By the time Avery stormed in ten minutes later, dragging a confused Xander behind her, Lyra was back at her desk, typing furiously, and Grayson was standing behind his, tie retied, papers in hand.

It would’ve worked.

Maybe.

If not for the lipstick smudged on Grayson’s jaw.

Avery stopped dead. Her eyes flicked from Lyra to Grayson, back to Lyra. Slowly. Deliberately.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered.

Xander tilted his head, then nodded thoughtfully. “Explains a lot, actually.”

“Explains everything,” Jameson corrected gleefully, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. “The looks. The tension. The Mr. Hawthorne thing—”

“Jameson,” Grayson bit out, his patience fraying.

But Avery was already crossing her arms, eyes narrowing. “How long?”

Grayson hesitated. Lyra opened her mouth, but he got there first. “Five months now.”

Avery’s jaw dropped. “Five months?!”

Jameson let out a low whistle. “The deception. The betrayal. The scandal.”

Xander just smiled. “I think it’s kind of sweet.”

Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose. Lyra sank lower in her chair, muttering, “I told you they’d find out.”

And just like that, the secret was out.

The ride home that night was quiet. Lyra stared out the window, biting her lip, until finally she said, “They’re never going to let us live this down, are they?”

Grayson sighed, reaching across the console to take her hand. “No.”

She turned to him, her eyes searching his, and asked softly, “Do you regret it?”

He squeezed her hand. “Not for a second.”

And when her smile bloomed, soft and real, he knew it was worth every second of chaos.