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littlemissmentallyunstable · 4 months ago

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title: the dancer and the angel PART 5 (finale)

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: a forbidden kiss, a fallout, a drunken secret and a broken girl… it all comes down to this

parts: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

warnings: SPOILERS FOR TGG, swearing

a/n: what a journey!! who knew this whole series could come from one request!! thank you @emelia07, I owe this all to you my love!! and thank you for everyone who has read along and been anticipating this part, your support and love has been AMAZINGGGG

taglist: @lovethornes @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @fleuriosa @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket @lanterns-and-daydreams @hermesenthusiast @eternal--dream @shattered-glass-roses @book-nerd-emi @peppapigsposts

YOUR POV

Light streams through the window and my head thumps, a constant monotonous banging. I groan, wincing slightly as I try to roll over into a more comfortable position to re-enter sleep. I feel like I’ve just been hit by a bus, my limbs ached and weighed heavy against the rest of my body. Even my mattress feels uncomfortable, it’s much stiffer than it usually is.

I don’t open my eyes, I prefer the solace I’m finding darkness at the moment. With a pounding head and sore body all I want to do is go back to sleep but it seems my overactive brain has other ideas. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with a flash of memories. Last night rushes through my brain in jerky disconnected moments. Grayson kissed Lyra. I had gone clubbing with Avery. Gigi was missing. The bottle of alcohol I’d snagged to drown everything out, the crying, the running, the ocean and Grayson in my room.

Oh. Shit.

I suddenly realise I can smell him all over me. My mouth grows sour. I struggle to open my eyes, they feel velcro-ed shut but I manage to pry them open. Everything’s a little hazy, though once my vision clears I realise why my mattress feels so funny. Beneath me isn’t a mattress at all. It’s a man I never wish to see again.

I sit up suddenly, jerking away from him as a wave of nausea rolls over me. I know it’s not the alcohol, I don’t get sick from it. It’s the realisation, the dread pooling the deepest pit of my stomach. This couldn’t be happening.

Scenes replay in my head, like a twisted sort of horror movie where I am the main character who walks into the room the audience knows the killer is in, the same audience who is screaming at their television screens that I shouldn’t walk into that room alone with no weapons. But that’s the thing, you can’t change a film but screaming at the tv. What’s done is done.

Everything I said, I remember it so clearly. I’d told him everything. The truth. The truth that I’d planned to bury alive until it died naturally. It was never meant to have a voice again but of course under alcohol my brain was persuaded much more easily.

“I love you,” I’d mumbled, the words tumbling out in my drunken phase.

I’d admitted to still loving him at least three times and that was how many times in remembered. I feel a little more queasy at the thought.

I dare to glance to my left. Half of his face is buried in the pillow, golden hair spilling over the other. His eyes are closed and his face looks calm, peaceful, beautiful. How dare he look like that.

Panic seizes in my throat. I don’t know what to do. Wake him, yell at him, kick him out, kiss him, leave the room and tell him it was all a dream if he questioned it. My head spins and my heart thumps. I can barely see straight, overwhelmed with a sea of emotion. I’m angry and I’m upset and I’m desperate and I’m confused.

His eyes flicker of open before I have the chance to decide my best move. He immediately meets my eye and sits up in the bed. He’s frozen, half way between going to say something and saying nothing at all. Any lingering tiredness dissipates into panic.

“What are you doing here?” I yelp, before he even has the chance to plead innocent, “why are you in my bed?”

“You were drunk,” he blurts out suddenly, arms defensive over his naked torso.

“And that’s why you’re in my bed,” I cry out incredulously, widening my eyes.

He rolls his, “you wanted me to stay, I couldn’t leave you alone on that state.”

“I was only in that state because I was trying to forget about you,” I snap back, climbing off of the mattress to pull my shoes on.

“Forget about me?” he murmurs, almost in some sort of daze as he shifts his weight on the bed.

I glance up, not accustomed to the vulnerability of his tone when we were arguing. Of course I don’t want to forget about him, I’d wanted to forget that I’d been stupid enough to give someone my heart.

But he didn’t have to know that.

He looks delicate, just sat there, his features soft and mellow. I want nothing more than to reach out and cup his face in my palms and kiss all his pain away, all his built up fear and uncertainty. To run tender fingertips across his shirtless chest, to his collarbone and neck, only for them to get lost in the golden halo of hair that sat atop his head.

My own cravings and desperation annoy me. Why am I still drawn to someone who caused me so much hurt? My head spins. I always make the same mistakes, you’d think I would’ve learnt by now. I just decide in the flash of a moment that I need to see this through, whatever this is now, it needs to be over.

“Oh,” I tusk, rolling my eyes, “don’t sound like such a hurt bird.”

“I don’t I-“

He stands up and attempts to make his way over to me. I move away.

“Just shut up and get out,” I groan, cutting him off, pressing my cold fingertips to my temples, “I’ve got a banging headache and I just want to be alone.”

I sound like a bitch but he’s not exactly making this easy for me not to. I’m hungover and heartbroken, not the best mix.

He looks at me, eyes scanning over me too tenderly. I want to melt back into his arms and fall asleep with the comfort of his soft breathing. When his eyes roam me like that I feel vulnerable, like he can see all of the things that are hurting me most. I don’t like it, he shouldn’t have that right, not anymore.

“Let me help you,” he says quietly and twinge of desperation in his throat.

My insides are screaming at me to just collide with his mouth and accept anything that he says. I look him up and down and discard this moment, these feelings and whatever happened last night. I remember who he really is and what he really did. The part of him I can’t sugarcoat.

I scoff, tightening my arms across my chest., “I think you’ve helped enough.”

He look even more hurt as he steps closer, “please let me-“

A tingle runs down my spine at the familiar position we’re in. I can’t do this.

“Grayson,” I say sharply, “leave.”

And so he does.

He turns his back and walks out of the door, shutting it gently behind him. Part of me wishes he fought harder and part of me is glad. I sink down to the floor my head in my hands. I wait for the tears that are bound to fall but the tease me and make me wait that little bit longer to cry.

Head pounding, heavy with exhaustion and all I want is his touch back, I want his voice back, I want him back but I can’t afford to want anything like that. Not anymore I suppose.

***

GRAYSONS POV

“Grayson,” the way she says my name sends a sort of electrical shock through me, her tone is so attacking and bitter I almost wince, “leave.”

Leave. Last night I was supposed to leave but she asked me to stay, this time she’s asking me to leave but all I want to do is stay.

But I turn my back and walk out of the door. I owe her this and so much more, I can’t deny her of anything else, I can’t be selfish enough to stay. My token of selfishness ran out last night or maybe even long before that.

I feel numb. Through my veins courses an icy silver liquid, my brain is a void of empty blackness lacking thoughts or emotion and my heart can’t seem to beat. Everything is gone. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff waiting to meet my death, I’ll never know when it’s coming or who caused it but I’m contented, maybe even intrigued with the possibility.

I wanted nothing more than to fight for her, stay there and demand she didn’t let me go. I want her to know how much again, how sorry I am, but what good is an apology when you’ve destroyed someone’s heart?

The numbness floods away and it hits me out of nowhere that this time I’m leaving for good. The realisation attacks me hard in the chest, bullets raining on my skin, making it a little difficult for me to breathe. A tightness constricts my upper body and I feel hazy.

I’m not going anywhere in particular, I just let my feet carry me away. Where is there to go without her? I’m an idiot. Why did I think this morning it would be any different? I’d brainwashed myself into thinking she still actually wanted me because she’d said it when she was drunk. Deep down I knew this would happen and I still stayed.

I’m a selfish bastard. Just like my grandfather.

Where to go from here? I’m alone, sat on a slab of ebony rock, staring out to sea. Usually a practice like this would calm me enough to get me to think straight but today it’s a different story.

Slowly I strip my blazer coat from my back and disgusts the shirt I’d rushed on only moments ago and trousers. I leave them folded on the black rock and make my way to the ocean. I come to the edge, the waves coming to shore lapping my bare feet and ankles.

Then I dive.

As far out as possible into the waters, until I’m out of my depth. Whilst treading waters I analyse how far out I am and the seven best possible ways to get help if I come into danger before I begin to swim.

I’ve spent so much of my life swimming, I know when I’ve hit twenty five meters and then fifty. My body is used to how it feels. So I just do it over and over and over and over. I can feel my brain becoming a blank canvas. Swimming helps me think.

Though, I’ve never enjoyed swimming the ocean, not properly swimming anyway. But I suppose that’s not what the ocean was made for. A pool is reliable. There’s no current, no salt burning your eyes, no creatures lurking beneath the surface. As I swim, I’m constantly thrown off course by the waves, that only seem to grow in size. But maybe that’s a good thing, I have to work that much harder to reach my goal.

Suddenly I stop and make my way to shore, breathing heavily as I sit on the edge where the sand meets the sea. I know what I need to do and my chest feels hollow before I even do it.

LYRAS POV

My chest heaves in and out, rising up and down as I gulp in the oxygen that dance had just stolen. I stay on the floor, toe pointed, arms poised. I don’t know how long I’m there for but eventually I will myself to stand up. I’ve danced, my feelings should be processed, but oddly enough they don’t seem to be. Not like they usually are.

I feel someone’s eyes on me, a prickling sensation creeping down the back of my neck. I turn and face the my unwanted visitor. Perfected blonde hair though seemingly a little damp, mellow gray eyes and a suit. He’s here, of course he’s here. He can’t leave anyone or anything alone, he has to have it all. My peace, my freedom, my expression and his shadow bears weight over it all.

Fury courses through my veins, like lightning ready to strike. It crackles and hisses impatient to put a deadly shock through someone. I feel my expression morph into a scowl, my eyes narrow into sharp slits and despite my previously open body language through my routine I now tuck myself in and away from his prying eyes. I force myself up, legs still a little shaky from the adrenaline of the routine. I stand still, if he wants to talk, he can walk to me.

“Lyra-“ he begins, stepping inwards.

“You,” I spit, a bitter venom coating my tongue, acidic and sharp.

Something flickers across his face. Is that fear I sense? Good. I’m ready for a fight, for a battle, maybe even a war.

“Look-“ he tries to begin again.

I don’t give him the chance to continue. He doesn’t deserve to plead his apologies, I won’t be swayed with empty words.

“You are a horrible man,” I seethe, fire in my belly, “if you can even call yourself a man, I’ve got several other less polite words for it.”

“Please you do not need to list them,” he replies dryly.

I bark out a surprised laugh, “still arrogant, still full of yourself, after everything you’ve done and the people you’ve hurt you have the audacity to-“

“I’m sorry-“ he interrupts me with an earnest look in his eyes I can’t ignore. Maybe just maybe he really is sorry… or maybe he’s the fantastic actor he’s always been.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” I tell him coldly.

His desperate eyes dare to find mine, “hear me out-“

“No,” I shake my head, “I’m done with listening to you and your lies.”

He winces as if I’ve struck him across the face, “Lyra I didn’t mean to-“

“You did. And you won’t make that mistake again,” I say, an uninvited rawness in my voice, “not with me.”

“Lyra please-“

“Beg all you want,” I cut him off again. I know the lines he’s rehearsed, I’ve heard them said by other men. I don’t give in to excuses, not from a man like him, “get on your knees I don’t care there’s nothing you can say to save yourself now and who’s fault is that?”

“Mine,” he barely murmurs, looking like a scorned child.

“Funny,” I say, dropping my voice low, “it’s so convenient now is the time you take responsibly for your actions, maybe you should’ve thought about them before-“

“I made a mistake,” Grayson bursts, the action so sudden and out of character I wonder if it’s really him talking or some deranged drunken version.

I check his eyes. He’s sober. And yet here he is standing in front of me, admiting he’s wrong and actually looking apologetic for it.

“That much is evident,” I scoff, still I can’t trust any word that comes out of his mouth, any look in his eyes, “but you did worse than that. You hurt me, you hurt the girl who loved you, who gave you everything but still wasn’t enough to satisfy your egotistical, spoilt desires,” I seethe, “you didn’t only do that but you made me into someone I’m not and you of all people don’t get to do that. I write my own story, paint my own picture, dance to my own tune. You don’t get to decide who I am and you have, you’ve made me the slut who goes around kissing other people’s boyfriends.”

“She knows you didnt know,” he replies, almost softly.

“And what’s it to me now?” I ask with a crisp laugh, “What’s done is done and everything is ruined.”

“You’re right,” he mumble miserably.

“You know if I’d even thought for a fraction of a second there was someone else I wouldn’t have even looked in your direction,” I tell him.

It’s more than true, I could never do that to someone, not on purpose. It isn’t me.

“I know,” Grayson says, “you’re a good person.”

“I don’t need you of all people to tell me that,” I snap, keeping up every wall I could. He will never get past them again.

“You intrigued me,” he admits, as if it makes the situation better.

“Men are led by greedy eyes and tiny dicks,” I spit, such fury in my voice I almost don’t recognise myself.

He can’t stop his eyebrows from shooting upwards in surprise.

“The first half of that sentence was true,” he murmurs.

“Protecting your pride still,” I sneer, as if any man wouldn’t have, “how can you come here and look me in the eye to plead for forgiveness after what you’ve done.”

He looks pained, “I don’t know.”

“You’re an asshole,” I tell him. One final time.

“I know,” he sighs.

I’ve never seen a man that held himself with such composure look so defeated. I don’t enjoy this, making anyone feel like this, even if it’s him. He may have hurt people but it doesn’t make him immune to feeling hurt himself.

Still, that didn’t kill the pure anger within me, the burning ferocity for someone who had done me wrong. And maybe I’m a fool for being blinded by such an explosive emotion but I don’t care. I can’t afford to care.

So I almost smile, “I hope she doesn’t still love you, in fact I hope she hates you for the rest of your life and you spend your days torturing yourself over this.”

“I’m sorry I kissed you Lyra, I’m sorry I played with your heart,” he says solemnly.

“You didn’t play with anything,” I laugh, “if you think you got remotely close to my heart you’d be gravely mistaken.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you then,” he replied calmly, “and I’m sorry I painted you in a bad light.”

“But you’ll win this game in the end won’t you,” I say with a shrug, my voice softens, “of course you will.”

“There’s no game here Lyra,” he responds, a vulnerability in his tone, “just a stupid man and two angry women.”

“She doesn’t deserve you,” I reply, looking him up and down.

“I know that,” Grayson admits, “she never has.”

“And you proved that to her,” I remind him, salt in his wounds, I want them to burn as much as her heart does.

“I know that too,” he says, his voice soft and quiet.

He looks too agonised and suddenly I can’t bear to look at him.

“I want you to leave,” I tell him quickly, “and don’t look back.”

He nods silently, “I’m sorry, truly.”

I stare, waiting for him to leave. I would not run from a man, he should do the walk of shame out.

“Don’t even think about coming anywhere near me after this,” I call out, “this is a forever goodbye, Hawthorne. Stay out of my life.”

He doesn’t respond, only gives a second nod before he turns his back and walks off slowly. I exhale softly and hit play on the music to start a second routine with a now cleared head.

***

YOUR POV

The bathroom tiles are cold under my thighs but they’ve almost gone as numb as the rest of me. I’ve been sat here for who knows how long recounting last nights events over and over, all the parts I didn’t want to remember and maybe some parts that I won’t admit I do. This is one of the reasons I don’t drink, but of course I’d break that rule for him, betraying my own morals again for the same stupid man. I’m exhausted, physically exhausted by it all. I tip my head back and rest it on the edge of the bathtub, a chill runs down my neck reminding me of what his touch to me.

‘But I can’t say it out loud, because then I’m an idiot for loving someone who cut me deeper than any weapon could ever cut me.’

Of all the things to say I really did have to spill everything didn’t I? There’s no way of taking back, even twisting it into something it’s not. What I said was too raw to be lied about. Denial seems like my new best friend. If I pretend for long enough I never said it, maybe I’ll fool myself into believing it too.

‘And I tried to drink it all away, believe me I tried, but then halfway through my fifth glass I kind of realised it wasn’t working.’

Even my drunken tongue had lied, I’d realised before the alcohol even had the pleasure of burning its way down my throat that it wouldn’t work. I’d just convinced myself it might attack the pain receptors in my body.

‘It’s because I still fucking love you, how depressing is that? You murdered my heart and yet it can’t stop beating your name.’

Did his heart beat mine? His replies are hazier than my memory of what I’d said. My stupidity is woven deep into my brain, his hit the hardest when he’s kissed her so any other stupid things past that were more forgettable. My stomach rolls at the thought of all I’d admitted to last night. I groan wishing for the floor to swallow me whole and softly drown me into an eternal darkness.

But I can’t keep walking through this endlessness, whatever feelings I had left for him I had to leave behind. I’m good at tricking my mind and that is my plan now, trick my mind into thinking I don’t love, I can’t love. Maybe next time I won’t be so hurt. I stand up and gaze at the girl in the mirror, finally silencing the voice that was picking out all the features Lyra had that I didn’t. I inhale and exhale deeply. All my feelings would be discarded, here and now I decide. The moment I step from this bathroom and close the door, I’m closing off connection to him.

I walk slowly towards the door, my legs a little more shaky and a little less numb. I can’t tell which I prefer. I breathe deeply as I step out, taking in our happy memories for one last time, before this mess of a relationship it has become. And finally, finally I shut the bathroom door.

He’s out of my mind and I’m focussed on something else. I want to find Gigi, then I want to have a good nights sleep and then I want to go and find a career I love and cut this Hawthorne part of my life out completely. To truly lose him, I needed to lose everything close to him too. I can’t afford to be drawn back again.

I leave the room I’d slept in the night before and walk, fast paced and strong steps that leave me slightly breathless after a while. The island is bigger than it looks with many different pathways to walk.

I pick the one that seems the longest. I need to clear my head and focus on where Gigi could possibly be. I feel consumed with guilt that I hadn’t been trying harder to find her, instead I’ve been wrapped up in my own problems. She could be dead, dying or something worse that I didn’t even want to start imagining. All I know is, we have to work harder to find her and it starts here and now.

I need to gather all the information. When. When did she go missing? Exact time stamps of everything to calculate how swiftly any of this happened. Where. Where was she taken? We needed to revisit all the places she could be or could’ve been taken from. How. How was she taken? Did it leave any evidence? Would that give us a clue to who it might have been? Why. Why would someone want her? What’s the motive behind it all? What. What did they want? Surely they wanted something right? Who. The big question mark and blank face. Who in the world would want to kidnap Juliet Grayson?

A hand touches my shoulder and I flinch, immediately going into fight or flight. Unfortunately for the other person I choose to fight, twisting their arm quickly. They clearly aren’t expecting it as they cry out and don’t react fast enough. When I hear the sound of her voice I immediately drop the tight grasp I’d had on her and repeat apologies.

“I am so sorry,” I exhale, “I was thinking deeply about Gigi and I thought you might be a kidnapper.”

“It’s okay,” Avery says, hiding her wince quite well as she adjusted her arm, “you totally would’ve kicked ass if I had been a kidnapper.”

I try to smile but can only manage a half grimace, “thanks.”

She tilts her head as our eyes meet.

“You okay?” Avery asks, looking pitiful.

I hate it. I hate to think she feels sorry for me. What’s done is done, we all just need to forget and move on and her pity is only making me remember. I run a hand over my face to break eye contact. Clearly I look worse than I thought I did despite trying to hide my tired eyes and hollow cheeks with makeup.

“Fine,” I respond with a small shrug, as we begin a slow walk down.

She hesitates, I can tell she’d unsure to carry on the conversation, but she does anyway, “you don’t seem fine.”

I chew my bottom lip trying to come up with some sort of plausible excuse, “rough sleep,” I manage, my throat a little dry.

The silence between us feels thick and heavy, not the way it usually might. The paranoia in me thinks she knows something.

She stares at me for a moment and then sighs, saying what’s really on her mind, “why did Grayson walk out of your room this morning?”

And for once the paranoia is right.

I don’t say anything at first because I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to forget about him but slowly I’m learning every second I’m here I’ll be reminded. As soon as I can I’ll leave for good this time.

“Long story,” I murmur.

“Care to share?” she asks. Avery isn’t one to push, if I told her to drop it now she would immediately. But part of her knows what I don’t want to admit to. I need to talk about this, get it off of my chest. Burying it alive doesn’t mean it’ll die immediately. Maybe I need to kill it first.

“I got drunk,” I explain, more ashamed now because saying something out loud always makes it more real, “and said some things I shouldn’t have and he stayed… because I asked him to.”

She winced, unable to hold it back this time.

“Oh wait,” I laugh, through some pain, “it gets worse.”

Avery bites her lip, “please no,” she begs in a small voice.

I sigh and meet her eyes directly, “And then, like the idiot that I am, I told him I still loved him.”

She gasps, air caught in her throat. She stills in her sheer surprise of it all.

“Yeah,” I grimace, with an awkward cough, “so if you’re wondering why I look like crap that may or may not have something to do with it.”

“Rewind,” she says, “do you?”

“What?”

“Still love him,” she clarifies.

“Of course,” I murmur. If I’m going to keep lying to myself from now on I want the last person I tell the truth to to be someone who I can truly trust, “but he’s not supposed to know that.”

“This is tricky,” Avery says, tapping her fingers at her sides.

“You’re telling me,” I blow out a breath, “I have no idea what to do.”

“Did he tell you?” she asks curiously, “that you told him you loved him I mean?”

“No, that’s the weird thing,” I reply slowly, “he hasn’t said a thing about it.”

I hadn’t really thought of it until now. Why wouldn’t he use that against me? It’s perfect. Too perfect. He could’ve easily just explained the whole conversation and my only defence, I was drunk, which when thinking about it isn’t even a defence.

Avery’s eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head confused, “so how do you know you said that?”

“I remember everything,” I blurt out, “every single second.”

“But he hasn’t referenced it?” she clarifies.

“He doesn’t know I remember,” I say slowly, “and I’m keeping it that way.”

She nods in understanding but I can see part of her is wondering why.

“I can’t afford to love him Avery because I love too hard,” I admit, each word killing me softly, “I trust too much.”

“I understand,” she purses her lips, “but doesn’t it mean something, that he hasn’t said anything.”

I tilt my head to the side, “how do you mean?”

“He knows what he’s done is beyond wrong,” she begins, “and he also knows you still love him, but he also knows you don’t want to be with him, so maybe he’s trying to make it easier for you to leave, to just forget.”

I chew my lips, “I suppose.”

We fall into a silence of pondering. Maybe he is really trying to let me do what I want to. Maybe he is helping me leave because I asked him to. Maybe he knows if he asks me to stay, I will, so he’s not asking at all.

“I’m sorry,” Avery says quietly, wrapping as arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her.

“What are you sorry for?” I sniff, suddenly aware of a dampness on my cheeks, “none of this is your fault.”

“It’s not you either,” she whispers tentatively.

I don’t know how she knows but she knows I need to hear this. I keep trying to find the flaws in myself, all the things that I’d done to cause this to happen. And as much as I hate to think I would do that for a guy, it’s what I am doing.

I look up at her, glossy eyed.

“No,” she says firmly, “don’t you dare start blaming yourself.”

“Too late,” I smile sadly, a tidal wave of emotion hitting me hard. If I hadn’t been a problem, if there wasn’t something wrong with me, then why kiss another?

“Oh sweetheart,” she says tenderly, hugging me tighter, closer.

“Maybe I wasn’t good enough Avery, maybe if I was smarter, maybe if I was prettier, if I could dance like her…” I trail off, “I know I’m a lot, I know I’m hard to deal with but I just thought… I really thought I’d found someone who understood that and embraced it. I thought he loved every part of me, that he’s never feel like that for anyone but me. I was stupid enough to think for once I was the special one but I was wrong. I’m the girl I’ve always been, I’m not enough Avery.”

“Look at me, look at me right now,” she says with a fierce love, “you are enough. In fact you’re more than enough. You’re so kind and lovely and sweet, you light up a whole room when you walk into it, you’re constantly putting others before yourself. You’re brave and you’re beautiful and he’s letting all of that go. You are everything and don’t let him make you forget it because I’m not going to sit here and let a stupid boy make you think you’re not enough.”

I force a laugh, my throat so hoarse so the sound of scrapes and scratches.

“And I’m not even just saying this,” she says, once again proving that she can read minds, “you know me, I’m an honest girl and I wouldn’t lie to one of my best friends. He’s not worth you, he let you down, he hurt you and that’s on him, that’s a reflection of him. It has nothing to do with you, okay?”

I nod snivelling, “god I love you Ave.”

“I love you too,” she smiles through her own tears now.

We hug again and even thought I’d thought it was impossible to get ourselves any closer, we still managed.

“I can’t believe I’m crying over a boy right now,” I laugh through my tears.

She laughs too, wiping them from my cheeks, “it’s okay, I’ve been there one too many times.” I beam at her and slowly loosen my arms around nee to let her go.

“Avery,” I say carefully.

She hums in reply, brushing my hair behind my ears.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.

She looks at me, almost knowing what’s coming yet still replies, “sure,” in such a way that made me more than comfortable to even ask.

I inhale deeply, “what would you do if Jameson did this to you?”

A sudden sadness coats her hazel eyes.

“Honestly,” she sighs, “I don’t even know, I wouldn’t know what to do. I know that’s the last thing you probably wanted to hear.”

I shrug, “it’s okay. I don’t really know what I expected you to say.”

***

GRAYSONS POV

My pride is wounded two times over. Good. Maybe that’ll teach it.

Ever since I was a child I had been raised to be a proud man, someone who held their head high no matter what they’d done or in some cases what they hadn’t. I could blame my grandfather for the way I turned out, the man who bred me to be such a foul and malicious creature or maybe my neglectful mother, absent father or a smiling red headed girl who pitched herself off of a cliff edge. But what good I blaming someone when I’m still stuck as myself?

I find myself back at the beach. A place that is both achingly familiar and distant all at the same time. I wonder if the salt in the water will cleanse me of what I have done. As I close my eyes and inhale, I remember pulling her between my legs, telling her she was the only one our first night on this island. I would do anything to go back to that moment.

Why is nothing ever enough for me? I don’t know when to stop, when to feel satisfied, when to recognise I have more than I want. Why am I the way I am? My head is a swirling mess of antagonising thoughts and strangling voices all on top of one another.

Though one is the loudest, one shows me the most.

I hurt her more than I could ever imagine and it’s killing me. Pieces of me are eroding away in the acid coursing through my veins. I can feel myself slipping away, everything growing heavier by the smallest fractions that build up over time until everything just crumbles one day and you look back and wonder what the hell happened.

I have hatred for a lot of people but my most loathed enemy is the man who looks me in the eye every day in my bathroom mirror, the man who shares my name and my blood and my mind. I hate him for hurting her. I want to destroy him for making a single tear slip. I wish nothing but an agonising life for him.

I feel someone sit beside me and I already know who it is. It isn’t the way she moves that gives her away, nor the smell of her perfume or sound of her breathing. I just know. Like I’ve always just known. She sits by my side and stares out to sea, not meeting my eye when I turn to look at her.

“I’m done with this,” she says, her voice stone, cold, “the tension, the arguing, all of it. I’m done with you Grayson. I want to make it clear. When I say stay away from me, you will stay away from me. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

She’s still looking out, every weighted word is said towards the ocean and still I feel every jab just a heavy on my chest.

She’s so beautiful, too beautiful. I’m selfish in this moment for almost being glad she came, just so I could look at her, really look at her one last time. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, as well as her nose slightly pinkish. Long thick lashes curl up to almost touch her eyebrows. Her lips only taunt me in their perfection, rounded and red, making my desire to take them into my own that little bit more violent.

I understand what she wants, but I don’t want her to want it. But I have to give her this, if I truly love her, I have to let her go. But if this is the last conversation we ever have, I don’t want it to end here.

“What do you remember from last night?” the question escapes my lips before I can filter it.

Still she does not meet my eye, “are you not listening to me?” she’s agitated, annoyed and desperately trying not to glare at me in fear of making eye contact.

“I will do whatever you ask,” I tell her, praying she could hear my earnestness, thick in my throat, “I promise you-“

She scoffs cutting me off, “yeah because promises went far last time.”

A pang of shame attacks my heart, it aches and pulsates in agony. It’s my own fault and part of me is guilty it isn’t writhing more, I suppose it’s still holding out for some false hope.

“I swear it on my life and yours,” I say, slowly, “I’ll do whatever you ask. But please, please tell me. What do you remember from last night?”

“Nothing,” her voice almost softens, it’s not as harsh as before but not as sweet as I remembered.

It stings. Reality usually does, but I don’t think I’ve felt it this strongly since Emily died. I’d thought maybe somewhere there would’ve been part of her that remembered her confession, part of her that believed it. All I know for sure is I’m not going to say a word about it, I owe her far more than that and despite how much I want her, crave her, need her, I can’t do this to her.

“Absolutely nothing?” I murmur, wondering if words were even being processed by my brain anymore because I don’t remember thinking them.

“I drank a load of alcohol and then went to my room,” she replies briskly, her frostiness returning like an icy sheet on a winters day, “next thing I know I wake up with you next to me.”

“So you don’t remember anything you said?” I push, testing the waters.

If this truly is our last conversation, I need to know for sure that she doesn’t remember anything, that I should forget like she’s already forgotten.

“No and quite frankly I don’t care Grayson,” she groans, eyes blazing with a fury I wasn’t used to, “I’m tired of this vicious circle. You messed up and no amount of apologising is going to save you now.”

“I love you,” I blurt out.

I can’t help it. She’s everything to me and she needs to know it, even if she doesn’t believe it.

She shakes her head, almost sadly, “and clearly that’s not enough.”

“It is enough,” I say desperately.

I understand why she can’t see this like I do. I understand why she won’t consider it. I understand I’ve hurt her beyond her limit.

“This is what I mean by a vicious circle,” she chokes out, “we’re back to the same place again. You tell me you love me, then I ask why you did what you did, you say you don’t know and I can’t forgive and forget it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I tell her, “but you know it as well as I do, we’ll go crazy without each other. I’m already losing it and so are you-“

“Oh thanks,” she scoffs, sarcasm clinging to her tone, “good way to win me back there, telling me I’m a mental case, real attractive.”

I wince then regain composure.

“You don’t drink,” I say, “you’ve never been a heavy drinker and now what? You suddenly are.”

“I’m allowed to do what I want,” she spits back, “habitual or not.”

Something about the way she is so defensive about being so reckless makes me feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to be the reason she destroys her health.

“So you expect me to sit back and watch you hurt yourself!” I yell, suddenly angry, more with myself than ever at her.

“Well you’ve had no problem hurting me before,” she snaps, her voice almost acidic.

I fall silent. What is there left to say? She’s right. She has me backed into a corner of speechlessness. I’ve run out of defences to plead.

“You know what Grayson, it’s fine,” she says bitterly, harshly wiping away tears, “people move on I get it but couldn’t you have just said it to my face before you went behind my back? You knew, you knew I was insecure about her and you still went ahead and kissed her. What kind of sick person does that?”

She looks like she’s physically in pain, it agonises me to even watch her, let alone realise that I’m the one who caused this. Guilt consumed me so long ago and yet it feels like my first taste all over again.

“I don’t know how to tell you this again,” I fumble over my words, my hands shaking, “it meant nothing, I felt nothing.”

“Then what made you do it?” she sobs, “what made you do it?”

“I don’t know,” I ramble, “she was there and she was upset and I felt bad and I’d just spent the last 24 hours with her and she reminded me of you and so I got confused-“

“Confused.” she says darkly, she looks livid, “Confused? We’re completely different fucking people, Grayson. Please don’t try and feed me that excuse because it won’t wash with me!”

“I don’t know, I really don’t then,” I reply, holding my hands up to surrender, “I don’t know why this happened or how, all I know is that I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Good,” she snaps, “as you should, now are you done here?”

I look at her longingly, my eyes latching to her body. I don’t want this to be goodbye but if it has to be then I want to remember every inch of her.

“If you promise me you’ll be careful,” I murmur, barely audible.

Her face scrunches up, “don’t tell me what to do.”

“You scared me last night,” I admit, softening my voice.

“I’m a grown woman Grayson,” she sneers, saying my name so coldly I feel it burn in my chest, “I can do what I like, I don’t care if it scared you, get your big boy pants on and get over it.”

“That wasn’t you,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” she laughs gently with a bitterness caught in her throat, “and I thought this wasn’t you but I was wrong too.”

“I don’t want you to waste away because of me,” I tell her.

“Oh, you do like to flatter yourself,” she shakes her head with a sad smile, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

I look at her as earnestly as I can, “I’m serious.”

“Grayson if I scared you so much,” she states simply, folding her arms across her chest and taking a dangerous step closer, “then why not just leave?”

“I couldn’t leave you like that,” I reply with the truth because I’ve lied far too much.

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” my voice cracks, “and no matter how much you scare me that fact doesn’t change.”

“You should’ve left,” she replies coldly, staring dead at me, like she’s trying to keep her emotions in check to defy the glistening tear stains on her cheeks.

“I know,” I respond quietly, “and I tried but you asked me to stay.��

“I was drunk,” she exclaims, raising her voice, “and being an idiot, I didn’t know what I was saying!”

“And if I’d left would you be any happier?” I shoot back, anger taking hold for that split second.

She falters, “no because the bottom line is you’ve hurt me more than I know I could hurt, so nothing you do can be worse.”

My heart throbs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing the word will never be enough.

“That’s meaningless to me,” she shakes her head.

“I know but I’ll still say it until I’m blue in the face,” I shrug.

“Be my guest,” she replies, stepping backwards, “it’ll still be meaningless.”

She’s stepping away, she wants this to come to an end, she’s scared it won’t. I don’t want to let her go but I will. I ask myself if this is our last conversation. If so, I have to take the gamble.

“Being away from you is torturing me,” I say.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you had your lips on hers,” she only shrugs in reply, opting for her stony tone, unsympathetic eyes meeting my own pleading ones.

“I know it’s torturing you too,” I whisper.

The world comes to a standstill for a moment and I feel like I’m in a place between life and death. A surreal sort of slowed experience where it doesn’t feel quite real but not quite synthetic either. Waiting for her to reply sucks the oxygen from my lungs.

“Of course it is, you idiot,” she groans, “I’ve got double the torture because not only am I now alone, I was betrayed by someone who I thought loved me.”

“I do love you,” I tell her.

I hope she can hear the emotion in my throat. She knows me well enough to know I could hide it, but I don’t want to. I want her to know that I feel more for her than I’ve ever felt for anyone else on this planet. I need her to know that she is everything to me.

“Empty words Grayson, all of them,” she replies. It’s what happens when you hurt someone so pure too many times, you ruin them. “The ones you said before and the ones you’re saying now, they’re meaningless to me,” she shrug.

It feels like it’s the end and it is consolidated as so when she walks away from me. She’s finished, she’s done. War is over.

But selfish me can’t let her do that, selfish me is still fighting, selfish me is taking over my brain and selfish me needs to try one last thing, as awful as it is, he has to.

“No they’re not,” I say loudly.

She stops, frozen in place. Her head whips around, fast, “are you seriously doing this?”

Her eyes blaze with the purest of fury. I begin to think I’ve done the wrong thing, but there’s no turning back now.

“You told me you loved me last night,” I blurt out.

I can’t believe it’s come to this. I hadn’t wanted it to but I don’t feel regret. I can’t hide this from her too.

She stares me dead in the eye, “I know.”

The wave of shock almost knocks me flat.

“You know?” I gape, jaw dropping. This whole time she knew and she just didn’t say anything.

“Of course,” she tusks, rolling her eyes, “I said the stupid words.”

“But you said-“

“I lied,” she snaps sharply cutting me off.

My eyebrows furrow, “why?”

“This reason,” she points to the both of us as my eyebrows draw together even tighter, “to avoid this.”

“What is this?” I ask. I need to clarity, I need to know what’s going on inside her head.

“This conversation,” she says, “I don’t want it.”

“Why?” I ask again, the painstaking monotony of the word making me feel like a petulant child.

“Because,” she meets my eye and her voice wavers for a moment, “I don’t want to look you in the eye and tell you it’s over again, because this time I don’t think I’ll cope.”

“Then don’t tell me it’s over,” I blurt out.

I never think straight when she’s involved, it’s always this mess of chaos in my brain and I say and do things without thought, without fear, without overthinking,

“But it is Grayson,” she replies, pain ripping through her voice, “it was over the moment you put your lips on hers.”

“I don’t love her,” I tell her again, she’ll never hear it enough but if I stop saying it I fear she’ll believe I do.

She shakes her head and her bottom like trembles, “that doesn’t change what happened.”

“How can I prove it to you?” I ask, trying to reach out for her in my desperation, “what can I do?”

She moves away so my hands can’t clasp hers. I’ll beg her in my hands and knees if I must.

“Grayson you have to understand that I can’t trust you anymore,” she explains, “and how can I be in a relationship with you if I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, “but we could try, you could rebuild the trust.”

She pauses for a long while, not moving, barely breathing. She limbs rest still as she analyses me, her eyes trailing up and down me slowly until they finally meet my eye and stop themselves from wondering. I can only hope she sees how much I mean it, the eyes are the window to the soul, she once told me. How clear is that window now?

She takes one step in, a single tear glistening as it rolls down her cheeks, “how do I know you don’t love her,” she whispers.

I take her face into my palms and I kiss her, deeply, smoothly. I say a thousand words without uttering a sound and I already know she feels every single one of them before we’ve stopped.

We break away naturally, “because I didn’t kiss her like that,” I say breathlessly.

“I won’t forgive you with just a kiss,” she shakes her head, pushing me away gently, “you can’t win me over with sweet talk.”

“I know,” I murmur, fingertips lingering like a ghost touch on her hips.

“And if we’re going to be us again it’s going to take time,” she responds, taking a step away so my hands fall from her body and we’re just two people looking at each other, “a long time.”

“I’m fine with waiting,” I tell her, “I’ll wait forever just to be with you.”

Every word is the truth, every word I mean.

She looks at me and I can’t quite read her, though she looks in deep thought, “you have the next stage of the game now,” she reminds me quietly.

“I don’t care,” I shrug.

And I don’t. This stupid game has caused me nothing but misery and I don’t want any part of it anymore.

“Go,” she whispers with a smile that still looked sadder than usual, “I need time.”

My heart clenches.

“Forever, I’ll wait forever.”

a/n: ahhh it’s so bittersweet to end this series!! I can’t believe how much it grew, starting from that one little fic to this whole story I somehow created?! special shout-out to @inmyheaddd and @midiosaamor for being my biggest cheerleaders 💘💘 I love you with all of my heart and thank you so much, but also thank you so so so INSANELY much to anyone else who had liked, commented or read this fic, it means more than anything to me

okay so this is PROBABLY a controversial ending because she doesn’t get back with him but she doesn’t not get back with him, I’ll leave the decision to you guys… (I know it leans towards she probably will BUTTTT hear me out: this is fiction and I wanted the main character to end with with grayson and I think it’s not like she just got back with him, she has conditions, she’s being cautious, but her love is so overwhelming that she still wants to be with him even though he brain is telling her no)

ANYWAYS i hope you enjoyed this final part, a little bit of me is scared it’s too underwhelming but I liked it :)) thank you all again <33

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sashayed · 2 months ago

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Not Writing

When I am not writing I am not writing a novel called 1994 about a young woman in an office park in a provincial town who has a job cutting and pasting time. I am not writing a novel called Nero about the world's richest art star in space. I am not writing a book called Kansas City Spleen. I am not writing a sequel to Kansas City Spleen called Bitch's Maldoror. I am not writing a book of political philosophy called Questions for Poets. I am not writing a scandalous memoir. I am not writing a pathetic memoir. I am not writing a memoir about poetry or love. I am not writing a memoir about poverty, debt collection, or bankruptcy. I am not writing about family court. I am not writing a memoir because memoirs are for property owners and not writing a memoir about prohibitions of memoirs. When I am not writing a memoir I am also not writing any kind of poetry, not prose poems contemporary or otherwise, not poems made of fragments, not tightened and compressed poems, not loosened and conversational poems, not conceptual poems, not virtuosic poems employing many different types of euphonious devices, not poems with epiphanies and not poems without, not documentary poems about recent political moments, not poems heavy with allusions to critical theory and popular song. I am not writing "Leaving the Atocha Station" by Anne Boyer and certainly not writing "Nadja" by Anne Boyer though would like to write "Debt" by Anne Boyer though am not writing also "The German Ideology" by Anne Boyer and not writing a screenplay called "Sparticists." I am not writing an account of myself more miserable than Rousseau. I am not writing an account of myself more innocent than Blake. I am not writing epic poetry although I like what Milton said about lyric poets drinking wine while epic poets should drink water from a wooden bowl. I would like to drink wine from a wooden bowl or to drink water from an emptied bottle of wine. I am not writing a book about shopping, which is a woman shopping. I am not writing accounts of dreams, not my own or anyone else's. I am not writing historical re-enactments of any durational literature. I am not writing anything that anyone has requested of me or is waiting on, not a poetics essay or any other sort of essay, not a roundtable response, not interview responses, not writing prompts for younger writers, not my thoughts about critical theory or popular songs. I am not writing a new constitution for the republic of no history. I am not writing a will or a medical report. I am not writing Facebook status updates. I am not writing thank-you notes or apologies. I am not writing conference papers. I am not writing book reviews. I am not writing blurbs. I am not writing about contemporary art. I am not writing accounts of my travels. I am not writing reviews for The New Inquiry and not writing pieces for Triple Canopy and not writing anything for Fence. I am not writing a daily accounting of my reading, activities, and ideas. I am not writing science fiction novels about the problem of the idea of the autonomy of art and science fiction novels about the problem of a society with only one law which is consent. I am not writing stories based on Nathaniel Hawthorne's unwritten story ideas. I am not writing online dating profiles. I am not writing anonymous communiqués. I am not writing textbooks. I am not writing a history of these times or of past times or of any future times and not even the history of these visions which are with me all day and all of the night.

Anne Boyer Garments Against Women, 2016

#national poetry month #poetry #anne boyer #anne. u motherfucker

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mothergo0se · 2 months ago

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Standing in the kitchen, I’m making sure I’ve got enough bottles ready for the weekend trip away from my little one.

“Are you sure you can manage him on your own? He rarely takes a bottle, always preferring to breastfeed. Plus, he throws such big fits when I try to change his poopy diapers. Maybe I should just bring him with me instead of leaving him here...?”

“You’re leaving me?!?!”

I hadn’t even heard our little one toddle into the room.

“Oh, honey, just for the weekend. But don’t worry! Mommy got you the best babysitter—Mrs. Hawthorne! She even said she likes to play hide and seek with little ones like you.”

My little one drops to the floor, bursting into tears. “Don’t want that stupid lady. Want Mommy.”

I scoop up my little tantrum and carry them back to the nursery. “Love, we don’t call people ‘stupid,’ even when we’re upset. I’m going to let you calm down for a bit, and then you’re going back out to apologize to Mrs. Hawthorne.”

My tiny tot clings to me like a koala caught in a thunderstorm. “I don’t want you to go. Take me with you.”

I sigh softly and rub their back. “Mommy can’t take you with me, honey. I need some alone time with Daddy. And I can’t have that if I’m also making sure you don’t have a poopy butt. I’m sorry, but you’ll be staying with Mrs. Hawthorne.”

After a few minutes of holding my tiny one close, their sobs slow down, and they start to hiccup instead. I gently rub their back, waiting for the storm to pass.

"Feeling better, sweetheart?" I ask softly, my voice gentle.

They nod slowly, sniffling. "Uh-huh..."

"Good," I smile, wiping away a tear from their cheek. "Now, can you do Mommy a big favor?"

They look up at me with wide, innocent eyes. "What?"

"Can you go out and apologize to Mrs. Hawthorne? We don’t call people names when we’re upset, remember?" I give them a little squeeze. "I know you’re sad I’m leaving, but I need you to be brave for Mommy, okay?"

My little one scrunches up their face, looking torn. But after a moment, they give a reluctant nod. "Okay, Mommy..."

I stand up, holding their hand as we head out into the living room. Mrs. Hawthorne is sitting patiently, her warm smile welcoming. My little one looks down at the floor, still a little embarrassed but trying to be brave.

I guide them gently forward. "Go on, sweetie. It’s okay."

They shuffle up to Mrs. Hawthorne, and in a quiet voice, mumble, "I’m sorry for calling you stupid... I didn’t mean it."

Mrs. Hawthorne leans down, offering a soft smile. "It’s okay, little one. I know you were upset. Thank you for apologizing. And I’m sure we’re going to have a great weekend together!"

My little one glances up at me, eyes still a little teary but now filled with a sense of relief. I smile and give them a kiss on the forehead. “Good job, sweetheart. You’re such a good little one for Mommy.”

With a final hug, I turn to grab my bag. "Now, you be good for Mrs. Hawthorne, and I’ll be back before you know it. Mommy loves you."

"Love you too, Mommy..." they whisper, sniffling again but with a small smile.

I head out the door, knowing they’ll be in good hands and feeling a little lighter, even though I’ll miss my little one. A weekend of grown-up time with Daddy awaits—but I know it won’t be long before I’m back, and my tiny one will be waiting for me with open arms. 💖

#mothergo0se #abdlmommy #abdllittle

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thechildofshadows · 3 months ago

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PARTNERS IN WINE

Avery Grambs x Jameson Hawthorne - 2.1k

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Hello and a Happy St. Patrick's Day to all who celebrate! Here's the promised 'Jameson takes care of drunk!Avery' fic, @saythewordheiress. You did not ask me to write it, but I have done so anyway! (because I like doing fun things, especially if it means skiving off schoolwork!) Let me know if you guys want a part two, because I think I set it up pretty well to write a chapter for Grayson and Lyra. This is different from what I usually write, so the quality might be worse. This fic, as I said earlier, is one where Jameson takes care of a drunk Avery. She's drunk for about half the fic and hungover for the other half, so if you don't like reading about people being drunk, or people throwing up ... wrong place, I will see you next week! It is also partially a chat-fic ... you'll see what I mean, because it alternates between actual storytelling and texting. It sounds bad rn, just read it. If you hate the texting, there is actual writing, and if you hate the writing, there is texting. Have fun!

CONVERSATION: KEVIN, JOE, NICK AND THE BONUS JONAS

NASH: Alright you’re going to love this

JAMESON: am i

NASH: Maybe not

NASH: so you know how the girls had a night here

JAMESON: yes

JAMESON: get to the point nash

NASH: there was some rum involved

GRAYSON: Is anyone dead, bleeding, or currently in the hospital?

NASH: no

GRAYSON: Then what’s the problem?

JAMESON: you text like a karen

XANDER: Nash hesitates to tell you, so I shall!

XANDER: They got really drunk.

NASH: …

NASH: Y’all have been quiet for a while

NASH: I’m not afraid of a fight

NASH: I have Oren

GRAYSON: Oren won’t help.

JAMESON: they’re not hurt, jfc calm down loverboy

JAMESON: how much is really drunk?

NASH: like a lot.

NASH: Avery and Max kept drinking after Libby stopped

NASH: they’ve gone through a lot of bottles.

XANDER: Avery recited Shakespeare off the top of her head

JAMESON: do you know which one

XANDER: A Midsummer’s Night Dream

XANDER: The queen’s monologue

JAMESON: omg she was learning it last week for that lit course

NASH: Gotta say

NASH: if this whole inheritance thing stops working out

NASH: she has a future in theater.

GRAYSON: From one solo?

NASH: hey she and Lyra got a pretty good recital of Hamlet in

NASH: they sound better than you do when you’re sober

JAMESON: i think gray might cry lmfao

GRAYSON: I’m not.

Jameson’s favorite thing (person) in the world was Avery Kylie Grambs.

That being said, he had no idea how to handle the woman while she was drunk. And in denial.

“Look, I’ve walked in a straight line, and … and I got back home fine. I’m not thaaaaat drunk.”

Jameson looked at Avery, who has tucked herself into his side. “Oren drove you here, and that line was definitely not straight.”

“It was …” she mumbled. She tried to take a few steps by herself, and fell over against Jameson, who wrapped an arm around her torso to steady her.

“Jesus Christ, how much did you drink?” Avery had a pretty high tolerance for alcohol, and her liver probably died three times over for her to be this drunk.

“I’m not Jesus, I’m Saint Avery, remember?” Her voice slurred as they reached the stairs. Avery tried moving, but she tripped on the first stair and nearly brought Jameson down with her.

Okay, that plan is out the window. Jameson hooked an arm around her legs, and lifted her in a bridal carry, walking away from the stairs.

“Where’re we going?” her words were basically mush at this point, but Jameson was able to make them out.

“Your room is pretty high up, Heiress, and we are taking the shorter route.” He stopped at a random point in a hallway, and tapped it three times. The wall slid away, and revealed an elevator.

Jameson put Avery down, and half-pushed her into the elevator. He clicked the button for her floor, and kept her within his arms as the elevator. It was a pretty short ride, but the sudden stop (which was pretty smooth) caused Avery to lose what little balance she had, and nearly fall over.

Jameson saved her from an encounter with the floor. Again.

She was still putting her full weight on him, so he picked her up again.

As they were walking to her room, she started giggling.

“What’s so funny?”

“You!”

Jameson had no idea what she was talking about. “What?”

Avery giggled again. “Like that. You’re funny. And pretty. Like really pretty.”

Jameson nudged at the side of her head with his nose. “Just pretty?”

“Yeah. Really pretty.” She rested her head against his chest.

“I thought you’d say I’m sexy.”

“That too.”

As soon as she reached her bed, she fell asleep. She was already in pjs, and it didn’t seem worth waking her up again to get fully ready for bed.

Jameson, who had been in bed fiddling with a puzzle Xander gave him, had already been in ‘sleep mode’ for the past hour. After making sure Avery was underneath a blanket and wasn’t about to fall off the bed, throw up, choke on said throw up or all three, he got in beside her, and was surprised that Avery promptly attached herself to his side.

“You’re not really asleep, are you, Heiress?” He asked with a smirk.

She pulled him closer. “I … love you.”

Jameson gave an amused smile and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I love you too.”

She didn’t respond, and Jameson figured she was truly asleep.

“Good night, Avery.”

Avery woke up the next morning- and ran straight to the bathroom.

Jameson was sitting on the counter next to the sink, as if he had been waiting there, but she barely acknowledged him as she bent over the toilet. He held her hair back as she threw up, and rubbed circles in her back. His touch was gentle, and Avery would've appreciated it more if she hadn't been spilling the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

“Good morning, Heiress.” he said with a smirk once she was done.

She shot him a glare, but quickly looked away as her head began pounding. “Don’t even try.”

“I didn’t say anything.” He joined her on the floor, placing a kiss on her temple, and offered her a bottle of water.

She began to drink it, and felt her headache ease somewhat. She leaned into Jameson and closed her eyes, taking a minute to relax and allow herself to slow down. With the nausea out of the way, she felt closer to sleep than ever.

She checked the clock on the wall. 9:45.

It was still too early for her.

"Woah." Jameson tapped her hand. "You're not sleeping until you've had something to eat."

"What?"

Jameson shrugged. "You're probably going to throw up again when you wake up, you might as well have something to throw up instead of pure stomach acid. You're lucky you ate before drinking last night, otherwise you would be in significantly worse shape."

She opened her mouth to respond, but she felt her stomach turn, and quickly dove for the toilet. Jameson held her hair back as she threw up bile, and kept dry heaving. She almost collapsed against the toilet and felt Jameson tie her hair and walk out of the bathroom. Avery wondered if she was in such bad shape that he couldn’t even be around her.

Avery tried to move, but her vision went temporarily black as she got up, and she wobbled for a second before catching the countertop. "Ow."

“How much did you end up drinking last night?” Jameson re-entered the bathroom and helped her sit on the countertop, giving her a bottle.

That’s why he left.

Avery noticed it was Gatorade rather than water and raised an eyebrow.

“You need the extra hydration, don’t look at me like that.”

Avery would’ve rolled her eyes. She instead decided to open the Gatorade bottle, but lacked the energy to actually open it.

“And she said she didn’t drink at all last night.” Jameson gave her a smirk -oh god, how could he be hot and helpful and unhelpful so early in the morning?- and helped her tip the bottle into her mouth.

She finally found the strength to talk. “Did I really say that last night?”

“Among other things.” He stood between her legs, and gently took the bottle from her, capping it as he moved it to the side.

Avery poked his chest. “What else did I do?”

Jameson gave her a crooked grin. “Finish the food.”

Food?

He produced a packet of crackers out of nowhere, and Avery groaned. “They’re disgusting.”

“They’re what you’re least likely to throw up.”

Avery frowned, and Jameson tore open the packet. “Take it from a Hawthorne man; we know the best ways to get drunk, and the best ways get over a hangover.”

He fed her a cracker, which was bland and flavorless, but the thought of any other food made her want to throw up.

Avery got halfway through the packet before she felt drowsy again. She didn’t realize it until she felt a series of gentle taps on her hand.

“Just one more, Heiress.” Avery was leaning almost entirely on Jameson, her head in the crook of his neck.

Avery tried to respond, but she was almost fully asleep, and Jameson took it as an answer. “Alright, you’re too sleepy for this, let’s get you to bed.”

He lifted her off the countertop almost effortlessly, and gently placed her on her bed, placing a kiss on her forehead. He might’ve said something, but sleep washed over Avery, and anything he said was long gone.

DIRECT MESSAGES TO: GRAYSON HAWTHORNE

JAMESON: how drunk did the girls get

JAMESON: even i never got hungover this bad jfc

GRAYSON: I couldn’t tell you.

GRAYSON: She’s stubborn as ever.

GRAYSON: She won’t even eat food.

GRAYSON: She also says that she’s not drunk.

JAMESON: she’s not tho????

JAMESON: she’s hungover??

JAMESON: don’t tell me you’ve been telling ur girl shes drunk.

GRAYSON: Don’t tell Xander.

GRAYSON: Or Avery.

JAMESON: lmfao i just got avery back into bed

JAMESON: try harder

GRAYSON: She just ran to the bathroom.

JAMESON: have fun

She ended up waking up about two hours later with a blinding headache-

“-And that’s what the painkillers are for.” Jameson sat on the edge of the bed and handed her two pills and a glass of water. She quickly gulped down the pills and all of the water, and she felt relief wash over her about five minutes later.

“Jesus Christ.” She moved closer to Jameson and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“How are we feeling, Heiress?” She looked up at him and he flashed her a smile.

“A lot better now. How are you so patient?”

His eyebrows rose. “I’m not.”

“You knew exactly what to do.”

“That comes from a combination of regularly having gotten hangovers, and being a Hawthorne.” He gestured wildly with his arms. “Efficiency is key.”

She bit back a laugh as Jameson talked about his ‘process’ and how many tries it took him to perfect the hangover routine.

“-so you got the better end of the deal, you hopefully will never have to experience a true, raw hangover.”

“Thank you.” Jameson looked down at her and she shrugged. “You didn’t have to help. It was pretty gross.”

“Anytime, Heiress. And I’ve seen gross. I lived with Grayson.”

Avery swallowed. “We woke you up last night as well, and I didn’t plan on getting drunk at all. You were completely unprepared.”

Jameson’s eyebrows flew into his hair. “If you ever meet an unprepared Hawthorne, please disinherit them.”

When Avery didn’t laugh, he sighed. “It’s okay, Heiress. We all drink a little too much sometimes, and no one goes out planning to get wasted. We have a whole shelf in the pantry with ‘hangover-safe food.’ It’s not a burden to help you, and it’s never a bad thing to spend more time with you.”

Avery opened her mouth to argue back and Jameson clapped a hand over her mouth. “I will always be there for you, whether you like it or not. It’s not a bad thing.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat, and she paused for a minute before she spoke. “Alright.”

He flashed her a smirk. “It is also fun not being the one drunk for once.”

She rolled her eyes and Jameson wrapped an arm around her. “Brilliant. Now do you want to see whether Lyra finally stopped arguing with Grayson?”

“Oh, she never does.”

“Today might be different.”

“How so?”

“She’s hungover for one thing …”

GRAYSON: Where did they get the alcohol again?

JAMESON: avery’s asking if Lyra’s okay.

GRAYSON: She’s sleeping.

JAMESON: gray it’s like 1pm

JAMESON: why did it take you so long to get her to rest.

GRAYSON: Apparently, Lyra has a severe distaste for all things involving alcohol.

GRAYSON: How did Avery get her drunk?

JAMESON: she says Max did it.

GRAYSON: I shouldn’t have expected anything less.

GRAYSON: I thought I was done with hangovers when you stopped drinking.

JAMESON: and then you decided to fall in love

JAMESON: this is not my fault

GRAYSON: she’s waking up.

GRAYSON: Maybe I’ll finally sleep.

JAMESON: that’s what you get for not sleeping when people do

GRAYSON: I’m not going to grace that with a response.

GRAYSON: Goodbye, Jamie.

JAMESON: you’re not going off to war jfc dont sound so dramatic

JAMESON: well, you kinda are

GRAYSON: … I’ll pass on the sentiment to Lyra

JAMESON: he didn’t mean that -Avery

JAMESON: I did

JAMESON: see you later.

fin.

ENDING NOTES This fic was kind of a rollercoaster, and it was harder for me to write ... for some reason. I specialize in angst. Thanks for reading - please like, reblog and leave feedback in the notes. Or just throw blackberries at me. Anything works. It's St. Patricks Day, and I literally live in Walmart Ireland, and I ... made this fic blue. (yaaay) This looks shit in light mode, im sorry. The taglist has a grand total of one person (thank you, Jude) and is looking for more people, so if you want to be added, lmk. (I joined the writing side during TIG's lowest point, but we are going to deal with it by throwing more fics into the pit.)

Taglist: @inmyheaddd

#tig #the inheritance games #averyjameson #with a hint of #lyrason #lyragrayson #what do we call them jfc #avery grambs #jameson hawthorne #the rest of the hawthornes #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #grayson hawthorne #and our favorite dancer #lyra kane

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lyragrayson4ever · 1 month ago

Text

Regret (LyraxGrayson)

Lyra didn’t remember who yelled first. Maybe it had been her. Or Grayson. Probably both. All she knew now was that something between them had shattered earlier that day, and neither of them had reached for the pieces.

So when Rohan found the bottle and announced, “We’re doing truth or drink my fellow contestants,” she didn’t object.

The rest of the Hawthorne estate was humming, with coded clues and strained alliances. But tonight, for just one moment, the core had given up pretending they were okay. They gathered in the lounge like they were high schoolers, like they didn’t all have blood on their hands or grief in their hearts.

Lyra sat on the rug, opposite Grayson. He didn’t look at her. Not once. His expression was unreadable—stoic, like always. But she knew him better than that. His posture was stiff, his hands too still in his lap. Every now and then, his eyes flicked toward her like he couldn’t help it. She tried not to care. She failed.

The bottle spun, round and round, until it slowed and pointed.

At her.

Of course.

“Lyra,” Rohan grinned, already drunk and always dangerous. “Truth or drink?”

Lyra grimaced. She could feel her stomach turning from the liquor already. “Truth,” she mumbled, voice rough, shoulders braced.

Rohan’s smile grew sharp. “Tell us your biggest regret.”

The room shifted.

Grayson looked up.

Lyra could feel the weight of that glance like gravity itself. It pinned her in place, nailed her to the floor with its quiet ache.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her head was spinning. Everyone was staring, waiting, but all she could feel was him across from her—silent and still and barely breathing.

She could’ve lied. Said something clever. Something safe.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked straight ahead—at no one in particular—and said, “Calling him.”

It was quiet. So quiet, it felt like the world stopped spinning.

The silence was loud.

Someone laughed nervously. Someone else muttered “yikes.” But Lyra didn’t move. She didn’t look at him.

She didn’t have to.

Because she felt it. The second it hit him.

Grayson’s expression crumpled—not completely, but enough to make her heart twist. His eyes weren’t cold anymore. They were open, raw, hurt. A look she’d never seen from him before. Not even after the fight. Not even when she walked away.

He looked like someone had punched him straight in the gut and he hadn’t figured out how to breathe again.

He looked like a sad puppy—crushed, lost, blindsided—and too proud to ask why.

But he didn’t say a word.

He just stood up, slowly, and left the room.

No dramatic exit. No slamming doors. Just quiet heartbreak.

The game fizzled after that. No one had the energy to keep pretending. The fun died when he walked out.

Lyra waited a few minutes before slipping out, grabbing her coat. The air outside was thick, and the first drops of rain started to fall as soon as the door shut behind her.

She didn’t expect to find him standing out there.

But there he was. On the edge of the porch. Arms crossed, soaked to the bone, hair dripping into his eyes.

He turned when he heard her. And the second their eyes met, Lyra froze.

He looked broken.

No walls. No cold composure. Just pain.

“Lyra,” he said, voice wrecked.

She looked away.

“Please,” he whispered. “Tell me you were lying.”

She shook her head, trying to clear the blur of alcohol and grief and whatever the hell this was between them. “Lying about what, Grayson?”

“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

The rain picked up.

“I’m not acting,” she said, backing up an inch.

He ran a hand through his drenched hair. His voice dropped to something hoarse and desperate. “Don’t tell me you regret that call. Don’t tell me you regret coming here. Don’t tell me…” he swallowed hard, like it hurt, “you regret us.”

The word hung in the air.

Us.

The one word she couldn’t touch without bleeding.

“There is no us,” she said, forcing the words out. “Not anymore.”

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Lyra—please.”

He looked at her like she was the only thing holding him together.

And she… she couldn’t even look back.

“I regret needing you,” she said, voice barely audible through the rain. “I regret thinking you could fix this.”

“That’s not fair,” he said. His voice cracked. “You called me, Lyra. You chose me.”

“And maybe that was my mistake,” she said, tears falling now, hot despite the cold. “Maybe you were never supposed to be my person.”

Grayson looked like she’d just ripped something vital out of him.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, stepping forward again. “Not unless you tell me to.”

She didn’t speak.

He waited.

And when she didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, he just stood there.

“I’d do it all again,” he whispered. “Every second of it. I’d answer that call a thousand times.”

Lyra turned.

She couldn’t bear it. The look in his eyes. The way he sounded.

She walked inside.

And this time, he didn’t follow.

He stayed outside.

In the rain.

Alone.

Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how broken he felt, Grayson Hawthorne loved her too much to make her stay.

Couple of hours later......

The rain had turned to a storm.

Thunder rolled over Hawthorne Island like a warning, the kind that rattled windows and cracked against the ocean like a curse.

And still—Grayson didn’t move.

He sat on the edge of the stone steps, soaked, freezing, skin pale, lips tinged blue. He didn’t notice. Didn’t care. The water blurred his vision, or maybe that was something else. His thoughts looped like a broken record, stuck on the same sentence, the same voice, the same ache:

"I regret calling him."

The words didn’t just hurt—they hollowed.

He didn’t know how long it had been. An hour? Two? The storm made time meaningless. So did the cold.

That’s when the door slammed open behind him.

“What the actual hell— Grayson?!”

Jameson’s voice cut through the rain like a lightning strike.

Grayson didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even look at him.

“Are you insane? You’ve been out here for—Jesus, Gray, you’re soaked through—”

Jameson reached him in seconds, kneeling beside him, gripping his shoulders. He jolted at the cold, cursing under his breath.

Grayson didn’t react.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

His gaze was fixed on nothing, eyes glassy, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

Jameson’s panic kicked in. “Okay, nope. No. You are not shutting down on me right now. Gray, look at me.”

Nothing.

“GRAYSON!”

Still nothing.

Just that same vacant stare and rain-soaked silence.

Jameson swore and yanked him to his feet. “Inside. Now.”

He half-dragged, half-supported Grayson through the door and into the warmth of the estate, shouting over his shoulder, “XANDER! NASH! 911 CODE DEPRESSION, GET YOUR ASSES DOWN HERE!”

He threw a blanket over Grayson and practically shoved him onto the velvet couch. His brother didn’t protest. He just sat there, wet and stiff and too quiet.

Jameson hovered, pacing, hands in his hair. “He’s not talking. He’s not even in there. This is worse than when Emily—” He cut himself off. “Nope. Not saying it. Just… do something.”

Xander and Nash came barrelling down the stairs, arms full of questionable snacks and a jug of something bright green.

“Drinking game!” Xander announced like a war cry. “Step one: weird concoction. Step two: denial. Step three: emotional breakdown. Let’s go.”

“Usually it’s step three where we cry,” Nash added. “But, uh, looks like we’re jumping ahead.”

Grayson didn’t blink.

They started anyway.

They played. Loudly. Sloppily. Jameson slammed shots, Nash told a story that made zero sense, and Xander somehow ended up wearing a lampshade as a hat. But through it all, Grayson sat stiff and silent.

He drank when they handed him something.

But his eyes never lit up.

He was there—but not really.

Jameson watched him carefully. He’d seen his brother angry. Seen him cold. Seen him put on a fake face that the world believed.

But this?

This was new.

This was cracked glass and bleeding beneath the surface. This was a silence so loud it rang in Jameson’s ears.

“Dude,” Jameson said finally, softly. “Are you okay?”

Grayson didn’t answer.

Just stared at the floor like it had betrayed him.

Then—

Slowly.

Almost imperceptibly—

He shook his head.

And then he broke.

No warning.

Just a sound—a sob, sharp and guttural—ripping out of his chest like it had been buried too long. His body folded in on itself, shoulders shaking, hands in his hair, and he collapsed.

To the floor.

Sobbing.

Grayson Hawthorne was crying.

Jameson was on the floor beside him in seconds, arms wrapping tight. “Hey—hey—Gray, breathe. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

Xander and Nash stood frozen for a beat—shocked.

Because Grayson never cried. Not when their Grandfather died. Not when Emily died. Not when everything else in their world fell apart.

So if he was crying now…

It meant something was seriously broken.

Xander knelt beside them, grabbing Grayson’s hand.

Nash crouched down, grounding him with a firm touch to his back.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with him. Let him fall apart without judgment.

Finally, through shaking breaths and tears, Grayson choked out:

“She said…”

His voice cracked.

“She said she regrets calling me.”

His brothers didn’t move.

“She said she regrets us.”

The words splintered in the air.

Grayson wiped at his face, but it didn’t help. The tears kept coming.

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t—I can’t breathe. It’s like—like something’s crushing my chest. And I keep thinking if I’d just said the right thing, done one thing differently—maybe she wouldn’t hate me.”

“Gray…” Nash started.

“I love her,” Grayson whispered, eyes shut tight. “And it hurts. It physically hurts that I can’t tell her. That I do, and now she wants nothing to do with me. That she hates me. That I wasn’t enough.”

“You are,” Jameson said fiercely. “You are enough.”

Grayson shook his head. “I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel like anything. I don’t even know who I am without her. I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to,” Xander said softly. “Not tonight.”

“We’ve got you,” Jameson said, still holding him. “Even when you break.”

Especially when you break.

They stayed like that for a long time. On the floor. In the quiet. Surrounded by empty shot glasses and fading thunder.

And for once—

Grayson let them hold the pieces

#books #gigi grayson #grandest games #grayson hawthorne #inheritance games #lyra kane #the inheritance games #avery kylie grambs #jameson hawthorne

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whousestypewriters · 7 months ago

Text

──── ୨ৎ THE BOOK CLUB — GRAYSON HAWTHORNE + READER ‧₊˚

a/n: pt two here we are!!! do i have any idea where this plot is going??? no. but you're along for the ride bitches so enjoy!! also if this is shit its bc im sleep deprived :)

[part one] i'm a fan

"it all happened so fast. everyone was happy... and then something happened... and now... now he's dead!" alya sobs from her spot on the couch.

"did you just spoil the book we're all reading together??" kira shrieks from her position on the mattress.

"i think the bitch actually just spoiled the entire book," pheobe rolls her eyes from underneath her blanket on the mattress next to kira's.

"oh come on you knew something like this was gonna happen!"

"yeah but i wasn't expecting it to be screamed aloud while i'm halfway through," kira says exasperated. "i mean please its not even five thirty yet, we got here an hour ago, how are you already finished?"

"alya, this is why we don't come over anymore," pheobe groans. "none of us were expecting that and now you've spoiled it."

"oh cry about it, i'm moving onto my next book anyway, does anyone want some snacks while i'm in the kitchen?" alya smiles nodding her head when kira requests some food and a bottle of water.

"so we're clearly never having a book club sleepover again guys," you say looking at the camera.

"no we're gonna have another," pheobe says shuffling over into the frame. "alya's just not invited."

────

yn.books

liked by alya.green, maxine.liu.loo, pheobethereader, kirasbooknook, graysonhawthorne and 672, 983 others

yn.books the book girlies unite!! for a sleepover a trip and a readathon (alya will not be invited back) stay tuned for the yt video!

tagged: alya.green, pheobethereader, kirasbooknook

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alya.green I AM OFFENDED

kirasbooknook good

pheobethereader had a lovely time with you girls can't wait to do it again (except for you alya)

alya.green u guys are so mean wtf

user1 im desperate to know why alya's in trouble lmaooo

user2 and im desperate to know why grayson is still in the likes

user3 THE GIRLIES ARE IN TEXAS I SAW THEN TODAY AND ASKED FOR A PHOTO!!!!

user4 they're in texas you say 😏😏

user5 divine rivals crushed me oh my goshhhh

graysonhawthorne divine rivals was a enticing read, thank you for the recommendation.

user6 ok so i died-

user7 OH OH OK SO WTF WHO WAS GONNA TELL ME GRAYSON IS HERE???

maxine.liu.loo the book girlies are together again!!! (invite me next time)

yn.books already done ;)

────

"they're mine," max's voice snips through the quiet of the room. she's staring directly at grayson and clearly referring to the book girls she watches.

"i'm not trying to steal anyone," grayson tries to reassure her.

"you're obsessed with my favorite one! why couldn't you have gone for pheobe or kira?" max huffs, you were her favorite. grayson had no right to become - rightfully - infatuated with you, and no matter how much he tries to deny it everyone can see he likes you. its painfully obvious.

"again i'm not stealing anyone, i've interacted like three times with-"

"grayson! the girl you're obsessed with posted another youtube video," jameson's extremely loud voice cuts through the room and emits a groan from grayson.

"i'm not obsessed with anyone," he says rising from his spot on the couch and picking up ruthless vows, which by the way he definitely went out and bought after he read divine rivals. what? he wanted to know what happened.

"oh my gosh they're in texas!!!" max screeches clearly watching the video. "they're in texas for a red carpet that they've been invited to!" she pauses watching for more conext. "they been invited to ask the people on the red carpet about books! oh my god- XANDER. we have to go to this event oh my gosh please?"

"sure and you can bring grayson along so he can officially join the book club, and meet his new idol," jameson smirks from the doorway

grayson responds by flipping him off.

────

graysonhawthorne

liked by thehawthorneheiress, ticking.time.bomb, yn.books, kirasbooknook and 4, 892, 647 others

graysonhawthorne a nice day out

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user1 i need him religiously

user2 NO BOOK THIS TIME???

user3 oh he is scrumptious isn't he

ticking.time.bomb i saw you obsessing over what photos to choose in case a certain someone saw this gray.....

user4 PLS TELL ME ITS WHO I THINK IT IS

thexanderhawthorne oh it is...

user4 OH MY GODDDD

user5 IN THE LIKES LOOK WHOS IN THE LIKES!!!!!!

user6 they're so into each other

alya.green we gotta catch up and talk about this whole situation buddy boy

user7 ALYA 😭💀

user8 i need him to go to the red carpet so they can meet!!!

────

maybe grayson should go to that red carpet... i mean he was invited. whats the worst that could happen?

𐔌 . ⋮ 🏷️ tags .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

@arqbella, @midiosaamor, @maybxlle @reminiscentreader, @sweetreveriee

@elysianwayy77 @tornqdowarnings, @catapparently, @zenikswaffleshop, @thelov3lybookworm

#౨ৎ : my works .ᐟ #the inheritance games #the hawthorne legacy #the final gambit #the brothers hawthorne #the grandest game #grayson hawthorne #grayson davenport hawthorne #grayson hawthorne x fem!reader #grayson hawthorne x y/n #grayson hawthorne x you #grayson hawthorne x reader #grayson x reader #tig #thl #tfg #tbh #tgg #「 the grayson series ⭑.ᐟ 」

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drawsmaddy · 2 years ago

Text

[ID: A digital illustration of Phoenix Wright and Dahlia Hawthorne from Ace Attorney. Phoenix is his college aged self in a pink jumper. He is kneeling on a path outdoors, an area of grass and bushes in front of university buildings visible behind him. He has a white mask pulled down under his chin and his hands over his mouth as he cries, looking up at Dahlia. Dahlia is visible from behind, holding her white parasol over her head. White and pink butterflies fly around Phoenix's head. On the ground next to Phoenix is an open bottle of Coldkiller X medicine, pills spilling out onto the ground. End description.]

Poor Feenie 🩷

The @aabadendingzine Mea Culpa zine is now available for free!!

#phoenix wright #dahlia hawthorne #feenie #my art #ace attorney #mea culpa

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anythinggoesbutme · 21 days ago

Text

Passports, Rings, and You

Grayson Hawthorne x Lyra Kane

Warnings: Fluff, romantic intimacy, non-explicit smut, soft emotional moments, and heavy domestic honeymoon vibes

Synopsis: On their secluded honeymoon, Lyra and Grayson trade plans and passports for sun-drenched intimacy, quiet laughter, and the kind of love that makes forever feel easy.

Word Count: 922

The first morning of their honeymoon began not with a sunrise, but with the soft rustle of sheets and the subtle sound of waves lapping against the shore just beyond the glass doors of their villa.

Grayson Hawthorne stirred first. A habit, probably—always alert, always early, even when there were no boardrooms to dominate, no headlines to manage. But today, he didn’t move to get up. He just watched her.

Lyra was still curled beside him, bare legs tangled in linen, one hand resting loosely on his chest, her wedding band catching the slant of golden Caribbean light that filtered through the gauzy curtains. Her mouth was slightly parted, hair a chaotic halo on the pillow. She was peaceful. Untouched by worry.

He’d never seen her quite like this before—unguarded.

He memorized it. Every part of her.

She shifted, sighing, before blinking awake. “You’re staring,” she mumbled, voice still coated in sleep.

“You’re beautiful,” he replied without hesitation.

Lyra squinted at him. “You know that’s an unfair way to start a conversation.”

“Truthful, though.”

She gave him a sleepy smirk and traced a finger along his jaw. “We’re married.”

“We are.” He slid his hand under her chin and kissed her softly. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“I’m here. You’re here. Passport stamps and rings to prove it.”

He grinned at that. “Speaking of—how do you feel about skipping the city tour and staying in?”

Lyra raised a brow. “Grayson Hawthorne, are you suggesting we skip a pre-booked itinerary?”

He rolled onto his side, hand skimming over her waist. “I’m suggesting that the view is better in here.”

“You paid for a private infinity pool.”

“I also paid for the right to admire my wife in every timezone.”

Lyra laughed, full and warm, then kissed him like they had nowhere else to be—which, finally, they didn’t. For once in their chaotic lives, no puzzles needed solving, no inheritance tangles to sort. Just this: sun-warmed skin, slow kisses, the promise of forever sealed in gold bands and matching passports.

Their morning was lazy in the best way—drawn out kisses, fingers skimming bare skin, laughter muffled against each other’s shoulders, the best kind of slow sex. Grayson was careful with her, as always. Tender in a way few people got to see. They didn’t rush it. Didn’t need to. Every touch felt like a declaration.

“I should shower,” Lyra whispered sometime later, still tangled in the sheets, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.

“You could.” He pulled her closer. “Or we could swim.”

“Or,” she teased, “we could do both.”

And they did. Eventually.

The outdoor shower was tucked behind stone walls and tropical plants, semi-open to the sky, warm water cascading like rain. Lyra stood under it, arms lifted, face tilted to the sun, and Grayson swore he’d never seen anything more divine. He joined her without a word. Washed her hair. Kissed the soap from her collarbone. She laughed when he dropped the bottle and water splashed their faces.

By midday, they were stretched out on a hammock beneath palm fronds, a soft breeze brushing over their damp hair. Lyra wore one of his shirts, her legs draped across his lap, toes occasionally nudging his side just to hear him groan.

He fed her fruit from a little wooden bowl—mango, pineapple, something sweet and exotic she didn’t recognize. She licked the juice from her fingers and teased him for not using the silver tongs that came with the platter.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, eyes dark and amused.

“I’m on my honeymoon. I’m not lifting a finger unless it’s to touch you.”

Grayson looked like he might combust on the spot. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Never said I would.”

Later, when the sun dipped low and they’d barely left the villa, Lyra curled up beside him on the couch with their passports in hand. She flipped through the pages of his and then hers, noting the matching destination stamp from yesterday.

“Our first one as husband and wife,” she murmured, tapping the inked page. “Looks real now.”

Grayson watched her as if he were trying to memorize the moment. “Everything about this is real.”

She shifted to straddle his lap, balancing her arms around his neck. “We survived Hawthorne House, your terrifyingly brilliant brothers, the paparazzi, my chaotic family, and Avery’s ridiculously elaborate seating chart. We deserve this.”

“All of this.” He ran his hands up her back slowly. “You. This view. Us.”

“Even the fruit platter?”

“Especially the fruit platter.”

Lyra kissed him again—longer, deeper this time. They had nowhere to be. No calls to answer. No secrets to unearth. Just skin and sunlight and the sound of waves. She leaned her forehead against his and smiled so softly it made his heart twist.

“You look like someone who’s going to write me love letters.”

He raised a brow. “I’m more of a private jet and midnight escape kind of guy.”

She bit her lip. “I’ll accept that as romantic.”

“I’ll write the letters too, if you want.”

“I’ll write them back.”

They fell asleep in the hammock that night, tangled limbs and quiet breathing, stars above and the ocean whispering promises below. Grayson held her like she was both treasure and anchor, and Lyra nestled into his chest like she’d finally found solid ground.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew:

The adventure had only just begun.

And for once, it didn’t start with a riddle—

Just passports, rings, and the person you choose to wake up beside.

#grayson x lyra #lyrason #grayson hawthorne #lyra kane #jennifer lynn barnes #the inheritance games #honeymoon #marriage au #fanfiction writer #writerblr #writers #female writers #bookworm #fanfic #fypツ #the grandest game #fyp #tumblr fyp

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inmyheaddd · 9 months ago

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can i call you tonight? - xander hawthorne x reader

a/n: i adore autumn with my whole heart but i’m missing those carefree summer romance vibes soo bad 😖 wc: 1.8k warnings: kissing, mild language, verryyy fluffy ur teeth might fall out masterlist

the sun was just beginning to set, the sky looking like something out of a painting, and you and xander had spent the whole day at the beach together — swimming, laughing, and, of course, getting covered in sand.

now, still giggling from the ‘sand ball’ fight you had with him earlier, you both stumbled toward the beach shower, desperate to wash the sand off of you.

the water came out freezing at first, eliciting a yelp from you as you stumbled back — in turn making xander laugh, before you adjusted the temperature perfectly to your liking.

which, according to xander, was: very, very, hot.

“are you trying to boil us alive?” his eyes were comically wide, furrowing his brows after he stood under it for half a second, jumping back with a shout.

you simply stood under the shower head calmly, attempting to get the sand out of your hair.

you huffed a laugh through your nose, “xander, it’s not even that hot, i—“

“—were the hours under the scorching sun not enough? you also need to stand under water that’s practically a few degrees away from turning you into a boiled lobster?” he rambled on.

atleast he was so chill and normal about the temperature, so very calmly expressing his dislike!

you stifled a laugh as he continued, unbotheredly wringing water out of your hair as you watched him complain. “i’m just saying, there’s a fine line between a shower and a chemical peel.” he said, pointing at the shower with a shake of his head.

“that water is hot enough to sterilize surgical instruments.” he crossed his arms over his bare chest, as you watched him watch you, a slightly confused furrow in your brows and intrigued smile growing on your face.

a slow grin grew on his face as he raked his eyes over you, taking in your slightly sunburned nose, wet hair, and bathing suit you had picked out with him a few weeks back.

he lolled his head to the side before he spoke, “i’m sorry— why was i mad again?”

you laughed at his quick demeanor change, playfully rolling your eyes and sighing dramatically before making the temperature colder and motioning for him to step in. “just get in, you big baby.”

“oh, thankyou very much, i appreciate your willingness.” he responded, bowing his head jokingly as he stepped under the water, his hands finding your lower back instantly.

but of course, xander being xander, couldn’t just stand there like a regular person.

no, he shook his head, like some sort of dog sending water droplets and little sand particles everywhere.

“xander!” you squealed, shielding your face and taking a step back, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

“oh my god— you’re so annoying!” you squeaked out, still laughing.

he chuckled, taking a step closer to you and placing his hands where they just were, eyes sparkling with mischief as water dripped down his hair. “and you’re so easy to annoy.”

he reached out, gently brushing sand off your cheek, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “that wasn’t funny.” you said, biting back a smile.

it was funny, but he didn’t have to know that.

“i’m sorry,” he faux pouted at you. he didn’t sound sorry, in fact, he sounded a little amused.

you felt your stomach do a little flip, but before you could say anything, his eyebrows raised like a lightbulb went off in his head, and he grabbed the shampoo bottle from your beach bag on the ledge.

“here, let me do this right.” he turned to stand behind you, pouring an adequate amount into his hand and then started working his fingers into your scalp.

you tried to turn your head to ask him what he was doing, but it did feel a little nice to stand there and feel his hands run through your hair. okay, maybe not just a little.

he gently guided your head back forward. "hold still," he said, his voice lower, but with a little hint of that teasing edge remaining.

when he noticed you weren’t saying anything back, and that if anything you were feeling relaxed, he spoke again.

“see, would you look at that?" he said softly, "i can be helpful too."

you could practically hear the grin in his voice, but it was hard to focus on that with the way you felt like you were buzzing under his touch.

you hummed, “yeah, only when you want to be.” you let your eyes close for a moment, and then he spoke again.

“i want to be helpful with you all the time.” you could hear the fake pout in his voice, then it flipped completely, and you heard that grin in what he said next.

“i’d make an excellent stay at home husband for you, yeah?” he joked with his voice all breathy-like.

“you wouldn’t have to worry about me complaining…” he trailed off, “you know, except about the shower temperature.”

you let out a little chuckle, and opened your mouth to remind him about the time he somehow burnt instant noodles, and that maybe being a stay-at-home husband wasn’t the right path.

you didn’t get the chance to say anything, though, because he swiftly grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, standing you under the shower head.

your eyelids immediately squeezed shut, squealing a little with your whole face scrunched up as the shampoo-y water ran down your hair. you were careful not to get it in your eyes, laughing as xander stepped infront of you and gently moved your hair out of your face.

you opened your eyes, still squinting a little as you looked up at him. “that also wasn’t funny.” you remarked. “not in the slightest.”

he quirked a brow up, looking like he was biting back a grin, “it wasn’t?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in question.

“no.”

then a roguish smile started to spread on his face, and you began to deeply regret your words.

“well then, would you like to see,” he paused for dramatic effect and raised his eyebrows, “something funny?”

you were the one biting back a smile now, taking a step back from xander as you shook your head, already anticipating what he was going to do.

“…no.”

he rendered the step you took back obsolete as he stepped right on forward, his smile turning into a chuckle as you shook your head.

there were about three things you were afraid of in this world, 1: a bug getting in your food and you eating it, 2: getting kidnapped and held hostage, and 3: xander blackwood hawthorne’s tickles.

“xander, i was kidding, i swear.” you rambled with your voice dropping lower, trying to get out of this situation, but xander’s face only scrunched up in laughter as he gave you about 5 seconds to make your case.

“you’re like, the funniest person i’ve ever met! you’re so charming and hilarious, and —“

your time was over, it seemed, because xander bent down and picked you up over his shoulder, his laughs increasing in volume as you squealed in the secluded beach. “xander! it was a joke, i promise! put me down!”

as if he was on a quest to become even more annoying he began running to the beach beds, regardless of your protests which were now coming out more as laughs.

he placed you on a beach bed breathlessly, his hands coming to cup your face as he basically climbed on top of you, then leant down to kiss you.

oh, you weren’t expecting that.

granted, you were both still breathless, and the two of you were smiling and laughing against each other so much, that you weren’t sure whatever you were doing could be considered a kiss.

then it came. xander pulled back ever so slightly and his hands moved down and jabbed at your neck, then your sides, your arms, anywhere you were ticklish, and you were both equally a laughing wreck.

you tried to peel his hands off of you as you writhed under him, repeating his name surely over 20 times in between giggles.

after what seemed like forever, he stopped, putting his hands up in the air as he sat up, and your chest heaved as you caught your breath.

“now,” he said, “was that funny?” he raised an eyebrow, “choose your answer very wisely.”

“fine,” you huffed, “it was a little funny.”

his other brow joined the raised one at the top of his forehead, “that was not the wise answer i thought of,” he muttered, as he slowly started put his hands back down towards you, your eyes darting between his face and his hands.

“okay. okay, yes!” you scrambled before he could literally attack you again, “i lied, it was funny, and not just a little.”

his hands retreated, “brilliant. very wise answer,” he commented, “well done.”

he brought his hands up to your jaw and only your jaw this time, cradling your face like he did earlier as he placed a short peck on your lips, but you pulled him in for a longer one.

he smiled at that— you felt it, and he reciprocated the kiss 10x harder.

as he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, he murmured with his voice low. “question,”

“what is it?” you breathed out, still catching your breath.

“does it genuinely annoy you when i tickle you like that?” he asked, his voice bare of any teasing, “don’t lie, please.” he added on.

“besides, i can be very perceptive of micro-expressions, and i can feel your heartbeat against me right now.”

you let out a little laugh, even though your heart was doing somersaults in that moment. xander was possibly the most caring person you’d ever met —he was a deeply empathetic person underneath his rube goldberg obsessions and masks of humor he used so often.

“no,” you said truthfully, “i don’t actually get annoyed, i could never actually get annoyed at you. why?”

you felt his breath hitch against your lips, a very un-xander like manner. “your micro-expressions and heart rate indicate you’re telling me the truth.” he muttered.

how did he sound hot talking about micro expressions and heart rates?

then you realized, he was expertly dodging your question on “why?”.

“because it is the truth.” you muttered back, smiling a little as you watched him pull back too see your eyes better.

he didn’t say anything after that— in lieu of words, he pressed another sweet kiss to your lips. he wasn’t one to expose his worries or be vulnerable very often, and you understood that. he’s opened before about people saying he’s ‘too much’ and how it sometimes gets to him, but in all honesty, you could never get enough of him.

as you felt the warmth of his hands on your face and your lips moved across his in rhythm, a thought crossed your mind:

if that’s what you get for telling him he was funny, you’d start telling him he’s a world class comedian now.

tag list: @charsoamerican @ariabedumb @x-liv25-jamieswife @wish-i-were-heather @thecircularlibrary

@whatsamongus @littlemissmentallyunstable @anintellectualintellectual @bewitchingkisses @maybxlle

@sheisntyou @emelia07 @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee i love u guys 🙈🙈 if you’d like to be removed or added lmk!!

#xander hawthorne x reader #xander hawthorne #the inheritance games #the grandest game #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #tig #tgg #tig headcanons #games untold #the brothers hawthorne #the final gambit #❦ jude writes

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s-rosie · 7 months ago

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AVERY HCSSSSS

i thought our leading lady needed more appreciation so i made these hcs. a lot of these are with avery and another character so lmk if you still like these. enjoyyyyy 🤌✨

avery got braces after she got the money bc she couldn’t afford them before and she was a little insecure about them but jameson thought they were really cute

she used to hate the scars from the times when people tried to kill her but as time went on she learned to love them

i hc hawthorne house had a trampoline park and her and xander had a sleepover in there where they played taylor swift and jumped until xander broke his arm trying to do a triple backflip

her and max always scream when they hop on a call that’s on speaker so they don’t spill the tea when everyone can here

avery is chronically addicted to block blast and she has the highest score you can possibly get on the game (me fr 😭💀)

when she was hooked up to the life support machines after the plane bombing she made a bunch of pictures and videos that she never posted but just bc she thought they were funny (they really weren’t she was just high from the meds)

oren had to teach her how to pick locks and she told him it was just because she needed to open a door but wouldn’t let him do it himself (she lost the keys to jameson’s handcuffs and needed to get him out)

she always has at least one airpod in at all times and always looses them around hawthorne house

she once had a “dream” (😏😏😏) about jameson but she was having a sleepover with libby and max and libby was like “why were you moving around and making noise last night” and ave was like “i was probably just sleep talking” but max knew what was really going on and never let it go

avery switches her aesthetic like every month and switches her room decor/wardrobe with that aesthetic

she has like 50000 pillows on her bed and jameson gets so confused about which he’s allowed to sleep on bc she doesn’t want him to ruin the decorative pillows

ave is an amazing actress and can fake cry on the spot so when she needs to win something she fake cries and jameson knows her fake cry and he doesn’t go over to her to comfort her so her plan will work

she’s allergic to shellfish and she learned that when she ate some at a gala and she started having a reaction and she broke out in hives and was struggling to breath but thankfully oren had an epi pen with him so she didn’t die

she enforces a rule around hawthorne house about no shoes bc she thinks it’s nasty so everyone just slides around in socks like an ice skating rink (they actually think it’s really fun so no one complains)

she loves water bottles and has a whole cabinet dedicated to her water bottles

she has tumblr and a03 accounts that she stayed anonymous on that she kept when she got the inheritance bc no one knew it was her and she needed to rant about her books and write fics and stuff and they said stuff like “omg jameson is such a book boyfriend” and “i want to date him” she was just like yeah so do i… (she was keeping it a secret from the hawthorne s but they eventually found it and made fun of her spicy fics and xander ended up being one of her moots under an anonymous account bc they read the same books)

her and grayson watch shows like the golden girls and i love lucy together bc they love the old style

one time her nash found her✨spicy✨texts with jameson and never let her let them go

sry this is kinda short but i’m sick rn so i’m trying to get my rest but i hope you like theseeee

#the inheritance games #the brothers hawthorne #the final gambit #the hawthorne legacy #games untold #the grandest game #jameson hawthorne #avery grambs #averyjameson #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #libby grambs #maxine liu #grayson hawthorne #john oren #oren

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f4iry-bell · 8 months ago

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AND THEY WERE BOTH BOYS

pairing: jameson hawthorne x rohan

summary: a joke

tagging: @clarissaweasley-10 @emelia07 @whatsamongus @cassie6392

a/n: 🫶🫶

masterlist

Rohan doesn't like interacting with irrelevant people, or with people he is interested in during irrelevant times. Interacting with people during dinner in the grandest game was one of those irrelevant moments of his, especially since he has to put up with Jameson Hawthorne. He had this feeling—he couldn't put the right word to it— everytime Jameson said something.

“Could you pass me the bottle of water?” Jameson asked in a British accent to Rohan.

Rohan stabbed his fork on the plate. “You do realise that you're half British too, right?”

“I am a proud American.”

“Can’t tell.” Rohan said sarcastically.

“Kant tell.” Jameson mimicked Rohan’s accent.

“Can you stop? You know what? I'm done with dinner. Thank you.”

Later, Jameson followed him. Jameson found Rohan standing in the hallway looking at a portrait of two dogs playing.

“Are you familiar with this portrait, Rohan?”

Rohan sighed as he saw him approached, sighed at his sight. Because he was just so— no!

“No.”

“They are both boys.”

Rohan turned to Jameson. “What?”

“It's not a sin.”

“It literally is…” Rohan pointed.

“Right, I meant. Love, truth, they aren't sins.” Jameson stepped closer to him.

“What are you talking about, Hawthorne?”

“Truth…our truth. We shouldn't repress what we have Rohan.” He said, trying to close the distance between them.

“Are you mad?”

“I see the way you look at me.”

Rohan’s breath hitched. “What of Avery?”

“Who?”

“Avery…The heiress? Your girlfriend.”

“I will love you regardless of your schizophrenia. Because there is no heiress or a girlfriend named Avery.”

“What?” Rohan was flabbergasted.

“It is probably a Mandela effect.” then he adds “don't make me think I kissed you in my head tomorrow.”

Then he pulled Rohan into a passionate kiss.

#the inheritance games #jameson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne x rohan #the brothers hawthorne #the grandest games #games untod #grayson hawthorne #the hawthorne brothers #xander hawthorne #avery grambs #avery kylie grambs #nash hawthorne #the grandest game

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thechildofshadows · 3 months ago

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THE BOY AND HIS WINE CELLAR

Avery Grambs x Jameson Hawthorne - 1.6k

hello! I did say that I would write something, and that I would get it would a week or two after Valentine's ... so it's been about three weeks, it's been a month, okay? This fic is dedicated to @saythewordheiress, who posted asking for a fic where Jameson takes care of drunk Avery ... I wanted to give Jamie some backstory, and now i have a completely different fic. mb girl, I'll get back to you on that. This fic has a lot of time-skips. TW for alcohol addiction, which I definitely didn't write accurately. I rated this Teen on Ao3, so read with a little bit of caution. It focuses on our king JH and his relationship with alcohol through the years (two years). It places a heavy emphasis on his damaged relationship with Grayson (I always thought it was sad that they were at each other's throats so often). TLDR : If you wanted fluff, you've come to the wrong place, if you wanted bourbon, you've come to the right one. be back in a week (or a day!) for that drunk Avery fic. Enjoy!

“Where are you going?” I asked him. After everything it has taken to get to this point, he couldn’t just walk away. “To hell, eventually,” Jameson answered. “Probably to the wine cellar, for now.” -Jennifer Lynn Barnes, The Inheritance Games

Jameson Hawthorne: NOW

The tabloids thought that Jameson loved alcohol. They weren’t entirely wrong.

He loved the buzz it gave him, and how free it made him feel.

It didn’t hurt that Hawthornes were blessed with one of the highest alcohol tolerances known to man.

Did he love the actual drinks themselves? Hell no. For a majority of his life, he didn't see the point in alcohol. But the first time he'd had something that actually hit-

It was a beautiful feeling and he enjoyed it so much.

Maybe too much.

Jameson had been at his first gala when Nash handed him a glass of wine. He took it. He’d seen the adults drink during dinner before, but never took any sips, since being drunk felt like a hindrance. But there wasn’t much he could do that day and the function was dragging on and on. He had his first glass of wine at thirteen years old.

It tasted like shit. He preferred coffee.

But that didn’t stop him from trying a shot at a party one night. Country Day had won a state golf tournament, and everyone was gathered at the house of some rich socialite. There were whiskey shots lined up on the table, and an open bar. Jameson tried some whiskey, conveniently named after himself.

It tasted like shit. He preferred coffee.

Oh how that’s changed, he thought, moving out of the living room, and going upstairs.

Jameson Hawthorne: Age 17

Emily Laughlin left the world after Jameson turned 17. And, he supposed, she took Grayson with her. Their former bond was irreparably wrecked. And Jameson felt that the only reason he’d mourned for so long was because he’d lost his brother too. His closest brother. His favorite. His first friend. They had done everything together when they were younger, and now they couldn't be in the same room as each other. Their longest argument before had lasted a grand total of three days, and both had been miserable and forgot about the problem after two hours. This one seemed significantly worse.

But he'd loved Emily as well. He had. They had done so much together in such little time. She understood him better than anyone, she understood everything. They were both trapped when all they wanted was to be free. He thought she loved him. And she died.

He was so tired. So tired.

The next day, three bottles were missing from the wine cellar. Smashed glass of a Scottish whiskey bottle was found on the grass, almost as it it had been dropped from the roof.

Jameson snuck into the cellar for what may have been the second time that week. He relished the adrenaline high he got when he drank, and had developed a taste for whiskey.

He reached for the nearest bottle, but it moved.

His lips parted in confusion, and his eyes widened as they fell on Tobias Hawthorne himself.

The usual teasing smile on the man’s face had gone and he was frowning at Jameson.

“This is enough.”

Jameson held back an eyeroll, and Tobias continued. “Over a thousand dollars of drinks are gone, and you’re giving the tabloids something worse and worse each month.”

Jameson gritted his teeth. “It’s always about you, isn’t it Grandfather? Does it matter how I feel? Never! It’s always the tabloids and what they think!”

His grandfather narrowed his eyes. “The girl is dead.”

It’s not about Emily.

“She’s been dead for several months.”

It’s never been about Emily.

“It’s been too long.”

But you think it is-

“Once we leave, this door will lock, and the key is going to be hidden exactly where you think it is.”

-because it’s less painful to think about her than ... other people.

Jameson turned to leave, and promptly crashed into a wall, falling over. Oh crap, how much did I drink?

I'm wasted.

“I should not find you here again.”

Jameson knew better than to go against his grandfather. “Fine.” And he actually left the room, managing to make it back to his room in one piece.

Change didn't come quickly. But Jameson was a Hawthorne, and Hawthornes can do everything.

Jameson Hawthorne: Age 18

Jameson avoided the cellar like the plague.

He knew his grandfather, and he knew himself. There had to be traps in the hallway and stairs, Tobias would never leave something with just a warning.

It wasn't easy. He was miserable (Ask Nash). But he found himself reaching back towards the coffee bar, and slowly regaining back his abilities as a barista.

Jameson had spent a year cultivating his cooking skills, and used an entire month developing his coffee-making talents. Now, he found it therapeutic, following the same instructions, or even trying something new.

And that was how he found himself reaching one month, fully sober.

His birthday came and went. He drank coffee.

So did Grayson’s. He drank coffee then, too.

They still didn’t talk and it made Jameson want to rip his hair out. (Again, no one said it would be easy abruptly quitting alcohol.)

But a few weeks later, Tobias Hawthorne died.

Jameson went to the cellar.

There were no traps anywhere. The key was inside the lock, and when he went inside, there was a note on the whiskey.

I’m sorry. I wanted better for you.

Nash had run out of his stash of cheap vodka and had told a slightly less drunk Grayson to get some more.

He went to the wine cellar, looking for a bottle, and instead found his brother, already gone through multiple drinks.

Their consciousness had passed the point of rivalries, and spent the night sharing a few bottles of whiskey. Their drunken laments were somehow understood by each other, and after a few more drinks, they didn’t need words to communicate anymore. Had they not been blackout drunk, one would’ve thought they were seven again, seemingly talking with more than words.

Grayson woke up the next morning, on a couch across from his brother.

He left the room immediately.

Jameson woke up a few hours later with a killer hangover,, and figured he moved the sheets while he was drunk.

Interesting feeling. Jameson got drunk often, but never to the point of blacking out. Getting that drunk gave him a killer hangover and rendered him useless for about half the day.

He smelled tequila, something he had never developed a taste for. Grayson was the only person in the house who drank it, and Jameson knew better than to touch that corner of the wine cellar.

What the hell did I do?

Grayson never told him.

No one usually checked on Jameson, and after Tobias had died, no one went to the backyard either.

Of course, she wasn’t no one.

She found him on the balcony railing, drunk and shirtless, and the first thing he had done was give her a riddle. He didn’t know why Tobias had required her presence, but he was going to make it fun for himself.

And she'd solved it, too. Maybe she's more than just a puz-

NO.

He would’ve gone down for more bourbon, but the house was Avery’s now, even though she probably didn’t know that it even existed.

Avery.

Tobias Hawthorne usually had a reason behind every one of his actions, but Jameson couldn’t figure out his reasoning behind this one.

And that made her all the more fun.

Bourbon might be good for me, if I get to meet pretty girls.

He mentally slapped himself. That’s not fair.

They had a connection.

He tried to deny it, but they had a connection.

He’d connected with his grandfather. He’d connected with Grayson. He thought he’d connected with Emily, and both had left him. (Though things seemed to be getting better with Gray.)

Or so he thought.

Then he found out she was in the coma.

He went down to the wine cellar, and reached for the bottle of vodka.

And then he paused.

Do I want to be drunk when she’s awake?

Do I want to forget?

But I don’t want to feel…

But she will wake up. And when she does, I’m going to do everything right.

Jameson walked out of the cellar and locked the door. And that means no more day drinking.

Goodbye, room. I owe you a lot.

Avery wasn’t going to die.

But when Alisa moved her out of the hospital, Jameson had to be held back by Xander and Grayson from almost punching her in the face.

“She could’ve died!” He yelled, his voice growing hoarse with the volume. “No amount of money is worth her life, Alisa! You had no right-“

“It had to be done, Jameson.”

“No it didn’t! She-“

“One of us is a professional, and it isn’t you. The situation isn’t ideal-”

“Ideal?” He choked out. To even plan for this scenario… “Damnit, Alisa.”

Nash walked out of Avery’s room with Libby, and upon seeing his brother about to throw hands with Alisa, dragged Jameson toward his room. He offered Jameson a bottle of whiskey, and his eyebrows shot up when Jameson refused.

“No? It’s been long few days, Jamie," Nash sat down next to Jameson. "and there used to be a time where you weren’t seen without at least a drink down.”

Jameson nodded, staring at his hands. ��Need to be sober if she wakes up.”

“When. She’ll wake up. She’s strong, Jameson.”

“She is.”

Avery woke up later that week, and Jameson almost collapsed with relief.

Jameson Hawthorne: NOW

Jameson reached the roof and stared at the sky.

Once in a lifetime, you meet someone you love so much, you become a better version of yourself for them.

The moon shined down as Jameson dug through his pockets. He opened the small velvet box, and the light reflected off the diamond on the ring.

I love you with more than words.

Thank you for being mine, Avery Kylie Grambs.

Alright, how do we feel after 1.6k words of sad? please like, reblog and leave feedback in the notes. Or just throw watermelons at me. Anything works. I will balance out all of this angst with fluff, give me a week. and if you want to be added to the taglist, which does not yet exist, just let me know somehow, put it in the notes somewhere. This fic is green (because I'm Irish) because I love green (because Jameson's eyes are green), and I'm not technically Irish. Happy March, leprechauns. (This is my formal apology to saythewordheiress, who was tagged without consent. I'm very sorry.) (dividers are from @/cafekitsune)

#the inheritance games #tig #averyjameson #js a little bit #grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #avery grambs #tig fic #tw addiction #sorta

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