#incorrect lockwood and co
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talleryn · 1 year ago
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I think my Lockwood & Co hyperfixation is back so here is the trio as things me and my friends have said
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lewkwoodnco · 1 year ago
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locklyle incorrect quotes (inspired by this post!) LOCKWOOD & CO. (2023)
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paranormal-taters · 4 months ago
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george-the-pumpkin · 4 months ago
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Lockwood: The plot thickens.
Lucy: The plot's thick enough.
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multifandumbmeg · 9 months ago
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Lockwood and George in that one scene at the Bickerstaff mansion in episode 6:
Lockwood: I respect my woman's choices!! Hell yeah exercise your agency girl!!
George: okay... But what if her choices are stupid?
Lockwood: Respect womens' wrongs!! Go off queen!!
George: Okay let me put it this way. What if her choice was dangerously stupid? Like she could die.
Lockwood: Holy shit you're right. Fuck her agency oh my god WHERE IS SHE???
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lockwoodandcoimagines · 27 days ago
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Y/N: I like how we say 'Oh man' to express our disappointment. Because men are in fact disappointing.
George: *Sighs and turns to Lockwood* What did you do this time?
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eeechooo · 2 months ago
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I Bled Where You Were
Fandom: Lockwood & Co Prompt: It was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission. In and out. But of course, nothing’s ever that simple when ghosts are involved. You take the hit—shielding George without thinking—and everything goes sideways. By the time Lockwood and Lucy fight the ghost off, you’re unconscious and bleeding, and George is spiraling. He won’t leave your side. He keeps pressure on your wound with shaking hands and mutters under his breath like it’ll keep you tethered. “You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—” And then he freezes, realizing what he just said out loud. When you wake up, pale but alive, your first words are, “Tell me what, George?” Bonus: He tries to brush it off. You grab his wrist and whisper, “Say it again. I heard you.” by @dearhnymn Pairing: George X Reader TW: Mention of blood, angst, but also they're so cuttteee
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It was supposed to be easy.
An in-and-out retrieval. The kind they could do blindfolded by now—get in, find the Source, contain it, get out. Quick. Clean. Controlled.
The house was quiet when you stepped inside, unnervingly so. Every breath felt like it echoed. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your boots, as if the house remembered pain. Dust hung in the air like old breath, and the cold—it was already curling around your ankles, soft and slow, like fingers testing your pulse.
Lockwood led with his torch raised, coat sweeping behind him like a story in motion. Lucy followed close, her grip steady on the hilt of her rapier. George walked beside you, one hand fumbling in his satchel for his notebook, muttering the details from the case file under his breath.
“Male. Died on-site. Age unknown. No documented burial—body was likely lost in the collapse. Cold spot reported near the northeast room.”
You nodded, listening more to the rhythm of his voice than the words themselves. It was easier to stay calm when he talked like that—steady, focused, George.
The northeast room was the library, or what had once been one. The shelves had mostly caved in, spilling mouldy pages and shattered glass across the floor. A grandfather clock stood frozen in the corner, its pendulum stilled mid-swing. Something in your chest clenched at the stillness.
And then the temperature dropped. Fast.
The kind of cold that didn’t creep—it sank. Bone-deep, soul-shaking. Your breath fogged instantly. Lucy’s torch flickered once, twice, then steadied.
You all stopped.
The ghost rose from the debris like it was waking from a long dream. Slow. Drifting. Not angry, not at first. Just… there. A boy, maybe seventeen, maybe younger. His eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking. He didn’t float—he hung, suspended in something invisible, arms limp at his sides.
George inhaled sharply beside you.
And then, he faltered.
Just for a second. Split-second of stillness. He stared at the ghost, face unreadable, fingers tightening on his rapier but not moving. Like he saw something—someone—in that face. A flicker of recognition, or regret, or too many nights spent studying names that didn’t belong to living children.
You didn’t think. You moved.
One step. Two. You cut in front of him, arms raised, body squared. You were used to his pauses. Used to being the first one in, the one who acted while George still processed. It never felt like a choice—just instinct, fierce and fast.
Then everything shattered.
The ghost lunged—not at George. At you. Its face twisted, mouth stretching open in a scream that made no sound, just a piercing ache inside your skull. You felt it, the impact—not physical, not exactly—but like being knocked backward inside yourself.
The cold tore through your ribs like knives of ice. You screamed, or maybe you didn’t, because sound didn’t matter anymore. Your limbs lost their shape. Your chest caved inward. You fell to your knees, the shield you tried to build slipping from your fingers.
Then came the blood.
A thin, hot trickle at first. Then more. From your nose, your mouth, somewhere deeper. You collapsed sideways, vision splintering at the edges.
"No!" George’s voice cracked. You barely heard it over the thudding in your ears. His hands were on you in seconds, frantic and too warm, pressing somewhere on your side where it burned and pulsed and hurt like your body had turned against itself.
Lucy's blade sliced the air with a scream. Lockwood barked orders, but you couldn’t catch the words. Everything was muffled now, like cotton had been stuffed into the world.
You could still feel George’s hands. One shaking as it pressed on your wound, the other gripping your arm like he could anchor you to the floor.
“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”
You wanted to look at him. Wanted to say something. Joke about how dramatic he was. But your eyes wouldn’t stay open, and your lips were too heavy to move.
His words were inaudible, you could  not process them. They were just sounds, music to your ears as if it was the last, the most beautiful one. The last thing you clearly heard was George’s voice—cracked and trembling, full of panic and something else, something sharp and breaking.
“You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—”
The sentence ended in a silence so loud it hurt.
And then—
black.
There was blood under George’s fingernails.
He couldn’t stop staring at it.
It dried in the creases of his knuckles, caught beneath the edge of his bitten nails, warm once and now turning tacky. It didn’t feel real—not on his hands. Not yours. It was supposed to be theoretical. Distant. Something in reports. Not something he pressed his palms into.
But your blood soaked through his sleeves. It was real.
You were too still. Wrongly still. Not unconscious like sleep, like the gentle collapse of someone at peace. No, this was stillness like a paused heartbeat, a body frozen mid-fall. Your lips were pale, eyes closed, lashes twitching like they were trying to dream their way out.
George pressed harder on the wound, his hand sliding as more blood welled up. “Please,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Just stay.”
Lockwood stood near the door, coat torn, face pale. His voice had lost its usual brightness. Lucy was crouched nearby, torch gripped so tight her knuckles looked like ghosts of their own. Neither of them spoke. Neither tried to touch you.
Because George was the one breaking.
“I shouldn’t have hesitated,” he choked out. “I should’ve moved. I should’ve—God, you’re such a bloody idiot, why’d you—why’d you jump in for me?”
He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, breathing shallow and hot. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, fogged and streaked with tears he didn’t remember crying.
“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”
The pain didn’t matter. Not the ache in his back from kneeling too long, not the way his wrists shook from the effort. The only thing that mattered was keeping your chest rising. Just. One. More. Breath.
"You’re not allowed to die,” he said again, lower this time, like a ritual. “Not before I tell you I…”
He stopped.
The words spilled out like a broken pipe, and the silence that followed was worse.
He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with blood on the floor and your pulse fading beneath his fingers. Not when it felt like the world was caving in.
He looked at your face, eyes searching for some sign—anything. A twitch. A flinch. A miracle.
Nothing.
So, he stayed there, hands red and heart raw, saying nothing more. Just breathing for you, holding pressure like penance.
Until help came.
And then the rest was noise—paramedics, lights, movement. But George didn’t move from your side, not even when they pried his fingers loose. Not until they promised you were still alive.
Not until he saw your fingers curl, just slightly, against the edge of the stretcher.
Only then did he allow himself to fall apart.
The world returned in fragments.
A beep.
The prickle of warm light behind closed eyelids.
The heaviness of limbs weighted by sleep—or something deeper.
Your mouth tasted like metal and cotton, and your throat burned as if you'd swallowed fire and tried to apologize for it. There was a dull throb somewhere in your side. Not sharp. Just present. Like a bruise made of memory.
And then—
A voice. Quiet, hoarse, too close.
“—still not awake. That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve got all night.”
George.
You didn’t open your eyes right away. His voice was cracked at the edges, the way old records skip when you listen too hard. He was trying to sound normal, you could tell—still mumbling facts, little tangents, telling you how many types of ghosts had been miscategorized in the last Fittes Journal of Psychic Studies—but every word trembled.
There was a weight on your wrist. Warm. Familiar.
His hand.
“…you scared the hell out of me,” he whispered eventually, and now the facts had stopped. “You looked like you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I just—” He stopped. Exhaled. “You can’t do that to me again, okay?”
You finally opened your eyes.
It took effort, like peeling back layers of something thick and stubborn. The light was low, and everything hurt—but your gaze found him instantly. Slumped in the chair beside your bed, glasses smudged, curls a mess, hoodie stretched and wrinkled like he hadn’t changed in days.
He looked like he’d fallen through grief and landed in a chair and stayed there.
“…George?” Your voice barely made it past your lips. A scrape. A ghost of a sound.
He bolted upright. Eyes wide. Like you’d just come back from the dead—which, technically, you had.
“You’re awake.” He blinked hard, and then again, and you thought he might cry. “You—bloody hell, you’re awake.”
You managed a tired smile. “Tell me what, George?”
He froze.
Like a record skipping again. He stared at you, breath caught between ribs like it didn’t know if it should leave.
“I heard you,” you whispered. Your fingers found his—weak but insistent. “You said something. When I was bleeding out and you thought I couldn’t hear. Tell me what.”
His hand twitched in yours. “You… You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“But I did.”
Silence.
His jaw worked like he was chewing through a thousand possible denials, trying to swallow them before they left his mouth. But you saw it. In his eyes. The thing he’d been burying behind sarcasm and science and safety.
Your thumb brushed his knuckles. “Say it again.”
He didn’t look away this time. His voice was barely a breath when it came.
“I love you.”
The words trembled like a confession to a god he wasn’t sure believed in him.
“I was supposed to tell you when you weren’t covered in blood,” he added weakly. “When we were both, I don’t know, breathing properly.”
Your laugh came out like a wheeze. “Terrible timing, George.”
“I know.”
“…I love you too.”
He blinked, stunned. Like all the air had been knocked out of him—but softly, this time. Like the fall was worth it.
And when he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours, you realized he was still shaking.
But now you were awake.
And he wasn’t letting go.
The scar isn’t large.
A small crescent near your ribs. Pale, healing, insignificant by battlefield standards. But for George, it’s a fault line.
And ever since you came back—lips pink, pulse steady, eyes burning with life again—he hasn’t stopped watching you. Not in a romantic way (though, yes, that too). No, it’s something deeper. Sharper. Like his eyes are trying to memorize every movement in case you blink out of existence.
You call it hovering.
He calls it being thorough.
Lucy calls it “creepy as hell, George, back off, she’s fine.”
But he doesn’t back off.
Not when you go upstairs without a word. Not when your laugh drifts from the kitchen and he doesn’t see the context. Not when you flinch slightly while pulling your shirt over your head and he rushes over like it’s day one again.
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It’s healing."
“Let me see anyway.”
You sigh, roll your eyes, let him check. His fingers hover just above the scar like he’s scared to touch it, like pressure alone could undo the stitches that already dissolved. He doesn’t speak while he looks. You let him. You know this isn’t really about your side.
It’s about his.
Because something inside George broke that night.
And he’s terrified it’ll break again.
On missions, he doesn’t stray more than a few feet. If you’re near the Source, he’s next to you—torch ready, heart in his throat. He startles when you gasp, stiffens when you run. He sleeps with one ear turned toward your door.
“George,” you say one night, gently. “I’m here.”
He’s sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall, knees pulled up like a kid lost in thought. His eyes lift to meet yours, haunted and tired and heavy.
“You stopped breathing,” he murmurs. “On the floor. Just stopped. And I thought—what if that’s the last thing I ever remember of you?”
You kneel down in front of him, touching his face. “But it’s not.”
He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him to gravity.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not when I only just—when we only just—”
“Started,” you finish.
He nods.
You slide your hand into his and press it gently against your chest. “Feel that? That’s mine. Still going.”
“It better keep going,” he mumbles. “Or I swear to God I’ll fight death itself.”
You smile. “Dramatic.”
“Desperate.”
He kisses your knuckles.
And maybe he’ll stop hovering one day.
But tonight, you sit beside him in the hall, tangled in silence, in shared breath, in a love that clings tight like ivy around a scar.
Tag list: @dearhnymn @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow
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mvltifxndomchaos · 11 months ago
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Kidnapper: I have your girlfriend.
Lockwood: What? I don’t have a girlfriend...
Kidnapper: Then who just called me a lowlife bitch and spit in my face?
Lockwood: Oh my god, you have Lucy.
inspo
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pleasetellmetherestea · 3 months ago
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Lockwood: *looking at George* So, when are we putting him up for adoption?
Lucy: I thought we were selling him to a ghost cult.
Lockwood: No no. He’d enjoy that too much.
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Kidnapper: we have your girlfriend.
Lockwood: my what now?
Kidnapper: short girl? Auburn hair? Carries a skull in a jar?
Lockwood: oh, Lucy! yeah, you don't have her, she has you. good luck.
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juneneedsabreak · 1 year ago
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shades of georgie
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lewkwoodnco · 11 months ago
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Lockwood & Co. incorrect quotes (2/?) LOCKWOOD & CO. (2023)
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paranormal-taters · 30 days ago
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george-the-pumpkin · 23 days ago
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Holly: How are you feeling?
Lucy: I won't play your psychological games.
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sylviaplathetic · 2 months ago
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Kipps: I don’t trust Lockwood.
Lucy: Why?
Kipps: He smiled at me.
George: That’s just his face.
Kipps: Exactly.
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lockwoodandcoimagines · 3 months ago
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Lockwood: I concede I was wrong about this one.
Y/N: Good.
Lockwood: However-
Y/N: No. No ‘however’. Just be wrong. Just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it.
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