#lockwood and co reader insert | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tangledinlove · 2 years ago

Note

ok hear me out (combining two of the prompts) ur in a taxi w the rest of the gang and squished next to Lockwood when u happen to fall asleep on his shoulder so he adjusts his body to make u more comfortable (maybe he puts his coat around u dhsjsjsj) and Lucy and George totally pick up on it

the cab

pairing: anthony lockwood x gn reader

content: fluff and embarrassed lockwood. u sit on his lap in the car

notes: anon thank u for sending this i needed it LOL. this should be gender neutral but please tell me if i missed anything

It’s a glorified clown car, to put it nicely.

“Is this thing even legally allowed to be a taxi?” George asks in disbelief as he heaves the heavy kit bags into the boot of the car. You are always surprised when the combined weight of your chains and other various defenses doesn’t completely flip the car over. “You could fit two small children at most into the backseat.”

“Now’s not the time to be picky,” Lockwood reminds you all as he opens the door. You don’t miss the way he grimaces at the sight of the very limited space in the back. “We’re lucky that there are even cabs this far away from the city. We’d be walking back without it.”

“We’d be popsicles without this clown car,” Lucy muses before she opens the passenger door.

It was a no-brainer that Lucy was sitting up front. A well aimed book thrown by a Poltergeist had her tumbling down a small flight of stairs, and she landed funny on her side. Having her crammed into the back of this miniature sized vehicle was out of the question.

You’re much too tired to express your distaste. The Visitor had been a headache to deal with, and it was probably about two in the morning, now. The chilly October air is unforgiving and nips at your exposed arms, making you wish you brought a jacket. You really just wanted nothing more than to get home and collapse into your nice, warm, awaiting bed.

Lockwood climbs into the car first, and he gives you a tired smile as you take your seat next to him. The inside of the car is no colder than the outside, and you would not be surprised if your teeth chattered the whole way home. You sink into the warmth of Lockwood’s side, trying to stave off the cold.

George shuts the trunk, and the force of it makes the entire car shake. “Scooch over,” he says to you through a yawn.

You glance down to where your entire side is pressed against Lockwood’s.

“Scooch over to where?” you ask. “Lockwood’s lap?”

“There’s no space, George,” he says, wedged uncomfortably against the car door. “We have to deal with it.”

George sighs, and you see his breath in the cold air. “Lucy’s sitting in the back seat next time.”

She scoffs. Not turning around to face you, she says, “Maybe I can push you down the stairs so you get the front seat next time. How would you like that, George?”

He takes his seat, which is also kind of your seat, so your thigh is crushed uncomfortably under his. The car begins to rumble down the street.

“Ow,” you hiss, trying to tug your leg free. He tries shifting his weight off of you, but it does nothing but make his elbow dig harshly into your side.

“Oops. Sorry.”

Neither one of you is in a better state than the other, besides Lucy, of course. George’s face is flattened against the window, and you’re taking up half of his space, too. Lockwood’s arm is pinned between the seat and your back, but there’s no room for you to move to free his arm that will no doubt be numb soon.

The car goes over a bump, and everyone is thrown into the air. Lockwood smacks his head into the top of the car and George once again lands painfully on top of you.

You are reminded suddenly about the importance of wearing a seatbelt.

“I can’t breathe,” you wheeze, and he hurriedly drags himself off of you to free your airway.

Lucy finally turns around to face you three, and the sight must be hilarious, because she cracks a grin.

“You aren’t going to fit like that. Two of you are going to have to share a seat.”

“We already are,” Lockwood groans. With his free hand, he motions to the way the three are practically on top of each other.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says. “Someone’s going to have to sit on someone else’s lap. If George keeps his face against the window, we’re going to have to peel him off of it in an hour.”

George and Lockwood crane their necks at an uncomfortable angle to face you, the person in the middle.

Great.

“You’re already nice and cozy with Lockwood, there,” George says. “Just share.”

The ‘obviously’ goes unsaid.

He’s not wrong. You’re halfway into Lockwood’s lap, sitting basically on his right leg. The way your face is pressed against his coat should be uncomfortable, but it’s Lockwood. It couldn’t be. His arm that’s stuck behind you is wrapped around your side, trying to keep you from jostling around too much.

Lockwood’s cheeks go red, and you don’t think it’s from the cold. “I mean— I’m perfectly fine with that. Only if you are, of course. It’s fine if you want to just stay like—”

If this was any other day, you would’ve teased him about his embarrassed rambling. Just to make him squirm, you would’ve pointed out the flush that is beginning to color the tops of his ears, but the cold and exhaustion has softened you up, and you settle sideways over his lap once and for all.

The relief is immediate. George sighs dramatically, no doubt much more comfortable now that your hip bone isn’t digging into his back. He relaxes, reclaiming the entire seat for himself. Your head is grazing the top of the car and your sneakers are bent so as to not press into George, but your sides are no longer painfully compressed between your friends, and breathing is coming much easier.

The opposite is the truth for Lockwood.

His hands are fluttering about confusedly, unsure of where to rest. The slight blush to his face has turned into a full on cherry red, like he has just run a marathon.

He shifts forward suddenly, like the seat has burned him. You nearly tip over and onto the floor of the car, but his uncertain hands finally make up their minds and settle on your waist.

“Sorry,” he says laughing, but it is nervous and strained. He is shrugging off his heavy coat and revealing his nice white shirt to the cold of the car.

“Are you not cold?” you ask, reluctant to rub the sleep from your eyes. Lockwood is warm, so much so that it is a little concerning. But the heat emanating from his body is exactly what you need to lull you into a light sleep. You heave a heavy sigh as you press your face into the crook of his neck. He’s burning up.

The heaviness of your eyelids causes you to miss the knowing look that Lucy and George exchange in front of your face.

“No— not at all,” Lockwood says, and when his arms come back to rest around you, you have no choice but to believe him. “Just go to sleep.”

Sometime soon, you would wake up and be aware enough to think about the implications of this. But that time is not now, and you let yourself slip away, aided by the gentle rocking of the car and the comfort of the boy next to you.

You dream of heavy black coats draped over your lap and dark brown eyes that reflect the love you have for them.

It is not far off from reality.

notes: see im alive i told u guys. i apologize this is so short my writing has been so bleh lately. and sorry for any tense inconsistencies i tried writing in present tense this time LOL lmk if u hate it!

lockwood taglist: @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @a-candle-maker @2guysonascooter @amo-a-los-postres @cassiopeiia24 (just lmk if u want to be removed)

#anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co reader insert #anthony lockwood fluff #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x you #xreader #x reader #readerinsert #reader insert #love writes

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wordsarelife · 2 years ago

Text

DAY 9: SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN

pairing: quill kipps x gn!reader

summary: you and quill know each other so well, you could almost finish each others sentences

warnings: short! short! short!

notes: i just made a drabble out of this

"no way!" quill said loudly when he unpacked the present you had just given to him. you watched him pull the sweater out of it's box. he held it up against his chest for you to see

"isn't that the funniest thing ever?" you asked laughing and quill nodded

"you won't believe that" he smiled, while reaching for your present. george, lucy and lockwood sat in silence watching it unfold.

you opened the present quickly, nearly falling out of your seat from laughing. in your box was the same sweater quill had just unpacked before. well not exactly the same, but it's other half.

"go put it on!" lucy directed and you and quill left the room.

when you came back, the others broke into laughter. you were both wearing sweaters reading the words 'all i want for christmas is you'

his was green while yours was red and when you stood next to each other the fingers on the sweater pointed to each other.

"okay" george nodded "that is quite funny"

you and quill sat back down in your seats.

"and you didn't plan that?" lockwood asked.

"no" you and quill shook your heads.

"what a surprise" you smiled and he nodded.

#quill kipps #quill kipps x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co headcannons #lockwood and co imagines #lockwoodandco #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #george karim #lucy carlyle #netflix #ali hadji heshmati #cameron chapman #ghost hunting #ruby stokes #lockwood and co reader insert

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aislinrayne · 1 year ago

Text

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: After a particularly rough case, Reader starts acting distant. Lockwood thinks giving her space will help. When he's woken by the phone ringing, George doesn't need to know what happened to know it's probably Lockwood's fault.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature/Explicit.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Alcohol consumption, strong language, sexual content (second base with intent to go further), anxious avoidant Reader, Reader is shorter than Lockwood, drunk Reader, Reader is harassed at the bar, brief touch without consent, no use of y/n.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Fuck I love playing with different kinds of dynamics. I've had this sitting partially drafted in my writing folder for a year now, and the brain-goblins wouldn't let me keep working on SM until this was done lmao Please let this be the year I finally get a handle on my creative flow fml

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.1k

The first time the phone rings, both inhabitants of 35 Portland Row manage to remain deep in a well earned slumber.

The second time the phone rings, it successfully rouses one George Karim. Muttering a string of colourful insults under his breath that - had he been in his family home - would have earned him a smack over the head with his mother’s slipper, he reluctantly drags himself from the warmth and comfort of his duvet. Letting out a long suffering sigh that lasts through the entire shuffle from his room to the phone on the floor below, he lifts it from the receiver and greets the caller with a noise somewhere between ‘hello’ and ‘fuck off’.

“Evening, sorry to wake you. This is James, calling from The Royal Oak. Is there a, uh-” Even over the numerous voices and the clinking of glass in the background, George can hear the gruff sounding man being interrupted by a woman’s voice mumbling incoherently before all sound is muffled by a palm being pressed over the mic on the other end, “-sorry, did you say…? Really, sweetheart? Alright, but don’t try to blame this on me tomorrow when you sober up.”

Then the phone is back to full volume. “Sorry about that, I’ve got a young lady here who says she lives at this address? She’s too drunk to get herself home and this is the number she gave for someone she trusts to come get her. But, uh, she-” James seems like he’d rather not say the next bit, “well, she just keeps asking for ‘that selfish wanker’? Won’t give me a name otherwise.”

There’s not a lot in this world capable of rendering George completely speechless, but that… That does it. He allows the phone to drop from his ear for a moment, resting it on his shoulder as he attempts to compose himself and reply to the nice man on the other end of the line.

“Uh… Yeah, she- she’s ours. Probably talking about our boss, then. I’ll, uh… I’ll go wake him. I’m sure he’ll be there very soon.” He has to speak up over the sound of James choking and sputtering in surprise to say a polite ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, before slamming the phone down and jogging up the stairs to wake his friend.

He pauses for a moment halfway up, considering heading back downstairs to grab a boot to throw at the door. Unfortunately his need for immediate answers outweighs his urge to be petty, so he settles for pounding loudly on the door instead. There’s quiet rustling and not so quiet cursing on the other side before it’s ripped open.

“What?!” A dishevelled Anthony Lockwood snaps, blinking sleep from glaring eyes and leaning on the doorframe in an endeavour to keep himself upright.

“Just got a call from The Royal Oak, down on York Street? Turns out they have a resident of this address drunkenly calling for a ‘selfish wanker’ to come pick her up.” George crosses his arms, raising a challenging eyebrow at the taller man.

Lockwood’s expression shifts from its existing irritated frown into confusion, then straight to alarm. He wastes no time flipping the light switch beside the doorway, bathing the room in light as he crosses it to tug one of his dresser drawers open.

“Can you call me a Night Cab, please? Offer them double fare to prioritise.” He calls over his bare shoulder, searching for a t-shirt and hoodie to toss on. His researcher says nothing as he complies, deciding to save the interrogation for later.

Anthony is properly worried. Their third roommate had come back from their last job acting distant. They’d been separated by a pair of particularly nasty Spectre’s for close to an hour, but she’d succeeded in securing the Source’s and they’d all made it out in one piece. He’d been so caught up in pride for his team he hadn’t noticed the effect it had on her until days later. When he tried to approach her with his concerns, she clammed up and looked as though she was about to cry before excusing herself to her room. None of the members of his agency, himself included, had seen her exit her room for two days after that. He hadn’t asked about it since, and while giving her space seemed to be working by way of not making her cry, he was starting to wonder if it had been upsetting her in a different way. Even taking all of that into consideration, there’s still no way he could have seen a phone call like this coming at 2:56 AM on a Tuesday.

All he can find is a sleeveless black undershirt. With a huff of frustration he pulls it over his head, kicking the drawer closed simultaneously, then pulling open the one above it. The joggers he fell asleep in are fine enough, so after a fit of undignified hopping across the room to cover his feet with pink socks he grabs a random hoodie off of the armchair by the window, shrugs into it, and zips it on his way down the stairs.

George is waiting for him at the bottom, staring at his watch.

“Your cab should be here in three minutes, mine should be here in thirteen.” He looks up from his wrist, meeting his boss’s confused look with an exasperated one. “I’m heading to Flo’s for the night, so whatever you fucked up, mate? Fix it.” Karim claps him on the shoulder, walking past him to pack an overnight bag. It might not be conventional, but Anthony knows it’s the closest thing to encouragement he’s going to get.

The next several minutes pass in a blur of waiting and worrying, until finally it’s 3:14 AM and he’s slipping the cab driver an extra twenty quid to wait for them, swearing to be no longer than fifteen minutes. The ungodly-early morning air is sharp and cold, cutting to the bone as soon as he steps out of the comforting warmth of the vehicle. It’s plenty enough encouragement to hurry his way to the building, pulling the door open to slip into the soft golden warmth and loud ambiance of the pub.

He hesitates on the doormat, catching sight of the other patrons. Thankfully it isn’t a particularly highbrow establishment, but it's nice enough for him to feel noticeably underdressed in black joggers and a grey zip-up. And then he lays eyes on her, and all insecurities are immediately banished by the sharp knife of shock burying itself in his gut.

She’s balanced on a table, wearing a little black dress he’d never seen before. Her arms are raised above her head, fingers combing through her hair as her hips sway to the bass of the music in a way that probably would have had his mouth watering if it wasn’t for present circumstances. He isn’t the only one noticing her. There’s a group of men standing around the table, watching her with hungry eyes that make his skin crawl with disgust. A tall blonde man pushes his way past the rest of the crowd, deep set ice blue eyes chasing up her legs. She seems to either be unaware of his presence, or too lost in the music to care. Even from his position across the room he can see her eyes are out of focus, drifting away for split seconds every few beats from the speakers on the wall. The man raises a hand and grabs her thigh, using enough pressure to leave visible fingermarks.

Lockwood finds himself frozen in place, blood boiling as he mentally considers how challenging talking his way out of a murder charge could really be. Surely not that much harder than talking his way out of an arson charge, and he’d done that often enough to be confident in his abilities.

Before his sleep deprived mind can break free of its indecision, the girl spins around abruptly and slaps the lecherous limb away from her. The slime of a man attached to it is none too happy about that, making a move to grab for her arm. Her normally impeccable reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, she can’t move fast enough to avoid the attack. When his fingers close around her wrist, he pulls. Hard. She teeters on the edge of the table, her short cry of pain audible even over the music.

Huh. He’d always thought the whole ‘seeing red’ thing was entirely turn of phrase, but as it turns out, there’s actually a modicum of truth to it.

He’s halfway across the bar by the time he realises he’s in motion, but he’s not about to stop. Closing the remaining distance in a few purposeful strides, he grabs the creep’s arm in a vice grip. The blonde releases his hold on her immediately, instinctively trying to pull away from the pain. Lockwood lets him stumble away in surprise, wasting no time placing himself in between his friend and the threat to her safety. At first he’s optimistic he might have a chance to vent some anger when the wanker locks eyes with him, but whatever he’d seen in Anthony’s was enough to make him back down and stumble off with an insincere apology.

Reminding himself to focus his attention where it belongs, he turns to look up at the girl on the table. Her face lights up with delight when she recognizes him, then swiftly sours the longer she looks at him. He feels like an absolute prick for not noticing the dark circles around her eyes sooner. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he reaches up to offer her both of his hands, palms up. She sways in place for a moment, scowling pensively at the proffered appendages. He studies her face while he waits patiently, trying to find any hint of what could be bothering her enough to take this approach to forgetting.

With a tiny hiccup she finally caves, placing her hands in his and allowing him to help her to solid ground. Once both of her feet are securely on the sticky floor, he offers her his arm for support. She gives him another little glare, but just like before, she eventually accepts his help. Scanning the other tables and chairs around her makeshift stage, he sees no sign of a purse or jacket that he recognises in the slightest.

“Did you bring anything with you, sweetheart?” He asks her directly, leaning closer to her ear to be heard over the noise. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks almost flustered; eyes glazed, cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink, looking through him rather than at him as she tries to filter his words through the haze of liquor clouding her mind. Although he’s prepared to wait as long as it takes for her to answer, he can’t help but feel a touch relieved when the bartender waves him over holding a familiar leather clutch. Gently taking her by the arm, he guides her to a nearby chair to sit and wait for him to collect her belongings. Giving a final warning look to the remaining crowd for good measure, he leaves her side to approach the bar.

The man behind it is average height, with mid length dark hair as well kept as his perfectly trimmed goatee. He abandons the glass he’s polishing, tossing the white cloth he’d been using over his shoulder and offering Anthony a calloused hand. “I take it you must be-”

“‘That selfish wanker’? Present and accounted for, though I also answer to ‘Anthony’.” He replies, accepting the handshake.

The other man’s grip is firm but friendly, and he throws his head back in merriment at Lockwood’s unexpected introduction. “James, pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from your little Songbird over there.”

Lockwood winces. “Not all bad, hopefully.”

“No, not all bad.” James soothes before leaning in conspiratorially, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”

He shoots him a wink as he settles back, and now it’s Anthony’s turn to laugh. It’s decided then and there; they like each other.

He reaches behind the lip of the bar, grabbing the clutch he’d tucked out of sight until he could determine Lockwood’s identity. “This is all she brought with her. You’ve got a safe way home?”

Anthony takes it from him with a grateful smile. “Yeah, paid the driver to stick around. I consider myself pretty good at multitasking, just not ‘keeping her upright and not getting ghost-touched’ good.” James lets loose a hearty laugh in response.

The screech of wood against the floor draws their attention back to the woman formerly in the chair, now standing unsteadily a few feet away.

“And that’s my cue. Pleasure to meet you, James. And, uh-” He glances back at her involuntarily. “Thank you. For keeping an eye on her, calling us, the lot of it.”

The bartender smirks, quirking an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look. “It's what any decent person would do. Don’t be a stranger now, either of you.”

Lockwood departs the bar, clutch in hand, with a salute and a promise to be back another time. She seems confused at first when he tries to get her attention, switching to stare at him reproachfully when she recognises him again. He sighs, trying to tuck away his own feelings of exhaustion and defeat.

“Let's get you home, love.” He murmurs, offering his arm again. She takes it without hesitation this time, leaning heavily against him as they make their way to the exit. Pausing on the doormat, he carefully extracts his limb from her grip, soothing her little noise of protest by assuring she’d be using him as a crutch again momentarily. The metal of the zipper is cold against his bare arms as he shrugs his hoodie off, blatantly ignoring her attempts to argue with him and draping the grey fabric over her shoulders.

The cold breeze cuts into him once they’re outside, but he carefully schools his expression to avoid showing her it's affecting him at all. Despite having paid the man extra, he’s still pleasantly surprised to see the black cab still waiting at the curb. It’s easier than he’d expected to load her into the comfortable back seat. She doesn’t even try to swat his hand away when he places it on top of her head to prevent her bouncing it off the roof in her attempt to get in. Once she’s scooted to the far side, he climbs in after her. She seems lost in thought, staring absently at the headrest in front of her. He leans closer slowly, giving her ample time to move away if she doesn’t want him in her space. When she remains stationary, he reaches across her body to grab her seatbelt, gently buckling her in and tightening the belt over her hips.

She finally looks at him, expression blank as she studies his features. It’s clear her mind is elsewhere, and she returns to staring at the black leather so quickly he wonders if he’d imagined the whole thing. He gives their driver the all clear, directing him to drop them off where he’d first picked him up before slumping back into his seat for the uncomfortably quiet ride home.

They’re half-way there when he can stand to ignore the elephant in the room no longer. The words slip out before he can think of a more tactful way to ask; “What’s going on with you?”

She turns to look at him so slowly it’s almost unnerving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She answers bitterly, her voice laced with the same steel as her eyes.

“That’s bloody horseshit!” He scoffs, far too tired to hold back. “If there was nothing wrong, I wouldn’t have gotten a call tonight.”

Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds, seemingly overwhelmed by the number colourful insults she’d like to hurl at him.

“Like you care.” She finally mutters, shaking her head and turning away from him to stare pointedly out her window.

“...What?” He manages to put his frustration on hold for a moment, making room for his growing concern. “Of course I care, what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

She laughs darkly, shaking her head. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” He cries in exasperation.

She whips around to face him. “You knew I was struggling! You knew, and you ignored it because it was easier than dealing with me!” Her eyes are wild, chest heaving as she draws in air like she has to fight for every breath.

All hostility drains out of him in an instant, leaving him uncomfortably hollow in its absence. He’s intimately aware of her eyes searching his face, trying to gain some kind of insight into his mind. He feels like he’s just stumbled into a minefield, and in a way he has. If his next words aren’t carefully chosen, he could detonate one and destroy his friendship with someone he can’t live without.

Organising his thoughts and taking a deep breath, he plunges ahead.

“I’m sorry. I thought by giving you space I was giving you what you needed, but I should have just talked to you. And you’re right, I was being selfish, just… not in the way you’re thinking.” She looks like she’s about to interrupt, but he ploughs on. “I was afraid if I pushed too hard you’d shut me out. I thought it would be safer to stay silent and let you come to me when you were ready, but it was my responsibility to communicate that to you, and I failed.”

They sit in stillness for far longer than he’s comfortable with, his words hanging in the air between them.

When she finally puts him out of his misery, he has to strain to hear her over the rumble of the car. “It wasn’t two Spectres.”

It feels like someone’s poured ice down his back. “...What?”

“The last job? We thought it was just two Spectres, but it wasn’t. It-” Her voice shakes, then dies. She has to stop and breathe, looking like she’s about to be crushed by the weight of the words on her tongue. “One of them was a Fetch.”

Staring down at his hands, he searches for the right words to say. Is he supposed to say anything at all? If he interrupts now, will she shut him out? If he doesn’t, will she think he doesn’t care? A point of personal pride for him is being able to read people, to shape himself into whatever role they need him to fill, but… he has no idea who she needs him to be right now.

She hesitantly continues. “It was you.”

He looks up at her only to find her eyes already on him. “It wasn’t.”

She laughs sadly, but doesn’t look away. When she tips her head to concede the point, the light catches at the corner of her eye. “Right. It did use your face, though.”

“Whatever it said, it isn’t true.” He can’t resist the urge to reach across the seat between them, wiping the tear from her cheek and hoping she can feel the truth in his words when he says; “A Fetch will find your worst fear and exploit it. And I swear to you, I will never allow anything to make you feel afraid like this again.”

Silence stretches on between them, becoming heavier with every second passing them by. His thumb continues stroking her face slowly, absentmindedly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think her eyes had drifted to his lips.

“Kiss me.”

His hand falls from her face. For a second, he thinks it’s him that’s said it. When he realises it wasn’t, the potential implications of her words make his heart stutter. There’s a chance this is just a drunken impulse, a need for comfort in a moment of vulnerability. If it is, what the hell is he supposed to do about it? If he gives in to her, will he be able to carry on working beside her once he’s had a taste of the life with her he doesn’t even allow himself to dream about? On the flip side, there’s a chance that this is an actual confession. The Fetch had chosen his face to torment her, and as horrifying as that had been to hear, it only would have done so if she felt something for him. Maybe she feels the same as he does. Maybe the reason he can never figure out what mask to put on for her, is that she’s only ever needed him to be himself. Hope fills every inch of him as he stares at her, enraptured.

Then, he realises he’s been quiet for long enough for panic to fill her eyes.

“Ask me in the morning.” He breathes, feeling as perplexed as she looks when the words come out of his mouth. She’s confused that he hasn’t directly shot her down. He’s confused that he’s capable of this kind of restraint while sleep deprived.

“What?” She frowns, blinking as her eyes lose focus for a split second in her bewilderment.

Feeling more confident in his decision, he smiles softly at her. “Ask me when you’re sober, and when we’re not in this nice man’s cab.”

The driver laughs, trying and failing to cover it with a guilty cough.

Once they reach 35 Portland Row, Anthony covers the fare and slips the man a generous tip for enduring their antics before exiting the cab. The emotional intensity of the ride home had been enough to partially sober up his companion, but he still isn’t sold on her ability to climb stairs without assistance. He keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist until they reach the door of her room - formerly Lucy’s - on the top level of the house before reluctantly removing it. She wobbles for a moment, but it seems to be more from her leaning to chase his touch than any serious instability. They stand there for a while, neither willing to walk away from the other, until a large yawn overtakes her.

He chuckles, suddenly remembering James’ nickname for her. “Goodnight, Songbird.”

“That’s a stupid nickname.” She complains, scrunching up her face in distaste. When all he does is laugh some more, she sighs and carries on. “Goodnight, Anthony. Sweet dreams.”

He disagrees completely, of course. From her lips, his name is the sweetest song he’s ever heard. Turning away from him, she places her hand on the doorknob but doesn’t make any move to twist it. He’s about to ask her if something is wrong when she turns back to him swiftly, closing the distance between them and standing on her toes to brace her hands on his shoulders as she presses the ghost of a kiss against his cheek. By the time he’s raised trembling fingers to the tingling skin, she’s already in her room with the door closed behind her.

He spends his early morning dreaming of the flutter of wings, and birds gently pecking him on the cheek.

When he’s woken by persistent knocking on his door once more, Anthony Lockwood finds himself wondering what precisely he had done to piss off Hypnos in a past life.

Still on high alert from his unusual evening, he’s out of bed and across the room without a second thought. When he pulls the door open he’s entirely expecting another emergency, not to find the girl of his dreams standing there staring steadfast at her feet.

“I am so sorry about last night, I should have told you what was going on instead of going on a bloody bender. That was incredibly immature and irresponsible of me and I completely understand if you want to fire me.” She starts slow, but by the end of her apology the words are flying out of her mouth. Despite her best efforts, the misery in her voice as she says the last bit is tangible.

Why would he want that? Still not entirely awake, the first thing out of his mouth is the first thought in his mind. “Please don’t leave.”

“...What?” Not even remotely prepared for that response, she finally looks up at him. As their eyes meet, reality sets in and time seems to slow.

When he takes a proper look at her, he completely forgets the entirety of the English language. Her hair is mussed from sleep, remnants of last night's makeup smudged under her eyes. She’d apparently had the mental faculties to change into her pyjamas the night previous, and while he’d seen her in those shorts often enough to control the urge to stare, something about her wearing his hoodie zipped over them was making him feel like a moron. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. On the other side of the doorway, she’s having a very similar crisis. His sleep tousled hair only doubled her ever present urge to rake her fingers through it. And not only had he been in such a hurry to answer the door he hadn’t bothered to slip on a shirt, his joggers were also sitting dangerously low on his hips. Their eyes snap back to each other's faces in tandem, both flushing almost comical shades of red.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” He asks hurriedly, heart pounding in his throat.

“I said a lot of things.” She wraps her arms around herself, laughing nervously. “Which part?”

He keeps his eyes fixed on hers, searching them for some clue to tell him what comes next.

Mustering more courage than she thought she was capable of, she answers honestly. “Yeah, I did. Every word.”

Mimicking his actions from the night before he extends both of his hands towards her, palms up. She tilts her head quizzically, but places her hands in his. He uses them to pull her close enough their bodies are almost touching, guiding her arms to rest on his shoulders, releasing them to place one hand on her waist and the other on the side of her neck. She inhales sharply when he leans in, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw while her gaze flickers between his eyes and lips. He’s studying her face like he never wants to forget a single detail, but he doesn’t get any closer. She’s lightheaded and pretty sure she’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss her soon, which is probably why it’s not until she sees the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that she realises what he’s waiting for.

“Kiss me.” She breathes.

He doesn’t need to be told a third time. He leans down and kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to do so again, like the world is falling to pieces around them and the only thing that can save them is the feeling of her lips against his. The hand on the side of her throat slides back to bury itself in her hair, cradling the back of her head to take the strain off her neck from their notable difference in height. Her hands wander the expanse of bare skin across his back, mapping every muscle and scar like it’s the braille translation of his life story. He shivers under her touch, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her body tight to his in a desperate attempt to fill the yawning pit within him that had grown larger with every day he believed he’d never get to hold her like this.

As she runs her hands down his sides to his hips he gasps involuntarily, deepening their kiss with enthusiasm. Driven by curiosity, she lets her nails graze his skin as she retraces her previous path. The noise he makes in response is downright sinful, but so is the feeling of his rapier-calloused skin against her back as he slips his hand under the hem of his hoodie. Her breath catches as his fingers trace featherlight patterns up and down her spine, feeling him grinning between kisses when he notices she’s not wearing anything beneath the grey material. When he nips at her lower lip, she drags her nails down his back, and the last of his restraint abandons him.

Both of his hands drop, fingers dimpling the flesh of her upper thighs. As in sync as they are in the field he’d never dared to imagine the same would apply to the bedroom, so he’s a little blown away when she understands his intentions immediately, jumping as he lifts her up to wrap her legs around his hips without breaking from each other. Now he’s the one craning his neck to capture her lips, the floor creaking beneath his feet as he crosses the short distance to the wall, pressing her back against it and groaning at the restrained whimper that slips free from her.

“Please don’t hold back. I want to hear you sing for me, my little Songbird.” He urges, adjusting his grip to slide his hands up her sides under his hoodie, palming one of her breasts and swiping a thumb experimentally across her skin to carefully catch one of her nipples between his thumb and the side of his forefinger. She finally breaks, back arching away from the wall, head falling back against it as she moans unabashedly. All of his strength threatens to leave him when she rolls her hips against his, dropping his free hand to grab at the plush of her ass and pull her impossibly closer as he whispers praise between frenzied kisses pressed to her throat. She buries her hands in his hair, gasping for air as his ministrations travel to her collarbones then slowly down the centre of her chest, placing an open-mouthed kiss to swell of her breast-

The front door slams open, startling them apart. There’s the sound of shuffling beneath them as someone kicks off their shoes.

“OI, MATE!” George’s voice calls from the base of the stairs, “Did you fix it?”

They look at each other, dazed and drunk off each other. A confused frown decorates her features, mouth falling open to ask him what the hell their other roommate is talking about. He shakes his head in exasperation, shooting her a look that reads ‘I’ll fill you in later’ and dropping his head to rest on her chest. They take as many seconds as they dare like that, her fingers combing through his hair soothingly as he wraps his arms around her back, basking in the warmth of her body against his. Reluctantly, he lifts his head and steps away from the wall, gently setting her back on her feet and pressing a kiss to her temple. She seems hesitant to move away from him at all, back to staring at her feet instead of looking at him. He’s known her for long enough to know she’s overthinking.

“Hey, look at me.” He slips his fingers beneath her chin, gently lifting her face to meet his concerned gaze. “What’s on your mind, darling?”

“I don’t-” She starts strong but stops suddenly, shifting anxiously. “I really don’t want this to be a one time thing, or - or just a way to blow off steam-”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, cradling her face and pressing a brief but searing kiss against her lips. She softens, melting into his touch.

“Good,” He murmurs as he pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek like the one she’d given him the night before, “because I don’t think I can survive another day of not being able to kiss you.”

George chooses that moment to begin his ascent of the stairs. They break away from each other, struggling to make themselves presentable before he makes it to the landing. Anthony rushes to grab a shirt from the foot of the bed, throwing it over his head haphazardly She squeaks when she finds the zipper of his hoodie down to her navel, shooting him a teasingly chastising look when he snickers and crosses past her to greet their researcher in the hall, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it. She yanks the zip as high as it will go, trying to smooth her own hair as she approaches the bookshelf and grabs something at random. She throws herself into the armchair in the corner of his room just in time, flipping the book open to roughly the halfway point and staring intently at the page as George reaches the top step.

“Good morning!” Anthony greets him far too cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt to obscure the other man’s view of his room.

“...Morning.” George replies, not even trying to disguise his attempts to peer around his boss. “How’d it go last night?”

“Um - fine! Yeah, just fine. Perfectly fine. Everything is… fine.” She closes her eyes, letting out a slow quiet sigh at his obvious nerves.

Adjusting the book to make sure it’s in his line of sight, she grits her teeth and bites the bullet. “Morning, Georgie!”

Lockwood looks over his shoulder at her in alarm, but at her reassuring nod he steps hesitantly out of the way so she’s in clear view.

George inspects her with narrowed eyes. “You are significantly less hungover than I’d expected.”

She winces, not able to fault him in the slightest for the disappointment in his voice. “Yeah, pretty sure it just hasn’t hit me yet. Sorry about that. It won’t happen again, Scouts Honour.”

“Why are you in Lockwood’s room?” His brow furrows almost imperceptibly.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I was so drunk last night he was worried I was going to fall asleep on my back and choke on my own vomit, so he made me sleep in this ridiculously uncomfortable chair.”

Both men fix their eyes on her. Anthony looks horrified, while George looks strangely impressed. The bespectacled man studies her for another moment and she holds her breath, hoping he’d bought it. Shrugging a ‘fair enough’, he bids them a temporary farewell and walks into his own room, closing the door behind him.

She huffs a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and slumping back in the chair as the tension drains from her body. When she cracks an eye a few long moments later, Anthony is still standing in the doorway with the same look of horror plastered across his face.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, worry laced in every syllable.

“I didn’t even think of that! I could have let you die!” He seethes, throwing his hands up in annoyance at himself.

She has to fight the urge to laugh at him, focusing instead on gathering her strength to stand and walk over to take his hands in her own.

“I appreciate the concern, my love, but I wasn’t that drunk by the time you got me home.” She smiles fondly at him, lifting his hands to press soft kisses to each knuckle. When she glances up at him even his ears are flushed pink, looking at her with a lovesick smile.

“Call me that again?” He implores, pulling her against him.

With a quiet laugh, she drapes her arms over his shoulders before replying. “My love.”

They lose themselves in each other for another several minutes, only parting grudgingly at the rumble of his stomach and the threat of another interruption.

George waits until later that morning when Lucy, Kipps, and Holly have joined them and they’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast to comment on Anthony’s inside out shirt, and how impressed he is that the sixth member of their agency has learned to read upside down. As Lucy slowly turns to look at them, eyes wide and jaw seemingly aiming to touch the floor, Anthony lets the red-faced young woman beside him hide her blush in his shoulder. For some reason, he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Grinning proudly, he winks at the Listener, causing her to shriek loudly and demand to know the full story.

When his girlfriend looks up to shoot him a warning look, he mimics zipping his lips. “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Luce.”

Lucy’s demands are finally met five years later when James taps the side of his champagne flute with his knife, drawing the attention of the room full of guests to tell his favourite story about the bride and groom.

⤛⊹ 𝔣𝔦𝔫 ⊹⤜

taglist: @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

#aislin writes #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #x reader #reader insert #x female reader

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atlabeth · 2 years ago

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between colleagues - anthony lockwood

part 2

summary: besides, what's a bit of fake dating between colleagues anyway?

a/n: i have missed him!!! there is just something so fun about writing for l&co and anthony specifically i truly love their world and i love him!! this was originally going to be the entire thing in one fic but i decided to post this on its own and test the waters with you all because i am TIREd of writing long fics. free me from my prison. this is literally my third fake-dating fic bc i never get tired of the trope but lmk if you want to see more

wc: 3.1k

warning(s): fem!reader, mentions of: canon typical job stuff, a child dying (mentioned in passing. literally half a line), and a good ol fashioned breakdown. but this is almost completely fluff bc that's all in the background

You groaned as Lockwood pushed the door open, working through the knot in your shoulder while you all walked inside. You tossed your rapier into the umbrella stand, not even bothered by the clatter, and began unbuckling your belt.

Winter was the worst season for ghost hunting. As if it weren’t already freezing enough dealing with Visitors and their effects, your most recent job was almost fully outside. You considered it a miracle hypothermia didn’t get you before any sort of ghost-touch.

“What are you groaning about?” Lockwood asked, glancing back at you. “I think tonight went rather well.”

He’d removed his jacket, and his white undershirt was dirt-stained and damp with sweat. Though he looked unaffected as ever on the surface, the quickened rise and fall of his chest said, in his own way, he was just as exhausted as the rest of you. You raised an eyebrow, but Lucy beat you to the punch.

“You think every night goes well if we come back alive,” she said wryly.

“It’s not the best measurement,” George added. He tilted the iron charm over the door back into place then set his bag on the floor. “Tonight was rough, Lockwood. Even by your ridiculous terms.”

Lockwood looked at you. “Anything you care to add?”

You grimaced as you rubbed your shoulder. “I’m never breaking down a door for you like this again.”

You did feel a bit like an action hero in the moment, but you regretted it soon after. Even more so when it didn’t even matter in the scheme of things—the source ended up being buried by the locked shed, not in the shed itself. At least you were now last in the rotation of opening suspicious doors.

“You offered to,” Lockwood defended.

“Because you said you would handle all the supply calls for the next week,” you said dryly. “And it looks like that may need to happen soon.” You held up your belt—once packed with salt bombs and magnesium flares, you’d emptied it completely trying to save all your lives. It was a sad sight.

He frowned. “Even the flares?”

“Even the flares,” you said.

“I’m all out of them too,” George said. “Surprised we didn’t start a full-on forest fire in the backyard.”

“I thought those would last longer.” Lockwood’s frown deepened. “They were quite expensive.”

“At least we got paid a fair bit,” Lucy said. “And we did indeed get away with our lives.”

“Barely,” George grumbled, kicking off his boots. He tossed his rapier haphazardly to the side, not even bothering to deposit it into your umbrella stand, and dropped his belt on the ground, still boasting a whole two remaining salt bombs. Your lip curled at the trail of chaos. “I’m going to bed. No one bother me for at least fifteen hours.”

Lucy smiled, shaking her head as he walked off. “Dramatic, but he’s got the right idea. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“See you, Luce,” Lockwood said.

“I’ll be quiet when I come in,” you assured, and she gave an appreciative nod. Lucy dropped a stack of envelopes on the kitchen table before she went upstairs—it was her job to pick up the mail, and you were honestly surprised she remembered after all this.

“You’re not mad at me,” Lockwood said, glancing at you as he went over to pick up the mail, “are you?”

“No,” you sighed, and you flopped onto the couch, “just dramatic. More so than George tonight.”

He chuckled and leaned against the counter, making deft work of the envelopes as he sorted them into piles. One for the never-ending junkmail that graced your door, and four others for each of you. “Good. I can never handle you being mad at me.”

A smile tugged at your lips as you stared up at the ceiling. “You’re off the hook this time, so don’t worry.”

“And I appreciate your mercy immensely,” he said. Another glance over at you. “You look exhausted. Are you sure you don’t want to turn in?”

You shook your head. “Our post-job detox is the most important part of all this. I can hold out for another hour.”

It was hardly a detox, but it had grown to become a necessity for you and Lockwood, sitting together and talking through everything in the wee hours of the night.

One extremely tough case left you reeling harder than usual—children always got to you, and the girl’s death was particularly grisly—and apparently, Lockwood could tell.

It took a couple days of gentle prodding, but one night, after being completely out of it in the archives with him that day, you broke—completely. Full on sobbing. Wholly embarrassing to do so in front of your boss, especially when he, George, and Lucy didn’t seem half as affected by it all.

It turned out he was just better at covering it all up—Lockwood understood it all a lot better than you thought. He just sat with you in the living room and talked with you, talked you through it. There was a lot of crying, a fair bit of permanently swearing off ghost-hunting, and more than a bit of hatred against the entirety of the United Kingdom.

By the end of it, though, after you’d cried yourself into a headache, gone through a quarter of a box of tissues, and actually worked out your problems with Lockwood’s help, you felt far better.

Lockwood thereby forbade you from holding in your feelings until they burst, and so it became a routine—it was cheaper than therapy, and most therapists, save for the few former agents working in the field, couldn’t understand it anyways. You usually slumped on the couch, Lockwood usually leaning against the counter. Sometimes with tea, often with tears, always with slightly morbid jokes.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Lockwood asked, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“It’ll heal,” you said. “It’s mostly just sore. I’ll stay away from my rapier for a few days, sleep on my other side for once, and everything’ll be fine.”

“Good.” The ruffling of paper stopped for a moment, and his voice was slightly sheepish when he spoke again. “Are you still up for that meeting with the Caldecotts tomorrow, then?”

You groaned and screwed your eyes shut. “Lockwood, it is three in the bloody morning. You scheduled the Caldecotts for eleven.”

“I didn’t know that this job would go on for so long!” he defended. “The last few have all wrapped up before midnight. It’s not my fault this Visitor was particularly elusive.”

“I am drenched in sweat, Lockwood,” you said. “Half of my coat is burnt from plasm and the other half is frozen solid. There is still dirt under my fingernails, my boots are covered in spiderwebs, and I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours. And you want me to be ready to deal with Lorena Caldecott, the most annoying woman I think I have ever met, in eight measly hours?”

“Yes,” he said brightly. That just got another groan out of you.

“They made you in a lab, Anthony Lockwood,” you mumbled. “That’s the only explanation for how you’re still going.”

He chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’ll phone them first thing tomorrow morning—well, later this morning, I suppose—and see if I can push it back another day.”

“And if not, you’re doing this on your own,” you said, finally opening your eyes again to see him walking over. He handed you your stack of mail—hardly a stack, really, only consisting of four envelopes—and smiled, irritatingly pretty even with smudges of dirt on his face. There was a reason he got away with so much, and that smile was half of it.

Lockwood said your name cloyingly. “Come on. You know I do interviews best when we’re together. You keep me on track.”

“I knocked down a door for you, Lockwood!” you proclaimed. “Is that not enough to get me out of this?”

“I took the supply calls,” he said, “and I’m pushing back the meeting. We’re even now.”

“Fine,” you said, extremely grudgingly. “But you’re getting them to push it back at least until tomorrow, because once my head hits the pillow, I don’t think I’ll be up for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Promise,” he said with a nod.

You sighed, finally righting yourself so you could look at your mail, and glanced up at Lockwood as you picked them up. “You get anything interesting?”

He shook his head. “Unless you consider a letter from Fittes begging me to buy the newest edition of their manual interesting.”

You hummed and looked back down at yours. You slipped your finger under the seal and tore it open, chuckling a bit when you took it out.

“How about you?” Lockwood asked.

“25% off my next Dorothy Perkins purchase,” you said, holding the coupon up. “Very thrilling.”

“Incredibly so,” he nodded. “When’s the last time you even got something from there?”

You huffed a laugh as you worked open the next envelope. “I bought a dress for my cousin’s graduation last year. Haven’t worn it since.”

“So doubly thrilling,” he said.

You’d opened your mouth to shoot back, but instead you frowned as you pulled an embossed card out. You skimmed through it quickly enough but got the meaning all the same.

“Huh,” you said. “My cousin is getting married.”

Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “Dorothy Perkins cousin?”

You shook your head, still frowning. “No. Maternal aunt’s son. Dorothy Perkins was paternal aunt’s son.”

“Ah,” he said dryly, “how could I have made such a mistake?”

You didn’t even have the energy to retort back as you stared at the letter. “I suppose I’ll need to pull out that dress again. It’s an invite.”

“Congratulations,” Lockwood said. “Are you going to need time off?”

“I don’t even know if I should go,” you mumbled, leaning your head against the side of the couch.

“Why wouldn’t you go?” he asked with a frown.

“Because I haven’t seen my family in a while,” you said, “and I haven’t seen this side of the family in an even longer while.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Then it’ll be a nice reunion.”

“Lockwood,” you said, “I’ve lied to them.”

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “About what?”

You winced. “They think I have a boyfriend.”

He still seemed lost. “Strange thing to lie about.”

“You don’t understand.” You sat up, putting the letter to the side. “My family’s from Liverpool, right? We’re all so busy that we never really have time to meet up, but I make it a point to call my mother a few times a month so she knows I’m still alive.”

Lockwood nodded. “Yeah, I know. You usually call her after every rough case.”

“Right. Because my mum hates my career,” you said. “I thought she was going to have a heart attack when I told her I’d scored my first job with Tendy’s. I thought she would actually pass away when I told her I quit Tendy’s for you.” You glanced at Lockwood. “She thinks you’re a lunatic, by the way.”

He shrugged. “Many do.”

You smiled and shook your head. “She hates that I’m an agent, but so long as I stay alive, she says she can deal with it. But she has a rule on our calls that I can’t talk about our jobs—says they give her nightmares. So instead, she talks about every facet of my personal life.”

Lockwood’s eyes finally flashed with understanding and he nodded. “Hence the boyfriend lie?”

“Hence the boyfriend lie,” you echoed. “She will not stop bothering me about it—apparently the dating life of her daughter is more important than anything else. So on our last call, I just lied and told her I had one to get her off of my back.”

Lockwood actually had the nerve to laugh. “And how did that work out for you?”

“It worked fine,” you said, “and it was going to continue to be fine. But then Will had to go out and get engaged, the dolt.”

“So just go on your own,” he suggested.

“I can’t show up alone,” you grumbled. “Not only would it be completely embarrassing, but the questions would start up all over again.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I can’t not go!” you exclaimed. “Will’s a lovely cousin.”

“You just called him a dolt,” Lockwood said.

“I call you a dolt all the time,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

Lockwood chuckled and shook his head, and that was when an idea came to you. There was a slight furrow in his brow when he glanced back at you.

“I don’t like that look.”

“Come to the wedding with me,” you said suddenly.

Lockwood’s expression sobered even further. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the perfect solution!” you exclaimed, moving to the edge of the couch as you clasped your hands together.

“You want me to be your pretend boyfriend,” he deadpanned. When you nodded, he shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Why would I be joking?” you asked. “You’re quite possibly the best candidate for it all. We’re best friends, we know each other well— God, I’ve talked about you enough in general to my mum that she won’t even be surprised that it ended up being you.”

Lockwood’s eyebrows rose. “Won’t they look down on you dating your boss?”

“You’re hardly my boss,” you said.

“I pay your salary,” he said. “You live in my house. My name is on the door.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you said. “Besides, you owe me after tonight!”

He frowned. “We just agreed that we were even.”

“Well, I lied,” you said. “My shoulder is in excruciating pain from knocking that door down, and the only way for it to heal is for you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

He gave you a wry look and said your name. “Come on. This is an awful idea.”

“It’s a brilliant idea,” you said. “You get a chance to dress up and charm an entire family—you live for that sort of stuff, Lockwood. I finally get my family off my back with some actual proof and I actually get a break for once.”

You saw the uncertainty on his face and you huffed. “Don’t give me that look. This is the exact sort of plan you’d come up with and try to force on me if it meant we’d get a hand up.”

“I know,” he said grudgingly, “that’s why I don’t like it. It’s dangerous when you start learning my tricks.”

“Please, Lockwood,” you begged. “I’ll do all your chores for the rest of the month. I’ll shake Lorena Caldecott’s hand with a smile on my face.”

“That is tempting,” he said wryly. “I can never fold my dress shirts the way you do.”

“Wrinkle-free dress shirts,” you said with a gesture. “And— and, I will cash in my favor with Arif. Discounted doughnuts for the next three months.”

Lockwood’s eyes widened. “You’ve got favors with Arif?”

You shrugged. “I helped him out a couple times with ghost things.”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “You really are something.”

“Discounted doughnuts, Lockwood,” you continued. “Discounted doughnuts and wrinkle-free shirts and my best behavior for the Caldecotts, no matter how sleep-deprived I am.”

“…This really means a lot to you,” Lockwood said after a moment, “doesn’t it.”

You nodded. “My family— my mum—will never lay off if I show up alone. If you’re on my arm, you talk a bit about yourself and compliment me a few times and charm them with literal ghost stories, then I’m off the hook for good.”

Lockwood pursed his lips, his arms folded across his chest as he thought it through.

“Please,” you said. “It’ll just be one night.”

After another moment, he let out a sigh almost as dramatic as your earlier ones, but his lips quirked up at the corners.

“Fine,” Lockwood said. “I’ll go with you.”

Your eyes widened. “You will?”

“Yes,” he said with a laugh. “It— it’ll be fine—you’re right. We’ve been living together for the past year and a half—we know each other well enough to sell it. And with half the agency going out for it, I can write off any hotels or dinners as business expenses.”

That got a laugh out of you too, and you shook your head. “You are my savior, Lockwood. Truly.”

“Just means we’re back in your court on favors,” he joked. “And you know what? I think this could actually be fun.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he nodded. “Besides,” Lockwood smiled wryly at you as he stood up from his spot against the counter, “what’s a bit of fake dating between colleagues anyway?”

You huffed a laugh and finally managed to pull yourself back up into a sitting position. You cracked your neck and rubbed your shoulder, grimacing a bit at the soreness but thankful that it wasn’t worse. “Can we work out the rest of the details later? I’m exhausted, and I know you’ve got to be running on fumes.”

His smile softened and he nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Later today, I suppose.” He frowned as he looked at the clock. “God. It really is late.”

You hummed in agreement as you unlaced your boots, trying your best to avoid the spiderwebs when you took them off. That was your number one question about the Problem—why the hell did spiders have to gravitate towards ghosts?

“Get some sleep, Lockwood,” you said, setting your boots with everyone else’s shoes. That mess was an issue for another day. “You’ve got to be refreshed—those supply calls aren’t going to make themselves.”

Lockwood rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t completely bite back his smile. “Best behavior for the Caldecotts, love.”

“And nothing less!” you exclaimed without turning around, pointing in the air as you continued up the stairs. You heard Lockwood laugh behind you, and the sound brought out a smile of your own.

It was now nearly four in the bloody morning. Your shoulder still ached, your coat was beyond repair, and you would have to scrub beneath your nails for at least ten minutes before you settled in tonight. But somehow, Lockwood still had you smiling and feeling better about the whole experience.

For god’s sake, you fought ghosts on a daily basis. You’d been training with a rapier since the tender age of eight. Your skills rivaled some of Fittes’ and Rotwell’s best—who cared what your family had to say about you?

You were right. This wedding would be a piece of cake with Anthony Lockwood by your side.

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood & co #x reader #reader insert #sadie writes

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philliam-writes · 2 months ago

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Lockwood / Reader masterlist

There you go, this is a masterlist for @newbooksmell777

I am SO tempted to reread this and look how far I got in the recent chapter....

you are in the eath of me

chapter 01: let the dead hollers hum

chapter 02: for whom the bell tolls

chapter 03: wring those embers

chapter 04: there's a kind of calling

chapter 05: carry whispers from the dead

#lockwood x reader #lockwood & co reader insert #lockwood x you

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alienscribed · 2 months ago

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hello bartimaeus fandom!

i've written a little something for our favourite djinn and it would mean the world if you would read it and maybe leave a kudos or comment!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61074331/chapters/156035353

(right now it's still unfinished but the chapters are all written and will be uploaded during the coming week or two!)

#bartimaeus #bartimaeus fanfiction #bartimaeus x reader #reader insert #bartimaeus sequence #jonathan stroud #lockwood #lockwood and co

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all-things-ghostly · 2 years ago

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Just One Touch - Skull x Reader Lockwood & Co.

I’ve been in this fandom for nearly a year and for the entirety of it I’ve been obsessed with this little green asshole. And honestly I’m flabbergasted that I haven’t been able to find ANY x reader fics of Skull on any site. Maybe this just says something about me lmao. But in case there’s any other ghost lovers out there, this one’s for us 🫡 I got some inspiration from Elemental :)

The very idea of it screamed forbidden.

Skull knew you could never love him. You were a mortal, and he was a ghost. No one has ever heard of such a thing, and if they did, they’d probably be crowding at the door with pitchforks the next day. He had little hope that you would be into to the idea of such a relationship either.

And frankly? He wasn’t quite sure why he liked you himself. He typically hated people like you. The sweet and loving type; the type of person that would go out of their way to make others happy. He's never quite understood the concept of looking out for anyone other than yourself. To him, such kindness was a weakness that would surely get you killed at some point.

Maybe it was the fact that you were a Listener, like Lucy. A good one, too. The two of you were the only people who could communicate with him, so I suppose he’s bound to form at least some kind of bond with you at one point or another. But… no, it went beyond just that. If that were the case, he would’ve just fallen for Lucy. There was something… different about you.

He thinks it’s the way you treat him like no one else does. Shockingly, you seem to decently respect the guy. Everyone else throws insults in his face (although, to be fair, he starts it), never truly trusts him, looks down on him for being a ghost, and in the case of George, hardly cares about his wellbeing… but you were always nice to him. He would’ve found it annoying, he should’ve found it annoying, but he can’t. Skull loves the way to talk to him like an equal. Most nights, his jar will be safely tucked away on top of your nightstand, so he can talk with you long into the night. The two of you could talk about anything—your life, his life, any struggles you’re going through, the awesome movie you just watched. And, you’re shocked to find that the ghost actually has quite a bit of wisdom to him, considering his usual snark. He will put in an effort to comfort you with his words when it’s needed. It’s a side to him only you know.

You had grown deeply attached to one another in the couple of years that you knew each other. Even if you liked to admit it much more than he did. Although, he didn’t really need to admit it… you knew that old ghost cared about you. Lucy did, too. She heard the way Skull’s voice grew warmer whenever he spoke to you. She noticed how he rarely ever said anything remotely cruel or snarky to you. She saw his face soften up whenever he watched you walk by, those green eyes of his staring with a sad and deep longing for you. Lucy could tell that the little ghost was pining for you, and boy, did she tease him BAD for it.

But… he never got to tell you.

He was going to. At some point, anyways. But unfortunately the explosion at Fittes got to him first.

Of course, you were the one who grieved the most after this. There had been no response from him for nearly two weeks. Every day you clutched the burnt skull close to your chest, hoping to feel anything, anything at all… it broke your heart to even look at it. The bone had turned brown and black from char, and it had a large crack running up the right eye socket all the way down the back of the head. The other socket had melted in a way that created a sad and droopy appearance.

Skull thought he would be ready to move on after this. He really did. But every time he felt his soul slipping away, he stopped himself. It wasn’t that he feared death anymore, no—if that were the case, he wouldn’t have sacrificed himself to save the rest of you in the first place. This time, he felt he had some unfinished business.

It took him so long, much longer than he would’ve liked, but eventually he gathered the energy to connect back with his injured Source and return to the mortal world. Of course, he was right by your bedside, as usual. It warmed him to see how you’ve been taking such meticulous care of his skull ever since the incident. And then, when his eyes fell on you, the heartache started up all over again. The confusing mixture of love, passion, and pain.

“Y/n?” Skull whispered, struggling to fight back a mess of emotions swirling up inside of him. He wanted so badly to reach out and wrap you in his embrace. The ghost was so caught up in his emotions that he didn’t even realize he was free until now; the jar was gone, which means he was no longer bound.

You were in a similar state of shock upon seeing him, and stood up from your bed with tears forming in your eyes.

“Skull…?”

In front of you was something you never thought you’d see: a young ghost, similar in age to you, gazing at you with the most caring eyes you’ve ever seen. His skin was a lime green that glowed slightly in the darkness of the room. He wore a white dress shirt that tucked into his dark gray pants, which were held up with matching suspenders. His hair was a slightly darker shade of green than the rest of him, and although it was messy, it looked absolutely adorable on him. You have to admit, he’s one handsome ghost.

The more you looked at him and let the situation sink in, you realized that the urge to hug him was just as strong for you, too. But unlike him, you didn’t hold back. You stepped towards him with your arms spread out, more than willing to take the leap and finally hold the ghost you grew to love.

Skull, however, took a step back.

“No, Y/n… we can’t,” he said with a deep frown, looking down at his feet. “I could hurt you. The Ghost Touch…”

A frown spread across your features, too. You knew that he was right. Ghost Touch was still a possibility and could kill you if you made contact with him.

“Can’t we at least try, though?” You ask, a more hopeful look replacing your sad expression. “You never know. Maybe things are different for us.”

“How can things be different, Y/n?” He says, sounding a little strained. “You’re the only one with any sort of common sense around this bunch, you should use it. My ectoplasm is like poison. If you touch it, you die. There’s no other way of putting it.”

“But there could be! Just look at Marissa and Ezekiel. They touched each other loads of times!”

Skull thinks about that for a little while, and then smirks. “I suppose you’re right about that. There was certainly a little something going on between those two idiots,” he chuckles to himself. Then, his tone goes back to being more serious. “But, still. Their circumstances were complicated. I think it’s better if we just play it safe. I’m sorry.”

You look visibly disappointed, and Skull does too. He ponders his words for a moment and speaks up again.

“Believe me, Y/n… I want this just as much as you do. Maybe even more.”

He then sighs deeply, and this catches your attention.

“Look… there’s a reason I returned here. Personally, I could gladly go without ever seeing some of these ‘eccentric’ people again,” he scoffs, clearly thinking about a certain egotistical leader and bespectacled boy. “Lucy… it’s safe to say I’ve formed an attachment to her, as much as she begrudges me. Although, I suppose I don’t charm her all too much, either. But you, Y/n… I hate to say it, but you genuinely mean something to me.”

Skull has to pause for a little moment again. It seems that this is all very hard for the green ghost to admit. He’s not used to being vulnerable like this, and feels like somewhat of a hypocrite for being sensitive when he so often gives others a hard time for behaving the same way.

“I love you, Y/n.”

He sniffles. The ghost has begun to cry.

“I never knew how to say it until it was too late. But I love you. So much more than you could ever know, more than I ever knew I could. I could hardly believe myself once I realized I was starting to feel this way. I wanted so badly to deny it, to push it down… usually I would just find people like you to be a pathetic twit, never anyone I would fall in love with.”

Skull chuckles in a bittersweet way. “Who knew. Looks like this crude old ghost still has a heart in him after all.”

It takes a moment for you to process all of these words. You never knew he felt this way about you. You just thought all of those little “hints” were just him messing around as he always does. There’s a slight moment of silence that fills the air as you think through what he says.

Skull cuts it off. “So, believe me, Y/n. There’s nothing I want more than to hold you, to kiss you. But I’m sorry, my love. I cannot risk losing you. I would never be able to live with that guilt.”

Another moment of silence, this time slightly more solemn.

“Isn’t that exactly why we should try it?” You ask in a soft voice, a little smile forming on your lips. “If anyone’s worth risking it all for… it’s you, Skully. I love you too.”

A sob wracks its way out of Skull’s throat the moment those words hit his ears. A green hand quickly covers his mouth as the tears stream down his face, muffling his further cries. He's not used to acting this way at all but there’s just something about you that allows him to feel vulnerable and break down his walls. Teary eyes meet with yours, and you can sense deep emotion within them.

When you step closer to him, he doesn’t fight it this time. He just stands there and cries, still covering his mouth, and never taking his eyes off yours.

Then, you reach out… and gently wipe a tear away.

More silence.

Your hand lingers there for a moment. A thumb caresses his cheek. Nothing happens.

You and Skull glance at each other with the same shocked expression, still in complete silence, before your hand moves again. You lovingly cup his face. Then pet his hair. Then grab his shoulders.

Nothing.

The silence is broken when Skull’s sobbing resumes. His hands shake intensely as he reaches up to grab your wrists. This ghost boy has been touch starved beyond belief and he hasn’t even realized it until now when he finally feels your gentle touch. Suddenly you find him scooping you up in the tightest of hugs, his hands wandering every part of your body they can touch, memorizing every curve, every feature… all while he weeps. You retaliate the affection by giving him those soft touches he has already fallen in love with and kissing his forehead and cheeks.

“Y/n, my darling…” He whispers, pulling you into another strong embrace once again. “Oh, dearest…”

He simply melts right into you once you hug him back. Years of pining, tension, and heartache melt right off of him. All he feels now is peace, love, and pure joy. The things he thought he could only dream of having.

It’s up to you to take the initiative and kiss him, since he seems far too preoccupied in just the feeling of your hugs. Soft ectoplasmic lips meet yours and the two of you fit together like it was always meant to be. Poor Skull still cannot believe the luck he has.

But rest assured, he now knows that he has you. And he will never, ever let you go.

#lockwood and co #skull #the skull #skull in a jar #lockwood & co #reader insert #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #george karim #comfort character #ghost #x reader #my writing #fluff #Skull x reader #The skull x reader #lockwood and co x reader

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hurtcomfortficstilltheend · 2 years ago

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Sometimes it's just better (not to know).

Chapter two: Killed by uncertainty

Lucy Carlyle x gn! Reader

Summary: Is this supposed to be the calm before the storm?

Warnings: not much, maybe a nap that lasts too long lmao

Word Count: 950

Your boots are too tight. You don’t like them one bit, but you had made the decision to buy new ones for cold winter nights -with equally cold Visitors-, and now you have to live with rock solid shoes, at least until they soften a little with use.

Your rapier is in place in your belt, and so are your salt bombs and greek flares. You had -against Anthony’s wishes for the team to take a week-long break- decided to take back your verdict on the Geralds case.

You had just gotten out of the library, a while after the reading that ruined your morning (and maybe your life too), all puffy eyes and incoming migraine, when you bumped into George.

“Have you already called the client?”

There was a frown forming on his face, “I was just about to do that.” He held up the folder where you assume he must have had the contact number. He seemed impatient and irritated, you didn’t blame him.

“Don’t bother, we are going tonight, as scheduled.”

His grimace was replaced by a look of surprise, but he covered it quickly and turned around to head to the basement.

You went right up the stairs and flopped on your bed. You didn’t notice Lucy in the corner of the room until you heard her speak (for a second there you thought she would actually be feeding Skull biscuits, just out of spite). “What was all that about?”

Startled, you turned around and held your body up in your elbows.

“Nothing. I was wrong. We’ll do the Geralds’ case tonight, as planned, so we better start preparing in a little bit.”

“You sound like you’ve been crying.” She stated, simply.

“Allergies, you know how much dust there is in the library. I was just talking to Lockwood about a new brand of salt bombs that seems to be more effective in dissipating ectoplasm.”

“Love, we make our own salt bombs.” She caught up on your bullshit too fast.

“Did I say salt bombs? I ment flares- greek fires. Remember the other day and how that cold maiden didn’t react to our usual ones?”

Lucy walked closer to the bed, she kneeled beside it to be the same height as your face. Her calloused fingers found their way to your cheeks. “You know you can talk to me. About anything.”

You leaned into the touch, closed your eyes, and tried to enjoy the moment. “I know. I’m gonna take a 30 minute nap, and then help you with the chains.” You took her hands in yours, pulled her a little bit. “Wanna join me?”

She rolled her eyes but laid down with you until you fell asleep.

“Should I go wake them? There is only a few hours till sundown.”

“No, let them rest. I’ll get their chores, what was it? Snack packing?”

“Chain oiling.” The pair headed to the office to get the duffel bags prepared. “What happened today? They were so out of themselves, I’ve never seen them like this.”

“It was just a rough night. Believe me, this happens more than you’d think. A beauty nap is all it takes for them to get back to normal.” Even as Lockwood said this, he didn’t seem convinced. “That is assuming we don’t get their post-nap grumpy mood. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.” He chuckled lightly.

Lucy’s lips twitched, right about to form a smile, but she noticed her friend was avoiding answering the question. She knew how closed off you Lockwoods’ could be; after all, it took a year for Anthony to show her the room on the landing, and two years and a half for you to admit your feelings for her, but she wished it wasn’t so difficult to get some actual information. The team was founded on trust, and survival depended on how well you communicated with each other goddammit.

What was supposed to be a half hour nap turned into an I-have-only-forty-minutes-left-to-prepare-for-the-case-’cause-I-slept-six-hours-non-stop nap, which was quite inconvenient. Still, you managed to get ready, apologize for the lack of help on the iron chain department, and chug up half a liter of water on one go, before getting into the waiting night cab.

This is fine, and your boots don’t bother you, and neither does the little tag on the neck of your shirt that you forgot to cut out (again), or the judgy stares you are receiving from George, or the worried ones from your cousin, or the feeling that very soon everything will end. You are perfectly fine, and this is just another day on the job.

From the moment you get to the house, to the moment you emerge from it, everything goes smoothly. The source is easy enough to find, and the Visitor turns out to be a weak type one, not the type two you were expecting. The client paid full price anyway, and the team got back safe and sound.

It was all perfect. And that was alright. More than alright, actually, it was marvelous, but something felt wrong. You knew there was something about to happen. You wouldn’t admit it, but you wish it had been a rawbones or an impromptu cluster, the Geralds’ case that is. It would have been a pain in the ass, that’s for sure, but you had already gotten out alive from situations like that, and such a vile set of apparitions would have fulfilled the readings’ prophecy. Maybe.

The anticipation that had started in your chest was unbearable. You wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, but still, you felt it wasn’t going to be that easy. It never was.

Taglist: @myownpainintheass @superpositvecloudshipper @carpinchodetecta

A/N: I would love to hear (read) what you think! Hope you enjoyed :)

This story is lowkey stuck, but just because I finished The Creeping Shadow like a month ago, and I haven't started The Empty Grave cause I'm in denial, I don't want to finish the series T-T

#self insert #gn!reader #lucy carlyle x reader #lockwood and co #Lucy Carlyle #Anthony Lockwood #George Cubbins #George Karim #Lockwood!reader #locknation #fanfic #angst #hurt/comfort #35 portland row #witchcraft

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zepp-l1n · 2 years ago

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Reader: I can't move. Lockwood fell asleep on me.

Lucy: Just move him off.

Reader: *quiet enraged and offended noises.*

#reader insert #incorrect quotes #lockwood and co incorrect quotes #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle incorrect quotes #anthony lockwood incorrect quotes #lockwood and co

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eatmycodbetty · 7 months ago

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{You again?} ~ 2

part two. . . one

pairing: anthony lockwood x gn!reader

word count: 2.7k

summary: Your first time helping the trio goes well, but some resistance at your attempted aid spurs a personal challenge.

DISCLAIMER: I headcanoned mobile phones. Not smartphones by any means- more so a pager that can display text. still in the same vintage ish vibes it just makes it easier for what i want to achieve in the first few chapters. think of those little blocky personal phones we see in the show but if it had the worst little radio display or something for little messages. lmk if it’s too distracting and ill write it out lolol

notes: dialogue is hard. :pp ALSO this is the end of the INTRODUCTION phase of the story- there is soooooo much more to come.

Two . . .

11:47. Middle of London

Running down the street, you see the park sign. You recall what George had told you earlier that day, and you enter from the east of the entrance, a hidden path that kind of slopes from use over the years.

At first, there’s nothing. It is dark, obviously no ghost-lamps around, and terraced with trees. This is practically a jungle at night, no wonder they lost a source here. You could lose your own two feet if you weren’t so careful.

As your panic finds a fake lull, you hear a yelp from across the park, over an old cobbled half-wall. You sprint to the area, seeing a streak of orange and hearing George’s calls for mercy.

When you leap up over the wall, rapier in hand, a scared George is running at you. He sees you and trips, grabbing you on the way. You two stumble but you get up swiftly in time for the onslaught that was behind him. Two smaller ghosts coming out of a thick fog followed him, but you make quick work with a few jabs into their figures, them quickly dissipating with horrible screams.

You turn and help the poor boy up from behind you, his fingers still grabbing your jacket. “Oh my BLOODY god y/n thank you thank you THANK YOU. You came just in time” He stutters, out of breath, and takes a second to gulp down some air and stand back up. “We were so close…but that damned cluster almost ruined it for us. We ran up this hill with the…wait.”

He stops to search and pat his orange hoodie quickly, coming to a disheartening realization as he looks back up at you. “We lost it again. I might just leave it if I am being honest- it’s too fucking much.”

As he rambles you take a breath, shushing him with a hurried question. “Where are the others, G. We need to make sure you are all safe before worrying about this stupid trinket.”

He quickly realizes that he left the other two, looking to the left of your current spot. He points as you two begin to run, rapiers in hands. You toss him a salt bomb and with a nervous nod he takes it and readies as you two approach the scene.

You almost stumble over a bush to see the same girl from earlier- Lucy, was it?- and the slender boy you can only assume is Lockwood. They are caught in the middle of a whirlwind of activity, fighting well- but not quick enough- as spirits reach out at their blind spots.

You take a jump into the action, yelling for them to duck as you fight from Lucy’s side first. George throws the salt bomb whilst you dissipate the area around Lucy. She sits back up and you acknowledge each other with a quick smile and nod, fending off the near liquid-like fog on Lockwood.

As you do this, the salt bomb goes off right above you, nice shot George, and the whirlwind you’re in starts to falter. You three run out, shouting at George to run as well.

Running up the back of the group, you jump back through the brush and into the area where you found George earlier. As you make a b-line towards the rest of the group, a thick ghost-fog starts to fizzle in front of you, but you throw another salt bomb hastily and dive back over the cobbled half-wall.

As you steady yourself, a shimmer catches your eye. Without thinking, you dislodge the item from the stones and keep running, narrowly missing the foggy spirits that linger above you.

The four of you keep running until you’re out of the park, back through the small passageway and into the street, where you find a resting area under some ghost-lamps. Perfect. Lucy and George immediately sit on a bench, laying out and catching their breath.

You catch up to the group, deciding to lean on the lamp pole behind them to catch your breath as well. The tall and slender boy stands in front of the two sitting agents, rubbing his hands which eventually land on his hips. You see his jacket open a little at this, is he wearing a suit? In the field?? Yeesh, you think. The rumors around this guy might just be right. For now he just loiters and thinks, gaze wandering between the group and you.

George speaks up first, eyes locked on the pavement guiltily, “hey so..I might have dropped the eyeglass when I had to run.” He looks back up at the two others, “BUT we can come back in the day- I never want to come back here at night ever again. Even if the ghosts can help us find it, they can all go to the shitter.”

You think as he’s rambling, and absent mindedly take out the object you picked up out of your pocket. You twist it around in your fingers, focusing when you realize the smooth texture- it’s a brass eyeglass. Before he can keep going you speak up, “Uh hey G…is this what you lost?”

He looks at you for a second and leans over, confused…until his eyes widen and he snatches the trinket from your palm. “Y/N you are a saint! How did you even find this in between fighting?!” He is obviously relieved, holding the eyeglass with his forefingers in the light for the group to see.

You smile and lean your back on the pole, “I just saw it lodged in that old wall when we were getting away, I didn’t even think about it really.” And you didn’t, you just thought it was a big coin or something.

“Well it doesn’t matter if you thought about it or not-you saved our arses.” He gives you a friendly jab on the arm and hands the trinket to Lucy, who stuck it in a small silver sack to prevent a longer night.

He jests as he’s handing it to Lucy, “Seeeee..safe and sound. Can we leave the house alone now when something goes missing…”

She quips back, “Well it seems y/n was the one to actually get it, but next time I will be sure to leave your precious books on the lounge table alone.” She smiles sarcastically and puts the silver pouch in her bag as he huffs.

“I guess that’s fine..I might as well just bring them back up to my room if they’re only going to be destroyed in the lounge…you are all animals.”

As he complains, Lucy looks back to you, ignoring him, “Hi y/n! You were surprisingly fast, thanks for the help back there- George was right about you.”

You smile at her and cross your arms with a reply. “You didn’t do half bad, we should train together sometime. We need to stay sharp…literally.” She smiles this time, a silent agreement between you two.

Then, a cough.

Lucy’s gaze is disrupted from you and you all shift to the tall and silent boy standing with his hands in his pockets. You honestly forgot he existed for a moment, what is up with him? George huffs quietly, “oh yeah..”

The boy shifts on his feet before turning to you, standing at full attention and extending a hand. “Hi there. I’m Anthony Lockwood, and this is my agency Lockwood & Co. Although, I can boldly assume you know these two already.” He squints at the two on the bench, of which Lucy shrugs and the two meekly feign ignorance.

You quietly snort at their remarks towards the boy, but then turn to him in the same manner- you feign your own confidence. He is, after all, the boss of another agency, and you feel the need to show your resilience in your lonesome.

As you take his hand and shake it once firmly, you reply, “Hello, Mr. Lockwood. I am Y/n L/n. I run my own ship…and I know George. Nice to finally meet, I’ve heard wonders.” You make a little explosion expression with your hands as you say this.

He has an inquisitive look to that last bit, underlying charm in his face, but he just nods and looks at you, analyzing your gear. “Nice to meet you too, Mx. L/n.” He smiles thinly, “I’ve seen your work in the back of the papers, and, well, word gets around when you challenge the higher agencies…dicks.” You sniffle to restrain a laugh at that. He hesitates as you start to rifle through your bag, continuing only as you hand him a business card. “You’re George’s old mate, right? We are on the same team it seems, you know if you ever-”

George cuts him off, “Y/n is one of my friends from Fitts, or rather one of my only old friends outside of you lot. You can trust them, we’d probably be another sob story if it weren’t for their saving the day anyways.” He looks to you and you wink in an obviously heroic manner, you both chuckle. Lockwood smiles a bit more genuinely at this, stopping only at Lucy interrupting.

“I don’t know them that well if it makes you feel better, Lockwood.” Lucy explains as she stands up now, between the bench and Lockwood. “But from what I’ve seen, we could learn a thing or two.” She looks to you again, “…or maybe we need the help- you did a great job playing the hero after all.”

You rub the back of your neck, but before you can reply to her sudden advertising, Lockwood intercepts: “I don’t think we need help. Having connections is nice but we work just fine- I mean we would have been fine back there with or without them- no offense.”

You roll your eyes from the obviously beaten boy over to George and Lucy, who have a kind of disdain on their faces at this remark. Lucy scoffs at Lockwood. “I think you just can’t accept anything. If you get out of your neurotic thick skull for one minute to see that we were in the trenches back there then maybe you’d be a bit more accepting.”

He is, surprisingly, not much wavering by this. Must happen often. You speak up on your behalf, as it seems Lockwood doesn’t have much to say to the girl. “Well, I don’t want to join you lot or anything, if that makes it better. I work well on my own, I don’t want to do the agency thing again. I just like helping, especially for an old friend and for a couple pounds.”

Lucy and George hear you and immediately make a “see?” face at Lockwood, who eventually butts in. “Well…only if we really need to. Agent L/n is an exceptional fighter, thank you for your help tonight.”

You nod at this with a small smile whilst the other two celebrate a silent victory, yet he continues. “Just as long as I’m let in on it, okay? No going behind my back- we’re a team. Got it?” They nod and quietly fist bump- he notices but ignores them once more, a kind of compassion wavering behind his eyes. What is even going on with them?

You pipe up again, “Well...I am glad that is handled. I will be making my leave, you all have a good night. George has my contact if there’s any night you want me to be on call or whatever, just let me know.” You want to go to bed and leave the awkward circumstance, but someone persists as you start to pick yourself up and head off.

“Y/n wait- before you go.” A hand on your shoulder turns you, just as you had tried to leave. Lucy is there, holding about 30 quid, taking your hand and placing it in your palm for you. You like her confidence, it's a wonder how she puts up with the other two. “Remember, we’re still paying you.”

You take a second to look at the money, before gripping it and patting her shoulder, “thank you Lucy.” You then peek over her shoulder at George, who is now getting off the bench, and Lockwood, who is somewhat still lost in thought. Weirdo.

You call out to them as well, “Thanks everyone, keep in touch. Goodnight!” You start to bound off as everyone is exchanging goodbyes and you split from the party, them going off in another direction back to their home.

1:23am. Closer to home

You breathe a full breath for the first time since leaving your flat earlier in the night. You're almost home, but you stopped in a busier part of the city to take a look at the stars. Barely visible. You sigh and keep going, eventually landing back at your flat.

Taking off your dirty clothes and settling your supplies in their usual spot, you go to take a well deserved shower. After, you swiftly lie back on your bed, letting your legs dangle in your fuzzy slippers.

You stare at your walls, your pictures and bundles of dried lavender to help protect (and refresh) the dingy flat. All these memories of when things went wrong, but more importantly, when things went right. Memories that morphed you into the person you are today.

Tonight was different, but it was kind of...fun. You were already used to being deemed a "hero" in your endeavors for as long as you can remember, but this felt different. You wanted to show them that you could be great- but why?

You already knew you were great, you didn't have to prove it to anyone. It had been clear for the many years working your way through countless different people and places that you excelled independently.

You decide to turn in for the night, to actually rest. It's almost 2 am, so it's easy to spiral into these kinds of mindless thought bubbles. You turn off the lamps and tuck into your sheets, with only the subtle glow of the moon dimly lighting the one room flat you occupy.

Then, another glow joins it. You look over, your phone is lit up. Who could even be texting you this late? You turn the phone over, seeing a new message from an unknown number. You pick up the phone and open the message.

Unknown Sender: Hello Mx. L/n. George gave me your number. Could you be on call the night of this coming Wednesday? The other two were persistent about it on the walk home. You'll be paid 30 quid if you're called, and 15 if we end up not needing you. Unknown Sender: Oh, and Luce wants to meet up sometime. Something about your rapiers. She might text you about it, but she is already asleep. Just wanted to let you know. Unknown Sender: Goodnight. - LW

You sit there in a kind of standstill at what had just occurred. Why did he sign off like it's a letter? Everything about this boy screams strange, but he's not your boss so you aren't going to pay it too much mind. It's nice that Lucy remembered, you smile at the thought of training with someone else. You reply quickly, just in case you forget in the morning.

You: Hey! I told G that I have nothing this week, so it's all good. Thank you for letting me know! You: Also...go to bed. It's almost 2:30

Here is where you see him start to type, then stop. You get a message about a full minute later.

A.Lockwood: You too. Looking forward to working again. Have a good night, y/n.

You give a tired chuckle and set your phone on your chest. He stopped the formalities? He must be tired. Whatever. You take your phone once more to turn it off, no more interruptions tonight.

As you go in and out of consciousness, you can only think of a few things. You're happy that George is doing well for himself, you enjoy the presence of another strong individual in Lucy, and most notably you're wondering what you even got yourself into.

Whatever the week brings, you have a feeling that it will be just fine. And maybe even...fun.

~fin~

thanks for reading pt 2 guys :)))) this is the end of the introduction part, we're gonna get into the juicy bits later. I'll be gone for two-ish days but I'll be back in no time- don't forget about me!!

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x y/n #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x y/n #lockwood x you #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co reader insert #reader insert #lockwood and co x you #lockwood and co fic #love writes #xreader #george karim #lucy carlyle #lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #anthony lockwood

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lockwoodandcoimagines · 3 months ago

Text

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.

#incorrect lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #lockwood and co imagine #lockwood & co imagine #lockwood & co reader insert #lockwood and co reader insert #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood

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tangledinlove · 2 years ago

Text

heart eyes!

as seen by george karim

series masterlist

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader

content: suggestive content and like a bunch of silly jokes bc… theyre teenagers

word count: 3.5k

summary: the one where george wishes he could time travel

notes: the final part!! she’s here!! i do hope u like it lolol

Lucy claimed she had done something to fix you and Lockwood, and somehow, it had worked.

(Perhaps a little too well, Future George notes.)

George loved you, of course, but in the week you had been ignoring Lockwood, you had been using him and Lucy as an outlet for your need to give affection. As a result, he had probably received more hugs in that single week than he had in the past two years of his life. Your affection was always nice, but George wasn't sure how many more surprise hugs he could take.

After that week, his respect for Lockwood had grown tenfold. He wasn’t sure how anyone could like spontaneous touches and impromptu hugs, but Lockwood had welcomed their return with open arms. It was nice to see him not moping, and George thought it was nice to see you two back to normal, but it was also nice for the heat to be taken off of him for once. He made sure to thank Lucy by letting her sneak an extra biscuit during the usual rotation, and that was that. You and Lockwood were glued back together again, and all was right in the world.

But it seemed that whatever Lucy did had done nothing but make you and Lockwood ten times clingier. Gone were the nights where George could enjoy his alone time with you, as Lockwood always seemed to be on your tail.

Once a week, you would offer to help George with dinner. It was a big help, and was a great way to spend time with you. Lucy and Lockwood were helpless in the kitchen, and he would much rather have a literal elephant help him crack eggs into a pan than either of them.

“Alright, George,” you said, pulling on one of his aprons. “What would you like me to do?”

The apron you put on was the one you wore every time you cooked with him, and it was basically yours now. Lucy had gotten it for him last Christmas, and ‘Kiss the Cook’ was printed along the front next to a cartoon lipstick stain. It was your favorite apron, solely for the reason that Lockwood would pepper kisses on your cheeks whenever he happened to catch you wearing it.

“Could you please cook the rice?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the pantry. He blew an unruly curl out of his eyes as he continued to stir the contents of his pot. His hair was getting much too long.

“Yes, Chef,” you teased, heading to retrieve the rice. George could hear you humming quietly to yourself while you scooped a few cups into the pot. “What are we eating tonight?”

“Ghormeh sabzi,” he said, moving to fetch the cilantro and parsley as you headed to the sink.

He could practically hear the smile bleed into your voice when you spoke. “Lockwood’s going to be so happy. We haven’t had it in a while.”

George hummed an affirmative as he moved to get the knife and a cutting board. Your words were definitely true, but he wondered if you ever stopped thinking about Lockwood. He didn’t doubt that the boy was the same way about you, though. For every ten thoughts he had, you made up about nine of them.

You rinsed off the rice, making sure to wash it well before you headed over to the rice cooker. You popped it in the pot and took over the chopping for him while he started preparing the meat.

George loved cooking with you. It was nice to not be alone in the kitchen for once, and although it was mostly quiet, it was nice. The two of you were perfectly in tune, and you were able to understand exactly what he needed you to do despite your lack of cooking knowledge.

“It smells great, George,” Lockwood said, appearing out of thin air.

George flinched, his wooden spoon gaining a life of its own as it jumped out of his hand. With terrifying aim, the spoon arched upwards before hitting you hard in the shoulder. The sauce splattered against the ceiling and all over your unsuspecting self as the spoon clattered sadly on the floor.

Lockwood whistled, picking up the now dirty utensil before dropping it in the sink. He got a towel from the rack and opened the faucet, dampening it slightly, and you immediately drifted over to him. You let him pull your face into his hands, allowing him to wipe off the remnants of the sauce from the side of your face and neck.

“Sorry,” George said genuinely to you, but you just waved him off, much more interested with the way Lockwood was standing so close to you. “Lockwood ought to be more careful with who he sneaks up on.”

The boy laughed at his words, but still did not take his eyes off of you. “I’ve been in the kitchen for the past thirty minutes, George, you just didn’t notice. Even though you refuse to believe it, I am capable of not talking.”

George rolled his eyes. It was like he was a dog with separation anxiety. He couldn’t leave you alone for an hour so you could help cook?

Neither of you cared, but Lockwood was still lightly wiping at your skin with the towel even though it was clear there was nothing left. You were mumbling something to him about the vegetables, and he was listening with rapt attention. George soured upon seeing that distracted look in your eyes you got whenever Lockwood was around.

“Alright, Lockwood, now stop distracting my sous chef if you even want to think about getting a second helping of ghormeh sabzi.”

The threat seemed to sober him up immediately, because he planted a parting kiss on your cheek before backing away. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” he assured. “Had to kiss the chef first, of course.”

George wondered if you would hate him if that apron somehow went missing.

“Get out of here,” you said laughing, still clearly in a Lockwood induced trance. He winked at you before slinking from the room.

Things settled back down after that, you helping him wrap up the meal in your usual silence. But George would sometimes look over and see a little smile on your face, and he knew exactly who you were thinking of.

George picked up a clean spoon from the drawer before scooping some of the stew onto it.

“Try this,” he said, pulling you away from where you were readying the plates on the table. You tasted it eagerly, always excited to try his cooking. Almost immediately, you brightened up.

“This might just be the best ghormeh sabzi you’ve ever made,” you said, moving to get some more.

George swatted your spoon away from the pot. “Not until later. And you say that every single time I make this.”

You laughed, throwing your head back. “And I mean it every single time!”

George smiled, moving to take your spoon from you before you made any speedy dives for the pot. But his eyes caught the exposed skin of your neck and he frowned.

“Did I do that to you with the wooden spoon?”

“Do what?” you said, still smiling as you reluctantly gave up the utensil.

“Give you that bruise on your neck.”

You froze, the grin sliding right off your face. “What? What do you mean?”

He picked up a shiny pot that was hanging on the rack, flipping it over so you could see yourself in the metal. “When I accidentally threw it, I think I might’ve bruised you.”

You were staring wide eyed at your reflection, your hands zeroed in on the discoloration around the area where the spoon had landed on you.

“Sorry about that,” he said, moving the pot of stew to the center of the table. “I should really ban Lockwood from the kitchen.”

Snapping out of your weird daze, you nodded hurriedly. “You should really get on that, George.”

You clamped a hand down over the bruise, nodding in the direction of the door. “And I’m about to get on— Uh, I mean,” you stammered, oddly horrified at your words. “I’m going to go get Lockwood. And Lucy. I’m going to go get them for dinner,” you said, as if George needed clarification.

“Okay,” he said, tilting his head at you. He went to get the forks from the drawer as he waved you out. “Bye?”

You smiled awkwardly, and quickly turned on your heel to flee the room.

When you returned back downstairs, the bruise on your neck was gone. George assumed you covered it up with makeup, and he immediately felt bad about the accidental injury. The guilt only worsened when you dutifully did not make eye contact with George throughout the rest of dinner.

He gave you a weird look that you didn’t notice, because you absolutely refused to look at him. Girls could be so weird.

—

Whatever had happened in the kitchen that day had clearly rattled you.

You were always on edge, giving George wary looks from across the room that you thought he didn’t notice. Every few minutes, he would look up and you would stare off in the distance, pretending you hadn’t just been staring at him.

He didn’t understand what your issue was. You had been perfectly fine until he had pointed out the massive bruise he had given you, and although it had been an accident, you seemed pretty upset about it. Just after your week of ignoring Lockwood had been over, it seemed that your week of ignoring George had begun. He couldn’t even believe he was saying it, but he was… missing you. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he went to the one other person in the house that could help.

“Lucy, you better prepare yourself. After this week, you’re next up on her chopping block.”

She snorted. “As if she would ever ignore me.”

“You never know,” he grumbled. “I didn’t think it would happen to me, and look where we are. I doubt Lockwood expected it either, but he’s a victim, too!”

Lucy was clearly amused. “Why don’t you just ask her if she’s okay? That’s what I did last time, and it fixed everything between her and Lockwood.”

George frowned. “That’s it? That’s all you did to fix it?”

“Yep.”

“You made it seem like you had done something actually helpful to get them talking to each other again.”

She glared at him. “Don’t make fun of my methods until you test it out yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks, Luce.”

“Of course,” she said, ushering him from her room. “Let me know how it goes.”

Shutting the door of the attic quietly, George began the trip down to your room.

“I’m sorry, please forgive me,” George mumbled to himself, practicing his apology. Suddenly, he frowned.

He wasn’t even one hundred percent sure what you were mad at him for, what was he even apologizing for?

He was about to find out, though, because he was now at your door, his hand raised in a fist to knock. George could hear you shuffling around inside, which meant you were definitely in your room. He rocked on his heels, nervous for what your reaction might be to him outside your door. Would you scream? Slam the door in his face? Probably not, but it was always a possibility.

There was more rustling inside, and George felt him grow impatient. Were you ignoring him?

He knocked again, much louder this time. There was no way you didn’t hear him. His raps against the door increased in speed and volume as he continued, but there was still no response.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash, like something heavy had fallen to the floor. He pressed his ear to the door, trying to listen to see if you were alright. After a second, he could hear a muffled curse from inside. The concern he had for you outweighed his fear of your anger, and he pushed the door open.

As the door swung inward, the contents of your room were revealed to him one by one.

He could see your box of trinkets had fallen off your desk, spilling your knick knacks everywhere.

And then he could see you, sitting on your desk, the papers and other belongings that were usually kept neat now strewn about messily, like they had been pushed to the side.

(If Future George could intervene on a single point in his life, it would be this very moment. Future George would tell Past George to slam the door and just let you ignore him. But unfortunately, Future George could only look back and cringe.)

Because the moment he pushed the door open an inch further, he saw Lockwood. And he really wished he didn’t.

He was standing in between your legs, his arms wrapped around you, which wasn’t anything new to George. What was new was the way he was kissing you. On the mouth, and down your jaw, and down your neck.

George nearly keeled over. “What the fuck?”

Your senses of hearing immediately returned, because the both of you jumped away from each other in shock. You snapped your head in the direction of the door, seeing George standing there with his mouth opening and closing over and over.

“What the fuck?” George repeated in shock. He wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

“George,” you gasped out, sliding off the desk and moving in his direction. Grabbing him by the wrist, you tugged him into your room before shutting the door. “What’re you doing here?”

From up close, he could see that your lips were swollen from kissing, and your hair was looking particularly messy.

“What am I doing here?” he echoed in disbelief. He jabbed a finger into Lockwood’s chest. His usual neat white button up was now wrinkled, the tie missing and top two buttons undone. “What are you doing here?” He turned back to you. “And are you not even going to address what I just walked in on?”

“You’re asking me what I’m doing here?” Lockwood asked, offended. “In my girlfriend’s room?”

“Girlfriend?” George nearly screamed. He felt dizzy all of a sudden. Had he fallen down the steps on his way down here? Was this all a dream?

You shushed him immediately, pointing in the direction of Lucy’s room. “We were going to tell you both, I swear! But then it got so hard to bring up, and the timing was never right, and—”

“There’s no way,” George managed, shaking his head. “This is a prank.”

Lockwood laughed. “Far from it.”

You threw your head back as you groaned, exposing the skin of your neck to the light in your room.

George couldn’t help it. He screamed again.

“What happened to your neck?” he shrieked.

Splattered all over the skin were small bruises, starting from your jawline and continuing past the collar of your sweater.

“I threw wooden spoons at her,” Lockwood joked. “What do you think happened?”

George’s jaw dropped at the reference. He whirled on you, and you inched closer to Lockwood. “That bruise on your neck… It wasn’t from me accidentally hitting you,” he said slowly. He narrowed his eyes at Lockwood. “It was from you?”

“Congrats, George, you have it all figured out,” Lockwood deadpanned.

You planted your face in your hands, humiliated.

“Is that why you were ignoring me?” George asked, frowning. “‘Cause you were embarrassed?”

“I thought you knew, and I got scared!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up. “What kind of wooden spoon leaves hickeys?”

George gave a full body shudder.

“Have you never seen people kiss before, George?” Lockwood jested, leaning forward to leave his chin on your shoulder.

“Of course I have,” he grumbled. “But this is the first time I’ve seen someone kiss like they were possessed by a vampire, so forgive me for expressing surprise.”

“That’s not my fault. What happened to knocking on people’s doors?” he asked boredly, like he hadn’t just traumatized George for life. “Did we just forget how to do that?”

“I’ve been knocking for the past minute. You probably couldn’t hear over the sound of you going at her neck—”

“Okay!” you said, clamping your hands over your ears. “That’s enough, please.”

George wasn’t done. He reached over to prod at one of the marks on your neck like he was poking at a laboratory experiment.

“If she’s your girlfriend, shouldn’t you be nicer to her? These look like they hurt.”

Lockwood laughed, and George regretted saying anything.

His mouth pulled into a wide grin. “Trust me, I’m always more than nice—”

You firmly clamped your hand over his mouth, your jaw hung open. Swiveling around to face George, you shook your head repeatedly, like you were begging for him to believe you. “That was a joke, George.”

“Sure it was,” he answered, trying to suppress his mortification. “My room is just down the hall, do you better keep it down when—”

You hit him with the closest piece of fabric you could find, which happened to be Lockwood’s discarded tie.

George backed up, pressing himself to the door. “Don’t touch me with that thing.”

Lockwood rolled his eyes. “It’s just a tie, George.”

“I can tell that much,” he scoffed. “Who knows what that thing has seen? Especially with…” He gestured at you. “You know.”

“Do you really still believe in cooties?” you huffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

He pressed his lips in a thin line. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

Lockwood laughed at that, but you seemed to find it anything but funny.

“You’re terrible,” you groaned.

“Why are you guys being so loud?” another voice said, joining the already noisy room. Before you could warn George to shut the door, Lucy had already pushed it open, knocking him out of the way. “It’s nine in the— Woah, what happened to your neck?”

You hid your face against Lockwood’s front and he patted your back in sympathy. “This is a nightmare.”

“Ouch, Luce,” George groaned, pushing the door back in her direction. “Couldn’t have knocked as a warning?”

“George Karim, I never want to hear you ask about knocking ever again,” you hissed, spinning back around. His retort was cut short by Lockwood clapping his hands together once.

“Alright,” Lockwood said authoritatively. “Can everyone just kindly get out of my room?”

“Your room?” you scoffed. “This wasn’t your room when I asked you to help me clean up the crumbs that you left—”

“Did you lose a fight or something?” Lucy continued on, her question aimed at you.

George snorted. “If the fight was against Dracula, then yes.”

You snapped your head in his direction, moving forward to probably strangle him, but Lockwood caught you around the waist.

“Lockwood, please control her,” George said, now pressed even closer against your door.

You tried lunging at him again, but didn’t make it very far. “I’m his girlfriend, not a feral animal.”

“Girlfriend?” Lucy gasped. She squinted at you and Lockwood. “You’re dating?”

George snorted. “Who did you think the vampire was?”

Lockwood was not quick enough to stop you from throwing the nearest object at his head, which happened to be an eraser. George pushed Lucy out of the way and fled the room before you could reach for the stapler on your desk.

Lucy laughed, finally getting the memo that leaving the room was probably for the best. “You better tell me everything later,” she said pointedly to you.

You waved her out, disgruntled. “Whatever.”

The door swung shut and Lockwood finally released you from his grasp. You groaned, walking over to your bed to collapse into your pillows.

“I can’t believe you forgot to lock the door,” you complained.

“Didn’t have time when you were dragging me inside,” he teased, settling down next to you.

You let out a strangled noise. “This is so embarrassing. I can’t believe this happened.”

He rubbed a circle into your back, humming in agreement. “At least we don’t have to tell them now. The worst part is officially over.”

You flopped over onto your back, giving him a sad look. “Do you think they’re ever going to let us forget this?”

He smiled. “Probably not.” Lockwood pressed a wet kiss to the spot under your jaw, and you pinched him lightly.

“Woah, you really are like Dracula.”

“If George was dating you, he’d understand why,” he said, pulling you deeper into the warmth of your bed. You wrapped your arms around him while he rested his head on your chest, letting yourself relax. Suddenly, he shivered. You tilted your head in question, and he said, “Sorry, I just imagined you dating George and got scared.”

You laughed, and Lockwood thought about how lucky he was to be able to hear it. Ever since you started dating, he had been thinking a lot about how lucky he was.

From his spot on your chest, he stared up at you with the most lovesick look on his face. Usually, you would tease him about it, but now, you just smiled back as you pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

For the next few minutes, you sat in silence, just resting on your bed. George had effectively ruined the mood with his inability to knock, but you didn’t mind when it meant you could play with Lockwood’s hair and try to get him to catch up on well needed sleep. Breaking the silence, you finally spoke.

“Do you think they’ll believe us when we tell them we’ve been secretly dating for the last few months?”

Lockwood hummed, pretending to think about it as he shifted over you. He pressed another kiss to your left collarbone before the kissing turned heavy, and there was another mark blooming on the untouched skin there.

“Nope.”

notes: i hope u enjoyed the final part! surprise lol they’ve been dating for a while, i imagine they got together sometime between the events of barnes and kipps’ parts. this series was so much fun to write!! i loved getting the chance to write shorter works bc i so rarely write anything under 4k lol. lmk what u thought and thank u for the support!!

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @a-candle-maker @2guysonascooter @amo-a-los-postres @anxiousbeech @dontstopxx @wordsarelife @cassiopeiia24 @cupiidsriot @philliam-writes @criesinlies @writtenontheport (just ask to be removed/added!!)

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x y/n #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood and co reader insert #xreader #x reader #readerinsert #reader insert #lockwood x you #love writes

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wordsarelife · 2 years ago

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—today was a fairytale

pairing: quill kipps x gn!reader

summary: you and quill go on your first date at arif‘s

warnings: mentions of sex at the very end

notes: this was such a cute thing to write and i think we need more domestic quill kipps fics… or fics of him in general.. get to work, people!!

arif‘s was pretty busy that morning. it was winter and you were watching the snow fall from the window of the little shop. you could hear people talking lowly, almost slipping into a chorused whisper around you. the coffee in front of you was still hot, so you couldn’t drink from it just yet. quill had just brought you this new one after the first that you had already finished.

Quill slid in the seat across from you. you turned your head at the sound and smiled at him. the moment your eyes met his, he was already sipping on the second cup of hot chocolate, that he had just ordered at the counter, seemingly uninterested in waiting until it had cooled down a bit.

“isn’t it a bit funny, that you ask me on a coffee date and then continuously drink hot chocolate?” you asked

quill shrugged his shoulders “nah”

“okay” you smiled brightly

the both of you had been here for over an hour, talking with no end. when quill had asked you to go on a date with him, you had never thought that it would be so entertaining, or that you both would find that you had so much in common.

in your eyes, quill had always been pretty strict and serious, turns out he could be quite funny, making you laugh with almost everything he was saying.

"can i ask you something personal?"

quill nodded and you smiled softly.

"lockwood told me that your talent faded some time ago. why did you choose to continue to work against the problem? why not do something else?" you asked interested "i've been an agent for all i remember, i do get the grind, but doesn't it get tiring after all that time you worked as one?"

contrary to your belief, that he might get offended at the question, quill smiled. "i don't know" he said truthfully "the thought of quitting did enter my head but it never stayed for long. i love the people i'm working with and i want to make a difference in the world"

"i like that" you replied "i always admired you for it, honestly. the way you carry yourself and stick up for your team, like it's more than just a job"

"it is more than just a job" quill insisted "it's our lives and from what i've heard and seen you don't seem to hold back either" "thank you" you laughed, before you got serious again "do you think we will some day get rid of the problem?"

“we will” he assured. you couldn’t tell if he was really thinking that or if he was just saying that to ease your nerves. he knew that you were always worrying about the problem.

you would sometimes work together, him with his fittes team and you as a member of lockwood and co. this is how you had met as well. even though lockwood never held back with comments about quill, you had grown to like him.

lockwood had thought you had made a joke when you had told him about the date.

one of the first things you had noticed was that despite you mentioning them all the time, quill did not say one bad thing about your friends. it wasn’t your intention to test or annoy him, but they were your whole life.

every story you could tell happened with them, they were your family and you were surprised how quickly quill had understood that.

he even praised lucy and george, when you told him the story of annabel ward and said that he would have been glad to have them on his team as well.

you could notice the stiffness in his face, every time you mentioned lockwood, there was just too much to just forget it, but he didn’t say anything at least and you registered that he seemed to really like you.

“maybe we could repeat this some day?” quill asked when the two of you had left arif’s and were walking down the street to portland row.

“yes” you smiled, glad that he was thinking the same as you. you didn’t want to wait until some day though. “how about tomorrow?” you asked “i’m free the entire day”

quill laughed at your eagerness. “tomorrow sounds great. i’m glad you suggested it, i didn’t want to pressure you, but i’d love to meet up again tomorrow”

“good” you breathed relieved. and somehow his agreement seemed to have made you brave, so you quickly added: “i really like you, quill”

“i really like you too”

you stopped in front of the stairs to portland row and on quill’s face rested a lopsided grin, as he noticed the curtains moving and lockwood’s face pop up in the window.

his smile wasn’t mean though. for a short second, the time you had taken to notice lockwood as well, you had thought that he was only smiling because it was annoying the boy. but now it seemed like that was just a plus and he was going to do what he wanted, regardless of lockwood watching or not.

he bend down and pressed a featherlight kiss to your cheeks and the heat entered your face almost immediately.

“bye, y/n” quill waved “i’m gonna call you tomorrow at noon, if that’s alright, then we can arrange something” he was already starting to walk away

“that’s good” you called “hey, wait, what do you want to do tomorrow?”

“whatever you want to do is fine with me” he smiled “i’ll call you!” he assured again, before he finally turned around and walked away

“stop being so smitten with him” you turned your head to look at lockwood, who had opened the front door and was now leaning against the frame.

“i think it’s already too late for that” your eyes returned to quills frame again, that was almost too far away to see.

lockwood sighed. “never have sex in my house”

you walked through the door, giggling at his seriousness. “i won’t promise anything” you laughed, quickly sprinting up the stairs

“what was that?” lockwood called behind you, but you ignored him, just smiling to yourself and feeling excitement bubble in your chest to tell lucy everything.

#lockwood and co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #george karim #lucy carlyle #ali hadji heshmati #cameron chapman #ghost hunting #ruby stokes #netflix #quill kipps #quill kipps x reader #reader #reader insert #gn reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co headcannons #lockwoodandco

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aislinrayne · 29 days ago

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[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The real monsters are always human.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, confinement, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Hey look, it's the other 'half' of chapter six! As we can see, it got... a little out of hand. So?! What do we think?! I've been sitting on this for so long waiting to get to a skill level I was proud enough to release this, and I think I've finally done it.

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.24k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of bootsoles against concrete pull him from his thoughts, nearly drowning Anthony in the wave of dread that acts as a prelude to the hurricane of emotions threatening to overwhelm him as reality sinks in once more. Heavy feet come to a stop outside the door to his cell, replacing the sound of footfalls with the unmistakable clatter of keys knocking against each other. His stomach tightens in anticipation. He doesn’t need to see who’s coming through the door to know it has to be one of the goons from earlier—no one with two brain cells to rub together would be able to make that much noise unlocking a padlock. Light floods the room as the door is finally swung open to reveal the mountain of a man who’d landed the lucky gut-punch that got him into this mess. Ugly #3, as he’s mentally dubbed him.

Disappointment, it seems, is his only constant companion in situations like this. The glee in the man’s eyes as they fall on him is a stark contrast to the thorny tendril of dread rooting itself in Anthony’s gut. He looks downright thrilled to see the shell of a younger man before him, all of his earlier bravado choked out not by his own treatment, but by the screams from down the hall that still echo in his ears like an infernal symphony.

The faintest huff of air escapes him—maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh of satisfaction. He circles behind the chair, keys jangling ominously from his belt as he fiddles with the ropes binding Anthony’s handcuffs to the metal chair. The clinking of metal and the creaking of the ropes create a maddening cacophony, each sound adding to the tension in the small, grim room.

Anthony’s mind races, hundreds of half-formed ideas flittering through his pounding skull, not one of them slowing enough for him to catch them. He’s torn between the animal instinct to lash out, and the human need to know she’s safe before he throws caution to the wind. He won’t lie and deny that the thought of headbutting the guard and making a desperate bid for freedom isn’t deeply satisfying, but he knows it’s a reckless–and useless–gamble. He needs to know where she is, to know what fate has befallen her, before he can formulate a plan for escape. There are too many variables to risk her safety now just to soothe his wounded pride.

The guard’s fingers are methodical as he works, his movements slow and deliberate. A thoroughly disturbing thought occurs to him; if the man was shite at something as basic as unlocking a door, how much practice must he have to be able to untie a man so efficiently?

Anthony’s wrists ache as the rope gives way and the chain between the cuffs goes slack, the sudden rush of circulation making his arms feel foreign and heavy. When he’s pulled to his feet, his legs, numb from hours of restrained sitting, barely support him. He stumbles, catching himself with a strained grunt. The pain in his joints is a sharp reminder of how long he’d been stuck there, helpless.

There were no words, no explanation shared, as the guard hauls Lockwood unceremoniously to his feet. He hadn’t really expected there would be, but it would have been nice. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Every stumbling step is a fight he isn’t sure he can win. His heart pounds in his chest, providing a drumbeat to the thready melody of anxiety coursing through his veins as he struggles to maintain his upright position. The only feeling capable of cutting through the fog of his panic is the clear, driving need to find out where they're keeping her—and how he can save her before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Once he’s been ejected from the room by an unceremonious shove by his apparent escort, Anthony feels a cold focus settle over him in a way he'd only experienced once before—images of sources piled within rings of iron chain, black shimmering gates, clouds of breath suspended in stagnant air, pale hands clutching colourful feathers, the sting of the unrelenting chill in the air—as his eyes scan the dimly lit hallway. The narrow concrete corridor stretches out behind him, an endless grey passage punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a failing fluorescent light. The heavy silence is broken only by the dull echo of their footsteps, and the low hum of a distant air vent. Every shadow, every echo, seems to whisper of looming danger. He fights the defiant urge to turn and spit in the face of his captor, to make one last desperate bid for freedom. He wouldn't succeed, and angering these people more than he already had wasn't going to get him anywhere.

For now, he follows, his mind rushing with strategies, and scenarios that grow more and more dire with each iteration. The real fight is coming, he can feel it in the marrow of his bones, and he needs to be ready for whatever lies ahead.

His focus is quickly yanked back to the present when a calloused hand smacks the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. The impact is just as jarring as he remembers. The brute grabs him by the back of his neck, his grip like a vise as he forces him to keep his head down. With a final, almost contemptuous shove, the man propels him forward. The scuff of the soles of his shoes echoes off the walls as he stumbles onward.

Anthony considers counting the steps, but the thought evaporates quickly as he realizes the lack of distinguishing features in the hallway would render the effort futile. He turns his focus inward instead, silently organizing the pieces of the puzzle he'd collected so far, hoping to find a kernel of useful information he might have gathered without realizing. The sound of what he suspects to be distant machinery is almost as effective as white noise in helping him concentrate.

After a seemingly interminable walk down the maze-like corridor, a firm hand clamps onto his shoulder, bringing him to a sudden halt. The grip is almost painful, guiding him through a heavy steel door that seemed to materialize from the grey. It creaks open reluctantly, revealing a stark, utilitarian stairwell bathed in harsh, artificial light. One that nearly becomes his grave when his escort decides he's moving too slowly, giving him a sharp prod to urge him along. The steps are old, concrete, and worn, their surfaces marred by sizable cracks and chips. His foot slips off of one such chip—roughly the size of his fist—forcing him to do his best impression of a worm in the rain in an attempt to regain his footing.

He counts the steps meticulously—fifty-six, if he includes the longer slabs that marked the start of another flight—each one leading him deeper into the bowels of the building. A coil of dread tightens in his stomach, the loaded silence in the stairwell amplifying his growing unease. He knows every step brings him closer to the answers he desperately needs, but can’t bring himself to hope for.

Finally, they arrive at another set of doors. These are heavier, reinforced, and secured with a key from the same ring that held the key to his cell. The sound of the lock turning echoes ominously through the corridor, the click of the latch doing nothing to soothe his fried nerves.

His mind goes blank at the sight before him. No amount of wracking his brain for clues could have prepared him for this. He hadn’t given them enough credit. Even in his darkest scenario, he could never have thought them capable of this level of inhumanity. The room sprawls out before him, dimly lit and foreboding. Rows of floor to ceiling dog cages line the walls, each separated by thick, rusted, unyielding bars. Inside each cell is nothing but a filthy mattress haphazardly thrown on the floor. The stench of decay, infection, and despair permeates the air. Bile bites at the back of his throat, but he’s unsure if it’s the scent or the realization that some of the slumped shadows within the cages are silhouettes that's made him feel so nauseous.

As he is shoved roughly through the room, Anthony’s eyes dart from one cell to the next. The darkness makes it hard to discern details, but he can make out the shapes of bodies huddled together against the bars, curled into themselves in an effort to conserve what little warmth they can. Each silhouette seems to tell a story of suffering, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

A short, sharp tug on the chains of his handcuffs jolts him back to the present. The metal bites into his wrists as he’s forced to an abrupt stop. Bitter dread trickles like ice down his spine when he sees they’ve come to a stop before the door to one of the cells. The brute yanks on the chain, forcing Anthony to his knees, and begins rifling through the comically oversized key ring with one hand.

Anthony watches the best he can over his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s clumsy attempts to find the right key are frustratingly slow, each moment stretching into an eternity. Finally, with a grunt of effort, he selects the correct key and shoves it into the lock. The door groans and shrieks as it swings open, its sound seemingly amplified by the silence of the room. Several of the huddled figures begin to stir, their movements slow and wary.

Instead of departing with nothing but another shove as a parting gift like Lockwood had come to expect from the miniscule eternity he’d spent with the man, he surprises him by pulling out a single key and expertly removing the handcuffs with practiced ease. Before Anthony can react, he grabs him by the back of the neck with a rough grip and throws him unceremoniously into the cell—now that was more in character for the large fellow. The door slams shut behind him with a resounding clank, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the empty space.

Ugly #3 spares no time for heartfelt goodbyes, opting instead to storm back the way they came, his heavy footsteps growing fainter as he leaves Anthony alone in the cell. The darkness closes in around him, and the cold, damp air of the cell seeps into his bones. His heart races as he takes in his new surroundings, the weight of his predicament settling heavily on his shoulders.

It takes him longer than he thinks it should to regain his bearings. His eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, and he begins to scan for any potentially useful details. The room is small, and entirely devoid of furnishings. The only object besides the mattress is a wooden pot against the wall, which he refuses to acknowledge until it becomes otherwise impossible not to.

The mattress, though stiff, lumpy, and somehow flat at the same time, is a welcome relief as he sinks onto it, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall at the rear of his cell. The physical discomfort is minor compared to the blow to his pride. He hasn’t been manhandled like this in years—not since the DEPRAC officer who still visits him in nightmares. The humiliation now feels sharper, more acute, though he was far from a novice even then.

He takes several deep breaths, attempting to steady his racing heart and calm his nerves. Each inhale is a battle against the rising tide of panic, each exhale a vow to find a way out. With each breath, the dim light grows a little clearer, and the creeping darkness in the edges of his vision recedes a little further. His hands tremble slightly as he rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The effort is a small gesture of defiance against the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind.

As he surveys the cell again with a clearer mind, he can feel the crushing weight of anxiety pressing against his carefully constructed walls. The room is still a maze of shadows and stark edges, but now he can see the minimal light filtering in from a small, barred window high above. Now he can hear that the eerie silence is occasionally punctuated by distant, indistinct noises—footsteps, muffled voices. He can’t afford to let fear control him now. He misses things when he’s afraid, and he can't afford to miss a single thing if he wants to get them all out of here alive. He needs to think clearly, to piece together a plan before the weight of drastically rising stakes make good on its threat to swallow him whole.

The cell to his left is empty, a gaping void that seems to echo with a desolate silence. The two cells to his right, however, are occupied. His own mattress is pushed against the rear wall, positioned almost exactly in the center between the two rows of bars that separate him from the others. The mattresses in the two cells to his right are close enough that they nearly touch the bars dividing them. He wonders if the occupants are familiar with each other. The proximity might suggest a shared connection, the comfort of which might make them more willing to converse with him.

His curiosity piqued, Anthony studies the shadowed figures in the adjacent cells. The mattress closest to him is eerily still, with no sign of movement. The figure on the far side, however, has shifted into a sitting position. The dim light plays tricks on his eyes, but he can make out the silhouette of long, dark hair cascading down the figure’s back. The faint light reflects off his own pale skin like moonlight, stark against the darkness, but their skin casts a warm, rich ochre glow.

There’s a tense moment as he weighs his options. He’s unsure of what to say, feeling the pressure of his recent missteps drastically reducing the faith he has in his ability to talk his way out of any situation.

The figure on the far side seems to be inspecting him with a curious, if wary, gaze. His throat feels dry as he searches for the right words, grappling with the strange sense of vulnerability and the nagging urgency to establish some form of rapport with the girl.

“Sorry, but… are you Anthony Lockwood?” A woman’s voice cuts through the gloom, soft yet tinged with a rasp consistent with days of unuse. Though she sounds undeniably rough, there’s an underlying clarity and crispness that suggests she would normally occupy a far more organized and vibrant space. The simple elegance of her voice in juxtaposition to their environment catches him off guard, momentarily overshadowing her surprising familiarity with his identity.

When he recovers, he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying to peer into the darkness where her voice emanates from. “At your service, Miss?” He mirrors her soft volume, letting the question hover between them. He’s cautious, careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises.

“Ah, forgive me,” she responds, her voice taking on a rueful edge. “It’s only been a few weeks and I’ve already managed to forget my manners.” Her quiet laugh is laced with bitterness, but it doesn't stop the soft smirk from rising to his face at the sound. “Holly Munro, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you before, in the papers. Even considered applying with you a few years back.”

Her admission carries an undercurrent of wistfulness, a longing for something that might have been. Anthony’s mind feels sluggish as he tries to process her words. He wonders about the circumstances that led her to this place, as well as any potential implications of her recognizing him, but he can't seem to hold on to the thoughts darting around inside his skull. Names and faces from past interactions blend with the immediate reality, leaving him incapable of holding any accurate memory for more than a split second. The brute's backhand is really not to be trifled with.

“How did you end up here?” Anthony asks, trying to mask his lack of tact behind a veneer of concern. He’ll chastise himself for being so direct later, when he isn't facing the horrifying unknown. Holly’s familiarity with him should afford him a bit of leniency anyway, and he’s a bit too preoccupied still scanning every visible cage for a glimpse of his agent to worry about it right now.

Holly’s voice falters as she begins to speak, her tone laden with pain. “I’ve been out of the business for a few years now, since my last employment ended… poorly.” She hesitates, and for a moment, the silence is thick with her struggle to maintain composure. “But my, um…” Her voice catches, thick with emotion. “My friend was a freelancer. She got an offer for a job that could set her up for a long time. All she needed was someone to fill in, because the client wouldn’t accept less than two agents on the job.”

The details align disturbingly well with the information from the newspaper article he’d read. Anthony nods grimly, absorbing the confirmation of what he suspected. The pattern of disappearances is becoming clearer, yet the implications are no less chilling than the unknown.

“And your friend?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. He suspects he already knows the answer, but can't bring himself to assume the worst.

Holly’s response is nearly inaudible. “She, um… They came and took her for a match two nights ago. Normally, they’d take us together, but…” Her voice breaks, wavering as if the weight of her words is almost too much to bear. She forces the next part out, each word seeming to catch like razors in her throat. “They haven’t brought her back.”

His heart sinks at her words, a pang of sorrow for the stranger's loss making him feel disgusted with himself over the selfish, single-minded focus still hounding him to push her for more answers. “I’m sorry,” he replies solemnly, swallowing his tongue for the moment.

Holly seems to sense his inner turmoil and speaks again. “You can ask me.” Her sudden offer makes him wonder if she can somehow read his mind, but he dismisses the thought as a product of stress and the possible concussion. He stares at her, feeling like an absolute imbecile, until she takes pity on him and continues. “I’ve been here long enough to know that we all come in pairs, but I’m afraid there’s been a lot of traffic in the past few days. I’d like to help you find your friend, if I can.”

Her offer to assist gives him a sliver of hope. He hadn’t realized how much faith he'd lost in the good of mankind over the past however many hours, how welcome some basic human decency would feel.

“I—thank you,” Lockwood says, his voice rough with exhaustion and gratitude. “My… associate and I were brought in for a last-minute job. Our oh-so charming host spun a tale that was impossible to resist, and sold us a story so convincing that we walked right into their trap.” He grimaces, the memory of their deceitful invitation stinging more than the physical wounds. “I didn’t realize the danger we were in until it was too late. We were vastly outnumbered before I had a chance to warn her. She was injured before I was knocked out—one of her sleeves will be soaked in blood.”

He pauses, the words hanging heavy in the air as he shifts to lean his head against the cold concrete wall behind him. The frigid touch of the stone is a harsh but grounding presence, a small comfort amidst the turmoil of emotions causing an ache behind his eyes. “She might… she might be in pretty rough shape. I could hear her screaming until roughly an hour ago.”

His voice falters as the gravity of his words settles in, the anguish evident in his strained tone. Up until now, there had been enough happening to distract him, he could avoid acknowledging the nauseating possibility that the worst had already happened. Not anymore. He can see her face in his mind, warped with the pain she must have endured, and it fuels his growing desperation. The barred walls seem to press in on him, threatening to crush him.

“Oh!” Holly exclaims, her voice rising a bit with her urgency, almost startling him with the contrast to the subdued volume of their conversation until then. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting anxiously toward the cell between them. They fall silent, the tension palpable as they wait for any sign of movement from the nearby occupant. After a moment, when the cell remains still, Holly continues, her voice dropping back to a whisper. “They wouldn’t have tortured her—at least, not in the way you’re thinking. They need us strong enough to put up an entertaining fight. But if she was hurt badly enough to bleed that heavily, they would have stitched the wound before sending her to the cages. Anaesthesia isn’t something they worry about here.”

Anthony's breath catches in his throat at her words. If they’d cleaned and stitched her arm without any form of numbing, it would explain the agonizing cries he heard. His heart clenches painfully as he recalls the panic in her voice, the desperate plea that cut through the darkness and filled him with a helpless dread. She hadn't been particularly fond of needles to begin with, he could only imagine how much worse it would be now.

He slumps back against the wall, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his thoughts. His hands move to his face, rubbing at the tension and exhaustion etched into his features. Despite the relief that they hadn’t inflicted further damage, the realization does little to soothe the ache of her suffering or his own feelings of inadequacy.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled and thick with emotion as he speaks through his palms. The words are simple, repetitive, and hardly seem sufficient.

“What’s her name? What does she look like? I can pass the word around when others wake up. We’ll find her,” Holly says, her eyes searching Anthony's, shining with a glimmer of hope.

Before he can ponder the seemingly impossible task of breaking everything she is down into a few descriptive sentences, a familiar voice calls out from the cell between them. “Lockwood…?” It’s ragged, strained from overuse, but unmistakable.

Holly’s gasp of surprise is barely registered as Anthony springs into action. He’s across the cell in an instant, his hands gripping the icy bars with a white knuckling desperation. He curses the metal that keeps them apart, every fiber of his being thrumming with frustration and helplessness.

“Sleeping Beauty, I should have known that was you,” he calls out, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anguish. The words are intended to be light-hearted, a small attempt to ease the tension. Her soft, broken laughter on the other side of the bars briefly lifts his spirits, but it quickly dissolves into a harsh coughing fit. The sound of her wheezing, each inhale ragged and painful, tightens the knot in his stomach.

His heart can’t continue carrying the weight of his helplessness. He can almost feel the shivers of her pain through the bars, the sound of her distress cutting through him. Every instinct screams for him to be beside her, to offer comfort and soothing words, but all he can do is reach through the narrow gaps and wish desperately for a way to bridge the gap between them.

“I don’t feel particularly beautiful or well-rested right now, so I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me,” she finally rasps, her voice a low, throaty murmur. She rolls onto her side, the movement labored and pained, before trying to push herself upright. A stifled yelp escapes her lips, triggering another coughing fit, and she collapses back onto the mattress, her body curling inward in distress.

“Shit,” Lockwood hisses, his voice filled with concern as he watches her struggle. “You okay, love?”

“Just peachy,” she retorts through gritted teeth, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the obvious agony. “Caught a boot or two to the ribs after they knocked you out, no big deal.” Her attempt at bravado is undermined by the grimace that accompanies her words. Holly’s worried glance toward Lockwood tells him that he's not the only one not buying the whole ‘badass’ act this time.

“Any idea why they brought us here?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “Or what hell-hole ‘here’ crawled out of?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Lockwood admits, frustration edging his tone. “But I get the feeling your neighbor will be able to shed some light on the situation for us.”

As he speaks, she extends her uninjured arm towards Holly, her movements cautious but determined. She slips her hand through the narrow gap between the bars, reaching out toward the other cell. The greeting is a silent plea, an unspoken request for connection in the midst of their dire predicament. Holly accepts the proffered hand, her grip firm despite the weakness in her voice.

“Holly Munro, pleasure,” she says, her tone both warm and weary. “Though I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“Likewise.” The other woman introduces herself and replies, her voice carrying a note of gratitude amidst the exhaustion.

Lockwood finally pulls his stiff hands away from the cold metal bars, feeling the residual chill bite at his skin. He watches as Holly brings his associate up to speed, her voice cutting in from time to time as a soft murmur of reassurance or inquiry. Meanwhile, he turns his attention to the narrow space between his cell and hers, pushing his mattress toward the metal separating them. Considering the placement of her own, the difference it will make is laughable, but he’s desperate for any semblance of closeness he can manage.

Every clink of metal and shift of the mattress heightens his sense of urgency. He’s well aware that his emotions are rapidly outgrowing the bounds of mere professional concern, becoming more personal and fervent with each passing moment. He tries to shove aside the intense feelings bubbling up inside him, but it—like so many things this evening—is an effort in futility.

Settling back onto his mattress and leaning against the wall, he shifts slightly, attempting to find a comfortable position amidst the jabbing of exposed springs. The thin layer of padding does little to ease his discomfort, but he forces himself to endure.

“So what is this place, exactly? Any luck finding out?” The question hangs in the air as Lockwood's gaze shifts back to the woman, her voice breaking the spell of his thoughts. In the dim light, he can see she’s managed to pull herself upright, her silhouette leaning against the bars, still holding Holly’s hand.

“Yes, actually!” The other woman’s voice carries a note of weary triumph. “This place is an underground facility that was once used for dog-fighting during the prohibition era. The walls here are steeped in a grim history.” She pauses, her voice trembling slightly, and Lockwood notices the subtle shiver that runs through her as she continues. “There are networks of tunnels connecting various buildings to this place. We suspect that the primary entrance for the cages is from an abandoned railway station directly above us.”

If he had to guess, he'd say she had tightened her hand around Holly's. The exchange is quiet, but the gratitude in Holly’s eyes is unmistakable. His agent’s expression softens, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“I think the audience comes in through those tunnels, though,” Holly adds. “It’s never loud enough in here to account for the foot traffic. It’s a constant low hum of activity, like a distant, eerie heartbeat.”

Lockwood’s heart swells with a mixture of admiration and concern. The bravery and compassion displayed by both women in the face of disaster is both inspiring and heart-wrenching. As he processes the new information, he feels his sense of urgency grow deeper still. That network of tunnels could hold the key to their escape—or lead them to their deaths.

“I’m sorry to cut in, but you keep mentioning ‘matches’, and now an audience. What exactly do they do here?” He can’t resist addressing the elephant in the room any longer. When Holly flinches and goes silent, he instantly regrets it.

“I can’t imagine what you��ve been through, Holly. It must be painful to talk about. We won’t push you, but knowing what to expect will help us put together a plan to get everyone out of here safely.” Her voice is gentle and Anthony can hear more than see her scooting closer to Holly.

“Thank you.” It’s barely more than a whisper, the words almost lost in the tremor of her voice. “They, um… Well, it’s kind of a morbid repetition of history, in a way. They abduct agents in pairs, interrogate us about our skills, keep us in cages, and feed us well enough we don’t lose our strength. When the sun goes down they fetch two with complimentary Talent and bring them up to what they call the ‘arena’, arm them with a silver net and a measly handful of salt bombs, and toss in the Source of a Type Two. If you win, you go back to the cells to wait for your next match. If you lose…”

He’d read enough of that paper to know what happened to those who lost. Their Ghost-Touch swollen bodies would be dumped unceremoniously miles from here.

“I’m sorry to make you think more about this, but I have a few questions if you’re up to it.” Lockwood’s voice is steady, but his eyes betray the urgency of his request. He waits for Holly’s slight nod before pressing on. “When you mention ‘complimentary Talent,’ I'm assuming you’re referring to one with the Sight and one with either the Listening or the Touch?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Holly’s voice is subdued but clear. “They used to take me and Em together because she had the Sight and I had the Listening. But...” Her words falter slightly, and guilt tugs at her tone, nearly overwhelming. “I think they figured out that my Talent faded years ago. I’m afraid they might see me as expendable now.”

Before Lockwood or his associate can offer consolation, Holly plunges ahead with the weight of her revelations. “It’s safe to assume they’ll come for you tonight, Lockwood. They’re aware of your Talent, and they’ve been murmuring about ‘the big night’ for days. I didn’t grasp the full meaning until I recognized you. The only real question is who they’ll pair with you, considering your friend is too injured to be of much use for entertainment.” She adds quickly, “No offence intended!”

“None taken, believe me.” She gives Holly’s hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. Pushing herself to her feet with a groan of effort, she waves a dismissive hand at her neighbours cries to lay down and rest. “I will, I will, don’t nag! I’m just trying to make myself a bit more comfortable. With what we know now, I’d say our best option is to conserve our energy and stay focused on surviving until we can figure out a way out of here.”

Anthony’s frustration simmers beneath his surface as he watches her struggle. She grabs a corner of her mattress with one hand and starts dragging it across the grimy floor, her movements laboured. Realising her intent, he reaches out as soon as it's within his grasp and helps pull the mattress the remaining distance until it’s pressed snugly against his own through the bars. The two beds are now practically fused together, their surfaces puckering around the narrow gap between their cells.

With a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a groan of discomfort as a particularly stiff spring pokes at her ribs, she collapses onto the makeshift bed. Anthony reaches out tentatively, his fingers brushing against hers, recoiling slightly from the cold.

“Christ, you’re freezing,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with concern. He leans closer, gently lifting her hand to his face. Cupping it between his warm palms, he alternates between blowing gentle puffs of breath over her chilled skin and lightly massaging it to stimulate circulation.

“It’s practically an icebox in here, if you hadn’t noticed,” she retorts, her tone making a play at sharp, but being softened by her discomfort. When Anthony looks up, he’s struck by the depth in her eyes—a look that’s almost hypnotic. For a brief moment, they find haven in each other's eyes, a shared understanding amidst the chaos. But then, a shiver races through her body, and the moment shatters. His concern surges to the forefront, pushing everything else aside.

She reluctantly pulls her hand away, shifting beneath the tattered blanket draped across her mattress. The thin, threadbare fabric offers scant protection against the cold, its ability to retain warmth practically non-existent. Anthony watches her struggle for a moment, his frustration mounting as he witnesses her futile attempts to find some comfort.

Without hesitation, he moves to free his own blanket from beneath him, carefully maneuvering it through the narrow space between the bars. While he can't slip through the bars himself, his arm is long enough to extend through the gap up to his shoulder. He holds the blanket out toward her.

She fixes him with a defiant glare, her mouth opening to argue. Anthony’s expression remains resolute.

“Shut it, Sleeping Beauty. You know I run warmer than you anyway,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite the cold.

Another shiver wracks her body, but it’s the look in his eyes—a blend of genuine concern and blind stubbornness—that finally convinces her. With a soft murmur of thanks, she reaches out and takes the blanket from him. She wraps it around herself, the fabric immediately offering a small measure of comfort against the icy chill.

She tosses and turns restlessly for a while, each shift only deepening her discomfort. Frustration eventually gets the better of her, and she attempts to lift her injured arm to tuck it under her head, only to bite back a cry of pain.

With a sigh that carries a note of mock suffering and a twinkle in his eye, Lockwood shifts to lay on his back, moving as close as the confined space allows. He tucks his left arm behind his head, stretching the right through the bars to gently tap her on the head with the back of his knuckles. When she lifts her head, ready to scowl, he nods toward his arm, offering it as a makeshift pillow.

She contemplates the offered limb for a moment. Finally, she relents, lowering her head onto his arm and wriggling into a position that allows her to stay close to him without displacing her meager blankets. As soon as she settles, Lockwood bends his arm to cradle her head, gently stroking the side of it. The soft, contented hum that escapes her lips is a small victory he treasures.

She falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing evening out into a peaceful rhythm. Lockwood gazes down at her, his heart swelling at the sight of her serene expression—one he'd almost given up hope of seeing again.

When he looks up, Holly is still sitting, her gaze fixed on the pair of them. The expression on her face takes a moment to decipher in the dark, but he finally recognizes it as a bittersweet mix of wistfulness and quiet understanding.

“Does she know?” Holly’s voice is barely a whisper, but the question pierces through the silence like a knife. Anthony’s heart leaps into his throat. Though her words are soft, they feel as though they’ve reverberated throughout the confined space, making him acutely aware of the woman sleeping on his arm.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound emerges. Instead, he opts for a slow shake of his head, the gesture more eloquent than any words he could muster.

An uneasy silence stretches between them, filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional creak of the cell.

“Em, she… she wasn’t just my ‘friend’,” Holly confesses. The admission, though he had suspected it, lands with an unexpected weight, deepening the ache he's sure he'll feel for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says. His own experiences with loss have been numerous, but to lose someone he loved in a place as merciless as this is a fate he cannot fathom.

Holly offers a weak smile, though it is tinged with sadness. “You should try and get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you later.”

Anthony nods, acknowledging her advice. He watches as Holly settles herself, her form curling up in a bid for rest. Despite his agreement, he knows sleep will remain elusive. His mind is awash with concerns and fears, and the weight of the world resting on his arm makes it impossible to drift off.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

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