eeechooo

[eeechooo]

I Bled Where You Were

Fandom: Lockwood & Co Prompt: It was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission. In and out. But of course, nothing’s ever that simple when ghosts are involved. You take the hit—shielding George without thinking—and everything goes sideways. By the time Lockwood and Lucy fight the ghost off, you’re unconscious and bleeding, and George is spiraling. He won’t leave your side. He keeps pressure on your wound with shaking hands and mutters under his breath like it’ll keep you tethered. “You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—” And then he freezes, realizing what he just said out loud. When you wake up, pale but alive, your first words are, “Tell me what, George?” Bonus: He tries to brush it off. You grab his wrist and whisper, “Say it again. I heard you.” by @dearhnymn Pairing: George X Reader TW: Mention of blood, angst, but also they're so cuttteee

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It was supposed to be easy.

An in-and-out retrieval. The kind they could do blindfolded by now—get in, find the Source, contain it, get out. Quick. Clean. Controlled.

The house was quiet when you stepped inside, unnervingly so. Every breath felt like it echoed. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your boots, as if the house remembered pain. Dust hung in the air like old breath, and the cold—it was already curling around your ankles, soft and slow, like fingers testing your pulse.

Lockwood led with his torch raised, coat sweeping behind him like a story in motion. Lucy followed close, her grip steady on the hilt of her rapier. George walked beside you, one hand fumbling in his satchel for his notebook, muttering the details from the case file under his breath.

“Male. Died on-site. Age unknown. No documented burial—body was likely lost in the collapse. Cold spot reported near the northeast room.”

You nodded, listening more to the rhythm of his voice than the words themselves. It was easier to stay calm when he talked like that—steady, focused, George.

The northeast room was the library, or what had once been one. The shelves had mostly caved in, spilling mouldy pages and shattered glass across the floor. A grandfather clock stood frozen in the corner, its pendulum stilled mid-swing. Something in your chest clenched at the stillness.

And then the temperature dropped. Fast.

The kind of cold that didn’t creep—it sank. Bone-deep, soul-shaking. Your breath fogged instantly. Lucy’s torch flickered once, twice, then steadied.

You all stopped.

The ghost rose from the debris like it was waking from a long dream. Slow. Drifting. Not angry, not at first. Just… there. A boy, maybe seventeen, maybe younger. His eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking. He didn’t float—he hung, suspended in something invisible, arms limp at his sides.

George inhaled sharply beside you.

And then, he faltered.

Just for a second. Split-second of stillness. He stared at the ghost, face unreadable, fingers tightening on his rapier but not moving. Like he saw something—someone—in that face. A flicker of recognition, or regret, or too many nights spent studying names that didn’t belong to living children.

You didn’t think. You moved.

One step. Two. You cut in front of him, arms raised, body squared. You were used to his pauses. Used to being the first one in, the one who acted while George still processed. It never felt like a choice—just instinct, fierce and fast.

Then everything shattered.

The ghost lunged—not at George. At you. Its face twisted, mouth stretching open in a scream that made no sound, just a piercing ache inside your skull. You felt it, the impact—not physical, not exactly—but like being knocked backward inside yourself.

The cold tore through your ribs like knives of ice. You screamed, or maybe you didn’t, because sound didn’t matter anymore. Your limbs lost their shape. Your chest caved inward. You fell to your knees, the shield you tried to build slipping from your fingers.

Then came the blood.

A thin, hot trickle at first. Then more. From your nose, your mouth, somewhere deeper. You collapsed sideways, vision splintering at the edges.

"No!" George’s voice cracked. You barely heard it over the thudding in your ears. His hands were on you in seconds, frantic and too warm, pressing somewhere on your side where it burned and pulsed and hurt like your body had turned against itself.

Lucy's blade sliced the air with a scream. Lockwood barked orders, but you couldn’t catch the words. Everything was muffled now, like cotton had been stuffed into the world.

You could still feel George’s hands. One shaking as it pressed on your wound, the other gripping your arm like he could anchor you to the floor.

“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”

You wanted to look at him. Wanted to say something. Joke about how dramatic he was. But your eyes wouldn’t stay open, and your lips were too heavy to move.

His words were inaudible, you could  not process them. They were just sounds, music to your ears as if it was the last, the most beautiful one. The last thing you clearly heard was George’s voice—cracked and trembling, full of panic and something else, something sharp and breaking.

“You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—”

The sentence ended in a silence so loud it hurt.

And then—

black.

There was blood under George’s fingernails.

He couldn’t stop staring at it.

It dried in the creases of his knuckles, caught beneath the edge of his bitten nails, warm once and now turning tacky. It didn’t feel real—not on his hands. Not yours. It was supposed to be theoretical. Distant. Something in reports. Not something he pressed his palms into.

But your blood soaked through his sleeves. It was real.

You were too still. Wrongly still. Not unconscious like sleep, like the gentle collapse of someone at peace. No, this was stillness like a paused heartbeat, a body frozen mid-fall. Your lips were pale, eyes closed, lashes twitching like they were trying to dream their way out.

George pressed harder on the wound, his hand sliding as more blood welled up. “Please,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Just stay.”

Lockwood stood near the door, coat torn, face pale. His voice had lost its usual brightness. Lucy was crouched nearby, torch gripped so tight her knuckles looked like ghosts of their own. Neither of them spoke. Neither tried to touch you.

Because George was the one breaking.

“I shouldn’t have hesitated,” he choked out. “I should’ve moved. I should’ve—God, you’re such a bloody idiot, why’d you—why’d you jump in for me?”

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, breathing shallow and hot. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, fogged and streaked with tears he didn’t remember crying.

“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”

The pain didn’t matter. Not the ache in his back from kneeling too long, not the way his wrists shook from the effort. The only thing that mattered was keeping your chest rising. Just. One. More. Breath.

"You’re not allowed to die,” he said again, lower this time, like a ritual. “Not before I tell you I…”

He stopped.

The words spilled out like a broken pipe, and the silence that followed was worse.

He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with blood on the floor and your pulse fading beneath his fingers. Not when it felt like the world was caving in.

He looked at your face, eyes searching for some sign—anything. A twitch. A flinch. A miracle.

Nothing.

So, he stayed there, hands red and heart raw, saying nothing more. Just breathing for you, holding pressure like penance.

Until help came.

And then the rest was noise—paramedics, lights, movement. But George didn’t move from your side, not even when they pried his fingers loose. Not until they promised you were still alive.

Not until he saw your fingers curl, just slightly, against the edge of the stretcher.

Only then did he allow himself to fall apart.

The world returned in fragments.

A beep.

The prickle of warm light behind closed eyelids.

The heaviness of limbs weighted by sleep—or something deeper.

Your mouth tasted like metal and cotton, and your throat burned as if you'd swallowed fire and tried to apologize for it. There was a dull throb somewhere in your side. Not sharp. Just present. Like a bruise made of memory.

And then—

A voice. Quiet, hoarse, too close.

“—still not awake. That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve got all night.”

George.

You didn’t open your eyes right away. His voice was cracked at the edges, the way old records skip when you listen too hard. He was trying to sound normal, you could tell—still mumbling facts, little tangents, telling you how many types of ghosts had been miscategorized in the last Fittes Journal of Psychic Studies—but every word trembled.

There was a weight on your wrist. Warm. Familiar.

His hand.

“…you scared the hell out of me,” he whispered eventually, and now the facts had stopped. “You looked like you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I just—” He stopped. Exhaled. “You can’t do that to me again, okay?”

You finally opened your eyes.

It took effort, like peeling back layers of something thick and stubborn. The light was low, and everything hurt—but your gaze found him instantly. Slumped in the chair beside your bed, glasses smudged, curls a mess, hoodie stretched and wrinkled like he hadn’t changed in days.

He looked like he’d fallen through grief and landed in a chair and stayed there.

“…George?” Your voice barely made it past your lips. A scrape. A ghost of a sound.

He bolted upright. Eyes wide. Like you’d just come back from the dead—which, technically, you had.

“You’re awake.” He blinked hard, and then again, and you thought he might cry. “You—bloody hell, you’re awake.”

You managed a tired smile. “Tell me what, George?”

He froze.

Like a record skipping again. He stared at you, breath caught between ribs like it didn’t know if it should leave.

“I heard you,” you whispered. Your fingers found his—weak but insistent. “You said something. When I was bleeding out and you thought I couldn’t hear. Tell me what.”

His hand twitched in yours. “You… You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“But I did.”

Silence.

His jaw worked like he was chewing through a thousand possible denials, trying to swallow them before they left his mouth. But you saw it. In his eyes. The thing he’d been burying behind sarcasm and science and safety.

Your thumb brushed his knuckles. “Say it again.”

He didn’t look away this time. His voice was barely a breath when it came.

“I love you.”

The words trembled like a confession to a god he wasn’t sure believed in him.

“I was supposed to tell you when you weren’t covered in blood,” he added weakly. “When we were both, I don’t know, breathing properly.”

Your laugh came out like a wheeze. “Terrible timing, George.”

“I know.”

“…I love you too.”

He blinked, stunned. Like all the air had been knocked out of him—but softly, this time. Like the fall was worth it.

And when he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours, you realized he was still shaking.

But now you were awake.

And he wasn’t letting go.

The scar isn’t large.

A small crescent near your ribs. Pale, healing, insignificant by battlefield standards. But for George, it’s a fault line.

And ever since you came back—lips pink, pulse steady, eyes burning with life again—he hasn’t stopped watching you. Not in a romantic way (though, yes, that too). No, it’s something deeper. Sharper. Like his eyes are trying to memorize every movement in case you blink out of existence.

You call it hovering.

He calls it being thorough.

Lucy calls it “creepy as hell, George, back off, she’s fine.”

But he doesn’t back off.

Not when you go upstairs without a word. Not when your laugh drifts from the kitchen and he doesn’t see the context. Not when you flinch slightly while pulling your shirt over your head and he rushes over like it’s day one again.

"Does it hurt?"

"No. It’s healing."

“Let me see anyway.”

You sigh, roll your eyes, let him check. His fingers hover just above the scar like he’s scared to touch it, like pressure alone could undo the stitches that already dissolved. He doesn’t speak while he looks. You let him. You know this isn’t really about your side.

It’s about his.

Because something inside George broke that night.

And he’s terrified it’ll break again.

On missions, he doesn’t stray more than a few feet. If you’re near the Source, he’s next to you—torch ready, heart in his throat. He startles when you gasp, stiffens when you run. He sleeps with one ear turned toward your door.

“George,” you say one night, gently. “I’m here.”

He’s sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall, knees pulled up like a kid lost in thought. His eyes lift to meet yours, haunted and tired and heavy.

“You stopped breathing,” he murmurs. “On the floor. Just stopped. And I thought—what if that’s the last thing I ever remember of you?”

You kneel down in front of him, touching his face. “But it’s not.”

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him to gravity.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not when I only just—when we only just—”

“Started,” you finish.

He nods.

You slide your hand into his and press it gently against your chest. “Feel that? That’s mine. Still going.”

“It better keep going,” he mumbles. “Or I swear to God I’ll fight death itself.”

You smile. “Dramatic.”

“Desperate.”

He kisses your knuckles.

And maybe he’ll stop hovering one day.

But tonight, you sit beside him in the hall, tangled in silence, in shared breath, in a love that clings tight like ivy around a scar.

—

Tag list: @dearhnymn @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow

[eeechooo]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

PAIRING ⊱ g. karim × fem!reader WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.5k SUMMARY ⊱ when a late-night research session at the archives turn into an accidental lockdown, you and george are forced to pass the time with banter, more haunted case files, and one jar of questionable pickled onions.

© dearhnymn does not consent to their work being copied, translated, altered, or used by ai in any way possible.

The National Archives exuded the musty scent of old paper mingled with a lemony polish that hinted at long-forgotten tales. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets and the slow death of your patience. You flipped through yet another brittle journal, its pages crackling like dry leaves, filled with outdated Type Two classifications and field notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting that only a corpse could love. Across the long reading table, George was in his element—his glasses slightly askew and his face warm and illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp.

He paused, gesturing toward the wooden card catalog drawer he had yanked open just ten minutes prior, like a judge in the courtroom. “This filing system is a war crime,” he declared, indignation lacing his voice.

You didn’t look up, tone bored. “Please don’t start.”

　“I’m just saying,” he continued, pulling out a yellowed index card with a flourish reminiscent of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “No one who organizes specter cases under ‘Slightly Corporeal Floaters’ should be allowed near a label maker.”

　“Maybe they were being poetic,” you retorted, unable to resist the urge to defend the outdated system.

　“They were being wrong,” he shot back, slamming the card back in as though it had personally offended him.

With a resigned sigh, you scribbled a note beside a date, the pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. “We’re supposed to be researching the Wexford case, not verbally eulogizing the Dewey Decimal System,” you said, trying to refocus.

George leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You’re only grumpy because I got the last working pen.”

You glared at your own pen, which was sputtering like a dying beetle, refusing to cooperate. “Give me yours.”

　“No.”

　“George.”

He popped the cap off and pretended to write air-notes with an exaggerated flourish. “Sorry, I need it. In the service of truth.”

Unable to hold back your laughter, you tossed a crumpled scrap of paper at him, and it bounced off his forehead.

Despite the light-hearted banter, a comforting rhythm settled in as you flipped through the journals. You found a promising lead in a 1970s field log—something about inconsistent readings and a ghost that changed its voice mid-manifestation. George perked up, his energy palpable.

　“Mimics aren’t supposed to switch tones that fast. That’s more Type Three-adjacent,” he remarked, excitement threading through his voice.

　“That’s not a real classification, George,” you countered, rolling your eyes.

He held the log up, tapping a line with fervor. “It’s in ink. It’s real enough for me.”

You leaned closer, pointing with a sense of purpose. “That says ‘possibly mimetic residue,’ not ‘Type Three.’ You’re reading what you want to read.”

　“You’re insufferable.”

　“And correct.”

The playful scrutiny continued—snapping back and forth like fencing foils—but there was something undeniably nice about it. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar. You exchanged journals across the table like a secret language, he refilled your tea without prompting, and you corrected his notes with a red pen, each mark a silent understanding between you.

Then, in a moment that felt charged with electricity, you both reached for the same volume—a thick, battered record bound in cracked leather—and your fingers brushed against each other.

Silence stretched, thick and full of unspoken words.

His fingers paused above yours, and you both looked up simultaneously.

His eyes widened behind his glasses, a spark of surprise mixed with something else. There was a brief pause—more intimate than you expected—before he cleared his throat, pulled away, and muttered, “You can… you can take it.”

And so you did, though you felt your heartbeat quickening slightly, a vivid sense of awareness washing over you as you quietly claimed the book.

Neither of you spoke for what felt like an eternity after that.

The desk lamp flickered twice, a hesitant heartbeat in the quiet, before the overhead lights emitted a loud click and dimmed to half power, casting strange shadows across the room.

You both froze, tension settling over you like a heavy fog.

　“Was that...?” you began, uncertainty creeping into your voice.

A second click followed, more deliberate. Metal echoed in the distance—doors slamming with a heavy finality that sent chills down your spine.

You shifted your posture, sitting up straighter, heart racing as anticipation gnawed at your stomach. George tilted his head like a bloodhound catching a scent, his expression sharpening with awareness.

　“I think that was the front lock,” you said slowly, the realization hitting you.

He stood, urgency coursing through him as he moved toward the main hall. “Yup. Yup. That was the deadbolt.”

You followed closely, dread rising like cold fog enveloping your thoughts. “You said we had until ten.”

George snorted, reflecting your mounting anxiety with a hint of humor. “I said probably ten. Archives policy says nine-thirty. And you didn’t check the clock, did you?”

　'I was busy doing actual research,” you shot back defensively.

　“And flirting with footnotes, clearly.” He reached the door and yanked it hard. Nothing. He rattled the handle once, twice, for good measure, then pressed his forehead against the thick glass, frustration mingling with concern.

　“Well,” he said after a beat, frustratedly running a hand through his hair, “we live here now.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “We what?”

He turned to face you with a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome to the night shift, partner.”

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

　“Best get back to it then,” you murmured to yourself, a hint of resignation lacing your tone. You pulled your chair out with a creak that echoed the weariness of the day, sinking into its familiar embrace. With a heavy sigh, you leaned over the journal sprawled open before you, its blank pages seeming to taunt you as you fought against the tide of exhaustion and the daunting task that lay ahead.

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

Behind you, George let out a soft whistle, his silhouette crossing the dusty spill of moonlight filtering through the tall windows.

　“Locked in with nothing but dusty manuscripts, ghost taxonomy, and my sparkling company,” he said, plopping into the armchair across from you. “Truly, a dream come true.”

You didn’t even look up. “If I vanish tonight, you’re going to be the prime suspect.”

He grinned around a biscuit. “If you vanish, I’m eating the rest of these in your memory.”

You gave him a long look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You already ate most of them.”

　“Exactly,” he said, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t want them to go stale.”

Despite everything—the flickering lights, the locked doors, the oppressive quiet—you felt the tension ease, just a little. The familiar rhythm returned. You scribbled notes while George mumbled half-formed theories aloud, flipping between sources and occasionally tossing a book your way like you were his very reluctant lab partner.

　“So,” he began, flipping open a journal so worn its spine groaned in protest, “do we think the Wexford ghost is a mimic, a restless residual, or just an unusually noisy radiator?”

You flipped a page. “If it’s a radiator, it’s the first one to whisper children’s lullabies in reverse Latin.”

George blinked. “Touché.”

You smirked behind your notes, and for a few minutes, you both worked in a companionable quiet. Only the occasional sound of paper rustling, a pen scratching, or George mumbling something vaguely intelligent under his breath punctuated the stillness. The library, despite its locked doors and aging woodwork, felt less like a trap and more like an eccentric sleepover—if sleepovers involved crumbling files, mild existential dread, and at least one person who brought an entire pantry in their satchel.

Time lost its edges sometime around the third footnote dispute.

You were half-curled around a cracked volume of Spectral Residue and Other Oddities, fingers smudged with ink and dust, George cross-legged beside a tower of marginally useful witness statements. You’d both settled into that strange, caffeine-fueled rhythm where silence didn’t mean disinterest—it meant concentration, immersion, a truce forged in mutual exhaustion and the shared pursuit of answers.

　“No way this one’s real,” you muttered, nudging a tattered page toward him, the thin paper crinkling under your fingers. “A headless monk and a cursed weathercock? Bit greedy for ghost stories, don’t you think?”

He didn’t even look up, his focus laser-like as he studied the contents. “It’s from the St. Wythorne collection. They added embellishments to everything. One file claims a ghost interrupted tea with Queen Victoria.”

　“Now that’s the haunting I want,” you said, grinning at the absurdity of it. “Imagine getting cursed over chamomile—it’s practically scandalous.”

George flicked a page pointedly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, yet he stayed stubbornly silent.

Minutes later, he found himself snorting as he read another witness account—so overwrought it could have been a poorly-written romance novel. He tapped the edge of the page, incredulous. “This woman claims the ghost moaned at her window for ‘fourteen consecutive nights.’”

You leaned in closer, your curiosity piqued, and replied, “Romantic.”

　“She was eighty-three,” he said, incredulous.

You raised both eyebrows, a grin creeping onto your face. “Still romantic! Well, in a way.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned closer, your breath stirring the hair near his temple. The small space felt electric, the proximity igniting an unexpected connection between you.

For a little while, the atmosphere shifted. You both fell into a rhythm, the dim light of flashlights illuminating the array of notes, files, and journals scattered around you. He read aloud in exaggerated accents, and you couldn’t help but correct his footnote citations. It was in those moments, as laughter punctuated the silence, that the task transformed into something deeper—a shared experience, strange yet exhilarating.

Then, without warning, your flashlight flickered.

Both of you looked up, the stillness of the room pressing in, curtaining off the outside world. The clocks had long ceased their ticking, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

　“Alright, this is unbearable,” You declared, stretching. “We need cushions, snacks, and a morale boost! Preferably in that order.”

　“You mean we need to make a camp,” he replied dryly, looking up from his notebook.

　“Yes, exactly! Every good stakeout has a proper base of operations,” you said, beaming.

Albeit reluctantly, George helped you gather supplies—dragging a few neglected coats and archival binders from a shadowy back corner, rearranging a reading rug and a stack of encyclopedias into something that vaguely resembled a fort. You, as always, pulled more snacks from the cavernous depths of your bag: crisps, boiled sweets, a squashed chocolate bar, and, to your horror, pickled onions.

　“Absolutely not,” George protested, recoiling.

　“You say that now,” You replied smugly, placing the jar beside the biscuits with the reverence of a curator unveiling a masterpiece. “But give it an hour; you’ll understand.”

George didn’t argue.

You both settled cross-legged on opposite sides of the makeshift rug, flashlights propped upright like guardians between stacks of books, casting a soft, warm glow around you. The scent of the biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the dust and the musty aroma of the old pages. For a moment, time lost its weight, and the quiet felt like a comforting embrace. Your shoulders, once tense from the work and the atmosphere, began to relax. The pages took on a gentle blur, but it was a blur you didn’t mind—one that wrapped you in a sense of calm.

Eventually, the quiet fractured, giving way to scattered conversation. You shared your worst field assignment, a tale of a collapsed root cellar filled with ancient animal bones and a lingering odor that had haunted your coat long after. George responded with a story of nearly falling into a canal during a night stakeout, trying to impress a girl.

　“Did it work?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.

He smiled faintly, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “She laughed at me. But I still kind of liked her for it.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the shadows of the room as you reached to grab another file. Your flashlight caught the edge of one of his open notebooks, and you paused, squinting at the scribbled pages before you.

　“George,” you said slowly, the words lingering between you, “is this… your handwriting?”

　“Allegedly,” he replied flatly.

　“It looks like someone tried to summon a demon using only their left foot,” you snorted, unable to hide your amusement.

　“That’s rude,” he shot back, clearly offended “My left foot has very elegant penmanship, thank you very much.”

You leaned in, the space between you narrowing. “Is this the word ‘lantern’ or ‘lemonade’?” you asked, caught between laughter and curiosity.

He examined it, shrugging with a playful grin. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing, the sound brightening the dimness of the room. George’s expression shifted; he beamed as if winning a small victory, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver of warmth down your spine.

There was something softer about him in this light—no bravado, just the raw and unpolished boy who always had too many thoughts swirling in his head and never enough notebooks to capture them all.

　“Truth is,” he said, almost absently, “I like this part better.”

You looked up, intrigued by the unexpected candor in his voice.

　“This—research. Sitting still. Books don’t shout or disappear through walls or throw things when they’re angry,” he continued, his gaze growing distant as if he were lost in a memory.

You tilted your head, taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Books don’t scream,” he added softer now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. “They just… wait for you.”

The silence that enveloped you felt pregnant with understanding, a shared moment that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

　“I used to be scared of libraries,” you offered after a beat, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you. “Back when I first started. One time, I stayed late to finish filing a report, and the building creaked like it was breathing. I thought I was alone.”

George raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of rapt attention.

　“Then I heard someone say my name. My exact voice. But I hadn’t spoken,” you continued, your heart racing just from the memory.

He didn’t joke, didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his silence an invitation for you to share more.

　“I didn’t sleep for three nights after that. I never went back in without backup again,” you finished, the lingering fear of that experience weighing in your chest.

There was a pause, his hand shifting a little closer to yours, the warmth of his presence grounding you amidst those memories.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

The world outside the windows had succumbed to darkness, the kind of pitch black that pressed against the glass like a wall, isolating you in your little haven. Your limbs ached from being curled up for too long, and George, seeking comfort, had sprawled beside you, close enough that your knees brushed together every time either of you shifted.

At some point, you leaned over to pass him a chocolate biscuit, your fingers grazing his. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a quiet thrill coursing through you, an understanding unspoken, lingering in the air between your hearts.

Eventually, your head found its way to his shoulder, a gentle surrender to the moment. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; it just happened. His shoulder was an unexpected refuge—warm and inviting—his coat soft against your cheek, the fabric a cocoon that shielded you from the world outside. You could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, a calm rhythm that matched the rising and falling of your breath, grounding you in this space between uncertainty and comfort.

George remained motionless, his body relaxing into the shared silence, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was as if this was the very outcome he had yearned for but never dared to hope would come true. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a thread woven from the moments that had brought you here, binding your fates in a tapestry of emotion both delicate and profound.

Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with words. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say; instead, the air around you vibrated with unexpressed thoughts and feelings—an intimacy that transformed the quiet into something tangible. It was a soft, full, golden silence, rich with promise and unfulfilled desires. The kind that seems to whisper, stay here a little longer, as if the universe had conspired to suspend time just for the two of you, inviting you to linger in the warmth of each other’s presence.

The first sound that stirred you was the slow creak of the library doors swinging open. Not the phantom sounds you'd imagined all night—the ones you’d half-convinced yourself were ghosts or dreams—but something real. Solid. Morning had arrived with it, golden and certain, spilling into the dusty quiet like it belonged there.

Your eyes blinked open, sluggish and unfocused. The world smelled like old books and fading candle wax, and something warmer—someone warmer. A slow, steady heartbeat not your own, the whisper of shared breath.

Books were everywhere. Notes trailed across the floor like breadcrumbs, mingled with biscuit crumbs and half-drunk tea. You shifted slightly—and that’s when you felt him.

George.

At some point in the long, ink-stained night, he had drifted closer. His head rested gently against yours, as if it had simply found its way there in sleep. His coat was wrapped around both of you, one side slipped over your shoulder like a quiet promise. And his hand—his hand was curled around yours. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it had always been there.

Your breath caught. And across from you, his did too.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. The silence between your fingertips was louder than anything you’d ever read in a haunted case file.

Then came the second sound: Lockwood’s voice, far too smug for this hour. “Well, well. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

You jolted upright, heart lurching painfully in your chest. George twitched like he’d been struck, narrowly missing a precarious tower of case files. Your hands tore apart, clumsy and sudden, as if you’d been caught with a spell half-cast.

Lockwood stood in the doorway like it was a stage entrance. Behind him, Lucy held two takeaway coffees and a smile that hovered somewhere between genuine delight and knowing mischief.

“Didn’t know the research division had turned into a sleepover club,” she said sweetly.

“We were—locked in,” you blurted, your voice hoarse with sleep and something else you didn’t want to name.

George ran a hand through his hair, his curls standing on end. “Very haunted door,” he offered. “Wicked personality. Wouldn’t let us out.”

Lockwood gave him a long look. “You’re not assigned to a haunting.”

“No,” you said, too quickly, stumbling to your feet. “Just… archival cross-referencing. For future cases. You know. Standard protocol.”

George stood as well, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. But his ears were pink. So were yours.

Lucy’s gaze drifted over the mess—the blanket-fort of paperwork, the twin mugs gone cold, the trail of sleep-drunken scribbles—and she raised her brows. “Well, this explains why no one answered their phones. I was this close to assuming one of you had fallen into a cursed filing cabinet.”

“Oh, that almost happened,” you said in grinning sarcasm. “Very narrow escape. Tragic.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped in to help as you fumbled through gathering the scattered notebooks and wrappers, your hands clumsy, your thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Lockwood’s grin was sharp, Lucy’s knowing. George joined you wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again in a moment so fleeting it could’ve been missed.

Neither of you said anything about it.

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed! + if you want to be added to the taglist :)

⭐️　taglist: @eeechooo

[eeechooo]

some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.

[eeechooo]

This is definitely not a google drive full of the sleep stuff from the Headspace app, including sleepcasts, music, and wind down meditation, that normally costs 17.99 a month, no siree and you definitely shouldnt share this with people

[eeechooo]

WE DID IT

dear USAmericans,

VOTING WORKS!!!

French people showed up, French people voted, turnout was higher today than it has been since 1997, and we kicked the far right to 3rd place

a week ago, the far right was the biggest party in France, we were slated for a far right parliament, prime minister, and government

this week, we voted against them en masse and we won!

VOTING WORKS!

you're up next in November! it's very rare we get to say this, but this one time, take example on the French! show up and vote!

because VOTING WORKS!

[eeechooo]

Flour, Fear and Rain.

Fandom : Lockwood and Co

Pairing : George Karim x Reader

Request : @ilbradipodisagiato

Three moments : baking, nightmare and rain.

The kitchen at 35 Portland Row was filled with the aroma of freshly baked cookies. George and you had decided to take a break from ghost-hunting and try your hand at baking. Naturally, it had turned into a competition.

"You call that a cookie, George?" you teased, holding up a slightly misshapen lump of dough. "I think it's trying to escape!"

George adjusted his glasses, pretending to be deeply offended. "That, my dear friend, is a masterpiece in the making."

"A masterpiece of what? Modern art?" you quipped, giggling. "It looks like it melted."

"Fine talk from someone whose cookies are more like dry biscuits," George shot back, a mischievous glint in his eye.

You rolled your eyes, scooping up some flour. "Oh really? Well, let's see how it holds up against this!" With a swift motion, you tossed the flour in George's direction.

He sputtered, momentarily blinded by the cloud of white powder. "Oh, it's on!" he declared, grabbing a handful of cookie dough and launching it at you.

You ducked, laughing as the dough splattered against the wall behind you. "Missed me!"

"Did I?" George smirked, advancing with another handful of dough.

You grabbed a bowl of sugar, brandishing it like a weapon. "Stay back, or I'll make sure you look like a sugar plum fairy."

He paused, raising an eyebrow. "A sugar plum fairy, huh? You might need to work on your threats."

You scoffed playfully, flicking a pinch of sugar in his direction. "Consider it a promise."

Laughter filled the kitchen as flour, dough, and sugar flew through the air. By the end, both of you were covered in ingredients, the kitchen a complete mess.

Breathless, you leaned against the counter. "Truce?" you asked, holding out your hand.

George took it, a smile spreading across his face. "Truce," he agreed, shaking your hand. For a moment, neither of you let go, the playful tension hanging in the air before you both pulled back, chuckling nervously.

"You know," George said, looking at the disaster zone that was once a kitchen, "we might have to clean this up before Lockwood sees it. Unless you want to be on cleaning duty for the next month."

"Oh, so you do care about cleaning after all," you teased, nudging him lightly.

"Only because I know you'll make me do all the work," George replied, his tone lighter than usual. "Besides, I think we make a good team. Even if your baking skills are a bit questionable."

"Questionable?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'll have you know, my cookies are the epitome of perfection."

"Sure, if perfection means slightly burnt," he retorted, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Before you could respond, the door swung open, and Lockwood walked in, freezing mid-step as he took in the scene. "What on earth happened here?"

You and George exchanged a guilty look, both of you covered in flour and dough, the kitchen a disaster. "Um, baking experiment gone wrong?" you offered weakly.

Lockwood shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "You two are impossible. Clean up this mess, and next time, try not to destroy the kitchen, okay?"

As Lockwood left, you turned to George, both of you bursting into laughter. "I think we got off easy," you said, still giggling.

"Yeah," George agreed, wiping flour from his glasses. "But I wouldn't trade it for anything."

You nodded, feeling a warm glow in your chest. "Neither would I, George. Neither would I."

Nightmares gripped you tightly, tossing you into a realm where fear and reality blurred. You watched helplessly as George, his face contorted in pain, struggled against the ethereal grip of a malevolent ghost. The scene played out in agonizing slow motion, his eyes pleading for help that never came. The terror peaked as the ghost's icy fingers grazed his skin, and you woke up gasping, covered in cold sweat.

Heart racing, you stumbled out of bed, desperate to escape the lingering nightmare. The house was eerily quiet as you navigated through dimly lit corridors until you reached George's bedroom. Hesitating only briefly, you pushed the door open gently.

George lay on his side, his features softened in sleep. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Without thinking, you crawled into bed beside him, seeking solace in his presence.

He stirred slightly, blinking awake with a mix of surprise and concern as he registered your presence beside him. Before he could say anything, you buried your face into his chest, seeking comfort in his warmth.

For a moment, George hesitated, not accustomed to physical touch. But seeing your distress, he tentatively wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His touch was tentative yet comforting, a silent reassurance that you were not alone in your fear.

"You're safe now," he murmured softly, his voice breaking the silence.

"I... I saw you..." you started, your voice trembling. "It was... I thought..."

George tightened his embrace, his hand gently stroking your back. "It was just a nightmare," he assured you, his own voice surprisingly steady despite the emotions swirling within him.

"I was so scared," you admitted, your words muffled against his chest.

"I know," George replied quietly. "But I'm here. I've got you."

The tension ebbed away with each passing moment, replaced by a quiet understanding that words couldn't fully express. As you lay there together, the night slowly gave way to dawn, the world outside beginning to stir.

You yawned, eyes filled with tears from exhaustion. "I was terrified. Don't ever leave, we love you too much for that."

"Even you?" His voice was low, as if he was already sleeping.

"You have no idea."

When morning finally came, you both stirred awake, still entangled in each other's embrace. George looked at you with a rare softness in his eyes, a vulnerability that mirrored your own.

"I'm glad you came," he said softly, breaking the silence.

You met his gaze, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. "I needed to be here," you admitted honestly.

There was a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken words and shared emotions. Finally, George spoke again, his voice hesitant yet sincere.

"You know, I... I care about you," he confessed quietly, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on your arm.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a rush of emotions flooding through you. "I care about you too, George," you replied softly, meeting his gaze with equal honesty.

There was a pause, the air thick with unspoken implications. Neither of you moved, content to simply exist in this moment of fragile intimacy.

But as the morning light filtered through the curtains, reality began to assert itself once more. The weight of your confession hung in the air, yet neither of you addressed it directly as you untangled yourselves from each other's embrace.

The day unfolded with a semblance of normalcy, filled with routine tasks and the familiar banter that characterized your relationship. The night's confession lingered just beneath the surface, unacknowledged yet subtly altering the dynamics between you.

As you went about your day, there were stolen glances and small gestures that spoke volumes. Yet, when Lockwood and Lucy arrived, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between you and George, the moment of vulnerability shared in the dark hours of the night seemed like a distant dream.

It was as if the confession had never happened, buried beneath the weight of unspoken agreements and the unyielding demands of their ghost-hunting profession. And so, life at 35 Portland Row continued, with its ghosts, mysteries, and the unspoken truth that lingered between you and George, waiting to be acknowledged once more.

The sky had opened up, pouring rain in sheets as you and George hurried through the streets of London, having just left the Archives after a long day of research. The chaotic weather had left you both drenched and disoriented, separated from Lockwood and Lucy in the midst of a downpour (your coworkers stayed home, lucky for them).

"Great, just great," George muttered, wiping water from his glasses. "Can this day get any worse?"

You laughed, the sound echoing faintly against the rain. "At least we're not being chased by ghosts. Or relic men. Or both."

George shot you a sideways glance, a small smile playing on his lips despite the circumstances. "Small victories," he conceded with a nod.

As you continued along the rain-soaked street, George suddenly stopped, pulling a small umbrella from his pocket and opening it above your heads. "Here," he said matter-of-factly, "this should keep us a bit drier."

You blinked in surprise, grateful for his gesture but also caught off guard by the unexpected intimacy of sharing an umbrella with him in the middle of a storm.

Seeking refuge from the relentless rain, you soon found an awning and hurried beneath it, the patter of raindrops creating a cocoon of sound around you both. Leaning against the sheltered wall, you turned to face George, rain dripping from your hair.

"There," George said with a hint of concern, gesturing to your soaked appearance. "You're going to catch a cold if you keep getting soaked like this."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "I'll be fine, George. It's just a little rain."

He sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "Stubborn as always."

There was a moment of silence between you, the only sound the steady drumming of raindrops all around. His gaze met yours through the curtain of rain, and without words, you knew that the moment had come to express what had been silently growing between you.

Taking a deep breath, you reached out, your hand brushing against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against your palm. George's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he made no move to pull away.

In that moment, as the rain poured down around you, the weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air. Without another word, you leaned in, your movements guided by an unspoken understanding. The kiss that followed was gentle yet filled with intensity, a testament to the feelings that had silently grown between you. Well, that was about time.

The world around you faded into insignificance as you stood there, the rain soaking through your clothes. It was just the two of you, caught in a moment of raw honesty and shared vulnerability. The kiss tasted of rain and unspoken confessions, each touch and breath a silent affirmation of what had been silently acknowledged but never spoken aloud.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and unsure of what would come next, George's eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. There were no words needed, no grand gestures required. It was a moment of quiet revelation, shared beneath the stormy skies of London.

I'm not really a fan of this, but my laptop is STILL BEING AWFUL. writing on my phone is... well, let's say it's not that nice.

I'm so sorry if that took so long, being happy with your own writing is so complicated, but now it's done! if you have any other request, I'll be happy to write them!

Taglist : @cielooci @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow

[eeechooo]

She Gets Me

Fandom : Lockwood & Co

Pairing : Reader x George Karim

Request : @thestrangerblog

George has a pen pal (Reader) with whom he feels a deep connection, sharing similar interests and ways of thinking. They decide to finally meet in person for a casual picnic. As George gets ready in his usual casual clothes, Lockwood and Holly question his outfit, suggesting he should dress to impress. George firmly replies, "That’s how I am. Take it or leave it."

You’d been counting down the days. After months of exchanging letters filled with theories about ghostly phenomena, discussions on obscure historical facts, and shared frustrations about the peacock types in your respective fields, you were finally going to meet George in person. The picnic was your idea—a casual, no-pressure setting where you could both be yourselves. You had carefully chosen a spot in the park, a place with a mix of sun and shade, where the two of you could talk for hours without interruption.

Meanwhile, at 35 Portland Row, George was in his room, staring at his open wardrobe. He rifled through his clothes, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Should he go for something a bit more polished? Maybe a shirt without holes? No, he decided, shaking his head. He pulled out his favourite band T-shirt, one that had seen countless adventures and cases. It was soft, comfortable, and familiar—much like how he hoped the meeting with you would feel. He paired it with his trusty worn jeans, the ones that fit just right.

As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to tame it but ultimately giving up. It sprang back to its usual dishevelled state. George nodded to himself, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. This was him, and he wanted you to meet the real George.

Downstairs, Lockwood and Holly were waiting, their curiosity barely contained. Lockwood, with his usual impeccable style, crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow as George descended the stairs.

‘You’re going like this?’ Lockwood asked, his tone a mix of disbelief and amusement.

George paused on the last step, looking down at his outfit, then back up at Lockwood. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he replied, shrugging. ‘It’s a picnic, not a gala.’

Holly, always the picture of grace and fashion, tilted her head and scanned George’s attire critically. ‘A picnic, George? Don’t you want to make a good impression?’

George rolled his eyes, feeling a mix of irritation and amusement. ‘I’m meeting someone who already knows me, Holly. They’ve read my letters, they know my thoughts. If they don’t like me for who I am, then what’s the point?’

Lockwood and Holly exchanged a glance. Lockwood’s stern expression softened slightly. ‘Just make sure you bring back some good stories,’ he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Holly sighed but smiled warmly. ‘Fine, but at least comb your hair a bit more.’

George laughed, running his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to neaten it. ‘Happy now?’ he asked with a grin.

‘Close enough,’ Holly replied with a chuckle.

As George walked out the door, he felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. He was about to meet someone who had become a significant part of his life through letters. Someone who understood his passions and frustrations. He hoped the reality would match the connection they had built on paper. Who understood him.

You arrived at the park a little early, your heart racing with anticipation. You chose a spot under a large oak tree, spreading out the picnic blanket and arranging the food with meticulous care. The sun bathed everything in a warm glow, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, creating a peaceful atmosphere.

As you adjusted the layout, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. You wondered if George would be the same in person as he was in his letters—thoughtful, engaging, and deeply passionate about the supernatural.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. You looked up and saw George, exactly as you had imagined him: dishevelled hair, casual clothes, and a warm, genuine smile.

‘Hey,’ he greeted, his voice as familiar as his written words.

‘George!’ you exclaimed, standing up to meet him. ‘It’s so great to finally meet you in person.’

He smiled back, a bit shyly. ‘You too.’

You both settled down on the blanket, and the initial awkwardness quickly dissolved as you began to talk. The conversation flowed naturally, just like in your letters. You discussed the latest happenings in your agencies, shared your most recent discoveries, and vented about the superficial people you had to deal with in your line of work.

‘I can’t stand those types at Rotwell,’ you said, rolling your eyes. ‘You know, the ones who think a charming smile and a nice suit make them experts.’

George laughed heartily, nodding in agreement. ‘Tell me about it. They’re more interested in networking than actual research. It’s infuriating. Holly used to work with them, the lunatic.’

You felt a deep sense of camaraderie. Here was someone who truly understood your frustrations and shared your passion for uncovering the truth about the supernatural. That's exactly what you needed and wanted.

As the afternoon wore on, George began to talk about his latest project—a discovery he had made about the origins of a particularly aggressive Type Two. His eyes lit up with excitement as he described the breakthrough, his hands animatedly sketching out the details on a napkin.

‘And the best part?’ he said, leaning in closer. ‘It ties back to an old Persian legend my grandmother used to tell me. I’ve been researching it for months, and I finally made the connection.’

You listened intently, captivated by his enthusiasm and depth of knowledge. It was clear how much he loved what he did, and it made you appreciate him even more.

As the conversation shifted, George started talking about his passion for cooking, particularly Persian dishes. He recounted stories of his grandmother’s recipes, describing the rich, aromatic flavours with a reverence that made your mouth water. You remembered him writing about it, but now you could smell the faint scent of saffron on him, making it real.

‘You’ll have to try my tahdig sometime,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s a crispy rice dish, and I’ve perfected the recipe over the years.’

You smiled, feeling a warm connection with him. ‘I’d love that. It sounds delicious.’

The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the park. You both fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. The fading light painted a serene picture around you, enhancing the sense of intimacy between you—a shared understanding and mutual respect that went beyond words.

George glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. ‘This has been really great,’ he said quietly.

You nodded, feeling a rush of warmth. ‘It really has.’

As the sky turned shades of orange and pink, you knew that this meeting was just the beginning. There was so much more to explore together—more conversations, more shared moments, and perhaps even more Persian dishes to taste.

Back at 35 Portland Row, Lockwood and Holly were waiting eagerly for George’s return. They sat in the cosy library, Holly flipping through a book while Lockwood sipped on a cup of tea, both stealing glances at the clock every few minutes.

Finally, they heard the door open and George’s footsteps approaching. Lockwood set down his cup, his expression curious yet guarded. Holly closed her book gently, her eyes bright with anticipation.

‘Well?’ Lockwood prompted as George entered the room, a contented smile playing on his lips.

George grinned, the glow of satisfaction evident in his eyes. ‘It was amazing,’ he began, his voice filled with excitement. ‘We talked for hours. She’s exactly as I imagined—smart, funny, and so easy to talk to. We just clicked.’

Lockwood raised an eyebrow, his demeanour cautious. ‘And did you discuss any sensitive matters?’

George’s smile faltered slightly. He knew exactly what Lockwood was referring to—Joplin, the painful reminder of the dangers of revealing too much to those outside the agency. Too much, about the Problem, about him.

‘Nothing too sensitive,’ George assured him quickly, his tone earnest. ‘Just general discussions about work, our interests... you know.’

Holly’s eyes softened with understanding as she exchanged a glance with Lockwood. They both knew how cautious they had to be, especially after what happened with Pamela. Lockwood leaned forward in his chair, his expression serious yet supportive.

‘We’re glad to hear it went well,’ Lockwood said genuinely, reaching out to give George a pat on the back.

‘Yeah,’ Holly agreed, her voice gentle. ‘Sounds like you found someone who appreciates the real you.’

George nodded, feeling a sense of contentment settle over him. ‘I think I have,’ he replied softly, grateful for their concern yet eager to protect this new connection he had forged.

He knew he had to tread carefully, to not let his guard down completely. But in that moment, surrounded by his trusted friends who had become like family, George felt a rare sense of hope—that maybe, just maybe, this time things could be different.

After the first picnic with George, you returned home feeling a mixture of exhilaration and contentment. As you stepped into your shared apartment, your roommate greeted you with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling mischievously over the rim of her teacup.

‘Well, well, well,’ she teased playfully. ‘How was your date?’

You chuckled, setting down your bag and joining her at the kitchen table. ‘It wasn’t a date,’ you clarified with a grin. ‘Just a picnic. But it was amazing. George is exactly as I imagined him—smart, funny, and so easy to talk to.’

Your roommate raised an eyebrow knowingly. ‘Sounds like a date to me,’ she quipped, taking another sip of her tea.

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. ‘Okay, maybe it felt a little bit like a date,’ you admitted, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks.

She leaned forward, curiosity evident in her expression. ‘So, are you going to see him again?’

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. ‘I hope so. We really clicked.’

She grinned, setting her teacup down with a satisfied nod. ‘I’m happy for you. It’s about time you met someone who gets you.’

You felt a rush of warmth at her words. It was comforting to have someone who understood you so well, who supported your happiness without hesitation.

‘Yeah,’ you replied softly, gratitude filling your voice. ‘Me too.’

As you recounted the highlights of the picnic—George’s stories, his passion for the supernatural, and even his talent for cooking—your roommate listened attentively, sharing in your excitement and offering words of encouragement.

By the end of the conversation, you couldn't help but feel even more certain about the connection you had with George. And as you settled into bed that night, thoughts of future picnics and conversations danced through your mind, filling you with anticipation for what was to come.

Days turned into weeks, and George found himself eagerly anticipating each interaction with you. Whether it was meeting for coffee after work or exchanging late-night messages about the latest supernatural phenomena, every moment spent together deepened your connection.

Lockwood and Holly watched with cautious optimism as George navigated this new friendship. They could see how much George valued you, how your presence brought a new lightness to his demeanour. And while they remained vigilant, they couldn’t deny the genuine joy they saw in George’s eyes. After a month of bright eyes from their coworker and best friend with your name always on his lips, Lucy, Lockwood, and Holly decided that, perhaps, they could trust you.

As weeks passed, the bond between you and George continued to grow stronger. Every meeting brought new conversations, shared laughter, and a deepening understanding of each other's passions and quirks. Lockwood, Lucy, and Holly observed with cautious optimism, seeing how much joy you brought into George's life and how well you fit there, with him.

One evening, George received a rather unexpected invitation from Lockwood. ‘How about dinner at 35 Portland Row tomorrow night?’ Lockwood suggested "casually". ‘I thought it would be nice for all of us to spend some time together.’

George, surprised yet pleased, agreed. He relayed the invitation to you, and you gladly accepted, feeling both nervous and excited at the prospect of spending more time with George outside of your usual hangouts.

The next evening, you arrived at 35 Portland Row, the unfamiliar house exuding an air of mystery and warmth. You opted for a casual outfit—a comfortable jumper and jeans—but as soon as you stepped inside, Holly and Lucy greeted you with laughter.

‘Oh, you look absolutely adorable!’ Holly exclaimed, her eyes twinkling without an ounce of malice.

Lucy smiled warmly. ‘It's nice to see someone not dressed to impress for once.’

You chuckled, feeling immediately at ease with their playful banter. Lockwood appeared from the study, a gracious smile on his face as he welcomed you.

‘Welcome, please make yourself at home,’ Lockwood said, gesturing towards the dining room where the table was set for dinner.

The evening flowed smoothly as everyone settled in. Lockwood proved to be a gracious host, regaling you with stories of their recent cases and engaging you in lively discussions about supernatural phenomena. You found yourself drawn into the conversation, sharing your own insights and experiences, feeling a sense of belonging among George's friends.

During dinner, you found yourself seated next to George. He smiled warmly at you, his eyes reflecting the same joy and comfort you felt. As you talked, you realised how much you shared in common—not just your interests in the supernatural, but your values and perspectives on life itself.

‘I'm glad you're here,’ George whispered to you softly as you savoured his exquisite cooking.

‘Me too,’ you replied with a genuine smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your heart.

Lockwood and Lucy watched the interaction with subtle approval, exchanging knowing glances. After dinner, as you helped clear the table, Lockwood approached George discreetly.

‘I trust your judgment, George,’ Lockwood murmured, his voice low but earnest. ‘Both in your work and in your... friendships.’

George met Lockwood's gaze, a sense of gratitude and responsibility settling over him. ‘Thank you, Lockwood,’ he replied quietly. ‘I appreciate that.’

Lockwood nodded, his expression serious yet supportive. ‘You've both earned it,’ he added before returning to help Holly and Lucy with the dishes.

As you said your goodbyes later that evening, you felt a renewed sense of connection with George and his friends. And as you walked away from 35 Portland Row, you knew that you were becoming a part of something special, something that felt like home.

I AM SO LATE LMAODOSO HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY!!! I hope it was good, my laptop has been annoying the whole time I couldn't really get IN you know.

I love how george is just being like yes I'm gonna meet her and it's either she likes me or she can go home

I'm trying to get back to writing, the exams killed me but it's okay I'll fight back SO IF YOU WANT TO MAKE ANY REQUEST IT'S OPEN

Taglist :

@cielooci @neewtmas @35-portlandxrow

[eeechooo]

Yes I re-read my own fics because I wrote them for ME

[eeechooo]

I wish lesbians were as easy to find in real life as they are on tumblr

[eeechooo]

trying to prove a point to the boys at school

reblog this if you believe trans men are real men like this if you dont

[eeechooo]

Trying to prove a point to my transphobic parents

Reblog if trans men are REAL, VALID AND HANDSOME MEN, NO MATTER HOW THEY CHOOSE TO PASS

Reblog if trans women are REAL, VALID, AND BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, NO MATTER HOW THEY CHOOSE TO PASS

And finally, because it's a part of my argument for this point, and also because they are,

Reblog if nonbinary and genderqueer people in general, are REAL, VALID, AND GORGEOUS PEOPLE, NO MATTER HOW THEY PASS

[eeechooo]

Glasses people love to make you try their glasses on to see how fucked up their eyes are. It's a sign of respect in their culture.

[eeechooo]

Opportunities

Fandom : Lockwood and Co. Pairing : Female Reader x George Karim Request : @cielooci "reader's best friends w george since fittes days and develops a crush on him BUT it's unrequited. cause like he's super invested in his work and fails to notice the reader's advances— only at the end does he realise, when they've gave up and start to slip away." Warnings : Angst my beloved. ALTERNATE ENDINGS, blue = sad ending, pink = happy ending.

You curse yourself silently, each word a bitter echo in the recesses of your mind, a relentless mantra of self-blame. Why did you let yourself fall for him? Why did you allow your heart to weave its intricate threads into this tangled mess? You should have known better. You should have kept your feelings buried deep, locked away in the depths where they couldn’t inflict such devastating harm.

Sitting across from George in the dimly lit room, his presence a haunting reminder of all you're desperately trying to forget, you feel a sharp pang of regret twist in your chest. Regret for not staying at Fittes, for not ignoring the flutter in your chest whenever he smiled, for not staunchly pushing your feelings aside as you know you should have.

Back at Fittes, there was a different air, a different energy. You and George were an unstoppable team, bound together in your quest for truth and justice. Countless hours were spent side by side, delving into the forbidden corners of the library to unearth ancient secrets, honing your skills with the rapier in the courtyard until the setting sun painted the sky in hues of gold and pink.

But now, everything has shifted. George is consumed by his work, his mind perpetually elsewhere, always fixated on the next case, the next breakthrough. And you? You're left behind, a mere shadow of your former self, ensnared in the suffocating grip of unrequited love.

His voice interrupts your thoughts, dragging you back to the present. He speaks of the latest case, his words a distant murmur as you struggle to maintain your composure. You try to focus, to pay attention, but your mind is a tempest, swirling with emotions too turbulent to contain.

"...so I’ll have to go to the Archives this afternoon," George finishes, his tone matter-of-fact.

You blink, trying to process his words. "But... but you told me we’d go grocery shopping today," you object, your voice wavering. He did it, again.

George shrugs, an action so casual it stings. "Work takes precedence," he states simply, his gaze already drifting back to the scattered papers before him.

Frustration surges within you, threatening to spill over like a torrential downpour. "More important than us? Than spending time together?" you didn’t know if your voice told him if it was a challenge or genuine hurt, the bitterness lacing your words like poison mixed with disappointment. 

George meets your gaze, his expression inscrutable. "It’s not like that, you know that," he murmurs softly, but his words offer little solace.

You want to scream, to shake him until he sees the agony he’s causing you. But instead, you swallow your anger, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. Because this is what you’ve always done, isn’t it? Pretended like everything is fine, even as it shatters you from within.

You curse yourself once more, for your weakness, for allowing him to burrow under your skin so deeply. But deep down, you understand that no amount of self-recrimination will alter the painful truth. You're ensnared in this cycle of heartache, with no apparent escape in sight.

Each passing moment feels like an eternity, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on your shoulders like a heavy burden. Lucy and Lockwood notice the subtle changes in your demeanour—the wistful glances you steal at George, the gentle touches that go unnoticed by him. They urge you to be brave, to lay your heart bare before him, but their encouragements fall on deaf ears as George remains oblivious to your silent suffering.

You attempt to heed their advice, to summon the courage to reveal your feelings, but something always intervenes. His work, his distractions, his indifference—it's a barrier that looms between you, impeding any chance of genuine connection. And with each missed opportunity, the weight on your soul grows heavier, dragging you further into the abyss of despair.

You begin to feel invisible, a ghost haunting the corridors of Lockwood & Co., present but unseen. Does George even notice you anymore? Does he comprehend the depth of your emotions? It’s as though your cries for acknowledgment vanish into the void, unheard and unheeded.

Days blur into nights, nights into days, and the pain of unrequited love becomes an ever-present companion, an ache that refuses to abate. You find solace in solitude, retreating to the sanctuary of the attic, where the agony of your unspoken affections cannot reach you. But even in the quiet confines of your solitude, the ache persists, a constant reminder of the love that remains unreturned.

One evening, as you lie in the darkness with Lucy by your side, the weight of your unspoken feelings pressing down on you like a leaden weight, you finally shatter. Tears spill forth, hot and bitter, as you surrender to the overwhelming anguish, your body convulsing with sobs.

Lucy envelops you in her embrace, offering what scant comfort she can. You cling to her desperately, the barriers around your heart crumbling in the face of overwhelming grief.

"Does he know?" you gasp between sobs, your voice raw with pain.

Lucy’s response is a tender squeeze of your hand, a silent acknowledgment of your suffering. And then, in a voice heavy with sorrow, she murmurs, "I’m so sorry."

Her words pierce through you like a blade, the final confirmation of your worst fears. Your feelings are unreciprocated, and there's no escaping the crushing weight of that realisation. You bury your face in Lucy’s shoulder, clinging to her as though she were your only lifeline, as though her presence could somehow staunch the bleeding of your broken heart.

__

The tension in the air crackles with an almost tangible intensity as Lockwood & Co. prepares for what promises to be one of their most perilous endeavours yet. The stakes loom high, and the weight of responsibility presses heavily upon your shoulders like a burden too great to bear. Yet amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing remains constant—the gnawing ache in your heart, the incessant reminder of the unrequited love that festers like an open wound.

As you pile into the cab alongside George and the rest of the team, your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. On one hand, the adrenaline of the impending mission courses through your veins, the thrill of the hunt igniting a fire within. But on the other hand, there's a bitter resentment that simmers just beneath the surface, a resentment born from the realisation that no matter how valiantly you fight, George will never regard you with the same fervour you hold for him.

The mission unfolds in a blur of danger and excitement, each moment fraught with peril as you navigate the treacherous terrain of the haunted city. You fight side by side with George, your heart pounding in your chest as you battle against malevolent spirits that threaten to rend you asunder. And then, in an instant, everything changes.

You glimpse it first—the shadowy spectre lurking in the darkness, its eyes ablaze with an otherworldly light as it lunges for George with a swiftness that sends a shiver down your spine.

No. Not him.

Instinct takes hold, and without a second thought, you hurl yourself in front of him, your body a shield against the oncoming threat.

Time seems to slow to a crawl as you brace for impact, fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins like wildfire. And then, just as the ghost is about to strike, you lunge forward, your hand outstretched as you snatch George out of harm's way, the spectral entity passing through you like a wisp of smoke.

For a fleeting moment, there's silence—a deafening silence that echoes in the depths of your soul as you stand there, panting and trembling, your heart hammering in your chest like a drumbeat. And then, as quickly as it began, the moment is shattered by George's voice, his tone casual and indifferent as he holds up the ghost source in his hand.

"That would be perfect for one of my experiments," he remarks, his words piercing through the veil of your sacrifice.

Something inside you snaps—a raw, primal fury that surges forth from the depths of your being. You turn away from him, your jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

(TWO DIFFERENT ENDINGS. FOLLOWING ONE = SAD ENDING, SCROLL TO THE PINK TEXT FOR THE HAPPY ONE)

In the quiet aftermath of the case, you sat in the back of the cab, staring out the window, your heart still pounding from the close call. George had been in danger, and without a second thought, you had risked your own safety to protect him. But when you reached him, all he could say was, “That would be great for one of my experiments.” The words echoed in your mind, cold and detached, like a knife twisting in your heart.

You ignored him the entire way back, a wall of silence between you that only grew thicker and more impenetrable as you got home. Even when he tried to talk to you, to draw you back into his world of research and discoveries, you shut him out, closing the door to your room in his face.

But George wasn’t one to give up easily. A few minutes later, he was pounding on your door, his voice rising in frustration. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Why are you being so dramatic?”

"Why are you so blind?" you demand, your voice trembling with the weight of your anguish.

George's expression shifts, a flicker of confusion and guilt flashing across his features. "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

You scoff bitterly, incredulous at his obliviousness. "You think I don't feel anything?" you retort, your words dripping with scorn. "You think I'm just some insignificant afterthought? Well, you're wrong, George. I'm tired of pretending everything's fine. I'm tired of pretending you don't matter to me. Because you do. You matter more than anything, and it kills me to know you'll never feel the same."

There's a stunned silence as your words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down upon you like a suffocating blanket. And then, without another word, you turn on your heel and slam the door shut in his face, leaving him standing there in the darkness as you retreat to your room, your heart still pounding in your chest.

As you collapse onto your bed, tears of frustration and sorrow stream down your cheeks, your body wracked with sobs. You bury your face in your pillow, your heart heavy with the weight of your unspoken confession, the ache of unrequited love burning like a brand upon your soul.

In that moment, as you lie there, broken and defeated, you can't help but wonder if it would have been better to keep your feelings buried deep, locked away where they couldn't cause any harm. But deep down, you know that's a lie. Because despite the pain, despite the heartache, you wouldn't change a thing. It was perhaps all worth it.

__

The next day, you made your decision. The tension in the house was palpable as you descended the stairs, the weight of the previous night's confrontation heavy on your shoulders. George had left the kitchen, and you found Lucy and Lockwood there, their faces reflecting the unease in the air. You took a deep breath and spoke, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

“I’ve decided to leave,” you said, watching their eyes widen in shock.

“What? You can’t be serious,” Lockwood said, his brow furrowing in concern. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s for the best,” you replied, forcing a smile. “We’ll stay best friends, just not coworkers or living together anymore.”

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached out to grasp your hand. “Please, don’t go. We need you here.” Her voice was unstable.

But your mind was made up. “I need time and space to heal, Lucy. I can’t stay here, not like this.”

Before they could say more, George appeared in the doorway, having overheard your words. His face was a mask of confusion and regret. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked at him, your heart aching with unspoken words. “Because I can’t keep pretending everything is okay when it’s not,” you said softly. “I need to move on, George.”

An hour later, you left the only home you had and never looked back. 

__

Four years had passed since you left Lockwood & Co., since you walked away from George and the life you had once known. In those four long years, George had been haunted by your absence, by the hollow ache that lingered in the depths of his soul—a constant reminder of what he had lost.

As he stood outside the reception hall, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach, George couldn't help but reflect on the path that had led him here—alone, with nothing but regrets to keep him company. Clutching the token you had given him all those years ago, your badge from Fittes when you both said that it was just a stupid agency, he felt a surge of emotion wash over him, a torrent of longing and regret that threatened to overwhelm him.

He understood now, understood the depth of your feelings, the pain he had caused you with his obliviousness and neglect. But understanding came too late, too late to mend the shattered pieces of your broken heart, too late to undo the damage he had wrought.

As he watched you from afar, playing with your wedding band, a radiant smile lighting up your face, George felt a pang of longing and regret that cut deeper than any blade. He wanted to reach out to you, to tell you how sorry he was for everything he had put you through, but he knew that words were meaningless now, that the damage had already been done.

So he stood there, a silent witness to your happiness, his heart heavy with the weight of what could have been. And as you looked his way, your gaze meeting his for the briefest of moments, George felt nothing but the stinging scar of your absence, a scar that would never fully heal. In his mind, a book was burning, their words disappearing like they were nothing. His fault. It was his fault.

With a heavy heart and a soul weighed down by regret, George turned away, leaving behind the life he had once known and the woman he had loved more than life itself. And as he walked away, a poignant sense of loss and unfulfilled potential hung in the air like a lingering ghost, a ghost that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

////////////

In the quiet aftermath of the case, you sat in the back of the cab, staring out the window, your heart still pounding from the close call. George had been in danger, and without a second thought, you had risked your own safety to protect him. But when you reached him, all he could say was, “That would be great for one of my experiments.” The words echoed in your mind, cold and detached, like a knife twisting in your heart.

You ignored him the entire way back, a wall of silence between you that only grew thicker and more impenetrable as you got home. Even when he tried to talk to you, to draw you back into his world of research and discoveries, you shut him out, closing the door to your room in his face.

But George wasn’t one to give up easily. A few minutes later, he was pounding on your door, his voice rising in frustration. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Why are you being so dramatic?”

Something inside you snapped. You flung the door open, your anger and hurt spilling out in a torrent of words. “Dramatic? You think I’m being dramatic?” you shouted, your voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly got myself killed to save you, and all you can think about is your damned experiments!”

George’s face twisted in confusion and anger. “You didn’t have to do that! I never asked you to risk your life for me!”

“You’re right, you didn’t,” you shot back. “I did it because I care about you, George. Because I like you. But you’re either too blind to see it or too much of an awful twat to acknowledge it!”

For a moment, George stood there, stunned into silence by your words. Then, he started yelling back, his own frustrations boiling over. “I’m good at my work, okay? That’s the only thing I know how to do. Feelings, relationships, all of that—it’s a mess I don’t know how to handle!”

“How can you know if you never even try?” you yelled, your voice breaking. “You hide behind your books and your research because it’s safe, because it’s easier than dealing with real emotions. But people aren’t experiments, George. I’m not an experiment!”

The silence that followed was heavy and painful, each of you standing there, breathing hard, staring at each other across the chasm that had opened between you. Finally, you turned away, the weight of your confession hanging in the air. “I’m done,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Without another word, you walked into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. The finality of it settled over you like a shroud, the realization that things would never be the same sinking in. George stood outside your door for a long time, his mind racing, your words echoing in his head. But he couldn’t bring himself to knock again, to breach the barrier you had put up. So he turned and walked away, retreating to the solitude of his own room, where he could drown himself in work and try to forget the pain in your eyes.

__

The next day, you made your decision. The tension in the house was palpable as you descended the stairs, the weight of the previous night's confrontation heavy on your shoulders. George had left the kitchen, and you found Lucy and Lockwood there, their faces reflecting the unease in the air. You took a deep breath and spoke, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

“I’ve decided to leave,” you said, watching their eyes widen in shock.

“What? You can’t be serious,” Lockwood said, his brow furrowing in concern. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s for the best,” you replied, forcing a smile. “We’ll stay best friends, just not coworkers or living together anymore.”

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached out to grasp your hand. “Please, don’t go. We need you here.” Her voice was unstable.

But your mind was made up. “I need time and space to heal, Lucy. I can’t stay here, not like this.”

Before they could say more, George appeared in the doorway, having overheard your words. His face was a mask of confusion and regret. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked at him, your heart aching with unspoken words. “Because I can’t keep pretending everything is okay when it’s not,” you said softly. “I need to move on, George.”

__

A few hours later, you found yourself standing outside George's door again, the book clutched tightly in your hands. This book, a treasured part of your shared history, was filled with annotations from both of you—notes on cases, personal thoughts, and even doodles drawn during late nights of research. It had been your plan to leave this as a parting gift, a piece of the bond you’d shared. You thought about leaving him without any more words, but what he told you made you heart warm up. A bit. He was scared. He deserved a proper goodbye.

But George wasn’t there.

Feeling a pang of disappointment, you turned and headed downstairs, where you found George in the kitchen. He was meticulously preparing Ghorabieh, the sweet aroma filling the room. You hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what to say.

“George?” you finally called out, your voice tentative.

He looked up from his task, his expression unreadable. “Wait at the table,” he said quietly, not meeting your eyes. You did as he asked, sitting down and wrapping your hands around a steaming cup of tea he had set out for you. The warmth seeped into your fingers, but it did little to ease the chill of uncertainty in your heart.

George continued his work in silence, carefully placing the tray of golden Ghorabieh on the counter to cool. When he finally sat across from you, he cleared his throat nervously. “These biscuits,” he began, his voice soft, “my dad used to make them for my mom whenever they argued. It became a family tradition. We had them at every event, but these ones, the ones I made for you, were special. They were a symbol of making amends.”

You watched him, your heart aching with the weight of his words. He looked down at his hands before continuing. “I’m good at my research because it’s something I know how to do perfectly. It’s predictable, unlike feelings and relationships. But last night, I realized something. Without trying, I’ll never know. I’m willing to try if you’ll let me. Trials and errors, I guess…”

George looked up, his vulnerability laid bare. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “I can try, for us.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions. You took a deep breath, the smell of Ghorabieh overwhelming your senses. You had to think about it. It hurt, so much and for so long. But you had to take your own advice, that without trying, tou'll never know. You both knew you needed time after everything, but you wanted it, which is why you answered :

“I’d like that,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

George’s shoulders sagged in relief, a tentative smile curving his lips. He reached out and handed you one of the biscuits, his hand shaking slightly. You took it, tasting the blend of almond and rosewater, the sweetness a stark contrast to the bitterness of the past few days.

As you sat there, the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken pain but filled with the promise of something new. It was a beginning tentative and fragile, but a beginning nonetheless. And oh, how you didn’t regret it.

__

Three years later, the atmosphere was filled with the joyful clinking of glasses and the warm hum of conversations. George stood near the edge of the reception hall, watching you from a distance. You were chatting animatedly with Lucy and Lockwood, your smile radiant as you absently played with your wedding band.

George couldn’t help but smile, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him. He tugged at his tie, which suddenly felt too tight around his neck. Making his way over to you, he couldn’t shake the memory of how different things might have been. They actually succeeded, they did it.

“Hey,” he called softly as he approached. “Can you help me with this? It’s strangling me.”

You turned, your eyes lighting up as you saw him. “Of course,” you said, reaching up to loosen his tie with practiced ease. As you adjusted it, your fingers brushed against his collar, and he felt the warmth of your touch seep through the fabric. He rolled his eyes playfully, but the gesture was affectionate, his fingers instinctively playing with his own wedding ring.

Oddly enough, as you worked on his tie, a fleeting thought passed through both your minds, like a whisper of a ghost from another time. It was as if you could both hear the echo of what might have happened if, three years ago, you hadn’t given each other a chance. The thought lingered for just a moment, a wistful reminder of the pain and missed opportunities that could have been.

But it quickly vanished, disappearing like a wisp of smoke. You finished with his tie and stepped back, your eyes meeting his with a look of understanding.

Lockwood, standing nearby, couldn’t resist making a face. “Oh, come on, you two. Get a room,” he teased, fake gagging.

You and George both laughed, the sound blending seamlessly into the joy around you. “Shut it, Lockwood,” you said, shaking your head with a smile.

“Yeah, mind your own business,” George added, grinning.

For a moment, you and George shared a look, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between you. Maybe in another life, you wouldn’t have been so lucky. Maybe you would have let each other slip away, lost in the chaos of unspoken feelings and missed chances. But in this life, you had found each other. You had taken the risk, bridged the gap, and come out the other side stronger and more connected than ever.

If it was worth it, you both were sure of it. 

__

IT WAS HARD OKAY. i might have messed up somewhere, if that's the case please tell me! writing alternate endings is great but good luck trying to not fuck up

ANYWAYS i hope you liked it! reader has... way more than a small little crush, but listen, conan gray taught me to be overdramatic. there you go.

rereading : IT WAS VERY DRAMATIC LMAOOOO, okay not a small crush but they're head over heels wtf

taglist : @neewtmas

if you don't want to be tagged/want to be just tell me!

[eeechooo]

Just Maybe

Fandom : Lockwood and Co. Pairing : Female Reader x George Karim Request : @sarahhelpimsinking "Reader is also part of Lockwood and co and they are really close, but George starts to get super attentive and touchy and she starts to catch in and mess with him, happy ending."

You were still buzzing with the adrenaline of the latest job as you climbed into the back of the cab with Lucy. The boys took the front seats, Lockwood chatting animatedly with the driver about something you couldn't quite hear. You settled into your seat, letting out a sigh of relief. The job had been a close call, but you had all come out unscathed.

Lucy leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I am telling you, something is wrong."

You turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

She glanced towards the front where George and Lockwood were deep in conversation. "George. He's been acting weird."

"Weird how?" you asked, genuinely curious. George had always been a bit of an enigma, but you figured you knew him well enough.

Lucy rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated. "He's been all... touchy. And he's never like that."

You frowned, thinking back to the events of the night. George had been more... present than usual, sticking close to you, even holding your hand during a particularly tense moment. But you brushed it off. "He was just scared, Lucy. It was a tough case. Anyone would be a little more... clingy."

Lucy shook her head, her expression sceptical. "I don't buy it. I've seen George scared before, and he doesn't get touchy. He gets quiet and intense, but not touchy."

You sighed, leaning back in your seat. "Look, George and I are just really close friends. Maybe he felt safer with me nearby. It's not a big deal."

Lucy gave you a look that said she didn't believe a word you were saying. "Close friends, sure. But he's been different lately. More attentive. Haven't you noticed?"

You shrugged, trying to brush off the growing unease in your chest. "We've all been under a lot of stress. Maybe he's just... I don't know, reacting to that."

Lucy crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced. "Maybe. But I still think there's more to it. Just... keep an eye on him, okay?"

You nodded, more to placate her than anything else. "Fine, I'll keep an eye on him. But I still think you're overreacting."

Lucy sighed, leaning back and staring out the window. "We'll see. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

You turned your attention to the front of the cab, watching George as he animatedly discussed something with Lockwood. You couldn't help but smile. Whatever Lucy thought, you knew George better than anyone. And if there was something more to his behaviour, you were sure you would notice it. Eventually.

For now, you were content to brush off Lucy's concerns and enjoy the calm after the storm. But a small part of you couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she was onto something.

The next morning, you made your way downstairs, still shaking off the remnants of sleep. The house was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the usual hustle and bustle. As you reached the kitchen, you found a note on the table from Lucy and Lockwood. They had gone to Arif’s shop for some supplies, leaving George in charge of breakfast.

You spotted George at the counter, his back to you as he prepared something. The smell of fresh tea and baked goods filled the room, instantly lifting your mood.

“Morning,” you greeted, sliding into your usual seat at the table.

George turned around, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Morning. Tea and an orange muffin, just how you like it.” He placed the steaming cup and the muffin in front of you, then took the seat next to you.

Your heart did a little flip. It wasn’t unusual for George to make breakfast, but the fact that he had gone out of his way to prepare your favourites made you pause. “Thanks, George. This looks great.”

He nodded, already launching into a detailed recount of his latest research findings. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself drawn into his world of dusty books and ancient lore.

“And then I remembered that the spectral resonance in Type Two ghosts is significantly higher in areas with historical trauma,” George said, his eyes alight with excitement. As he talked, he absentmindedly brushed your arm with his hand.

You felt your brain short circuit for a moment, your skin tingling where he had touched you. It was just George being his usual self, you told yourself. There was nothing more to it. But Lucy’s words from the night before echoed in your mind, and you couldn’t help but wonder if there was something you were missing.

You tried to refocus on what he was saying, nodding along, but your thoughts kept drifting. Why was he being so attentive? And why did it matter to you so much?

George must have noticed your distracted state because he suddenly fell silent. You looked up to find him staring at you, a curious expression on his face.

“You’re really weird, you know that?” he said with a smirk.

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve been staring at me like I’ve grown an extra head. What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, quickly looking down at your tea. “Nothing. Just… thinking about your research. It’s fascinating.”

George raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. “Well, if you ever want to dive deeper into the archives with me, you know where to find me.”

You nodded, the gears in your mind turning. Maybe there was more to George’s behaviour than you had originally thought. And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him in a new light.

__

For the next week, you began to notice the subtle changes in George's behaviour. It started small, with him standing a bit closer than usual or offering a hand when you climbed out of the cab after a job. His attentiveness grew more noticeable, and there were times when you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. 

But then, just as quickly, his demeanour would shift back to his usual sarcastic self. The mixed signals were driving you crazy, leaving you confused and off-balance. One minute he was the George you’d always known, and the next, he was someone new—someone who seemed to see you differently.

It was during a particularly tense moment after a mission that you started to piece it together. The team had just finished a challenging case, and as you all piled back into the cab, George had taken your hand to help you in, his grip lingering a bit longer than necessary. You felt a flutter of something—excitement, maybe?—and you glanced over at him, but his eyes were already back on his notebook, jotting down notes as if nothing had happened.

Lucy, who was sitting next to you in the back, nudged you. “See what I mean?” she whispered, her eyes flicking to George. “He’s never like this.”

You shrugged, still trying to convince yourself it was nothing. “He was just anxious, Lucy. It’s not a big deal.”

Lucy gave you a sceptical look but didn’t press further.

The real turning point came a few days later. You were all gathered in the library, sorting through the latest research for an upcoming case. George was sitting next to you, his knee brushing against yours under the table. You found yourself hyper-aware of his presence, his proximity.

Lockwood was across the room, leaning against the fireplace, watching you both with a knowing look in his eyes. It was a look you couldn’t quite decipher, but it seemed to make George uncomfortable. You noticed that every time Lockwood gave him that look, George would pull back, retreating into his usual sarcastic demeanour.

Like clockwork, it happened again. George was in the middle of explaining a particularly complicated theory about ghostly manifestations, his arm resting on the back of your chair, when Lockwood shot him that look. George immediately withdrew, his tone turning sharp and distant as he redirected his attention to the books spread out on the table.

The shift was jarring, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of hurt and confusion. Why did he keep doing this? What was going on between him and Lockwood that made George act so erratically?

That night, as you lay in bed, your mind raced with thoughts. George’s mixed signals, Lockwood’s strange looks—it all swirled together in a confusing mess. You needed to figure out what was happening, to understand why George’s behaviour was affecting you so much.

The next morning, you woke up with a new resolve. You would get to the bottom of this, no matter what it took. George’s actions were starting to feel like a puzzle, one that you were determined to solve.

__

As the days passed, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in your chest. George’s behaviour continued to oscillate between attentive and distant, leaving you feeling more confused than ever. You realised that while you appreciated his friendship and companionship, you didn’t quite reciprocate the level of physical touch he seemed to crave. You thought you'd never think that, but that was true at the moment.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him or that you didn’t enjoy his company—you did, immensely. But the sudden shift in his behaviour had caught you off guard, and you weren’t sure how to navigate it.

So, you decided to take matters into your own hands. Literally. You started to initiate small touches—brushing against his arm as you passed by, resting your hand on his shoulder when you laughed at one of Lockwood’s jokes. You made sure to respect his boundaries, never pushing too far, but you couldn’t help but notice the way he seemed to relax under your touch, his tension melting away ever so slightly.

And then, something strange happened. Lockwood stopped giving George those odd looks. Instead, he watched the two of you with a fondness in his eyes, as if he knew something you didn’t.

It was then that it hit you. Lockwood wasn’t trying to make George distant by giving him those stares. He was scared. Scared that his best friend was going to get hurt if he got too close to you. If it was unrequited.

The realisation hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly everything made sense. The mixed signals, the strange tension between George and Lockwood—it was all because of you.

The pieces finally fell into place.

“Oh. Oh.”.

__

That was when you started to tease him.

The opportunity presented itself while you were grocery shopping together. As you reached for an item on the shelf, your hand brushed against his, ever so subtly. You pretended not to notice, but you felt the slight twitch in his fingers, betraying his surprise. 

“Oh, sorry,” you said innocently, flashing him a quick smile before returning your attention to the task at hand. But you couldn’t help the thrill that ran through you at the contact, the electricity of his touch lingering on your skin.

Another chance came when he complained about his unruly hair one morning. Normally, George couldn’t care less about his appearance, but today seemed different. As he grumbled about his curls, you stepped closer, reaching out to gently smooth them down.

“They’re not that bad,” you remarked, your touch light and fleeting. But as your fingers danced through his hair, you felt him relax under your touch, his shoulders dropping as a sense of calm washed over him. It was a small gesture, but it felt good. Alright, more than good, you had to admit. It felt peaceful.

But perhaps the boldest move came when he mentioned his sore shoulders after a particularly long day. Without a second thought, you moved behind his chair in the kitchen, your hands finding their way to his tense muscles. 

You could feel him tense up at first, his body rigid with surprise. But as your fingers worked their magic, kneading out the knots and tension, you felt him slowly start to relax, his muscles melting under your touch.

“Wow, that feels amazing,” he murmured, his voice low and appreciative. 

You couldn’t help but smirk, enjoying the reaction you were getting out of him. It was fun to see George, usually so composed, let his guard down for once. And if it meant you got to enjoy a few stolen moments of closeness, then all the better. Maybe, just maybe.

__

Then one night, you didn't know if you wanted to kick or kiss your coworkers.

The movie night started out promising enough, with everyone gathered on the couch, snacks in hand, ready for a cozy evening. But as the movie dragged on, it quickly became apparent that it was a snoozefest of epic proportions. Even Lockwood, the eternal optimist regarding his tastes, couldn’t hide his yawns as he struggled to stay awake.

You, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. Despite your best efforts to stay engaged, the monotony of the film proved too much, and before you knew it, you had drifted off to sleep.

When you woke up, it was still dark outside, the remnants of the movie flickering on the screen. Blinking blearily, you realized that George was lightly snoring beside you, his head resting on your shoulder. You were both lying on the couch, tucked under a blanket, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

Clearly, Lockwood and Lucy had orchestrated this whole thing, choosing the most mind-numbing movie imaginable so that you and George would fall asleep. Sneaky, but effective.

As you shifted slightly, George stirred, his eyes fluttering open to gaze at you with a look that was equal parts dazed and disoriented. It was as if he had just woken up from a particularly bizarre dream, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight.

“Enjoying the view?” you teased, a playful smirk playing at your lips.

George blinked, his brain still catching up to reality. “Hmm? Oh, uh, yeah. Very scenic,” he replied, his voice thick with sleep.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a giggle. “Smooth, George. Real smooth.”

But despite the sarcasm, there was something undeniably comfortable about the moment. You shifted onto your side to face him, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as you both settled back against the cushions.

And then, almost on instinct, George tilted your chin up, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of hesitation and determination. You don't know who initiated it, but without another word, you both leaned in, meeting halfway in a soft, quick kiss that left you both breathless.

As you pulled away from the kiss, the air between you crackling with a newfound tension, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound vibrating against George’s lips. He blinked, his eyes still closed as if savoring the moment, before finally opening them to meet yours.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice low and tinged with curiosity.

You shook your head, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. “Oh, nothing. Just guessing about how Lockwood and Lucy must be thinking they’re some sort of mastermind matchmakers.”

George’s lips twitched with amusement, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Well, they do like to meddle, don’t they?”

“Definitely,” you agreed, your laughter bubbling up between you like a shared secret. “But I have to admit, they might be onto something with this whole movie night setup.”

George raised an eyebrow, his gaze locking with yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh? And what do you mean by that?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your heart raced in your chest. “Just that… maybe there’s something to be said for falling asleep on the couch with your best friend,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

There was a moment of silence as George processed your words, his expression unreadable. But then, without warning, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours in another kiss that was both soft and electrifying. You both moved gently against each other, fearing the other would break the spell. You both did not. He was the first one, however, to pull back, only slightly to mumble against your lips.

"Just maybe?"

"No, definitely."

This time, there was no laughter, no teasing remarks. No mixed signals, no one around to tell you if what you were doing was good or not. It felt good, that's all that mattered.

And as you lay there in the quiet darkness, tangled together on the couch, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, falling asleep during a boring movie wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

__

okay so i am lowkey proud of that one??? i made it way longer than the others because i found a new way to write and it actually helped a lot! i hope you liked it, it was very fluffy, i tried my best LMAOOOO

i wanted to include lucy and lockwood because they're my favourite matchmakers, but also oh how lockwood is worried for his friend and just doesn't know how to help george so he's just like "yep. just be distant" lucy should slap him but we love a bsf who just wants his happiness AND HE GOT IT

anyways i read too many notes from ao3 authors, have a good day!

taglist : @neewtmas @cielooci @thestrangerblog

(if you don't want to be tagged anymore or want to be just tell me!)

[eeechooo]

REQUESTS

Hiiii, I realized I did not say ANYTHING about how to make requests or if they were still opened or anything and I am SO SORRY

This time of blur has officially ended.

REQUESTS ARE OPENED

Fandoms :

Lockwood and Co.

Marauders

Detroit : Become Human

Life Is Strange

Greek Mythology

The Last Of Us

/!\ I can definitely write crossovers between those fandoms, you just have to tell me how you want it!

I tend to hyperfixate on Lockwood and Co. nowadays so I'll prioritize those requests. However, most of the time, requests are going to be published chronologically, first come first served.

Pairs :

I would tend to say everything, however I need to make some ground rules regarding the romantic ones

No minor/major

Not between family (in the Marauders, far relatives for Pure Bloods pairs do not count)

No pair with abusing dynamics

What I write :

Romantic, Platonic, Family

Angst, Fluff, not sure about Smut yet but ONLY between adults no questions asked (can age up charactersà

One Shots, Stories in multiple parts

Something happening in one moment, Something happening in more (a month, a year, even more NO LIMIT)

How to request :

Just comment it! Tell me the reader's pronouns or I'll use they/them. You don't have to tell me everything that is above, only if you want something precisely how you imagined it!

To explain your request, you can :

Give me a detailed plot

Give me some info and let me create around

Give me a quote (from a song, a movie, a book, ...) that reflects how you want it to be

Give me a song

[eeechooo]

Aligned Minds

Fandom : Lockwood & Co.

Pairing : Female Reader X George Karim

Request by @thestrangerblog "Intellectual reader is tired of vain guys who are good looking and know it and think that's enough to get every girl they want. Then reader meets George who is proud of his intellect and who sees brains and character strength in her and not just a pretty face and hot body."

You were tired of them. The peacocks. The guys who sauntered into the room, all confident smirks and perfect hair, thinking their good looks alone could win them the world. They were everywhere, especially in places like this—academic conferences on the supernatural. You had hoped for serious discussions, intellectual stimulation. Instead, you found a sea of vain, posturing boys who thought a charming smile and a well-fitted suit were enough to make them experts on ghostly phenomena.

Sitting in the back of the lecture hall, you scribbled in your notebook, full of doodles and half-formed ideas about the origins of ghosts. The current speaker droned on about the latest theories, but your mind was wandering. You glanced around, noting the usual suspects—guys trying to network rather than truly engage with the material. Typical.

Then he spoke.

“What about the spiritual residue left by traumatic events? Your theory doesn’t account for the variance in Type Two ghost manifestations,” said a voice, sharp and probing.

You turned to see the source. A young man with disheveled hair and a look of intense concentration on his face. He was scribbling something in his notebook, quick. It was messy, you just knew it.

The lecturer, a renowned but notoriously complacent professor, stumbled over his words. “Well, uh, that’s an interesting point, but—”

“But nothing,” the young man cut in, his tone sharp. “If we don’t consider the psychological impact and the nature of the trauma, we’re missing half the picture.”

You were intrigued. This wasn’t the usual superficial debate. This was someone who cared about the truth, who dug deep into the complexities of the supernatural.

When the professor tried to dismiss the question, you couldn’t help yourself. You stood up. “He’s right,” you said, your voice steady. “Ignoring the emotional resonance of traumatic events skews our entire understanding of ghost origins. We need a more holistic approach.”

The room went silent. The professor looked flustered, and several attendees turned to see who had dared to challenge the status quo. But the young man—George, you remembered—smirked and nodded approvingly.

__

During the break, you found yourself gravitating towards George. He was still scribbling in his notebook, muttering to himself.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

He looked up, surprise flashing in his eyes before he smirked again. “By all means. I could use someone who actually gets it.”

You sat down next to him, feeling a strange mix of nerves and excitement. “I’m really tired of these guys who think they know everything because they look good in a suit.”

George snorted. “Tell me about it. They’re more interested in networking than actual knowledge. It’s infuriating.”

You nodded vigorously. “Exactly! It’s like they think their charm can substitute for real understanding.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the world we live in,” George said, his tone slightly bitter. “But there are a few of us who see through the facade. Want to grab some pizza for lunch? We can discuss how wrong that professor was.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

And that is why, over slices of pizza in a quiet corner of a nearby café, you and George talked non-stop. He told you about Lockwood & Co., the agency he worked for, and the various cases they had handled. His stories were captivating, filled with danger and mystery. Jesus, it seemed better than the work you had in your agency, boring, usually the same routine everyday.

“I’ve always been more interested in the origins of the Problem,” George said between bites. “The nature of ghosts. It’s not just about dealing with the manifestations, it’s about understanding why they happen in the first place. This is just... fascinating”

You nodded, feeling more connected to him with each word. “That’s exactly what drives me too. There’s so much more to uncover, so much that the mainstream theories just… gloss over.”

George leaned back, looking thoughtful. “You know, we should team up. Present our own findings. Show these superficial idiots what real research looks like.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “You mean it?”

“Absolutely. I can tell you’re serious about this. Together, we could really make an impact.”

He was right.

__

Two months flew by in a whirlwind of research, late nights, and shared passion. You had spent the majority of your free time with him, and it felt so, so, so nice. As the day of the presentation dawned, nerves mingled with excitement. Standing side by side in front of a packed lecture hall, you and George delivered your findings with confidence and conviction.

The audience was spellbound, hanging on your every word. Even the skeptics couldn’t deny the weight of your evidence. And when the final word faded to black, applause erupted throughout the room.

As the attendees filed out, exchanging compliments and inquiries, you and George found yourselves outside, the air buzzing with post-presentation energy.

“Pizza?” you proposed, a smile tugging at your lips.

George’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely.”

The pizzeria was bustling with activity, but you managed to snag a quiet corner booth. As you sat down, the adrenaline of the presentation still coursing through your veins, a comfortable silence settled between you.

It was George who broke it first, his voice soft and contemplative. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You nodded, a warm glow spreading through your chest. “We make a pretty good team, huh?”

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “The best.”

As you both dug into your slices, savoring the victory and the delicious food, you felt a surge of courage. You glanced up at George, meeting his gaze head-on.

“It’s a date,” you said, your voice steady.

George’s eyes widened, and he choked on his slice, coughing and sputtering. After a moment, George regained his composure, his cheeks tinged with pink. “I—I mean, yes. Yes, it is.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. For a man that smart, he can sure as hell be clueless sometimes.

__

It was fun writing this, thank you for your request, i hope it was good enough! I'm trying to get back to writing for hours after stopping for maybe a year and oh my i missed it SO MUCH???? also yes i feel like food keeps appearing but oh well it just gets people together. again if you've got request DO NOT HESITATE, i write them based on who commented first but they're all going to be posted! thanks for reading this hehe, take care!!

@neewtmas @cielooci (this is the taglist, if you don't want to be there anymore or if you want to be just tell me!)

[eeechooo]

Sweet Victory

Fandom : Lockwood and co Gn x George Karim Request by : @happygoosebird "You’re struggling with studying for a test and George offers to help. There are cookies involved."

__

You banged your head on the table, making it shake once before it stilled completely. The library was quiet, or would be, if it weren’t for the way you were scribbling in your notebook, full of doodles and messy handwriting. There was no way you’d be able to learn everything for tomorrow, and time was ticking, leaving you only a few hours before dinner.

Great. You could do it.

One glance at your notes was all it took to make you groan, resisting the temptation to bang your head on the wall this time. Why didn’t you study earlier? Maybe because the goddamn agency needed you. Working here part-time was extremely odd, but you didn’t mind one bit; your colleagues were lovely (most of the time, when tea was ready). However, most of them did not know how to study properly.

One was reckless, never thinking twice before doing something that could lead to an awful, atrocious death. Or maybe he thought twice and was just THAT crazy. I guess we’ll never know. The second one would follow him with a groan followed by heart eyes—mixed signals, if you ask me. That left the last one, who knew best how to work like you had to do right now.

Except he was always busy nowadays. Working on a new case, you all had to be prepared. If one guy HAD to be prepared enough, it was him. One wrong piece of information, and you were all screwed. Mind you, that never happened—knock on wood.

How could you even focus with the smell of cookies, warm and— you knew it—so, so sweet? Your stomach growled, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten for hours. You suddenly stopped doodling mindlessly.

That was NOT Lockwood; he could burn water. That was NOT Lucy, and you could tell from a mile away that those weren’t store-bought. The realization hit you like a cold splash of water—it had to be George.

You stood up immediately and ran to the kitchen, notebook and pen in hand. George was standing by the counter, meticulously arranging a tray of freshly baked cookies. The aroma was heavenly, a perfect blend of chocolate and something else—possibly a hint of caramel.

“You know, staring at your notes like that won’t magically transfer the information into your brain,” George said, his tone laced with his usual sarcasm. He didn’t look up as he continued arranging the cookies, his fingers deftly moving each one into a perfect row.

You sighed. “I know, George. I’m just… overwhelmed. There’s so much to cover and so little time.”

George finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Then you’re in luck. I’ve decided to bestow my infinite wisdom upon you. Plus, I’ve got cookies. One for every chapter we review together.”

Your eyes lit up at the mention of cookies. “Really? You’d help me?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” George smirked, handing you a cookie. “I can be quite the Good Samaritan when I want to be. Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

You handed over your notes, watching as George’s eyes scanned the messy handwriting and doodles. He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting approach to note-taking. Ever considered actually writing down useful information instead of… whatever this is?”

You shrugged, feeling a bit defensive. “For someone who hates hypocrisy, just look at the Thinking Cloth! It helps me think...”

George chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, we’ll work with what you’ve got. First, let’s tackle this chapter on medieval history. Did you know that if you break down the timeline into smaller chunks and associate each with a specific event, it’s easier to remember?”

You nodded, trying to keep up. George’s way of thinking was always so methodical, so precise. It was intimidating at times, but right now, it was exactly what you needed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook, flipping through it quickly. “We’ll use these cookies as mnemonic devices. For example, this cookie shaped like a castle can represent the year the Normans invaded England.”

You took the castle-shaped cookie, turning it over in your hands. “That… actually makes sense. What about the Battle of Hastings?”

George handed you a cookie with a little sword drawn on it with icing. “This one. Every time you think of the Battle of Hastings, think of this cookie. Easy, right?”

You couldn’t help but smile. George’s unconventional methods were starting to make studying seem less daunting. “You know, you’re pretty good at this.”

George shrugged, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just don’t let it get around. I have a reputation to maintain.”

The two of you settled into a rhythm, reviewing each chapter, associating key events with different cookies. The study session became a game, and with each correct answer, you felt more confident, more prepared.

Hours passed, and you realized you’d covered more ground than you ever thought possible. George’s sarcastic remarks and acerbic sense of humor kept the mood light, making the information easier to digest. By the time you reached the last chapter, the tray of cookies was nearly empty, and you felt a sense of accomplishment.

“See?” George said, handing you the last cookie. “I told you we’d get through it. You just needed the right motivation.”

You took the cookie, feeling a wave of gratitude. “Thanks, George. I really appreciate this.”

He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “Don’t mention it. Just make sure you ace that test. I don’t want my efforts to go to waste.”

You laughed, feeling a renewed sense of determination. With George’s help, you knew you could do it. As you packed up your notes, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, studying wasn’t so bad after all—especially when there were cookies involved.

__

Days later, after the test results were posted, you rushed to the bulletin board, heart pounding. There it was—your name, right next to a high score you could scarcely believe.

Feeling a mix of relief and elation, you immediately thought of George. You found him in the library, nose deep in an old, dusty tome about the Problem, George being George.

“George,” you called, a wide grin spreading across your face. “I did it! I aced the test!”

George looked up from his book, his expression as neutral as ever, though you noticed a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Of course you did,” he said with a smirk slowly appearing. “Those cookies weren't for nothing.”

You laughed, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Suddenly, an idea came to mind. “Do you know what we should do to celebrate?”

He stared at you for at least ten seconds, his features still.

“Cookies?”

“Cookies.”

--

I lowkey hate it, but I think it was a nice excercise, thank you for your request! I actually thought about some ideas during an exam, not sure if it was the best thing to do but what's done is DONE.

@neewtmas

(if you want/don't want to be tagged in the future, just tell me!)