#lockwood and co x reader

[saltwaterburns]

everyone adores you (at least i do)

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who makes possibly the best morning pancakes in London, just for you.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who is impossible to go to Tesco with, for he will slowly slip things into the trolley, going unnoticed by you until you reach the check-out.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who likes to sneak up behind you and wrap his arms around your middle, pressing his face to the crook of your neck, murmuring sweet nothings.

"You look so pretty, why're you in the kitchen? Tell Lucy or George to come downstairs and come be with me :("

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who had the hardest time letting his walls down for you, but when you held him as he cried, the little boy in him finally felt safe.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who never ever forgets to remind you how cherished you are by him.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who acts annoyed whenever you wear his coat, but the butterflies in his tummy say otherwise.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who acts all grown up and independent, often times rejecting your help, forgetting he is just a boy.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who gets excited whenever you ask about the artifacts cluttering the shelves of his home.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who hates pickles, yet still orders his cheeseburger WITH them, so he can give them to you.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who would rather sacrifice himself for you than think of a plan where everyone (including him) is safe.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who undoubtedly falls for you more and more every time he sees you bonding with Lucy or George.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who had to be convinced for MONTHS just so you could style his hair.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who was pleasantly surprised when you told him you preferred his dark eyes over any light ones.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who swears he hears wedding bells in his head when you start making him fresh orange juice every morning.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who comes into your room one evening and asks if you could put rainbow butterfly clips into his hair.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who pouts like a child when you usher him out of your room where you and Lucy are painting each others nails and gossiping.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who groans dramatically when you tell him all the experiments you've done with the skull along with George

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who is the master of rizz jokes.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who every year on your birthday gifts you a piece of jewellery his mother used to adore.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who is strangely good at making flower crowns.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who falls asleep by the tv, his head on your lap.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who insists you cuddle him inside his shirt.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who loves being the big spoon.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who always takes you out to fancy pancy restaurants.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who doesn't really want to let you out on missions, not because he thinks you can't handle it (because you can), but because he is terrified at the thought of you getting hurt.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who insists that you guys need a dog in this house.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who isn't very keen on nicknames, but loves it when you call him Anthony in the middle of the night.

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD who tastes like fresh mint and sweet peach whenever you kiss him.

[nyra-42]

Just me . . . reopening tumblr for the third time in the last 30 minutes checking to see if anyone posted anything new since I checked 5 minutes ago.

[lockwoodandcoimagines]

Y/N: *Realizing Lockwood is worried about them* It's okay, Lockwood. Nothing’s never happening to me. Never.

Lockwood: I....you phrased that really strangely.

Y/N: *Their head throbbing* I think I might have a concussion.

[downbadf0rficppl]

love you

Anthony Lockwood x F!Reader

Summary: Part 2 of let me - Your nights are plagued with nightmares that feel all too real. It's all connected to the Bowers' manor. You need to solve this mystery before it drives you crazy. What will you find?

Word Count: 3.9K

Warnings: umm a lot of gore - it's inspired that one episode of guillermo del toro's cabinet of curiosities, so yeah. also they kiss. and it's slightly sad at the end. lmk if there's anything else.

You twisted in your bed- sheets soaked with sweat, hair sticking to your forehead. Vivid images flew across your mind, confusing you with their content.

There was a woman - tall and beautiful, but angry. She was so, so angry. She gripped your hand tightly, pulling you across the floor and locking you in a room. There was a little boy in there, curled in the corner, clutching a teddy bear. 

The teddy bear was familiar - there was a picture of your mother holding an identical one somewhere in the attic of your family home. The boy was covering the teddy bear’s ears. There was screaming outside the door - two voices creating a cacophony, so disruptive that you cowered under its weight. 

In the distance, you could hear the lullaby again - the one from the manor. The little boy stood up and ran to the corner of the room, glancing back before disappearing into a secret door behind the wardrobe.

The scene changed - light streamed through the window now, casting shadows of the window pane on the wooden floor. The angry woman was now stood at the base of the stairs, her coat wrapped around her and a hat in her hands.

“Elizabeth!” she called, “Elizabeth, hurry, we can’t be late again!” 

A young girl ran down the stairs, her fingers dancing over the railing as she ran. You looked at her closely. She almost looked like you. Same hair, same eyes, same face shape. It was peculiar. A floorboard creaked behind you. You turned back to face the stairs - the little boy was sat there again, hands grasping his teddy bear. He looked woefully at his sister, who was already out the door, chattering away to their mother. You could hear her muffled voice through the shut door. You shivered.

A draft blew through the house. Loud sobbing echoed through the halls and you ran upstairs, following the sound. You turned open the door to the boy’s room, before scrambling back hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your scream.

There, lying in a pool of her own blood, was the sister. The whole family crowded around her - the father cradled her in his arms while the mother cried into her hands nearby. Their clothes were soaked with blood as they sat wailing. A constable ran up the stairs with the maid, and he stumbled back as the scene came into view. You watched as he muttered a prayer to the Lord.

“Come, Timothy.” The maid held out her hand to you. You gasped. She was the same. She was the maid from the Bowers house. What if she had followed you into your dream? Was that even possible? How could that even happen?

The sound of gentle footsteps behind you broke you out of your spiralling. Behind you was the little boy. His eyes were closed, hands tightly gripping the teddy bear. He was covered in blood. From head to toe.

You step aside as he took the maid’s hand. She led him down the stairs towards the maid’s quarters where he sat patiently on the bed waiting for her to return with a wet cloth. She came back with a tub and a pair of clean clothes for him to change into. Slowly and carefully, she wiped away all of the blood, humming her song all the while. Little Timothy cried as she cleaned him, wailing that it was all his fault. 

Confusion mounted as he cried - how could it be his fault, you thought, it’s not as if he killed his sister? The maid soothed him, whispering that it wasn’t his fault, there’s no way he could have known. 

You felt yourself slipping out of the dream, someone’s hand on your arm, shaking you awake, calling your name. You threw yourself awake, pulling yourself out of bed, and putting distance between whoever was in your room. You stumbled, your legs not ready for the sudden movement. A familiar pair of arms caught you, pulling you back into bed. Lockwood. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, once you were settled back into bed, “I heard you screaming from across the hall.”

“I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

Lockwood didn’t look convinced. “Was it about the last case? The one at the manor?”

“No,” you lied, looking away from his inquiring eyes, “it’s one of those ones where nothing makes sense but it’s just scary.”

“Okay. Try and get back to sleep,” Lockwood pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, “if you can’t, you can always come and be an insomniac with me.”

You smiled at him as he left before bringing a hand up to brush your hairline. He kissed you? Lockwood wasn’t one to show physical affection, even to Ruby and George. Since moving in here, you’d only seen him be affectionate once, hugging Ruby when he was exceptionally tired. You smiled internally, lying back down and turning over. Maybe there’s a slight possibility that he feels the same.

It had been 3 days and the nightmare was still replaying itself in your head. You and Lucy were getting ready to go into central London for a case - suited up and ready to scope out quite an old townhouse. The owners had been complaining that there was an apparition causing a disturbance in the attic.

The two of you hopped in a cab, exchanging notes on George’s research as you pulled up to 16 Cherry Tree Lane. It was a tall townhouse in a very affluent part of London. The area had a rich history and Lucy knocked on the door just as the sun started setting. 

Your footsteps echoed as you entered the empty townhouse - clearly the owners were still in the process of moving in as the home was barren. The case should be easy - one ghost that they could hear in the attic, likely a Type 1. Easy. In and out.

“Let’s just get this over with, then we can get pizza,” Lucy said, harking back to Lockwood’s promise to pick up pizza on his way back from DEPRAC.

The two of you headed up the stairs, both of you using your listening skills to try and locate the ghost. Lucy stayed on the first floor, exploring the bedrooms, while you headed up to the second floor to see if you had any luck there. You could hear faint humming - a man’s voice but still, for a moment you stood, paralysed by fear. There was no way she could have followed you here. You heard footsteps come from behind you, and someone calling your name. Lucy. You tried calling out to her but found yourself unable to yell or run to her. You were stuck.

Lucy comes upstairs to find you standing by the top of the stairs, tears streaming down your face. The ghost wasn’t near you - he seemed oblivious to either of you being there (you were right when you said he was a Type 1). Lucy blocks him from your view, placing her hands on the side of your head, bringing your focus back to her. You soon relaxed, your body releasing its tension and movement returned to your body. Your hands came up to cover hers, reassuring her that you were okay. She didn’t seem convinced.

As you pulled up to 35 Portland Row, you were still shaking from the icy grip of the ghost. The chill seemed to linger in your bones and your body felt heavy as you walked up the steps to the house. Lucy’s worried gaze lingered on you as she opened the door, her arm steady around your shoulders, but she said nothing as you trudged into the house.

"You should rest," Lucy suggested gently, closing the door behind you. "I'll make you some tea."

You nodded gratefully, already feeling the exhaustion creep in. As you settled onto the couch, Lucy disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

As you dozed off on the couch, you heard the door open and Lockwood announce that he had pizza. Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you celebrated - it had been months since you guys had been able to treat yourselves to a full pizza meal, so you were excited. But the case had really taken it out of you, so you just remained curled up on the couch.

You vaguely heard Lockwood call your name and walk into the room, but you were too tired to lift your head. You feel his hand brush over your head and a shiver runs down your spine. You hear him ask Lucy what happened, and - with a slight hesitation - she tells him. You can't be mad at her - Lockwood deserved to know the whole truth.

Eventually, he and Lucy slipped away, leaving you to the silence of the room. The scent of pizza wafted from the kitchen and your stomach growled. Mustering up the last ounces of your energy, you rose from the couch and walked over to the kitchen, where the three of them were sat. You gingerly sat in your chair, reaching out for some pepperoni pizza.

The four of you sat in a silence as Lucy and George rushed to finish their pizza and slip away. They knew what was coming.

"You should be resting," Lockwood finally said, as Lucy shut the door behind her. The worry on his face morphed into anger as you took another bite of pizza, "See this is what I mean when I say you're too reckless."

His words stung a little and you felt a flare of defiance. "I'm not a child, Anthony, I can take care of myself."

"Clearly not well enough." He retorted, pushing his plate away. He may be the big boss of Lockwood and Co, but he still left his crusts on the plate. Lockwood's voice kept rising, "You know what, you're benched until I say otherwise. If I can't trust you to keep yourself safe, I'll do it for you."

The finality in his tone makes your blood boil. "You can't just bench me!" You shouted back, standing up to match Lockwood's stance. "I'm also a part of this team, and I deserve to be treated like it."

Lockwood stepped back, his expression a mix of anger and hurt. "I'm doing this because I care about you. Can't you see that?"

But you were too angry to listen. Without another word, you stormed out of the kitchen and off to your room, slamming the door behind you - the picture frames on the wall rattled with force. The silence that followed was deafening, your heart pounding in your ears.

As you sat on the edge of your bed, the anger slowly ebbed away, replaced by a crushing sense of guilt. You knew that Lockwood wasn't doing it to be malicious, but his overprotectiveness felt suffocating. Curling up on your bed, you tried to drift off to sleep but it felt impossible. You were benched off the team and at odds with Lockwood. You didn't need to add another nightmare to that mix.

The next day, Anthony and Lucy disappeared on another mission, while George took a trip to the British Library to put together some information for a case next week. You were supposed to stay behind at the house to clean up and take care of some artifacts, but you had other plans. 

While George got a taxi from the house, you slipped out and caught the next bus in that direction. The British Library was a familiar sanctuary, rows of dusty tomes lining the shelves, each one holding secrets waiting to be uncovered. Years before you had worked for Lockwood and Co., you did what George did - extensive research.

You settled at a computer in the far corner of the library, brow furrowed in concentration, as you flicked through some old local newspapers that mentioned the old Bower's Manor.

The pages were filled with tales of hauntings and tragedy, the ghostly echoes of past inhabitants lingering in the crumbling halls, stuff that George had already pulled out in his last case file. You traced your finger along faded photographs of the manor, trying to figure out why you felt so drawn to it. 

"There's something here," you murmured to yourself, "There must be."

You slide a worn parchment under the magnifier beside you. The photo caught your eye. It was the little boy you saw. You shifted it towards the text. 

May 26th, 1947

News from the Bowers Manor: Ms. Elizabeth Bowers, eldest daughter of Lord and Mrs. Timothy Bowers, has unfortunately passed on at the age of 15, two months after Lord Bower’s brother, Lt. Charles M. Bowers. The passing has been reported as the result of a chronic and fatal condition, but some within the house believe some other forces to be at play. 

Constable M. Myers reported the case to be unlike any he had seen before after he was called to the Manor early Saturday morning. He reportedly returned to the station covered in blood and shaking, before retiring home for the weekend. He has not been able to give any other statement.

You stopped reading. This was it. The story from your memory. Vision? Whatever it was. You scanned the rest of the text, looking for the name of the brother, but there was no mention of him. 

You took the next newspaper in the pile and placed it under the magnifier. Nothing. And the next. And the next. Still nothing. Finally you find one from 1957. Ten years after the original. In the corner of one of the middle pages is a small photo and an article titled, ‘The Last Bowers’. This could be it. 

October 2nd, 1957

Sgt. Timothy Bowers II, son of the late Lord and Mrs. Timothy Bowers, closed the doors to the Bower’s Manor for the last time as the keys pass on to one Mr. Khalil. The 19-year-old made the decision after the passing of his cousin, the late Ms. Sanders. The Sergeant confirmed his decision to sell at last week’s monthly town meeting, and was met with uproar. Nonetheless, it seems whatever bad luck has haunted the house and the Bowers family has finally driven the young Sergeant away.

You examined the photo and your heart dropped to your stomach. You’d seen that photo before. Framed. In your mother’s house. The revelation hit you like a thunderbolt, sending a shiver down your spine as you stared at the crumbling pages before you again. The old Bowers Manor was owned by your ancestors, and the boy from the photo - and your nightmares - was none other than your grandfather.

Images flashed through your mind, fragments of memories long buried resurfacing in vivid detail. You remembered the stories your mother told you as a child, tales of a troubled past and a family history shrouded in darkness. But you never imagined that those secrets lay within the walls of the very manor you had been investigating.

As the realization sank in, you felt your mind race with possibilities. The discovery added a new layer of complexity to the mission, one that you couldn't ignore. But it made sense. Even at Fitte’s, you weren’t supposed to work cases that were close to you - no family relations or people that you were close to. Despite Anthony's orders to stay away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something you had to do.You may have been benched, but that didn't mean you were out of the game. And if that meant you had to defy Anthony’s instructions, so be it. 

You printed a copy of the two newspapers and tucked them carefully into your bag. You then ran to catch the bus home before anyone made it back. 

As you stepped through the door of 35 Portland Row, carrying the weight of the newfound revelations about your family's history, you were met with the stern gaze of Anthony Lockwood. His expression was a mix of frustration and concern, his normally calm demeanor replaced by a crackling intensity that sends a chill down your spine.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice sharp with reproach. "I thought we agreed that you were going to stay here.”

“If by agreed, you mean you told me to stay here and just expected me to agree.”

His expression didn’t change. Instead, his eyes caught one of the photocopies that was clenched in your hand. He grabbed while you were distracted and looked over it. His face hardened more if that was possible. “I thought I specifically told you to stay away from that case."

You swallowed hard, knowing that you were about to face the full force of Anthony's wrath. "I know, but I had to—"

"You had to, what?" he interrupted, his tone laced with exasperation. "Risk your life chasing after a ghost that we don’t need to? You almost got ghost-touched! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. "I had to find out the truth," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside you. "About my family, about the manor—about everything."

“Your family?” Anthony's features soften slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “What do you mean?”

You explained the truth. Everything you’d found out in the Library. You watched as Anthony’s shoulder slumped with every word. You knew why you got ghost-locked now, so things should be back to normal.

Anthony didn’t share the sentiment. "You can't keep doing this," he said, his voice gentler now, tinged with worry. "You're important to me, to all of us. I can't stand the thought of you putting yourself in harm's way like this."

His words caught you off guard, a pang of emotion tugging at your heart. You'd always known that Anthony cared about you, but hearing him express it so openly sent a rush of warmth flooding through you.

"Anthony," you began, reaching out to touch his arm, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

He met your gaze, his eyes softening as he took in your sincerity. "I know you didn't," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But please, promise me you'll be more careful. Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

A tense silence envelops the room, broken only by the sound of your racing heart. You can feel the weight of his concern pressing down on you, mingling with your own sense of guilt and determination.

He’d stepped closer to you at some point in your conversation, to the point where his face was inches away from yours. His hand came up to caress the side of your face as he stared into your eyes. “Please take care of yourself. I don’t think I’d survive it if you got hurt. I know…-”

In a moment of impulsive clarity, you leaned forward, closing the distance between you and Anthony in one swift motion. Your lips met his in a tender, desperate kiss, cutting off his tirade mid-sentence.

For a heartbeat, the world fell away, leaving only the sensation of Anthony's lips against yours, the warmth of his embrace pulling you closer. In that fleeting instant, everything else faded into insignificance, overshadowed by the intensity of your connection.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and trembling, you were met with Anthony's wide-eyed gaze, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air.

Then, slowly, tentatively, Anthony reached out to cup your cheek, his touch gentle against your skin. "What was that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

You met his gaze, your own eyes filled with a mixture of uncertainty and longing. "I... I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "But I couldn't stand to see you upset, and... and I needed you to know."

Anthony's expression softened, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I understand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And... and I think I needed to know too."

The tension in the room dissipated, as you met Anthony’s gaze with sincerity shining in your eyes. 

"I promise," you said softly, "I'll take better care of myself. And I won't put myself in unnecessary danger again."

Anthony nodded, his expression softening with relief. "And I promise to trust you more," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I know I can be too controlling at times, but I'll work on letting go and giving you the space you need."

He pulled you back into his arms and you relaxed into them. You rested your cheek on his shoulder as he held you, content to just be.

You and Anthony stood outside the Bowers manor. The building wasn’t any less imposing the second time, and Anthony squeezed your hand in reassurance. We can do this, it said. You took a deep breath. 

You pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the decrepit hallway, the air thick and stagnant. This time, the feeling of discomfort didn’t weigh as heavily on your chest as you and Anthony made your way to the maid’s quarters.

Finally, you reached the quarters and you came face-to-face with the ghost that had been haunting your dreams for the past week. It was the maid, her spectral form flickering in and out of existence as she clung to the shadows, her eyes filled with longing and sorrow.

You and Anthony searched the room for anything that could be the source. Eventually, Lockwood found a loose floorboard hiding a silver hair comb and a few photos. He called you over, yelling at you to get a silver box, or some net. Anything that would subdue the maid. 

But as you grabbed the net, a voice cut through the silence—a voice you recognised all too well. It was your grandfather, his eyes covered by special goggles that you’d seen somewhere before. They were the same as the one’s Fairfax was wearing before Annabelle killed him. You shuddered at the thought. 

Your grandfather’s form materialised beside the maid, his face etched with pain and regret. "Please," he begged, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't do this. She's all I have left."

You hesitated, torn between the desire to end your haunting and listening to your grandfather’s plea. But deep down, you know what needs to be done. With a heavy heart, you threw the net over the source, the energy crackling through the air as the maid's form begins to fade.

In a sudden burst of anger and despair, your grandfather lunged forward, his arms reaching out as he tried to stop you. But before he could reach you, Anthony stepped in, shielding you from the blow.

As the maid's form faded into nothingness, you reached out to your grandfather, pulling him close as he sobbed in your arms. For a moment, there were no words, only the sound of his tears mingling with the echoes of the past.

But then, as the last remnants of the maid faded away, your grandfather lifted his head, his eyes filled with gratitude and sorrow. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the fading echoes of the manor. "For giving me the chance to say goodbye."

fin.

[dearhnymn]

𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥.

PAIRING ⊱ a. lockwood × mentor!reader WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.8k SUMMARY ⊱ as a skilled but no-nonsense dueling expert, inspector barnes  sends you to 35 portland row to whip lockwood & co. into shape. with this comes butting heads with anthony lockwood, who challenges you at every turn. the stakes are rising every passing session, and so does the simmering tension between the two of you.

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

You’d long stopped wearing the uniform.

The Fittes coat lay folded in the back of your wardrobe, an artifact of a life you hadn’t quite been ready to discard—an emblem of duty and responsibility you had chosen to leave behind. At first, you had worn it proudly, thinking that the prestige and responsibility it brought would fulfill you. But soon, its weight became suffocating, the starched fabric a constant reminder of how you were being held back. The assignments you were given were tame—routine, less dangerous, and in a way, dull. You dealt with Type Ones, haunted buildings that were more nuisance than danger. The other agents, the ones with real experience, were sent to face the actual threats—the buildings crawling with dangerous Type Twos, violent and unpredictable. You couldn’t stomach the disparity anymore. You needed more than this, more than these carefully contained hauntings that didn’t challenge you, that didn’t make you feel alive. You were stuck in a box, kept back by bureaucracy. So, you left.

　“Thank you for your service,” was all they said. You filled out the paperwork, your signature sharp and resolute, and shook hands with your supervisor. His gaze lingered on you, a mixture of disappointment and concern, as if you were stepping off a precipice. But you didn’t look back. Not once. Regret was a stranger to you now.

Yet your name still echoed in certain circles, trailing behind you like a phantom.

Among the younger agents, there were whispers—stories of the girl who had once parried a Type Two blindfolded during a training demo, her concentration unwavering, blade glinting with fierce determination. As a child, you had tackled opponents twice your size in tournaments while many of your peers were still mastering sticks in the playground. You weren’t famous—far from it. But you were known. Not for your charm or the knack for theatrics, but for the hard-hitting results that spoke volumes.

That reputation was why Inspector Barnes sought you out.

You hadn’t anticipated his visit. It was a chilling Tuesday afternoon, the kind that sent a shiver through your bones, as you were rummaging through a cramped rented cupboard in an apartment above a bakery. The warm, inviting scent of rising dough mingled oddly with the memories of your recent case. A lingering apparition had drifted through a family’s home in Highgate—a Type One spirit, nothing you couldn’t handle. You were bruised and weary, flecks of salt still clinging to your boots from your late-night escapade, when the knock echoed through your solitary refuge.

You opened the door, your rapier still securely buckled at your side, instinctively prepared for whatever lay beyond.

Barnes stood there, more worn than you remembered. His trench coat was rumpled, as if he’d been caught in a storm—both literal and metaphorical. The lines etched on his stern face spoke of late nights and worry, of battles fought and losses accepted. 

　“You’re hard to find,” he said, his voice steady but edged with urgency.

You raised an eyebrow, letting a smirk tease the corners of your lips. “Maybe I prefer it that way.”

His gaze softened for the briefest moment before resolute resolve returned. “I need a favor.”

This stilled you. Barnes was not the type to ask for favors lightly; his reputation was built on self-sufficiency and an uncompromising attitude.

You stepped aside, allowing him entry into your world—one you had fought so hard to escape.

He didn’t sit, didn’t bother to shake off the city’s chill as he remained rooted in the middle of the room, an immovable sentinel. His words spilled forth, crisp and clear: “Certain independent companies have been drawing attention—smaller ones that are reckless in their pursuits. Lockwood & Co., in particular.”

With each word, a knot grew tighter in your stomach. “They’ve made quite the name for themselves,” he continued, his tone flat but heavy with implication. “More successes in the field than some Fittes teams, apparently. But they’re unorthodox. Undisciplined.”

You nodded slowly, piecing together the fragments of his request. “You want me to whip them into shape.”

　“I want you to refine them. Teach them the proper way to handle a rapier before someone gets killed—especially that boy, Lockwood.”

Your breath caught for a moment. “You want me to teach Anthony Lockwood?” The disbelief clawed at you, caught between reluctant excitement and a deep-seated wariness.

A flicker passed across Barnes’s mouth—maybe it was a grimace, maybe a hint of smugness. “The boy has exceptional talent, but he’s cocky. Doesn’t think he needs help. He won’t respect just anyone.”

You crossed your arms, the weight of his expectation pressing against you. “And you think he’ll respect me?”

　“I think you’re the only one who won’t fall for the show,” he replied smoothly.

That almost elicited a smile, a ghost of your old self surfacing momentarily. 

　“Alright,” you said the words slowly with renewed conviction. “I’ll do it. But on my terms.”

　“Of course.”

He handed you a simple slip of paper, his neat, clipped handwriting marking the address: 35 Portland Row. No files, no dossiers, just a name laden with untold stories and the promise of a turbulent future. 

And just like that, he was gone, leaving only the echo of his presence behind—a mixture of duty and dread lingering in the room, as you contemplated the path ahead.

The townhouse looked.. alright.

Your knock at the door was sharp and businesslike, cutting through the cozy atmosphere like a well-placed dagger. Lucy, nestled comfortably on the worn sofa with a tattered novel in her hands, looked up to meet George's gaze. He was half-buried under a mountain of disheveled newspaper clippings and biscuit crumbs.

　"That'll be her," Lucy said, a note of anticipation lacing her voice as she rose from her perch and moved toward the door.

George smirked, a teasing glint in his eye. "I bet she’ll stride in with a clipboard and superiority complex."

Lucy shot him a brief glare, but amusement danced in her expression as she pulled open the door. There, framed by the drizzle of a damp London morning, stood a figure who seemed to embody the very spirit of practicality. The young woman, perhaps only a few years older than themselves, was clad in a thick coat that looked as though it had seen many dreary days. A worn satchel hung heavy across one shoulder, and her eyes held a no-nonsense glint that reminded Lucy of freshly sharpened blades—uncompromising and keen.

You.

　"Ah yes," Lucy beamed, her voice steady despite the brisk chill in the air. “You’re the one Barnes called about?”

You nodded, expression bordering on grave. "Lockwood & Co.? If the address I got was correct."

Lucy nodded and stepped aside, inviting you in. "Come in."

Without so much as a beat, she entered the cluttered room. George stood awkwardly, brushing crumbs off his shirt in a vain attempt to appear composed. The girl’s eyes flicked over the chaos that cluttered the coffee table—the remnants of their current case and remnants of George's snacking habits—the faint iron scorch marks on the carpet from earlier mishaps, and the sheathed rapiers mounted proudly on the wall. She took it all in with a discerning glance but offered no comment, her features betraying nothing.

　"He didn’t mention a name," Lucy added, trying to offer a friendly overture by extending her hand. 

　"Just call me whatever makes this faster," you replied, tone flat—a monotone that signaled an impatience with social niceties. Your handshake was brief and firm, quickly turning your gaze around the room again. "Where’s Anthony Lockwood?"

A voice drifted down from the staircase, resonant and reassuring. "I’m here."

Lockwood descended with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to authority, his tall frame striking at the base of the stairs. He folded his arms, a slight smirk playing at his lips as he regarded their new guest with a calculating gaze.

He looked like some posh schoolboy who got lost on their way home.

　"You’re the one Barnes sent?" he asked, a playful edge in his voice.

　"Yes," you replied flatly, devoid of any hint of deference.

Lockwood’s jaw tensed slightly, his brows knitting together. "You’re barely older than we are."

Your eyebrow arched ever so slightly, challenging him. "You’re welcome to call DEPRAC and argue."

George coughed to suppress a laugh, while Lucy couldn’t help but grin. The atmosphere brimmed with the electric thrill of their dubious expectations being upended.

Lockwood’s expression smoothed out, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face. He hadn’t anticipated this: a young individual such as you exuding seriousness and strength, unapologetically confident. There was an air about you—calm yet resolute—suggesting that you were the kind of person who didn’t trip over stray ghost nets or misplace iron chains, not ever.

　"And what exactly are you here to do again?" he pressed, curiosity mingling with skepticism.

You dropped your satchel by the armchair with a subtle thud. "I’m here to observe your technique and correct it."

　"Our technique?" George echoed, glancing up from one of the clippings, intrigued.

　"Yes."

Lockwood’s eyes glimmered with a mix of intrigue and amusement. "Barnes thinks we need correcting?"

　"He’s gotten complaints."

　"We’re still alive, aren’t we?" 

　"That isn’t the metric he’s going for." Your voice was steady, unwavering.

A heavy silence settled in, the tension palpable in the atmosphere.

"Well then," Lucy said brightly, rubbing her hands together in mock glee, "this should be fun!"

The first training session took place that very afternoon in the basement. Lockwood leaned against one of the desks, his arms crossed, exuding an air of authority that was both natural and practiced. Lucy stood poised, her blade drawn, as she eyed you with a mix of wariness and determination.

　"You’re leading this, then?" Lockwood asked, gesturing vaguely toward the ad hoc training area they had set up—a patch of damp grass laden with iron bells and assorted gear.

You didn’t respond with words, simply drawing your own rapier—a simple but well-worn piece that seemed almost an extension of you—it glinted dully in the softened light as you faced Lucy.

　"Show me your guard."

Lucy obliged, gripping her weapon with a mix of eagerness and trepidation. You corrected her foot placement with a nudge, guiding Lucy's boot into a more stable stance before tapping her shoulder lightly, a subtle cue that spoke without words.

　"You drop your elbow. If a ghost came in fast, you’d be wide open,"

Lucy adjusted as instructed, her heartbeat quickening as she sought to prove herself.

　"Again," you insisted, albeit gently.

The two of you went through the motions for ten minutes, the girl’s tone unwavering and laser-focused. There was no dramatics, no embellishment—just straightforward corrections that pierced through Lucy’s insecurities like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

George, watching from the sidelines, muttered something about feeling like he was back in primary school PE. When his turn finally came, he stepped forward with visible reluctance; his movements were hesitant, lacking the fluidity of someone used to physical combat—more flail than finesse. Still, he made the effort, face screwed in concentration.

Lockwood observed intently, biting the inside of his cheek as a mix of annoyance and admiration flooded him. You didn’t seem to seek the spotlight, and that irked him—your skill spoke volumes without needing a showmanship he reveled in. Your skill in the field was much evident in the fluidity of your movements, how you wielded the rapier with the kind of finesse that spoke of endless practice and inherent skill, and the way you delivered instruction with a no-nonsense precision. A part of him, the competitive edge, bristled.

When it was finally his turn, Lockwood stepped forward smoothly, drawing his blade with an exaggerated flourish—an unspoken challenge hanging in the air between them.

　"Let’s see how much there is to ‘fix’," he smiled, confidence thrumming in his chest.

Your silence was electric, almost defiant, as though you welcomed the challenge. You began.

His movements were sharp, tinged with the arrogance that often accompanied mastery. He’d practiced for years, sparred with peers and inspectors, and faced genuine threats; he was good—no, he was amazing.

But you were better. Of course.

You parried every swing with effortless grace, reading his intentions like a well-thumbed book. When you stepped in, twisting your body with precision, you knocked the blade from his hand. He stood there blinking, the tip of your rapier hovering just shy of his collarbone, his heart racing as the reality of the moment settled in. 

Recognition flickered in your eyes, perhaps a hint of satisfaction, but it was fleeting—a controlled acknowledgment of her victory. Lockwood’s composure faltered for a heartbeat, a mix of irritation and admiration swirling within him, igniting a steely determination to rise to the challenge you presented.

The others were silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension. You lowered your sword, eyes narrowing with keen observation. "You leave your left side exposed when you recover,” you pointed out, your voice steady, though sweat laced your forehead.

He didn’t move, his expression unreadable. "That’s not a mistake," he replied, his tone a defiance cloaked in calm.

　"No?" You raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet doubtful.

　"It’s bait," he asserted, a trace of a smirk dancing on his lips.

"Sloppy, if you ask me," you countered, dismissing his bravado with a flick of your wrist.

He stepped back, tension coiling through him. A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he shot a brief glance at George, who met his eyes with a knowing gaze. George scribbled something into a notepad, oblivious to the immediate drama unfolding.

　"Are you betting on us now?" Lockwood raised a brow, irritation creeping into his voice, a protective instinct flaring in response to any possible teasing.

　"No," George replied, his tone light and teasing. "Just documenting the courtship ritual. For science, of course."

Lucy snorted, unable to contain her amusement, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she caught the undertones of their tension.

The next few days dragged on like an unending storm, filled with grueling drills that were strangely invigorating. Mornings began with warm-ups and stretches, followed by footwork drills. They partnered up, rotating every fifteen minutes, as you provided notes and pushed them until their shirts were drenched with sweat. Lucy improved quickly, becoming steadier, faster, and more confident in her movements. George struggled but kept listening, gradually taming his chaotic footwork. You adjusted their grips, pointed out their mistakes, and corrected their instincts as they trained.

You led them relentlessly, pushing them to rise with the sun, stretch until their muscles screamed, and repeat patterns until their wrists ached with fatigue. Yet, your approach seemed fair; after all, you didn’t mock or lord your skill over them. Instead, you tried to inspire them through unwavering determination, making their struggles feel almost noble.

In contrast, Lockwood refused to improve quietly. He fought you at every turn during sparring matches, challenged your comments, and pushed himself harder with each session. Yet, beneath the defiance and dramatics, he was paid attention. He always did.

And he watched you more than he should’ve.

It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone else. He’d mastered the art of indifference years ago—glances that slid off like water, expressions held just long enough to feign casual interest. But when you moved, blade in hand and posture exact, something about it hooked into him.

You didn’t show off. You didn’t gloat when you landed a hit. You corrected him with a calm, even tone, sometimes with a faint smile like you already knew he’d argue it. Your hands were practiced, movements deliberate. There was no ego in it, no need to prove yourself. And maybe that’s what got to him.

You didn’t need to win the room. You were already comfortable in it.

He hated that he noticed it. Even more, he despised the tightness in his chest, a feeling he couldn't identify and didn't want to confront.

He tried to convince himself it was just respect, a simple acknowledgment of your exceptional talent. You were good—very good—and that was all there was to it.

Yet, the more time he spent around you, the more that comforting lie unraveled, exposing a deeper truth he wasn’t ready to face.

Amidst the chaos of the sessions, George took to brewing tea and cooking up his delicious Iranian meals in the corner of the kitchen, his presence an anchor in the rising tension. Lucy held up numbered cards like a judge presiding over an absurd fencing tournament, while he added his playful commentary every now and then, narrating your and Lockwood’s every move as if the two of you were the stars of a grand soap opera.

　"He’s pretending he doesn’t care," she whispered, casting a conspiratorial glance their way.

　"She’s pretending she doesn’t notice," George replied, barely suppressing a grin.

　"Five quid says someone gets disarmed and someone else gets emotionally repressed," Lucy smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Lockwood ignored them, of course. Or at least, pretended to.

One night, after George and Lucy retreated upstairs, he found solace in the stillness of the basement. The rhythmic sound of steel against cloth filled the air as you quietly cleaned the edge of your blade, the faint scent of oil lingering in the cool space.

He lingered in the doorway longer than he meant to.

The others had retreated upstairs—George muttering about burnt lemongrass and Lucy rolling her eyes as she dragged her notepad with her. The quiet that settled in their absence was almost too heavy, too clear.

You were still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the shelves, a blade in your lap. The cloth moved in slow, practiced strokes down the length of your rapier. Your posture was relaxed but not careless—like even now, even in stillness, you were prepared for something. For anything.

Lockwood watched you in silence, noticing again what he shouldn't: how your hands, calloused and sure, treated the weapon like a part of you. He observed the way the curve of your shoulders shifted slightly with each pass of the cloth: focused and controlled.

Lockwood should have gone to bed. You were only here to train them, after all—just another mentor brought in by DEPRAC, someone sharper and steadier, older by barely a year but years ahead in experience. You weren’t here to make friends, certainly not to get close.

And yet, he crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it and sat down beside you, close but not quite touching yet. Close enough to feel the warmth of you in the air between.

You glanced at him, not at all annoyed nor surprised. Instead, you had that unreadable flicker of an expression, as if you already knew he’d follow.

Without a word, he grabbed a cleaner rag from the counter and held it out. You hesitated, then took it without a word. No thanks, no comment, but your fingers brushed his as you did. 

Something sparked—fleeting, immediate, too much. The room held still.

　“I could’ve gone for the hit,” he said, breaking the silence.

You didn’t look at him. “But you didn’t.”

　“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t.”

You nodded once. The new cloth shifted in your hands as you ran it along the edge of the blade, slow and deliberate again—but this time, he noticed the tension behind it, something simmering just beneath your calm surface. It mirrored the thing rattling around in his chest—too loud in the silence.

　“You’re not from Fittes, aren't you?”

　“No.”

Lockwood looked down at the floor between them, then back at the blade in your hands. There was a knick near the guard—almost invisible, but he saw it. 

　“You missed one,” he said softly, pointing. 

Your fingers followed his gaze, and your hands brushed his once more—just for a moment, just long enough to feel the heat of skin against skin.

He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

You focused back on the blade, but Lockwood noticed the difference now—the way your jaw had set, just slightly, as if you were holding something down. He knew that feeling.

This was supposed to be a job. You were supposed to be an instructor, and he was supposed to be just another student you passed through, taught a few things, then left behind. But that wasn’t how it felt.

When your hands stilled and your gaze lifted, Lockwood looked up too. And you locked eyes. 

The tension coiled, unrelenting—no banter, no mask. Just something real and unsettling pressing between you. The air pulled tight like a held breath. 

Whatever this was—whatever it had grown into—neither of you were meant to feel it. Not here, not now. And yet the draw was impossible to ignore, living in the space between your knees almost touching, the silence too loud to be casual, the flicker of something restrained in your eyes.

He should have looked away. He didn’t. Not until you broke eye contact as your fingers returned to the cloth like nothing had happened. But he saw the way your hands hesitated and how your shoulders tensed just slightly beneath your calm exterior.

He stood slowly. The floor creaked beneath his weight. You didn’t look up again, and that should have been the end of it.

As he turned to leave, he glanced back once. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked, a smooth polish and half a grin crawling back to his face.

You let out a small, amused laugh, your eyes twinkling. “Only if you try not to forget your footwork this time.”

It was the first time he had heard you laugh. Or at least, when it was directed towards him.

With the smile still on his face, he climbed the stairs slower than usual that night, each step feeling heavier than the last. And when he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he knew that whatever line had been drawn between you, he had already stepped dangerously close to it. 

Maybe you had too. And neither of you knew what would happen if you crossed it.

George and Lucy noticed the shift; they always did.

They picked up on the subtleties. The way Lockwood stopped interrupting you mid-sentence, finally listening. The way he nodded in agreement as you shared your insights, a newfound respect blooming between them. The way he lingered in the basement after their sessions, a reluctance to leave the space that had become charged with something more than mere practice.

One evening, Lucy leaned against the banister, arms crossed, and whispered, "He’s softening," a sly smirk lighting her face.

George nudged her, a smirk gracing his lips. "You better have that five quid ready."

the way how this has been sitting in my docs for a little over a month now.. i could feel it stare into my soul judgingly every time I posted a different fic instead 😭 might make a part two, buuuuuut who knows?

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed to support your favorite authors! let me know when if you want to be added to the taglist :)

⭐️　taglist: @eeechooo

[ghostlyaccurate]

Is there anyone currently writing for lockwood & Co, and willing to write some requests? I've litterly watched one episode and I'm already head over heels here

[websterss]

LOVING YOU MORE THAN I HAVE BEFORE — ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

REQUEST: hello!!! I saw ur inbox was open, so if ur still writing for Lockwood, could I pls request a Lockwood x fem reader where she thinks he loves Lucy but he really loves the reader? and they work together and are best friends?? if not that's totally okay. thanks anyway and have a nice day!!

WARNING(S): mentions of minor injury, angst, fluff at the end, stubborn reader, oblivious Anthony.

WORD COUNT: 4,063

PAIRING: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader    

A/N: I hope you enjoy it love! Feedback is always welcomed! Also, I live and breathe on Alfie Juke's music lmfao. ALFIE JUKES - EYES WIDE

MASTERLIST

You had not meant to stare at them again as you helped George set up the iron chains. Their constant back-and-forth bickering distracted you from your tasks at hand. You had looked back to the pair, Anthony's low chuckle catching your attention. He had a way of distracting you especially in times where he shouldn't have been. A loud thump had broken their banter and before you knew it their eyes were cast onto you. You flinched and then released a hiss when the chain landed on top of your sneaker. Your eyes briefly met George's disapproving ones as you tried to act cool. Your cheeks were burning up from embarrassment, yet the ache running through your foot burned even more. You ducked your head to not meet anyone's stares. You moved slower now as bent down to fix the chain.

"S-Sorry…" You breathed out softly.

"Subtle." George quips quietly to you.

Anthony leaned against the wall eyeing you for a moment seeing the embarrassment written across your features. He took in the slight pout of your lips as you mumbled out an apology. He found it sweet how you shrunk back when you were embarrassed. Though as attentive as he was as a friend, he hadn't missed the way you tucked your right foot behind your left, trying to lay off it.

As though you could somehow sense his stare burn right through you, you quickly looked up. Your eyes wide as you caught him still looking down at you.

Anthony gave you a brief smirk seeing the way your eyes widened as they met his. He continued to study you for a moment, as his smirk shifted into a soft smile. "You alright?" He questioned, his voice quiet as he pushed himself from the wall, taking slow steps toward you.

"Yes." You rushed out as you staggered, trying to stand upright. You swallowed back your nerves as he approached you, a smile alknowing as he noticed you teeter on one foot. You caught where his gaze landed and straightened out. He hadn't missed the scrunch of your brows.

He bit back a laugh seeing you stagger slightly trying not to favor your left foot more. He looked over you again taking note of the way you were standing with such stiffness, as he lifted an eyebrow slightly. He knew you would deny it when he asked if you were okay, as you were stubborn when it came to accepting help. Instead, he looked down at your foot again and motioned his head toward it. "Let me see it." He couldn't help but find it endearing. He reached out to place a hand against your hip, steading you. "You're a horrible liar. Let me see."

"I-I'm fine." You try backing out of his arms but he doesn't let up. He flashes his all so charming grin that you hate and love with a passion.

"Then walk a few paces." He chuckled, gesturing to the bedroom doorway you all occupied. He knew he won when your eyes widened in panic.

"Anthony…" You warned.

He gave your hip a squeeze seeing your stubbornness start to waver. "Just do as I say, darling." He mused, his voice lower. Though he knew your stubbornness would make this difficult, as you hated looking vulnerable.

As reluctant as you were, you inhaled deeply and made your way to the door, with a slight limp. You cursed at yourself for letting your clumsiness get the better of you especially during on a job.

He could clearly see the way you were walking with a limp. He let out a huff of air, almost a tsk. Why were you so stubborn, he thought as he followed after you. He bit his tongue from calling you out for being stubborn, knowing it would only get him a scathing look.

"You're staying with George."

You whipped your head around, your mouth agape as you stared at him like he kicked your dog. Hurt, betrayed, pleadful. "No, I'm fine. I stayed with George on the last job. Anthony please. You just declared me able again, please. This isn't as bad as last time!"

His jaw was set as he saw the look of betrayal and hurt in your eyes. He hated that look, it got him every time. He pressed his lips into a flat line. There it was, the pleading look. It made him waver slightly but he didn't relent, his eyes narrowing. He reached out for you, but you had only moved away from his hand.

"Not different than last time?" He shakes his head. "You're staying with George." He said firmly, his voice low as he eyed you. "You know you've done something to your foot, and I'm not letting you out this room like this. You're not just going to suck it up and deal with it this time. End of discussion!" He ran a ring-clad hand through his messy hair, trying to fight the urge to let you continue. He knew you were tough, he knew you could handle yourself. He also knew you would push yourself to your limits and do something reckless.

"Bloody fucking hell, Lockwood! It's a limp for gods sake!"

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He inhaled deeply as he stared you down. You were pushing his limit. He was trying to keep his cool, but you were testing him. 

"I don't care if it's a bloody limp! You're not going into god-forbid, a potentially dangerous situation! Not like this!" He exclaimed, his voice raising slightly before he caught himself as he saw the look in your eyes. He ran a hand through his hair again, "I'm doing this to keep you safe! Something you're too bloody stupid to do yourself!"

He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, seeing the way your eyes widened, filling with water. He had never been so rough with you like that before. He was frustrated, but taking it out on you wasn't right. He didn't want to hurt you, he just wanted you safe.

"I'm sorry..." He exhaled deeply, his expression softening. "I didn't mean that, I just-" He cut himself off when you turned and descended the stairs of the house.

He cursed under his breath as he watched you spin away from him and head towards the stairs. He made a sharp movement to follow you but he stopped himself. He placed his hands on the dresser and leaned against it as he tried to fight down the guilt of his words, and his frustration. He knew he had said the wrong thing. He shouldn't have said that, but sometimes his emotions got the better of him. He knew you were capable, but you sometimes put yourself at risk without a second thought or you tried to hide your injury or pain.

"Lockwood!" Lucy pulled him out of his thoughts. "Anthony!"

"What?" He whipped around angry, angry with himself.

"It's past curfew!" George panicked, reminding him that you just slammed the front door. Lucy only shook her head as she rushed past him, sprinting after you in hopes to catch you.

"No, no, no!" He shouted, panic seeping into his voice as he realised what you had just done. He quickly glanced at the window, looking out, but the darkness limited what he could see. There was no way in hell he was letting you walk back alone at night, especially in your condition.

"I can't stand her sometimes!" He exclaimed as he made quick strides to the front door, practically ripping it open.

"What about the visitor?" George began collecting the equipment in a rush. Calling after Anthony.

"To hell with it, George. We'll come back later!" Is all George heard before another slam of the front door rattled through the house.

"Seriously!" George complained as he rushed down the stairs with the duffle bag. His wide eyes looking around for any signs of the visitor. He shook as he opened the front door and ran after his friends.

-

"I'm telling you, Lockwood. She's probably home already." Lucy was exhausted, it was nearing the 3am mark.

"She has a bloody limp, and it's almost 3 a.m, Luce." He seethed as he followed what little marks you left on the damp ground. He was angry with himself. He shouldn't have let it escalate like that, he should've controlled his emotions, and he just shouldn't have said what he said. Yet he should've known better, the last time he was out of time...your impulsiveness kicked in and you continued a job with a stab wound on your side that you didn't tell him about until you all were passed hthe threshold of the apartment. He almost cried, he did cry when you passed out on the floor. "You know her, she's probably walking around until she can't anymore out of bloody spite." He gritted through his teeth. His jaw was tight again and his tone was low as he kept his gaze locked on the path in front of him. The only thing illuminating their way was the streetlights as they walked down the long, dark street. "I know her. She's too stubborn to go back home. She'll probably end up at some park, and I'm going to throttle her when I find her!" He continued, his voice still cold but the worry was evident.

"You are aware she does it on purpose…?" George chimed in, keeping his head down.

"Of course I do! That's what pisses me off!" He exclaimed, his voice strained. He couldn't deny that you did these kinds of things on purpose just to spite him, and he hated it. He knew you enjoyed getting on his nerves, but it didn't make it any better. It only made it worse, and more frustrating.

"Do you know why though?" George eyed him curiosuly. He had to tell him, you could hate him forever for all he cared, he was tired of you skirting around and avoiding your feelings.

Anthony stopped in his tracks for a moment, turning slowly toward George. A frown tugged at his features as he regarded George with a curious expression, his eyes searching his friends face for something. He knew that look, it was the look of 'I know something that you don't'.

"What are you going on about..?" He questioned slowly, his expression guarded.

"George-" Anthony looked over to Lucy who shook her head at him.

"Ask for forgiveness later, right Luce? She does it to get your attention. Seeing as you'll only give it when you're angry with her."

Anthony froze, he froze right where he stood. He stood dumbfounded for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. "You're joking, right? You're telling me all those nights where I go insane trying to find her, or I yell at her for doing something incredibly reckless, she does it for what? My attention?" His voice was low and strained. He was having trouble processing what he was being told and he wasn't sure he was liking it.

Anthony stood silent for a moment, processing what George had just said to him. It hit him like a ton of bricks as the realization set in. He slowly turned his eyes back onto George once again, and he was at a loss for words.

"That's…" He exhaled, his mind already going into overdrive. "That's ridiculous. Why would she…" He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground. He knew you did it to get his attention, he just hadn't put the pieces together the way George had.

"There's more..." Lucy shrinks in on herself. Shying away from his stare.

His eyes slowly shifted to Lucy, watching the way she turned away from him. There was a sinking feeling in his gut as he watched her reaction. He didn't like the way she was acting, and he didn't like what it made him feel. "More..?" He repeated, his voice low and wary, a sense of trepidation creeping over him.

"She thinks you like Lucy." George, peeked up at him. Then turned his head to Lucy.

Anthony's eyes widened slightly as he heard George speak. He slowly turned his head to look at Lucy who avoided his gaze. He let out a scoff of disbelief.

"She thinks…But I don't-" He exclaimed, his words trailed off as a realization dawned upon him. He looked between Lucy and George as a feeling of guilt began to settle in his chest.

"She's not clumsy on purpose Anthony…" George frowns. "She was watching you and Lucy earlier, she wasn't paying much attention to what she was doing…that's why the chain fell on her foot," George admits. "She's more purposely impulsive. Not clumsy."

Anthony's expression softened slightly, as the realization that you were jealous of his relationship with Lucy, no matter how friendly it was, sunk in. It made sense, he thought as he remembered a few times when you seemed off after he was teasing Lucy. He also didn't miss the way you would give him a few extra glances when you saw him with Lucy. He ran a hand through his messy locks as he exhaled deeply, his gaze shifting away from his friends. He didn't know how to begin to fix this.

He could feel his guilt grow as he now understood the reason for your actions. "She's...jealous..." He spoke slowly, it was more of a statement than a question.

"I'd say she's been more hurt than jealous. She likes you, Lockwood." Lucy sighs heavily.

Anthony's shoulders slumped slightly as Lucy spoke, her words confirming his suspicions and causing his guilt to deepen even more. He knew you had a tendency to act impulsively when you were hurt or upset, and your jealous behavior was just another way to cope with those feelings. Hearing it from his friends, though, only made it more real.

He let out a shaky exhale, his gaze still downcast. "I never…I never realized how much it bothered her…" He murmured, his voice thick with regret.

"We all thought you knew." George said.

Anthony let out a scoff that sounded more like a half-hearted laugh as he raised his head to look at them both.

"How could I have known? I thought she just did it to piss me off." He ran a hand through his messy locks, his expression betraying his guilt and regret. "All this time…I didn't realize that she…too much time has been wasted. Feelings unsaid..." He trailed off again, unable to finish his sentences. "Where do I even begin to get her to speak to me? To tell her that I- that I feel the same way!" He huffed out in relief. Feeling a weight leave his shoulder saying how he feels about you out loud and to his friends.

"You could start with an apology first of all. Then admit you're a bloody fool!" You exclaim behind them. You pout as you cross your arms on the bench you sit on.

Anthony's eyes widened and his expression changed as soon as he heard your voice behind him. He swiftly turned around to look at you, a mix of emotions playing across his face – surprise, guilt, relief, and also a hint of irritation.

"You-" He began, taken aback by your presence but also by your pouting. He exhaled deeply as he took a few steps towards you. "How long have you been there…?"

"Not going to throttle me anymore?" You raise a brow at him expectantly.

Anthony let out a sigh that sounded more like a small chuckle. Your words tell him just exactly how long you had been there. He stopped a few feet in front of you, his hands on his hips as he gazed intently at the pout on your face.

"No, I'm not going to throttle you.." He said, his voice softer now. "Though I'd like to, very much." He admitted, his irritation clear in his tone.

"Shame…" You hum, eyeing his disheveled state. Then to Luce, and George standing back.

Antony watched you as you sat there on the bench, your arms crossed stubbornly. Your nonchalant comment causes his irritation to rise again, and he can't help but smirk in response. A hint of blush painted his cheeks as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Shame, huh? Don't tempt me." He spoke, attempting to sound lighthearted but failing miserably, the irritation still evident in his tone. He could practically hear the sarcasm in your voice. He glances at George and Lucy, watching their reaction before returning to yours. Their looks of concern and curiosity were etched on their faces.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He inquired, his expression a mix of annoyance and amusement.

The corners of your lips lift. You pinch your forefinger and thumb together in amusement. Your right eye shuts as you mouth 'a little bit'.

The sight of you sitting there, clearly taking great satisfaction in his frustration, only further fueled his mixed emotions. He rolled his eyes once more, a mocking scoff leaving his lips. He had to fight the urge to shake you by the shoulders out of sheer frustration.

"Of course you are…." He muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he took another step closer, now only a mere few feet away. "Let's get you home..."

"That's it…"

Anthony's eyebrow raised at your comment, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips at your defiant tone. He took another step forward, closing the small distance between the two of you completely. He looked down at you, his eyes studying you.

"That's what..?" He inquired, his tone almost mockingly calm. He could see the stubborn glimmer in your eyes and he knew what was coming next.

"'I'm a fool, I shouldn't have yelled at you my darling, Y/n'-" You feign despair.

Anthony rolled his eyes once again, his smirk growing into a playful yet strained smile. He crossed his arms over his chest once more, his gaze fixed on you as you continued to speak.

"Very funny." He shot back sarcastically, his tone dripping with mock annoyance. "You, want me, to grovel."

"I wouldn't mind you on your knees." You smirk up at him.

Anthony's eyes widened slightly and a flush crept onto his cheeks at your retort. He had a feeling you would say that, but he couldn't help the way his stomach did a little somersault at your words. He quickly composed himself, a mixture of surprise and mild irritation on his face.

"You're testing my patience…" He replied, doing his best to ignore the way his heart quickened at the thought of the image those words put in his head.

"Mine's already gone, Anthony." Your stare grows cold.

Anthony's smirk faded from his face, and a pang of guilt washed over him as you said his name in that cold, detached tone. He suddenly felt terrible for the countless times he yelled and scolded you since you met, for all the times he snapped at you when you teased him, for the times he lost his temper when others gave you attention. He could see the hurt in your expression and hear it in your voice. His gaze softened somewhat as the realization hit him and he sighed heavily. It doesn't take him long before he's knelt before you.

"I know… and I'm sorry-" He began, his voice quieter now, less snarky. "I shouldn't have raised my voice at you. I shouldn't have called you stupid because you're not. You're incredibly smart, and I'm a fool…one who loves you." He meets your eyes as your breath hitches. "It appears I wasn't exactly obvious with my feelings towards you. It was my mistake thinking you knew of them." Anthony sighs as he confesses. He ran a hand through his messy locks as he exhaled deeply, his heart feeling like a weight in his chest. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "I didn't…realize how deeply you felt about me. And I'm sorry for not seeing it sooner. For not giving you the attention you deserve. For all the times I've yelled at you, and called you stubborn, and-" He trailed off, his voice getting caught in his throat. "For not telling you sooner...I'd understand if you never want to forgive me."

"Fool…" You breathe out a laugh as you reach forward to caress his face.

Anthony's lips twitch into a faint smile as he watches you reach up to touch his face. He leans into your hand slightly, the feeling of your touch calming him. He closes his eyes momentarily, letting your touch soothe him.

"Does that mean you accept my apology..?" Anthony inquired quietly, opening his eyes once more to meet your gaze, a hint of hope in his expression.

"Depends..." Your eyes shift with something mischievous behind them.

Anthony's eyebrows raise slightly as he notices the hint of mischief in your eyes. He knows that look, and it instantly makes him slightly wary. But at the same time, he can't help being curious about what you're planning.

"On what?" He prompts a hint of playfulness in his tone. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but he can't hide the hint of a smile that threatens to form at the corners of his lips.

Your arms immediately shoot up, as though you want to be...

Anthony's eyes widen in surprise at how suddenly your arms shoot up in the air. It takes him a moment to realize what you might be hinting at, and his face flushes with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

"You want me to carry you, of course you do!" He replies with a small chuckle.

"Please…"

Anthony rolls his eyes with a playful grin on his face. Despite his feigned irritation, he can't deny the fact that he kind of enjoys you asking him to carry you. He lets out a mock sigh, pretending to be reluctant.

"Alright, if I must…" He teases, his voice dripping with mock annoyance. He turns around and bends down enough for you to jump onto his back. He grabs onto your legs securing your weight against his.

Anthony glanced in Lucy and George's direction as they chuckled. He couldn't help but smile sheepishly at their reactions. He could practically feel the smugness radiating off of them as he carried you piggyback-style.

"Stop laughing, both of you." He muttered under his breath, a hint of embarrassment in his tone. He shifted his grip on you, making sure you were settled on his back.

"I shall commute home like this more often." You hum.

Anthony scoffed playfully as he began walking with you on his back. He couldn't help but smile at your statement, though he attempted to maintain a neutral expression.

"Oh, is that so?" He teased, his tone lighthearted. "And what makes you think I'm going to carry you home like this every time?"

"You're love for me."

Anthony's cheeks flush at your words, and he rolls his eyes. But secretly, deep down, he can't deny the truth in them. Hearing you say it out loud, coupled with the way you were currently clinging to his back, made his heart skip. He tried to respond in a snarky manner, but his voice betrayed him, coming out softer than he intended.

"Touché." He admitted, a hint of fondness in his voice. 

"I love you too..." You mutter low enough for his ears only.

Anthony's heart skipped a beat when you whispered those three simple words to him. His grip on your legs tightened slightly, and he felt his cheeks flush even more. Your words had the ability to both fluster and comfort him at the same time. The way you said it, low and quiet, for his ears only, made his chest feel warm and his heart swell with affection.

He took a shaky breath and responded in a hushed tone, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know...and I love you more." His head turned to meet your eyes, widened and crinkled with hints of joy and surprise. It makes his heart swell with mixtures of emotions and relief, knowing that he's made you happy after all the tension that had built up between you two. He continues walking, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he glances back at you. Your head resting against his shoulder, feeling safe and secure in his hold.

[eatmycodbetty]

Lockwood Drabble - “My Warmth”

━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━

had this scene playing out in my head for a while and it doesn’t fit into my fic right now so here :p -- UNEDITED

tags: lockwood & co, anthony lockwood x gn!reader, fluffy goodness, reader had a bad time and lockwood comforts them, found family

━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━

On days like these you forget just how harsh the winter can be. Just when the Problem was at your doorstep, begging to harm you, a certain boy could make it all disappear in a snap.

“It’s going to get cold, my love” A quiet voice beckons towards you.

You snap out of your daze, setting down the spoon you had been mindlessly stirring in a small green teacup onto your blanket clad lap. The voice beams closer, taking the spoon from your lap and cupping your hand, making your fingers flush against the warmth of the ceramic.

“Don’t get too lost in your thoughts, okay? I know how you are. I won’t stand for it, not now.” You gaze up at your caring boyfriend with a quirk of your lip. Lockwood breathes out a quick smile of reassurance and leans forward, holding a quick kiss to your forehead before he’s back off to the kitchen with the teaspoon he had stolen.

How did you ever get here? Just a few years ago you had no idea about the little house on Portland Row. But now...now you can't imagine a life without the ragtag team you call family. Something you couldn't fathom just a few years prior turned into the most important decision of your life, and the best friends you could ever ask for. And...the best partner.

Lockwood wasn't perfect, no. But he loved you like it was breathing. Your problems became each others problems, and you took each other in with ease. His embrace could heal one thousand scars, and he reacted to everything you did as if the stars themselves cut you out and placed your head on his pillow every night.

And here he is waltzing out of the kitchen and taking you out of your daydream once again. What a sweet boy. He holds another teacup and a pack of biscuits, setting on the table in front of you both.

"I don't know if these are the ones you like, but I thought that the strawbe-" you cut off the poor boy that was explaining the biscuit flavor to give him a chaste kiss to the lips. He is surprised, staring at you for a second before sinking into the kiss and engulfing you into an embrace. Your bodies mold into one as the kiss deepens and he accidentally knocks you both over onto the couch.

As you tip over from his enthusiasm, you break the kiss and begin to giggle, his following suit once you push his jumper-clad torso back up. Once upright, he apologizes a quick, "Sorry, I um- what did you do that for?" He smiles a second and wraps you back up in the soft blanket you were initially sitting in.

Your hand lingers on his as he pulls the fabric over your shoulder, you had almost forgotten about the intention behind your sudden kiss. His hand stutters as you ghost his skin, his eyes fluttering to yours as you speak. "I could never ask for this."

Lockwood's eyes suddenly gloss over, as he makes the move to grasp your hand, holding it softly, yet firmly, in his as he brings it to his face. He stalls for just a breath as he brings your palm to his cheek, cupping his chin. A peck to the flesh of your palm as he continues to hold it against his face, he closes his eyes and breathes in your scent before speaking up.

Your cheeks heat as he does this intimate endeavor, left breathless by his boldness in this tranquil room you two share. "I wouldn't trade this for the world. You save me every day. I..." he pauses. You don't even take notice of your damp cheeks until he goes to hold them, wiping them dry.

He continues. "I love you. You're my warmth, my light every morning." Another kiss. This time his, and you are one again. After some moments shared between you two, muttering sickly sweet oaths in each others fondness, you sit back up. Then you see it. Fuckkk...the tea.

A defeated sigh leaves both of your lips as you snort once again. "I guess we got carried away...I'll make us a fresh batch.." He apologizes and begins to grab the now room temp ceramic mugs on the table, but you grab the hem of his grey jumper, stopping him before they can be lifted off the wood.

"I think I'd rather just sit here...stay?" You shy away, seemingly ignoring the tender moment you two had just shared.

Lockwood pauses and starts to laugh, still standing with the tea. "George will murder us both if we leave these on the table tonight. Can't start bad habits darling." He pecks your forehead and you nod, to which he takes his leave with the dishes.

In just the few moments it takes for him to leave with the cups and set them in the sink with a quick rinse, you are longing for his presence. A chuckle escapes your lips at this neediness- you can't believe yourself.

He returns with a half eaten bag of crisps and two cans of something fizzy to make up for the discarded tea and biscuits plan. Perfect.

Finding you chuckling to yourself, his amused smile precedes him as he wraps back up in the flurry of soft blankets and pillows you were hidden in. "Well what's going on now??"

You lay your head in his lap with all of the blankets around you and his finger traces the outline of your face, pushing anything out of the way to see you better. "Nothing...missed you." He laughs boldly, the hand that was caressing your chin resting on your chest. "Missed me? You are...surprising."

As the night drones on you two eat snacks and discuss every topic under the sun...that is until the sun comes up.

"Oh shit...can we go to bed now? Is that even allowed??" You exclaim as he just laughs into a pillow, suddenly dropping it and picking you up from the couch in one fell swoop. "In my book it is perfectly acceptable." You smile and dig your head into his chest. Lockwood's breathing starts to quicken, but calms as you settle into his jumper.

"Good. But bring the blankets?" You question as he starts to put you back down onto the couch.

"Anything for you, my warmth."

You two pick up as much as you can and scuttle to the bedroom. Another night well spent- wasting time in each others company. You can only imagine what the rest of your years might entail. Hopefully...more forgotten tea and lasting words.

━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━

note: I hope you enjoyed!! first time getting back into fluffy sweetness since I've been back on tumblr. notes welcome, let me know!!! BYE - ives

[initialchains]

10 things i hate about you | anthony lockwood.

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem!reader

summary: george karim falls in love with your sister, and the only thing standing between him and the love of his life is the fact that she isn’t allowed to date unless you do, too. luckily for him, anthony lockwood would do anything for a bit of publicity.

wc: 5.8k (part one)

a/n: hii i felt so bad for leaving you all hanging, but finals week left me extremely burnt out and tired. luckily, the lockwood brainrot is neverending, so as a way of saying sorry here’s the first part of this silly ol’ fic. (including the first five things to hate about lockwood.)  i’m also super sorry for the next part because it will be 90% angst lol ++ this is inspired by the movie but not completely based on it bc it’s my all time favorite film and i was scared of not doing it justice.

Lucy swore she was going to quit the agency again if George didn’t stop pacing around the kitchen like an idiot. She kept thinking of things to say to get him to stop, but a part of her also wanted to see how long this pathetic situation in front of her would take, she knew it wouldn’t be long until their researcher got tired of walking back and forth. And that’s where she is now. Sitting in the kitchen, an empty mug staring back at her, while George kept pacing in front of her and Lockwood.

“Hey, George! I have an idea. Why don’t you sit down and tell us what’s going on like a normal person, instead of just muttering I’m so fucked over and over?” 

George finally stopped and looked up at her. He stood still for a few seconds before taking a seat next to Lockwood.

“Well, I’m fucked.”

“Yeah, I think we heard that part.”

“Luce, stop,” Lockwood said in the softest voice he could muster, before turning to George. “Do you want to talk about it? Maybe we can help.”

George took a deep breath before starting. “So, you know how I’ve been telling you both and Holly about that one girl from the archives?”

Lockwood smiled at that. The thought of George crushing on a girl after bonding with her about their love for research is still one of the cutest things he has ever heard.

“Oh, right. How are things going with her? Is everything alright?” 

“Well, sort of. I mean, everything is alright, but just when I thought of finally making a move on her, she kind of, um… dropped a bomb on me?” 

“A bomb? But you already knew she’s a Fittes agent, that’s not new.” Lucy stated. 

“Yes, I know. And trust me, there’s nothing wrong with that.” George continued, “She is the sweetest, most intelligent, beautiful human being to have ever lived. I mean it.” 

Lucy and Lockwood shared a knowing look. George was totally a goner for this girl.

“Then.. just ask her out?” Lockwood suggested, watching carefully as George fidgeted with the thinking cloth, now too shy to look at his friends.

“That’s the problem, I can’t,” George explained, before pulling his glasses away and rubbing his eyes. The stress of the situation clearly getting the best of him.

“Okay, this will probably be a stupid question, but.. why?” Lucy asked, genuinely confused by the problem her friend was going through. Sure, asking someone out is frightening, but it’s not like George was about to fight a type two without any kind of protection.

George took a deep breath before finally explaining. “She can’t go out with me unless her sister gets a date, too.” 

Lucy almost laughed at how stupid the so-called bomb was. “Well, ask one of her colleagues to woo her or something. She’s a Fittes agent too, right?” She suggested, remembering the only fact they knew about said sister. “She must know a bunch of people willing to date her.” 

George found the strength to look up, making eye contact with Lockwood and then turning to Lucy, before finally dropping the bomb on them. “I can’t, everyone at Fittes despises her.” 

Shit.

Lockwood and Lucy didn’t even have to think twice about who the sister in question was. There’s only one person who is loathed by every single Fittes agent, and surprisingly it isn’t Quill Kipps. George was talking about Fittes’ very own heinous bitch. (Obviously, the nickname was granted by the one and only Bobby Vernon. But to be fair, it’s not like he is the most reliable of people. Lockwood took note of that.)

Portland Row was silent for a few moments until Lucy finally spoke up. “Well, George. The world is wide, there will always be other people for you to fall for.” 

“Luce.” Lockwood warned her. 

“I’m trying to help!” 

“I know you are, but George really likes this girl.” He explained

“I think I might be in love with her. No, scratch that. I am in love with her.” George confessed in a small whisper.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Luce.”

“Sorry!” 

“I told you we would try to help, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Right, Lucy?” Lockwood looked at her, an unspoken beg passing between them. 

“Fine, yeah, we will. What do you know about her sister? Maybe we can find someone with the same interests as her. Like umm.. Holly? or the guy who sweeps the floor at Arif’s?” Lucy almost winced at how stupid their repertoire of options was, the three of them were friends with a limited number of people, and by limited she meant Holly and a guy who always greets them when they get something from Arif’s

George thought for a few moments about everything he knew about her. “I know she’s a team leader–” He couldn’t even finish his list, let alone his sentence, because before he could even continue, Lockwood stood up. 

“I’ll do it.” He said with a small shrug, almost as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 

A chorus of “I’m sorry?” and “What the fuck?” were heard at the same time, but Lockwood couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted to do this. 

“What? You said you wanted someone to woo her. Right, Luce?” He explained as he took Lucy’s empty mug away from her and moved to the sink. 

Lockwood’s back faced them while he washed their used dishes. “Yes, but.. why do you want to do it?”

“It’s a win-win situation. If I go out with her, George will get to date her sister, and we will get publicity.” The way Lockwood explained the situation with such ease had Lucy thinking he had planned this beforehand.

“Publicity?” George finally spoke up. 

“Yes. You said she’s a team leader, which means she is important, and we also know she’s disliked by every single one of her peers, which means the press will be surprised to see her hanging out with someone. So, if we get photographed together, everyone will want to know what’s so special about the agents of Lockwood and Co. Which means–” 

“More cases.” George finished the sentence for him.

“See? It’s easy.” Lockwood, finally done with the dishes, turned around.

“No, it’s not. I think it’s a stupid idea. You won’t be using someone to get this agency more clients, are you insane?” Lucy stated, indignation lacing her words. 

“Hey, George. You said you were taking her sister out for breakfast tomorrow, how about we make it a double date?” He said with a bright smile, ignoring Lucy’s words. 

“Oh, um.. Okay.”

George was right, Lucy thought. They are so fucked. 

1- I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair.

“George, calm down. Everything will be okay, I promise.” Lockwood said, sending an encouraging look to the boy next to him. George was sweating, he didn’t expect your sister to accept the double date. He didn’t expect you to accept the double date. 

“I know. I even practiced a speech and everything, it will be alright.”

“You practiced a what?”

George wasn’t able to answer his question because right when Lockwood asked him, they were able to see two silhouettes standing outside of the café they were walking to.

“Oh, they’re here,” Lockwood stated plainly before walking up to them, George looking nervous as fuck next to him. 

Sure, George was a sweaty mess, but he knew this would happen. He even expected you to look at him with disgust in your eyes and say something along the lines of “I was dragged here against my will. Fuck you, Karim. You will never date my sister.” 

What he didn’t expect to see was your face painted with confusion. George was about to greet you with the long speech he spent the entire night workshopping, but before he could even mutter a word, you let out an exasperated sigh and looked George in the eye before you gaze slipped to Lockwood and then back to him. 

“What is it, asshole day? Why are you two here?”

Lockwood was about to open his mouth and answer your question, but luckily your sister spoke up just in time.

“I invited my two friends to have breakfast with us!” She said with a bright, almost angelic smile. George felt like he was in heaven just by seeing her. 

“I know about Karim, but why are you friends with Anthony Lockwood?” 

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me? Only the good things, I hope.” Lockwood said, his charming smile making a way to his face.

“Yeah, like the houses you’ve burned down, and how stupidly reckless you are to the point that you even got shot.” You stated, repulse evident in your eyes as you looked at the man of the hour. 

“It’s adorable how much you know about me.”

“Have you ever been to a psych ward? I can get you an appointment set and ready by tonight.”

“You want to see me tonight?”

George feared you might slit Lockwood’s throat with the way you were looking at him. “We should, um, get inside.” He said, trying (and failing) to break the awkward tension, guiding the four of you into the café. 

George looked at your sister and whispered into her ear “It’s not my place to assume but.. you didn’t tell her we were coming, did you?”

She gave him a shy smile before answering. “I want her to make some friends, and I think someone like Lockwood might help her come out of her shell.”

She looked so innocent that George wanted to break down crying and tell her all about Lockwood’s dumb publicity plan. This was eating him alive. 

You took a seat next to your sister in the booth George had reserved for the four of you. Lockwood smiled when he saw your eyes widen at the sight of him sitting right in front of you. 

“Karim, can you switch places with your friend?” 

“Why? Are you embarrassed I’ll see you blush whenever you look into my eyes?” 

“Have you ever been told that your hairline will recede by the time you’re 30 years old if you keep cutting and styling your hair like that?”  

“Have you ever been told that you’re incredibly beautiful?” 

Your sister had to place her hand over yours before you could reach for the knife placed in front of you by a waiter. Lockwood couldn’t contain his laughter at the look on your face.

“What’s so fucking funny, Lockwood?”

“Nothing. Don’t mind me, please continue with your insults. I relish being the reason behind your thoughts and words.” 

That was enough to shut you up. Your sister, George, and Lockwood shared jokes and stories while you looked down at your plate, the conversation flowing easily between them. Sometimes you’d look up to find Lockwood staring at you, he’d send you a small smile and try to include you in the conversation, but you didn't intend on giving him the satisfaction of getting you to speak, so you’d shut him down with an eye roll. 

The rest of the morning went by smoothly until your sister had the brilliant idea to tell you about her plans for the rest of the day. 

“You’re going to the archives with Karim.. alone? Just the two of you?” 

“Did you not hear her the first time, love?”

“Shut the fuck up, Lockwood.” You snapped at him, hoping your anger was enough to mask the blush rushing into your cheeks. 

It wasn’t. 

“Did I just make you blush?”

“You made me want to throw up.”

“Deny it all you want, but the pet name clearly had an effect on you.. love.”

“Ugh, whatever.” 

The four of you stood up and walked to the café’s exit, Lockwood opening the door for your sister and you. As soon as you got outside, your sister began to apologize for not telling you about her impromptu archives plan with George.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind. Just.. text me when you get there?” You said softly. Way too softly, Lockwood noticed. He had never seen you this vulnerable, maybe your sister was way more important to you than he expected. 

“I will. Promise.”

You said your goodbyes before turning around, planning on walking to your car, but the universe definitely wasn’t on your side today.

“Wait! I’ll go with you.” Lockwood said as he tried to catch up with you, matching the pace of your long strides. 

“I don’t know if you can tell, Lockwood, but I’m trying to get away from you.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t drive you home after our first date?”

“You’re not a gentleman, and that wasn’t a date.”

Lockwood pressed a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. “Ouch, not a gentleman? Thank god my mother isn’t here to hear those words.”

You finally stopped walking and turned around to face him. “What do you want?”

“To.. drive you home?”

“No, Lockwood. What do you want? You tried to include me in your stupid conversation earlier, then paid for my breakfast, opened the door for me, and now you want to drive me home. What the fuck do you want?”

Lockwood stayed silent for a while, just staring into your eyes. “I was trying to be nice to you, is that too hard to believe?” 

He took notice of how you looked away from his eyes and tried to keep your hands busy by playing with the hem of your shirt. 

You cleared your throat before saying, “Fine, but if you fuck my car up, I swear to god, Lockwood..” 

2- I hate the way you drive my car.

The car was silent the entire first half of the ride. Sometimes you’d catch Lockwood staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you never looked back, deciding that looking through the car window was a better sight. 

“You don’t talk much unless it is to deliver a well-crafted insult, huh?” Lockwood said, trying to break the silence. It wasn’t awkward, it was just.. tense. 

“Do you want me to talk to you?” You answered, slightly surprised by the fact that Anthony Lockwood of all people, wanted to have a conversation with you. 

“Yeah.”

“And what do you want me to say? It’s not like I know a single thing about you.” 

“You can say whatever you want, I don’t mind. I’ll accept it whether it is you cursing my entire bloodline, or you saying you’re deeply attracted to me.” 

The car came to a stop, a red light illuminating Lockwood’s sharp features. You hated to admit it, but fuck, Anthony Lockwood was attractive. 

“Me? Deeply attracted to you? Holy shit, did you fall and hit your head as a baby?”

“You so are.”

“Am I that transparent? Because you’re right. Oh, Lockwood, I am so attracted to you and your stupid fucking personality. I want you, I need you. Oh baby, oh baby.”

“You have such a beautiful way with words, love.”

That was enough to get a small laugh out of you. Lockwood kept surprising you, he didn’t back down after an insult or two, and he actually seemed to enjoy being indulged in them. 

He turned his head to look at you as soon as he heard you laugh, a smile adorning his face. A feeling of pride (and maybe something more) swelled in his chest.

“I can’t believe I just made you laugh for the first time and we’ve been on a date for about three hours now. God, I’m making such a bad first impression.” 

“You still won’t let the idea of this being a date go?” 

“Nope. I enjoy being on a date with you. You’re a nice person to hang out with.”

The corners of your lips curled up into a small smile. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do, I would rather take you out on a million dates than spend 30 minutes with any other person,” Lockwood confessed, and he meant it.

“Like you could find a person who would willingly spend 30 minutes with you.”

“Oh, see? That, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?”

The two of you spent the rest of your ride home talking, the tension slowly evaporating, leaving room for the back-and-forth quips that Lockwood and you kept throwing each other. 

Lockwood stopped the car when he heard you say, “Alright, this is my house.” You were about to open the door, but before you could even extend your arm he said a quick, “Wait!” and got out of the car, rounding it to open your door.

“Thanks.”

“Anything and everything for you.”

Just as you were about to answer, a flash and the sound of a camera clicking disrupted the moment you were having. 

“You’re fucking with me”, you muttered under your breath. Lockwood looked surprised too, he had completely forgotten about his plan. 

Take her out for a few days. Get photographed together. Gain more clients.

His heart sank at the reminder of the reality of this situation. He had been so busy having fun with you, that his mind decided to blur out the reason why he was hanging out with Fittes’ most hated agent. 

“Alright. I should, um, go.”

“Do you want me to walk you to your door? Or is the first date too soon to meet your parents?”

“Fuck you, Lockwood,” You said with a smile.

“It doesn’t really seem like you want to.”

He found himself smiling, too. 

3- I hate it when you stare.

“What a fun coincidence to find you here, love.”

You rolled your eyes at Lockwood’s annoying voice. “Yeah, it’s such a fun coincidence that you almost burned this house down and my team had to come help your incompetent agency.” 

“Third time’s a charm.”

“There’s no way in hell you’ve been the cause of more than two fires.” 

“If you let me take you out on another date, maybe I’ll tell you more about them.” You almost stabbed him with your rapier. “Shut up, people might hear.” That brought a bright smile to his face and an incredulous look to his eyes.

“Oh, so you want to keep our relationship a secret? Fine, I’ll take it. I love a forbidden romance.” He whispered, the smell of lavender and lemon engulfing you as he kneeled a bit to whisper in your ear. 

“Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night. Anyway, I need to go check out the paperwork for the mess you made, can you keep an eye on my team?” You shyly asked, breaking the eye contact he was desperately trying to keep.

“You trust me with your team? I thought my agency was incompetent and I wasn’t good at anything.” 

“It’s just for a few minutes, don’t let this get to your head.” 

“Oh, it’s way over my head, love.” 

You showed him a very special finger, before walking away to talk to Barnes. You tried to remain professional and listen to what the inspector was saying, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of a pair of eyes looking at you. “Sorry for calling you again, you know how it gets whenever Lockwood and Co have a case,” Barnes said, breaking you out of the cage your mind had trapped you in. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s my pleasure to help.” You tried to muster up a small smile for the man, you liked Barnes, he never treated you differently, not even when the way you acted and decided to express yourself wasn’t the most appropriate. 

“And I think it's their pleasure to be helped.”

“I’m sorry?”

You turned around, following Barnes’ line of sight, only for your eyes to meet Lockwood’s. He gave you a small smile but didn’t look away, it was almost as if he longed for your eyes to make contact. You sent him a small frown, wordlessly asking him what was wrong, he just shrugged and waved at the two of you. 

“He is so weird.” You said, turning to face the inspector. “Tell me about it. Well, we are all done here. Have a nice night, and make sure to get home safely.” He answered, eager to get away from the group of agents surrounding him, and walking away. 

Lockwood didn’t miss a beat before making his way to you. “So, I’m thinking we make the second date happen over some tea at Portland Row?”

“Not happening.”

“I’m not one to make a woman feel uncomfortable when she says no, but may I ask why?

“I’d rather spend my time hanging out with ten type threes, than with the group of miscreants you call friends. No offense to Lucy and Holly, though. I quite like them. I was talking about Karim, tell that thing to stay away from my sister.” You answered, finally finding the guts to maintain eye contact while you spoke. 

“You know Lucy and Holly?” He decided to ignore your entire statement, now only focused on the fact that you knew his friends. Anxiety making its way through his body at the thought of Lucy telling you about his plan. 

“Yeah, and they told me some really interesting things about you. I never took you as the type of person to do that type of stuff.”

Lockwood’s heart almost gave out. “What did they say?”

“That you wear pink socks.”

He felt his heart start beating again. Lockwood thought he was about to die in front of you, he made a mental note to thank Lucy for being nice enough to not tell you about his schemes. He found the strength to give you a charming smile. 

“That surprised you? Lord, do you think I’m the type of guy to have a fragile masculinity? My mother raised me better than that.” 

“You mention your mother a lot, are you close with her?

They should give out awards for Feeling your heart stop two times in the span of 3 minutes because Lockwood was sure he would get one delivered to Portland Row’s doorstep by tomorrow morning. 

“I.. um, yeah.” 

Fuck. You made it awkward. You almost dropped down to your knees and begged him for forgiveness. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude into your personal life, it’s not my place to ask and assume shit about your family. I’m so fucking sorry, Lockwood.” The light in your eyes dimmed, the sight of it made Lockwood want to tell you all about his past. He wanted to go back to ten minutes ago when your eyes were shining and looking into his. He internally swore to never let the light leave them again.

“You’re good, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He reassured you in a small voice, clearly not fine. 

“No, I will worry–” You couldn’t finish your sentence because, once again, the light of a camera flash illuminated Lockwood and you, blinding you both for a split moment. 

“Of course they’re here. Jesus Christ, do they not have lives? A family?” 

“Maybe they just like taking pictures of your beautiful face.”

The light came back to your dim eyes at his statement. “There he is.” You said, noticing how his gaze slipped from your eyes to your lips, before going back to the eye contact you had.

“What can I say? I can’t stop myself from complimenting you when you’re around.”

4-  I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind.

The streets of London were quiet while Lockwood took a small walk in the early morning. Lucy told him if he walked around the city for a few hours, he’d be able to break in the new pair of combat boots she got him as a present after he made it through 10 cases without almost dying.  

“It’s 8 am and you’re already up being pathetic. I should say I saw this coming, but I really didn’t. Holy shit.” A familiar voice snapped him out of the daze he was in. He was so busy going through a list in his head of all the things he had to do this week, that he didn’t notice you walking next to him. 

“How long have you been walking by my side?”

“Long enough to see you staring straight ahead and not noticing how incredibly pathetic you look. Your boots are hideous, by the way.” You answered, looking into his eyes and noticing how he smirked at your last remark.

“I don’t think Lucy will be happy about you calling her well-thought gift hideous.”

You let out a genuine laugh as soon as he said that. It was the type of laugh that bubbled up from your chest and had you throwing your head back. It made Lockwood feel as if all the morning clouds had disappeared and the sun shone only on the two of you. Sure, you had laughed at Lucy’s gift, but the sound was enough to let the sun shine its warm rays through Lockwood’s heart. An infinite sunbathe.

“Oh, so you find this funny? Hurting my best friend’s feelings?” He asked in a teasing tone, squinting slightly at you.

“So.. I take it she didn’t tell you?” You asked, a small giggle escaping your lips and going straight through Lockwood’s heart. 

“Tell me what?”

“That our plan was to get you the most ugly, repulsive looking, and incredibly stupid boots that we could find? I wasted my money on that, you’re welcome or whatever.” 

He should’ve been offended. Offended at how Lucy wanted him to humiliate himself by walking through the streets of London with a pair of bright neon green combat boots. Offended that she had asked for your help to choose the ugliest pair she could find. But he was too busy fighting the urge to press his lips against yours and to run his slender fingers through your hair. 

Did you not notice how you always bit your lip after laughing because you thought that would stop you from falling into another fit of laughter? 

“Yeah, yeah, you two are so funny,” He rolled his eyes with a smile. “Thank you, love.” He was about to nudge you with his shoulder, but as soon as he turned to look at you, he noticed you weren’t next to him anymore.

His heart stopped for a second until he finally looked back and caught you staring at two women through a café window, clearly on a date. One of them gave the other a bouquet of different types of flowers and brushed back a strand of her girlfriend’s bright red hair. That brought a smile to your face. 

“Hey, you okay?” He whispered as soon as he stood next to you, noticing the sad smile on your face. 

“Oh, yeah. I was just..” 

You didn’t have to say a word for him to be aware of what you wanted to mention. The look in your eyes, and the small smile on your face.. this was the look you always got whenever you saw your sister with George. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Lockwood reassured you. Not wanting to scare you off after seeing the look on your face and the small voice you used to answer. 

“Do you think I’m holding my sister back?” You asked, turning around to look into his eyes, your hands trembling a bit.

He didn’t miss a beat before taking hold of your hand and lacing your fingers together, giving your gentle hand two squeezes. “I think.. you care a lot about her, and that’s completely fine. But it is not your job to dictate what she can or can not do. It’s okay to let her have her freedom and life, just like you deserve to have yours.” 

You took a deep breath before pulling Lockwood into a hug, your arms surrounding his neck. Lockwood was startled for a second but didn’t have to think about it twice before wrapping his arms around your waist, letting you take the lead in this display of affection. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know, but.. um”

“You don’t have to say anything, come on,” He said, breaking the hug and taking your hand into his, pulling you forward to continue the walk you were on.

5- I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme.

Lockwood looked down at your intertwined hands, thinking of things to say to get the fog of sadness blinding you out of the way. “So you’re a hopeless romantic, huh?

“What the fuck?”

Alright, so maybe this wasn’t his greatest icebreaker ever, but at least it was something. He chose to continue. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you always stare at every couple we walk past. It’s kind of adorable. Fittes’ heinous bitch being a hopeless romantic? Sign me the hell up.”

“You’re sick in the head, Anthony Lockwood.”

“I didn’t think of you as a hopeless romantic, like.. at all. But I assume this means you’re the type of person who wants flowers and love letters delivered to her doorstep. Right?”

“No.”

“Sure, love. I’ll keep this in mind for future references.”

Lockwood made sure to walk you back to Fittes’ building after spending the rest of his morning with you, choosing to take the weird looks his boots got with pride and a bright smile. Whenever someone stopped him in the street he’d answer with a happy “my best friend and this beautiful lady next to me gave them to me as a gift”. 

You spent the rest of your day going back and forth through Fittes’ small yet numerous offices, talking to different people about your previous and next cases. Sometimes you’d stop to take a breather outside a door, but quickly remembered the importance of your role as a team leader, and snapped out of your seemingly neverending exhaustion. 

“Am I dreaming or is that my best friend in the whole world?” You turned your head to the right to find Bobby Vernon smirking at you, a dry chuckle leaving his lips.

“Fuck off, Vernon.”

“Woah, no need to get all pissy, love.” You clenched your shaking fists, trying to keep your anger in. You may have a short temper, but you would never let someone like him get the satisfaction of making you angry, or at least of noticing the effect his words have on you. 

The thought of someone other than Lockwood calling you by that pet name made you want to burst into tears. How dare they see you as someone who’s weak? After everything you’ve done and fought for to get the role you have as an agent? 

“I don’t have the time for your bullshit, so just spit it out and let me go home.” You said with an eye roll.

“Your sister wanted me to tell you that you got mail. Well, it’s more like a gift, I guess. I assume it’s from your parents because I can’t think of a single human being who genuinely likes you.” 

You knew better than to take his words to heart, but the venom he said them with stung. You knew you were unlikeable, probably even unloveable at this point, but he didn’t have any right to say those words to your face. It made you feel disgusting, you had to fight back the urge to throw up.

“Yeah, alright. Have a good day, Vernon.” You replied as you walked past him and out into the street, calling for a cab to take you home.

The ride back home was silent, and it surprisingly made you miss Lockwood. It made you miss his stupid jokes, his ugly haircut, and his reckless way of driving your car. You were sure the poor guy didn’t know what a stop sign meant. 

As soon as the cab driver got you home, you made sure to pay him and wish him a safe drive, after all, the curfew was 15 minutes away from starting. A sigh escaped your lips after opening your door and heading into your room. The day had left you completely worn out, and Bobby’s words didn’t help at all with the shit day you were having.

You quickly got changed and were about to head to bed when you noticed a package sitting in the corner of your room. A frown made its way to your face when your eyes caught the unfamiliar handwriting with your name on the box, curiosity taking the best of you as you opened the package with a delicate touch.

A gasp left your lips when you opened it and found the same bouquet of colorful flowers you saw the woman give to her partner at the café. A white envelope sat next to them.

With a small smile and shaking hands, you opened it and were greeted with Lockwood’s handwriting.

Hey, my love. 

I’ll be really honest and say that my mind is completely blank as I write this, but I just wanted to let you know that right after I dropped you off, I went to Arif’s with George and heard a love song playing — I couldn’t help but think of your hopeless romantic self as soon as I heard these lyrics: You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you. 

Jesus, I know you’re having a field day reading this. Me? Embarrassing myself and sending you a bouquet and a love letter? You’re right, I must be extremely sick in the head.

Anyway, I hope you have a good day. You deserve it.

With lots of love,

Lockwood. 

(PS: You don’t have to say it back! But I thought it felt right to say it since we’re kind of besties now.) 

The tears you spent the entire day holding back decided to come out right after you finished reading the letter. Sobs escaped your lips as you sat down in your bed, the flowers and letter still in your hand. A strange feeling bubbled up inside you, you didn’t quite know what it meant, but decided to guess it was that disgusting sickening feeling Bobby left you with. 

When you laid in bed and tried to go to sleep, you took notice of how different the feeling you were having right now was from the one you got with Bobby Vernon. Sure, this one made you want to throw up, too. But it also made you want to stare into Lockwood’s eyes again and to feel his arms wrapped around your waist for a few more seconds. You drifted to sleep with a craving of feeling Lockwood’s hand intertwined with yours for the rest of your life.  

[saltwaterburns]

i'm rewatching lockwood & co :,( so incredible seeing it on screen, but so bittersweet knowing there isn't more to come

[neewtmas]

ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙʙᴇʏ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ // ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪx

pairing: george karim x fem!reader

wordcount: 3.3k

summary: a case that takes longer than expected, an unrequited crush, and the hardest decision you ever had to make

a/n: this is the second to last chapter, if all goes to plan! Can't promise when the last part will be out bc I'm swamped with uni work this month, but hopefully this will hold you over until then <3

masterlist series masterlist

taglist: @maraschinomerry @smol-being-of-light @sstrawberriel @poisonquinzell @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @thl3c @oblivious-idiot @bobbys-not-that-small @myownpainintheass @taygrls @marinalor @y0urm0m12 @fearlessmoony @quack-quack-snacks @ahead-fullofdreams @aphroqite @lostdreamingwallflower ((if you wanna be added or removed, just tell me :))

You sat in the cab, gripping the seatbelt as if it was a life vest saving you from drowning. It felt like you couldn’t breathe, your throat closing up more with every second you moved further away from Portland Row. As you had gotten in the backseat of the car, you had caught a glance of yourself in the rearview mirror – you were pale and looked tired and worn out, almost scarely so. Thankfully, the cab driver seemed to have picked up on your mood and didn’t try and make small talk, and so you drove in silence through the streets of London.

You stared out of the window. The city was slowly waking up around you, people leaving their houses to go to work, walk their dogs, or go the shops. You didn’t register any of it.

There was more than one moment where you had to stop yourself from telling the cab driver to turn around. You had ended up not saying goodbye to George, and the regret was already like a twisted knife in your stomach. You knew that it was your own fault – you should have just talked to him the night before. Deciding to do it in the morning was really just deciding to not do it at all, you could admit that to yourself now.

But then again, what could you have said to him? It was George after all, he would have asked questions, and lots of them. He wouldn’t have been satisfied with the vague reason you gave Lockwood. It would have forced you to either lie to his face or tell him the truth, neither of which was something you wanted to do.

You had instead scribbled an apology on a piece of paper before you left, just so that he wouldn’t be left with nothing, but deep down you knew he deserved so much more. Maybe that was proof that you were doing the right thing by removing yourself from his life. Removing yourself and making space for someone who had their feelings under control, could be there for him as his friend and wouldn’t run away at the smallest inconvenience.

You sighed deeply. Not for the first time were you wondering how you had managed to fuck up your life this spectacularly.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You watched the cab drive off, down the street and around a corner after it had dropped you off in front of your new, temporary home. You looked around. It was quiet, except for a few birds chirping in the trees, and the clear, light blue sky promised a lovely day of sunshine. You couldn’t help but wish it would rain instead. The nice weather just made you feel worse.

You wrapped your hand around the battered leather of your suitcase’s handle and took a deep breath before lifting it off the sidewalk. It felt heavier with every step as you walked up to the front door that was painted in a lovely blue, the colour chipped off in some spots. It took you a while to find the placard with the name you were looking for. After you rung the bell, you took a step back and looked up. It was a peculiar feeling, standing here in front of the kind of building you’d usually only enter at night. In these instances, you always felt ready to face whatever was waiting for you. Now you were here in broad daylight, precisely because you couldn’t face what was waiting for you at home in Portland Row.

The door buzzed and you pushed it open with your shoulder, dragging your suitcase behind you into the cold, dim hallway. You could hear the sound of quick steps, and soon a girl appeared at the top of the stairs. She immediately pulled you into a tight hug when she reached you.

“(name)! I’m so glad you’re here. How are you feeling?”

You didn’t respond immediately, rather you just leaned into the hug for a few more seconds.

“Not great”, you mumbled into her hair.

She took a step back, hands still on your shoulders, and looked at you.

“You look tired. And sad.”

You managed a small smile. “That’s because I am.”

She squeezed your shoulders and then grabbed your suitcase. “Let’s get you upstairs then. Harry’s waiting with some breakfast. Maybe that’ll take your mind off things.”

You followed her up two flights of stairs, the smell of fresh toast already wafting through the hallway.

You realised you’d never been in their flat before as you slipped out of your coat and Hannah, who had carried your suitcase into what you assumed must be your room for the next few weeks, came back to take it from you and hang it up in the closet next to the entrance.

You padded over into the kitchen, where Harry stood at the stove, his back to you. He turned around when you entered, and just like his girlfriend, the first thing he did was step over and hug you tightly.

“Thank you guys for letting me stay here”, you said quietly as he stepped back.

Hannah pulled one of the chairs out from under the table and motioned you to sit down.

“How could we not?”, she asked, taking the seat opposite to you. “That’s what friends do.”

She poured you a glass of water and waited for you to take a sip before she continued.

“If you don’t mind me asking though - what changed that you needed to leave so suddenly now? Harry said you sounded very ominous on the phone.”

“I just didn’t feel like talking about it in detail on the phone”, you said, giving Harry a thankful smile as he came over with the pan and scooped some of the scrambled eggs on your plate.

“You sounded like you were about to start crying, so I didn’t want to push it”, Harry said and sat down at the table with you after he had returned the pan to the stove. “Feel free to take whatever you want.” He gestured over the table. It looked delicious, but you weren’t sure you could stomach much at this moment.

You looked down on your plate, pushing the scrambled egg around with your fork. “I don’t know if this was the right decision yet. But it just… it all became too much.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You sat and talked for almost two hours. Both Hannah and Harry had the day off, and since you were currently out of a job, none of you had anywhere to be.

The small kitchen was filled with sunlight that streamed in through the tall windows and even though you couldn’t help but compare it to the kitchen in 35 Portland Row, the longer you sat, the better you felt.

Both your friends listened attentively as you told them about Abbey House in detail. They had been there for you so many times, had witnessed how your silly little crush grew over time. Like Lucy, they had always told you to just go for it – what could go wrong? It sounded like he liked you too. And just like with Lucy, you had shot down every such suggestion each time it was brought up.

When you were done, no one said anything. The silence hang heavy between you. Your cheeks were flushed from talking, and they began burning with embarrassment as you realised how stupid and overdramatic you must seem when it was all laid out like this.

You buried your face in your hands, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you.

“This is so embarrassing”, you mumbled into your palms.

“Oh (name)”, Hannah said, and you could tell she was trying to be gentle with you. “It’s not embarrassing, at all. It seems like this whole situation really weighs heavy on you.”

You dropped your hands, feeling dejected. “I just don’t know what to do now.”

“Why did you leave? Why did that seem like the better option than just telling him?”, asked Harry.

You hesitated. If you were honest, you had never really thought about why you were so opposed to the idea of confessing your feelings, you had just kind of known from the start that could never be an option.

“I think… I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship”, you said slowly.

“But do you really think that running away like you did – without even saying goodbye – was particularly good for your friendship?”, Hannah asked carefully.

You bit your lip. She was right.

“Probably not”, you said quietly. “But at least that way I don’t have to see his face when I tell him and I won’t have to live with the inevitable rejection.”

“Well you know what our opinion is on that.” Hannah sighed. “But what’s done is done. Maybe a bit of space will do you good.”

“Does Lucy know you’re here?”, Harry asked, and you shook your head.

“I didn’t get around to telling her. And I was scared she might tell Lockwood or worse, George.”

“You know that Lucy wouldn’t do that if you asked her not to. But I think it’s important that at least one person knows where you are and how to reach you.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Harry was right, and so that afternoon you looked up the agency in the phone register and dialled the number. It rang just a few times, and you were already fighting with yourself to not immediately hang up again, when a voice sounded through the speaker.

“Hello? Who is this?”

You dropped the phone, and it bounced off the bed you sat on and crashed onto the floor. You scrambled to pick it up again, grasping it tightly with shaky hands.

“Hello?”

You had never hung up that fast in your life.

You sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, the phone clutched to your chest as you tried to calm your breathing. You tried to push away the image of a confused George standing in the hallway, but to no avail. Why didn’t you think of the possibility that he could be the one to pick up? For some reason you had just assumed it would be Lucy, or at the very least Lockwood.

George never picked up the phone. You had seen him several times how he had just let it ring until the person at the other end gave up. He and Lockwood regularly got into fights about that. And yet here he was, answering after just a few rings, sounding almost… rushed.

You couldn’t help the small glimmer of hope in your heart. Maybe he was waiting for a call from you? But no, that was ridiculous.

You didn’t dare call again, instead you had Harry call a while later. Again it was George who picked up uncharacteristically quick, but unlike than you, Harry didn’t throw the phone across the room and instead just asked to speak to Lucy.

It took a few moments, then he handed you the phone.

“Hello?”, you asked, almost scared you’d hear George’s voice again.

“Oh hi, how are you? We haven’t talked in ages!” Lucy sounded much more cheerful than you had expected.

“Uhm Lucy, it’s me”, you said, and for a moment you heard nothing but the creaking of floorboards.

“I know. Just needed to get to my room. How are you doing?”

Harry slowly backed out of your room and gave you a thumbs up, then closed the door behind him.

You curled up on your bed. “Not great”, you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. “Lucy, what if I made a mistake?”

You had hoped that she would have some comforting words to offer, but she didn’t.

“Well, George is a mess, so there’s that.”

Her words and cold tone of voice felt like a punch to the gut. “Really?”

“(name), I know you’re not feeling great right now, but leaving like you did was kind of a dick move. You should have seen George this morning. He read your note and then just went to his room. He didn’t even come out for lunch.”

You buried your face in your pillow. What had you done?

The phone call didn’t last long after that, and after Lucy had ended it, you just laid in your bed, too mentally exhausted to move a single muscle.

Guilt was crashing over you like violent waves now, threatening to drown you completely. Not only had you hurt George, seemingly a lot more than you had anticipated, but you couldn’t help but feel like Lucy was now mad as you as well.

It took you almost an hour to get up again. Every single bone in your body was aching as you stumbled back into the hallway. The mirror opposite your door showed you your pale face and bloodshot eyes, your cheeks salty from all the dried up tears.

Hannah took one look at you and sent you to sit on the couch while she made a cup of tea for you.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The next few days you spent in something like a trance. Everything felt mechanic – getting up after sleeping way to late, nibbling at a piece of toast that was cold by the time you had picked it up, sitting on the couch by the window and staring out onto the street below. Hannah and Harry left in the late afternoon for work every day – they both still worked for Bunchurch, where you had met them initially, years ago. You had forgotten that most agents actually had to go to work – almost no one had the privilege of living in a home that was their place of work with their best friends that were their colleagues at the same time.

This wasn’t the only time you were reminded of what you had given up. Living with Harry and Hannah was lovely by all possible metrics, and you enjoyed getting to spend more time with them than you had in the last few years. But none of it could measure up to life at 35 Portland Row.

You missed the comforting atmosphere of the house, you missed your room where every afternoon, the sun stood just right on the sky to bathe everything in the light of the golden hour, you missed training in the basement, but most of all, you missed your friends. You had put the picture you took from the library on the side table next to your bed, and sometimes you laid in bed, just staring at it for who knew how long.

You were in a perpetual state of anxiety, because you just couldn't stop thinking about George.

Lucy’s words about how he read the note and then just went to his room and stayed there replayed in your head over and over again. You imagined the scene – him coming into the kitchen, not knowing anything was wrong, picking up the folded piece of paper with his name on it. Then unfolding it, reading it – reading I again because surely this was a joke? Realising it wasn’t, and then just storming off.

Was he angry? He had every right to be.

Was he sad? Maybe. A part of you wanted him to be, because that would mean he cared. A bigger part felt horrible because you would never want to cause those kind of emotions in him.

Did he hate you now? Possibly. And that was the worst part for you. Sure, you had your reasons for leaving the way you did. But he didn’t know about those.

What if, in trying to save your friendship with him, you had irredeemably destroyed it anyways?

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Who knows how long you would have gone on like that, just going through the motions every day, spending the majority of your time lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

On day four, Hannah took you on a morning walk with her. You didn’t want to go, but the fresh air and sunlight did make you feel better.

Maybe that’s why you agreed to accompany Harry to the archives after lunch the next day. He had to look up some books and articles for a case they were currently working on, and asked you to join him.

You knew what you were getting into – if there was one place you might stumble upon George, it would be the Archives. That should have been enough of a reason to stay home, but you couldn’t deny that you missed him terribly. By now, every fibre of your being was screaming to see him again. And if it was just a glimpse of him in passing, while he was immersed in his research.

On the bus, you sat by the window and looked out at the people and buildings passing by. Harry sat next to you, going over the notes he had made before you left. He didn’t notice your restless leg, or your sweaty palms, or the tug-of-war in your mind. A part screaming at you to turn back around, to not risk meeting George, another part trying to convince yourself how unlikely it would be for him to actually be there, and then a small little part that hoped for him to be there.

It would be a quick visit – there were just a few books on the list and you had accompanied George often enough to know where to find them. You led Harry up a few stairs, then you split up, him going left, you going right. He’d given you part of the list, and you walked slowly past the row of shelves, trying to figure out which ones corresponded to the signatures you were looking for.

The area was only dimly lit, the towering shelves blocking most of the light that came from the open space in the middle of the building. The sound of your steps was swallowed by the carpeted floor. You glanced into the rows between the shelves as you made your way past them. Every now and then, someone was there, looking for a book. And every time, your heart jumped a little.

Suddenly though, it felt like the blood in your veins was turning into ice. In a split second, you snapped out of it and lurched forward, pressing up against the short side of the next shelf. Your heart was beating erratically, and you clamped your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from gasping.

“Hello?”

Hearing his voice almost brought tears to your eyes. All you wanted was to turn the corner, just to see him, but you knew you couldn’t. Not right now.

So you stayed where you were, praying he wouldn’t come over to see who was trying to hide from him. He didn’t, instead you could hear footsteps moving away from you. You stood there for a few more moments, just to make sure he was actually gone, before you dared to step away. The image of him standing there, open book in his hand, was burned into your mind. With shaky hands, you returned your attention to the now crumpled paper in your hand. 

Finding the books didn’t take long after that, and you were thankful because you just wanted to leave. You almost ran back to your meeting point with Harry, who was already waiting for you. As you walked down the stairs, it took everything in you to move next to him at a normal pace and to keep a straight face, just so he wouldn’t realise how distraught you were.

If you had only turned around before stepping outside through the door that Harry was holding open for you, maybe you would have locked eyes with George, who was standing one floor above at the top of the stairs. He stayed there, staring at the door, even after you were already on the bus back home.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

thank you for reading!

feedback is appreciated :)

[lockwoodandcoimagines]

Y/N: Is any of this legal? 

Lockwood: I’m sure it’s legal somewhere. 

Y/N: …And here? 

Lockwood: Not even remotely.

[lady-ashfade]

Lockwood & co requests back open! Hmm, you see I am rewatching with my friends and now searching the internet for fics and notice the lack. I know no one writes much for them, but i would love to bring back some light on my pookies.

+ Anthony lockwood, Lucy Carlyle, George Karim, Poly!trio x reader, Poly!locklyle! [Yandere can be included for all to!!]

[bloodymiso]

★ pakisabi nalang sa kanya — multifandom x gn!reader

how did they show their love for you pre-confession + how did they confess?

a/n: always wanted to do one of these posts teehee:3 | fandoms: genshin impact, stardew valley, l&co + haikyuu!! | warnings: none!

— through letters “sometimes, love creates a poet.”

words weren’t enough to explain their love for you, but putting some action into it might help. day and night, they put their admiration for you into sweet, beautiful words they wished would help them explain what you had done to their hearts. though they knew those words could never explain even a third(1/3) of what their heart ached to say. once, twice, even thrice a week you’d arrive to school/work with a little note under your desk, locker, or even in your lunchbox. letters filled with toe-wiggling poems, songs, and beautiful paragraphs which overflowed with love in every single line started piling up in your room. they wondered what you even did to their letters, were they rotting away in the trashcan? were they turned to dust by the fire you lit in your backyard? or were they kept safely in a small box under your bed, a heart encircled on its cover? little by little, they added clues to their identity, whether it be a flower which was related to them, or a little trinket from your past encounters. one day, they handed you a letter by hand, after of course getting you on a whole treasure hunt to find out where to go. that little adventure led you to a garden. with you sweaty, stressed out, and confused, they confessed right there.

gi. KAZUHA, diluc, fischl, XINGQIU, kokomi, alhaitham(HEAR ME OUT), charlotte sdv. ELLIOT l&co. kipps(again, HEAR ME OUT) + your faves!! ♡

— quietly “in silence, we often find the deepest connection.”

it took them a while to understand what was happening, the way their hearts beat faster at your mere presence, the way the curve on your lips seemed to infect their own, the way they always couldn’t wait for the next day purely because of you. after hours of staring at the ceiling, they came to a conclusion—it was love. that was all. you weren’t some sorcerer who snatched their heart, nor were you a weirdo who spiked their drink, you were you, and apparently, they liked that. ever since their “awakening” they started doing little things for you. whether it was returning one of your pens they saw on the floor, or refilling your water bottle whenever you were too focused on works/studies. all these little things came unnoticed by you, but they knew they were making a difference

day by day, the spark between you grew. smiles were exchanged as you made eye contact, now, they weren’t afraid to do things for you in the dark, now they could step out of the shadows, and help you as they were. their confession was abrupt, and unexpected at that. as they stood in front of your desk, they held out a singular rose.

gi. NEUVILLETTE, cyno, diluc, XIAO, sucrose, freminet, wanderer sdv. sebastian, leah, penny hq. KAGEYAMA TOBIO, kozume kenma + your faves!! ♡

— proudly “you can’t blame gravity for falling in love.”

oh this little shit. they couldn’t get enough of you, nor could practically everyone else around them, they had no choice! always blabbing about how angelic you were, how your happiness seemed to be so..contagious. “okay so today—“ they started, before their poor friend quickly placed a hand on their somehow always open mouth. “don’t even start.” you’d think people would like to keep their crushes secret, especially to the one they admire but nope! even you knew! get ready for flirting galore. i don’t think they would even need a confession, the whole nation practically knew at this point. there were times you thought their love for you was fake, that they were just joking. i mean, they never actually confessed.

well, until now, of course. they got news to spread around town that they got a lover and that they’ve been spotted at the local cafe which may or may not have caught your attention. now, they stood there, bouquet in hand(coffee in the other) and friends all around.

“so uh, would you like to be that lover?”

gi. TARTAGLIA, KAEYA, baizhu, beidou sdv. sam(?) l&co. LOCKWOOD hq. iwaizumi haijime, OIKAWA TOORU, tanaka ryūnosuke + your faves!! ♡

— through teasing “pride often gets in the way of love.”

oh god did you hate their ass. woke up at 5am just to be early to work/school?oops! they beat you there, now they won’t stop talking about it! they love teasing you, they just can’t stop. sometimes they wonder if the real reason theyre teasing you is to cover up what’s really under their skin, to cover up the hook you pierced through their heart. it ate them up from the inside, but no way were they gonna admit that! if someone’s gonna confess, it better be you first..

they would have confessed rather stupidly. having gone to a bar in the evening with their friends, they called your number(which they got after getting down on their knees and begging) and confessed right there, their voice slurred, it was obvious how many glasses they chugged down. the next day, they remembered absolutely nothing, it took you a few days before finally confronting them about it.

“wait what?! i confessed to you? d-do you like me back?”

gi. TARTAGLIA(again), KAEYA(again), itto, sdv. shane(ig) hq. kuroo tetsurō, TSUKISHIMA KEI, bokuto kōtarō + your faves!! ♡

extra. through songs/music ( kazuha, itto, elliot sdv, tsukishima kei & lucy carlyle) . through food ( XIANGLING, ningguang, emily sdv + me/hj)

(><) wanna support? reblog with tags pookie!!

[dearhnymn]

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 to support your favorite authors! let me know when if you want to be added to the taglist :)

⭐️　taglist: @eeechooo

[kestisvrse]

hi sienna ! i love your fics SO SO MUCH you can’t even imagine the sizes of my love for you and your works but your works are always so freaking cute but they’re little ;( can i ask you for a medium or a big fic just about lockwood x fem reader being a couple and write just tooth rooting fluff. actually i’m so sorry for asking you for a big size cause i know how difficult is to write big ones but if you’re being able to write it i would read you masterpiece with pleasure ! *sorry for the mistakes, english isn’t my native language ;( 🪩

a trip around the sun

pairing ⋆ anthony lockwood x gn!reader. fluff. established relationship.

synopsis ⋆ your relationship with anthony lockwood. or love languages with anthony lockwood.

warnings ⋆ reader implied to be shorter, kissing, i think that’s it? let me know if i missed anything!! | wc: 3k

a/n ⋆ do not apologize!!! your english is amazing :) and i promise i’m trying to get into the habit of making my fics longer, school and all that yk! i’m so sorry this took so long!!!

anthony lockwood masterlist

@mitskiswift99 @novelizt @initialchains @eedwardss

♫ - comfortable by keni titus

you had known lockwood for almost two years, him having employed you a little while after george, and lucy joining a year later. in that time you grew closest with the boy, his charm easily able to capture you.

you knew everything about each other, you being the first person he had really opened up to about his family, which had ended with the first and only time you had ever seen lockwood cry.

the point is, you had his back and he had yours, and of course how couldn’t you develop a crush? his natural personality was to flirt with you, sending winks and grins your way in any situation, it was impossible to not like him, you just didn’t expect it to be reciprocated.

march 3rd

february was an odd month to say the least, only because of lockwood.

it started with flowers appearing at the door addressed to you from an anonymous person (lucy immediately assumed it was kipps, which lockwood didn’t take lightly to the suggestion.), and then the love letters, was it slightly creepy? definitely, but that didn’t stop the blush you had when you read the letters that were so romantic it was like they had been written by cupid himself.

you can’t exactly remember how, but one day lockwood subtly revealed it was him sending these gifts, he brushed past it so quickly you almost missed it, grabbing his arm to pull him back down to the kitchen table to question him.

the presents became less frequent, but not because he had told you, but because he started to take you on dates, or giving you the gifts up front. he went all out on valentines, taking you to a nice restaurant that you were positive none of you could afford, but he would brush you off and tell you not to worry about it.

he would hold your hand in the taxi on the way home from jobs, offering you his clothes if you shivered even slightly, lucy was ecstatic for you, while you remained confused, sure he had been touchy or flirty before but as soon as you entered the month of valentines, he acted as if you were dating.

which he had meant to make happen before march, but the nerves got to him as he pushed it farther away, settling for chocolates or notes under your pillow.

but here he stood, outside your room with a bouquet of flowers, asking you to be his.

“what?” you choked out in shock, your hand sealed to the door helping you stand up as your knees weakened.

“will you be mine?” he repeated, a sudden line of sweat covering his forehead.

“you- you’re serious?” you said in disbelief, as he shuffled his weight onto his left foot uncomfortably, expecting rejection.

“yes, yes i’m serious.” he spoke nervously, a lopsided grin appearing on his face, “if you say no it’s fi—“

“no! i mean, yes!” i sigh, “i’m not saying no, i want— i want you to be my boyfriend.” you stammered out, as his nervous grin quickly turned to a cocky one to hide his urge to jump for joy, he stuck his hand farther out for you to take the flowers.

“okay.” he beamed, his cheeks turning a light pink.

you look up at him through your lashes, hiding a smile behind the bouquet in your hands.

march 17th

george was fed up with you and lockwood's little honeymoon phase, shoving you out the door making you two make a journey to arif’s for donuts.

it took you a lot longer than it needed to, walking as slow as possible that a few people had to walk around you, just basking in each other’s presence as you held hands, his thumb tracing over your knuckles.

“we should go for walks together more often.” he suggests, bumping shoulders against yours as you hum in response, grinning up at him.

reaching the steps of portland row, you hand him the box to reach into your pocket and grab your keys, not noticing him staring at your face, as he gave himself a pep talk in his head.

“um- before we go in.” he began, causing you to look up at him, freezing your actions of going to unlock the door, “can…”

you tilt your head at him, moving forward, “what’s wrong?”

“i just..” his eyes flickered to your lips, “i wanted to do it in a more romantic setting, but i really can’t help myself.” his voice lowered as he stared intensely down at you, “can i kiss you?”

he watched as your mouth curved up and your eyes sparkled staring at him, you began to nod eagerly as you brought your hands to his cheeks. his hand slid onto your back as he leaned towards you, meeting each other halfway as a soft kiss was placed to your lips. you could only imagine how red you were as you pulled him closer, deepening the kiss that was meant to have been a peck, but he didn’t decline, attempting to not drop the box of donuts in the awkward position.

but they did almost go flying as the door whipped open, revealing george narrowing his eyes at the two, “sickening.” he said, grabbing the donuts from lockwoods hands and slamming the door in your face.

april 20th

after a very long job, you couldn’t stand to go up one more set of steps to your and lucy’s shared room, feet aching leading you towards lockwoods bed, you quickly changed into a big t shirt he owned and flopped onto the bed. minutes later he joined you upstairs, shocked to see a body wrapped in his sheets, but he crawled in next to you, trying to ignore his red hot cheeks at just the thought of you sleeping in his bed.

but you were too tired to notice, too busy focusing on sleeping as a wave of tiredness took over you.

“g’night anthony.” you mumbled against his pillow, he propped himself up on his elbow, leaning over you to turn the light off, he stared down at you in awe before bringing a kiss to your temple.

“goodnight love.” he whispered, laying down next to you and draping his arm across your waist, pulling you closer to his chest.

after this, lucy got the room to herself most nights.

june 5th

lockwood and co had been busy lately, leaving your anniversary celebration a few days late.

it wasn’t a huge deal for you two, at least it wasn’t as big as a year, so you didn’t mind sitting on the roof, late at night staring at the stars, the only sounds being the wind whistling through your ears and the sound of lockwoods heartbeat through his chest while you laid on him.

you both needed a quiet moment after the hectic weeks you had, finding peace in each other's arms in such a scary world.

when his hand caressed your chin to turn it up towards him, you had expected for him to lean in to kiss you, but he just stayed staring at you, like you were a painting in a museum.

“what is it?” you whispered to him, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“just want to admire you a bit.” he says nonchalantly, taking notice of how it heats your cheeks, “it’s so easy to get lost in your eyes.”

you hit his chest, hiding your face in his neck flustered from his words as you giggle, but he just chuckles, pulling you away so he can look at you again, before leaning down to place a kiss to both your cheeks, you lips, just everywhere on your face, in between kisses muttering about how perfect you were.

“i love you.” he lets slip as he kisses your temple, freezing against you at the realization.

his lips pursed and eyes widened as your jaw dropped, his pupils dilated, waiting for a negative reaction, but he was pleasantly surprised when you beam up at him, whispering “i love you too.” before pulling him by his tie to meet your lips halfway.

august 23rd

the agency never had many free or calm nights, and even if you did it was usually spent with everyone trying to catch up on sleep.

but finally, after so much hard working the past year you all took the week off, leading to your first ever lockwood and co game night.

also the night that lucy learned lockwood physically could not live without you.

lucy and george sat on the armchairs in the living room, you and lockwood in the couch opposite to them as you rolled the dice of some board game you were playing. as lucy stole a biscuit, hiding it from george to see, she noticed the way lockwoods left hand just had to be touching you.

whether it rested on your back, held your hand, rested on your knee, it didn’t matter, his hand was always hovering over you.

she suddenly realized why george had been so disgusted seeing you two together all the time when you first started dating. don’t get them wrong, they loved you two together but lord, anthony was love sick.

you also brought out another side of him, he had his own smile and laugh reserved just for looking at you or laughing at something you said.

lucy didn’t have to hear lockwood say he loved you, it was written all over his face.

october 3rd

you were convinced he had forgotten.

sure, he was very busy lately but it was your 8 months and he didn’t even say happy anniversary. he instead sent you and lucy out to do errands all day.

lucy wasn’t happy to be guiding you around as you pouted and stayed eerily quiet with short responses.

but she tried to ignore your sad tone as she knew what awaited you at home.

“tell me luce!!” you begged, as you both got closer to home her smile brightened and she walked a little faster, “why are you so happy all of a sudden?”

“no reason!” she said, fumbling with the old lock on the door, once unlocked she reached into the bag and grabbed the book lockwood had asked you to pick up for george’s christmas present, “could you go put this in lockwood’s room?”

you groaned but nodded, shrugging your shoes off as you trudged up the creaky steps.

you sighed at the sight of light leaking out under the doorway, announcing he was in his room, and suddenly his gift in your pocket felt very heavy. you frowned before walking to the door, knocking lightly.

you were taken aback at the sound of him pouncing up from his bed and sprinting to his door, opening it only a crack so you could only see his eye.

“hi?” you muttered in confusion, brows stitched together, his eyes crinkled indicating he was smiling, as he ripped the door open.

“happy 8 months.” he breathed, revealing his bed.

your jaw dropped at the sight in front of you, his bed had been littered with letters and gifts for you, letters addressed to you for when you felt sad, or for certain holidays. your favorite chocolates laid in the arms of a teddy bear wearing a crown, he noticed as your eyes glazed over as you stepped into his room.

he met your side, taking the book from your hand to place on his dresser as he shut the door with his foot, his arms snaked around your waist and his chin rested on your shoulder, “m’sorry if i scared you, i wanted to surprise you.” he whispered, looking at you despite your eyes being glued to the bed.

“you- all this— for me?” your sentences were choppy as you tried to remember how to speak, your brain slowly turning to mush at how adorable the whole gesture was.

“of course, love.” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as he squeezed you closer.

“oh anthony, i love it.” you chuckled in disbelief, a few happy tears slipping onto your cheeks but he was quick to swipe them away, “i got— hold on.” you snapped back into reality, digging in your pocket for the present that had seemed so heavy earlier and now you couldn’t even find it.

suddenly you grabbed hold of the velvet box and pulled it out to reveal to him, “it-it’s not much i’m sorry.” you said, looking bad at the bed.

“you could have given me a kiss as my gift and i would have been perfectly fine.” he assured you, he spoke softly and his voice calmed you so easily your knees almost buckled.

your thoughts were interrupted as he snapped open the box, revealing a silver ring with A.L + your initials carved into it.

he said your name softly, admiring the ring as he slipped it onto his ring finger (not purposefully, but it didn’t stop your heart from beating faster.), “this is more than enough, it’s beautiful.” he said, beaming at you.

“i love you anthony.” you breathed, getting lost in his eyes as he admired you.

“i love you more.”

december 25th

anthony spoiled you enough throughout the relationship, despite getting told off by george for the times you really couldn’t afford it. you didn’t think it was possible for him to find you anymore things to buy or write for you, until christmas.

you all agreed to keep it small, the four of your curled up in the living room playing games and opening small gifts.

and that’s how it went, everyone gave each other a gift or two, and you played games all night, the house echoing with loud laughter when lockwood got caught cheating, or lucy performed a victory dance that almost involved her falling and taking the christmas tree down with her.

it wasn’t shocking that as soon as you yawned and announced you were going to bed that lockwood quickly followed your footsteps, guiding you to sleep in his room instead of the attic with lucy, not that you were complaining.

as you changed into pajamas (aka his t shirt) he ran downstairs to grab you a glass of water, no harm by it right?

so you got comfortable under the covers, fiddling with the hem of the duvet as you heard him climb the staircase.

he wore a cheeky smile as he stood next to you as you lay in the bed, your eyes narrowing as he passed you the water.

“why are you smiling like that?” you asked, biting back your own grin from the nervous look on his face. your thirst long forgotten as you put the cup on your bedside table and sat up, urging him to admit his secrets.

all he did was kneel on the ground which had you very confused, slightly taken aback as you studied him.

until he pulled out three wrapped boxes from under the bed, plopping them in your lap, “merry christmas.”

“anthony.” you gasped at him, adjusting your posture, “what is this?”

“gifts.”

“obviously they are gifts.” you stated, as he chuckled, “i mean why are they here? there is no way we can afford this.”

“i pulled some strings.”

“i hate when you say that.”

“just open them!” he urged.

you rolled his eyes as his eyes lit up in excitement. the first box contained a pair of shoes you had been obsessing over for months, causing a proud smile on his anthony’s face as he sat next to you on the bed as you gasped.

the next box contained two books that lockwood already owned.

“i know i said i would read these but i meant your copies! we cannot afford to be buying books we already own.” you scolded, your jaw dropping.

“relax!” he said, his arm sliding between your back and the pillow, his hand resting on your waist, “they are the ones i own, i just wanted to be fancy and romantic.” he explained, smirking as you roll your eyes again.

“you are something else.”

the third present was smaller than the rest, tearing it open to reveal a box with a necklace inside, you gasped as you realized the pendent hanging to the necklace was in fact a locket, and as you opened it, it revealed a tiny photo of you and anthony that lucy had taken the day of your and lockwood's first date. it was so small that you had to squint your eyes, but despite the blurriness you were able to depict that it had been taken from the second floor window, you and anthony hand in hand as you returned home, wide grins on your faces.

“anthony…” you breathed, the metal of the necklace was shining into your eyes due to the light hitting off it, but you found yourself unable to tear your vision away.

“don’t say we can’t afford it, because i don’t care.” he states, “i want to spoil you.”

reluctantly you look away from the jewelry in your hand to look at him, “i love it.”

before he could respond you tackled him into a hug, peppering kisses all over his face, muttering about how amazing he was as you tried to stop yourself from crying. he just smiled, finally catching your lips with his as you sat over him on the bed.

“i love you.” you whispered against his lips, before you could go back to deepening the kiss he started speaking.

“i don’t think i could live without you.” he said softly, you pulled your head back to get a better look at him, expression softening as his arms wrapped around your back, “i love you more.”

“yeah, not possible.” you responded, causing him to laugh out, but he was quickly distracted with the urge to kiss you again.