#george karim fanfiction

[givemea-dam-break]

okay so, consider this: jealous George

hasn't been done much, and jealousy is one of my favourite tropes. I'm thinking friends to lovers (obv) and you're free to make it as angsty as possible, as long as we get a happy ending :))) and you know what would probably hurt him most? When he's jealous of Lockwood bc he gets along so well with reader, maybe they just have a borderline-flirty dynamic (all platonic ofc) and George just has to watch and know he's never gonna be able to be like this (angst angst angst)

AND to make it MORE angsty maybe reader is really reserved around george but only bc she is so nervous (he doesn't know that ofc!!)

AND how about George confides in Lucy at some point that he thinks lockwood and reader might be into each other and she's like "uh yeah no, lockwood and I are dating"

Just throw in whatever cliché trope you can think of in there, i love them all

a/n: I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS IDEA OMFG YES THANK YOU!!!!!! jealousy is also one of my favourite tropes it’s great but i haven't actually written it all that much so i hope you enjoy! this isn't very angsty because i actually struggled with the plot for this, but hopefully you still like it lol

warnings: mild language words: 3.9K female reader taglist: @flashbackwhenyoumetme @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @waitingforthesunrise @ettadear @mirrorballdickinson @ella23116 (let me know if you want added to my taglist!)

Touch - George Karim

George had a habit of staying up late on nights where it was unnecessary.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep, but rather the fact that he didn’t want to until he was sure that everything was all right. When the agents of Lockwood and Co. returned to 35 Portland Row, safe and – mostly – unharmed, he could relax.

Well, he frankly could care less what ego-fulfilling stories Lockwood had to tell upon his returns or the colourful and new swear words Lucy had learned from Skull. It was (name) he waited up for.

Out of the three of his friends, (name) was the one who understood him most. She never pushed for him to speak when he didn’t feel comfortable. She always listened to him ramble on, whether it be for a case or purely out of interest in something, with her full attention, letting him speak for as long as he wanted, smiling and nodding as he did so. He felt most like himself with her around.

So, there he sat in the living room, glancing between the book in his lap and the front door, waiting for the familiar rattle of the doorhandle. It was cast in shadow, with only a thin streak of light cutting across it from the flickering crystal skull lamp in the hallway. Lockwood really needed to swap out the bulb.

When the tell-tale jingle of keys and the quiet clatter of the handle sounded, he sat up slightly and watched as she crept in as silently as she could. That was another thing George liked and appreciated about (name) – the fact that she was considerate for the other people in the house late at night. After a case, Lockwood would come in noisily, shutting the door behind him a little too loudly, and Lucy would be stomping around on too-creaky floorboards in her clunky boots. But (name) was always quiet.

It felt like George’s heart skipped a beat when she flashed him one of her enchanting smiles, paired with a little wave. Although the smiles were always reserved, edging on shy and nothing more than a curve of the lips and a sparkle in her eyes, it made his insides feel all warm and fluttery. The sensation had been new to him in the beginning, those first few times she’d smiled at him after she had been hired, but now it was something he yearned for. His days didn’t feel complete without it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but footsteps shook the stairs and, all of a sudden, Lockwood was there, arm draped over (name)’s shoulders.

“How was the case?” he asked, grinning.

(name) leaned against him as she tugged off her ectoplasm-spotted boots. “Couldn’t even call it that. Mrs Tilden, as sweet as she is, forgets that she can’t actually hear ghosts, and that the neighbour’s cat yowls whenever it gets too cold. I would’ve been back sooner, but all the night cabs were taken, and I didn’t feel like riding back with Kipps and his lot.”

“Well, you’re here now. Fancy some tea? Boiled the kettle not long ago.”

“That’d be great,” she said. When her eyes, sparkling in the dim light, turned on George, he found himself stuck to the spot. “Do you want some, George? I got some of that tea you really like this morning.”

And, as much as George wanted to agree, he couldn’t help but look at Lockwood and the way he so easily stood with her, holding her close and grinning. It should be George there. It should be him she leaned on after a case, him that made her tea and asked her how it went.

No, no. His feelings didn’t entitle him to her or her time. Besides, she and Lockwood had been friends since childhood, separated for a few years for educational reasons, so it was a given that they’d be close. He just wished it didn’t make his throat ache every time he saw them like they were now, standing close and laughing. Something he so longed to do, but didn’t know if he could.

So, he simply said, “No, thanks, I’m about to head up to bed.”

She smiled at him once more, the shadow of a grin hiding in the corners, and nodded before following Lockwood down to the kitchen, joking about the infamous Cat of Mead Place. Her voice seemed to reverberate through the walls and into George’s very being as he stared down at the book in his lap, the page long since lost in his distraction.

Heaving a sigh, he gently closed it and set it upon the coffee table, then trudged up the stairs to his room.

--

“So, you think that our ghost is the killer? That’s interesting. From the description, I would’ve figured it’d be the victim. Makes sense, though.”

George nodded, trying not to focus on the soft scent of lavender and something flowery as (name) leaned closer to him, studying his notes and findings. He really hoped she couldn’t hear the furious pounding of his heart.

“Well, it was the murderer’s house,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose a little. “It’s very likely that, even if it’s the old remains of the victim, it’s the killer’s source. Remember that bit in Hackney? Old teeth in a jar, but it was the source for that murderer.”

(name) shivered. “Don’t remind me. Still have nightmares about that guy.” She shuffled her chair slightly closer, casting George a short glance, before pulling one of the newspaper copies over. “Natalie Greymouth tried and imprisoned for the murder of her six children, later to – Wait, six children? So, in between all these other murders she committed, she was also popping out babies and killing them?”

Huffing a laugh, George said, “Suppose the kids distracted people from the fact that she was a cold-blooded killer.”

At that, (name) snickered, and a spark travelled down George’s spine as he watched her. The way she grinned as she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, how her cheeks flushed for only a moment. It wasn’t until she turned her head to look at him, much closer than she had been before, that George felt stuck for breath.

Her smile slowly softened into something shyer, more private, as she became aware of the small space between them, but as quick as thought she turned away again, focusing back on the documents in front of them.

Hope had begun to form in that short moment, and it had tasted sweet, but it became bitter as Lockwood and Lucy burst through the kitchen door with bags of goods from Satchell’s. Lucy slid behind George’s seat, dumping an additional shopping bag filled with food on the kitchen counter.

“Hard at work I see,” Lockwood said with a grin. He leaned down over (name)’s shoulder, scanning the notes sprawled everywhere. “Makes no sense to me. I trust you guys have a lead on what we’re walking into later?”

George could feel his throat burn at the sight of them, but he swallowed the feeling down and looked away. “Yeah. We’ll give you the run down on the way.”

He tried his best not to look when Lockwood squeezed (name)’s arm. He tried even harder to ignore the grin she sent his way, so unlike anything she’d ever shown George, but it was impossible. It felt like trying to pretend that Skull wasn’t on the countertop making the most horrid faces ever. The action only ever drew his eye.

Her smile lit up any room she was in, and he hated that it wasn’t directed at him but instead Lockwood. Lockwood, who everyone attached themselves to – (name), Lucy, Flo Bones, the public. Everyone. Well, except for Quill Kipps and his Fittes lot, but George didn’t want them. He only wanted her.

--

“We’re splitting up.”

“Worst idea ever. I don’t like the look of this place.”

Lockwood snorted. “You never like the look of any of the places we’re hired out to.”

“Lie,” (name) said. She looked up at the towering house before them. “There was that one bit in Camden, remember? With the really nice, frosted glass windows in the door.”

“Before Lucy crashed into it and smashed the glass.”

Lucy went bright pink. “I don’t think that’s our focus for today.”

George watched as Lockwood nudged (name) with his elbow, eliciting a laugh from her, and tightly said, “Lucy’s right. We need to get this case over with. And pairs sound good – too much room to cover as one group. (name), I’ll go with you.”

For a moment, the rush of blood in his ears was all he could hear. What if she said no; that she wanted to pair up with Lockwood instead? George didn’t have anything against Lucy, but it got  unnerving hearing her one-sided conversations with Skull. He was never sure if she was insulting him or the glowing ghost in the jar. And they’d probably end up bickering as they often did which wouldn’t help this case run smoothly at all.

But (name) nodded and offered him that delicate smile. “Sounds good. Think I’ve got some ideas of where we might find our source.”

“Care to share?” Lockwood asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’ve got to tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Yes, you –“

“Let’s go,” George interrupted. His fingers were beginning to twitch. “Before it gets dark.”

And so, they did. While Lucy and Lockwood trudged inside and up the looming staircase in the centre of the house, George and (name) crept through the ground floor, taking temperatures and using their Talents. He did try, really he did, to not linger on thoughts of her and Lockwood, of their lingering laughs and smiles, but it became increasingly harder the quieter they stayed.

“So, what are your ideas for finding the source?” he asked, trying to break the silence that had grown between them.

Usually, George would’ve preferred the quiet, but this was choking. Every moment his mind strayed from the task at hand, it drifted over to the horrible ache in his chest and the twitching of his fingers caused by what could only be described as jealousy. Jealousy! God, even thinking it made him mad.

Why was he jealous? Because someone he had never explicitly admitted to liking was showing an interest in someone else? Because someone else would squeeze her arm or nudge her, when even tapping her shoulder to get her attention felt like it would make George implode?

(name)’s fingers brushed over an old vase, and she lifted it up, turning it in her hands. “Going to use my Touch on very specific things. This lady died, what, five years ago? And her nephew took this house, so he likely would’ve thrown out most, if not all, of the things belonging to her. So, we need to find the obscure things.”

“Like that restaurant with the porcelain egg cup as a source?”

“Exactly like that. The stuff no one would expect a ghost to connect to.” Her grin then was unlike the ones she shared with Lockwood, and though it was rather self-approving, George found himself drawn to it. It was something he experienced that Lockwood might not have. “Georgie, you’re going to find the strangest things in this room, and I’ll have a feel. This was one of our theories for the primary haunting, right?”

The words clogged in his throat. Georgie. It repeated over and over and over in his head as he swallowed the feelings that were building up. “Yeah.”

He glanced around the office they had ended up in and took the temperature, finding it as the lowest on the ground floor. It was a moderately sized room with a massive desk cutting through the centre with chairs either side. The desk itself was neatly organised with folders and pens all gathered in holders. An expensive-looking computer had gathered dust since the owner’s rushed departure a few days ago. Rather unassuming, on the whole, but that was exactly what she wanted.

“We’ve got an hour until sundown,” he said, peeking out of the large window. “I’ll watch your back.”

Together, they picked out a selection of seemingly strange things from around the office. An envelope rack; a rather rusty metal pen; a little glass horse ornament plucked from a display case, among many other things. But (name)’s hands lingered over a photo frame. It was a simple thing made from light-coloured wood, and the picture inside showed the owner of the house and his partner, so it was the last thing George would’ve suspected. This was what she was for, though, he remembered. Her gut instinct was much better than the rest of Lockwood and Co.’s.

“Be careful,” George murmured. “We don’t want another repeat of Lucy and Annabelle Ward.”

There was that delicate smile again, and his heart skipped a beat.

With a firm grip, (name) took the frame in her hands and shut her eyes. George could only watch in silence as she used her Talent, unused to having nothing to do in the meantime, and found himself staring. She was wearing the jumper Lockwood had gotten her for her birthday a few months ago, which had George chewing the inside of his cheek, but it was hardly his main focus. Not when the sunlight peeking through the curtains was highlighting her skin just so, emphasising little details he had only ever seen when they would research together, and he’d get distracted and stare. The implication of another smile in the corners of her lips, the curl of her lashes against slightly rosy cheeks.

After a few moments of frowning in such a way that left George with a smile tugging on his lips, her eyes fluttered open, and a proud grin split her mouth. George’s knees felt a little weak.

“Bingo. This used to have a photo of our ghost Natalie with her six kids before she killed them inside. Who’d have thought?”

It took George a minute to reply. His brain felt muddled, what with the brightness of her smile and the feeling in his chest. “I’ll go get the silver net. Our bags are still in the hall.”

“Lockwood will be well chuffed we found the source so quick.”

A moment of hesitation. One George hoped she hadn’t caught, but as he stepped towards the door, (name)’s smile melted into something more concerned.

“Are you all right?”

“Hmm? I’m fine.”

“George, what’s wrong? You were fine literally ten seconds ago and now you, well, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

George shook his head. “(name), honestly, I’m fine.”

“Did I say something? God, what have I said in the last, what, two minutes? Um…”

She muttered under her breath as she tried to think, and George really did try to push the burning feeling in his throat down. The embarrassment that, even though it was the two of them working down there on the case, she immediately thought of Lockwood. What more did he expect? He was nothing more than the second choice to most people – no, third. Fourth even. Hell, he was the last choice, and he should’ve realised that (name) would see him that way, too.

“It’s you and Lockwood,” he blurted.

And he regretted it immediately.

(name) looked over at him then, eyes slightly widened, and mouth parted. “What?”

He could only shrug as he looked away from her. “I just – I don’t know. Lockwood is the one everyone finds the most interesting, and I’d hoped that for once that someone might choose me.”

“You thought I would…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence for him to know what she meant. George didn’t know how to explain the feeling that encompassed his very soul at that moment. It felt like drowning, in a way. Like these feelings he’d fought so hard to keep at bay were filling his lungs rapidly and stopping him from breathing. His head was submerged, and he couldn’t think clearly. He couldn’t do anything but feel these horrible emotions so acutely that it was painful.

“I’m sorry. I get that you and Lockwood are close. Well, you’re probably together and I’ve just never realised!”

He didn’t realise how much saying the words out loud could hurt. But he was right, wasn’t he? With all of their shared smiles and jokes and how they always stood close, there was no way they weren’t… a thing. George had just been too blind to see it.

“George.”

“Don’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“George! Shut. Up,” she hissed.

Words caught in his throat, shocked by the harsh tone and the expression on her face. Brows furrowed; eyes narrowed – she was angry at him!

“Look, I am sorry, but I don’t get why you’re mad at –“

She stormed over and slapped her hand over his mouth. The touch made him jump, and the close proximity of their faces had his treacherous heart pounding in his chest. Why? Why did it have to do that?

“Listen,” she whispered, and she gestured to the side with her head.

George slowly turned his gaze to the large table where he could now hear a faint click, click, click. When he looked, his heart lurched for a moment, and he saw one of the pens in the holder move slightly. The button at the end, the one that would bring the nib out, clicked open, then shut, then open. A few papers in one of the many folders fluttered despite the absence of a draft.

“Poltergeist,” he uttered beneath her hand. He tried not to focus on how soft it was, or how the soap she’d used smelled very different from the one Lockwood had bought for him.

She nodded soundlessly, and her hand lingered for a moment before moving back to her side. “Move quietly to the door.”

It was a good plan. If they moved silently and slowly, they’d be able to make it out to their kitbags and secure the source seeing as poltergeists were essentially blind. But George could feel its invisible presence hovering over them like a horribly cold and scratchy blanket, and the house was an old one. As soon as he took a step back, a floorboard creaked.

He and (name) froze and, for a minute nothing happened. Then the clicking stopped and the pen rattled in the holder. The temperature of the room felt like it had dropped five degrees within a mere second and, although George’s Listening was nowhere near the standard of Lucy’s, he swore he could hear a faint voice calling out some names.

Another step back, and the mistake was made. The door to the office slammed shut, rattling the bones of the house. Lockwood’s voice echoed from somewhere above, calling their names.

Shit.

He should’ve paid attention to the room growing colder or the sun setting outside instead of watching (name) when she’d used her Talent. Maybe then they wouldn’t be stuck in this position, facing off with a ghost that they couldn’t see nor could they harm without securing the source. And, well, they had no way of doing that now with their bags stashed outside.

(name) was the first to move. Light-footed on the floorboards, she tugged on the door handle, but it didn’t budge. George could feel her panic as strongly as he felt his own, and he realised with dread that they were only feeding into the ghost.

The clicking resumed, and (name) shuffled over to George again, hand on her rapier. It would prove useless in this situation.

“For your information,” she whispered. “Me and Lockwood aren’t a thing. He and Lucy are.”

George’s gaze snapped over to her, and she offered a soft albeit nervous smile. “I don’t think now is the time for that conversation.”

“Oh, come on, admit you’re relieved. Also, you didn’t happen to stash a silver net in your pocket did you?”

Yes, he was relieved. He didn’t think he’d ever been more relieved in his life than he was in that moment, knowing that she wasn’t with Lockwood. He was confused for a moment, wondering how he hadn’t ever seen the connection between Lockwood and Lucy, but it was overtaken by the sheer happiness that (name) wasn’t in a relationship with their best friend. And, no, he hadn’t thought to stuff a net in his pocket.

The jealousy that had reared its ugly head in his chest dissipated entirely when her hand slipped into his, warm in the horrid freezing temperature in the office.

“How are we getting out of here?”

George wasn’t sure. He wasn’t Lockwood. He didn’t come up with reckless plans that saved their lives while inadvertently endangering them at the same time. He didn’t destroy houses in the process.

Well…

“You any good at throwing chairs?”

--

Hours later, George was still shaking glass out of his hair over the kitchen bin at 35 Portland Row.

Lockwood was standing over the kettle as water boiled, waiting to make cups of tea for everyone as Lucy slapped a plaster on a cut on his forehead. Apparently, after hearing the office door slam, the two of them had rushed down the stairs, only for the carpet the ran down the centre of them – for whatever posh, middle-class Londoner reason – slipped out of place, presumably because of the Poltergeist, sending Lockwood toppling. He whacked his head off the corner of the wall, earning a pretty nasty cut and a possible concussion. Lucy had come off scott-free, but Skull’s silverglass jar had a dent in the top.

(name) and George on the other hand were covered in little shards of glass that nicked them every now and then after sending a chair through the office window and leaping out into the flower bushes right outside. Thank god they’d been on the first floor.

Ever since that moment in the office, that one where (name) had told him about Lockwood and Lucy, the one where she held his hand, it had become blatantly obvious how wrong George had been about everything. Even now, he could tell that the energy that she and Lockwood shared was nothing like the one Lockwood had with Lucy. How hadn’t he noticed sooner?

Frankly, he didn’t really care about that now. He was too caught up on the phantom touch of her hand in his and the smiles she kept sending his way.

She’d held his hand in the taxi on the way home, claiming it was just because the poltergeist had freaked her out, but he had a feeling that wasn’t the entire truth. (name) was one of the bravest people he had ever met, so a poltergeist wasn’t going to be the thing to shake her out of the norm. But George didn’t mind.

He hadn’t ever been big on being touched, disliking the way it made his skin feel, but he found himself staying close to her, aching to hold her hand again. And, judging from the twitch of her fingers, the way they inched closer to his when he sat next to her, he figured she felt much the same.

And, with a smile, he wrapped his hand around hers, enjoying the feeling of her skin against his.

#george karim x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #george karim fanfiction #george karim #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #x reader #fanfiction #givemea-dam-break

[gotlostinfiction]

The Weeping Girl

When a miserable old man turns up at Lockwood & Co.’s door with the promise of £50,000 for an easy case, it's hard to refuse. But is everything all as it seems, or will this case be a lot more than they bargained for? 

TW: Mentions of abuse and murder, mild swearing.

SPOILERS: Mentions a case from The Hollow Boy.

(this is my first attempt at writing my own fanfic so any advice or tips would be very useful <3)

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

In front of me sat one of the most wrinkled old men I've ever seen in my life, and Lockwood & Co. have done a lot of cases for old people. He was a Mr Andrew Hallcock and he had come to us with reports of a crying girl heard by his younger servants, himself being way too old to sense ghosts. We, on the other hand, would be able to sense them easily. 

Just to catch you up, my name is Lucy Carlyle and I have been a part of a ramshackle agency called Lockwood & Co. as a Junior Field Operative for just under two years. Our agency founder and leader, Anthony Lockwood, was sitting on my right with a cup of tea balanced precariously on his knee. On the chair to my left was George Karim, the deputy and researcher of the trio. He held a plate of carrot cake and was munching noisily, much to our client's disgust. Oh, also, there’s one more. Not sure if he's a member or not but, there's the skull. A few months ago I figured out that I can talk to ghosts, and that we have a real Type Three in our house. No one likes him if I'm honest, due to his crude remarks, but I thought he should be mentioned (He’d get offended if I didn’t.)

Now that we're caught up, we can continue.

“Well then, Mr Lockwood,” Mr Hallcock began. “As I made you aware on the phone, some of my younger servants have reported to me that they can hear crying just before they are about to sleep. I've never had an issue like his before, and I can promise you that my house is not haunted!” He said with a tone of annoyance. Apparently, he wasn't fond of ghosts - or our furniture by the way he perched like a bird ready to take flight. 

Lockwood looked uncertain. “Have the servants described in more detail what they've heard?”

“Or has anyone seen anything?” I added helpfully.

Mr Hallcock locked his small beady eyes on mine. “I don’t know why you are butting in, young lady, I thought you were a mere serving girl.” 

I went to stand, but Lockwood's hand snaked out and rested on my thigh, pinning me down. “May you answer our questions, please? All three of us are agents and need to know what they may have seen or heard.” He said calmly.

“Very well,” Mr Hallcock began. “They have only reported hearing crying. I don't think any of them are talented enough to see apparitions. Not that there should be one! Anyway,” He continued. “I'm willing to offer up to £50,000 if this issue is resolved quickly and discreetly. The public cannot find out that my home may be haunted, I have a reputation to maintain!”

George reached out for another slice of cake but paused when he heard the figure. I felt Lockwood move his hand.

“Of course, Mr Hallcock. We can promise all that you ask.”

“Good.” He replied. “I'll be expecting you at 8 pm sharp tonight. I will ensure that the house is cleared of all staff, and I will occupy myself away from home. Good day, gentleman.” With a whiff of cigar smoke, he was out the door.

“What a dick, he didn't even say goodbye to me!” I said. I was the first to break the silence that had formed with his absence.

“He could talk for England, that's for sure,” George added.

“Yes, well, he wasn't a very pleasant person, certainly not to you Luce. But, we can't reject that kind of money. Especially not for an easy case like this.” Lockwood said, a large smile forming across his face.

“Here we go…” George said with a sigh.

“Here's the plan, George you go to the archives, find absolutely everything you can about the house and Mr Hallcock, I'll go to Satchels and restock, and Lucy you pack the kit bags,” Lockwood ordered; with a smile, he walked purposefully out the door. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

Two hours later, we were ready. Lockwood, George and I all bundled into the taxi waiting outside Portland Row. It was a small one, and George jumped straight into the passenger seat, dumping our kit bags in the back. This left me practically sitting on Lockwood's lap, squished close next to our kit and the skull. Great.

“Oh, it’s snug back here isn’t it, Lucy?” The skull piped up from the jar on my lap, and I could see a large smirk forming across the glass. “Lockwood looks like a tomato.”

“No idea what you're on about,” I replied sharply. 

“Has he given us anything useful, Luce?” Lockwood asked me, having to crane his neck down due to the angle. 

“Erm, said it’s not very spacious back here,” I replied, purposefully avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Well, quite,” Lockwood said and coughed awkwardly, his cheeks tinged with red. “So then George, fill us in.” He continued, changing the subject. 

“Well, Mr Hallcock is a bit of a dick, just like you said Luce. He lied to us about a violent death that occurred in the house to protect his ego and reputation. He-” George cut himself off. “Ooh, you two do look cosy back there!”

“Get to the point, George,” I said. This was mortifying; I could hear the skull's faint laughter in my head.

“Okay, well as I was saying, Mr Hallcock comes from a family of men who think they can do what they want. Specifically to women. At the archives, I found so many complaints to the police from female members of Mr Hallcock's staff about sexual comments and the sort. I mean, remember how he spoke to you, Lucy?”

“Yeah, he treated me like a piece of shit, the sexist bastard.”

“Exactly. Turns out, Mr Hallcock was involved in a murder trial of one of his servants, a 20-year-old girl called Rebecca Hughes. She died on his property in a bedroom upstairs, stabbed to death. One of her fellow servants was charged and hanged for it, and Mr Hallcock was brought forward to give evidence.” George continued. 

“You think that's the primary source of the haunting then?” I said, ignoring the teasing remarks coming from the skull.

“Has to be,” George replied. “No other deaths have been reported in the house or the area.”

Lockwood coughed again, his cheeks going redder still. “Well I'm glad I bought some extra protection then, you know how murder victims get. I brought another industrial flare.” Clocking George's concerned look he quickly added, “We’ll use it properly this time, not like Combe Carey.”

“I don't think Mr Hallcock would want us to damage his house either,” I said as we pulled into the long gravel driveway. Just in the distance, I could see the house looming over us. Well, I say house, it was more like a mansion. On its private lot, surrounded by woodland, stood Hallcock Manor. It had a regal-style entrance, with large stone columns and wide steps leading to a grand white door with gold accents carved into the sides. The home spread wide at the sides with small walkways at each end and then cascaded backwards, seemingly never-ending. Basically, it was bloody posh.

The taxi driver dumped us halfway down the drive, complaining that he couldn't be bothered to have to reverse all the way back. Safe to say that Lockwood didn't tip him. We all piled out and headed towards the house. Walking towards it was incredible, but also mortifying. I was in awe at the beauty of the place, but then apprehensive of the danger that could unfold.

As if reading my thoughts, Lockwood spoke. “This should be an easy case guys, no need to worry. Mr Hallcock said that there was no apparition seen and that it was just crying. We will be fine.”

“What about the fact that she's a murder victim? They’re always Type Two’s.” I asked.

“Well, at least we've got this.” Lockwood pulled out the flare and showed it to me and George. After our last use of it, I wasn't reassured.

“I think Lucy should keep a hold of it,” George spoke up. “You were reckless with it last time, you know, lobbing it at the well like that. Lucy will be more careful.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Lockwood replied, though I could tell he wasn't convinced. He passed it over to me, his long fingers brushing against the palm of my hand. I smiled weakly at him, and he grinned back. It was his reassuring smile, the one he used for worried clients. 

“Ooh, he almost held your hand!” The skull remarked. “The closest you’ll ever get.” I decided not to recite this one back to the boys. 

Lockwood then flourished the keys from one of his coat pockets and opened the door, ensuring that he didn't hesitate on the threshold. Being well-trained, we followed closely behind. The house was just as beautiful inside as out. Regent-style furniture filled the home in a classy sort of way. The walls were lined with floral patterned wallpaper and gold-framed oil paintings hung in neat rows. George pulled out his floor plan and assessed our surroundings.

“This is called the ‘Grand Entrance.’” He said, eyeing the decor. “To be fair, they weren't wrong.”

I closed my eyes and listened. I tuned out the low rumble of Lockwood's voice and the distant beeping of George's thermometer. But the house itself was silent, I couldn’t sense anything. 

“You got anything?” I asked the skull, which was fixed to my back. 

“Nope, absolutely nothing. I even think I just saw a tumbleweed, it's that boring.” 

“Through here should be the main kitchen where we can have some tea, but there are three if you want a choice,” George said, breaking through the skull’s rambling. We carried on walking, assessing the temperature as we went.

Just like the rest of the house, the kitchen was posh too. Marble countertops lined with gold engravings were spread out far against most of the walls. A matching table was in the corner, where George had plugged in a portable kettle. A few minutes later, we had made ourselves comfortable (as comfortable as we could on rock-solid marble chairs) with our tea and biscuits.

“I can't sense anything at the moment,” I said, hugging my tea close for warmth. It was cold, I had noticed, but not supernatural I didn't think

“Me neither,” Lockwood added, “I can't see any death glows. How’s the temperature, George?”

“A bit chilly, but not supernatural. This is an old house, and it’s winter.” He replied checking his watch. “I'm surprised, to be honest, it's 9:30 and there's been nothing so far.”

“We haven't checked upstairs yet though, that's where you said the girl died,” I answered.

“True, although we don’t know where she actually died. All I could find in the archives was that it was an upstairs bedroom. Well, in case you haven't noticed this house is huge, so it could be any of them.” George said in a huff. 

“I think we should get on then,” Lockwood said, getting up to leave. “Come on.”

“Go on, follow your boyfriend.” The skull cooed in my ear.

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

An hour or so later, we had explored the whole house. And believe me, it took a while. It was about 11 pm now and since the crying was reported “just before the servants went to sleep” it could be any time from now till 12. We had set up a large iron circle in the coldest bedroom on the second-story landing - the servant's quarters. Mr Hallcock had informed us that he slept on the top floor, leaving his servants free reign of the second. Like the rest of the house, it was spacious and included its own kitchen and living area. Despite being a bastard, he at least looked like he treated his employees well.

Sat on the floor with my legs crossed, I could feel the miasma building. I reached into my kit bag for some mints and saw George do the same. I closed my eyes and tried to listen again. There it was! A faint weeping, only a whisper, and I had to concentrate to pick it up. 

“You getting anything Luce?” Lockwood asked me. 

“Yep,” I answered, needing to stay focused. He took the hint and let me listen. 

The crying was still there, getting ever so slightly louder and more hysterical, but it had been taken over by repetitive thumping and banging. It was hard to decipher if it was someone's footsteps or things being moved around. Or maybe even someone's fists. I told this to the boys.

“You think it’s her?” Lockwood said

“Has to be, Lockwood. No one else died here.” George replied, chewing ferociously on a mint.

I stood up and left the circle, the miasma was strong as well as the temperature, but it was manageable. There was a grand fireplace, on a wall in the far corner, again embossed with gold accents on both sides. On impulse, I reached out and let my hands rest on the mantle. A wave of memory from the past hit me. I heard voices, a deep loud one that I recognised as Mr Hallcock. He was shouting at someone, and I could hear the weeping in the background. Was he speaking to Rebecca? Suddenly, there was a loud bang followed by a gut-wrenching scream, then silence.

I prised open my eyes and looked around. Nothing had changed, Lockwood and George still sat in the circle and I was still by the fireplace. The room felt different.

“Luce?” Lockwood walked over and gently touched my arm, “Are you okay? You've gone very pale, and you just stood there for 15 minutes.”

I looked up at him, then around the room. “Really?” I said, “I was gone for that long?” 

“Yeah, didn't want to disturb you though, in case you had something,” George added, now munching on a sandwich. 

Lockwood and I walked back to the circle and sat down. I filled them in on what I'd heard. 

“You sure it was him?” Lockwood asked.

“Positive,” I replied, taking a bite of chocolate. “I would recognise that voice anywhere, and the stuff he was saying was a dead giveaway.”

“Like what?” George asked.

“He kept saying that something was her fault. Said that he would give her one more chance.” 

“No wonder she's crying,” George added with a laugh.

“Not funny, George,” Lockwood said, glancing at me.

“Just trying to lighten the mood. Can you not feel the miasma now? It's everywhere.”

And he was right, while we were too busy talking, things had escalated. Ghost fog lined the floor; it lapped and our ankles and the air was bitterly cold making our breaths show in small puffs. Our thermometers showed minus temperatures. We all stood up abruptly, producing our rapiers and stood back to back.

“Why didn't you mention anything?” I asked the skull impatiently.

“Whoops.” Was all I got in return. With that, I turned away from him.

“See anything, Lockwood?” I asked, hoping that now it was later he could see some death glows. 

“Nope, still nothing. Although I'm sure we've got the right room, it's bloody freezing.” He replied; I could see him shivering, despite his coat. 

“Guys, can you see that?” George spoke up, his voice shaking. 

I looked in his direction, and there was a small ball of light, slowly getting bigger, forming into a small woman. Rebecca Hughes. She looked young, George said she’d been 20, with long blonde hair reaching her sides and dark brown eyes. She wore a uniform of a pinafore dress and kitten heels, but there was something wrong. Her dress was ripped, and holes covered the surface of the sleeves and front. Stab wounds, I guessed. 

“Getting interesting now! Got any popcorn?” The skull asked.

“That’s what the other servant did to her,” George said, “It said in the report that she was stabbed repetitively.” 

“Well, she's not being aggressive, which is unusual for a murder victim,” Lockwood noted. 

I looked at Lockwood for permission and after a nod, I stepped just outside the chains. She wasn't strong yet, I should be able to communicate. 

“Rebecca, what happened to you?” I asked calmly. She seemed like a Type Two, unable to have a conversation but could listen. She looked at me through her long lashes and remained still. 

“Monster…” She whispered.

“Deserves to be hanged…”

“Who’s a monster, Rebecca? Who should be hanged?” I asked her. I could just make out her words over the crying. The sound had rocketed since I'd communicated with her. 

“Monster…”

“Lucy, get in the chains please,” Lockwood asked calmly, though I could sense the urgency in his voice. The skull laughed in the background.

“Who hurt you, Rebecca?” I repeated.

“Lucy!” This was Lockwood again. He was shouting now, every aspect of calm revoked. 

“Hall-” The ghost began before the connection was lost. 

I felt a tug at the back of my jacket, it was Lockwood pulling me into the circle. I tripped over the ghost jar and fell flat on my backside, just as he hurled a salt bomb at Rebecca - exactly where I had just stood. If you thought the skull was laughing before, he was cackling now. 

“What the hell was that Lockwood!” I turned on him, “I had almost got somewhere!”

“She was about to charge at you, you would have been ghost-touched if I hadn't helped!” Lockwood roared back. 

“Oh look, the happy couple are arguing.” The skull added, unhelpfully 

“Stop it!” George shouted, making me and Lockwood go silent. “Your emotions are making her more agitated. Lucy, what did she tell you?”

Annoyed, I responded, “She said that someone was a monster and they should be hanged. I asked her who and she went to say ‘Hallcock’, I’m sure of it.” 

“Any idea about her source?” George asked.

“No idea, maybe the knife used on her?”

Lockwood had gone silent, that could only mean one thing. A plan.

“Right, we need to find her source. I'll distract her and fight her off while you two look for her source, okay?” He said eventually. He gave me a look that said ‘No arguing’ so I reluctantly agreed. 

Practically leaping out of the circle, Lockwood charged forward, his rapier angled at the ghost. Me and George followed behind him, speeding around the room looking for her source. I scrambled through draws and under beds, behind picture frames and on shelves, and still nothing. George was having no better luck either. 

Lockwood had led the ghost away from us, into the hallway. He was using his rapier in a forward motion to pin the ghost in a corner, it appeared to be working. The house went quiet for a while, only Lockwood's sharp breaths could be heard as he battled against the ghost.

“Lucy!” A voice broke through the silence.

My heart stopped. That was Lockwood. Screaming. 

“Lucy! George!”

I was closest to the door. I dropped the box I was searching through and ran into the hallway. Lockwood was backed into the corner, the ghost having turned on him. His hands were sweaty and he was losing grip on his rapier. I heard it clang on the floor. I saw his usually dark eyes start to lighten, turning a milky white as the ghost's hand reached for him. I knew the signs of ghost lock all too well. I raced into action and scrambled through my work belt for a flare.

“Oh, he's finally going to be reunited with his family! Let him go, Lucy.” The skull suggested. I blanked him. 

Still rummaging through my belt, I found what I was looking for. The industrial flare. Without thinking, I pulled the cap and threw it.

Now, you may not know this but my aim is awful. Out of the three of us, only Lockwood can throw. We learnt this the hard way at the Lavender Lodge, when I doshed a bottle off his head and George couldn't throw a rapier for the life of him. So, the flare did hit the ghost, but mainly Lockwood, much to the skull's amusement. 

George had come to stand next to me. We both looked in horror as Lockwood was shot sideways into a bedroom. The wooden floorboards had jolted up at different angles, the banister had broken in two and the wall closest had been destroyed. In the light of the flare, I saw a patch of white on the ground but this wasn't my priority. I raced forward, my shoe flying off as I jumped over the hole in the ground, and headed for the room Lockwood had disappeared into. 

He staggered out into the hallway and stood before the hole, his hair flopped elegantly over his brow with his coat ripped at the shoulder, but somehow it still flowed behind him in the light breeze. His face shone with sweat and was littered with scratches, his hand lay cooly on his rapier hilt. Even after getting blown across the hallway, he looked as charming as ever. 

In case you were wondering about me, I was less fortunate. My hair stuck up, my fringe was completely blown back away from my face, my jacket was torn and splattered with ectoplasm, and my left boot was somewhere down the stairs. Basically, I could have looked better.

Still, Lockwood beamed at me with his megawatt smile, as if I had never looked better to him. 

“Well, that was fun,” Lockwood stated. He was out of breath, and wobbling slightly. 

I hurried over to him and grabbed his arm to support him. I went to call George for help but he was on his knees, clawing frantically under a floorboard.

“George?” I asked, curiosity lacing my voice.

“There's something down here, the blast showed it. But it's gone, I can't find it!”

“Don’t help him, Lucy, this is so funny.” The skull said, I could see its hollow eyes darting about in the plasm. I ignored him once again, it was quite a skill. 

“George,” I said anxiously, “Can you be a bit quicker? She’s back, and she’s behind you.”

George spun around and saw her in the distance. She was weaker, the blast had dimmed her spirit, but she was still powerful. She went to charge at him, but she wasn't quick enough. I let go of Lockwood and raced for her. I extended my rapier and angled it towards her in thrashing blows, just like Lockwood had taught me. 

“George, hurry up!” I screamed at him. He was still on the floor behind me, rummaging through spiderwebs and dust. 

“This has to be the source!’ He said, ‘It has to be here somewhere!”

Lockwood had been watching me and hadn’t taken his eyes away. It was almost like a second ghost lock, similar to a trance. Suddenly, he snapped out of it and jumped over the hole to where George still was. 

Together, with me battling the ghost and the two boys looking for the source, it worked quite well. She was less strong now that dawn was approaching, and it was an easy task to keep her away. In the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white being pulled from the ground. George shoved it under a net, and Rebecca abruptly disappeared in front of me. I put my rapier back in its hilt and turned around. George was clutching whatever he had found tightly, her source. We had done it. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

When we arrived back at Portland Row, the house was quiet. George was in the basement, analysing the source we’d found (safely), and Lockwood had collapsed into a kitchen chair. I snatched the first aid kit and plonked myself down next to him. He looked tired, which wasn’t anything new, with dark circles encased around his hollow eyes. He looked at me through his long lashes and smiled. A genuine one, not the false one he gave customers or the polite one he gave adults. This was a smile meant for me, and I savoured every last bit of it.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” I said softly, as I opened the first aid kit. He hadn't looked away.

“I’ll forgive you, I always do.” He said with a short laugh, but then grabbed his sides from pain. 

I looked at him in pity, it hurt me to see him like this. 

“Sit still.” I ordered, “This is probably going to hurt.”

“Not as much as getting blown across a hallway.” He joked, his laughter fading to a grimace as I dapped a large cut with antiseptic, then placed a plaster over it. 

I held the side of his face, my hand faintly brushing against his cheekbones as I repeated the process for the rest of his cuts. We remained in a comforting silence, as I moved effectively but as gently as I could. I already felt bad enough for almost blowing him up, I didn't want to make it worse. After I finished, I slowly closed the box and looked at him. 

“Thank you, Lucy.” He spoke. His face was awash with plasters and it was hard not to laugh if I'm honest, “And thanks for saving me too, I know that you did almost kill me, but I could have been ghost-touched.”

“I had to save you, Lockwood. When I saw your eyes go white, it was…terrifying. I never wanted to see that happen to someone I love again. Not after Norrie.” My voice broke at the end, the memories of Norrie had been brought back once more, and it was hard to resist tears. 

Lockwood reached out and held my hand, his rapier-calloused palms rough against mine. 

“It’s okay, Luce, I’m safe thanks to you. You don't need to worry.” He reassured me, rubbing small circles on my hand. 

“Lucy…” Lockwood started, before George burst open the door, making us both jump apart.

“It was Mr Hallcock” Was all he said. 

We rang DEPRAC.

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

Turns out, Rebecca was a murder victim, but not from a fellow servant. She was murdered by none other than Mr Andrew Hallcock himself. The white thing found under the floorboards, her source, was a letter. A confession she was planning to send to the police before it was too late. It read:

“Dear Scotland Yard,

I would like to report Mr Andrew Hallcock on several accounts of abuse and neglect towards me. He is a monster, who took advantage of me and deserves to be hanged. 

He has harmed me before and blamed someone else for it. I am worried this will go too far. 

Please believe me, I am desperate.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Hughes.”

Mr Hallcock was used to getting away with things, so when he found this letter, he confronted her. To put it simply, she was a threat, so he ended her life. He then hid the letter under the floorboards, its presence being kept a secret for over 20 years. It wasn't until a new member of staff was treated the same as Rebecca, that she came out of her shell. Mr Hallcock knew this, so he swore us to secrecy to protect his reputation - and the promise of money had blind-sighted us.

It took them a while, but DEPRAC got him to confess; he was charged with murder, hiding evidence, as well as preventing justice. They let us off the hook for destroying half of his house, and gave us the £50,000 too, which was a bonus - It was one of the first times that Inspector Barnes had ever been nice to us. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

We obviously had a celebratory breakfast, and the following day the table was so full of plates that the thinking cloth could hardly be seen. Lockwood and I had gone to Arif’s while George cooked, so there was a sea of full-English breakfast and doughnuts. We sat in our usual spots and tucked in. 

“I can’t believe you did it, didn’t think you were capable.” The skull spoke from its spot on the kitchen counter. I recited this to the boys. 

“Me neither if I'm honest,” George said, shovelling food onto his plate at a rapid rate. 

“I always knew we could do it, you pair don't give yourselves enough credit,” Lockwood responded. 

I heard the skull gag in the corner.

“You did say that it was going to be an easy case though, didn’t you? How well did that work out?” I asked him, eyeing the plasters still scattered across his face. 

He laughed, and it didn't hurt him this time. It caught George off guard and he joined in, making me laugh too. The sun shone brightly into the kitchen that day, casting a warm glow and reflecting on each of our happy faces (and the skulls).

We were Lockwood & Co., and I know it doesn't sound like it, but that was one of our best cases yet: The Weeping Girl. We weren't perfect by any means, but we worked well, even if a little unorthodox. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

thank you for reading! please lmk any advice or tips :)

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[bumblebugwrites]

lockwood & co. - masterlist

ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

are you mine? | word count: 3.8k - For as long as you could remember you and Lockwood had butted heads. Always getting on each other’s nerves, getting in each other’s ways. You basically hate each other. Right?

borrowed and blue | word count: 3.1k - In another brilliant plot to keep the agency afloat, Lockwood decides to marry you for tax benefits. Only he seemed to have forgotten to let you know. With an inspector from DEPRAC coming to ensure the legitimacy of your marriage, what’s left but to tell you the truth? Only you don’t take it too well. And you happen to be the world’s worst liar.

#lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #anthony lock #george karim #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood x reader #george karim x reader #lucy carlyle x reader #anthony lockwood fanfiction #george karim fanfiction #lucy carlyle fanfiction #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood x reader #x reader

[cameronspecial]

Masterlist

Welcome to my writing! Hope you find what you are looking for and if you don’t, then requests are open but I only really look at them for inspiration so no guarantees it gets written! Also just comment or send me a message if you want to be a part of any of my taglists.

Rafe Cameron

Drew Starkey

Zach MacLaren

Anthony Lockwood

George Karim

Evan Buckley

Tom Holland

Peter Parker

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #george karim #lucy carlyle #rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #george karim x reader #lucy carlyle x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron series #tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland au #tom holland fan fic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagines #tom holland imagine #tom holland blurb #tom holland x yn #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagines #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #evan buckley x reader

[g1rld1ary]

bloody genius ; anthony lockwood x fem!reader

➻ rushed to get this out before I go out tonight (wish me luck lols) but am pretty fond of it !!

➻ word count: 1686

➻ synopsis: after a long night of sifting through research for an impossible case with lockwood, you do something you didn't quite mean to

➻ warnings: light mentions of series typical murder/violence, kissing, idiots in love

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

You groaned, tipping back in your chair and rubbing your eyes, trying to make them see straight. You and Lockwood had been pouring over photocopied newspaper articles, floor plans and assorted research for hours and you weren’t getting any closer to stringing any of it together. With Lockwood & Co steadily improving their reputation, the company was getting more and more cases with shorter and shorter timeframes. To combat this influx of cases and the consequent research that needed completing, you’d all decided to split the load where possible. This meant that currently George and Lucy were in the library researching one case whilst you and Lockwood had shut yourselves in the kitchen to struggle through another.

You supposed you had the better deal, though, supplied with easy access to tea, the thinking cloth, and, of course, Lockwood. He was your secret favourite out of your coworkers-turned-family, though if you asked Lucy she’d say it was no secret at all. Regardless, that brought you to the current moment where the thinking cloth was filled with nonsensical lines following trains of thought, all edges punctuated with a frankly ridiculous number of question marks.

Lockwood himself looked almost as frustrated as you felt, but you could tell he was trying to hide it and save face. He caught you staring and flashed a smile, but it lacked its usual charm when his eye bags were more pronounced than usual.

“Hey,” He said softly, putting his hand over yours to stop you drawing stress doodles — the latest one a crudely drawn murder scene, “We’ll get it soon, just gotta find the connection between it all.”

“Sure, Lockwood.” You tried for a smile but it came out as more of a grimace and Lockwood could see the exhaustion etched into your features. He frowned, more concerned for your wellbeing than the case at the moment.

“Maybe you’ve done enough for tonight? Go get some sleep and we can pick back up in the morning?”

“Are you going to go to bed?” You asked, already sure of the answer, “I’m not leaving you to do this on your own, not this time.” He opened his mouth to argue but you shut him up with a glare. He held up his hands in light-hearted surrender. As an alternative Lockwood suggested a break; only a few minutes, but enough for you to make two new mugs of steaming tea and him to crack open a new packet of biscuits. “I’ll even let you break the biscuit rule,” He stage whispered, ducking out of the kitchen to check on Lucy and George and refill their own stash of snacks.

You watched him go, smiling softly. You loved evenings like this — well not like this where trains of thought didn’t quite make it to the station and you had the infuriating feeling of knowledge being held just out of reach, but nights where you were all home and together. You liked them even more when it meant you got to spend time with Lockwood and he got like this; treating you just a little bit differently to George or Lucy, offering you extra biscuits and giving you that soft smile, the one that made your heart flutter in a way it probably shouldn’t when looking at your boss. It fed your delusions of one day telling him how you feel, sure, but the lightness of his attention overpowered the inevitable heartbreak you’d face when he got a date that wasn’t you.

He returned with a confident grin, snapping you out of your stupor. You buried yourself in a new file, scanning for anything that could make sense of the mess of a case you were given. Maybe a Type Two, could be a poltergeist or not, who knows who the ghost was — the whole thing was ridiculous and you had no idea why Lockwood would even take it, but he said he felt sorry for the poor old man who came to the doorstep of 35 Portland Row. The both of you sat in comfortable silence for what felt like hours, knee-deep in paper.

Your eyes were glazing in and out of focus until you caught a snippet of something that had you gasping and tumbling out of your chair, standing frenetically in front of Lockwood looking ready to perform.

“What if I told you,” You said grinning, “That your dear old man had a sealed criminal record until a few years ago? For being a suspect in a murder case no less!” Lockwood was solely focused on you now, dark eyes searching your face for more information. You were no less enthusiastic, eyes scanning the police report quickly for the relevant information. “He was a suspect in the murder of a Charlotte Black back in the 50s. Her sister alleged that the two were involved but the police found no evidence of his involvement, nor of their relationship at all, with the exception of two letters the sister sent during the time of the investigation. Officers on the case said his apartment was ‘severely lacking a female touch’ — ouch — and said to them he was definitely not in a relationship. The record was sealed because the allegations had a dire impact on his accounting firm!” You were buzzing despite the grim subject matter, as you’d finally found the link that could tie the case together.

Lockwood was similarly ecstatic. “Obviously the relationship had to be a secret for whatever reason which was why there’s no marriage certificate or record of letters between them. The letter I was looking at before must’ve been from this sister, it detailed her desire for independence and her interest in his business. She found out about his shady numbers—” He jumped up to grab a letter of complaint over botched figures from a client, “He got mad and killed her! Y/n you’re a bloody genius!” You flushed at the compliment.

“And she’s here now because he’s coming out of retirement, he bragged about it when you were hearing his case! God, it would just be great if we had, like, one more piece of evidence, just to confirm they knew each other,” You sighed, clenching your fingers at the single hole in the puzzle.

The door opened suddenly and George appeared, holding a small folded piece of paper.

“I think this might be from your case, not ours — odd looking couple,” George said, popping the photo on the edge of the dining table, giving a quizzical look at the two of you standing in the middle of the kitchen before heading back to the library. You and Lockwood exchanged a look, almost too scared to take a peek, it was too perfect. You grabbed the photo of Charlotte Black her sister had attached to the letter, plus the one of the man that you’d found in a local newspaper in the archives and laid them both out on the table for comparison.

Lockwood sucked in a nervous breath before slowly peeling open the photo. You couldn’t contain your joy, it was them! The whole night was suddenly worth it, the two of you jumping around the kitchen like little kids on Christmas. One second you were doing a stupid victory dance and the next your lips had pressed themselves to Lockwood’s. The moment you’d become cognisant of what had happened you stepped back, feeling your heart plummet to your toes. This was not how you’d imagined that would happen. Plus, Lockwood’s unusually stoic face was igniting your anxiety, cold spreading through every branch of your veins.

“Oh my God,” You breathed, willing your legs to work, “I am so sorry, Anthony.” Your body caught up to your brain and you headed to the door until you were pulled back, a hand on your waist twisting you to face him again. And then his lips were on yours with purpose this time, the hand not on your waist finding its way to cup your jaw. When your brain was done short circuiting you matched his fervour tenfold, bringing your hands up to rest on his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt to bring him impossibly closer.

You only pulled away when you were at genuine risk of passing out, unable to conjure a single word. Lockwood gazed at you with glossy, blown out pupils. That, mixed with the pink blush on his cheeks and swollen lips created your favourite ever version of Anthony Lockwood — an image you hoped would be privately yours from now on.

“So, is this where I ask to take you on a proper date, love?” He asked, his smile melting your heart into a puddle in his hand. You couldn’t let him have all the fun, though, and willed yourself to produce a teasing grin.

“Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?” Your eyes strayed to the clock on the wall that showed an inappropriately early hour of the morning, “I think we both ought to get some sleep, tomorrow’ll be a big job. Goodnight, Anthony.” You punctuated it with a soft kiss to his cheek before slipping out of the room to silently scream as you bound up the stairs, victory dance making a reappearance behind your safely closed door.

Anthony was left standing in the kitchen like a fool, hand sitting softly where you’d kissed him. A lovesick smile passed his face, thoughts of the impending case long gone from his brain, and in their place sat pictures of you and a looping memory of you slotting your lips between his. He wasn’t sure how long he was standing there basking in your light, but Lucy walked past to drop her mug in the sink, shooting Lockwood a knowing look before heading up to the attic. Lockwood found himself giggling uncharacteristically, giddy with the glee of finally telling you how he’d felt since you first walked through the door of 35 Portland Row.

#giasfics˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ #fluff #love #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #save lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #george karim #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood imagine #anthony lockwood fluff #lockwood #renew lockwood and co #locknation #george cubbins #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood & co #lucy carlyle #cameron chapman #anthony lockwood fanfiction #netflix

[bubbl3zdaseaotter37]

Heyyyyyy so I know I disappeared off the face of the planet for like a month there but IT'S FOR GOOD REASON. I'm going through college applications rn and SATs and the whole gauntlet so yea. Also: hyperfixating on a new fandom

bc HAVE YOU HEARD OF LOCKWOOD AND CO??? LIKE

THIS SERIES

IS

KILLING ME.

and then Netflix had the gall to go and FNDUGNSVGING CANCEL THE SERIES and of course I only found this out AFTER I watched all the episodes and was so emotionally invested in these idiots that I think I may have cried when I found out.

and yes I know there's a book series too; I'm almost through book two and I am TERRIFIED of reading The Hollow Boy bc I'm getting bad vibes from the fandom every time someone mentions it. like. Reichenbach in the Sherlock fandom. and Mark of Athena w my Percy Jackson broskis. Violent sobbing in the back of the room, type thing. We got any long-time Lockwood & Co fans here? Bc I need emotional support.

anyways, have any of my fellow fanfic writers ever had the dilemma of "I want to write a fic for this fandom but at the same time I don't feel like I'm a 'member' of the community bc I haven't consumed every available piece of it yet?" idk, maybe that's just a me thing. That's why I'm throwing this out into the abyss.

So what do you guys think, my fellow fic gremlins? Can you always tell when someone writes a fic that they're a new member of the fandom? Is it cringey?

#fanfiction #fanfic #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood and co fandom #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #george cubbins #jonathan stroud #locklyle #lockwood and lucy #renew lockwood and co #save lockwood and co #PLEASE NETFLIX #i'm literally begging #on my knees #save the children

[wellgoslowly]

"the girls are FIGHTINGGGG"

- lucy carlyle (@carlylesings) via Instagram

tagged: quill_kipps, anthonyjlockwood

[MORE THINGS FOR MAYRA AND I'S AU]

#renew lockwood and co #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #locklyle #george karim #george cubbins #locklyle brainrot is real #lockwood netflix #flo bones #l&co netflix #l&co. netflix #l&co #lockwood and lucy #anthony bloody lockwood #lockwood x lucy #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co tv show #mayra and linnie celeb fake dating au :))

[wordsarelife]

lockwood & co masterlist

fluff (f), angst (a), suggestive (s), platonic (p), injury/ blood (w)

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❛ 𝐢’𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 ❜

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𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 (34.9k)

blank space (0.7k) — normally lockwood can hide his feelings quite well. that talent seems to fade every time someone tries to flirt with his y/n (f,s)

peace (0.5k) — y/n is all that Lockwood needs, especially in the quiet moments (f,a)

sweet nothing (0.8k) — eating breakfast in bed (f)

stay, stay, stay (1.3k) — you never leave a fight unresolved (f,a)

delicate (0.5k) — some flirty banter in a near death situation (f,s)

king of my heart (1.8k) — there was always this flirty banter between you, without anything ever happening. one day you grow tired of it and leave lockwood to make a choice (f,a,s)

treacherous (1.3k) — How can it be that two people who grew up together hate each other so much? lockwood and you find out that love and hate are closer together than you had thought (f,a,s)

cruel summer (1.3k) — there’s just one bed, luckily you are the most brilliant person lockwood knows… or are you? (f,s)

you belong with me (1.6k) — you have to flirt to finish a mission. much to the dismay of lockwood you are far too good at it (f,s)

the way I loved you (pt 2 of ybwm) (1.2k) — lockwood is protective of what is his and in his own definition, you belong to him (f,a,s)

london boy (1.0k) — lockwood and you finish a study about what defines the greatness of a kiss (f,s)

it's nice to have a friend (0.3k) — you pass out after a dangerous encounter with a ghost (a,f,w)

enchanted (1.0k) — lockwood and you have been in love ever since you first met and it's been quite obvious for anyone else, but you two (f)

seven (sibling!reader) (0.5k) — a mission went badly and you and your brother console each other (f, a, p)

i did something bad (1.2k) — gathering information from a tied up and horny teenage boy should be easy enough, right? (s)

i think he knows (1.3k) — you have to admit your feelings for lockwood after your heartbeat goes through the roof at his touch (f)

change (1.4k) — lockwood realizes how much he missed of his sisters, the reader, life (a,f,p,w)

back to december (1.4k) — you had left lockwood in a night filled with regret and there was nothing you wanted more than to apologise to him (a,f,p)

the best day (0.4k) — domestic fluff with anthony lockwood (f)

this is me trying (1.1k) — you always try to save your friends life at the expanse of your own. this time you might've gone too far (a,p)

my tears ricochet (1.4k) — you save lockwoods life on a job but he can't save you.. but with a twist (a,w,f)

it's beginning to look a lot like christmas (0.5k) — lockwood is as cooky as usual, luckily you are used to it by now (f,s)

driving home for christmas (0.4k) — in which you come home for christmas surprisingly and lockwood can proof that his girlfriend is real (f)

the very first night (0.7k) — you celebrate your birthday for your friends only, lockwood celebrates your birthday for you (f,a,p)

lavender haze (1.2k) — despite kipps best efforts to keep you away from each other, lockwood won't stop flirting with you (f)

all american bitch (3.4k) — everbody knew that there was something wrong in the way your brother talked to you and lockwood wouldn't let you accept it any longer (f,a,s)

pretty isn’t pretty (0.8k) — he was showering you in compliments all while you felt like you weren’t pretty enough (f,a)

i forgot that you existed (0.6k) — lockwoods sibling had a bad day at school (f,p)

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𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐦 (8.2k)

daylight (0.6k) — early morning cuddles with your boyfriend (f)

mastermind (2.3k) — the team has to work together with kipps, for george that means being stuck with the best friend of the blonde leader, y/n. the only person in the whole world that seemed to be smarter than him, that's why he hated her. (a,f)

love story (0.8k) — hiding a relationship becomes a challenge when your bosses are lockwood and kipps, but y/n and george always seem to manage anyway… (f)

i knew you were trouble (0.7k) — you expressed your likeness for george all the time.. seems like he finally gets it (f)

ours (0.3k) — george tries to make reader go to bed (f)

mirrorball (0.7k) — george has been struggling and you help him (a,f)

fearless (1.7k) — george admires you deeply. not only because you're his girlfriend, but because you have an extraordinary gift (f/a)

snowman (1k) — a situation in which you are trapped, causes george and you to confess (f,)

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𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐬 (6.8k)

i know places (1.6k) — all hell breaks loose when your brother finds out about you and quill (f,s)

paper rings (1.5k) — you & quill are basically married, but when will he finally ask? (f)

today was a fairytale (1k) — you and quill go on your first date (f,s)

gold rush (0.8k) — loving quill kipps feels like a gold rush (f,a)

santa tell me (1.2k) — you and quill had been the parents of the group for years, but nothing ever happened between the two of you. now it’s finally time to change that, or atleast your friends think it is (f)

santa clause is coming to town (0.2k) — you and quill know each other so well, you could almost finish each others sentences (f)

under the mistletoe (0.5k) — you and your boyfriend get caught under the mistletoe (f)

you need to calm down (0.4k) — you and quill wind down after a long day (f,w)

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𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (5.5k)

anthony lockwood, illicit affairs series (5.5k) — your secret relationship might not be enough for the future you have ahead of you (a,s,f) one, two, three part four (ending: afterglow) part four (ending: closure)

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𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩 (0.6k)

deck the halls (0.6k) — decorating cookies at portland row (f,p)

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49 works

#lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #george karim #netflix #lucy carlyle #ali hadji heshmati #cameron chapman #ghost hunting #ruby stokes #anthony lockwood x sister!reader #anthony lockwood x y/n #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fluff #anthony lockwood headcanons #george karim x reader #george x reader #quill kipps x reader #quill kipps #lizzysmasterlists

[maraschinomerry]

Rock Paper Scissors

Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader, background Locklyle

Summary: George is your best friend, Lucy's convinced there's more to it but he's not your type... is he?

Content: friends to lovers, oblivious flirting, misunderstanding, light swearing and suggestive thoughts, kisses

A/N: it's officially 1 year since I posted my first Lockwood & Co fic!! Thank you all for making it such an incredible year and continuing to support my writing, it means the world to me ❤️ and thank you to the Multiverse of George for fuelling the buff!George fire 🔥 I've even made a montage so everyone can see the vision, plus the gif above of George swinging the chains he's definitely strong 💪

Word count: 4.2k

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71 (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

Ever since you'd started working for Lockwood & Co, you and George had had the most playful rivalry.

It had started on the very first day, when you came for your interview. Lucy had welcomed you into the living room while George went to fetch the biscuits. After breezing through the tests, Lockwood gestured to the plate still being clutched by the other boy.

“Biscuit?”

You frowned at the boy in the armchair, who looked like the last thing he wanted to do was to share. “Am I supposed to fight you for them or something?”

George had the audacity to snort. “In your dreams.” But then he did offer you the plate, albeit reluctantly.

Once you got used to one another, you found that you actually got on really well and gradually he became your best friend, but by then you'd set a precedent that neither of you wanted to drop.

“We're heading out soon,” Lucy informed you both as she slid cups of tea across the table. She and Lockwood had an appointment with a client, leaving you and George behind to keep working. “Can one of you oil the chains ready for tonight?”

You turned to George; he was already looking at you. A gleam came to his eye.

“Rock paper scissors?”

“You bet,” you grinned, already raising your hand. It took a few attempts, as you'd done it so many times by now that the two of you knew what each other was planning before it happened, but eventually you lost. Sticking your tongue out, you picked up your cup and headed towards the basement. Lucy followed you down.

“Can I ask you something?” she began cautiously.

“Course you can.” It wasn't like Lucy to not just ask straight out. This was odd.

“What's going on with you and George?” This was definitely odd. “It feels like you've gone past teasing, you're almost flirting with each other.”

Your gaze flew to your friend, who had lingered on the stairs. Was she being serious? “It's not like that, Luce,” you replied, wondering if it was warm in the basement or if it was just you. “I love him to bits, but the same way I love all of you. He's just not my type.”

Her eyebrow quirked up at that. “You have a type?”

“Don't say that like you don't,” you hit back. “You and Lockwood are made for each other! And George is great, really, but I prefer guys a bit more… buff?”

Lucy nodded. “Interesting.” It was spoken with the air of someone who knew exactly why it was interesting and someone who was absolutely not going to explain why. “Well… just don't rule anything out, but please be careful. I love you both too and I'd hate to see either of you get hurt.”

It was touching to hear her so candid about her feelings for you both. “I won't, I promise.”

—

You always forgot how ridiculously heavy the chains were. Just trying to hoist them up to make sure you'd oiled all the way round each joint was a workout. It was only adrenaline that carried you through working with them on cases. Thank goodness you were almost finished - your arms were beginning to ache and you were sure you were coated in sweat.

“Need a hand?” George's voice drifted from the stairs. You hadn't heard him come down, probably drowned out by the clanking links and your strained grunts, but there he was, sitting on one of the lower steps and watching you in amusement.

“You mean you want me to dishonour the sacred pact of rock paper scissors?” You mimed fainting in shock, taking the opportunity to slump back on the pile of chains and let the tension dissipate from your shoulders.

He chuckled, climbing down the final few steps and holding out his hand. “Will the sacred pact allow a lunch break? I made soup.” He'd got you there and he knew it. You loved his soup. Grinning, you accepted his hand and he pulled you away from the cold, hard metal.

There were two steaming bowls already set out on the table when you got back to the kitchen, and beside yours was a plate of sandwiches, cut exactly how you liked them.

“You're the best.”

“I know,” George smirked. He was eating with one hand, the other scribbling away on the Thinking Cloth. As he became more engrossed, he leant further forwards, his dark curls flopping over his brow. It was fascinating watching him get so engrossed in his work, the whole world melting away around him. Once you finished eating, you glanced across and took his empty bowl from in front of him. He looked up sharply, snapped from wherever his thoughts had taken him.

“Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you,” you mumbled.

“No, it's fine. We should probably get packed.”

You followed him down to the basement and pulled your kit bags from the shelf. Set side by side on the table, you both began to load up.

“You can carry the chains,” you told him over your shoulder as you picked up a half-empty box of flares and emptied it into your bag.

“Hey, you're the one who lost!”

“Only for cleaning them, I've done my bit.”

He huffed, but gave you a smile as he made his way over to the mound of chains. Your eyes widened as he scooped up a whole length in one easy movement and gave them a quick shake loose. You'd spent nearly quarter of an hour trying to manoeuvre that section earlier.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“They're not that heavy,” he shrugged, then added with a cheeky raised eyebrow, “or at least only when you’re trying to clean them.”

You threw the empty cardboard box at his head with a laugh.

—

A week later, the four of you were nestled in the living room. Outside, rain battered against the windows, which were almost being shaken out of their frames by the driving wind. You'd never have guessed it was June; it felt more like January. The fire was lit in the hearth, the occasional crackle of wood splitting the only other sound.

Eventually, Lockwood broke the silence. “I hate to say it, but someone's going to have to go out. We've got no tea left and barely enough food to last until tonight. We can draw straws to make it fair.”

He needn't have bothered. You and George already had your fists raised. One, two, three, paper. One, two, three, rock. Scissors. Paper. Scissors. Rock. Round and round you went, the symmetry only fuelling your competitive natures.

“This is ridiculous,” Lucy muttered. She was right, of course.

You raised your fist higher, leaning forward in an offered challenge. “Right. Arm wrestle. Loser goes.”

George leaned in, resting his elbow on the table. Lockwood and Lucy exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“Y/n…” Lucy began, but you weren't listening. Your elbow was already mirroring George's, hand in his. You weren't sure why you'd expected the easy, flexible grip of holding a rapier, but his fingers were clenched firmly around the back of your hand. Lockwood moved closer and counted you down.

Your hand hit the table almost immediately.

It felt like all the air had left the room. You stared in shock at the boy opposite, the triumphant toothy grin that crinkled his eyes, the unexpected tightness of his shirt sleeve around his arm. The similar tightness in your chest. Interesting.

Some sort of realisation hit you, and your attention shifted to Lucy. The look she was giving you was almost as satisfied as George's. Warmth flooded your cheeks. You drew in a shaky breath as you struggled to drag your eyes away from George's arm, which was still pinning yours to the table. After a moment, you felt his fingers loosen and with some reluctance pulled your hand away. The silence in the room was palpable. Lucy was still watching you in amusement. Lockwood was watching Lucy, trying to figure out why she had that “I know something you don't” look again over a simple arm wrestle. George was watching you too, his expression slowly shifting from victory to concern.

“Y/n? You okay?” he asked quietly. Your thoughts rushed back into your body, snapping your attention into the real world.

“All good,” you mumbled. “Just preparing to get drenched. If I'm not back in 20 minutes, assume I've been blown to the other end of the country.” At least that got a laugh out of Lockwood. Hurriedly, you stood and made your way to the front door. Why had you agreed to this? It was your own fault, of course, for continuing this whole competitive thing with George, but how were you to know he was that strong? A flash of bicep clouded your vision again, and you reached for the door handle before you did something regrettable.

“Hold on,” a voice came behind you. It was him. Keep it together, you told yourself.

“If you're about to volunteer to take my place, go ahead,” you forced yourself to stay casual.

George moved closer, and you swallowed a lump in your throat. “I was actually going to question why you looked like you were about to leave without a coat.” He reached to the rack over your shoulder, lifting yours from its hook.

“That might help.” You knew you were blushing again, but prayed he thought it was just from embarrassment at being so forgetful. Definitely not how close he was, how he was holding your coat in the same hand that had been holding yours moments ago.

—

By the time you made it back to the house, you were soaked to the bone and almost shivering. It seemed like the storm wasn't going to let up until at least the next day, so you'd decided to stock up on plenty of food which had seemed like a great idea until you tried to carry it all home. You'd had to stop several times on the way, ducking into doorways and bus shelters to escape the weather as you swapped hands, flexed your shoulders or relieved your fingers from where the handles of the bags had started to make dents. When you finally made it, you held the door open with one foot as you negotiated the bags in and dropped them unceremoniously on the hall floor. George emerged from the living room, alone this time; Lockwood and Lucy must have gone upstairs or down to the basement.

“You look awful.”

“Aww thanks, you're not so bad yourself,” you joked dryly. Oh god, Lucy was right, you were almost flirting. A shiver ran through you and this time you hoped it was from the cold.

For a second, you thought you saw George's eyelids flutter. “Well, I uh… I ran you a bath to warm you back up. I'll put this away.” He hauled up the bags of shopping with barely a huff, and you tried to reason that he hadn't just carried them through a storm.

The water was soothingly warm and scented with lavender salts, the smell wafting up in delicate bursts as it swirled around, relaxing all the tension in your aching muscles. As you lay peacefully, you reflected on what had happened earlier. You weren't sure you'd ever felt… You couldn't even identify what feelings you'd experienced during the arm wrestle. Shock? Embarrassment? No. It was something else, something that Lucy had noticed immediately and had been trying to get through to your oblivious self. But she was wrong, wasn't she? You said it yourself, you weren't into George, even if he did now fulfil your main criteria. Then again, so did plenty of other guys you'd met. Kipps was quite well built, definitely had muscles, but that didn't mean you'd considered dating him. He wasn't like George though - smart, funny, thoughtful George. You couldn't imagine Kipps running you a bath or making your favourite lunch, or doing any number of the things that with George felt so natural. And there were all the little things you did for him that you'd never do for anyone else. No, there were no two ways about it: you were a pair in whatever capacity that meant.

Still didn't mean you fancied him, you told yourself.

You volunteered to help George with the dishes after dinner that night. It was always nice to be able to spend time just the two of you in sync, but tonight especially you figured it was a good idea to be around him in perfectly normal circumstances. You'd chat or enjoy the companionable quiet, you'd both be at ease; nothing could possibly happen, which would give you time to prove your feelings were a fluke.

George picked up his blue rubber gloves and tossed you a tea towel. He was dressed casually, in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt (so large that the sleeves almost met his gloves at the elbow). The radio was playing quietly in the background, giving you a welcome distraction. Whenever a song you recognised came on, you'd start humming along or singing under your breath, and George would smile at you, sometimes even joining in. Your heart leapt a bit when he did, but that was nothing, you were just happy to be sharing this moment with your friend. He stuck an arm deeper into the sink to grab something at the bottom and made a small noise. Water had splashed up onto the cuff of his sleeve. You giggled at the look of disgust he made at the wet fabric sticking to his skin. The sound died in your throat when he took off his gloves, draped them on the side of the sink and rolled his sleeves up out of the way. You were so used to him being hidden behind his giant tops, or at the very least being in longer sleeved shirts, that seeing his bicep completely exposed was a shock in more ways than one. It wasn't much wonder he'd beaten you so easily at arm wrestling with muscles like that. You wondered whether it was just his arms that were so toned, or was the rest of him the same? Was he hiding a set of abs under that T-shirt too? Were his thighs-

“You okay?” George nudged you, and you hastily looked away.

“I was just…” Come on, come on, find an excuse, your brain urged. “...thinking how this means we both got wet clothes today, if you want me to put that top in with my washing after this?” God that was lame. Not much wonder he wasn't interested in you. That wasn't the point, you reminded yourself.

“Oh,” he smiled. “That'd be great, thanks.” He leant over to put a chopping board on the draining rack, and his bicep brushed against yours. A shockwave of warmth resonated through your whole body. Oh.

“Tell you what,” you forced yourself not to stammer, “are you okay to finish up here and I'll go and grab the laundry basket?” He nodded, and you tried not to fall over your own feet as you retreated to the hallway and sucked in a breath to calm your racing heart. Oh.

—

You cursed yourself for ever starting this. No, this was Lucy's fault for pointing it out. No, still your fault.

Being around George was becoming unbearable. Not for anything he'd done, rather the things he wasn't doing. He was carrying on exactly as he always had, that inimitable blend of playful and caring, and it was driving you mad not knowing whether he meant any of it in the way you wanted him to. You couldn't say anything, of course. If you were wrong, it would mess up the whole dynamic of the group. That would hurt almost as much as any rejection. But the more things went on, the more you took notice of the little moments between you, the more your feelings grew until it felt like they would crawl out of your chest.

“What the hell were you thinking?” George snapped at Lockwood. He and Lucy had been out on a case which went badly, and now the four of you were sitting at the dining table in the early hours, George applying butterfly stitches to a cut on Lockwood's arm and you cleaning a couple of scratches on Lucy's face. The misty gloom of the night outside the window reflected the atmosphere within.

“I was thinking,” Lockwood snapped back, “that we only had to handle a couple of Type Ones, according to your notes.”

“I told you those weren't finished!”

“Well maybe next time, don't get distracted.” Was it your imagination, or had his gaze flickered to you?

“Maybe next time,” George replied darkly, “do your own research.”

“Fine.” Lockwood pushed his chair back and stalked from the room. Lucy shot you both an apologetic grimace and followed.

George began pacing round the kitchen, hands twitching angrily. You stayed at the table, knowing it was best to give him the space to say or do whatever he needed to let his feelings out. You were there if he needed you.

“Can you believe him?” It was rhetorical, you'd heard him say it enough to know, so you waited for him to continue. “We end up in this situation almost every week, because he's too reckless to wait! I know he'd rather be in the action, but he'd be able to do all that more if he'd let me give him the right information first.”

You gently waded in, trying to be reassuring. “We all know how useful your research is; he just gets overeager, especially when Lucy's involved.”

“I know you know how important it is,” his words sent butterflies through you, “but Lockwood just…” He gave a frustrated huff. “Maybe I should make him do all the legwork for a change.” You tried very hard not to think about whether George's legs were as muscular as his arms.

“I'll support whatever you decide, but for what it's worth I think you should just talk to him.”

He sighed heavily, placing his hands flat on the table and allowing his head to drop. “You're right. Thanks, y/n.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, as did his deep brown eyes as he raised his head to look at you. You were already distracted by the tension which lingered in his shoulders, the rigidity of his arms as they supported his weight, the way he had leaned into the pose so much that now when he looked up his face was so close it almost filled your vision. You swallowed nervously.

“Any time. I- I have to go.” You stumbled up from your chair, ignoring George's confused stare and sounds of protest as you practically bolted from the room.

—

You lay on your bed in the attic, tears slowly soaking into the pillow you'd buried your face in. This was the end; it had to be. You couldn't carry on working for the agency like this. If George had shown any interest it would be okay - Lockwood and Lucy managed to balance being a couple who worked and lived together, there was no reason you two couldn't do the same, but it could never work being so one-sided. You'd just keep being weird, struggling to hold your nerve around the boy until it would start bleeding into cases and Lockwood would have no choice but to fire you for everyone's safety, if you hadn't already got one of you hurt by then. Not to mention the emotional hurt. It would happen either way, but at least if you walked away now you could control it.

“Y/n?” Lucy's voice came tentatively from the bottom of the steps. “George said you ran off, is everything okay?”

You flipped onto your back, drawing in shuddering breaths to recover from almost suffocating in the pillow. “You were right, Luce.” There was movement on the steps, but you kept your eyes on the ceiling. You couldn't bear to look at anyone right now. “I tried so hard to make sure neither of us got hurt, but George doesn't love me back and now I feel like even if I stay I'm going to lose him.”

The silence that followed dragged on longer than you could bear. Why wasn't she saying anything? You forced yourself to sit up.

George stood at the entrance to your room, eyes wide and lips parted.

You scrambled to your feet. “Shit! I mean, hi, um… how long have you been there?”

George continued to stare.

“I'm so sorry,” the words were rushing out of you now, “I just panicked but I don't want to make things weird so can we just pretend-”

“What do you mean, ‘doesn't love me back'?” he interrupted quietly.

You froze. There was no mistaking it: he'd heard you basically say you loved him and now there he was looking like the mere concept was so unbelievable, like the option hadn't even crossed his mind. Why would it? Time stretched on as you fought the urge to run again, as far as the ever-widening space between you would allow. Neither of you had moved, but you could feel the room expanding around you to make room for the bottomless pit you wanted to crawl into. “I…” you drew in a slow, deep breath, “I was fine just being friends but Lucy got in my head about you being exactly my type and now I think I'm actually flirting while you're still just pretending and I'm sorry…” Tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes and you hurriedly looked away, hoping he wouldn't see.

George stepped closer, and you shrunk even further into yourself. Your heart skipped a beat when he gently tilted your chin up to meet his surprisingly soft gaze. “I meant, why do you think I don't love you back?”

You faltered. Was he saying what you thought he was? “Well, I mean, I thought I'd made things super obvious and awkward but you didn't change so I thought you weren't interested.”

George's hand was still on your chin and his thumb rubbed soothingly across your cheek, wiping away the single tear that had spilled. “I thought you weren't interested! You normally go for those muscly gym guys so I figured I'd take whatever I could get with the arm wrestles and stuff, but then you started avoiding me so I thought you were done with it.”

A small laugh escaped you, and he looked at you in confusion. “Have you seen yourself?” Hesitantly, you raised a hand to his bicep, marvelling at finally being able to feel the muscle instead of just staring at it, and more amazed at the way the boy responded to your touch, drifting closer until you were barely inches apart.

“So then why did you run?” His voice was whisper soft against your face, eyes gazing down at you with an overwhelming blend of sincerity, bewilderment and something like longing. His cheeks were tinted as pink as you knew yours were.

“Got flustered.”

“Flustered? You? I don't believe you.” A smile tugged at the edge of his lips, the playfulness you were used to creeping back into his voice. It was such a relief to feel the tension dissipating from the room, to have your George back, that you buried your head in his shoulder with a giggle. He laughed too, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Oh, I see, you really want to do this? Okay, let's see ‘flustered y/n’ at their best.”

You yelped in surprise as his other arm hooked under your legs and swept you off your feet, your arms flying up round his neck for support. His arm was tense across your back but he looked the most relaxed he'd been since he walked in, and he shifted you closer to press a quick kiss to your lips before setting you down on the bed and sitting beside you.

“Lucy's going to be very smug about this, you know,” he nudged you.

“I know,” you whined, burying your face in your hands. “Rock paper scissors for who has to tell her.” George laughed again and placed his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer as you leant into the embrace.

“Is this just a ploy to get more hugs?”

“Is it working?”

In response, he brought his other arm around your waist and kissed your forehead. You smiled, leaning up to kiss him properly, and he reciprocated eagerly.

—

Lucy had left George alone on the steps to your room once you started your confession, giving you both a bit of privacy, and decided when he didn't come back downstairs immediately that things had either gone very badly or very well. She believed, and hoped, that it was the latter. Her suspicions were confirmed when she came to tell you she'd made breakfast and found you fast asleep, wrapped in George's arms.

#george karim x reader #lockwood & co #lockwood and co fanfiction #george karim #gn!reader #multiverse of george #buff!george

[reidrot]

locklyle

#anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwoodandco #cameron chapman #lockwood and co netflix #incorrect lockwood and co #incorrect lockwood & co #lockwood and co x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #locklyle #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood x lucy #lucy x lockwood #lucy carlyle #lucewood #anthony x lucy #george karim #george cubbins #lockwood netflix #johnathan stroud

[cate-deriana]

Well...

#quotes that might or might not make it into my fanfiction #lockwood and co #l&co #save lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #george karim #george cubbins #locklyle

[givemea-dam-break]

i'm here (george karim x reader)

a/n: @ettadear and @neewtmas this one is for you guys teehee. it's not overly long, but it got me out of my writing slump :) this went through a multitude of different forms (my favourite version ended up not working out very well but I'll incorporate it into something else) but i hope you enjoy it!

warnings: none words: 827 taglist: @waitingforthesunrise @aayeroace @locklylemybeloved @gotlostinfiction @mirrorballdickinson @mischiefmanaged71 @magicandmaybe

gn reader

You’re not sure when you started coming out into the back garden.

The grass tickles your ankles, swaying softly in the breeze. It really needs cut, but nobody ever has time or energy for it. Maybe you’ll do it this week. Maybe not. Maybe you’ll just say how the garden needs a tidy and make no move to do it.

It’s barely morning. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, but here you stand, staring at the slowly lightening sky as if it’ll bring you the solace you so desperately crave. You could talk to your friends, reach out to them for help, but the thought of bothering – burdening – them when so much is always going on makes you feel incredibly guilty. You’re not even sure they’ve realised your morning habits now.

What exactly is wrong? You’ve no clue, only that you’ve felt a hollow ache in your very soul for what has to be weeks now. It could be homesickness. It could be some horrible, unsolicited feeling of isolation and loneliness. It could be a multitude of things and, even still, you can’t figure it out.

The ghost lamps in the streets beyond are flickering off by the time the back door creaks open.

Confused, you turn to find George standing on the patio, looking up at the sky. His hair is messy, likely from sleep, and he’s dressed in some funny patterned pyjama bottoms and a thick hoodie, shivering in the crisp morning air.

“You okay?” you ask, frowning.

“Trying to figure out why you could possibly want to wake up so early and stand outside in the cold.” His gaze falls from the sky, landing on you instead as he makes his way over, kicking an apple out of the way. “We should collect the apples this year instead of tripping over them.”

A soft laughs escapes your lips. “We should. I’m sure you’ve got an apple pie recipe somewhere in one of those books of yours.”

He stops next to you, and he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin without even touching. Is that the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, or is there someone just stomping really loudly in one of the nearby houses?

“You’ve been upset lately.”

“No, I’ve not.”

George gives you a look. “You’ve been quieter. Your section of the thinking cloth hasn’t had any new and wonderful additions. Oh, and you’ve been coming out here every morning for the past two weeks.”

Your face feels awfully warm. “Have you been watching me?”

“Yes,” he says with a shrug. “And the floorboard outside my bedroom creaks whenever you’re coming down in the mornings.”

It’s an effort not to look at him when he says that what with how he just so easily admitted to taking note of the things you’ve been doing. Or rather, not been doing. And, although it’s for a reason that isn’t exactly ideal, it brings a little flutter into your chest. You can’t remember the last time someone paid such close attention to you.

“So?” he prompts. “You know you can talk to me.”

You know you can, but you’re not even sure yourself of what’s wrong. “I know. I just… It’s hard to put my finger on what it is exactly, you know?”

He nods and, it could very well be a figment of your imagination, but you’re sure he shuffles an inch closer until your shoulders are almost touching. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, watching for any hints of what could be wrong. Because that’s what George does. George, the boy who searches and searches for the tiniest details. George, who is relentless when on the hunt for information. George, who, despite it all, knows not to push you on a topic you don’t want to talk about. George, who –

Who is reaching for your hand and slipping his fingers in between yours.

His touch comes as a shock. Usually, he rejects any kind of physical touch whenever he can, preferring the comfort of his own skin to anyone else’s. But there’s his hand in yours. His pulse beating almost in time with yours between your palms. His hand is warm and soft, and the touch alone has your heart racing.

“I’m here for you, remember,” he says softly.

You’re sure your hand is horribly clammy, but he doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he squeezes it as you look at him, offering a small smile. A smile tugs the corners of your lips upwards in some meagre attempt to show him how grateful you are.

Truthfully, you’re not sure he really knows how much this means to you. Him reaching out to you. Him paying attention to the little things you were sure nobody had noticed. His touch.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

And, when your head comes to rest on his shoulder, he leans his against it, squeezing your hand again.

#george karim x reader #george karim fanfiction #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #george karim #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #x reader #fanfiction #givemea-dam-break

[d0wnb4df0rf1cm3n]

Let me

Anthony Lockwood x F!Reader

Summary: You got hurt. It was his fault. And he feels absolutely awful.

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Angst, Claustrophobia, Near-death situations, Some lightly mentioned family issues, Arguing, Couples? Quarrels, ANGST.

AN: The summary is awful - I feel like I say this every time. Idk if Reader and Lockwood are a couple, they don't have to be, but they can be if you want to. Love you all! (BTW I have not read the books in years so creative liberties were taken - I'm sorry for any and all book inaccuracies.)

The body of one 'Sergeant M. Bowers' floated precariously towards Lockwood. He backed up against the door of the bedroom, eyes darting between you and Bowers, rapier extended in front of him. You rifled through the bedroom, looking for anything precious or valuable. You had to find the source for Lockwood.

Lockwood had taken the case of this particular house out of pure greed. Mrs. Miller was willing to pay a pretty price to take care of her 'little problem' as she called it. You had warned him against it - the Bowers' manor was about a mile outside of the town you grew up in and you'd heard almost every story there was to hear about the house. About the family that inhabited the house. Lockwood hadn't listened.

He'd convinced you to come, saying the stories were 'probably just stories told to children to scare them away.' He assured you they weren't true. After George had done his research, you were more confident - apparently, reports of apparitions of children predated the problem and were therefore hoaxes.

The Bowers were an affluential aristocratic family before the war - the First World War, that is. "They were known for hosting Gatsby-esque parties to celebrate the most menial of affairs - like their dog turning one." George had rolled his eyes at that pushing the picture of the newspaper your way. April 6th, 1912. A week before the Titanic sank.

The sinking of the Titanic began a series of unfortunate events for the Bowers family, starting with the death of the youngest son, James. James and his to-be wife, Miranda, died aboard the ship, thrusting the family into a long period of mourning. In the following two years, 6 of the 12 members who lived in the house had passed away, forcing the rest to flee the countryside manor, claiming it had been cursed - which brought about the misfortune of the family.

The last of the family to inherit the manor was Sergeant Michael James Bowers, who was the youngest nephew of James. He had lost his life in the second World War; after being shot in the arm and leg, he had been honourably discharged and sent home. He succumbed to sepsis not long after, surrounded by empty halls and unhappy memories. Apparently, he had never left.

You shook your head in discomfort - dispelling the dark feeling that had crept over you since reading about the family's terrible fate. Something seemed off about this case - something seemed to have been omitted from all the research you and George had done.

At first, you disregarded it as nerves. The Bowers manor was big - bigger than any other case you had taken. Plus, it was close to home, which was full of unpleasant memories. Maybe the added pressure was playing on your mind. You tried to explain yourself to Lockwood, who dismissed you. Apparently, Lucy had to help Kipps with some research, and George was working on another case. There was no point in arguing with Lockwood when he had made up his mind, and he was not going to budge on this case.

Which led you to your current predicament.

There were many ghosts haunting the halls of the Bowers manor. It seemed that everyone who had died here didn't want to leave. You had rid the house of most of the ghosts - sealing almost ten sources in different iron boxes. Lockwood had danced his way through the Type Ones that he was dealing with - he was evidently the better agent out of the two of you. You had lucked out - you came face to face with a Type Two. The small girl kept repeating about her teddy which you had found in an upstairs bedroom covered in filth and cobwebs. You threw an iron net over it before leaning against a wall to catch your breath. You were exhausted - and you hadn't even dealt with the real problem.

Sergeant Bowers.

Sergeant M. Bowers was a lot more tortured than you had initially thought. His wife left him when he left for the war, leaving to follow her true love into the country - countless correspondences scattered across the rooms told you as much.

Then came the matter of a child - Timothy. Pictures of him were littered through the halls - toys left to rot in the hallways. Clearly, no one had cleaned it until Mrs. Miller bought it at that country house auction. Except the trace of him ended there. There was nothing in your research to tell you about him, nor any sign of him outside the walls of this home.

It was peculiar.

You had tried to tell Lockwood, but he brushed you off. "The kid must have died - explains the tortured relationship between his parents."

It seemed odd to you. What kind of mother would run off without her child?

A glint caught your eye. A small jewellery box lay on the vanity, dust laid over it as if it hadn't been touched in decades. You dashed towards it, opening it quickly to find a simple silver band inside. A wedding band. A source.

You placed the ring in a small iron box - one of your many engineering feats that made your job safer and easier to do. Bowers disappeared from over Lockwood and you ran over to help him up.

"See? Not too bad, was it?" Lockwood joked, taking the box from your hand and putting it in his bag with the rest of them.

"The only reason I'm glad we don't work with Fittes is the paperwork. We'd be drowning in it after tonight. Can you imagine? With all those Type Ones and the two Type Twos. I'd be crying into my pillow for weeks." You grabbed the rest of your equipment and headed towards the stairs. Lockwood's fingers wrapped around your arm, pulling you back sharply.

He pulled out his rapier and pointed it toward the woman - an apparition of a young woman, dressed in a maid's uniform and carrying a basket, seemingly full of laundry.

"Another Type Two. Great." Lockwood sighed, "You check downstairs and I'll check upstairs. She's a maid. Look for... maid things? I don't know." You nodded before hopping downstairs, armed with your rapier.

You went down to the servants' quarters, which you had seen on the blueprints of the house. The room was small, just off the side of the kitchen - and was perhaps the cleanest room in the house. The maids had been let go long before Sergeant Bowers had inherited the house. Clearly, they had taken the cleanliness with them.

You looked around for anything that could be a source. Why would staff die here, you thought, when the Bowers were known for treating staff well? And why would she choose to stay? You walked around the room, running your fingers over the sparse wooden furniture around the room, leaving trails in the dust in your wake. You tripped by the door to the bathroom, cutting your hand on a small loose nail by the door - probably used for hanging coats or aprons. You winced as you stretched your hand, closing your fist to stop the blood from dripping all over the floor.

You heard footsteps coming down the stairs. "Did you find anything, Lockwood?" No response. "Lockwood?" The door to the servants' quarters slammed shut. You pressed up against the door, trying to force it open. "LOCKWOOD? LOCKWOOD, HELP!" You screamed, trying to push the door hard. "LOCKWOOD, PLEASE! I NEED YOU!"

Lockwood called to you from the landing, telling you he's found something interesting. You tried screaming for him again, but he was too far away to hear you, just like you were too far away to help. Ghostly yelling startled you as you turned around. The maid was here, clearly oblivious to you in the room. She was humming softly as the ghostly yelling continued.

You watched her from a distance as she folded some invisible clothes, her humming still ringing out around the room. She laughed at nothing, before turning towards the door, expectantly. You turned towards the door, expecting to see some other apparition in the doorway but there was nothing. She seemed to get frantically worried by the lack of whatever presence she is expecting, her humming becoming erratic and eerier by the second.

Her eyes grazed over you, and she seemed to relax. She spoke to you gently, reaching her hand out to you, "Come, Elizabeth. There's no need to be scared." You felt the effects of Ghost-lock wash over you, as lethargy numbs your senses. You saw her drifting toward you, but you had no energy to run or even to poise your rapier in front of you. And she seems so nice.

You heard the door fly open and felt someone grab your arm, tightly. You were pulled out of the room and back into the kitchen. "Thanks, Anthony." You whispered, resting on the kitchen counters.

"Anthony? Who's Anthony?" You looked up, unamused by Lockwood's attempt at a joke.

Your jaw dropped. In front of you was a man that you thought you may never see again, "Grandpa? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I heard you screaming. Just wanted to make sure you're okay?" He said, eyes looking you over, searching for injuries. You hid your arm further behind your back, not wanting to worry him more.

He brought his hand up to brush your cheek, staring down at you lovingly. "I'm sorry about this, kiddo."

You felt hands pulling you up off the floor, and a strangely familiar voice whispering soothing words in your ear. You struggled in the grasp of this strange person, trying - unsuccessfully - to flee. They held you firmly, arms tucked neatly beneath you.

Tired from your busy night, you gave up, resting your head against the person's chest. You knew this cologne. It was Anthony's - you teased him for putting on too much and the scent lingers in the hallways some mornings. You settled, seeking his warmth and his comfort.

"Nice to have you back. You worried me for a minute back there."

"Lockwood? Worried? God, are there pigs in the sky?" You bantered back, your voice weak with exhaustion. He laid you down on the stairs, running back to grab your rapier and your flares. You must have dropped them when your Grandpa showed up. Grandpa?

Where did he go? You stood up trying to walk back to the kitchen. Grandpa couldn't see any apparitions - if one came for him, he'd be as good as dead.

"Whoa, slow down, Usain Bolt." Lockwood caught you as your legs folded beneath you. "You took a nasty hit to the head, plus you might have had a bit of ghost-lock as well."

"Lockwood, my grandpa," You said, looking past him, and back at the kitchen door, "He can't see them. We have to help him."

"Your grandpa? Honey, there's no one here." The nickname fell on deaf ears. You tried to scramble back towards the room, but Lockwood held you tightly.

He walked with you back to the kitchen - to prove there was no one there. There was no sign of anyone being there - nothing at all.

"Look - there's no one else here. You must have hit your head while getting away from the maid. Just," He huffed, pulling you closer to him, "let me get you home. Let me check you over - make sure you're alright."

You let Lockwood drag you towards the taxi and push you inside. You let him maneuver your body so that your head is resting on his chest and your legs dangle over his. You let him carry you like a rag doll into the house and set you down in the kitchen.

You shivered slightly - involuntarily - but Lockwood noticed. He draped a large blanket over you, boiling some water for hot tea. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and sat down in front of you.

He held out his hand for yours, "Let me clean it for you." So you do.

He spent the better part of the next hour meticulously cleaning every scratch and scrape he can find - only slowing down when you wince, or to pour you more tea. He makes it how you like it - a spoonful of sugar and a dash of milk

Once he's done, he lifts you again and carries you to bed, tucking you in like a mother would their child. He turns out the lights with a soft goodnight and crosses the landing to his own bedroom. The first floor is plunged into darkness, but you stare up at the ceiling.

Sleep doesn't come to you easily. When you close your eyes, the maid's face is above yours - her hand reaching out to you, beckoning you. You want to take it. You see her holding Elizabeth, cradling her as she cries. Your grandpa's face comes up next to the maid and you see your grandpa die. How he screams for you to help him as the plasm burns through his skin. Your mother blames you - tells you that she should never have let you go to Fittes. The maid shields Elizabeth from the loud arguing coming from upstairs. No, not from upstairs. The arguing is happening below you. You shake yourself awake from your restless night, wincing as you contort your bruised body. You slip on your Fittes hoodie and creep downstairs.

Lucy and Lockwood are facing off in the kitchen. Again. You sit on the step, listening in.

"She told you she didn't want to go! And now, there's a chance she won't be able to go into the field."

"She'll be fine. She's tough, she'll get through it."

"You don't know that, Lockwood! You can't just assume that everything will be fine just because you want it to be." You could hear Lucy's voice breaking as she fought back tears.

"Maybe, she won't want to go on missions anymore," George piped up. Clearly, he'd been forced to sit there through breakfast and listen to the argument, "After all, you didn't listen to her doubts when she said she was scared."

"No, she didn't. She just had nerves."

"No, Lockwood. I was terrified. And you didn't hear me out."

"You're awake!" Lucy threw her arms around you, hugging you tightly. "God, I'm so happy you're okay!" You smiled at her warmly, hugging her back. She moved past you, saying something about needing to meet Kipps to finish their case.

"I'd hug you too, but you should probably shower first. Who knows what kind of bacteria fester in hundred-year-old manors? I'll see you after lunch - heading to the archives." George walked out quickly, almost as if he was being chased out by rats.

Lockwood stood in front of you, straight as a board, "You look like you've been electrocuted. Sit down. I'm not going to bite." Lockwood sent a weak smile in your direction.

You poured yourself a mug of tea and put some bread in the toaster. You made a mental note to send George a shopping list before he came back.

"So..." Lockwood started, and you wanted to laugh. In the almost three years you'd lived with him, you'd never seen him so nervous.

"So?"

"We should probably talk about what happened back there." Ah. He wanted to do this now.

"Yeah. We probably should."

"What happened? I mean, one minute you were fine, the next you were unconscious in the kitchen?" Lockwood said, leaning back in his chair slightly.

You grabbed your mug and sat in the chair opposite him, "Was I, though?" Lockwood raised his eyebrows, "Was I really fine, Lockwood, or did you just want me to be fine?"

"I don't understand?"

"Lockwood, I voiced my doubts to you! I told you to let it go! That this was a case we didn't have to take! That we'd find something better." You were standing now, leaning over the table, staring Lockwood down.

"Worth more than 90 grand? Do you have any concept of how much money that is?"

"YES! YES, LOCKWOOD, I DO! IT'S NOT NEARLY ENOUGH MONEY! We fought how many ghosts? 10? 12? Do you even consider that?"

"14, actually."

"YOU ARE NOT HELPING YOURSELF. YOU MAY BE THE LITTLE PRODIGY OF FITTES, BUT SOME OF US ARE NORMAL. SOME OF US ARE AVERAGE." You sat back down, your legs shaking. You were still too weak to force this argument. Your voice trembled, "I can't keep up with you, Lockwood, none of us can. Lucy, maybe, but even she needs a break. Hell, even you need a break sometimes."

"We're fine, aren't we? We're all alive and kicking, still fighting ghosts another day?"

"Yeah, but for how long? How long do we keep getting to cheat death?" How long until one of us gets buried for the unnecessary risks we keep taking? You didn't say it but the question took root in the back of your mind.

Lockwood sighed, "I don't know where this is even coming from. We survived. We did the job. We got our money. Aren't you happy-"

"HAPPY! HOW CAN I BE HAPPY, LOCKWOOD? I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN THAT HOUSE YESTERDAY! One minute, we were sealing up a source, the next I was being lured in by a Type Two, ghost-locked and bleeding. Somehow, my GRANDPA WAS THERE, AND THEN I'M UNCONCIOUS ON THE FLOOR. NONE OF IT MAKES SENSE, nothing - nothing makes sense. I feel - I feel like my brain's been scrambled. It just - I can't - I don't-" Lockwood kneeled next to you, his palm gently cradling your face, and let you cry. You stayed there for a few seconds before you looked up into his face, eyes brimming with tears, "You know what the - what the worst part was?"

"What was the worst part, honey?" There it was again, the nickname. Your heart skipped slightly at the sound of it.

"That you couldn't hear me." Lockwood looked at you, pain sweeping over his expression. "I called for you. In the servants' quarters. I needed you, but you couldn't hear me. I screamed and I cried and I begged and I- I needed you, Lockwood."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap, before stroking your hair. You cried into his shirt, the white fabric turning translucent in the dampness.

"I will always come." He whispered to you, eyes bright with determination. "I may not have always been there before, but I will be now. I promise. No matter where or when, if you call, I will come to you." He cradled your face in his hands again, thumbs gently rubbing away your tears, "I will listen to you - and George, and Lucy. If you tell me you're scared, I'll hear you. I won't take jobs out of greed, we'll make decisions together. We're a team. I'm sorry I haven't been acting like it."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tucking yourself into his neck, "I like the sound of that."

You felt Lockwood smile against your neck. "I'll take care of you. If you'll let me."

You pulled back, "Taking care of each other goes both ways. You have to let me take care of you too." He scoffed lightly, but you knew that he had agreed. He couldn't ever say no to you. Not even at Fittes.

"As much as I hate to ruin the moment, George was right. I don't want to think about how much bacteria was probably growing in that house." Lockwood helped you up, "You should probably shower." You nodded your head, chuckling lightly. You grabbed Lockwood's phone from the table and before he could steal it back, you sent a text on the group chat.

"We need food. PLS. WE HAVE NOTHING." You threw him his phone as you ran up the stairs. Lockwood laughed at the text.

"They'll know it's you." He said waving his phone as you grabbed your towel.

"Or they'll have a heart attack knowing that Frosty can change his mind."

fin.

#ali hadji heshmati #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood fluff #anthony lockwood imagine #anthony lockwood oneshot #anthony lockwood x reader #cameron chapman #george karim #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood fic #anthony lockwood angst #lockwood and co oneshot #lockwood and co fic #lockwood and co x you #lockwood and co season 2 #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co imagines #lockwood and co fluff #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood netflix #anthony bloody lockwood #lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x y/n #george cubbins #ruby stokes #lucy carlyle

[bumblebugwrites]

wow, okay, since that was pretty much a resounding yes, requests are open! send me your ideas! especially for george and lucy, i really wanna write for them as well.

#anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lucy carlyle #george karim #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood #lockwood x reader #lucy carlyle x reader #george karim x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood fanfiction #lucy carlyle fanfiction #george karim fanfiction

[bloodcanbehot]

I Wish You Would

(gotta keep that Taylor Swift theme)

Anthony Lockwood x f!reader

Content: Angst? Fluff? Touched starved Lockwood

Warnings: Mention of blood and wounds, also some curse words (I think)

Characters: Anthony Lockwood and (y/n) Kipps. (Lucy Carlyle and Quill Kipps also appear)

Word count: 1.083

A/N: Exactly two people told me to post it, and that was enough (I'm literally about to enter to an online class while typing this). Chronology speaking, this goes BEFORE their first kiss but I'm a dumbass and forgot to post this one first, hope you like it

(I'll attach their first kiss here)

“Where were you?” Quill asked, seeing both Lockwood and (y/n) walk in with dirt on their faces and hair. As soon as he spoke, his sister’s face told him to not speak, unless he wanted to die.

“We’re fine!” (y/n) said, grabbing Lockwood by the arm and walking to the kitchen.

“You guys don’t look-” Lucy started, but the slamming of the door cut her off.

“Sit”

“I’m not your dog”

“And I don’t care” (y/n) said, pointing at the kitchen chair “sit down”

Lockwood did as she said, even though he didn’t want to. (y/n) started taking out items from the first aid kit, slamming them on the table as she cursed.

“I cannot fucking believe you” she said “seriously, why is it so hard for you to take care of yourself while we’re out on a case?” (y/n) asked, soaking a small piece of cotton with disinfectant. She grabbed Lockwood’s arm, forcefully moving the sleeve of his dress shirt up to see his cut better.

“(y/n) I-” Lockwood started, hissing when the cotton made contact with the cut on his arm.

“This might hurt” (y/n) said, after hearing him hissing, a smirk on her face.

“Okay” Lockwood said “I deserved that”

“You deserve more” (y/n) said “actually, you don’t even deserve me doing this for you, should I just tell my brother to do it, so you suffer a bit more?” she questioned, sarcasm all over her voice.

“(y/n)-”

“You know, when Luce told me you were reckless, I thought 'well, he's certainly not stupid' guess I was wrong!” she grabbed one of the big band aids and covered his cut.

“(y/n) I’m sorry, okay?” he said “this wasn’t reckless, I had a plan, it just didn’t work”

“Wow, what a surprise”

“I didn’t know the golden blade was gonna be there!”

“The what?” (y/n) stood up, forgetting about his other cuts.

“Last year we encountered him” Lockwood explained “we think he somehow works for Penelope Fittes-”

“My boss?”

“Yes” Lockwood nodded “he tried to steal the bone glass from Lucy and I” he explained “he’s also the one who shot me” he grabbed her hand “you have to believe me”

(y/n) looked at his eyes, processing what he had said in silence, enough to make Lockwood panic, the hold on her hand tightening.

“I… I believe you” she said, sitting back down. She wasn’t gonna lie, she always felt a weird vibe from the woman, or the entire agency for that matter. And she didn’t think Lockwood would lie to her.

He sighed in relief “Thank you (y/n)-”

“What I also believe” she started, letting go of his hand and grabbing a new cotton piece “is that your other cuts need to be taken care of” she said “specially this one” she tapped slightly the cut on his forehead, making him hiss again “I thought you were good at fencing?”

“I am” Lockwood shot back “I was just… surprised”

“Your blood says otherwise” (y/n) replied “now, lean closer so I can help”

Lockwood only nodded and whispered a small ‘yes’, letting her do the work and leaning closer as she instructed. As she leaned in, she quickly realized how her back was going to kill her if she did that, so she grabbed her chair and dragged it a bit closer to his, eventually ending up with her thigh in the middle of his thighs.

Lockwood chuckled “you might as well sit on my lap if you-”

“Shut up or I’ll do it” she cut him off with a smile.

He smirked “be my guest”

She ignored him, grabbing the back of his head to steady it as she disinfected the cut across his forehead. She was focused, focused on cleaning the blood and figuring out which bandage to use, but Lockwood’s wandering hands on her knee were distracting her.

It started with his fingers, slowly tapping her knee, barely noticeable, and she wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t kept going at it. His fingers slid across her knee and (y/n) made her best to ignore it, but as she stood up to change the cotton piece, he pushed her leg open, causing her to fall on his lap.

“That’s better” he said, smirk on his lips again.

“Lockwood-”

“Please” he said, voice so quiet she barely heard him.

She looked at his eyes, and for one moment she saw his mask crack. His dark circles and clenched jaw showed her how tired and stressed he was. She couldn’t even imagine how much his muscles ached after the fight, let alone the throbbing of the multiple cuts on his skin.

“Fine” she whispered, not trusting her own voice with the feeling of his hands on her waist.

She kept doing her thing in silence and he just watched her, tracing small circles on her sides with his thumbs. (y/n) just wanted to close her eyes and enjoy it, enjoy his touch on her skin and wish she could feel it for longer, to forget about the case, the fight, everything. She wanted to focus on him and him only.

“There” she said, breaking whatever spell was between them. She grabbed his chin, angling his face to admire the, now taken care of, cut “you’ll live”

He chuckled, smiling truthfully for the first time that night, or since (y/n) knew him, she didn’t care. She liked the small glow on his face.

They locked eyes, the blanket of silence settling on them again. (y/n)’s fingers slid across his chin towards his jaw, making him close his eyes and just enjoy her touch. His hands started moving up her waist, slowly, also making her want to close her eyes and enjoy, but she still leaned forward, closer and closer to him.

He felt it, the weight shift on his lap, some of her curly locks tickling his shoulders.

She could feel their lips almost touching.

The door opened, making her open her eyes wide and snap her neck so hard she wondered if this is how she was going to die. That would be better than the image she saw.

Both Lucy and her brother were standing at the doorstep. (y/n) stumbled off Lockwood’s lap, feeling his hands fly away from her and almost fell. Chair and all.

She gripped the thinking cloth “I was tending his cut” she stupidly said.

She could feel how Quill resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as she looked at him.

“You sure were”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A/N: I feel like this scene and the other one are pretty similar, so if I do write the fanfic I'll change it, but let me know what you think! (Again, be nice)

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[g1rld1ary]

just blurry ; anthony lockwood x reader

➻ synopsis: you accidentally get lockwood drunk and have to walk him home from the pub where his drunk rambles disguise real feelings

➻ word count: 1264

➻ warnings: getting drunk

➻ had my first uni orientation today!! made a friend :)

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Since you and the rest of Lockwood & Co had turned eighteen, you all loved a good drink after a case. It eased all sorts of pain inflicted during your missions — physical and emotional. Whilst you mostly drank together at home because of the bizarre hours you usually worked, when it was appropriate you’d all taken to a quaint little pub named The King’s Court. It was only a few blocks from Portland Row which was ideal for getting home in the middle of the night, and almost always had a table for the four of you. Plus, you were pretty sure George had a crush on one of the bartenders, but you couldn’t be certain.

Tonight was one of the nights you’d wrapped up a case early enough for you to get a seat, but that didn’t mean it was an easy fight. It was a particularly aggressive poltergeist, your personal least favourite ghost to face. Invisible and aggressive, someone almost always ended up getting hurt. Tonight was no exception. Lucy had been gifted a rather long — but thankfully shallow — cut all the way up her arm, and the rest of you were physically exhausted from fighting. Yet when Lockwood cheerfully suggested the pub, no one had the heart to disagree with him.

You’d all had a bit to drink, which made Lockwood giggly, George loud and Lucy tired. You personally felt fine, not having had quite as much as the others. One of you had to be able to get the key into the front door, you figured.

George and Lucy left first, George becoming transfixed on her injury despite her protests, and wouldn’t rest until he was allowed to bandage it up. You’d stayed with Lockwood after he’d whined about wanting to stay out later, in a way not unlike a petulant child. You didn’t mind though, he was always fun to talk to — even more when he was drunk and giggly.

You gossiped for a while, Lockwood telling you stories of adventures the company had been on before meeting you, and in turn you told him about growing up in your own small town and the small group of friends you had out there. Lockwood, on top of his perfect eloquence, was also a great listener. You found yourself spilling secrets without even meaning to, spurred on by his eyes locked on yours, slightly glazed over with admiration as you spoke.

Without realising it the two of you had stayed until closing, and the last bartender working waved you out apologetically, a sympathetic glance to you as you supported Lockwood’s weight. You apologised for the both of you staying so late and tried to coax Lockwood into working with you, dragging his stumbling frame down the street. You really should have cut him off a few drinks ago.

While the rest of his body worked at half speed, Lockwood’s mouth was running at a million miles a minute. He blabbered on about whatever came to mind; the weather, what he might have for breakfast, an argument he was having with George before. You listened dutifully — there wasn’t much else to do while you struggled under his weight.

Taking a break you pushed Lockwood up against a ghost lamp, two hands on his shoulders both to pin him upright and take the pressure off your poor legs. Usually when you were carrying an injured agent you had assistance, and Lockwood was rather tall and gangly, making for a very awkward trip. However comfortable the position was for you, it did put your faces very close together.

You and Lockwood were inadvertently gazing into each other’s eyes as you caught your breath, and he suddenly noticed all the variation of shades in your irises. He looked down at you in utter amazement, all the minuscule details he’d never had the chance to see before coming into focus.

“You’re really pretty,” He breathed, a moment of tense silence hung between you, the only sound the faint buzzing of the lamps. And then Lockwood giggled, light and airy and ridiculous enough to dissolve whatever moment between you had been beginning.

“Alright, it’s time we get home,” You said, disregarding his previous statement, but Lockwood wasn’t having it. As you both stumbled home he couldn’t be silenced.

“No, I really mean it! You’re so pretty. Your eyes and your hair and your face, when you stick your tongue out to concentrate…” You didn’t know anyone noticed that. “Plus, you’re so funny. And nice. And you always put up with my stupidity. You’re so great.” If you didn’t know better you could have sworn you’d seen little hearts floating above his head.

“You’re really drunk right now,” You settled on replying, “I don’t think you’re gonna remember any of this tomorrow.”

“I’m not drunk at all! You’re just blurry.” Without even looking at Lockwood you knew exactly what expression he had on. Seeing the charming, lopsided grin would only heighten your own feelings further and so you locked your gaze down the street, where Portland Row seemed both so close and yet so far. You entertained his gushing until you made it to the doorstep, where you were grateful for the excuse to put distance between you. You weren’t sure how much longer you could resist him when he was saying such sweet things while pressed up to your side.

You finally sent him up to his bedroom with a promise to go tuck him in in a minute (you weren’t sure if he was joking or just got really honest when drunk), and headed off to the kitchen, fetching him a glass of water and some painkillers.

Knocking lightly on his door you found Lockwood sitting cross legged on his bed, absolutely adorable in his worn out pyjamas. He looked up at you again with those eyes and you imagined that was what a younger, more innocent Lockwood might have looked like all the time. Your heart ached for a moment when you thought about it, a quick yearning for a time when the both of you could have been just kids. You shook the thought off as soon as it came, aware of Lockwood watching and analysing your expressions.

“Well, come on then, get in bed,” You said, and Lockwood clambered under the sheets in a way that made you laugh softly. “If I only knew it would be this easy to get you to go to sleep, I would have gotten you pissed a lot sooner.” Lockwood only smiled, shaking his head.

“If you want me to go to sleep you just have to ask, I’ll do anything for you.” You hesitated for a moment at his confession, but wrote it off as drunk ramblings. You needed it to not mean anything to push back the warmth glowing inside your chest.

“Goodnight, Lockwood. Come get me if you need anything.” You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before you could talk yourself out of it. The second your face retracted from his Lockwood’s hand was touching his cheek, a dumb smile creeping onto his lips.

You were out the door before he could respond, but standing outside to regain your composure, you could definitely hear his inebriated giggle through the door and smiled softly. He might be a drunk idiot, but you guessed he was pretty cute like that.

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