#Lucy Carlyle fanfiction
Text
5 Times George Missed Lucy + 1 Time He Admitted It
a/n: this was co-written by the phenomenal @ikeasupremacy i quite literally had the time of my life writing this with you, and i think we broke our own hearts quite a few times during the process. we really, really hope you enjoy it <3
warnings: big sad (i beg, listen), language, spoilers for the end of the hollow boy
words: 5k+
taglist: @neewtmas @waitingforthesunrise @wellgoslowly @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @flashbackwhenyoumetme @ettadear @ella23116 @mirrorballdickinson @magicandmaybe
5. More Chores
The basement was too cold, but George persevered with the chores. If he turned the thermostat up, Lockwood would probably have him beheaded, meaning he had no choice but to grin and bear it.
It was meant to be early spring for heaven’s sake, but he was stuck in the depths of the Earth to do the cleaning, while Anthony Bloody Lockwood was off frolicking in the sun with Holly to Satchel’s and Arif’s and God knows where else! Probably buying doughnuts or something! The favouritism at Portland Row was blatant that day.
He carefully laid Lockwood and Co.’s dozens of chains out across the hardwood floor, with some oil and a rag sitting on his desk, ready for Lucy. While she oiled them, he’d polish the rapiers and make sure they had enough salt bombs and lavender bundles. Not the worst job by far, but he would’ve definitely preferred to be outside or better yet, in the air-conditioned, cherry-blossom windowed Archives.
Heaving a sigh, he stepped over the thick iron links and trudged to the bottom of the stairs that led up, up, up into the kitchen.
“Luce!” he called. “Need you to come oil the- ”
Oh.
How stupid. Within a moment, his shoulders had sagged as he remembered; Lucy was gone. He suddenly became very aware of how alone he was in the house, the gentle hum of peaceful silence suddenly the disconcerting emptiness of a black hole.
Lucy had been gone for at least a week now, so how could he forget? He’d cleaned everything once without her already! She had been careful not to disturb anyone when she left, but George was a notoriously light sleeper. He had wordlessly sat in his room the morning she crept out, knowing she was gone for good as soon as he heard the third step creak. He heard everything, but he didn’t move an inch. He just listened as she crept out of the house that morning. Even though he didn’t do anything about it, he knew just as well as anyone that she was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.
A self-pitying laugh tore through his lips, resounding in his solitude, a moment meant for him alone. She had left them. Her absence was impossible not to notice, filling him with something distinctly empty. Hollow. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A bittersweet nostalgia for something that hadn’t really left. Call it cheesy, but she’d started actually accepting him for who he was, and then she left.
She left.
For a moment longer, he lingered there, staring up at the spiralling stairs with a half-glare. Daylight glared back at him, causing him to squint and furrow his brows in frustration while the sun tried its best to burn his eyes right out of the sockets.
As he stared into the sun for whatever self-inflicted reason, a single quiet thought made him soften his gaze in defeat. He had nobody to be angry at but himself.
Turning with a dejected sigh, he rested his gaze upon the rapiers and the chains.
Once more, he’d have to do them both.
4. Food Gone Cold
Silence. Terrible, uncomfortable silence.
George stared down at the food that he’d spent the better part of an hour making, and a pit formed his stomach. There was Lockwood with his meal, Holly with hers, food left over, and an empty plate. Just sat there. Waiting. It haunted the dinner table more than any Source ever could.
When would he stop doing this? Lately, every single meal he cooked ended up with four portions, even though there were only three of them there. He could already see the concealed remorse on Holly’s face as she thought about stuffing yet another spare portion in the fridge in hopes that someone would eat it later. Usually, no one did.
The thought of it apparently made Lockwood “sick to his stomach” and, well, George couldn’t say he was nauseous, but he had definitely lost his appetite when he saw the leftover food in the pan, regardless of whatever it was that he’d made.
Worse still, he should’ve realised the moment that he’d set it down that it was wrong. After Lucy had left, they’d begrudgingly swapped the thinking cloth out for a new one, folding it up carefully and placing it on top of the fridge, scribbling back on George’s stray research from the last, any pending tasks from the last one, and new doodles had taken residence everywhere: George insulting Lockwood; Lockwood’s loopy handwriting forming a shopping list or writing reminders for everyone. Hell, even Holly had started adding to it, normally with little smiley faces or cartoony flowers, but it was something at least.
Then there was Lucy’s spot.
No one dared sit in her seat. It felt like an action that they would be scolded for, by either Lockwood or some incorporeal voice that was haunting them, like a strange shared conscience between the three of them. Maybe it would even be Lucy’s voice, scolding them like she did when, every day for a week or two, Lockwood would sit in her place just to annoy her. She would jokingly tell him off every time, and force him off of the seat in a light-hearted push-and-shove. A sweet memory came to mind of Lockwood falling off the chair, and they had all doubled over laughing until their ribs pulled and their cheeks ached, the kind where anything sets you off again. A sweet memory indeed.
And, so, there was a portion of the thinking cloth that was entirely blank. Not even George’s messy and rushed research passed the invisible line that marked Lucy’s section. Maybe a mark of respect, of not wanting to let her go, of fruitless ambition and silent mourning.
Even the biscuits. The biscuit rotation was all messed up. With Lucy around, they would know who had last taken a biscuit on their little mental rotation, a fine-tuned seventh sense (after being a Sensitive, naturally), but every time George reached for a custard cream, he mentally hesitated as a ghost of Lucy’s voice went to whisper in his ear, “Have I had my biscuit yet, George?”
He wanted to say something; he was desperate to end this stifling, choking silence that plagued them all like a hand to his throat, a gag in his mouth. What could he even say? Jokes often ended up turning sour nowadays. Holly had the (albeit little) decency to give George a polite laugh at the predicament, but on the other hand, Lockwood would simply sit and stare at the empty plate as if he could summon Lucy back to her plate if he just thought about her hard enough.
George had already tried that. It didn’t work.
3. Patience Lost
Lockwood was like a cat, George observed. When he had a goal, he was a machine; a well-oiled, slit-eyed, prowling machine. He waited for his prey, and he attacked just as gracefully. He was always waiting, watching for his next move, the next opportunity, with careful focus, and George could see why Lucy liked him. It was a skill neither he or Lucy possessed, yet one they both admired. All the same, he thought Lucy was bonkers for it.
When Lockwood had no purpose, he was a cat stretched out in the sun, ambling with no real purpose and slinking around in his suit and tie, waiting for the next thing to do. George generally found this habit of his incredibly pointless anyway, but with Lucy gone it was just worse. For the last year, Lockwood had the goal of thinking about Lucy.
If she were here, Lockwood would be moving. He’d be yelling at her from the foot of the stairs to turn her music down before marching up and doing it himself. He’d be prancing around, animatedly talking about the latest gossip from his magazine and how it was so important that they knew what colour of dress Penelope Fittes wore to a meeting with Steve Rotwell. Green meant it was about new gear, purple about the future of their agencies, blah, blah, blah. George had no mind for it.
But now? Lockwood slouched in his armchair in the library, flicking through a magazine, entirely devoid of emotion. His freakish poker-face had come out strongly as his eyes darted from line to line, occasionally lifting a finger to flip the page he was on. A cold mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned by his side that George had, yet again, accidentally made out of pure muscle memory.
Lucy always drank a hot chocolate with him.
George was now completely out of his book. His eyes remained on the pages, reading the sentences over and over again, but they weren't what was running through his head. What would Lucy be doing right now if she were here with them? No, he couldn’t let himself linger on that thought. He tried to bring his attention back to his book.
“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might ngo fda bfgn tj Sorgfn. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg npt wutg hwt bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”
She’d have complained that the fire was dying down and added a log to it, her frame sinking into the seat near Lockwood yet again to continue her new crochet project of the week, as the calming click-clack of the plastic needles against each other melded wonderfully with the crackling of the (now revived) fireplace. A song would be stuck in her head, and she’d quietly hum along to it, none the wiser that George and Lockwood could both hear her.
“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg not with her bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”
She would have called them all boring for just sitting there, and gotten out the chess board to entertain herself. She was always freakishly good at that, George recalled with a slight smile. There were quite a few times where Lockwood had gotten so frustrated at her that he resigned and stormed off into his bedroom, leaving George to get absolutely throttled by Lucy every time. Every. Single. Time.
“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. The woman was sentimentally attached to not the wedding band, but her husband. Her source, as the agents soon found out, was not with her bones, but the husband’s. This was a revolutionary discovery for many reasons, one being the realisation…”
George gave up on the book, gently closing the hardback cover with a soft thump.
At the time, nothing could’ve annoyed him more, but George was bored of winning chess games now. Lockwood was somehow even worse than he was (and that was saying something), meaning the games lasted forever. Neither of them had the patience to sit for hours going back and forth. Lucy did.
That was the refreshing thing about games with her. It wasn’t relevant if the game lasted fifteen minutes or two hours, just sitting there with her gave the game an entirely more interesting feel. Especially when she swore under her breath after a bad move. George was a sore loser, and a gloating winner, but Lucy always took her losses humbly and her wins even more so.
Unless she was playing Holly. When Lucy won against Holly, it was as if the Heavens had shone a spotlight onto her face with how proud her smile was.
Lockwood missed that smile, and in some (pretty fucking irritating) way, George thought he did too.
It didn’t matter now. He’d have to deal with Lockwood’s doubled pawns and forgotten rooks, which was much less preferable. They would have to bear the silence of nobody humming as they crocheted, painfully watching a chess board gather dust, and having to live in the house that was no longer a home.
2. Ducks in the Wash
George could hear Lockwood rattling around in the basement incessantly, and he could only sigh. This all over again?
Surely there were no more socks missing - every single wash, Lockwood checked, and every single time he came back empty handed. It wasn’t like the washing machine was going to gobble them up. (And there was definitely no need to lift up the whole washing machine.) However, Lockwood always folded the washing better than George. That was the one reconciliation about the whole thing, thank goodness. Once George heard the telltale thump of the washing machine being on solid ground again, he assumed Lockwood was folding the clothes. Feeling less worried that Lockwood was going to break the washing machine this time around, he unpaused the telly and kept watching Pointless, or whatever crappy gameshow he had chosen to put on that day.
It wasn’t long before Lockwood came trudging up the basement stairs and through to the living room, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms. But it wasn’t the neatness of it (usually they were folded haphazardly until Holly came along and fixed it up) that had George pausing the telly once more. It was the bright blue thing on top.
“Lucy’s,” Lockwood said, not even trying to conceal the miserable look on his face. “She left a sock.”
George wondered if Lucy had noticed that it was missing. Unlikely. She had so many pairs of socks, all the same shade of tell-tale royal blue, she could probably provide a few dozen to each family on Portland Row and the next few streets over and still have enough for the next two wash cycles. Besides, it was such a small thing that she’d never notice. She’d never. Never. She wouldn’t have. It’s just a sock. She’d probably lost another one and she had perfect pairs again.
But, an irrational part of George couldn’t help but blurt out, “Are you going to call her?”
There wasn’t really any need to call her. She’d survive without one bright blue sock, even if there were cute little silicone ducks on the sole of this one to keep her from slipping. But George found himself wanting to hear her voice through the phone, strangely enough. The way she said “Hello?” in her Northerner accent on the phone, her little inquisitive chirp, even though she usually knew who it was, always used to make him laugh, and he was sure it would now.
It was clear Lockwood wanted to call, what with the twitch of his fingers, and the way he longingly stared at the ducky sock. It was easy to read him after a while of knowing him, and as he observed Lockwood, he saw a strange, stone-like look on his face. He knew that expression. The barrage of emotion he was holding behind a facade of stoic presence. The way he didn’t blink while he looked at the piece of fabric in his hand, not once. His eyebrows furrowed so slightly it could even be mistaken for natural.
George knew that expression. He saw it in the mirror every day.
“No.”, Lockwood muttered breathlessly.
He placed the washing down, balanced precariously on the back of the sofa, threatening to tip over. George had bigger things on his mind than the laundry, observing it as it teetered in the balance, but his mind was in a different place as he watched the washing basket lean forward.
He simply remained on the sofa, entirely sunken in his armchair, feeling as frozen as a marble-cut statue, and staring at the sock in Lockwood’s hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, as if it held some piece of Lucy that was finally attainable now that they had found it - something that could connect the three of them once again. For a moment, he wished that you could have Sources for a real person.
It’s just a sock, George told himself. There was nothing outright special about it and there never would be.
So what was their deal?
What had them reeling over a sock of all things? Was it because they could both easily imagine Lucy’s laughter as she tried to skid over the kitchen floor, only for her socks to keep her from sliding? Those stupid ducks on the bottom of her socks? Was it because of all things to have been left by Lucy accidentally, this was it? This was the last thing they had of her in the house? A literal sock?
Then again, it wasn't unwelcome. It simply brought with it a reminder of the gaping hole in their household, and dragging behind it the ugly emotions of guilt, and the hurt of a betrayal.
“I’ll wait to give it back to her,” Lockwood murmured in the same tone.
But they both knew the time would never come. Lucy wasn’t coming back, no matter how tightly Lockwood held onto the sock now, knuckles turning white. No amount of socks stolen by the washing machine would bring her knocking on the front door, or bursting through and demanding them back. The sock would simply sit, gathering dust and harbouring feelings that had no need to be felt.
But George still agreed, holding onto whatever tiny shred of hope he still had that she would come back. George knew as well as anyone else that it was fruitless, but even he didn’t have the heart to extinguish the hope that their paths would cross again.
It felt like something was destroying him though. He had gotten to a point where it was getting unbearable, the pain of all the reminders of her everywhere, it gnawed at him and ate away at his focus, at his time, at his brain, at his happiness. He should’ve put into words, and he knew that inside him, but that would destroy all the work he had put into coping with it; for both Lockwood and Holly. Lucy was an unnamed ticking bomb, ready to cause an explosion at 35 Portland Row anytime soon, and George was reaching his limit of how many more reminders of Lucy he could take.
The washing fell over. Once upon a time, Lucy and him would have laughed together over the thought of watching Lockwood fold it all again. They would’ve giggled until their cheeks were on fire, their ribs felt tangled in knots, shrouded by the ecstasy of simple delights.
“Lockwood? The washing’s just fallen over.” George called, entirely monotone.
1. Someone Familiar
The early spring air clung to George as he stepped through the front door, shopping bags in hand. Really, London had no excuse to still be so cold, but, alas, he still shivered as he kicked the door shut and placed the bags down. The warmth of the hallway was incredible, and he could’ve just stood there forever, feeling his skin grow warm. It was only when he eventually tugged off his jacket that he heard the laughter.
He peeked into the living room, where Lockwood sat in his armchair, and Holly on the sofa beside someone else whose hand she held and squeezed. The sight filled George with warmth. Holly’s last relationship… Well, it had ended badly, and she was a wreck for a little while, so to see her happy now felt like something, finally, was going right. George was genuinely happy for Holly, and for everyone. They really needed something to go right, all of them did.
He hadn’t realised the ache in his chest until his eyes lifted to the girl whose hand she held.
How did he not notice? The bobbed brown hair, the wooly jumper and denim skirt, it was…
“Oh, George!” Lockwood said, grinning as he set his mug of tea down. “You’re back! Hope you don’t mind, Holly brought her girlfriend over for a bit.”
George tried to move, but he found himself stuck in place, simply staring at the back of her head. Surely he was dreaming. None of this was real. It couldn’t be her. No, he was still sleeping soundly in his bed and his alarm hadn’t gone off yet. It was a lie. This couldn’t be real. A dream. A nightmare.
But- But, still, however he hated to admit it, there was hope in him. She had come home. She was back. She was here. She had finally come back to them after all these horrible months and he would never let Luc-
“Lucy” turned and flashed a grin at George, and he felt a little pang of nausea in his throat. This girl, she wasn’t Lucy. He’d mistaken her just because of an outfit and a haircut. How stupid of him. As he scanned her up and down, within a matter of seconds he had noticed the pristine white trainers she wore rather than plasm-covered, chunky black boots, her jumper was purple instead of blue. Her eyebrows were prominent, pointing upwards and giving the face an inherently sharp aura about it, combined with long features that he could never even imagine on Lucy’s round face.
He saw it all clear as day, all of it. The freckles Lucy lacked and the blue eyes she didn’t have, the mascara-caked lashes and the pointed chin.
“You’re George?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that Lucy would’ve definitely later made fun of. “Hol’s told me all about you.”
Lucy would make fun of the nickname too.
He felt insanely stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should’ve realised sooner - she had been introduced as Holly’s girlfriend for Heaven’s sake! There was a higher chance of Lockwood and Kipps dating than there was Lucy and Holly. But, he would’ve preferred Lucy over whoever this was. He didn’t hold anything against this (probably lovely) girl, who just coincidentally managed to look uncannily like Lucy from the behind, but George couldn’t help but bite back a sob.
The bittersweet lemon-curd hope now tasted rotten and acidic in his mouth. The taste of his idiocy coated his tongue and twisted his insides, and he hated every moment of it. He hated that for a moment he’d believed it to be her, that he had been ready to smile and accept her back without a word’s notice. He hated himself for having hope, and he hated Lucy for leaving, and he was entirely ready to be sick to his stomach.
He was impressed he managed a nod in her general direction, before abandoning the shopping bags on the floor and storming upstairs. Up, up, up, until he found himself in the doorway of the attic bedroom. The door was forced open, and he stared inside the stripped down room, the same way she’d left it, with her Blu-tack stains still on the walls and a leftover Polaroid of the three of them to the right of the bed. He couldn’t help but stare at the photo, as a tonne of weight settled on his shoulders as he stood unsettlingly alone in the attic bedroom. The weight of Lucy’s memory, perhaps.
Because that’s what had made him feel so terrible these last few months, wasn’t it? It was never just throwing away the food, or being bored with a chess game, or seeing a sock with ducks on it, or any of it. Everywhere he looked, he saw Lucy, but he didn’t have her at his side, bickering with him and making her little remarks, lifting his spirit a percentile at a time, and dropping him down to ground level after he finally felt valued and appreciated by someone, after he found a friend who made him laugh until he couldn’t anymore, even though he absolutely hated her sometimes.
He had never hated Lucy Carlyle more than that moment.
He flung his clothes off the vanity chair, mad that he’d even had the gall to put them in this room, and sat on the bed, trying to arrange his thoughts.
It was like cutting himself open to admit that he missed Lucy. This girl he’d detested for months; this girl he’d slowly learned to appreciate, and even cherish. He looked for her in every room of this house - the little crocheted coasters she had made, her abandoned mugs in the cupboard with awful sayings on them, the honey jar in the kitchen that only she had used for her tea.
Hell, even whenever he took out his favourite mug, because she had accidentally chipped it her first week there, and George had sworn he would never talk to her again after that, decreeing it on the Thinking Cloth with so many swears that he lost count.
Every moment of regret, of sadness, of longing he had felt since her leaving seemed to add up and show itself proudly to him now, sending him into a rabbit hole of falling into emotional turmoil. The solitude of the basement every month, the quiet of the evenings without the click clack of a crochet needle, the way his socks were never mixed up with hers anymore, the way nobody stopped him from researching until 5 in the morning-
Fuck.
George sprinted to the little bathroom and unloaded the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When his quaking body had finished purging the contents of his (again) too-large breakfast, he crumpled onto the floor beside the bowl. The sour taste of bile was heavy on his tongue, and it slicked along the sides of his throat.
He looked up at the abandoned room around him. Just the sight of its sorry state was enough to tempt him back into throwing his face over the toilet bowl once more, but he resisted. He leaned his head against the cool tile behind him, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes, the mucus in his throat mixing awfully with the vile taste in his mouth.
Lockwood had come upstairs at this point, the door being thrust open as he rushed to George’s side. His expression was pained, as he looked at George with concern in his eyes, but a resigned light to them as well.
“You’re okay,” was all he said.
0. Confession
Moonlight streamed through the attic window, splitting across the clothes-covered floor in beams of silver. It was a peaceful kind of light - the sort that would have Lucy standing by any window in the house, staring longingly up at the sky. She always spoke about how she missed the stars, stars that glittered for her back home but were now hidden by the dozens of ghostlamps scattered across the city, and the haze of pollution in the city.
As George sat on the edge of her bed alongside Lockwood, he wondered if Lucy was looking up at the moon now, too.
Oh, the horrible feeling of knowing they shared a sky but not a roof.
Lockwood heaved a sigh, playing with the polaroid in his hand. He’d plucked it off the wall not long ago and had taken to staring at it, occasionally brushing his thumb gently over where Lucy was. Maybe he thought it was like a genie’s lamp, that if he rubbed it three times some otherworldly being would come and grant their wish of bringing her home.
No genie appeared, no wishes were granted, and Lucy didn’t return.
George remembered the day that photo had been taken. Lucy had taken the last jam doughnut, the one he had wanted, and they had argued the entirety of breakfast. Holly had trotted into the kitchen, polaroid camera in hand, grinning about how she’d found it in a charity shop and had to buy it. She wanted her first photo with it to be of her friends, the agents of Lockwood and Co., but no matter how much she and Lockwood tried, George and Lucy wouldn’t stop arguing. So there was Lockwood, smiling, albeit awkwardly, between George, who looked like he was about to implode with anger - anger he now saw as an overreaction, even if she was a thief - and Lucy, whose cheeks were flushed pink, as she waved the half-eaten doughnut in the air. The camera caught the moment some of the jam in the middle had dribbled out onto her brand new jumper.
“I thought it was her, too, at first, you know,” Lockwood said after what felt like years of silence. “Holly’s girlfriend. I thought it was Lucy as well.”
With a shrug, George said, “Doesn’t matter now.”
“You miss her, and that’s okay.”
“I do not miss her.”
But it was a lie. That’s all George had been doing since she left, wasn’t it? Lying to himself and to everyone else that he didn’t miss her.
He had hated Lucy for so long. From when she had first joined the company and the few months that followed. Then after she left them, giving some bullshit excuse and a secret escape. But he had never allowed himself to miss her, not really. He had only burdened himself with the memory of her, looking for her in anything he could find but not allowing himself to grieve the girl who hadn’t even died.
His fingers hurt from clutching the duvet cover so hard. “Maybe I miss her a little.”
Lockwood’s laugh was breathy, filled with tears he wouldn’t dare shed. “You can give up with the pride, George. She’s not here to make fun of you.”
“But you are.”
The words resonated between them both, and for a moment George truly realised how alone they were. Yes, Holly was there daily, mourning Lucy’s resignation in her own detached way, but George and Lockwood… Lucy had been everything to Lockwood, and somewhat less than that for George. They were a trio. George couldn’t even remember the agency before Lucy, so now it felt like a machine missing a cog - it didn’t function properly, and wouldn’t until it was put back into place.
“I’d never make fun of you for this.” Lockwood’s smile was nowhere to be found. Not in the corners of his lips or the dark of his eyes. It was as if it had been torn from him the minute Lucy stepped out the door for the last time. “I miss her, too.”
Of course Lockwood did. Missing Lucy was second nature to him. Any time she’d gone off on a case by herself he had missed her. Hell, he probably missed her when she went to bed a few floors above him. But this was unfamiliar territory for George. He wasn’t used to missing people. Not his parents who still lived in London, who occasionally visited and checked in on how things were going. Not his siblings, who were also still nearby muscling on with their careers. He’d never experienced loss like Lockwood and Lucy had.
Was that why it felt like he had been hit by a ten-tonne brick? He hated this feeling more than he’d ever hated anything.
“She’s not coming back,” George said, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “We’ll cope. We have to.”
But, staring at the room she once lived in, straining to try and feel any remnant of her presence, he wished that the genie would finally appear.
#givemea-dam-break#mayra lore#lockwood and co fanfiction#george karim fanfiction#lockwood and co#lockwood and co netflix#george karim#anthony lockwood#anthony lockwood fanfiction#lucy carlyle#lucy carlyle fanfiction#locklyle#locklyle fanfiction#holly munro#the hollow boy
174 notes
·
View notes
Text
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 :)
#lockwood and co fanfiction#anthony lockwood fanfiction#lucy carlyle fanfiction#george karim fanfiction#lockwood and co#lockwood and co netflix#save lockwood & co#anthony lockwood#lucy carlyle#george karim#locklyle#fanfiction#gotlostinfiction
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
110 notes
·
View notes
Text
Borrowed Time: Chapter Two
part two of the serial killer Lockwood and co AU. Warnings for severe angst, mentions of torture, non graphic injury descriptions, minor language, fear, ANGST no comfort unless you count the horrific sadness of memory. Short chapter but more soon!!
please note this is a sideblog and all replies will come from @waitingforthesunrise. I truly appreciate comments and thoughts!!
tag list: @neewtmas @lemonsharks @givemea-dam-break @teaandtoastandthyme @givemea-dam-break @cordelia-street @paysomeonetopaysomeone @malteevars-kee-devi @the-biscuit-agreement @krash-and-co @oceanspray5 @smol-being-of-light @skies-of-gray @ikeasupremacy @wellgoslowly @oblivious-idiot @jesslockwood @tangledinlove @superpositvecloudshipper @peachesanddandelions @charmquarkstrangequark @pathetic-atthedisco @ladygrayish @saelterlude @carlyleandco @carlyleons @naivedaydreamer
CHAPTER TWO
Lucy awoke to the golden afternoon sun and the heavy weight of a cat on her chest.
She lay there, blinking at the blank ceiling; Miss Younge’s cat patted a heavy paw on her cheek.
“Took you long enough,” a disgruntled voice said from the floor, and with a burst of cold awareness Lucy knew where she was.
She was in Lockwood’s bedroom.
More correctly: she was in Lockwood’s bed.
It felt so familiar because it was the second time. It felt so strange because this time there was no messy-haired boy asleep beside her.
“Hello, Skull,” she said quietly. There was a leaden weight inside her ribcage; words felt heavy and forced, like slow molasses.
Lucy closed her eyes against the warm sunlight and tried to remember what had happened earlier. What day was it? Had the trip to Barnes and that awful, horrific phone call only been this morning? And Lockwood’s voice on the phone, that pleading note in his voice —
The cat meowed protestingly as she sat up and swung her legs over the bed.
“Did Holly bring you up?” She asked the Skull. It was all a blur in her head: staring at the phone in her hand, the burst of pain in her chest, and the sudden tip and swing of the room.
“Holly put me in a bag — a very smelly and disgusting bag, if you even care,” the Skull complained loudly. “And you could barely walk in a straight line. George had to practically fight you into bed. Holly asked if I would smell up the kitchen — as though that blond boy isn’t a worse health hazard! And—“
Lucy picked up the pillow from Lockwood’s side of the bed and held it to her chest. She had clutched it tightly against her in sleep, and she hoped desperately that the Skull had not noticed. It still smelled like him….a faint hint of citrus, something like the dusty books of the library…the first morning she had woken up beside him, his arm still draped over her waist and her leg over his….she opened her eyes and studied the faint worry lines traced across his forehead….Anthony Lockwood. He looked tired even in sleep.
“Are you crying?” The Skull demanded loudly. “Are those tears? What kind of independent agent are you?”
Lucy set the pillow down. “I’m not crying,” she snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She wished she could cry, but her eyes were dry as a bone and just as heavy. She slid off the bed and crossed to the window, peering out into the bright afternoon. People crossed the street below, wrapped in coats and colorful scarves. The winter sun glinted off the taxicabs and the shiny rapiers of a pair of Fittes agents climbing into a car down the block.
That other morning, waking up beside Lockwood, she had left, too.
She had stared at his dark lashes and purple signs of sleeplessness, and wanted. What, she didn’t know.
She had stumbled into his room that night, gasping, unable to breath, the panic choking her words, barely able to make it through the door. And then his arms were around her, and his scent and his voice…
Do you ever think about dying? She asked later, lying beside him in the darkness, his hand tracing slow circles on her waist.
His fingers paused. Yes, he said quietly. But not with the same love.
She clutched Lockwood’s hand, choking on the words she wanted to say. Don’t leave. Take me with you. Sometimes I want to go, too. I see the way you look at the ghosts. You’d trust me, wouldn’t you? You’d stumble through my door if you couldn’t breathe? Or would you let it take you away?
But she only said, I’m glad you’re here.
I’m with you, he said, and drew her closer.
And then the morning had broken and she had slid out of the warm bed and into the cold dawn because she couldn’t breathe, and it was all the fault of the sleeping boy. She had stumbled through Arif’s empty aisles and something within her wanted to run and never look back.
If he dies —
She hadn’t wanted to finish the sentence. She had stood in the doorway in Portland Row and looked at Lockwood’s panicked face as he tumbled down the stairs and felt an overwhelming sense of dread.
“Luce!” He had said, fear gasping through his nonchanlent tone. “I thought maybe…I woke up and you were…”
She held up the box. “Just donuts. That’s all.”
He nodded, trying to catch his breath, and Lucy had tried to drown her fears in icing. But, like ghosts, they returned in the night.
The Skull interrupted her thoughts. “Do you really think that boy is worth all this, Lucy? If you ask me, it’s a handy way to end it. And look! Maybe he left you the house! I can see it now: Skull and Co, in gold letters….”
Lucy studied the bedroom. It was a shambled sort of tidiness: half-hearted attempts had been made at cleaning up, but clothes still lurked on the seat of the armchair and books gathered dust beside the bed.
“Compared to that hole of a garbage disaster you call an apartment, Lockwood was a cleaning maniac,” the Skull remarked.
“He didn’t change the flowers.” Lucy pointed to the vase of flowers beside the bed in the ugly vase she had given him their first Portland Row Christmas. It was meant to be a joke, but Lockwood had solemnly replaced the flowers every week and refused to acknowledge the hilarity. The flowers were wispy and rotting.
She closed her eyes. “They’ve been there for weeks.”
“So? Maybe he had better things to do with his life than stuff flowers into the vase some girl gave him.”
“He wasn’t…”
“Doing well? Applause! Brilliance! Someone give her a prize, the girl’s a genius!” The skull smirked from the green jar. “You’ve been convincing yourself that your leaving would solve everything. It just made more problems, and Lucy Caryle doesn’t like that. How dare her brilliant plan not work?”
“Shut up,” Lucy snapped. She tried to smooth her crumpled blue shirt over her waist, doing her best not to glance at Lockwood’s closet door.
“You’d wear his sweatshirt if you weren’t such a coward,” the Skull said. “Oh wait! You couldn’t bear anyone knowing you have feelings. I bet you’d smell better, though.”
“You’re in a jar! You can’t smell.”
“I can detect the aura,” the Skull remarked with satisfaction. “That god-awful cat is scratching at the door again, Lucy. Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Just put it on and let’s go downstairs, I’m bored silly.”
Lucy slid her hand over the hanging shirts, Lockwood’s one concession to proper organization. She knew he kept a gray sweatshirt hanging somewhere…and really, it was just because she couldn’t go and change at her old apartment, could she? And Holly’s clothes wouldn’t fit her….she swept her hand across the top shelf and knocked something heavy to the floor.
A blue notebook stared back, tumbling open to reveal closely-written pages.
“Lucy!” The skull said. “The cat is looking at me. Lucy—”
Lucy knelt and picked up the notebook, smoothing the pages. There was a date in careful ink at the top….With a jolt of recognition, she knew what it was.
“It’s Lockwood’s diary,” she said quietly.
The Skull groaned loudly. “Of course he kept a diary. I bet he went to that gloomy graveyard and sat on his parents graves to write in it. But only on windy days so he could mess up his hair and feel something. Oh, Lucy looked at me today,” the Skull moaned, “and I’m such an stupid idiot I just looked back with my mouth hanging open.”
Lucy barely heard. She sat back on her heels, feeling the weight of the notebook in her hands. “What if Lockwood knew something?” She asked. “What if he wrote what cases he was working on? What if it wasn’t a kidnapping? Our cases could have been crossing.”
She tried not to think about all the ways the caller could have abducted him. An invitation to a single case….a note signed in her name, asking to meet privately…
He would have walked into the trap singing.
Lockwood, she thought desperately, Lockwood, you’re such an idiot…
There was a sudden knock on the door, and Lucy jumped to her feet. She felt off-balence without the rapier attached to her hip.
Holly peered around the door. Her eyes were shy underneath the long, dark eyelashes, and Lucy wondered disgruntledly when she’d had time to do make-up and her hair.
“Good morning, Lucy,” Holly said hopefully. “I just wanted to…check on you. There’s food downstairs, if you’d like? You should really eat something. I’ll get you a drink.I—”
“Holly.” Lucy held out the notebook, her voice cracking. “Have you seen this notebook before?”
“It’s Lockwood’s, I think. He carried it around sometimes.” Holly crossed the floor and touched Lucy’s arm gently. “Lucy…we’ll find him. We’ll try everything…”
Lucy looked into Holly’s eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance. She wanted to push the other girl away, she wanted to scream, she wanted to hug her tightly. She wanted things to go back to the way they were; but when was that? There had been good moments, she was sure of it, but all she could remember was standing on the doorstep and looking at Lockwood’s sleep-dazed face and thinking if he dies now I’ve killed him. If he dies now I couldn’t save him or I could and didn’t and —
And so it was better to go while there was time.
But, Lucy thought, what if the time had already almost run out?
Across the city, same time
“Is that really all you’ve got?” Lockwood asked mockingly. “Pitiful.”
His skull snapped back against the wall with the force of the blow. He sighed, letting himself crumple to the floor and steadying himself against the concrete. His head was spinning badly enough he almost could forget there awful pain in his ribs and the pooling blood beneath him. He thought of Lucy’s smile. Lucy! He should have told her. Something, anything. That he was sorry for loving her like he did; so broken, so painful, in so many pieces. It hasn’t always been like that. He had thought, for a few months, he wasn’t so unfixable after all…That one night she had come to him, running from the darkness, and he had woken with her in his arms in the small hours of the morning. He had felt whole, then. And now —
A hand twisted his face upwards. “You’re thinking of her,” the voice snarled. “She’ll come.”
“She won’t,” Lockwood said with all the strength he could.
“She will. She has to save you, after all.”
Lockwood sighed, his breath burning his ribs. “She doesn’t have to save me…”
“Maybe not. But she thinks she does. That’s all that’s needed.” The figure chuckled and crouched on the ground. “Do you recognize me, Anthony Lockwood?”
Lockwood stared into the hollow, burning eyes of a man that had changed little in four years. He leaned back and waited for the pain to come.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
to be continued ~
#lockwood and co fanfiction#original fanfic#original fanfiction#Anthony Lockwood fanfiction#Lucy Carlyle fanfiction#Lockwood and co fanfic
52 notes
·
View notes
Text
i didn't know — anthony lockwood & lucy carlyle
pairing: anthony lockwood and lucy carlyle
summary: seizing the opportunity of a truly valuable mission that would also bring them the front page of the newspaper, lockwood & co decided to expand a little further, leaving the well-known streets and having to spend the night in a hotel because this mission was far from their home.
"remind me, why did we have to choose to come right here, out of all the possible missions?" george asked lockwood as they all made their way through the hotel's sliding doors, letting lucy enter first as she was the only girl on the team.
lockwood sighed theatrically, but lucy was somewhat amused by the situation, —more precisely by the fact that george and lockwood kept contradicting each other, not the fact that they had to sleep in a hotel room—, and he answered, "is it because this person is so important that," lockwood stopped in front of them, glaring at both of them, but more at george. "listen to me," he said to the curly headed boy and then repeated himself with the first word, "that, we could end up on the front page of the newspaper and have our capabilities recognized."
it was george's turn to sigh, and lucy, as if she started to think that it wasn't so funny anymore, walked past them with ease and headed towards the pretty receptionist who was smiling at them from behind the counter.
"good evening," lucy said politely to her, being followed by the boys. "we are lockwood and co and we would like to get three rooms, for one evening, namely, this evening."
being already aware of the accommodations made until the three got there, the receptionist gave them a sad smile and spoke to them in a sincere tone, "i'm sorry, but it seems that we don't have three available rooms."
"unbelievable!" muttered george from behind the girl, trying to be subtle and keep his disappointment to just the three of them.
as lockwood stepped forward, taking back his leadership role. "but what rooms do you have?" he asked, making sure to give the receptionist a smile, as if that would somehow change the situation.
she, passing with an all-knowing smile over his gesture, continued to remain polite and formal, "in fact, we only have one apartment left, but it's for 3 people."
george walked up to his teammates and whispered to both of them at the same time, "you won't see me sharing my personal space with any of you," then smirked as he resumed his seat as if nothing did happen.
before lucy could intervene in any way, driven by the fact that he couldn't give back because they were in an area they didn't know, lockwood spoke briefly and to the point without asking for any details, "we're taking it."
"wonderful!" exclaimed the receptionist and she quickly looked for the key, but because it was the last one, she immediately found it and handed it to them. "have a nice stay!" she added with her typical smile.
it was lockwood who took the key and thanked her, while george repeated his words, sarcastically, while going before them on the hall towards their apartment.
"so we're going to share a room?" lucy asks in a low tone, walking along with lockwood.
lockwood, due to the fact that no matter how much he denied it every time george or anyone else suggested it, he had a little crush on his so-called colleague, swallowed hard and cleared his throat before he answered. "i'm not so sure." but then, immediately, he turned to her and gave her a crooked smile. "don't worry, we'll figure it out somehow." he added and earned a smile from her.
"excuse me for interrupting your moment," george said as he suddenly stopped in front of them. "but i need the key," he continued and held out his hand to lockwood who was too busy gazing at lucy to realize they were in front of the door to the apartment where they would be spending the night.
george snapped his fingers in front of him, making him take a step back, flustered, and he motioned to the door first, then held out his hand in front of him again, waiting for the key.
lockwood took a second to process, looking down at the key in his hand and then to the door that had on the exact number that was on the key. "oh, right," he said after that second, handing the key to george, who could barely keep from laughing.
the boy hurried to unlock the door as lockwood and lucy watched him anxiously and when the door opened they realized they would indeed have to share a room. the apartment was small, for their budget —not that they had any other options left anyway—, but when they opened the door they had a single bed in front of them, and then a door to another room, and george had already made his point to them. that he doesn't want to share his space with anyone.
they put down their luggage, which wasn't much anyway, and after they were all inside, george locked the door and left the keys on the bedside table next to his bed. he threw himself into bed, quickly taking off his shoes and making himself comfortable.
"i really don't want to rush you, but some of us are really tired," he said with his hand on his heart, and immediately pulling the blanket over him and arranging his pillow.
lockwood and lucy had exchanged glances, aware that neither of them had made another move since relinquishing the luggage. lucy was the first to step towards the door of the bedroom and lockwood was throwing nasty looks at george behind her for all these subtle things that kept coming out of their friend's mouth, which the latter successfully ignored anyway, pretending to go to sleep.
being the last to enter the room, lockwood closed the door behind him and glanced around the room. a drawer, a bed, an armchair and... that was it. that was all the furniture in that room.
at least the bed was a double one. the only thing that was somehow good.
"i'm going to sleep on the couch," he offered immediately, seeing that lucy was still standing, not sure what her next move should be.
she blinked once, twice.
"how?" she asked barely audible.
"what do you mean 'how'?" lockwood asked and motioned for her to sit down and she did as he said but continued to look at him with a hint of disbelief.
she took a deep breath, which made him lose himself in thought. "it's uncomfortable to sleep in an armchair after a day full of research," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and he tried his best to pay attention only to her words and not to anything else.
"i'll handle it," he replied, not thinking his words through. because as much as he was paying attention to her words, he had come to study her lips far too closely. the way they curve every time she pronounce a letter, or the way...
he had to stop.
she rolled her eyes, ready to argue with him, but when she wanted to say something, he had the impression that she was going to scold him for the way he was studying her lips —when she hadn't even noticed—, so he had thrown himself into the armchair. "see?" he said, a big but fake smile on his lips. "like i said, i'll handle it."
lucy gave up for a moment and went to turn off the light, while lockwood tried to make himself comfortable in the place he had chosen. after that, she sat down in her own place.
it didn't seem right for her to sleep alone in such a big bed, while lockwood, who was also quite tall on top of that, tried to squeeze into that armchair. she didn't really have anything left to do to make him change his mind if he chose to be so stubborn, did she?
they both tried to sleep but couldn't because they were thinking about each other. lucy was thinking about how if he didn't feel at that moment, then he would for sure feel it the next day, because lockwood would be sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. as for him, lockwood couldn't get out of his head what an idiot he was for thinking of lucy as more than a simple colleague, hating to prove george right about those things about them had been saying over time.
"lockwood?" asked lucy in a whisper, when she had had enough of knowing him in that place, hoping he wasn't asleep yet. "are you sleeping?" she continued, so that if he had fallen asleep, at least he would've woken up to hear her.
he was looking at the ceiling, thinking whether or not he should answer her.
he had decided not to do it and when this happened and he was about to fall asleep, lucy's voice was heard when he least expected it.
"lockwood!" she shouted for the second time, even if it was a whispered shout, louder than lockwood would've expected.
so, immediately after her whispering shout, there was heard a loud bang and she quickly got out of bed, in fright, to turn on the light bulb. only to see the boy, lying on the floor, rubbing his head hard after making sudden contact with the floor.
lucy quickly fell down in front of him. "did you hurt yourself badly?" she asked, taking her role as the mother of the group —or maybe more— seriously and analyzing his head, shaking it from side to side.
he tried to nod, but his gesture was not noticed by the frightened girl. because even though lucy had stopped shaking his head, she continued to watch him carefully and be vigilant in case she noticed any kind of wound.
"i told you that it's not a good idea to sleep in the armchair!" she held him accountable, leaving without realizing her palm on his palm —which was helping him maintain his weight enough to keep his head up—.
he smiled, a very real smile this time, "you didn't really use those words, but yes, you told me so."
lucy pulled her hand back to slap him on the shoulder and she suddenly felt the lack of warmth of her body next to him, though the touch was barely perceptible. "don't try to act hurt," she said, guessing in advance that he was going to complain that the area where she hit him hurt, "i already saw that you are fine."
he sighed and before answering her, lucy stood up and with her hands on her hips and she told him, "get on the bed!", but he kept smiling like a fool at the way the girl was trying to be authoritative.
"i told you to get in bed, not smile like an idiot!" she continued, but he wasn't listening so she made a frustrated noise and turned the light bulb back off. "fine, have it your way." she said and got back into bed. "i don't care anymore."
this time she would actually try to fall asleep.
she was going to ignore any thoughts she might have had about lockwood because he was just a stubborn bastard who happened to be far too good looking— in fact, he was a bastard that only thought about himself— in fact, he was busy with other things that he didn't even notice her— in fact...
she had actually come to think of lockwood more than she had the first time, if that was even possible.
and she lied to herself that she would've managed to fall asleep, if she hadn't felt movement behind her when that much too good-looking bastard, who happened to be her colleague, had decided that neither the floor nor the armchair were comfortable enough for him.
"sorry if i pissed you off, luce" he whispered, but she pretended to be asleep, so he continued, "it's just..." maybe he wasn't thinking clearly then, but he kept talking. "it seems to me that you're much more beautiful when you boss me around."
"and there's a chance i'm a bit of a masochist when it comes to you," he added, laughing lightly, thinking of the times when he continued to hold on to her, just so she wouldn't give up on him.
upon hearing these confessions, lucy felt how the air stopped in her throat and how suddenly the room had heated up too much. she could've sworn that the fall caused some kind brain damage to lockwood.
"luce?" he repeated her name, checking once again if she was asleep, hoping he hadn't been heard. but she pretended again, letting him believe that she was in fact asleep.
and after that, him continuing to think he hadn't been heard and eventually falling asleep and she barely managing to fall asleep, knowing he was so close to her and knowing he'd admitted to her without realizing there was more between them than they'd lied to the othera that it was, in the morning george managed to enter their room. only for him to find the two, in a situation in which he would not have imagined, but deep down he would've hoped to find them.
though lucy had her back turned to lockwood, still trying to ignore his presence, even in her sleep, lockwood's arm was wrapped around her body, holding her so close to him.
those liars, george thought. colleagues my—
#lockwood and co#lockwood and co fanfiction#lockwood and co netflix#lockwood & co#lockwood & co fanfiction#lockwood & co netflix#anthony lockwood#anthony lockwood fanfiction#anthony lockwood oneshot#anthony lockwood fluff#lucy carlyle#lucy carlyle fanfiction#lucy carlyle oneshot#lucy carlyle fluff#locklyle#locklyle fanfiction#Spotify
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
778 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
#giasfics˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀#anthony lockwood#anthony lockwood x fem!reader#anthony lockwood x reader#lockwood & co#fluff#lockwood and co#love#lockwood and co fanfiction#netflix#save lockwood and co#lockwood#lockwood netflix#locknation#renew lockwood and co#jonathan stroud#george cubbins#george karim#lockwood and co netflix#lucy carlyle#lockwood x reader#anthony lockwood fanfiction#anthony lockwood fluff#anthony lockwood imagine#anthony lockwood x you#cameron chapman
139 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
300 notes
·
View notes
Text
"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 :))
456 notes
·
View notes
Text
lockwood & co masterlist
fluff (f), angst (a), suggestive (s), platonic (p), injury/ blood (w)
────────────────────────
❛ 𝐢’𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 ❜
────────────────────────
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)
────────────────────────
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,)
────────────────────────
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)
────────────────────────
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)
────────────────────────
𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩 (0.6k)
deck the halls (0.6k) — decorating cookies at portland row (f,p)
────────────────────────
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
132 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
683 notes
·
View notes
Text
you and me, in every story - chapter one
a/n: a lockwood and co au in which lockwood and lucy's roles are swapped! the idea was cooked up by the wonderful @portlandrowismyhome and @wellgoslowly (i contributed too i promise), and this will be a multipart series! i hope you enjoy :)
warnings: none
words: 2.3K
taglist: @irisesforyoureyes @neewtmas @aayeroace @locklylemybeloved @mirrorballdickinson @ettadear @gotlostinfiction @mischiefmanaged71 @oblivious-idiot (let me know if you want added to my taglist <3)
full series collection
Lockwood had lived his whole life in London, so it was safe to say that he was peeved when he couldn’t find his way to Portland Row.
Seriously? How hard could it be to find a little street north-west London? Very hard, evidently, because he’d been circling the same area for the past half hour like an idiot. Now, not only was he frustrated at getting lost – it was embarrassing for a native Londoner to get lost, in his humble opinion – but he was also tired, hungry, and his shoulders hurt from this stupid bag he had decided to carry around. Well, the bag wasn’t stupid. Just some of the contents.
Really, all he wanted was to get out of this sweaty suit, have a shower, and then have the best sleep of his life while having the security of a job. Was that so hard to ask?
Apparently so, but, even still, he persevered, map in hand as he trudged the streets of Marylebone. Curfew tiptoed closer and closer, but he was adamant. He would not finish the day without getting himself this job. He’d fight tooth-and-nail for it if he had to.
Not that this job was exactly a fantastic one. It was just something he’d plucked out of the newspaper, but he’d heard of the company a few times and figured that this would be his best shot after things went awry last time.
And, ah, there! Finally! Thirty-five Portland Row, standing tall and… well, not proud, not with its peeling paint and slightly overgrown flowers in the window boxes. But it was certainly something!
On the fence read a sign: Carlyle and Co. After dark, ring the bell and wait beyond the iron line. How inviting. If Lockwood was hired – of course he would be! – he’d petition to change the wording of that. It sounded awfully uninviting, and that just wouldn’t do. No wonder the company wasn’t popular!
Well, these opinions of his would have to wait. Heaving a deep breath, he climbed up the steps to the front door and rang the bell, waiting patiently.
Footsteps sounded on the other side, followed by the rattling of the doorhandle, and then the door swung open, revealing a boy no older than he. His dark hair fell in a mop over his forehead, resting just above a pair of black-rimmed glasses over dark eyes. Eyes that showed nothing but confusion.
“Are you Arif’s new delivery boy?” the boy asked, frowning down at Lockwood.
Lockwood dared not show his confusion. “No. I’m here about the job. Are you –“
“Mr Carlyle?” he guessed. He rolled his eyes, and Lockwood held back a frown. “No. If anyone did their research, they’d know that Lucy Carlyle is the owner. And she’s a girl.”
“Oh. Sorry... So, the interview?”
The boy shrugged, stepping aside. “I suppose. Come on in.”
There was a little flicker of unease in Lockwood’s chest, but he couldn’t afford to let it show. Instead, he glanced around the hallway, taking in every detail about it: the slightly outdated wallpaper; the square marks that indicated photo frames that used to hang there for a while; the umbrella rack holding rapiers much fancier than the one he currently carried in a case. Everything about the hall was elaborate yet, somehow, entirely out of place, like different decades trying to fit together. Who was he to judge, though? He didn’t even have a house.
“Okey-doke,” the boy said, gesturing to a door on the right. “Here we are. Luce, you were right. We’ve got another interview.”
A voice came from inside the room, distinctively not a London accent, but pleasing to the ear all the same. “No, George, I just checked. That was our last one five minutes ago.”
The boy – George – frowned, glancing at Lockwood as he came to stand in the doorway. “Then who’s this?”
Lockwood had little to no time to take in the cluttered living room before his eyes caught the girl in the centre, clearing up some paper from the coffee table.
It was like all the air had been sucked from his lungs when he looked at her. Lucy Carlyle. That’s what George said her name was. And, God, did it fit. She turned to look at him with warm brown eyes, her bobbed hair swishing around her face before settling. She was no older than him, if not a little younger, and he couldn’t help but notice the unprofessional outfit she wore – a blue jumper and trousers, along with some ectoplasm-stained boots – and all of a sudden felt a little out of place in his suit, especially next to George in his orange plaid shirt and graphic tee, but the feelings melted away when Lucy Carlyle smiled at him. Not one of those Oh, I’m so happy to see you smiles, but more of a reassuring one.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have an interview, but I saw the job listing and I was in the area.”
Complete lie. He’d been halfway across London, desperate to find anywhere that would hire him. This was his last hope.
“I’m Anthony Lockwood,” he continued. “But I just go by Lockwood.”
Lucy Carlyle nodded. “Lucy. Well, I’m sure we can fit in one more interview. George, brew some tea, would you?”
George glanced back at Lockwood with a hint of distaste. “Thought I’d wait to see how well he got on before making any.”
“George.” Lucy shot him a look before returning to that reassuring smile. “Please go make some. Lockwood, why don’t you come sit? Don’t mind George. He’s sick of people, now, and he’s not had his biscuits. He gets tetchy when he’s hungry.”
Lockwood could only nod as he sat on the sofa across from Lucy, trying not to think too much about how unprofessional all of this was. If DEPRAC were to see how this company operated in front of applicants, well, they wouldn’t be happy. What with the lack of a uniform, the arguing… He loved it. And, by the looks of it, not a supervisor in sight. Even better.
“Here’s my CV,” he said, pulling the folded paper from his pocket.
Lucy reached out for it, taking it gently and opening it. Her dark eyes scanned over it for a minute, reading each meticulously chosen word, before letting it fall on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at Lockwood, sending a shiver down his spine. Something in her gaze had the ability to freeze him in place.
“So, you’ve got Sight?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s my strongest Talent,” he said. “Deathglows are what I see the best, and I need sunglasses for them sometimes. But ghost-fog, apparitions, all that stuff, I pick out quickly. My Touch and Listening are mild at best.”
Way to talk himself up.
“I’m a Listener,” Lucy said. “Strong, if other people are to be believed. George is an all-rounder, but he’s mostly our researcher. Where was your last job? I’m assuming this isn’t your first.”
“No. I worked at Fittes for a while.”
Lucy turned as George stepped through the door, carrying a tray with mugs of steaming tea and biscuits. “Thanks, George. Well, you two will get on grand. George used to work at Fittes.”
“Mmhm,” George said, sitting in one of the armchairs. Completely uninterested, he plucked a biscuit off the plate and sat back, opting to read a comic.
“Biscuit?” Lucy held out the plate to him. “George’ll only eat them all.”
Gratefully, Lockwood took one. He hadn’t eaten for hours, and he was starving. A biscuit wouldn’t do much, but it was a Digestive, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t just pass that up!
“So, Lockwood,” Lucy said, “I did have tests in place, but George pointed out earlier that they aren’t really inclusive of people with Sight, so I’m going to have to take you on your word with all of this. Do you have a reference from your previous supervisor?”
It was an effort to not choke on his biscuit. “No, I don’t. Everything happened sort of suddenly, so I’ve not had a chance.”
George sniffed. “You could take him to a haunted house, see how he does. Maybe he’ll run off.”
Lockwood teeth ground together, but he plastered on an easy smile. Whenever things were going wrong, that trusty smile of his could get him out of trouble. Surely it could help him deal with a self-righteous teen boy who couldn’t even eat a biscuit without covering his T-shirt in half of it.
But Lucy didn’t even spare him a glance. She was looking straight at Lockwood again, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she considered him.
Then the slight curve of her lips melted into a frown. “Did you say something?”
Lockwood blanched. “What? No?”
Lucy sat back; her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, you did. You just called me – I’m not even going to repeat that! And, to think, I was considering hiring you with no knowledge of your skill.”
“I didn’t –“ He looked at George desperately. “I said nothing.”
And, for a moment, he worried that he had said something and not even realised. But what would he have said? He’d been far too busy being slightly disgusted with George’s method of eating biscuits to have even said anything to her.
To his surprise, George saved the day. “Luce, he didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, he did!”
“No, I swear I didn’t. I –“
Lucy stood and stormed around the coffee table until she was right in front of Lockwood. He worried what she was going to do, but she leaned over his shoulder and yanked open the zipper of his bag. She tore out the big silverglass jar he had stashed in there, holding it in both hands.
He hadn’t really thought anything of it when he stole it. It was just a jar with a source inside – a boring old skull that sometimes came to life when it could be bothered – but he had been so mad with how things had ended that he felt the need to take something from Fittes, just like they’d taken something from him. It had seemed a worthwhile steal, seeing as ghost-jars weren’t overly common.
Currently, the ghost inside was awake, swirling in bright green ectoplasm and pulling the crude faces Lockwood had grown used to these last few days. The past few mornings in his hotel room, he had woken up to see it leering at him and making horrible gestures with made-up hands, and though it had mouthed some obscenely horrible things that Lockwood couldn’t understand, he had kept it for some odd reason.
It was more active than other ghosts, and part of Lockwood hoped that somehow he had bagged a Type Three, as controversial as their existence was. He had started to fall out of that belief. Well, until now.
Lucy glared at the ghost inside, free of that easy smile she’d had mere minutes ago. “Excuse you? You’re a ghost in a jar. You’ve no right to speak to me like that! I’ll throw you into the furnaces myself, see how you like that!”
Lockwood and George shared a look, and the latter dropped his comic book on a side table, leaning forward.
“Uh, Luce?”
“What, George?”
“You’re talking to a ghost.”
“Damn right I am! Didn’t you hear what he called me? Prick.”
“Luce?”
“What?”
“We can’t hear anything he’s saying. That’s – that’s all you.”
Lucy’s scowl softened for a moment, and she glanced between the jar, Lockwood, and George, her cheeks growing red. Angrily, she slammed the jar down on the mantle top, shaking the little pieces of clutter that were scattered across it.
“You’re serious you couldn’t hear it?” she asked.
“No,” George insisted. His gaze turned on Lockwood. “Were you aware you were carrying a Type Three on your back?”
Lockwood hesitated. “Well, I thought, maybe, um…”
George huffed a laugh. “How did you get your hands on that? Fittes keeps them locked up securely. Like, really securely. Believe me, I tried to nick a one before I left.”
A strange thing to bond over, but Lockwood would take whatever he could get. He looked back over at Lucy, who was practically steaming from the ears as she stared at the skull. The horrible thing formed a hand out of the ectoplasm and made a particularly inappropriate gesture that had Lucy beyond seething.
“Well, we can’t just let you go back out on the street with a Type Three,” she said, and though he knew the anger in her tone wasn’t directed at him anymore, he still felt his face grow warm. “And I’m guessing it won’t be as easy as buying it off you.”
She wasn’t wrong. If that really was a Type Three, he sure as hell was keeping it on hand. But… Nobody could talk to Type Threes, nobody besides Marissa Fittes and she was long since dead. And here was Lucy, arguing with one right in front of his eyes as if it were a daily occurrence for her. Only George seemed shocked by it all, staring at both wide-eyed. He needed a job, and they wanted his ghost. It seemed as though there was a deal afoot.
“No. I want a job here. Then you’re free to do what you want with it.”
He spotted the mad flare in George’s eyes and shifted uncomfortably. The kid might not be able to eat a biscuit neatly, but Lockwood had every reason to believe he was somewhat a mad scientist.
“Well, anything within reason.”
Lucy glared at the ghost for a second longer before turning back to Lockwood. “Fine. We’ve a room free upstairs if you want to take it, unless you’ve got separate accommodations? Rent would be taken from your wage.”
He couldn’t seem too excited, so he simply pasted that smile of his on again and said, “That would be great.”
“George, shift whatever crap you’ve got stored in there. Lockwood, welcome to Carlyle and Co.”
#lockwood and co fanfiction#anthony lockwood fanfiction#lucy carlyle fanfiction#george karim fanfiction#lockwood and co#lockwood and co netflix#anthony lockwood#lucy carlyle#george karim#fanfiction#givemea-dam-break
57 notes
·
View notes
Text
Only The Strong Survive
Lockwood & Co. Big Bang 2023/24 Fic
If you were under eighteen, you were old enough to have known some of the worst horrors the earth could provide, but you still couldn’t get served in a damn Wetherspoons. When the Problem started, people barely took it seriously — mostly because the older generations didn’t believe in it. When a majority of them fell victims to Ghost-Touch, they started to realise just how in danger they really were. Safe havens cropped up all over Britain, and many people tried to leave the country. It paid to be selfish in a world like this, and few could be trusted.
The ones with Talent had the best chance at survival. The ones that weren’t so afraid they locked themselves inside their houses the moment the sun began to creep down towards the horizon. The ones who could make a living by finding Sources and trading them for supplies that just weren’t common anymore.
Individually, no one ever really lasted very long after dark. So it was a good job they stumbled across each other when they did.
Or: AU in which the Problem started later and grew out of control more quickly. Merges apocalypse tropes with the Problem universe we already know.
(link in reblog)
#fanfiction#ao3#my works#lockwood and co#lockwood and co fic#lockwood & co#lockwood and co fanfiction#lockwood & co fic#cot3#poly portland row#poly co#poly cot3#george karim#anthony lockwood#lucy carlyle#fic: only the strong survive#apocalypse au#the problem is worse#lockwood and co big bang 2023
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
48 notes
·
View notes
Text
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)
#lockwood and co#anthony lockwood#lucy carlyle#george karim#george cubbins#this is for my lockwood and co fanfic#fanfic writing#lockwood and co fanfiction#anthony lockwood x oc#anthony lockwood x reader#anthony lockwood fic#anthony lockwood fanfiction#anthony lockwood fluff#fanfic#quill kipps#writer#writing
464 notes
·
View notes
Text
Probably not the only person wondering...
#quotes that might or might not make it into my fanfiction#i really hope this one makes it in#lockwood and co#save lockwood and co#l&co#anthony lockwood#lucy carlyle#locklyle#george cubbins#george karim#fanfiction
57 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
mynti
vee
owlswordsandskates
Owls Words And Skates
lunabitresmi
Lunabit Resmi
kimale
La diversidad es la base del entretenimiento