#george's second love language is Touch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aislinrayne · 2 months

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[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

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

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature/Explicit.

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

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

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lockwood winces. “Not all bad, hopefully.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hesitantly continues. “It was you.”

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss me.” She breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⤛⊹ 𝔣𝔦𝔫 ⊹⤜

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

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

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

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wenigstenshabeichesversucht · 5 months

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"He is half of my soul, as the poets say"

Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader sees something on a job which got her realising life is too short

Warnings: angst, trauma, description of dead, english is not my native language

Word Count: 4.3k

The cold was slowly creeping up on you, and the sight before you could only mean one thing, you were dreaming, dreaming a nightmare.

The day started like every other, you all slept till noon and then George went to the Archive to collect information for your new case while Lucy, Lockwood and you prepared everything else.

The sun was already slowly setting and was turning everything around you into a dim light when you all met up with George. “Around sixty years ago, the house was owned by a young couple, Andrew and Mary Hoffman. They were brutally murdered by robbers.” George told the team as you entered said house.

The new owners had no connection to the killed couple, they weren’t even sure if it was one or two ghosts. They only reported that the living room and the second bedroom upstairs were colder than the rest of the house; two weeks ago at night, the rooms became so cold that the windows were freezing and they could see their own breath. This, plus a dreadful feeling, had brought the owners to Lockwood & Co. to get rid of their ghost problem.

You joined Lockwood & Co. half a year ago. Since then, your team had become your best friends, and you trusted them with your life. Of course, with Lockwood & Co. often times things took a turn that really nobody expected, but they had your back and you had theirs, so you knew that it didn’t matter what the night had in store, Lockwood & Co. would ace it.

With this in mind, you followed your team inside the kitchen. Like every good team, you knew your ins and outs, so you didn’t need to talk to know that it was your job to make tea while Lockwood searched for biscuits. You had like fifteen minutes before the darkness would settle upon East London, which was also enough time for a cup of tea and one or maybe two biscuits.

While you were busy preparing each cup of tea the way each member of Lockwood& Co. liked it, Lockwood found what he was looking for. And when he happily declared that the new owners had the good kind of biscuit, you couldn’t help but smile. Lockwood’s happiness always got you beaming, when he was happy, you were happy, probably because you were such good friends. At least that’s what you tell yourself when you were lying at night in your bed and couldn’t sleep because you were too busy thinking about how the laugh of your boss sounded or how his skin felt on yours when you accidentally touched at the kitchen table when you both were reaching for the same item. Maybe if you would stop for a moment and think about it, you would realise that you were head over heels in love with your boss and landlord, but for you denial was not just a river in Egypt.

“The police suspected Mary was killed first, they found her body in the living room. Andrew was found upstairs in the open door of the bedroom. They assumed, he heard the gunshot which killed Mary and wanted to see what happened”, George shared his grim research, and you pushed his cup over the counter to him. As thanks, he gave you a quick nod.

“So, we should split up”, Lockwood appeared next to you and cool like always he leaned against the kitchen counter. This was enough to make your heart skip a beat. It felt like every minute, it would just jump out of your ribcage.

“George and I, and you and Y/N, like always?”, asked Lucy sipping her tea.

Lucy was the best listener you ever met; Lockwood’s talent was great sight. You were like George; you got a bit of everything. You could see ghost, but no death-glow. You could hear the voices of visitors, but you couldn’t understand what they were saying. Only your touch was better than average and saved you from the fate of a night watch kid. Sometimes when you touch something ghost infected, you could see, hear, and feel important moments of the ghost’s life. For you, these visions often felt like minutes, but it was only a few seconds.

But in Lockwood’s humble opinion, a few second were enough for you to get ghost-touched. For someone so reckless, he was terribly worried about your safety. Therefore, you got into more than one argument about this issue. If Lockwood had his way, you would sit back home, while your team was fighting ghost without you. But that was no life you wanted to live, and you made this clear. If Lockwood would ever force you to stay back at Portland Row, you would leave Lockwood and Co. This was the argument, which always won you the fight. When he couldn’t keep you safe by leaving you back home, Lockwood insisted, that on missions you always stayed by his side. He was the best swordsman of you four, so he was the best fit to protect you and himself from getting ghost-touched. You didn’t mind. It was nice to work close with Lockwood, when he wasn’t plunging himself head first into danger. But Lucy once claimed, with knowing smirk in her face, that he was doing it less, since you joined the agency.

It was no surprise to everyone, that he agreed with Lucy, and before you knew it, you were standing in the living room. One look at your watch confirmed what you already felt, every minute the last light of the sun would disappear, and the night would begin. Unconsciously wrapping your jacket tighter around your frame, your fingers fiddled with your belt, trying to remove the thermometer.

You weren’t nervous-no- you weren’t more nervous than on any other mission. Of course, you didn’t know which kind of ghost you would encounter this night, but you were positive that you could handle it. To fail in front of Lockwood wasn’t an option.

Finally freeing the thermometer from your belt, you began to start tracking the temperature. This was your job, while Lockwood was kneeing in the middle of the room, probably examining the death-glow.

The closer you got to the fireplace, where the remains of a long-forgotten fire lay, the colder it became. When you came to a stop in front of the fireplace, your hair stood up, and you couldn’t help but tremble. Closing your eyes, you put your hand on the old stones of the fireplace, expecting them to be cold, but they were nicely warm.

“How odd”, you muttered, before you were hit by a vision.

The first you picked up was the warm, it was a stark contrast to the cold, you were feeling just seconds ago. You were still standing in the same spot in the same room, but beside the fireplace everything was different. The furniture and décor were an older style, bright sunlight shone through the window, and everything screamed home.

In the middle of the room, a couple were slow dancing to “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” from The Shirelles, they were laughing and the happiness they were emitting was luring you in. You couldn’t help but also smile, and for a moment you forget that this wasn’t real. As if you were under a spell, you watched the couple in awe and as he spun her around, you saw his face for the first time.

You inhaled sharp. This face in front of you, you would recognize everywhere. The man looked exactly like how you imagine Lockwood would look in maybe four or five years. He was dressed in the fashion of the 60s, and his eyes shined full of love. You could watch him like this forever.

Narrowing your eyes, you tried to get a better look at his dance partner. She had light brown hair and wore a pretty yellow dress. The pair did another turn, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. The woman in Lockwood’s arm were you. She was exactly looking like you. Maybe a few years older and a lot happier.

Lockwood was gazing at her like she was his world, and you would have given everything that your Lockwood would looking at you like he was looking at her. You would kill for it. As this thought plopped up in your head, the world around you shifted.

In one moment, everything around you were bright and warm in the next moment you stood in the dark lifeless living room and the cold rushed over you, like somebody emptied a bucket full of ice water over your head.

A bad taste in your mouth and a creeping feeling of dread was all the warning you got, but it was also all the warning you needed. Pulling out your rapier, you spun around to come face to face with the ghost of Mary Hoffmann. But what you saw let you freeze like a stone statue. You weren’t ghost-locked, you just couldn’t believe it. It was like looking into a mirror, just that the own reflection was dead.

Shortly the thought, that the ghost was playing with you, crossed your mind, but that was not how your visions worked. Mary looked exactly like she had in the vision; she was your Doppelgänger.

Tearing your eyes from the sight, you never wanted to see in your life, you looked to Lockwood. Normally Lockwood tried to look cool, calm, collected, but right now his eyes darted between you and the ghost, not believing what he saw.

Nobody of you were moving, the ghost looked at you and when your eyes locked you couldn’t even lift a finger. You could feel her sadness and her grieve. But under all there was anger, an anger you could understand all too well. Maybe you didn’t know how it felt to lose your own life, but you already felt the grieve and anger after you lost a loved one.

“Darling, please step back slowly”, Lockwood tried to sound calm, but you could see right through it. But his voice had always the same effect on you, it brought you back.

Removing your gaze from the ghost in front of you, your eyes met Lockwood’s. That was enough to stop the growing panic. He was here with you, nothing too bad would happen.

Clutching your rapier like your life depended on it, you followed Lockwood’s order. Slowly you took a step back, then another till your back hit the wooden shelf of the fireplace. All the time you watched the ghost cautious, waiting for it to attack you. But Mary only followed curious your movement until you touched the wood.

It was like you flipped a switch. In one moment, she was peaceful, in the next she wasn’t any more. With a high wail she lunged for you, and before you could react Lockwood was there, his rapier slicing through her. Ectoplasm splattered around, and a few drops hit your boots. And the ghost? She vanished but both of you were agents and knew that it was only a matter of time, that she would reappear. Time you could use to search for the source.

“Are you OK?”, Lockwood sounded concerned.

Like the liar you were, you sent him a small smile, “Sure.”

Of course, you weren’t OK, not after seeing this. But you were too professional, to let it affect your work. Therefore, you took a deep breath and tried to slow your thoughts. First came the work and when you survived the night, you could handle your feelings.

You weren’t new to this field, your experience told you, that it wasn’t a coincidence that Mary acted up as you touched the wood. Her source had to be close. A short look at Lockwood confirmed your suspicion.

“We should lay out the chains”, Lockwood suggested, and you nodded. Both of you knew, that there was no guarantee what would happen, if you touched the source and to find it you had to touch it. Also, there was the possibility, that the ghost was out to get you. Maybe it also realized that you both were a lookalike and now wanted to kill you for it.

“I grab them and Darling, remember no matter what happens, I have your back.”

While Lockwood laid out the chains, he insisted on doing it, you stood with raised rapier next to him, ready to fight off the ghost, if it would appear. But you both were lucky; Mary didn’t show up.

Now you stood inside the iron chains, slowly reaching out to touch the wood a second time. You could feel it, you were so close. Closing your eyes for better concentrating, you carefully let your hands wander over the shelf. When you touched to deep cuts in the wood, which awfully resembled the letters A and M, you knew, that you found it. But before you could inform Lockwood, another vision came crashing over you like a wave and pulled you under.

You were in the same room as in the last vision. But now it was night, and you were looking down the barrel of a gun. Her angst, your angst, was all consuming. Your whole body was shacking.

“Please”, her and at the same time also your voice, was not more than a whisper.

That was all you needed to realize, that in this vision you weren’t just watching her, you were her. And now you would learn how it felt like to die. A small tear ran down your cheek, and you didn’t know if it was Mary or you, who was crying.

Before you could beg again, the robber pulled the trigger. The pain you felt as the bullet priced your flesh was worse than anything you had experienced before. Falling to the floor, you wanted to scream, but the only sound which left your mouth was a quit whimper.

You could feel the warm blood rushing out of your body and starting to form a puddle beneath you. You were too young to die. You had so much you wanted to do, you had so many people you had so say goodbye to. You just couldn’t leave George, Lucy and him- oh you would miss him so much.

With the last of your strength, you tried pressing down on your wound. Burning hot pain shot through your body. But still your warm blood was running through your finger, and you were running out of time. Any breath could be your last one. Everything was cold and you were so tired. You would love nothing more, than to just close your eyes, so you did. Your lungs took their last breath, and then you died.

Just to suddenly standing next to Marys/ your dead body. There was only one thing worse than seeing your own ghost, and that was seeing your own lifeless body. By the sight in front of you, your blood was running cold, and you felt like throwing up.

“Darling, everything alright? What was this noise?”, you heard Lockwood’s voice from above. The robber exchanged looks before they followed his voice upstairs.

Knowing what was to come, your whole body went stiff.

No-no-no-no, that could not happen. You couldn’t let him die. Panicking, you searched for something, that could be used as a weapon, but when you tried to reach for the poker, your hand just went through. In this vision, you were the ghost, you couldn’t change anything.

You jumped when two shots rang out, another tear was running down your cheek. Damn, you knew that you didn’t want to see it, but you couldn’t help it.

Rushing up the stairs, there he was lying. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling; all sparks long gone from them. Your legs gave up under you and with a loud wail you felt to the floor. You were wrong earlier; the worst sight of your life was Lockwood’s dead body here in front of you. And you would never fully recover from it.

You were still crying ugly when you came back. When you said yes to this job, you really didn’t expect to get so traumatised. Your heart was beating so fast like you just ran a marathon. Trembling all over, you allowed yourself a quick look over your shoulder.

There he stood, with his back to you, he was facing the room. His rapier was resting in his hands, while he tried to look less tense than he was feeling. Relief flooded through you at the sight of him. It hasn’t been real, he was alive. You suppressed a loud sob and forced yourself to appear calm on the outside, even if there was a storm raging inside.

“I found the source, do you have a crowbar?”, hearing the sound of your voice, Lockwood turned around, which was a bad mistake.

Of course your luck just ran out and Mary decided, that this was the best moment to reappear again. Would it be a typical mission for Lockwood and Co. if something like this wouldn’t happen? You guessed not.

Seeing her appear right behind Lockwood, her arm outstretched, gave you a heart attack.

They say when something terrible happens, you witness it in slow motion. But that wasn’t true for you. It always happened so fast.

“Watch out”, you yelled, while your hands worked hastily to pull out a salt bombe out of your jacket pocket. While Lockwood spun around and only escaped the ghost-touched by jumping back, you threw the bomb. It hit Mary right in the chest, and with a high-pitched wail she backed off.

“I will fend her off”, without warning, Lockwood threw with his free hand his crowbar to you. Luckily for you, you caught it.

To be completely honest, this was a shitty job. You hated it with all your bones. If it were up to you, this night couldn’t end fast enough.

So you took Lockwood’s crowbar and bought it down onto the shelf with all your anger bundled and a roar of frustration. Two hits were enough to cause the part of the wood with the initials to splinter.

Behind you, you heard Lockwood taunting the ghost to distract her from you. Because one thing for sure, Mary hated what you were doing to her source.

There was no reason for you to drag this out any longer. Therefore, you took your silver net and threw it over the little piece of wood, you broke off. In an instance, the chaos stopped.

“Are you alri-”, Lockwood never got to finish his sentence, he got too distracted from the loud pounding footsteps, which were running down the stairs.

The next moment, Lucy appeared in the doorway.

“Thank god, you are alive”, with a relived sigh, she threw her arms around Lockwood. Confused, his eyebrows raised.

Would it be any other day, you might have become jealous at the sight in front of you- you could never hug Lockwood light this- but this job had been hell. You only felt tired, so tired.

“We were fighting against a ghost, which looked exactly like you”, Lucy added when she realised how confused Lockwood looked. You already put two and two together, thanks to your visions.

“And suddenly he just vanished, did you found both sources by any chance?”, George chimed in as he entered the room.

“Quite possible”, picking up the silver net, you were careful not expose the source.

“Here”, without further ado, you handed the net into George’s unexpected hand. You wanted nothing more to do with it.

Not waiting for his response, you pushed past him and rushed out of the house. You knew that it wasn’t your smartest move to just run out of a house in the middle of the night. But you still had your rapier and you needed fresh air.

Trembling all over, you took a deep breath. What the hell had been this shit show? And why had they looked exactly like Lockwood and you? You wanted to cry, but you hadn’t any tears left. Wiping your cheeks to remove the salty remains, you crumbled a little. You could still feel the warm blood on your hands, you could still see Lockwood lying dead in front of you.

But before you could collapse, you heard steps behind you. Turning your head, you saw Lockwood hurrying to you. Without saying anything, he pulled you in his warm embrace, and you melted under his touch. Laying your head against his chest, your hands griped his coat, like you were afraid he would leave you. You could hear his hearth racing, and you were sure, that your heart was beating even faster.

Like this, you stayed for what felt like forever. It seemed like both of you wanted to make sure, that what happened inside the house wasn’t more than a bad dream. As if you stayed long enough like this, you could undo what you had seen insight.

After a moment Lockwood broke the silence, “For a second I thought you were her and that you-”, right in the middle he stopped, and you looked up into his pained face.

This was the moment, that you realised, how close you were. You would just have to stand on your tiptoes and your lips would be brushing his. But you didn’t dare. What if he didn’t like you as much as you like him? Then you try to kiss him, ruining everything.

“I never felt such relief in my life when I saw you standing there”, pausing, Lockwood also seemed to realise in which position you both were. Blushing, he took a step back, and you wanted to scream.

“Darling, will you be OK after tonight?” Certainly not. Maybe you put a stop to the haunting, but for sure her memories will haunt you.

To 85.66% you were sure, that after this night Lockwood told the rest of the team, that you both had fought against your lookalikes. You could see it in the pitiful glances they gave you.

The first days after the job, you mainly spend in your room. At the latest, when you didn’t protest when Lockwood suggested that you stay home for the next job, everyone knew that something was wrong with you.

Every night in your dreams, you and Lockwood died again and again. Every night you woke up heavily panting, and your bed was soaked with sweat. Rational, you knew that neither you nor Lockwood had died, but it had felt so real.

Even when the light was shining through your window, you felt the adrenalin pumping through your veins, ready to fight or flight. The worst part was, that you knew your fear wasn’t so wrong. As an agent, every job could be your last. A little slip up and you could be dead.

To distract yourself, you tried to think of reasons why Mary and Andrew Hoffman looked exactly like you and Lockwood.

One time you read, that every person had seven doppelgängers, but the probability that your lookalike married Lockwood’s was so low. There must be another explanation, you just knew it.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear the knock on your door. Only when Lockwood entered your room, you got brought back.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”, you asked the first thing, that came into your mind, before he could say anything.

Taken by surprise, he came to an abrupt stop in the middle of your room.

“I-I- I mean”, he stuttered, and slowly a blush began creeping up his face. From the eloquent Lockwood you often watched was no sign to see.

“Are you thinking about them?”, he asked instead of answering your question. He didn’t even have to say their names for you to know who he was talking about.

“Yes, they got me thinking. How odd it is that both were our lookalikes?”

“And they married each other.” Lockwood’s brown eyes met yours and your heart stopped.

“Yes, and they married each other”, you repeated breathless, while Lockwood came closer.

“May I?”, before you knew it, he was sitting next to you on the bed. Only now did you realize he had swapped his fine suit for a simple grey jumper. If it was even possible, your heart started to beat even faster. Discreetly, you tried to wipe off your sweaty hands on your leggings.

Hoping to gain control over your own body again, you took a deep breath. “You didn’t answer my first question, do you believe in reincarnation?”

Nervously, you bit on your lips, and Lockwood’s eyes followed the movement before his eyes lingered.

While fidgeting with his hands, Lockwood cleared his throat. Never before you saw him so nervous.

“I would like to believe that my soul will always find yours, no matter when and where we are.”

He was looking anywhere but at you. Which was fine, totally fine, because you looked like an idiot.

Was he saying what you thought he was saying? Or was it just wishful thinking?

The last job has showed you, that the life could be awfully short, you could die any time. Sometime love was worth taking a risk on and if you knew one thing it was, that you loved the reckless idiot in front of you.

Gripping his jumper, you brought his lips down to yours. First, he wasn’t kissing back, and you were scared, that you did a big mistake. But then he returned the kiss, and you felt like flying.

Far too quickly you separated and breathless you gazed into each other eyes.

“I would also like to believe that my soul will always find yours.”

#anthony lockwood #fanfic #lockwood & co #lockwood & co fanfic #lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader

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sebscore · 1 year

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FEMALE F1 DRIVER HEADCANONS

pairing: f1!drivers x fem!driver, f1 grid x oc

warnings: i didn't specify which team, cause it's not really about that tbh. I imagine the oc being one of the younger ones on the grid (around mick's age). I based this one on the 2022 grid.

author's note: this is basically how things i imagine that would happen with the grid if you were their only female colleague.

▹ seb and lewis basically being your work parents: defending you from misogynistic reporters, praising you to heaven and back, claiming you are right even when you are obviously wrong in a situation. sewis supports women's rights, but mostly women's wrongs.

▹ the wags either absolutely adore you or they tolerate you, there's no in between. It's girls support girls until one of their boyfriends gives you a hug and then you're fucked.

▹ getting away with wrong answers in 'Grill the Grid' because the production team are totally in love with you and they hate your sad face when you give them an incorrect response.

▹ giving the grid nicknames that go from normal to borderline weird. for example, Mick becomes Mickie, Latifi becomes Nicky or Goatifi (depends on how the race went), Alex is Albono of course, George becomes Russy Bussy and Lando is Rumplestiltskin.

▹ at the driver's briefing: ''alright, boys-'' *scratches voice loudly* ''and lady.''

▹ valtteri and kevin letting you ramble to them about whatever drama you have going on in your life, cause they don't have much better things to do and they find it touching that you go to them for these kinds of things.

▹ you and zhou sending pictures of the outfits you're going to wear to the paddock during race week. sometimes even matching, cause yall are close like that.

▹ max teaching you his second language that is called 'swearing'. checo also likes to chime in. one time he convinced you the word 'cunt' was a compliment and he made you go up to max and call him that to congratulate him on his race win. let's say mad max made a brief appearance.

▹ jokingly flirting with other drivers just to rile toxic fans up for fun. the flirting consists honestly mostly of sarcastic comments about how they're good drivers, but better lovers, etc.

▹ fernando giving you random piggyback rides. for what reason? no one knows. It's nando, what do you expect. danny ric also does it sometimes, but he makes horse sounds and it freaks you out.

▹ you and esteban jokingly asking lance for pocket money, but you two sometimes hope he actually gives it one day.

▹ weekly gossip sessions with Pierre, because that man seems to know everything about everyone. occasional guest starring by charles and yuki.

▹ whenever carlos walks into the room, you start playing 'smooth operator'. at first he thought it was funny, but now he deliberately avoids you.

▹ overdramatic photoshoots with lando and daniel aka the papaya boys for their insta accounts. those jpg accounts are honestly just fan pages for you, because of the amount of times you've appeared on them.

#f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 fics #formula 1 fic #formula 1 oc #f1 oc #f1 x oc #f1!drivers x fem!driver

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givemea-dam-break · 1 year

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a/n: part two for this request - "may i request a fem reader x anthony lockwood where reader is a super talented fittes agent who constantly trades barbs with lockwood but he soon realises she fancies him so he ends up teasing her during missions by doing small stuff like pulling her close and calling her babe when no one is around - since quite a few of you wanted one! if you want to find it on my masterlist, it's called Love, simply because I'm terrible at naming my fanfics lmao. i hope you enjoy!

warnings: mentions of death/suicide (very vague), language female reader taglist: @cassiopeiia24 @nessa-stark @galactidiot @randomfanficreader @tom-foolery-time

part 1

Loneliness. Terrible, suffocating loneliness. It's thick and cloying and it's getting harder to breathe. God, your throat is closing up and your lungs hurt, weighed down by this strong sense of isolation and abandonment. How are you meant to function when it's so powerful, so heartbreaking? It's overtaking your heart, filling your lungs, intoxicating your blood.

With a feeling like whiplash, you're torn from your vision, and your hand is tugged away from the tree branch and placed on someone's chest. You can feel someone's heartbeat, steady and reassuring, and your own slows. Breathing is a little easier now.

"You're okay, love. I'm here."

The voice shakes you out of your daze, and your eyes snap open, only to be met with the face of Anthony Lockwood.

The setting sun is working wonders on him. Gold and orange rays of light fight for dominance on those high cheekbones and the tip of his nose. His dark eyes swirl with hues of copper and caramel. His lips, turned down slightly with worry, hide the possibility of a bright smile as you look at him.

"Don't -"

"Call you that," he finishes. "Yes, I know. You realise that the more you tell me not to, the more I will."

You scowl at him, but you don't move. A month ago, you would've pulled out of his grip and away from him within a second but, now, you can't bring yourself to.

He knows this all too well, and he revels in it. More often now does he find some excuse to have you touch him. Oh, (name), pass me some salt bombs, won't you? Followed by a not-so-subtle brush of fingers. Do I have lavender in my hair? Get it out, please, the scent becomes too strong sometimes. And there's usually no way for you to get out of shaking it out of his hair because he often puts your hand there himself. Let me walk you home. Then he'll drape an arm over your shoulders, keeping you close or safe as he calls it.

Maybe you've bolstered this attitude of his because more often than not, you don't object. Yes, you'll call him an idiot or a twat or something more insulting, but you've come to welcome these touches, however fleeting they may or may not be.

So, now, with your fingers splayed over his white shirt, it's almost as if you can't bring yourself to move. It doesn't seem like Lockwood is particularly fussed about moving, either.

"What did you see?" he asks, eyeing you carefully. "Something seemed different."

Despite your team's displeasure about paired up so frequently with Lockwood and Co for certain cases by DEPRAC, you haven't been too bothered by it. You and Lockwood have begun working like a team, figuring out each other's tells and habits while still throwing insults and remarks back and forwards. He's become used to watching you use Touch to figure out where sources are, learning how your body reacts in accordance to different things.

You don't want to tell him that this particular vision fed into your own feelings, so instead you say, "It was just stronger than usual. We're close. Very close."

At last, his hand releases yours, and he places his hands on his hips, staring up at the towering tree before you. Members from both of your teams linger around the whole park, scouting out for any clues as to where the source is, seemingly with no luck. The reason for that is likely the pairings. Lucy and Kat and Ned, George and Bobby and Kipps. None of them are getting on particularly well.

"You think it's the branch itself?"

"I'm not sure." You flash your torchlight on the thick branch. "This guy, well, you know... His body was found here after days of just..."

"Hanging there."

"Thank you for that input. But yes. It would make sense. The rope had to be cut off because it was tied so tight. And the emotions were extremely strong, so it would be my best bet."

"Well, whatever you say, love."

You purse your lips. "You're insufferable."

"You love that about me."

Fighting down the urge to strangle him, you pull your silver net out of your belt. "I say we place the net over the branch, see if the ghost still appears. If it does, well, we're fucked, to put it simply. I'll be completely clueless. But, if it doesn't, then we can secure it in place overnight and get someone to remove the branch in the morning."

"Aye, aye, captain."

"Shut up."

Lockwood grins at you then, so bright and dazzling that for a moment you're frozen.

Maybe it affects you the way it does because it's something you've lacked for years. You can't remember the last time someone smiled at you with such joy before Lockwood, as if you've done something to deserve it.

Gently, he takes the silver net from your hands and swings out over the branch before stepping back and looking at it like he's just finished some incredible piece of art. You roll your eyes, glancing back at your teams again.

"I think Barnes pairs us up on purpose," you say. "He knows we don't all get on."

"We get on tremendously," Lockwood remarks. "We went from you insulting my clothes and face, and me making fun of your moods, to being the best of friends."

Frowning, you say, "I wouldn't say 'the best of friends'. I tolerate you, Lockwood. And your face and fashion haven't improved over this last month, I hope you know. I mean, come on, grey tie and pink socks? It's like you're taking inspiration from some raw salmon. Do I have to buy you some socks for your Christmas?"

He nudges your shoulder with his. "You hear yourself? You're on about getting me a Christmas present!"

His fingers brush yours then, and you almost jump from the contact. His hand is warm against the back of yours, and your fingers twitch slightly with the urge to entwine with his, even if part of you is telling you not to do it.

With a jolt, you step away. "Let's wait for this ghost. I'll let the others know about the plan."

There's something in his eyes, an unfamiliar spark within their darkness, that sends heat to your cheeks and a flutter in your stomach. But you turn away, adamant that you won't fall for his charm or whatever this is. You won't. Maybe.

"Oh, I've been looking for that!"

You turn as you throw a bag of pasta into your shopping basket, stopping short when you see Lockwood standing on the opposite side of the aisle. He's dressed in his usual shirt-trousers-ridiculously-long-jacket get-up, grinning with a basket hooked over his arm. For a minute, you're confused about what he means, and then you realise which hoodie you're wearing. His grey one.

In your defence, you thought you had picked up your grey Fittes one and had been a little confused by the length of it on you, but now you realise that it is not yours at all but the one he gave you a month ago. The one you keep forgetting to give him.

"Oh, yes. Um, I'll get it back to you soon."

He laughs and says, "You've told me that for weeks now. You might as well keep it now, love."

You glance down at the hoodie, fingers fiddling with the old hem. "I'll get it back to you."

"Whatever you say."

His smile is blinding, and you find yourself smiling, too. It's only a little tug at the corner of your lips, but you can see the happiness in his eyes at the sight of it. It makes something in your chest feel warm and proud and loved.

Loved. The word sends sparks down your spine. When was the last time you felt like that?

"Well, I have to get going," Lockwood says, gesturing to his basket. "George is getting tetchy and we have almost no food left in the house. I'm worried I'll get home and the house will have been destroyed in his rage."

You snort. "Kipps is the same at the Fittes offices. I try and steer clear of him when he's in a mood. He's worse than me."

"Worse than you? Sorry, love, but that's hard to believe."

"Oh, be quiet." You give him a look, and humour glints in his eyes. "I was going to offer to give you warnings of when he's particularly irritated, but I won't, now. You can just suffer."

"You have to admit," he says, "that Kipps is awfully funny when he's mad. He goes red as a tomato."

"He does."

Lockwood's smile softens to something more private, and your heart skips a beat. You want to curse at yourself. It's been a month of spending more cases together, of him walking you home late at night or catching you unawares, and already you feel differently about him. Once, you saw him as nothing more but an arrogant boy whom you couldn't stand, whose very presence had you on edge. Although you enjoyed taking the mick out of him and riling him up, you wanted to keep your interactions to a minimum.

But now?

God, you're not sure what changed. Maybe it's the way he smiles at you like he's proud of you for everything you've done and gone through, and so endlessly happy with you for simply existing. Maybe it's the gentle touches of reassurance and how he has somehow come to know your tells of nervousness or apprehension. Maybe it's how he's come to know you so well, well enough to slip little snacks you like into your kitbag for you to find on later cases when it's just you and your Fittes team.

Even now, you can spot your favourite biscuits in his basket - biscuits you're aware nobody in his house likes.

"I'll see you around," Lockwood says with his enchanting smile.

It brings out a slightly bigger smile from you. "See you, Lockwood."

As he brushes past you, his fingers twitch as if to latch onto yours, and he says, "Call me Anthony from now on, love."

"All right," you murmur. "Anthony."

"I'm going to kill you one day."

Lockwood breathes a laugh, peering around the corner of the street. "Who would provide you such amazing entertainment if not for me?"

You draw your rapier. "Anyone. Quite literally anyone. You know, there's this thing called salt, and Kat puts it in Bobby's coffee when he's not looking sometimes. However, now is really not the time for that. Are those Rawbones still looking for us?"

"No."

"Oh, good."

"Well, not really. They've found us."

A horrible wail pierces your ears, one that Lockwood can't hear, and you flinch, glancing past him and to the ghosts that are leering at you. Rawbones, terrible variations of Wraiths, with no skin and bulging eyes. The sound of their teeth grinding sets the hairs on your arms on end., and the glare you send his way is scathing.

"I told you we should've just left!"

"Nonsense." Lockwood's rapier is moving fluidly in front of him, keeping the Visitors at bay. "You're the best agent I know besides myself. We can handle these."

Scowling, you throw a salt bomb at each of the two Rawbones. "Just because we can, doesn't mean we should. We've no way of finding a source!"

"Hey, think about it. If these guys kill us, then at least you won't have had to get your hands dirty killing me. Either way, we can dispatch them easily."

You glower at him and throw another salt bomb, watching the flakes disintegrate parts of the other-light and speckle the ground. "Who would even want to haunt a street with a greasy chippy and stinking public toilets?"

He grins as he looks back at you. "Maybe they were particularly fond of the chippy. Can't beat fish and chips on a Friday night. Are you a mushy peas or gravy kind of girl?"

"At the moment, neither!"

One of the Rawbones takes its chance with his peas-or-gravy distraction and launches towards Lockwood, but it never gets the chance. With all your force, you shove him out of the way, and you both slam into the wall. A harsh chill overtakes you, and you're dimly aware of a tingling pain in your arm, but you ignore it, throwing another salt bomb.

Lockwood takes up holding them back with his rapier, and it's then that you notice your jumper's sleeve steaming, a section of it burned away by ectoplasm. You hadn't been expecting to be out so late and for so long, so you didn't think to bring your thick jacket with you. Regretting your decision, you stare as the skin of your arm starts turning blue.

"Anthony?"

"Mm?" He doesn't look away from the ghosts.

"We - we have an issue."

"Do we? I think we're handling this quite well. My shoulder hurts from slamming into a brick wall, but -"

"Anthony!"

He glances back at you, his eyes immediately drawn to your burned and smoking sleeve, and the blue, swelling skin beneath. He pales momentarily, gritting his teeth, and something overtakes his expression. Anger. But not at you.

"Cover your ears and get back behind that bin over there."

"You can't be serious. It's surrounded by mouldy bananas and -"

"Go!"

The urgency in his voice has you moving before you even realise it. Ducked behind the big bin a few feet away, you peer around it and try to block out the horrible smell. Lockwood is still holding off the pair of Rawbones, but he's holding something in his free hand. It's only when he's running over to you to take cover that it was a magnesium flare.

An explosion shakes the ground, and although you had covered your ears, they still ring loudly. You can't hear what Lockwood is saying, but he drags you away by your good arm and down the street in the opposite direction from the ghosts. They're not gone permanently, but the flare has given you enough time to make your escape.

It's only when you're a few streets away that you both stop to catch your breaths beside an old phone box. You're struggling, feeling as though you're trying to breathe through a single straw, and your skin feels weird. Overly aware of the inner workings beneath it.

"Anthony," you repeat, but your voice isn't as strong.

Your legs are shaking, and you can't feel your arm anymore. You can faintly hear him speaking in the phone box, asking for an ambulance, and then he's in front of you, catching you as you stumble against a shop wall and to your knees. He tears the sleeve off your jumper, preventing any more ectoplasm from getting on your arm. Not that it would make a difference. It's already getting worse.

"You'll be all right, love," he promises, holding you close to his chest as you shiver. "An ambulance is coming. They'll be here soon."

You don't have the energy to speak, but you manage a small nod.

"They'll give you an adrenaline shot, and you'll be fine. You can get right back to insulting me."

His shirt is warm beneath your hand as you grip it weakly. It's a strange sensation feeling your organs slowly stop working. Already, your pulse sounds weaker in your ears.

"Hey, stay with me."

Your eyes find his and, for a moment, everything's all right. They're warm and soft and so, so comforting, and he's giving you that private smile he's taken to sharing with you. His cheeks are rosy, and salt is dusted in his hair like snow. Your lips tug in a meagre attempt at a smile.

"You're an asshat," you manage. "We should've gone the way I said."

He breathes a laugh. "Yeah, we should've."

His hand brushes hair from your eyes, lingering on your cheek for a moment, and you lean into the touch, relishing in the feeling of his pulse against your skin. If you don't think too hard, you can pretend it's yours and that your organs aren't on shutdown.

"Hey, look," Lockwood says gently. "See the lights, love? Ambulance is here to help you. You'll get that adrenaline and you'll be fine."

And you know you will be. His voice is so genuine that you know he's not just saying it to ease your mind. You've seen agents and civilians with ghost-touch, seen their skin turn blue and swell and their lives slowly drain away when the ambulances took too long to reach them. But you'll be okay. As long as Lockwood stays with you.

Giving Anthony Lockwood your address was the best idea you've ever had.

He knows where you hide your spare key outside of your flat, so he lets himself in as you lounge on your sofa, watching the news on your old TV. For now, you're out of action, your arm still taking time to recover from ghost-touch, though you're all right in most other senses.

Your arm aches still and has taken to staying a faint shade of blue, and sometimes you have the unshakeable fear that you've not been cured of the ghost-touch, but you always come out of it fine.

The one benefit of being on sick leave is that Lockwood stops by every single day without fail with a coffee from your favourite café, along with a fresh packet of your favourite biscuits and a newspaper. You're not big on reading the newspapers, but you figure he brings them simply because his face is appearing in them more and more, and he wants to show off.

"Oh, you're an angel," you murmur as you take the coffee from his hands, taking a long sip of it and sighing contentedly.

He beams at you, scattering the biscuits onto a plate. He does that so you can gradually eat them over the day without having to struggle to pick them out of the packet, but you're sure he knows that you scoff them all the minute he leaves. As soon as you're back out of your flat and working, you're going to have to get back to your morning runs. Maybe the runs can be you running to the shop to buy more...

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," he says, bringing the plate over and setting it on your coffee table. "I'll pretend you've said it because you adore me so and not because I've turned into your slave."

You smile sweetly over the lid of your cup. "You don't have to get me stuff. I've told you this. It's your fault for being a stubborn ass."

He laughs, sitting at the end of the sofa, just beside where your feet are curled up. "And there's the name-calling. Glad to know you're getting better, love. Besides, if I can make life a little easier for you, I may as well. Now you owe me."

"So it's not out of the kindness of your heart, then?" You roll your eyes, taking another sip of coffee. "And I thought we were friends."

Raising an eyebrow, he says, "Just friends?"

For a second, something in your chest constricts and you can't look at him. "I mean, if you really want to say best friends, you can go for it, but I'm not really in the business of -"

"Just shut up and admit you like me already, love. It's agonising watching this play out."

You freeze, mouth slightly opened and eyes wide. Lockwood looks at you with a smug expression, eyes glittering with something - mischief, glee. Swallowing the lump in your throat and closing your mouth, you look away from those dark eyes of his.

Growing up how you did, it's always been hard for you to discern your feelings beyond irritation and anger. The more time you spent with Lockwood, the more things you felt and the more confusing everything became. Finally, you had a friend, someone you could laugh with and explore a part of you that you've never been permitted to. You've found out that you like things you never thought you would, like walking home in the dark, pulled close to someone's side. Shopping with the hopes of seeing the people you know and care for. Reading. Feeling someone's arms around you. Being smiled at in a way that makes you feel warm and mushy inside.

Lockwood has been the one to start the change, to awaken these feelings inside of you. Before him, you were lonely. Horribly so, and your anger was a way for you to mask that. But ever since your time spent together, one particular feeling has always stood out, and you've never been able to understand it.

Love.

You're not really sure what love is, but you know you feel it when he's around. When he grins at you in that special way of his, or when he plays with your fingers on long walks home, trying to figure out what each line and crease means as if he's a palm reader. When he keeps you close to his side and steps in front of you, shielding you from ghosts even though you're more than capable of taking care of yourself.

Love might be the feeling of happiness in your chest when you look at him. It might be the flutter you get in your tummy when his name is spoken, or his skin touches yours.

"I..." You struggle with the words.

But he understands. You know with the way the corners of his lips twitch and his nose crinkles that he understands. You've never been good at communicating verbally, something he's begun to learn.

"I've known for a while," he says. "I'm irresistible, after all."

The humour helps ease the whirlwind in your mind. "You're insufferable."

He leans over, his fingers brushing yours before latching on. You've had this exact conversation before. "You love me for it."

You do. You really do.

So you don't move away when his face nears yours, watching as he slowly comes closer, closer, closer. His eyes are so bright, speckled with so many shades of bronze and copper and gold, and so happy.

No, you do move. You lean forward, and all of a sudden your lips are on his and his hands are pulling your face impossibly closer and you're clutching onto him with your good hand. And you're spiralling, down and down into this feeling people call love, falling onto it like a soft bed you've never had the privilege to sleep in before. There's an ever-so-faint taste of bitter tea on his lips, which are so soft it shouldn't be real.

But it is. It's so, so real, and you're kissing him. He's kissing you. The world melts away. You feel like you're exploding in bursts of colour and flowers and stars until you're nothing more than the air that surrounds you.

And when he pulls away, you smile wider than you ever have before.

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

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kaulitzhotel · 10 months

Note

Hi! idk you probably have a million requests but i have an idea 😭 maybe like fem!reader sits together with tokio hotel 2005 and plays spin the bottle with them (of course it would probably be tom's idea☠️) and the reader gets challenge to kiss the prettiest person in the room and kisses bill 😭 boy would be SHOCKED. literally bro would look like "😦" only red as a tomato because he was ashamed 😭 just a simple romantic fluff!(sorry if something is incomprehensible, english is not my first language ☠️) lmao i'm sure if the reader chose "truth" Tom would come out with the dirtiest shit ever☠️ have a nice day!!

[nuts- lil peep]⭐

Synopsis: The band goes over to your house to hang out since you are bored. Tom has an interesting idea. He uses an empty bottle for a game. Bill will never forget this memory. (2005)

Content: Fluff.

Notes: Thank you so much for requesting! I hope you like it. Have a nice day as well much love! This was so cute to make.

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Spin the bottle

I was zoning out into my TV the only thing I was watching was my reflection. I look at my phone and scroll through my messages. I clicked on the number I always text. { Bill I'm bored come over!! }

I immediately get a response, {I'll come in a second, and ill bring the guys too. ❤︎ }

I smile at his response and closed my eyes to take a nap while I wait for them to come.

15 minutes later

I woke up to a banging sound coming from outside. “Open up! We've been waiting out here.” a familiar voice complained. I go over to the door and open it. “Finally,” Tom crossed his arms.

And right next to him was Bill chuckling. “Come in! Except for you Tom.” I slam the door in his face. Eventually, he came in when he finished with his fit.

Gustav sat next to me on the couch while Georg and Bill were on the floor. Tom came over and sat on me. I tried pushing him off but he let his weight fall on me.

“Get off!” I yelled. Gustav helped me push him off.

Tom scoffed and went into my kitchen. I put on a comedy movie and we just sat and laughed together. It felt less lonely. I could hear Tom raiding through my kitchen. He came back with an empty beer bottle that was in the recycling.

“Let's play a game.” He grinned.

We sat in a circle and agreed to play Truth or Dare. And of course, our host was Tom.

“Whoever it lands on has to pick Truth or Dare and I decide what happens.”

“Whatevs.” I roll my eyes.

Tom spun it and it landed on Georg. He picked Truth and had to confess who his crush was. We continued playing but with no dares yet. Suddenly it landed on me.

“Y/N, Truth or Dare?”

“Dare!”

“I dare you to kiss the prettiest person in the room.”

“Okay...” I look at all of them but I already knew who. Tom was already puckering his lips making noises. I just laughed at him.

I crawled over to Bill. His eyes widen. I place a soft kiss on his lips and backed away. His cheeks tinted pink. His shaky fingers touched his lips.

“Aw man,” Georg said.

“I'm done with this game.” Tom groaned and walked away.

“My mom is here to pick us up anyway so we got to go. Thanks for inviting us Y/N.” Gustav half smiled.

I nodded happily and walked them out the door. But Bill stood there in front of me.

“I was wondering...” He rubbed the back of his head.

“What?” I ask.

He looked at my lips quickly and then at my eyes.

“So, um.”

“Of course.”

I gave him another gentle kiss and he held my face this time. I giggle at his reaction when I let go. He poked at my cheek and smiled goofy.

“Bye Bill.”

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#tokio hotel #tokio hotel fanfic #bill kaulitz #tom kaulitz #georg listing #gustav schäfer #x reader #fluff #imagine #boy bands #romance

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f1tyreslightmyfyre · 6 months

Text

Immortal Artistry - Ch. 3

Series Main List

A Vampire AU F1 Fic Featuring Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader, George Russell x Fem!Reader, hints of Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader, Lestappen, Sebchal, and Sainzell (or Russainz?)

Also on AO3

Ch. 3 Warnings: Language; stalker behavior; abduction; vampire thrall; WWII references to Hitler and Nazi regime; non-graphic violence, murder and death

2023

A tall man stands before you in the parking garage with sandy blonde hair, broad shoulders and a lean, tapered waist that shouldn’t be so distracting in such a risky situation. He braces one hand against his hip and the other hangs at his side as he offers a small smile. “Hello.” He says your name, and all of your survival instincts go on high alert.

Your heart hammers as adrenaline lights you up. “Wha… who are you?” You freeze in place, gripping your laptop bag to swing it in self-defense if needed. “H-how do you know my name?”

“My name is Max, and Charles told me.” His mouth pulls to a tight, closed-mouth smile as if indulging a small child. “And, really, nothing more should be said right now. And certainly not here.”

“O-okay.” You force a hard swallow. “Um, then… I’ll just be on my way.” You motion towards your car behind him, but he takes a step forward with a tense shake of his head.

“I’m afraid you can’t do that. Or, at least, not yet.” He says, taking another step forward, and you instinctively step back. “There are some things that you’re better off understanding first.”

“I-I don’t need to understand anything.” You stammer, taking another backwards step but it’s no match for his forward advance. “I haven’t done anything, and if you so much as fucking touch me, I’ll scream and bring the security guard running.”

He sighs in vague annoyance, but hardly looks deterred. “Well, we could have done this the easy way – believe me when I say that I’m here for your protection, that I don’t want to see you hurt – but I guess we’ll just have to do it the hard way.”

He lunges forward with a burst of impossible speed, holding your gaze captive with his own. His ice blue eyes glow like twin stars, and you’re helpless to look away. Waves of warmth and security roll through you, and… why exactly were you trying to get away from him? Especially as the comforting weight of his palm cups your jaw and his fingers caress your cheek. You want to melt into him, to never be without him, to always have him like this.

“That’s it,” he rumbles gently, stroking your cheek. “Now that we’ve made up from our fight, give me a hug for the camera…”

Your arms wrap around him without a second thought, and fuck… the solid, firm build of him sends your blood racing.

“That’s my girl.” He praises through the fog in your ears, pressing his lips against your other cheek. “Now, shall we get on with our date night? Loop your arm around my waist now, come on, and how about a smile…?”

He draws back and you're helpless not to drown under his lovely gaze as he shifts to your side. Your arm lands around the lean line of his waist as a smile brightens your face, and really… what’s so bad about this?

Your footsteps match his as you both draw up to your car and he guides you into the passenger seat. A whimper passes your lips as the lean strength of his body withdraws, and you try to reach out for him as he closes the door.

“No, schatje.” He says gently as he folds your hand back in your lap. “I’ll just be a minute.”

The door closes, and you can’t breathe as he circles around the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat. It’s only as his hand envelops yours that the weight lifts from your chest and you stare at him, helpless to look anywhere else.

You barely hear the sound of the engine ignition or see the passing city lights as he cuts through the night. You don’t even know where you are as he finally brings the car to a stop. But again, the distance between you as he walks over to the passenger side of the car lances anxiety through you until his hand reconnects with yours – and you never want to be without him. How could you? Why would you?

“Come on,” he whispers carefully as your feet move against a smooth surface – concrete, you think. A driveway. “This way…” He coos as he guides you forward and you cling to him, uncaring about anything else.

He pushes a large door open and golden light floods your vision. You can just make out white and cream blurs that might be furniture, but when you’re in his arms like this, who cares about furniture?

“Charles!” Max calls out loudly, and you press your ear tight against his chest as if to drown out the loud noise. “Charles, get down here!”

His strong arm disappears from around your waist and you're gently coaxed to sit on something soft and cushy. But you only have eyes for him as he starts to draw back, and you reach out for him as another voice echoes in your foggy brain.

“Mon dieu…” The voice is pure astonishment. “Max, what the hell is this? What is she-”

“George found her.”

“Fucking hell… and you had to bring her here for that?”

“You put her in danger and you need to get her out of it.”

“Seb would say that we should just drain her and be done with it.”

“And it may yet come to that, but with Xavi’s death, we might need her.”

“… Fine.” A long sigh follows, and another man moves into your vision. He’s… vaguely familiar, like a shadow from a distant dream, but he’s not the one you want..

Your hands reach out, feebly searching for what you know you’ll surely die without.

“Good lord, Max.” The man in front of you sighs again. “You didn’t have to go so hard on her.”

“I barely used my thrall… that’s all her, mate.”

“Then, get her out of it. Now.”

That same strong, comforting hand finds your jaw, and you reconnect with those gorgeous glacial eyes. All feels so right with the world and nothing could possibly –

“As you were.” Max commands, and the fog lifts.

You gasp as you come back to yourself, overloaded by too many realizations at once.

For one, the home you’re in is cavernous and opulent – for fuck’s sake, it's a mansion… if not a palace.

For two, Charles Leclerc, III, crouches down in front of you, dressed in grey joggers and a white t-shirt, looking far too relaxed despite the annoyed set of his handsome face.

For three, Max from the parking garage stands next to him with a terrifyingly neutral expression on his face.

“Where… what the fuck just happened? How did I get here? And…” your mouth goes dry and words choke in your throat. “Why am I here? I-I don’t know anything about what happened to Padros -”

“It’s alright,” Charles cuts off your rambling. “You’re not in danger, at least not from us.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I suppose you would say that.”

The corner of Charles’ mouth lifts. “And if I really did intend to hurt you, a comment like that could earn you a backhand across the cheek.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The wicked lift of Charles’ mouth grows. “I don’t need to strike you to pacify you.”

A terrifying mix of vulnerability and arousal curdles in your blood. You’re suddenly all too aware of these intimidating men before you, and you’re still entirely too discomforted that you can’t recall anything about how you got here. To this… mansion with these two handsome – gorgeous, really – men staring down at you, oozing all confidence and power.

Dammit, this is not the time for your kinky side to take hold.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your unease and regain some modicum of control despite how powerless you feel. “Okay… but why am I here?”

Charles blinks back at you. “I’m given to understand that you know George Russell.”

Indignation furrows your brow. “And just how is that any of your business?”

“I’m told that it’s my fault he contacted you.”

The wrinkled set of your brow deepens. “You’re ‘given to understand’, you’re ‘told’… do you not do anything for yourself?”

Max snorts a breathless laugh. “You know, she has a point, mate.”

Nothing in the handsome lines of Charles’ face changes despite the hint of a smirk coming to his face. “I’ve known Max for quite a long time, and you wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t true.” He shifts his weight, bracing a forearm against a knee. “Has George told you anything?”

You arch an incredulous brow. “Anything about what…? Just what the fuck is going on here?” Frustration tightens your voice as your hand clenches in your lap. “He’s nobody, alright? George hasn’t told me anything! He’s never mentioned either of you. He’s just some new guy at work –"

“How new?” Charles’ tone is disconcertingly calm.

“A couple of weeks, he said.”

“And when did you first meet him?”

“The night….” A chill races down your spine as your mind catches up to your adrenaline-fueled instincts. “I was leaving work just after our meeting, just after I had met you…”

Charles’ eyes brighten as the connection is made. “And where did you meet George? Behind the secured access points of your building?”

“No…” A shiver creeps along your skin. “In the parking garage… and then again, in the main lobby…”

Max shakes his head with a scoff. “It’s easy enough to walk around a vehicle barrier or into an open lobby during business hours.”

The realizations mix with the memory of your search for George in your company’s chat program. And after hearing Charles say George’s full name tonight, you hadn’t misheard, nor had you misspelled ‘Russell’ so poorly. Your mouth goes dry at the implication as your stomach sours.

But the last thing you want to do is admit that Charles is right. That this man, whose - lacky? Minion? Bodyguard? Max? – abducted you to his house, is actually telling the truth.

Charles blinks and gives his head a gentle shake. “For that and all of this, I do apologize. I didn’t intend to put you in such danger.”

You fix Charles with a hard stare. “But what about Xavier? If he had met with you instead of me, would George have contacted him, too?”

An enigmatic expression comes to Charles’ face. “I’m afraid those are questions for another time. This is about George, not Xavi.”

“But they’re connected, aren’t they?” You try to seek the answer in Charles’ face. “They have to be.”

The muscles of Charles’ jaw tighten. “If George contacts you again, don’t engage with him. Don’t help him. And paramount for your own safety, never look him in the eyes.”

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous. And makes no sense.” Another frustrated sigh escapes you. “Nothing happens from looking someone in the eyes. We’re not wolves, for fuck’s sake.”

Max sighs. “It’s not aggression that you need to worry about from him. Hypnosis is far more dangerous.”

“Hypnosis?” You glare up at Max as creeping realization overtakes you. “Is that how I got here...?” You feel stupid for even asking the question, but very little about this entire conversation makes sense. “You…” your gaze trails back to Charles. “Max hypnotized me…?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth edges up, revealing the gleam of white teeth. “You probably shouldn’t make direct eye contact with him, either,” he chuckles with a suggestive undertone. “Unless you want to, of course. Plenty of people do.”

You recoil at the implication, leaning back against the chair as Charles’ gentle laugh continues.

Max sighs with thinly veiled annoyance. “Come on, Charles. Don’t play with your food.”

The words rot in your gut and you dart wide eyes up to Max. All your instincts urge you to fight for escape – to flee for your life – but you have precious few options. Especially as Charles leans closer and his eyes darken above his attempt at a calming smile.

“He’s only joking. You needn’t be so frightened, cara mia.” He coos gently as his gaze runs over your face and down your neck with a sudden, startling hunger. “Your heart is beating so fast.”

“Well, what do you expect?” You hiss, grabbing the chair armrests as if that would save you. “You hypnotize me, you fucking kidnap me –”

Charles pushes to his feet. “Technically speaking, that was all Max. He had no direction from me to do so, but I’m glad that he did bring you here.” He shakes his head as he braces a hand on his hip and looks at Max. “This development is an unfortunate wrinkle. Surprising, even.”

Max nods shortly. “They’ve never come this close.”

Charles hums in quiet agreement. “That’s something we should look into. But first,” he turns back to you with a quick glance. “Take her home. Put her to bed.”

“And the rest…?”

Charles steps around him, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder that borders on overly intimate. “I trust you.”

You push up from the chair, heart pounding as you seize the moment and start to run. But faster than you can breathe, a strong, solid arm hooks around your waist. You collide with the broad plane of Max's chest, and he isn’t even breathing hard as his chilly fingers find your jaw. Fuck, just why is his skin so cold? “Please…" you whimper. “Please don’t –"

“I know, schatje.” Max says softly as he tips your face up towards his and you glimpse those ice blue eyes. “Right here, that’s it.” He praises as your gazes lock. “Just like that…”

The world turns warm and fuzzy, and calmness suffuses you. Your muscles relax from the tension and relief surges through you. Tears sting your eyes and roll down your cheeks as you all but dissolve into the only source of comfort and protection that you need.

Max holds you close as you desperately cling to him. “I know, I know,” he says with a slight edge of irritation, and he guides your unsteady feet. “But like Charles said, you don’t need to be frightened of us. After all, this is just a dream. Just a dream.”

The words resound in your brain.

Just a dream.

1943

Nightfall in the Netherlands continues to yield its secrets. Each German-occupied country possesses scars of the looting conquerors and Charles’ keen nose for the hunt continues to surprise both him and Seb.

And he’s not just referring to the acrid smoke in the air.

“Fucking bombers.” Charles grouses. “Can they not tell the difference between a factory and a museum?”

“I imagine it’s difficult.” Seb muses as dirt crunches against the cobblestone beneath their feet. “Mortals’ vision is already so limited and from that high altitude, moving at those speeds.” He tilts his head up to the hazy sky in assessment. “How could you accurately tell one building from another?”

“Factories have chimneys and black smoke.”

“Not all of them do. Textile miles don’t… at least,” Seb pauses as he frowns. “Well, they didn’t use to. But maybe they do now… the Industrial Revolution was a fascinating thing to witness, but far too much smoke to tell one factory from the next in the city centers. Even for one such as myself.”

Charles quirks a wry grin. “You surprise me, Seb. For a man of reason and organization, you should have nothing against the Industrial Revolution.”

Seb shrugs a shoulder. “Progress always comes with a cost. The ages teach us that, if nothing else. Exploration comes with rampant disease. Colonization comes with inherent subjugation. Industrialization comes with unjust squalor. And technology comes with mass destruction.”

Charles hums in quiet consideration. “Is that what you saw during the Great War?” He has heard about the terrors of trench warfare and gas bombs, but he has no basis for comparison. Hell, even as an immortal, he barely has a stomach for the current war.

“Yes.” Seb’s voice holds the heavy weight of unwanted memory as they round a corner onto a side street. “Mercifully, the horrors unleashed by that war are yet to be repeated on this battlefield.”

Charles heaves a sigh – not that he needs to breathe anymore, but it’s oddly habitual. “Do you suppose there’s any hope that mankind will ever stop inventing ways to kill one another?”

A wry smirk cracks Seb’s face as he glances over in this darkness. “You don’t really want my –”

A muffled groan and grunts in German slice through their conversation. Charles’ gaze snaps to the street ahead, senses on full alert as shadows take shape in his sharp vision. A man lies on the ground, feebly trying to curl into himself despite the cordon of soldiers kicking and beating him from all sides. It still doesn’t make sense to Charles that the Netherlands has remained a neutral nation in the war even after being invaded and suffering Nazi occupation.

Seb sighs sadly. “Have they no basic decency?”

“For someone out past curfew, that looks more merciful than an interrogation chamber.” Charles replies. Even though they only roam the streets and countryside at night, whispers of the Dutch Resistance surround them – a thin thread of hope that still manages to hold the country together.

“Well, we won’t let that happen, either.” Seb says as he turns a confirming glance on Charles. “Shall we?”

Charles nods in helpless agreement. “I am a little hungry.”

They move together, swift as shadows and just as silent, just as deadly. Bones snap, blood warms their bellies, and screams die before they can begin. It never takes them long, and this time is no exception. It comes easier to Charles now – acting with aggression against the aggressors – but it’s still not his natural inclination.

Licking the blood from his lips, he glances down at the young man still curled up on the ground. His breathing comes in ragged, uneven draws – his chest rattles, even. The smell of rich, hot, dark blood permeates the air even above the scents of the dead soldiers, and the young man’s face is bruised and bloodied to match his expression of agony.

“H-h-help...” The words are just barely audible and laden with great effort.

Seb sighs with regret. “We’re not able to save you.”

Bright blue eyes flash beneath swollen eyelids, full of pain and fear. “No-o… please. I –” The Dutchman’s voice chokes off on a gurgling cough and blood flows past his lips.

Charles’ heart breaks as he stares down at the dying man. “I was wrong. There’s nothing merciful about this.” He crouches down and gently cups the man’s strong jawline, stroking his thumb over an angry cut, trying to impart any comfort that he can. Beneath the injuries and blood, the man is undeniably handsome with a strong, sturdy build. Maybe that’s why he’s still alive now. He’s a fighter… and maybe… just maybe that’s why he risked being outside after curfew.

The Dutchman’s breathing turns faint and wheezing, and Charles knows the window is closing. “I want to help him.” He says, turning to glance up at Seb.

Seb’s brows furrow curiously. “You want to help him…? Help him as in…"

Unease pits in Charles’ gut. “Turn him. Like you turned me.”

“He’s practically a dead man – you can smell it.” Seb shakes his head. “Mortals die all the time… you’ve seen it before.”

“And I haven’t asked to save a single one of the countless many that I have witnessed. I’m just asking…” he trails off, glancing back down, unable to explain why he’s so drawn to this man. “I’m just asking about this one.”

“You are still so young -”

“And I’ve gotten better with my thrall, with my control – even my finesse. I’m learning to let go of my ‘mortal construct’ as you call it, and now I’m asking you – will you help me with this?”

Seb folds his arms across his chest in silent contemplation as the Dutchman’s weak breathing wheezes between them. “Where do you think this will go, Charles? If you turn him, then what?”

Charles’ lip curls in a frustrated sneer. “Did you ask yourself that question before you ambushed me in the woods? Tell me, where did you think it would go with me, hmm?” He fixes Seb with a hard stare. “Or was I really just too pretty for you to resist?”

A tense moment hangs in the air before Seb drops his arms to his side. “We’ll have to guide him – you’ll have to teach him.”

Relief sparks in Charles’ chest. “Yes… yes, I can do that. And I will.” He turns back to the Dutchman, trailing down to the slope of his neck. His pulse weakly flutters beneath Charles’ fingertips, and Charles hopes he’s not too late.

Seb kneels beside him, curling his hand over the back of Charles’ as they gently trace over the main artery together. “Just there,” Seb whispers as Charles leans down, inhaling the Dutchman’s scent deep into his lungs as his lips buss the tender skin.

Charles’ fangs pierce the skin, and a delicious coppery tang rushes over his tongue as Seb softly continues. “And, now… just listen for the heart to stop.”

Series Main List

Tag List: @fictional-l0v3r

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p0ssym1lker · 1 year

Text

Ron Weasley head cannons while in Hogwarts

Befriended one Hufflepuff in second year and was adopted by the older ones

Was playing chess alone in the library and a Ravenclaw student joined

It was such hard loss people started studying his moves to try and get a chance at winning

They can't even be mad! He's so happy someone's playing with him goddamnit!

Has played against Slytherins as well, chess is a silent truce

He is great at fixing up things and gives good advice for budgeting

Likes shiny things

Refuses to go to madam pomfrey when he gets sick

Fred and george once dragged him to her when he nearly fell off the stairs because of a fever

He broke out instantly

A charm went wrong and he had Harry's eyes for a few days once

Snape nearly died because he thought lily came back to haunt him

Used to complimenting people (Ginny calmed down easier when you play up her positivity and Molly absolutely was a weak woman to small Ron calling her pretty)

Tells a guy his eyes remind him of a certain constellation, said guy never recovered

It was said way to honestly and out of nowhere for no reason

Aroace Ron Weasley with platonic life partners Harry and hermione

Has a nasty kick

Physical touch is one of his love languages so he often just nudges people, has headbutted people softly

Let's people draw on his skin, often his arms are full of doodles or full blown artworks

Still has anger issues but eventually learns about it and tries to learn ways to get it under control

Ginny used to want to play dress up a lot so he is very comfortable in being seen as 'girly'

Let's his friend practice make up on him

Ron with eyeliner was someone's sexual awakening

Switched uniform with a girl once because she wanted to try the boys uniform

Draco tried to make fun of him for that - Stammered a bit too hard to be taken serious

Blaise Zabini asked him out once but Ron did not in fact understand what he wanted

Will just pick people up for whatever reason

Is great at transfiguration, McGonagall found out in third year and has been trying to get him to be the transfiguration professor since then

Really good at baking

Knows so much gossip

Really used to the twins to the point he can interrupt them and finish their thought before they get to do their back and forth

Understands any rambles, he knows so many people who go on rants all the time

Has the mom-resistance to heat when cooking

One hit K.O.ed a guy who cheated on his friend

In the middle of the great hall

The guy dropped between the twins and they shared a look of "oh god that could have been us"

Learns if he's flexible enough he can kick someone in the face, considering his height as well? Dangerous

The first time he does it, another sexual awakening was had

#ron weasely #harry potter #george weasley #gryffindor #fred weasley #headcannons #percy weasley

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blackswaneuroparedux · 1 year

Photo

Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.

- W.B. Yeats

This is the quote from W.B. Yeats as a painted sign on the wall as you enter the famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

Strangers always found a welcome at Shakespeare and Company, where they could browse untroubled for hours, especially if they were aspiring writers themselves; and a few – well, a very few – of them may indeed have turned out to be angels, or at least angelic.

The original Shakespeare and Company shop was started in 1921 in the Rue de l’Odéon by Sylvia Beach, the daughter of a US Presbyterian minister. The first writer to patronise the shop was Gertrude Stein, but she fell out with Beach when she took up with James Joyce, whom Stein hated.

Beach published Joyce’s Ulysses when no established publisher would touch it, performing the arduous labour of love of proofreading it. Ernest Hemingway discovered the shop soon after his arrival in Paris, and wrote about it lovingly decades later in A Moveable Feast. When the Germans occupied Paris, Beach refused to sell a signed copy of Finnegans Wake to an invading officer. He said he would return for it the next day. So she moved all the books out and closed the shop. It was “liberated” by Hemingway himself in 1944. However, Beach didn’t have the heart to start again.

In 1948, after a wandering youth and war service, George Whitman came to Paris on the GI Bill, and in 1951 opened an English-language bookshop which he called Le Mistral. A few years later, he moved to the Rue de la Bûcherie, but didn’t rename the shop until after Beach’s death in 1961. He had been too shy to ask her if he could use the name, although they were friends and she used to come to readings at Le Mistral.

Whitman ran his shop as a species of anarchic democracy, even though in some respects he was a benevolent dictator. Anyone who called himself a writer could find a bed there, if there was one free, and stay as long as he liked or until Whitman got tired of him. The only rule for residents was that they must read a book a day and serve in the shop for an hour. One poet, or self-styled poet, who broke the second rule and lay in bed all day reading detective novels was ejected; but his chief offence was his choice of literature rather than his idleness.

The bookshop has its regulars, residents in Paris, not all of them English-speakers by any means, who use it as a sort of club and drop in for conversation and coffee.

Stock control has always been on the casual side. It’s not unknown for someone to lift a book from the shelves, slip it into his pocket, read it and return to sell it for the secondhand shelves the following day.

Inevitably, Shakespeare and Company has long been on the tourist trail, recommended in all the guides. This is just as well, because without their custom it’s hard to see how the shop could have survived. Many are in search of a copy of A Moveable Feast. This is not always on offer because, for some reason which I can’t remember, Whitman took a scunner to Hemingway. The tourists also toss coins into the well in the shop, and it’s not unusual to see an indigent young person lying on the floor and fishing for euros.

On occasion I drop in because the lure of its history is too much even if there are other good independent book stores nearby. Visitors to Paris always want me to take them there and I oblige them even if I feel its lost some of its past glory. Still, I always buy a few books because it’s the best way to support independent book stores in this age of Amazon, as every independent book store needs all the help it can get.

#yeats #wb yeats #quote #shakespeare and co #shakespeare and company #paris #book store #books #reading #historic #literature #sylvia beach #george whitman

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writtenontheport · 9 months

Text

The Haunted Boy and His Ghostly Girlfriend

Pt. 2 (Prologue) (Pt. 1)

Anthony Lockwood x fem Reader

Warnings/Tags: A bit of angst in that being a ghost is probably lonely LOL, Lockwood’s a bit more levelheaded here, purely just setup, SLOW BURN!!!, How do you write romance with ghosts, Lockwood is in love with you, He’s a bit stupid about it really, OH YEAH WAIT I FORGOT TO ADD: Reader is literally a ghost LMAO

Notes: I’M SO SORRY IF THIS PART IS A BIT,,,, DISAPPOINTING,,, I know this part isn’t fluff heavy, but I was struggling so hard figuring out how to make this fluffy like I usually do,,, but most of my fluff is exploring physical touch as a love language and if Lockwood touches the reader here he will literally DIE. That is not metaphorical it will kill him… she is a literal ghost 😭

Summary: Lockwood introduces you to the library, which, in the future will become your regular haunting. He’s also pretty sure he would do about anything for you to smile, which might not be the best thing to say to someone you just met so he doesn’t say it!

Word Count: 1.3k+

Lockwood presses the clamps of the silver-glass case open, taking out your necklace and gently laying it on the cushion of his chair. It sits there, on a plump throw-pillow, glimmering in the dark of the room before you appear. Miasma seeps into his bones with a cold chill, but his heart beats three times faster and his cheeks warm at the sight of you.

(In the future, Lockwood would have trouble separating those feelings during cases after spending so much time around you. It was a bit troublesome, but he’d never complain about it— it wasn’t your fault, after all, that your mere presence in the living world brought about a form of death.)

Disorienting as it was, Lockwood is quick to adapt as always and shoots you a grin oozing with charm. It takes you a moment to relax at the sight of it, lips falling into a small smile as you settle to the floor. The silence is thick, but not uncomfortable, and Lockwood is glad about that. He hopes the quick beating of his heart isn’t audible from where you are, or it would quickly become a very uncomfortable silence.

“Lucy and George are, um, upstairs for now,” He says to break the silence, resting his hands on his hips. “Lucy said something about changing out of work clothes and… well, George could be doing anything from reading to doing yoga in the nude, so no idea what he’s up to.”

You smile cheekily at that; a blinding thing when you glow so brightly in other-light. Lockwood’s sure that even without it, your smile would still outshine the moonlight that drenched you when you’d first met. It made him wonder for the first (of many times) what it would have been like if you’d met when you were alive. He wills the thought out of his head and instead focuses on you now as you are, ghostly and all. Really, he was lucky to have met you in general.

“I have a question, if you don’t mind me asking.” He shakes off his jacket and moves to rest it on the back of the chair, gesturing for you to sit. “Though it might be hard to answer now that I think about it.”

You look amused at the gesture and pick up the throw pillow and necklace to put aside, sitting down. Your eyes scan about the room, widening as you gesture to a book on a nearby table and mime writing with a pen. He picks up on it quickly and whips a pen out from one of the many nooks and crannies of the messy library, picking up an empty notebook George must have left here.

“Brilliant thinking,” He says, beaming. Sliding it over to you from across a small table, he rests his hand on the wood of it and leans on that arm, resting the other hand on his hip. It’s a mindless thing that makes you watch him for a moment longer than usual, but it’s enough to make him feel a bit coy. Something about your eyes leaves him rather helpless, but he’s not complaining.

The pen seems to lag behind as you drag it across the page; just for a second, just enough to make something about it seem wrong. It only makes Lockwood feel rather curious, not at all put off. You put the notebook down on the small table but keep the pen closer as you slide him the open page.

‘Ask away,’ you’d written. Your ghostly hand draws the notebook back as you smile lightly up at Lockwood from where you’re sat. Something about it is so soft that it has him weak, clearing his throat as he tries to remember the question.

“Do you know how long you were there for, at the Thistlebrows’?” He watches your lips purse into a thin line, before you scribble an answer back that you turn for him to see.

‘Not really,’ you’d written, something so distinctly lovable seeping into the way you write, ‘Only that it felt like an eternity before I met Pepper. It was rather lonely before her; I lost track of time.’

That made sense, with what he knew about type threes. Lonely sort of ghost, Lucy once described; George had backed that up with, They wait forever for someone to be able to notice them, of course they would be. Right now though, he sees the glimmer in your eyes dull and the smile on your face flatten. It must have been a terrible afterlife to live alone for so long; it must have been doubly terrible to have the only person who could hear you taken away. The thought wraps its horrid fingers around his heart as he watches you hover the pen over the page as if frozen in time; your eyes focused on Pepper’s name.

Something lurches in his gut, urging him to say something— anything— that might make this better. This is something that will follow him for every day that he knows you, and every single time it will feel like it will be the death of him as much as your gorgeous eyes.

“Pepper was very upset at being sent away, you know?” He says quietly, watching as you turn up to him in surprise. “Her grandparents told us about it, said you were her best friend.”

You drop your eyes back onto the page, a little smile playing at your lips as you write. Lockwood could live off your smile for the rest of his life (and afterlife) if you’d let him, the beauty of it beyond description. It wasn’t strange to feel so proud of making someone smile, right? Especially if said someone was the most beautiful girl dead or alive.

‘Her parents were deathly protective of her, barely let her outside. I was her only friend.’ Lockwood knew tacitly that she was yours too, but chose not to bring it up.

“We could send her letters, if you want?” He suggests, taking long steps over to the chair across. You eye him cautiously, and he finds it a bit (correction: quite a bit) endearing. “We’d give them to her grandparents to send for us, of course. If her parents are that dour, I’d doubt they’d let her read a letter from some random agency housing ghosts.”

With your brows raised and the impression of a smile, you write to him ‘Maybe you aren’t that dull after all.’

He huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes, leaning deeply into the chair. “I think you’ll find I’m actually quite brilliant.”

He can’t hear it, but your shoulders ruffle in a bit of laughter and he’s struck frozen by your beaming face. Maybe it was simply the effect of a type three, but Lockwood was feeling the exact opposite of ghost-lock; a heart threatening to beat out of his rib cage, and a warmth filling his lungs despite the cold air. Miasma and thick quiet be damned, your presence brought him something warm and comforting in all the ways he could never explain.

Before you could write back whatever clever reply you wanted to, footsteps heavy and full ran down the stairs (echoing through the walls, they were so loud) and startled you both. Lockwood sends you a smile as he raises from the chair.

“Get ready; if that’s George you’re about to be questioned for the next hour at least,” He grimaces playfully. Your smile blooms as the warmth in his chest does, unfurling like other-light and a warm haze in his heart.

(George, who actually can hear you when he holds your source, does proceed to ask you questions for at least an hour that day alone. Lucy, who can hear you just fine, told him off if he said anything a bit too insensitive. Lockwood? Well, he asked so many questions too that Lucy begged him to just learn sign language with you so he could ask them himself. The way his whole face brightened— you were sure it made your dead heart beat.)

A/N: IM SORRYYY,, I know I know,,, I said this part would be more… MORE…. BUT I JUST… UGH… I LOVE writing plot important scenes 🤞🤞🤞🤞 My ass just keeps wanting to establish shit before I head into the next interesting part (LIKE IK,,, ITS KINDA BORING BECAUSE THEYRE JUST HAVING A SMALL CONVERSATION,,,, BUT HEAR ME OUT,,,) I’m all out of lies… I just love writing soft fluff I’m sorry…

Taglist 🏷️: (Please reach out if you want to be added or removed from the taglist)

@tangledinlove

@naive-daydreamer (sorry I didn’t know if you wanted to be tagged or not so I kept you tagged!! Please tell me if otherwise!!)

@daydreamingabthar

@wordsarelife

@brain-has-left

@superiorjam

#portie writes fanfic #lockwood and co x reader #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you

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barbiewritesstuff · 2 years

Text

Family Day

-- I am in love with Dad!Hangman

(Welcome to another installment of Barbiewritesstuff fights tumblr in a desperate attempt to format her fic...)

Tw. Mention of pregnancy, gendered language

Taglist: @mavswife @dempy @unsurebuttrying @peaches-1999 --

He’s not sure what to feel. His brain fights between acute stress and excitement but both are making his heart beat a mile a minute. Only Bob notices though and he stops him from having his fourth coffee of the morning. He’s not even drinking it for the taste, the stuff they have on base is disgusting anyway (although nothing beats the stuff they serve for breakfast on the carriers). At this point, he’s downing coffees just to give himself something to do.

Everyone is talking about family day and who they’re expecting, Jake’s happy no one is asking about who he’s waiting for. He’s a fiercly private man despite his cocky, open-book act. The fact that he asked you to come at all was a surprise to him most of all. Still, he couldn’t help but look forward to seeing you, and seeing George’s face when he saw Daddy’s plane. You had sent him a picture of George a few days ago, he had gotten into his box of old Top Gun gear and dug out a flight suit. He looked adorable in the still, the flight suit miles too big on him, he had ruffled the legs as much as possible so that his feet were touching the ground but neither of his hands were peering out of the sleeves. Jake had practically begged you to dig the helmet out of the attic and put it on his son and that picture was now the background on his phone. His heart swelled with love whenever he looked at George’s face, half obscured by the rim of the helmet and his face contorted into a laugh. He could almost hear his little boy’s belly laugh.

The clock’s tick seemed to slow down dramatically as the time drew nearer to your arrival. The base’s doors would open to civilian family members at eleven and Jake was growing even more antsy, so much so that the other members of his team were starting to notice. It was five to eleven now, and Jake swore it the clock had said that for the past ten minutes already, then, noise erupted as the recreation room filled with people which Fanboy immediately went to hug. He looked at his phone to see a text from you.

Jake practically jumped from his seat to join you, barely muttering a ‘Sorry’ to Payback when he scared him. He all but ran to the base parking lot and engulfed you and George in a tight bear hug.

----

« I am so, so happy to see you » He murmurs into your hair and then plants a loud kiss on George’s cheek which elicits a laugh and a loud « EWWW, Daddy ! » as he tries to wipe it away.

« Shall we go see Daddy’s planes ? » Jake asks, letting go of you and hoisting George into his arms, keeping you close with one arm over your shoulders. You can sense he is tense, but you appreciate that he’s trying to hide it from your son. Georgie is a sensitive little boy, and he looked up to his father so much that he sometimes feeds off of his energy.

« Do you keep them in a special garage ? »

« Uh huh, it’s called a hangar. My plane is in hangar 6 »

« Is he all alone in the garage Daddy ? » Georgie asks, his little voice laxed with worry that Daddy's plane might get lonely.

« No, I share it with my team »

Hangar six was towards the end of the runway. The walk there had been hot and tiring and when you walked in, the hit of cold air and shade made all three of you sigh with relief. He walked you to an aircraft near the back. Jake stifled a laugh when George looked at the model F15 he held in his hands, twirled it around and then seemed to compare it against the real thing.

« Big » He said, concluding his research with a single word.

« Do you want to go in ? » Jake asks and George panics for a second before Jake reassures him « I’ll go with you. We’re just going to sit in it, I’ll show you all the buttons »

George nods. Jake hands him back to you and climbs the ladder to open up the canopy and sit down on his seat. Once up there, he grabs a hold of Georgie and lifts him onto his lap. You fish your phone out of your bag and snap a picture of them and then another where they are both looking at you and giving you a thumbs up

« We should get these printed » You say.

Jake’s face falls slightly before he catches himself and smiles again. You briefly wonder if it’s something you said, but a second later you hear a few voices echo in the hangar. Jake breathes in deeply a few times to ease his nerves and steadies his voice

« This is the radio button, when I need to call the radio to tell them I am landing, I press that and they tell me whether I can »

« What if they say no ? »

« They don’t usually do that. It’s only when someone else is on the landing strip »

« Oh »

The people the echoing voices belong to appear behind the back of another aircraft. A woman in uniform leads an older couple and two teenagers around while another uniformed man tags along. She sees Jake up in the aircraft and flashes you both a smile.

« I didn’t know Hangman had a sister. Hi, I’m Natasha »

« Hi » You say « I’m not his sister »

« Oh »

« Phoenix, Coyote, this is Y/n. She’s my wife » Jake says, much to the surprise of both his teammates « And this is George. He’s my son »

« I’m sorry, what ? » Natasha spits out. She looks absolutely furious.

Jake’s jaw tenses. George is starting to grow restless.

« Can I go back down to Mummy, please ? »

Jake lifts him up and gives him back to you before hoisting himself out of his plane and coming down the ladder.

« You never fucking told us ! » Natasha all but shouts

« Hey ! Watch your language » Jake snaps. George is starting to sniffle

« We need to take this outside, Phoenix » He adds

Coyote pushes past the woman to stand between them and form a barrier in case it escalates.

« You don’t have to explain. I get it, it’s not easy to open up to new teams every time we get called away somewhere else. But dude, they’ve offered us all instructor jobs starting in the fall, I think this is pretty permanent. So you can relax a little »

He turns to you next.

« I’m Javi, they call me Coyote »

You shake his outstretched hand and he waves at George.

« Hi buddy, I’m a friend of your Daddy’s »

George’s head makes a loud ‘thunk’ sound as it collides with your collarbone in his haste to hide himself in your neck.

« He’s shy » You explain, wincing at the pain you are feeling and wondering how Georgie doesn’t. Jake smiles.

« I promise I’m nice » Javi coaxes, it earns him a turn of George’s head and a peak from the crook of your neck

« Did you like Daddy’s plane ? I fly one too »

« Georgie why don’t you show Javi your model plane ? » Jake says, trying to ignore the look of betrayal Natasha is giving him

« Oh my God, you have a model plane ? That is so cool ! »

George smiles and whips out the plastic model he was still holding.

« I got it for my birthday »

Javi gasps « Your birthday ? How old are you ? »

In response the question Georgie raises three fingers.

A door opens behind you and two men stroll in. Both of them are laughing together but stop once they notice you, unaware of the tension Javi was working so hard on dissipating.

« Aaw, that’s cute. Didn’t know you had a sister Seresin. » The tallest one of the two says.

« Not his sister. That’s his wife and his kid » Natasha replies instead of Jake. He looks at the ground and Georgie dissappears into your neck again.

« Huh » The smaller one says « I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting that… »

« I’m Payback. This is Fanboy » The tall one says pointing at himself and his friend

« Hi »

« Harvard, Yale and Halo should at the Hard Deck at around 8pm, we’re going too. You guys can join us if you want » Payback says, talking to you and Natasha’s family more than anyone else.

You look at Jake and he looks back at you, silently asking if you want to go. It’s cutting it close to your son’s bedtime but now that Jake is no longer hiding anything, you know he wants to go and have fun. You nod.

« We’ll meet you there » He says

----

The Hard Deck is closed but that doesn’t really seem to mean anything to Jake as he pushes the door open. It's a few minutes past 8 and yet the bar is empty except for an older man and a woman leaning over the bar.

You take a desperate George to the bathroom while Jake goes up and orders you drinks.

« Phoenix warned us you would be bringing some people. She didn’t say who though… Is that your sister ? » Penny says

« Okay, why does everyone keep thinking she’s my sister ? We don’t even look alike »

« Well… We didn’t think you would be dating a woman with a kid… » Maverick says, avoiding Jake’s glare by looking straight into his beer.

« I’m not. That’s my wife. He’s my kid »

Both of them look at him with mouths wide open, clearly surprised. He has to admit he enjoys the reactions, depite the shock of Phoenix’s anger. He understand where she came from, of course, but he doesn’t think he was wrong for wanting to keep his family life private. Javi was right, though, now that they're all going to take the instructor job, things aren’t so volatile anymore. He can relax.

There's only one person left to tell now, as Bob has known for a while. Georgie calls him Uncle Bo, refusing to add the second ‘B’ to Bob’s name but the other man doesn’t seem to mind seeing as that’s what he signs the texts in the group chat with.

Jake isn’t sure how Rooster would react. He could be outraged or simply not bothered at all. For Georgie’s sake, he hopes there won’t be a scene. For his own sake, he hopes the opposite.

Rooster gets there later than anyone else, strolling in at nine, right as Jake and you are debating going home. Jake watches him walk up to Mav and pat his back, then make his way over to the pool table he's playing at. Jake offers him a pool cue, which he accepts. Bradshaw, as observant as he was in the air, isn’t noticing you and George talking in the corner despite Jake’s best attempts. Exasperated, he crosses eyes with Bob, who winks and stands up.

« Hey Georgie, what do you think of Daddy’s playing ? »

Rooster freezes for a second, then he carefully looks around the table to see who Bob could possibly have been talking about. When he realises he's playing against just Hangman, he looks at Jake with wide eyes.

Bob stifles a laugh with a handful of peanuts and Jake tries not to look at him to avoid having to do the same. There's a reason Bob’s name in the group chat is ‘shit-stirrer’ and while he pretends not to like it by signing texts as Uncle Bo, he certainly lives up to his name.

Jake sees Maverick sit down next to you and a still seething Phoenix, trying to coax Georgie into showing him his model airplane.

« What do you – Is that ? – Daddy ? » Rooster sputters. He looks at George and then back at him

« You bastard » He adds

« Language ! » Bob, you, Jake and Maverick say in unison

The shocked silence that reigns after that remains unbroken for a second until Phoenix grabs one of the pillows off of one of the chairs and swings it straight into Bob’s chest.

« You knew ! » She hits him again.

« You » hit « lying » hit « traitor ! »

« I didn’t – ow – lie – ow »

Fanboy tries to grab the pillow out of her hands, it earns him a glare and he drops his attempt. She peppers Bob with little pillow slaps and only stops when Georgie noticed the battle between Natasha and Uncle Bo and lets out the dirties cackle Jake had ever heard him do. Both you and Jake can no longer hold in your laughter. The whole room dissolves into hysterics in three seconds flat.

« Seriously though, how did you know ? »

« He told me after our first mission »

« And you never told anyone »

« I’m a good friend, I don’t tell unless I’m asked »

----

« It’s nice to meet you, Y/n. The three of you look really happy » Phoenix finally concedes after a few more drinks.

« Four actually » Jake says, suddenly very interested at the floor. With renewed gusto and armed with impaired decisionmaking skills, Phoenix grabs the pillow again and swings it straight at Jake’s face.

« You’re joking » Bob asks you

« Nope, I’m due in September » You reply. Jake sits down next to you. He pulls you as close as he can without disturbing a sleeping George and happily kisses your temple.

"I love you" he whispers in your ear so only you can hear.

#fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun x reader #fanfiction #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #original fic #jake seresin #hangman top gun

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wenigstenshabeichesversucht · 5 months

Text

Drinks and kisses

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Summary: Four times you drunkenly confessed your love to Lockwood and one time you did it sober.

Warnings: alcohol consumption (OC is not an alcoholic, she just can't tolerate alcohol), English is not my native language

Word Count: 2,6k

For the story I used some of the Drunken Love Confessions from @creativepromptsforwriting, please check out her blog

Living the life of an agent aka child solider was most of the time gruesome. After dusk as the adults hid behind silver fences and thick walls, you and the other kids dared to venture into the dark night to fight against ghosts. Every agent knew another who had died on a mission. Life was pretty depressing if you didn’t take it in your own hands to enjoy it. Therefore, at Lockwood and Co., you celebrated every so little milestone and achievement. While Lockwood, your boss, landlord and crush, and George sometimes drank beer, you only drank alcohol at you little celebrations. To say that you could handle your liquor, was an exaggerated lie.

The first time you told Lockwood, that you liked him more than a friend was at one of this so-called parties. Lockwood and Co. had just finished a big case. That was reason enough to get together and drink.

It was already late that night, the song on the radio floated through the room and Kipps was asleep on the couch. Lucy was nowhere to be seen and George and Holly were in one corner of the living room lively talking about cooking.

However, you only had eyes for Lockwood sitting in his favourite armchair. His hair was shining so nicely, and you really wanted to touch it. Would it feel under your fingers as soft as it looked? That thought should have been warning enough that you were drunk. But drunk-you wasn’t smart and neither discreet with your staring. Everybody who took one second to watch you with Lockwood, would realize that you liked him. Thank God Lockwood was an even bigger idiot than you.

“What are you thinking about, sweets?”, broke Lockwood the silence between you two and normally, caught in your staring, you would have looked away. But normal-you and drunk-you were two totally different persons. Drunk-you was loud and bold, while normal-you shied away.

“About you”, you declared honest, and sober you would have never said something like this. However, drunk you didn’t even blush.

“About me?”, echoed Lockwood confused and reminded you by doing so of a puppy. You loved puppies.

“You’re cute. And a bit blurry. But definitely always so cute.” The words just tumbled out of your mouth. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn't have been able to stop them. But drunk-you didn’t know something like regret. Before Lockwood could say anything, you took a page out of Kipps books and just felt asleep.

The next morning you had no memory about what you said. At breakfast Lockwood acted like always except his ears turned a little red when you asked him for the butter. But you were too hungover to pay attention.

The second time happened at Lucy’s birthday party. The birthday girl and you were dancing in the middle of the living room, downing one shot after the other. You intentionally ignored Lockwood, who warned you to slow down. Maybe that was a mistake. Or the five tequila shots were a mistake. Or both were a mistake.

Anyway, one moment you were dancing with Lucy, having the best time of your life and in the next moment you felt awful. Pressing your hand over your mouth you made a beeline for the next bathroom. You barely made it to the toilet before you threw up.

Hurrying footsteps sounded behind you and then someone held your hair back. With a small whimper you puked again.

“Just let it out then you’ll feel better”, he whispered softly while he caressed your back. Sober-you would probably have sunk into the floor in shame. But hanging over the toilet bowl you were too drunk to care.

You didn’t know how long you puked your soul out of your body. Lockwood had taken a seat on the floor behind you and didn’t stop rubbing your back.

“Can you keep a secret?”, you slurred and rested your head against his shoulder. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him nodding.

“I have a crush on Lockwood, but you can’t tell him or anybody else.” He laughed, and you could feel the vibration of his chest.

“I would love to hear those words in any other place than this bathroom, holding your hair back.”

“But you can’t tell him or anybody else”, you repeated urgent. You couldn’t imagine that Lockwood liked you back, and you didn’t want to make the atmosphere in the house awkward. Therefore, Lockwood was never allowed to know how you felt about him.

“I swear, let’s get you cleaned up and in your bed, sweets.” Fishing a washcloth from the sink, he gently wiped your face. Then he scoped you up in his arms and started carrying to your room.

The third time: Bright giggles echoed across the attic.

“No-no-no it wasn’t like this”, Lucy laughed while taking another sip from the vodka.

You just returned from your case to a waiting Norrie. Norrie was Lucy’s girlfriend and was visiting her in London. As you had stumbled through the front door, Norrie had already handed you a bottle of vodka. Now sitting in the attic, you slowly nursed the alcohol.

“And how did it go in your opinion?”, asked Norrie, who was telling an embarrassing story about the time Lucy and her had still worked in the northern part of Great Britain.

“First it wasn’t so embarrassing how you make it sound.”

“Sure”, you butted in as you and Norrie shared a meaningful glance.

“Don’t join forces against me”, Lucy demanded, not blind to your actions.

“We would never!”, giving her an appeasing kiss, Norrie took the bottle from Lucy.

“Why does it feel like you’re lying to me?” maybe a little bit paranoid, maybe appropriately paranoid, Lucy raised one eyebrow. You meanwhile tried to look as innocent as possible. Of course, you would join forces with your best friend’s girlfriend against said best friend. Where else was the fun?

Seeing through your innocent act, Lucy pointed accusing her finger at you. “As punishment you have to get the snacks from downstairs.”

Rolling your eyes, you stole the bottle out of Norrie’s grip and took a big sip. Leave it to Lucy to find an excuse to not go down all the stairs. But it was OK, as long George and Lockwood were still not home from their case. If George caught you stealing the snacks, he would demand that Lockwood would revoke your biscuits rights. So, there was a big risk associated with getting the snacks. Was it a risk worth taking? Drunk-you said yes.

“I will be right back”, with a wink to the girls, you picked yourself up.

You noticed immediately that you were drunker, than you had thought. Your steps were a little wobbly and the world was turning more than usually. But you lived more than two years in this house. You knew which floorboard creaked and how many steps each of the stairs had. With your eyes closed, you would find your way from the attic down to the kitchen. So being drunk shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

You should be right for most of the way. You already reached the last stairs down to the kitchen without tripping over your own feet, when the front door flew open, and Lockwood and George came clattering in. Normally you weren’t easily startled. You were an agent for gods’ sake. But you were drunk and hadn't expected their loud arrival.

You weren’t sure who was more surprised. You, who lost your footing and tumbled down the stairs, or Lockwood, who was standing at the bottom of said stairs. At least he wasn’t drunk and therefore had quicker reflexes than you. Instead of stepping aside and leaving you to your fate, he caught you. For a moment nobody said something, there was only a shocked silence between you.

“I think I just fell in love with you”, you drunkenly joked.

“No, you fell down the stairs. You should really learn to hold your liquor, sweets”, Lockwood told you stern, without letting go of you. But you saw the creeping blush appear on his face.

“I get her a glass of water”, clearing awkwardly his throat, George rushed to the kitchen.

“You drive me out of my mind, sweets”, whispered Lockwood against your hair, but you were too busy getting lost in his scent. He smelled of lavender and bergamot. Your favourite smell in the whole world.

The fourth time you told Lockwood, that you loved him you were drunk, shocking you know.

You just came home from evening with your old friends from Rothwell and as always, you easily became too drunk.

Usually when someone of the team went out after dark, Lockwood waited for them to come home. This time was no different.

As you drunkenly stumbled out of the night cab, Lockwood was already opening the front door.

“Hi handsome”, you greeted him without shame.

“You’re drunk”, he blandly stated, but his eyes were sparkling like someone stole the stars from the sky and hide them there. He had beautiful eyes. You could spend hours gazing in his eyes.

“Yes”, you admitted before a wide grin took over your face, “and hopelessly in love with you!”

Pushing past him, you stumbled into the hallway. Behind you, you could hear Lockwood taking a surprise inhale. However, you were already busy with your next task, taking off your shoes without falling over.

“Say that again after two coffees at least and I will be yours”, he whispered barely for you to hear.

Then he rushed to you, “Sweets, let me help.”

Getting on his knees he carefully unclasped your shoes. Where his hands touched your bare skin, it felt like you were burning.

“We should get you some water.” That sounded like a really good idea. Allowing Lockwood to take your hand, you let him pull you into the kitchen.

“I hoped you had a great evening”, he carefully led you to your chair before he went to the sink and got you a glass of water.

“It was sooo great, only you were missing!”

“Maybe then I join next time”, Lockwood mused taking a seat in front of you.

“You should, my friends really want to meet the person, who stole me away from Rothwell.”

“And I would steal you again, sweets. A shame that you will not remember this talk tomorrow.”

The one time you told him what you felt while being sober:

It had been a nerve-wracking case. You felt like a wrack when you finally reached Portland Row. Everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong, and you were lucky that all four of you were still alive. Stressed you all went separated ways. While Lucy rushed to the attic, you scored the first shower to remove the remains of salt and sweat that stuck to you like a second skin.

When you return to the kitchen after the shower to get a glass of water, you expected to find it deserted. After a case like this the team usually retreated to each of their own room to lick their metaphorical wounds in peace. You were no exception. Therefore, you were even more surprised when you saw the light shining from under the closed kitchen door.

Not bothering to knock you entered the room, to see Lockwood sitting at the kitchen table, in front of him the open first aid kit. His dress shirt was unbuttoned, and you couldn’t help gaping. Slowly blood was seeping out of a large wound, you didn’t know about. Caught, he looked up when you entered.

“That’s not what it’s looked like.”

“So, you didn't hide from us that you were injured?”

Not waiting for his answer, you could lie to yourself, you pressed a compress on his wound to stop the bleeding. As reaction Lockwood just took a sharp inhale and a little part of you were glad, that it hurt.

“We are a team; we can’t help you if you don’t let us”, you started to lecture him. But as Lockwood looked down ashamed your anger vanished into thin air. You couldn’t stay mad at him for long.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I will always worry about you”, you paused for a moment, not sure if you should really say what just popped up in your mind. But then you gathered all your courage and did it, “I will always worry about you because I love you.”

Your heart was beating like crazy, while you waited for a response. But now it was out and nothing you could do could undo it. That was somehow liberating.

“I know.”

On the list of the worst reactions after a declaration of love, “I know” was at the top. You didn't know whether to cry or to scream. However, in the end you couldn't do either. You could just stare at him while your mouth dropped open.

“You know?”, you echoed and could feel how something in your chest broke into two parts. He knew that you loved him and never said something. That could only mean one thing, he didn’t feel the same way you did. Shame slowly crept into your face.

“You already told me one, two, or maybe four times”, Lockwood explained to you and if it were up to you, he would have simply remained silent. He didn't have to try to reject you nicely, what he said was already enough for you. Standing up so quickly that your chair flew over, you tried to escape from the kitchen, but grasping your wrist, he stopped you.

“You already told me, that you love me, but there was never a good moment to reveal to you, that I love you too.” In total disbelief you gasped at him. He must be joking. Couldn’t he have told you this sooner instead of sending you on this rollercoaster of emotions?

“You love me too?”, you echoed and slowly started to feel like a parrot.

“Yes, I love you, sweets.”

“Why couldn't you say that right away?” Technically, you should be floating from happiness that he reciprocated your feelings. But you were just angry. Before Lockwood could answer you, you continued, “and when did I tell you that I love you before?” No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't remember it.

“You told me this four times when you were really drunk.”

“And you never thought to talk to me about it the next day?” Flabbergasted you shook your head. You just couldn’t believe it.

“I wasn’t sure if you really meant it and I didn’t want to embarrass you either.”

Up in the hallway, George discreetly listened to the loud voices.

“Didn’t she just tell him that she loves him?”, Lucy asked, also attracted by the noise.

“Yes.”

“But why are they yelling? Shouldn’t they be kissing or something like that?”, confused Lucy wrinkled her nose. Taking his eyes off the closed kitchen door, George looked at her.

“In response to her confession he said, “I know””

“What an idiot!”

“But an idiot in love, it seems.”

Back in the kitchen your chest rose and fell angrily. Still, you couldn’t believe that he had been aware that you liked him, and never acted on it while also being in love with you.

“You are an idiot, Anthony Lockwood.”

The biggest idiot you knew.

“But hopefully your idiot?”

Instead of answering, you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him, softly at first but with growing intensity. When you separated you felt dizzy.

“Yes, you are my idiot.”

#anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #lockwood & co fanfic #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood netflix #fanfic #lockwood x reader

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downtoncoquetteroach · 7 months

Text

Notes: so, English is not my native language so please don't be harsh on me. This supposed to be a one shot, I wrote it at 4am on my phone to avoid anxiety and in the morning I came up with some more ideas so, idk how long this will be, no more than 5 chapters for sure, I'll try to publish the second one soon. Also this is my first published fanfiction ever. I hope you like it.

⭐If I could be who you wanted ⭐

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem reader

Neville Longbottom x Fem reader

Word account: 2,484

Summary: Fred Weasley has been your crush forever and getting him is a real possibility but, what if it's not what you need anymore?

TW: swearing, virginity loss, fingering, slightly minimal Dom kink, breeding kink.

No Neville in this chapter, only smut Fred

🤌🏻🔥

Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5

Chapter 1: Use your words 💫

His hair, beautifully brushing his nose, his long delicate fingers touching his wand, always playing with it, provoking occasionally sparks without his knowledge as a perfect example of how y/n was feeling her stomach, watching his every move. "Red is the colour of the heart, just like it is the hair of the man who stoled mine". Y/n wrote that when she was 13 and she was full of embarrassment recognizing that she was about to send him a card with that horrid text inside but stopped as soon as she saw him and his twin mocking Ginny and other cheesey girls on valentine's. Love was as funny and unreal for him as his older brother perfect pin badge. So y/n managed to keep her love for Fred Weasley a secret, no one knew she loved him so bad she wanted to throw up every time he touched her hair, even in a playful way, she should have felt like a dog but her whole underwear was full of weird stains that could prove that she was totally soked for the man most of the time, it was ridiculous. When she found out he wanted to be on The Triwizard Tournament she cried the whole night thinking about what could happen to him, what if he died, what if he got serious damage, God how she cried, always on the verge of dramatism, always concerned about his grades and what if he got expelled?, how could she managed to survive without looking at his amazing outline, his beautiful eyes, his lovely lips mocking her whit that mischievous smile. Damn to re-read y/n first years at Hogwarts diaries is agony. She was delusional for the man... and then, the fantasy became real, but not at all in the way she expected.

So, yeah, they weren't super close but they were friends, since first year, she practically sat beside him and George at every meal and teamed up with them from time to time on class, they joked, they play, they sang out loud at party's, coping each others homework. But it wasn't like she was going with them to Hogsmeade on weekends, she was not taken in consideration for big pranks, she didn't even get the scoop in them, he certainly didn't talk to her about his girls or bring her anything from his kitchen rounds. But then, one night something changed.

The whole Gryffindor house was celebrating winning the quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Cherry Coloured Funk by Cocteau twins was playing in the old record player while every student left tried to understand what the singer was singing about, comparing her to Celestina Warbeck, drunk laughter's filling the common room, a nice soft red conjured light making everything dreamy and surreal, y/n wasn't drunk but certainly feeling funny, relaxed enough to dance alone in front of other people without being self conscious, and then, she felt a cold hand on her's, pulling with force, making her trip over the hand owners lap, Fred's lap. Y/n blushed so hard, she was immediately trying to stand, they were separated from the others, so that made him brave enough to do what he did. As Heaven or Las Vegas was filling the night, Fred's soft long slim fingers were caressing her skirt fabric, above her knees, his other hand grabbing her waist, eyes locked on y/n, his mouth slightly open, lips almost touching her's, holding his breath while his thumb finally reached her core and just for a second he touched her. Y/n jumped at the sensation and woke him up from his drunkness, he let her go and she went upstairs to wash her face, running through the whole staircase and finding her room empty, the other girls were probably around the castle kissing boys. As soon as she was alone she was full of regret, why did she run away? Why did he did that? Was that real or one of her daydreams coming to life courtesy of firewhiskey? Y/n finished washing her face when she hear some shy knocking on the door, it was Fred.

He looked embarrassed, something so unsettling to witness given the fact that he was always so confident and nonchalant. He stood there, red face matching his hair when he started speaking in a hurry, bumbling:

love I'm so sorry I, I want to apologize, I didn't mean, I, I don't know what happened to me, I wasn't sure what I...

She simply said: it's fine, it is really I don't, I mean It was nice.

She sounded so bloody stupid, but she did not want to make him feel as awful as he looked and besides she wasn't lying. Fred stood there in silence without a clue on what to do next, she was feeling the same way, but then he said

Are you... alone?

Yes

Wonderful

He got inside the room and closed the door with a locking charm and a silencing spell, then walked slowly to y/n looking relieved and more like himself

You know sweetheart, you shouldn't let anyone ever touch you like that, you seemed scared, maybe I was too harsh?

No! No, it was -

Nice yeah, you said that but, didn't look like you enjoyed yourself so much do you? I might be a little drunk but, I can recognize when a girl is not happy with my advances

Y/n was shocked, how could this be happening? The whole conversation was unreal, he was making her feel like a little furry creature, nervousness weakening her knees, her knickers almost dropping just by looking at him, Fred bloody Weasley in her damn room, eyes full of...desire? quidditch uniform still on, his classic mischievous smile coming up, him, getting closer and closer to her

He held her hand

Is it ok that I'm here?

Y -yeah, sure

Do YOU want me here?

Y/n managed to nod slowly but he immediately said

Use your words princess

I-

He was gently touching her cheek, instantly making her close her eyes as he got closer to her lips, whispering

Do you want me here?

And releasing a sight she was holding since the first time she saw him on the train to Hogwarts she said

I do.

He kissed her.

He's soft lips were caressing her's so slowly and delicately while his scent filled y/n's head, he got his hands on her's, fingers interwined, guiding y/n slowly to the bed, his wet tongue licking her lower lip, making y/n whimper in surprise. She had never ever kissed a boy in the french way before which was her biggest insecurity given the fact that she was almost sixteen. Fred stoped.

Love, please tell me if I am wrong but, is this your first kiss?

She guessed it was her scared look what gave her away

Ahm

She started to get away but he stopped her

Princess if I'm making you uncomfortable please tell me and I'll leave you alone forever, but kissing your beautiful lips before any man its my biggest achievement so far, so, tell me, I'm the first?

Y/n's pride was hurt a little when she quietly said

You are.

Y/n had never seen lust before, Fred's eyes were almost black and closed while he reached to kiss her more passionately than before, holding her face between his hands while she dared to put her hands through his long beautiful hair, immediately rewarded with a soft grunt fully delivered in her mouth. She could feel her core throbbing, head spinning, hormones screaming through her skin by the feeling of his tongue all over her's, he put her on the bed softly and then got on top of her, his long strong legs opening her's, y/n could feel his hardness through their clothes, pushing hard on her wet pussy, his hands were all over her legs and ass while her hands were fumbling under his sweater, reaching his bare stomach and hips. Fred was over the edge, the other girls he had before were much more experienced and older than him, he always ended up being their prey, this was the very first time he was in control and he liked it so much he was ready to cum just now. It wasn't just that. To be honest, he was absolutely turned on by y/n since he found out about her sweet crush on him in third year, he liked to pet her just to see her blush, but it wasn't until this night, with his confidence over the cloud's by wining the game that he had the courage to make his fantasy's real. Y/n eyes were full of adoration, he could feel his dick getting painfully hard as she lay beneath him, so horny and willing to give herself to him. She looked so beautiful he couldn't stop touching her skin while looking at her in the eyes just to see her reaction. She was so sensitive, that when he started to take her clothes she was full of goosebumps, almost drooling at the sight of him without his sweater and t shirt.

Y/n was totally sober by now because of the impression, was her first time happening? She was about to lose her virginity to Fred Weasley? How could she be so lucky? And then she started feeling worried, what if she didn't make him feel good? She didn't know how to give pleasure to a boy, and he looked so secure, in charge of everything... he must had read her thought because he suddenly said

Y/n do you want to stop? It's ok if you do, no hard feelings or anything, if you are not comfortable we can just hang and that's all

She was glad he didn't said he'll leave.

It's ok Fred, I want you

Jesus fucking Christ y/n had never said anything so direct and needy in her whole life, what was it about this man that turned her into a complete moron. She wished that it was more alcohol in her system to keep her relax and cool but the fire whiskey was long gone with all of her sweat and lubrication. That thought made her question, what if Fred was so drunk she was taking advantage of him

But ahm, aren't you drunk? Isn't this something you would regret tomorrow? What if I'm taking advantage of you? Your judgement is not right at the moment we should...

Fred laughed, he couldn't believe how sweet she was, he got closer to her ear and whispered

Love, I'm going to destroy your little pussy.

She was unable to contain a moan, Fred started kissing her neck, licking his way down on her, y/n's breath was shaking, she didn't knew what to do or what was gonna happen, Fred was pulling aside her little flowered pantys and without warning, he started licking her violently. It was incredible helpful that he put a silence charm on before because y/n's whimpers could have woken up the entire castle. She tasted so good he couldn't stoped liking her hole cunt and the fact that she was fully soaked for him before he even did anything was priceless. He wanted to put his fingers inside her but he managed to wait, he just had to see her face while he took her virginity.

Y/n was almost fainting, she didn't knew she could feel that much pleasure, that boy's could do that with their tongs, she was over the edge and without even thinking she said

Fred, fuck me, please, I need you

He almost came. Having her pleading for his dick while he eat her was just too much, he pulled apart from her and stood

What did you say princess?

Y/n was totally out of herself

Im, I- I want you, I want you inside me

Y/n's sudden shyness made his dick leak some pre cum and he unbuttoned his trousers. She was so freaking cute, he couldn't handle it, all of those years of watching her, so shy, so tender, and now he was about to make her his.

Y/n couldn't stop staring at Fred's amazing torso exposed, his muscly arms, long slim fingers, soft messy hair, smooth skin, and then his wonderful knob in all of his glory making her a little bit worried, he was all over the edge by the impression in her face

Love don't worry, you'll take me just fine

Fred got on top of her again, kissing every part of her body, sucking her breast, caressing her body with the tip of his fingers, causing goosebumps all over her...agitated breath anticipating the pain.

She felt it, his huge hard dick all over her fanny, so tasty it made them both grunt loudly, he's started swearing quietly while he rocked her, getting all wet and nice to make it fit, and then looked at her in the eyes

Last chance to run angel, are you sure you want me to...

Y/n kissed him and then she said

Fred I'm already yours just take me -

And he did. He knew for a fact that making things slowly just prolonged the pain so he did give her his whole cock in one exhibit while he scrutinized her face, her eyes, her lips. He wanted to memorize all of the perfect sounds his little princess was making for him, because of him. He kept fucking her, asking occasionally if she was alright.

Princess can I come inside you?

Y/n couldn't handle it anymore and came so badly she stopped hearing what he said after. She sensed her insides full of his delicious juices and felt happy that he understood and kept her eyes closed for a while, trying to conceive what had just happened.

Fred was freaked, he just told her that he wanted to filled her with his baby's. He had never ever said (neither thought) that before, wtf was going on with him. And the worst part was that he actually meant it? His dick was getting hard again just by thinking of it. Merlin, and she wasn't saying anything. What should he do?

Angel are you ok?

She was asleep.

#fem reader #fred weasly x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley #hp fandom #hp fanfic #smut #fred weasley smut

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givemea-dam-break · 1 year

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Hey!! I saw you opened up requests for Lockwood&Co and I was wondering if you could writte some Anthony Lockwood x reader, maybe with the prompt 8 from the fluff prompt list, thankss

a/n: yes of course! i tried just about a million different courses of action for this, simply because i didn't want it to be too similar to other amazing fics out there, so i hope you enjoy!

prompt: "if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to have to kiss you." warnings: mild language, teenage awkwardness lol gn reader

As an agent, it's not very often you get the chance to relax. Most of your time is spent fighting ghosts or researching the next case, or even simply just sleeping, so you never really get time for much else, but today is different, and you couldn't be more relieved.

The most recent case Lockwood and Co have been hired for is a simpler one, one that Lucy and George opted to go on by themselves. Nothing more than a Type One, so it meant Lockwood - the face of the business - could get some actual owner work done.

Currently, he's sitting below in the basement, filling out the last few cases into the casebook, while you clean the house.

It's something you've been meaning to do for a little while now but never had the opportunity to get around to doing because of all of the cases going on. And, though most of the time cleaning was the last thing you wanted to do, there's solitude in washing the dishes and ironing the clothes. Maybe it's the fact that your friends will come home to a clean house with fresh clothes to change into after their second night working in a row. Maybe it's the way it occupies your mind, pushing all other thoughts to the side.

You've been thinking a little too much lately, mostly about things that shouldn't have been a problem or don't really matter in the grand scheme of things, but, no matter what you do, one thought always remains: Anthony Lockwood.

After working at Lockwood and Co for about a year now, it's safe to say that you've grown close to each of the members. George, you bond with over a love of knowledge, an itch to know more about things that have been pawned over since before you were even born. Lucy, well, the two of you share a room, so it would be awkward not to be close. You've found yourself lying awake together countless nights, discussing the past and your interests and everything under the sun.

But Lockwood...

He was the one to show you around London just after being hired and confused as to the layout of the city you had only just moved to. He was who you felt safest with on cases, who you fell back on when things were going wrong. Some part of you feels connected to him in a way you weren't with Lucy and George, like a little part of your soul has become bound to his and won't be separated.

There's no way of knowing if he feels the same or if he looks at you the way you look at him, and it's easier to believe that he doesn't. For your own sanity, it's much simpler to bury the feelings that plague you whenever you look at him, or when his fingers brush yours ever so slightly when you hand him a cup of tea in the morning.

Because, why would he feel the same?

You're not inherently special, not in the way that Lucy is by being able to communicate with ghosts, nor do you have the incredible research skills of George. Your talent for Touch is your only redeeming factor, but even that is nothing much beyond holding an object and watching your surroundings fade away into scenes of the past. Much good it does you when a ghost creeps up on you.

"Tea?"

You shriek, jumping and almost dropping the iron on your foot in the process. Turning, you come face to face with Lockwood, who stands in the living room doorway, holding two mugs of steaming hot tea.

"Lockwood!" you say. "Don't do that! I almost had a heart attack."

"Apologies," he says, but he doesn't seem awfully apologetic. "Anyways, do you want some tea? I did make two mugs, and you know how pissy George gets if we waste teabags -"

"Of course I'll have tea," you grumble, placing the iron down and folding the shirt laid across the ironing board. You become acutely aware of whose exactly it is. "Uh, just put it on the table, for now, please. I'll be done in a minute."

Lockwood smiles that dazzling smile of his, and your knees feel a little weak, but you force the feeling down.

It takes only a few minutes to finish up with the ironing, and you move to flatten the board to stash away, but a calloused hand closes over yours, and a tall figure towers beside you. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you dread to know how red you've become.

"Let me," Lockwood says. "Drink your tea before it goes cold."

You want to argue, but there's a glint in his eye and you know you'll never win, so you relent. With a grin of triumph, Lockwood's hand slips from yours and he nudges you over to the sofa. You sink onto the seat with a sigh, unaware until now of how much your back has been aching.

Upon sipping your tea, you pause.

"Is it alright?" Lockwood asks, sitting on the armchair just off to the side. "You've got a really particular way of making your tea -"

"It's perfect," you say, smiling. "I thought we'd run out of chamomile tea bags, though. George forgot to buy some on his last trip to Arif's."

Lockwood sips his tea, but there's something a little strange about his posture. "Yeah, we did run out. I nipped out earlier and got some."

You frown. "You didn't just go out to get me these tea bags, did you?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, smiling. "You've been stressed lately, and I know it helps calm your nerves a little, so it was no big deal."

Something in your chest gives a little flutter at that. Not only does he know your habits in trying to relax, but he also went out with the sole purpose of achieving that. You hold the mug close to your chest, looking away from Lockwood to hide the heat that's risen to your cheeks.

His presence alone is soothing, comforting in the sense that you know you're safe whenever he's around. It's cheesy, and you feel stupid for even thinking like that, but you know it to be true. There's no one else you'd rather have sitting with you.

"You get the casebook done, then?" you ask, keeping your eyes focused on the window ahead, the light from ghost lamps outside peeking in through the gaps in the curtains.

"Just about. Figured you'd need a brew and some company, though. Plenty of time to get it finished, still."

Your lips twitch into another smile. "Lockwood the sap. Never would've thought."

He shrugs. "What can I say? I like to make sure my employees are kept happy, and I've been told I make perfect tea."

"Well, thank you. I'll be sure to do the chores more often if it means I get more of this tea. No offence to her, but Lucy's tea isn't nearly as nice as this."

You look up, and he's already looking at you, dark eyes unintelligible. Within their darkness, a little reflection of light shimmers, and it's hard to look away. It's like his gaze has locked yours in place and frozen you so that you can't move, but it's a feeling you don't mind. You could look at him for days - at the way his hair falls across his brow messily, no doubt from running his hand through it while filling in the casebook, or the way his fingers tap against his mug quietly. The little details, like how his tie has been loosened slightly, or his socks are a similar lavender colour as the jumper you wear - completely a coincidence - are what entrance you most.

"If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to have to kiss you."

Your heart stops, and you can only blink in response.

Lockwood's face goes bright red. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Mm-hm," you squeak. "Um, I, uh - yes."

"Right." He places his mug down, blinking hard and looking away. "Uh, okay. That's not - I didn't -"

"Of course!" you say. "No, obviously, you didn't -"

"I didn't?"

"You - um..."

Like Lockwood, you place your mug down, but your hands shake a little. Maybe you didn't hear him right. Maybe you're dreaming. You must be dreaming, right?

Before you can think about it too much, you pinch the skin of your arm hard, hissing at the sharp pain.

Lockwood jumps. "Why did you do that?"

"Not dreaming," you groan. "Definitely not dreaming. Why would you let me do that?"

"I didn't! How was I meant to know -?"

"I don't know!" You keep your gaze firmly fixed on the coffee table, face as hot as the fire burning over at the other side of the room. "But, uh..."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

An awkward silence hangs in the air, so thick you could cut through it with your rapier.

Did he mean what he had said, or was it just a spur of the moment? Surely that's it. There was no way it was genuine... But the way he flushed has butterflies swarming in your stomach, and you feel a little giddy. If he means it, that means - god, what does that mean?

"Sorry," Lockwood says. He still won't look at you. "I don't know why I said that."

"Did you mean it?"

Lockwood looks a little taken aback, his eyes slowly dragging from the worn arm of his chair up to you. "I mean... Yes."

A little smile plays on your lips. "Cool."

"Cool? What exactly do you mean by cool?"

"Cool as in I've gotten the great Anthony Lockwood flustered," you say, tearing your gaze from the table. "And because I wouldn't necessarily be opposed to that idea."

Usually so composed, so calm and collected, it's quite funny to see him nervous. Gone is that signature smirk of his, replaced by a slack-jawed expression of surprise.

"You wouldn't - um...?"

You shrug nonchalantly, but your heart is pounding. "I suppose not, as long as it means more tea for me."

The joke seems to shake him out of his stupor because, soon, he's standing with that shit-eating grin of confidence on his face. He reaches out a hand, and you take it, relishing in the warmth of it as he pulls you from your seat. He's standing close, closer than usual, and your heart is performing somersaults in your chest.

His hand is still closed around yours but, ever so slowly, it trails over the skin of your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and finds its way to the back of your neck. His touch is gentle, cautious, and though that arrogant gleam is back in his eyes, you know that if you told him to stop he would.

Can he feel your pulse? The way he's made your heart turn into an Olympic runner? Can he hear your shaky breaths, or see your trembling knees?

You can feel his breath as he draws nearer, his face so, so close to yours now. Your eyes meet and, for a moment, the world washes away. No longer are you standing in the living room, surrounded by decor from other countries or freshly folded and ironed clothes, but in a world of your own. Time melts away under your fingers, leaving only his chest beneath your palms.

He's breathing a little heavier now, and a smile, softer than before, plays on his lips. "Can I -?"

Words failing you, you nod.

And it's the best decision you've ever made.

His lips are soft if a little chapped, but it's as if they were made for yours. Fireworks explode in your head, and those butterflies swarming have multiplied tenfold. Slowly, one of his hands comes to your waist, gripping your jumper and the skin beneath, and the hand on the back of your neck travels down your back.

Part of you still believes that it's all a dream. There's no way you could really be standing in the living room, kissing your friend who is also your boss - which, surely breaks some sort of code of conduct - but he feels real, his hammering heartbeat feels real.

The kiss gently breaks off, but your faces remain so close that it could begin again with the slightest move. Your eyes flutter open, finding his dark gaze fixed on your face.

Fighting back a smile, you dramatically deepen your voice. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to have to kiss you."

Lockwood rolls his eyes, laughing in a way that has your knees buckling. He opens his mouth, about to say something, but the front door suddenly opens, followed by the sound of Lucy's and George's voices. Quickly, you both shuffle apart, red-faced and breathing heavily.

"Oh, I was expecting you guys to be working in the basement," George said from the living room doorway. "Clean house... I expect that was (name)'s doing?"

"Mm-hm," you say, nodding. "Clothes are done, too." You point over to the separated piles of folded clothes.

Lucy catches your gaze, flicking her eyes to Lockwood and then back to you. She raises an eyebrow, and your absence of a reply seems to be enough of an answer.

Upstairs, she mouths, holding back a grin. Now.

"I - uh, I've got some cleaning to finish up on in the attic," you say, glancing back at Lockwood.

He's smiling as he usually does, but something in it as he looks at you becomes more intimate, more private, and you can feel your cheeks growing hotter.

"Tea's still warm in the kitchen," he says to George and Lucy, but you can still feel his gaze on you as you turn. "Plus some doughnuts in the cupboard."

You nod, maybe a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah! Um, well, if you guys need me, you know where to find me."

His gaze follows you out the door, and you can still feel his lips on yours as you hurry up the stairs.

It wasn't a dream, you tell yourself giddily. It was real.

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

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