#slut! taylor’s version | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lewkwoodnco · 6 months

Text

"Slut!" - Lockwood x Reader

A/N: been having a lottt of thoughts about this song. it wasn't what I expected like for a lot of ppl but this is immediately my favourite?? like idk man those hints of her rep era beginning mixed with the emotional vulnerability of being in love mannn im going to be annoying abt this for a wholeee month. Reader is a Fittes agent, wc 5.4k!!

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 3.5 | Ch 4 | Ch 5

On paper, her employers had always commended her for her drive for excellence. What was usually glossed over was how it arose from an unhealthy obsession with perfection, not that it mattered. And yet, glowing articles about successful cases were rare and far between. She had led as many successful cases as some of her male colleagues, but those headlines were seemingly too dull for her sex. After all, who wanted to read about a woman showing up the men in her field? So the tabloids started to play dirty, spinning convoluted rumoured love stories from any and every photo of her in the vicinity of a man.

She remembered how devastating the first article was. Instead of publishing one of the many photos of her standing with her team, there was a shadowed, grainy photograph of her talking to their supervisor. She tried to tell anyone who asked her that no, they weren't kissing, not that it would have mattered if it did, but no one seemed much interested in listening. The shame burnt into the side of her face like a scarlet letter. A slut.

Eventually, she decided to just keep everyone at arm's length. Maybe if she kept her head down long enough they'd run out of knives to throw at her. And for a good two years, it somewhat worked, or at least helped. But then she met Lockwood.

She didn't think much of him at first - if anything, she resented his suave, silver tongue and how the press went nuts for his charismatic smiles. He tried to dazzle her with one when they first met, and she nearly scoffed.

"Anthony Lockwood, Lockwood and Co. And you are...?"

"Disgusted."

She tried talking to Barnes, throwing in some less-than-complimentary opinions on Lockwood, but he just waved her off. Eventually, she came around, but only because he was undeniably skilled, and it would have been unprofessional to freeze him out forever.

She remembered the first time he made her smile. Their supervisor was having them sign their case report, so she wasn't even looking at him. He whispered some inane remark which caught her completely off-guard, but it was enough to make her damage the tip of the fountain pen as she choked on a laugh. Her supervisor looked unimpressed, grumbling about the pen, but Lockwood's face had taken on an animated spark.

"Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if you knew how to smile."

The smile is a foreign feeling on her face. Lockwood gently takes the report from her and starts talking in smooth tones that flow right over her head. She shakes herself and tries to pull herself together, trying to soothe the nervous flutter of her heart. She can only bear catching glimpses of his words and she struggles to string together coherent responses.

But then she hears the vans pulling up. Vans filled with news agencies and their bulky cameras. She's paralysed by a flash of fear and she jumps apart from Lockwood as if burnt, tripping over her words as she forces out some lame excuse of needing to check on her team. Lockwood looks mildly concerned, but she pushes it to the back of her mind.

They meet again a week or two later. She's sitting outside a conference room, waiting for Barnes to finish a meeting, and she realises with a start that the man in the room she's facing is Lockwood. To be fair, she hadn't seen him in an indoor setting before, and he seemed nearly unrecognisable with his typically crisp shirt dusty and wrinkled, with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. She watches him laugh over something with one of his associates as they leave the room, and she drinks in the sight like a man starved. There is something so desperately appealing about the vitality in his face and jaunty movements.

As the smile fades, she recognises the exhaustion on his face; the kind that made her want to do nothing more than stumble home and crawl under the covers. But then he sees her, and he gives her a teasing smile that stokes her spirits. His associate gives her a tired wave and walks out.

"Waiting for me?"

She rolls her eyes and nods towards the conference room. "Waiting for Barnes. Going home?"

He jerks his head noncommittally before sitting down next to her. He looks oddly bare without his coat, and it feels almost too intimate to have him sitting this close to her. She sits up, alarmed.

"What, you need to see him too?"

"You look like you could use some company."

"Lockwood, it could be hours before he's done. Besides, you look like death. Go home, get some rest."

"Joke's on you, I always look like death."

She shakes her head but smiles despite herself. "You're incorrigible."

"Thank you."

They sit in silence for a while, long enough until her breathing evens out. She wonders if he's aware of the way his fingers drum restlessly on his thigh, or the ash coating the side of his face, or how both of those things make him utterly irresistible.

"How do you do it? Stay so young, I mean."

He considers his answer carefully. She takes in the sight of a Lockwood without a ready quip at the tip of his tongue. "I suppose it helps that I'm not singly obsessed with the dead, though it does get close sometimes. Who do you live with?"

"Oh, my family lives outside of London." Thank god. She couldn't imagine the looks on their faces if they heard half of what London's tabloids had to say about her.

"You live alone?"

"Yeah. But it's not so bad. There's a cat that wanders in the street below my flat at night." He doesn't look completely convinced, but he lets it slide.

"Really, I owe it all to my friends - oh, you'd love them. You should come over sometime."

"That's sweet of you."

"Our weekends are generally empty."

"Oh...I couldn't. I don't know where you live."

"35 Portland Row."

"Lockwood," she admonishes. "Don't you think this is something you should run by your friends first?"

"I've done worse."

"I'm practically a stranger."

"Then how else are we supposed to get to know you?"

Her mind tears her away from Lockwood's silhouette, to troubling piles of tabloids dragging her to filth. After months of them, she isn't sure where she ends and where the fabrication begins. She barely manages a whisper.

"I think you'd regret getting to know me."

She doesn't realise how tightly her fist is clenched until he brushes her wrist, and the tension flows out of her. His eyes are liquid and his touch is golden and she's paralysed with dizziness. In that moment, it was enough to be young and in love.

"Only one way to find out."

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

She takes him up on his invitation sooner than either of them expected. They had just finished a job at a house just a street over from Portland Row, and her team was walking with Lockwood & Co. on their way to the main street. She pauses as George fiddles with the frozen door while the rest of her team walk on, tiredly waving them good night. But just as she turns to leave, she slips on a patch of ice, falling into a pile of snow while Lockwood lunges for her.

"Dear god, you must be freezing. Come in and warm up."

"It's alright, I can catch a cab home-"

"Y/N, I am not above pushing you back into the snow."

Her laugh morphs into a violent shiver, just as Lucy walks over concernedly.

"Everything okay? Lockwood's not bullying you, is he?" She cracks a small smile, but Lockwood just impatiently ignores Lucy.

"Stay for breakfast. Spend the day. Lucy would love the company. Luce, tell her."

"It would be nice."

"I'm soaked through. I need a change of clothes."

"Lucy can get you a change of clothes. Luce, tell her."

"I can get you a change of clothes."

"I wouldn't want to be an imposition."

Lockwood inhales and turns to Lucy, who smacks the breath right out of him.

"I'm right here, Lockwood. Don't be ridiculous, Y/N, we'd love to have you over." Lucy exchanges a look with Lockwood, but it's so brief she wonders if she's imagined it, but it's just then that George forces the door open, and she gets jostled into their warm and dry home. Lucy helps her dry off and tosses her some clothes, including a spare oversized jumper, before bundling her and setting her down in front of the fire in the library.

It feels wonderfully cosy at first, and she only realises she's dozed off when she wakes up with a crick in her neck and beads of sweat on her forehead and neck. She pushes the blankets off her, sighing in relief as she starts to cool down. She hears the rustle of a page behind her and turns.

Lockwood is sitting in an armchair behind her, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, a magazine on his lap. He smiles weakly at her, wincing as he rotates his neck. She was beginning to feel convinced that he ate, slept and worked in the same set of clothes. Her voice is gravelly with sleep.

"Still up?"

"Someone had to make sure you didn't roll into the fire. Besides, it hasn't been long."

She squints at the clock hung near the door. Unless the shadows were playing tricks on her, it was only a few hours from dawn. The glance he shared with Lucy earlier flashes in her mind, and she presses him about it.

"Say, you haven't told Lucy anything particularly saddening about me, have you?"

He waffles a bit. "I haven't said anything that isn't true."

"Lockwood."

"Fine...I might have mentioned how you live alone, and that you've only got a cold, dark home waiting for you. Alone."

"I didn't say that."

"So you're saying it's not true?"

She hesitates, and he quirks the corner of his mouth triumphantly. "It's no bother, Y/N. Lucy feels as bad about it as I do - George too. Just let us fuss over you for a while, I promise it'll soothe us."

She relents, but she's not happy about it. She watches him lazily flip through the pages with a becoming interest and decides that it's a nice change from the frantic energy running through him on cases. His eyes stay mostly fixed on the pages, but after a while the way he glances up occasionally makes her think his interest is waning. He looks at her strangely, and she unpleasantly realises that the jumper is likely his. She tugs at the hem, itching to take it off, but she isn't wearing a shirt underneath, so she settles for continuing to profusely apologise.

"I'm so sorry for burdening all of you-"

"Y/N, relax. As long as you're warm."

"Well...I'm awake now. And I won't stay too close to the fire. Aren't you going to sleep?"

"I'm a bit wired after the case. Might take a nap later in the day." He jerks his head towards the door. "My room's just down the hallway if you'd like to get some proper rest."

She flushes; talking about his bedroom while wearing his jumper feels too intimate to bear. "It's okay. I'd rather stay here with...you." She chews the inside of her cheek as soon as she says it, holding her breath as she gauges his reaction.

"That's a relief. I'd rather you be here anyway."

She doesn't understand how he says it so casually when she feels that she might run out of air. She tries to calm herself down, taking deep, long breaths. She could be normal if she tried hard enough. They spend the rest of the night like that, somehow never running out of topics to discuss. He tells her about Jessica. She tells her about her family. It's only as he gets up to get ready for breakfast that she asks him about the magazine in his lap. "What were you reading?"

Now it's his turn to look embarrassed. "Oh, er, I like to keep up with what's happening around town -"

"Is that...a tabloid?" She pulls out one of the magazines sticking out of the pile set to the side and blanches at the headline with a dramatically edited photograph of her. Shame burns the side of her face, and she wishes the floor would just open up and swallow her whole. She had stupidly assumed he hadn't heard of her before meeting her, but why shouldn't he have? The magazines beat her to making a first impression, just like they always have. Just like they always will.

"I can explain."

"No, no, it's fine." Was something wrong with her ears, or did her voice sound a bit too distant? "Lots of people read tabloids. It doesn't mean anything. Anyway, we should get ready for breakfast."

"Y/-"

"Lockwood. I mean it. Drop it." The cut-up look in his eyes is bad enough without an apology. What was he apologising for? For her being such For her being a laughingstock? He bows his head and shuffles out of the library. She stays there, frozen, sitting on the floor, until she hears George rattling about in the kitchen. She walks in, slightly disconcerted by the casual t-shirt Lockwood had changed into. So many of his hard edges and shadows in the the library seemed to soften into a more vulnerable outline that makes her regret snapping at him. She mumbles a greeting and George takes a long look at her. If he notices their matching eye bags, he doesn't comment on it, but while she's making tea, she hears a scuffle behind her and turns to see George standing next to Lockwood with the frying pan alarmingly close to his head.

"Eggs, Y/N?"

Lucy arrives soon after, and begins to spread jam on her toast despite George's aggrieved protests.

"Oh, Y/N, I hope you didn't spend all night on the hard floor. I didn't hear you come up to the attic."

"The attic?"

"Yeah, where the extra bed is." She brandishes her jelly-covered knife vaguely threateningly. "Lockwood told you about it, didn't he?"

The boy in question seems a bit too busy buttering his bread to look up. She mumbles an affirmative, but notices his reluctance to meet her eye for majority of breakfast. Still, she couldn't stay mad at him for long, and it didn't seem awfully polite to, either, not after he opened his home to her.

After breakfast, Lockwood left to scope out a potential client and George headed to the Archives for a bit of light reading, so she and Lucy spend the morning playing board games and watching crappy television while painting their nails. She hadn't felt so alive in months. After a few hours, Lucy suddenly remembers some paperwork she had to complete so while she's busy with that, she wanders around the stairs and hallways, reading every newspaper clipping and looking at every picture, eventually working her way down to the kitchen.

She hears a creak coming from the inside and looks in. Lockwood's returned from his excursion and he shrugs off his jacket, placing it on one of the kitchen chairs as she timidly steps in. He seems just as much at a loss for words as her. She tries to break the ice and, surprisingly, it works.

"Seems a bit full of yourself to litter the halls with your achievements." He gives her a small smile and she revels in the glimmer of success.

"Can't help that I'm especially gifted."

Emboldened, she takes a seat at the table as he pulls out an apple from the fruit bowl and a chopping board.

"Nasty business with the press, isn't it?"

She moodily fiddles with the thinking cloth. "Yeah, well. God forbid a woman be happy."

He looks at her like he's trying to figure her out. The attention makes her fidget nervously. They watch him slice the apple into halves, and then quarters, in silence. "Is that why you're so...highly strung on cases?"

"George tell you to talk to me?"

"Er, yes, but he didn't need to. I'm sorry about earlier, by the way. I have an uncanny ability of putting my foot in it."

"I'd never have guessed." She isn't even being sarcastic. She talks to the apple rather than him. "I hate it. They say all these...awful things about me. Not that I have to tell you." She blinks humourlessly. He sets down the knife.

"Y/N, if you think I believe a word those gossip rags have to say about you, I might be seriously overestimating your intelligence."

She swallows the lump in her throat. It's the nicest thing anyone has said to her in a long while. She never fully acknowledged it because that would mean admitting she cared, that she was weak. But she couldn't help it. She lived life forever looking over her shoulder, so wrapped up in what ifs that she could barely stomach what was, forever worrying that anyone would think it was true. Maybe it was true. Her self-perception contorts and convulses, until she feels strangely formless. But that was the beauty of the moment: hidden away in the dim light of the kitchen, with only Lockwood and God as her witness, she could be anything and everything.

Her hand trembles with repressed emotion. He steadies her by carefully covering it with his own.

And for one beautiful, transcendent moment, she thought she might love him.

She walks home in a pleasant haze, her senses enjoying the reprieve from their constant assault. She ambles by a florist, and she sees a rose. It reminds her of Lockwood. She buys the rose and takes it home, even though she knows she doesn't have a vase for it. Even after a day filled with the most fun she'd had in a while, a restlessness troubles her, making her feel feverish with some invisible affliction. She plucks the translucent petals one by one, holding them up to the setting sun streaming through her windows. She wonders what they would look like in his hair. She winces when one of the thorns break the skin of her thumb. She rubs the smear of blood onto her bottom lip. Looking up at the ceiling, her hair a mess, tangled with the rose petals strewn all over her wrinkled sheets, she realises what it means to be hopelessly and cluelessly lovesick.

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

She remembers the first time she cries in front of him. They were on a case at some billionaire's acres-large manor. She ducks under the tape cordoning off the area and freezes, seeing reporters unobtrusively yet steadily setting up their cameras. There had to be some sort of mistake, they're never here this early. Certainly not before they've even started the job. She feels her senses heighten and a faint buzzing teases her ears. She sees Lockwood glance at her and start walking towards her, and she all but flees in the other direction.

She stays a safe distance away from him until the rest of the agents arrive for their briefing. The billionaire's assistant hadn't arrived yet, so they were standing around one of the outdoor picnic tables in the front garden...right in front of the gathering sea of reporters. She tries her best to pay attention but there's a muffled quality to the discussion as she listens for shutter sounds, real or imagined. Her hands grow clammy and her breathing grows jagged as the ominous feeling in her stomach grows. Something very bad was going to happen and it was going to happen soon, she was sure of it.

As if in slow motion, she watches Lockwood reach across to pick up a file from the table beside her on the table, and she feels her panic reach a crescendo as she senses the ripple of excitement in the press. She flinches so badly before he completes the movement that he gets startled, backing away. The question dies on his lips as she walks away, clumsily adjusting her rapier to give her hands something to do. To stop herself from sobbing over the lenses in her peripheral vision.

The press are just as ruthless as they were the last time she made the mistake of not leaving the scene as soon as she had the chance. And still from the chorus of overlapping voices, one made her heart stop dead.

"Y/N L/N, what do you have to say for seducing London's most eligible bachelor?"

She looks around desperately, struggling against waves of despair that threatened to drag her down into the abyss. No one was safe, not even charismatic Lockwood, and it was all her fault for dragging him into her messy life. It wasn’t fair that news agencies chose her life to screw with. She loved him silly with bruised eyes and an aching liver, but she couldn't even look at him properly. She couldn't scrub the image of Lockwood's face from her mind. Hot shame spread from her spine up her neck, an unpleasant prickling sensation. She felt flayed and grotesque, a hundred different kinds of twisted and messed up. Promiscuous on paper, manic in reality, enraptured by what she could never have.

Lockwood finds her sitting on the patchy grass of the backyard, head resting against the wall with suspiciously red eyes. He thinks for a moment before sitting down next to her.

“Hey.”

She’s too busy holding back tears to respond. She despairs internally when she first hears his voice, wishing he didn't care enough about her to follow her. God, they were going to make her pay for this tomorrow. He speaks in a low, soothing voice, but there's an underlying disquiet that comforts her. She'd never have imagined him to feel rattled by the press like she did.

"It all happened so quick, even George didn't realise."

"Doesn't matter. They got what they wanted."

"We'll talk to the assistant as soon as she gets here. We'll refuse to work until they clear out."

She feels an overwhelming amount of relief, not just for his help, but just for him. Sitting here solidly, away from prying eyes, rumours and lies, he felt like a precious secret she wanted to keep. The relief doesn't last long until it gets poisoned into grief. She rasps out an apology.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Everything." She feels herself shutting down, unravelling at the seams. But then there's this warmth next to her and a solid, reassuring weight across her shoulders. She shakes with mostly silent sobs, not realising that she's crumpled his shirt from clenching it until later. She sniffles into his shirt like a child, and clings to him with the desperation of a drowning man.

He insists that she sits out for the case, and for once, she listens.

The next time they meet is a little bittersweet. She tells him she's being posted outside of London for a month. It's sobering news, even for him.

"A whole month. Well, it'll go by faster than you realise."

"I hope so."

"How're you feeling?"

"Nervous, I suppose." She was dreading it. She didn't know how she ever worked on a case before Lockwood. At first, she thought it was simply because he took attention from the press off her hands. But there was just something about his presence that made the tension coiled in her body unwind. She tries to keep her tone light, but something must have shown on her face because he sighs and throws an arm over her shoulder, steering her away from the crowd of agents, medics and reporters.

"Don't fret. You'll be fine, trust me. You'll have your teammates with you, Barnes is supervising and you know he can't stand the press, and I've yet to read a headline vicious enough to knock you down for good. You're stronger than you realise, you know." She nods glumly, dragging her feet along. She looks up when he pulls away slightly, frowning at her face. He rubs at the furrow in her brow and she feels her face heat up.

"I said to not fret. You have everything you need." That earns him a weak smile, and though he doesn't look entirely happy with it, he can see George looking around for him. She watches him walk back as he mouths 'one month' to her, trying to smile encouragingly. The sun has started to rise, and the dusk casts a soft purple glow on his hair. She mumbles her response to the wind.

"What if...all I need is you?"

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

The month drags by painfully, but it finally ends. She packs her bags and takes the first train to London, just in time to join Lockwood for a case after a bit of begging at Barnes' feet. The job is at another mansion, but somehow even more extravagant and sprawling than the last one. It's bathed in a soft bubblegum pink glow, spilling out into its lawns and hedges and fountains.

She watches him explaining something to one of her colleagues, making some light sketches on the report. He looks exactly the same if a little haggard, yet older somehow, and it tugs at her heart. She had heard that this was supposed to be the last of a particularly tedious string of connected cases, and it had clearly taken a toll on him. Her heart skips a beat at the boyish glow that washes over his features when he sees her.

"...and for the Limbless George was sa- you weren't supposed to be back till Sunday!"

She flushes, beaming excitedly. Part of her wants to hug him, but another part is too scared to, so she contends with her smile.

"We finished early, and I wore Barnes down eventually. Now, what's this about a Limbless?"

The case goes more than smoothly with the extra help of her and her team, and they end up finishing comfortably before midnight, though not without a few minor mishaps. She finds Lockwood with his sleeves and trousers rolled up, dangling his legs in the pool, scrubbing at his hands.

"Wet cement," he grunts as a greeting, looking peevishly at the not-so-clearly cordoned off patch of wet cement. "Ought to have told us. Someone could have gotten properly injured."

"Oh, who'd be silly enough to fall into that?"

"Let me rephrase that: Quill Kipps could have gotten properly injured."

She laughs, turning to add her own handprint next to his in the cement. She smiles coyly as she tenderly scrapes the residue of her palm. He leans in, then stops, sniffing curiously.

"Is that...smoke?"

"Had a bit of an incident with a salt bomb. Someone threw it in the wrong direction."

"Ah."

They're interrupted by a loud whoop from the other end of the pool. A couple of Fittes boys had broken into the liquor cabinet and were now the proud owners of three preciously high-end bottles of champagne. She tried to look at them reprovingly, but couldn't find it in her.

"Oh well. We'll put that down under property damage."

One of her teammates scurried over to clarify a discrepancy in her paperwork, and she leaves to sort it out. By the time she's back, Lockwood's tie is loosened and he's swaying along to some invisible music.

"Y/N! You've got to try some of this stuff, it's grrrreat!"

She shakes her head bemusedly. "Lockwood. How many glasses have you had?"

"Oh, just one." He blinks at the glass in his hand. "One and a half." He drags her in briefly, whispering into her ear. "Besides, what happened to being young?"

Her heart hammers as soon as she feels the tug on her wrist; she's never even touched him in public before. She scans the scene reflexively, but no one seems to have noticed. She supposed getting drunk and making ill-thought-out decisions was the youngest she could be, so she decided to have a little sip.

"Clink?"

"I don't think you're supposed to say it."

He makes a face, clearly more tipsy than he was letting on. "Whatever. I'm saying it."

Still, she humours him, and he looks at her with shameless adoration. Even while well on the way to getting drunk, there was an endearing tilt to his swagger and rosy cheeks that made his youth a delectable luxury. She takes a sip, then another, and then tries to drown herself in champagne, anything to distract her from the way he stole her breath, the fizz electric under her thrumming skin.

They return to where they were sitting earlier, watching some of the more boisterous agents splash into the pool. Someone manages to switch off the harsh floodlights overlooking the pool, washing everyone's outlines with a tangerine glow from the orange neon lights. They talk about their month apart, then catch the eye of the other in a way that makes them both look away, and the cycle repeats.

"I've missed you."

She can't tell which of them says it first, only that the yearning in her voice mirrored his. The look in his eyes scares her yet appeals to her daring all at once. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to.

"We...I...couldn't. It'd go horribly wrong, and you'd hate me, or they'd double down and it'd blow up in your pretty face."

"I'll take my chances." He says it so casually that it stings.

"This isn't exactly bearable for me either, you know."

The background noise fades away, and suddenly speaking at normal volume is too loud. She whispers, as if he might not hear if she's soft enough. "You give me your bed and twist your neck dozing in an armchair. You stick up for me when I'm too weak to stick up for myself. You pull me in when I'm breaking down and hold my fractured pieces together. I can't help but love you." He follows her line of vision to the camera lens peeking through the wall of foliage, not as sneaky as it was trying to be.

"And if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love with me."

He inhales roughly, and she recognises his unsteady breathing.

"Are you...?" Lockwood's voice makes her tear her eyes away from the lens, and focus on his soft brown tired eyes.

"...Might as well. Right?" She tries to hide how badly she needs his acknowledgement. He searches for something in her eyes she's not sure exists. Her heart is in her mouth as he tenderly covers her hand, and suddenly she's sitting at the kitchen table at Portland Row again; unsure and raw and hoping against hope for a love like his. He strokes the back of her hand with him thumb, deep in thought, as if soothing her, or maybe telling her to stop, breathe and think about this horrible decision.

"They'll publish the most horrible things tomorrow."

"I thought that didn't matter."

"Not to me. But it does for you."

"It's worth it. You're worth it."

He closes his eyes, and she watches his eyes shift restlessly behind his eyelids, as if fighting a losing battle. "They'll give you hell for it."

She whispers into his mouth. "Damned if I do, damned if I don't. They're watching either way."

His lips twitch. Her eyes flutter close. She inhales the space between them, their noses softly bumping against each other as they tilt their heads.

Slut.

She leans into him and her lips part as he deepens the kiss. She feels the tangerine neon light burn into the expanse of her exposed skin from her neck to her shoulder.

Slut.

She feels a hand on her lower back as she wraps an arm around his neck, craning her neck upwards. The kiss is equally delicious and bruising, and she feels herself getting drunk on his touch.

Slut.

The pressure on her lips fade and he pulls away, giving her the choice to back out. In the span of a second he shifts from a hazy sunset to the deep aquamarine pool in front of them, and then she's leaning in and devouring him like they could never be close enough.

Slut.

Her mind holds the whisper like a promise.

#fanfiction #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood imagine #fanfic #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood x y/n #taylor swift #taylor swift 1989 #1989 taylor's version #1989 tv #1989 #slut! taylor’s version #slut!

194 notes · View notes