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portlandrowismyhome · 4 months ago

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Non Request / Request

Anonymous: I want to request Anthony Lockwood×fem!reader. Where the reader and Anthony are rivals, but the reader secretly has a crush on him. Anthony and Kipps make a bet on who can make the reader fall in love with them faster. The winner gets 100 pounds. So Anthony tries to befriend her and charm her, but at first, he doesn't succeed because they have hated each other for a long time, and the reader thinks that he is trying to prank her. He starts going to the places she is most often in and talks to her more. Like the reader is sitting in the archives and reading when Anthony just sits at her table and starts talking to her and flirting. At first, the reader finds it annoying, but later, they start becoming very good friends. Anthony starts to fall in love with her himself. He introduces her to George and Lucy and offers her to work at his agency. They slowly start to become more than friends, then one night after a case, she patches him up, he kisses her, and tells her that he loves her. She kisses him back, and they both fall asleep together. The next day, she and Anthony go to the archives. When she goes looking for Anthony because she found what they needed she stumbles upon Anthony and Quill, talking about the bet and Quill handing Anthony money. Even though Anthony doesn't even care about the bet anymore, he takes the money. The reader sees this and immediately confronts him about it, being angry at him for lying to her and everything, Anthony tries to explain, but she doesn't believe him and gives him back the necklace he gave her when he confessed his love to her. Anthony is heartbroken and doesn't see her for a week. When Lucy and George ask him about it, he tells them what happened. Then they get mad at him for being so stupid to agree to such a bet. Two weeks later, he saves the reader from getting ghost touched in some random alley at night. He tries to tell her everything and apologise, but she doesn't want to listen. He starts pleading with her to give him 5 minutes to explain everything, even if he doesn't deserve it, and so she gives in. He explains everything and confesses to her again, telling her how desperate and sorry he is, how these 3 weeks apart have driven him crazy. At the end of his speech, they're both crying. She forgives him, and everything ends happily.

Word Count: 5k

Pairing(s): Anthony Lockwood x Fem Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Fluff, Angst.

A/n: Thank you to @cameronspecial for sending this request my way! this has taken me a while because I wanted to get it right. I did switch a few things around from the request, but I hope you like it!

!!!PLEASE REBLOG!!!

its a free form of payment for hard work authors put into their fics :)

Anthony Lockwood was insufferable at times, such as today, when he and his team rudely interrupted a case your team, from Rotwell was put on. Your team supervisor Leighton, was not happy because every time you’d be on a case, it seemed he would show up, and not far behind would be Quill Kipps, and his team taking over or fighting over it. Leighton was almost so fed up he wanted to suspend you to equipment duty until they stopped causing a ruckus, according to him.

How could this be your fault? You were oblivious of to why. Leighton probably jar wanted someone to blame to make himself look good, per usual.

You personally were so fed up with Leighton and his team you considered quitting a multitude of times, but you’d have no other team to go to if you did.

You also couldn’t believe your teammate Marco freaked out with the equipment and broke your rapier. Lockwood saved Marco’s ass from being ghost touched, but your rapier was mauled in the process.

Stupid rapier and even more stupid; Anthony Lockwood.

Anthony had the biggest heart eyes for you for the longest time. The problem was you always acted like you hated him, and maybe that was apart of the reason he liked you, because all his charm didn’t work, and you only responded when he was sincere.

the only thing he did however hate about you, was how you’d banter with Kipps. There way no way you liked his enemy in that way. Right?

he thought it couldn’t get any worse, until today when he was trying his hardest to flirt with you, as you were getting a new rapier, due to a guy named Marco on your team somehow managed to snap it yesterday.

“Y/n, fancy seeing you needing new equipment.” He smirks, in his most charming way he can.

You sigh, “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see if you needed help picking out a rapier. Running Lockwood and co, I have a lot of experience.”

You blow out a small laugh, “By all means Lockwood, be more superior than me, like you always have thought you were.”

You try to push past him into the shop, but he stops you with his arm.

“Y/n/n-“

“Don’t even, Lockwood. You may think your charms work on everyone but not on me anymore. You cant trick me into into your pretend version of friendly charm. Don’t even pretend to like me.” You heatedly spew, before ducking under his arm and going into the store.

Not anymore? So it did work. His heart was doing flips. She liked him at one point, who’s the say she wouldn’t like him again? Maybe he had to try another tactic. He knew that no one on her team would help her in the archives, according to George. Maybe that’s the way to get figure out if she has feelings for himself.

You hated the way he made you feel smaller than him, that he was god’s given gift to the world. You hated the way he tried to charm you, and you having to try your best to not let his it work on you, because then you’d be every other girl that’s under his stupid spell. Well at least you had to remind yourself to hate him or else, you’d be even more head over heels for him than you already were.

Damn it you were thinking about him. Again.

You tried to put your mind on the research you were having to do at the archives, since you always seemed to get put on the mundane tasks that the rest of the team didn’t want. You guessed you didn’t mind because George would be there. He was probably the only Lockwood and co member you could stand at this point, only because you hadn’t really had a conversation with Lucy.

He would be around and you’d share conversations which was nice, because he actually had an insightful intellect on subjects. He was cool in your book, and it was nice instead of the latter of Kipps or Lockwood bothering you since this wasn’t really their choice of task for their un-respective agencies.

Kipps once said libraries were for girls and their novels or dorks. You were a girl and probably a dork, so you didn’t really like Kipps for his opinions all that much.

George wasn’t here yet, so he couldn’t help you reach for the book on the top shelf, and your team was on a deadline so you had to try.

Damn these shelves. They were tall, at least too tall for you. You stood on your tip toes to try and reach it, just barely touching the book on a higher self.

An arm wraps around yours, from the outside reaching for the book and pulls it down with you, and you start to thank them gratefully, “Thank-“ you then turn to see who it is, changing your tone to an accusatory one to say, “you.”.

You take an annoyed breath in and turn to walk away towards you table trying to ignore him.

He seemingly follows you like a lost puppy, emphasis on lost, not puppy. You slam the book down a little too hard for your liking, and sit down before you embarrass yourself more. it is a quiet place of solitude after all, but not with not much solitude for yourself you were hoping for today.

Lockwood decides to plop down int he seat next to you, and scoots a bit closer, as if you bite, but close enough that it was making you annoyed.

You sit in silence for awhile as you read or at least, try to read the damn book in front of you on infamous poltergeists cases trying to see if yours matched up.

“Is it getting cold in here?” Lockwood asks you, his low voice giving you goosebumps up your spine.

“What?” You ask looking around. Anything cold put you on high alert even though you knew the archives were overall safe, you could never be too trusting.

“Or are you just giving me the chills?.” He flashes one of his signature smiles and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Or is it just your cold dead heart in your chest?” You try to smile sweetly yet you felt triumphant at that comeback.

“I think you should make sure, just so theres no anomaly, or type two in the room.” He puts your hand on his hand on his chest, with his hand overtop.

You gulp, not sure of what to do with the contact, as you stare right into his eyes, you swear you felt his heart skip a beat.

“Pretty- pretty-“

“I know I am-“ he smirks interrupting your stuttering.

“Icy.” You pat his chest and turn back get out of your chair to grab another book. This time for fun.

He’s on your heels as you walk towards the classics section thats tucked into a tiny corner of the library, thats far out of the way of all the other informational books or newspapers. You wouldn’t tell Lockwood this, but you bet no one could hear you scream this far away from everything else.

You look for something to read, before turning back to see Lockwood giving you a look.

“What? You’re judging me aren’t you-“

“No! I mean no. I just haven’t picked up-“ he pauses and picks up Romeo and Juliet and has a genuine thoughtful smile on his face“-Shakespeare since my sister would read me lines. In another life she would have definitely have wanted to be an actress.”

That melted your insides a bit.

He flips open to a page, and starts to almost perform it.

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night. As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear—Beauty too rich for use, for Earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows. As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. he measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand. And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand.”

He pauses and turns to you staring you dead in the eyes

“Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

You were in such a trance you didn’t even notice he was done preforming, because it felt like what he was saying was real, to you. You start clapping for him and he dramatically bows.

“I think you lied. I think you actually want to be the actor.” You joke.

He laughs and sits down on the floor and you sit next to him.

“In another world maybe. If the world were different in this one, I don’t know what I’d do. I’m pretty fantastic at my job-“

you snort at that comment.

“I don't think any of us would know what we’d want to do if our world here was different. Then again, I don’t even like what I’m doing right now. Leighton is-“

“-An arse.”

You laugh at that comment. Even Lockwood could see it.

“I may be an arse, but hopefully not that big of one.” He half jokes.

“You might not be that big of one but you’re still one.”

He shovers your shoulder playfully, and opens Romeo And Juliet from the start.

“You read Juliet and I’ll read Romeo. We can fill in other characters as we go.”

You nod smiling a genuine smile for once.

Maybe you had been the one with the cold dead heart, because Anthony Lockwood wasn’t that bad of a guy.

He liked a lot of the same things you did, such as the classics, and started to come to the archives more and more to your little corner.

Kipps started to linger around the archives trying to find you, but you knew the archives library too well for him to find you, for the most part.

He did stop you before you could run off to your “Romeo” one time, putting his arm in front of you and was talking at you for ten minutes straight, until Bobby just had to show him something important.

You really started to enjoy your time with him. What in the world was your life now? You actually liked Anthony Lockwood as a person! Oh shit did you just call him your Romeo in your head!?

Everything was going actually going smoothly being friends with Anthony Lockwood and that scared you a bit. You never really had people you were close to and cared about. Obviously you cared about your team and others and humanity you know. But somehow it was different if you were to loose him.

Well thinking everything was going smoothly was the wrong thing to say in your head, Leighton is coming straight in hot towards you right now.

“Y/n!”

“Yes Leighton?”

You tried not to disrespect him right now by rolling your eyes, but he slammed a book on the table.

“I see you’ve been spending you time not researching, and having your head in the clouds!”

You see some sort of modern Harlequin romance book in the pile, which you’ve never touched or read, not that you wouldn’t, but you knew someone had to have set you up.

“You’re fired immediately… after our current case. Ive already got the paperwork, so theres no fighting this as Rotwell signed it himself.”

You now roll your eyes trying to resist the urge to cry in-front of your whole team and make a bigger scene somehow Leighton was almost at the peak of creating.

You muster up the courage to speak.

“Yeah I doubt that Rotwell signed it, its either foraged or a stamp of approval some secretary stamped on. And I've never read that book, but its clear to see you won’t believe me. So lets go, all the information is int he pile figure it out amongst yourselves. I’m heading to the scene with the info-“ you point to you head “Up in here. Anyone joining me and being filled in or are you going to be as stubborn as Leighton and turn bright red like a tomato?”

The group except Leighton and his second hand follows you, as they know you always had things well memorized before you would pitch it to them.

When you get to the scene, a small townhome, you use your talent of listening to sense if anything is off when you walk in the front door. You had filled in the team of what happened in the house, assuming it’s a type two, as a couple who lived here, shot a criminal who came in, and left him to die. He was well known burglar in the area, Frank Calder.

You listen for anything, until you hear a crash in the kitchen and you eyes fly open, you unsheathe your rapier, so shiny and new as Leighton wouldn’t put you on any cases in person until today.

You move closer to the kitchen, as a clock strikes six pm, something comes into the door way of the kitchen, and before you can strike it, an his arm grabs your wrist and pulls you in close to him, so you avoid a murder of the un-beloved in the community’s Anthony Lockwood.

“Lov- Lunge at first fright, didn’t think it was a thing till today” He jokes.

Your breathing heavy for a second as you regather yourself, putting your rapier back. He finally lets go of your wrist almost reluctantly. Not the time Y/n, focus.

“What are you doing here?” You demanded the answer.

“We were hired. Apparently whichever team gets rid of the manifestations first get paid.“ He says.

“Well it’s a good thing I got fired because I would totally beat your team’s arses’”

He almost laughs but is trying not to.

“How’d you get fired?”

“Some jerk told Leighton I wasn’t doing work, reading romance novels instead of working, which isn’t true. I did the work… and then would read.” You smirk saying the last part for only Lockwood to hear.

“You should join my team then, we’re in need of a fourth.”

“Okay.”

“Just like that?” He teases, as he’s been asking you for a month to join.

You turn to the Rotwell team

“You guys have the info I gave you but you’re on your own. I am now the company part of Lockwood and co.”

They look at each other and start to leave.

Lockwood smiles his half smile, before guiding you over to the kitchen.

George and Lucy are there, and George fills you in the research you missed due to Leighton's interruption. The wife was killed in a cover of a “misfire” from the gun. They believe her husband was abusive, and wanted to kill her for planning to leave him and that she’s come back too.

“Brutal.” You shiver, “Lets find out where the wife's death happened and where was the burglar killed.”

You and Lockwood go together toward the living room, while Lucy and George go to the office on the main floor.

You close your eyes and listen. You hear yelling and fighting, and then thuds… up stairs?

“Hear anything?” He asks.

“Lockwood I think it’s up stairs” you mention,” I heard her running up stairs. And big thuds following her.”

Lucy comes out to confirm what you heard. She says she heard a gun being cocked in the office and then running toward the stairs.

“Shall we go up?”

Famous last words.

“Hold still!” You tell Lockwood and you clean him up. He hit his head pretty hard during the case, and quite a bit of blood was coming out of the gash.

You wrap his head in a bandage, making sure the wound wasn’t bleeding badly.

The lady that came back was not such a friendly one, as she closed the doors on the two of you in the room with the burglar poltergeist, which then lead to him slamming a metal filing cabinet towards Lockwood, who jumped out of the way and gashed his head on the corner of a table. He kept going even though he was bleeding badly which was impressive. You eventually were able to get them both contained.

“Shirt, off.” He looks at you smirking before you roll your eyes trying not to blush.

“You just want to see what I’m packing.” He jokes.

“No, I want to see how you’re bleeding out of your shirt. I need to make sure your not bleeding internally.”

“Okay, Dr. Y/n” he goofs off, before gulping at the contact of you unbuttoning his shirt with your hands.

He unbuttons and takes off the remaining of his shirt once it’s halfway down.

You gulp now, trying to play first aider, rather than goggly eyed girl at him.

You try to ignore his stare at you as you work and look around his chest and back, finding the long but not deep cut that made his crisp white button down, red.

Once you’ve treated him, you finally look back at him, to find him staring into your eyes intently.

“Thank you.”

You try to brush it off like it was no big deal, just to get his stare off of yours. You

“Its no big deal, Lockwood”, you start to turn away from his gaze, “I should be thanking you-“

He gently grabs your wrist and pulls you closer, and guides your hip to place you between his legs as he was sitting on the counter and you gulp at how close your face was to his. He then takes your chin between his thumb and finger, to gently get you to look back at him

“I mean it. Thank you.”

He sucks in a breath stating in the most cheesy manner, with a grin, “I must be a poltergeist, because I would do anything to be just reckless enough to move you closer to mine so I can ghost touch your lips.”

You slowly start smile and you move yourself closer to him, looking into his eyes, and then glancing at his lips it feels like everything in slow-motion yet so fast at the same time, as he moves in closer to your lips, and you can feel his breath on your lips, just ghosting them.

“Can I?” He asks so softly, you’re not even sure the best listener could hear him. You confirm by nodding you head an he touches your lips gently to his, and then he moves his hand to caress your cheek and you close your eyes.

The kiss was so sweet, and soft, almost if he made the wrong move you’d break like china, or George’s beloved egg cup.

He gently pulls away, so slowly and then her rests his forehead on yours, as if he’s letting you know he's not rejecting you.

“I… I’m in love with you, Y/n… and you don’t need to say it back I just needed to let you know.”

You heart is racing, and you move to kiss him back, which is more passionate than the last.

You break it to speak while resting your forehead on his.

“I’m in love with you, Anthony Lockwood.” You declare.

He smiles the most bright and genuine smile you’ve ever seen on his face, that was unlike his classic smirk.

He gently slides off the counter as you look into his eyes, not breaking eye contact with one another, with the two of you having the biggest grins, and they’d be brighter than a London storm’s lighting.

He spins you one eighty degrees, to face the door, as he wraps his arms around you, tightly, but enough that he could move.

He rests his head on your shoulder, waddling out with you, towards his bedroom.

He opens the door with one hand, the other still firm grip on you, before lifting you up bridal style, and you squeal and giggle.

“Shhh, Y/n you’ll wake George.” He laughs, “and probably Lucy who’s all the way upstairs.”

He places you gently on his bed, and some of you hair gets in your face, so he brushes it away and it gives you shivers down your spine. He then climbs into bed next to you, and spoons you, and you look up at his face.

You stare at him for what feels like no time, but time must have passes because your eyes start to drift but you fight to stay awake.

“Go to sleep love, I’ll be with you.” He says in a groggy voice.

You then close your eyes and sleep overcomes you.

When you had gotten up that morning, you were tangled with Anthony, forced awake by the sound behind the door, with George and Lucy arguing of who should wake Lockwood up.

“Lockwood.” You nudge him to let go of you o you could get up.

He moans and then mumbles something incoherent.

“No more kisses unless you get up now.” You tease.

Lockwood shoots up, “I’m up.” He says before leaning down to kiss you. You kiss him before covering your mouth after her breaks the kiss.

“Oh my god I need to brush my teeth.” He gets out a loud laugh before you scramble outside of the room, heading towards the bathroom. You pass Lucy and George in the hall, sheepishly you weave past them, going towards the bathroom to deal with your morning breath.

Lucy and George look at Each other, before looking at shirtless Lockwood, standing in the door way, quizzically, wondering what had happened.

“Told you so.” George says to Lucy before Looking back at Lockwood.

“We have a Case. We need to go to the archives now, before Kipps’ team gets on it.”

Lockwood comes of off his dreamy daze and nods, and the to of them head downstairs, and Lockwood lets out a frustrated groan.

Lockwood and you walk side by side, and he admires you secretly, as you admire blatantly the bracelet he had given you. It was the most beautiful and dainty bracelet, the best gift anyone had ever given you. He said it had been his mothers, and then his sisters, which he didn’t touch more on, but you knew how important family was to him, especially because of the one he had made with George and Lucy and now… you.

Lockwood, links hands with yours, and you look and him and smile brighter, and you intertwine you fingers between his.

Lucy kept trying to peak back, unnoticed, while George was stuck into studying the journal where he wrote down the details of the possible case.

You reach the archives in no time, and Lockwood lets go of your hand, so you can run up the stairs.

Once you’re all in the archives, Lucy is on watch duty to make sure the fittes team doesn’t overhear any information they get, and George is deep into a book. Lockwood has gone off somewhere to grab a book.

George speaks up about how long it was taking him to find one book, “Lockwood’s taking way too long. Y/n can you go see where he is.”

You nod, and go after him in the direction he went off in.

Your spot the back of Lockwood’s head, and you start to head towards him, before you see Kipps approach him and you avoid him seeing you by hiding behind a book shelf. You didn’t hate Kipps but usually he’d talk at you for hours unless you hid.

You’re close enough to hear him speak to Lockwood.

“You won fair and square. Here’s your 100 pounds.” Lockwood stalls for a split second then takes it and pockets it quickly. Kipps continues to blab on, “Though I do have to ask, how’d you get Y/n to like you? Just so I know you won the bet fair and square-“

What the hell? You were a bet? You knew you shouldn’t have trusted him, you just knew it.

“What the hell!” You come storming up toward Anthony, zeroing in on him.

“Y/n I-“ Anthony tries to speak.

“Don’t! You’re a lying bastard! All I am to you is a stupid bet and nothing more, I see it all clearly now.” You take off the bracelet and Anthony tries to protest.

“Y/n please I-I didn’t mean it I mean I just-“

“Don’t contact me ever again.” You cut him off walking away with tears streaming down your face, leaving Anthony Lockwood in the dust.

Lockwood walks back towards the group, gripping there bracelet in his hand. He just wanted to bury himself in his bed, and not think about how badly he messed up, and hurt the best thing he's ever had.

“Where’s Y/n?” Lucy asks, looking around.

“Yeah I haven’t seen her for about a half hour?” George agrees.

“Wasn’t she with you Lockwood?” Lucy asks.

“I’m so stupid.” Lockwood says before slumping into the nearest chair holding his head in his hand, while he rubs it, almost like he had a headache.

“What did you do?” George and Lucy say in almost unison.

“It was a bet all a stupid fucking… bet.” Lockwood tries not to cry, “It’s all my fault I made a bet wth Kipps of who Y/n would… fall for first. The winner takes 100 pounds. I didn’t… I didn’t know… or think that I’d actually fall in love with her. And then I took the money even though I wanted to say to say screw the bet to Kipps, and then Y/n… she saw me take it and she was so angry and hurt, and I did that to her…” he gulps, “God she was so hurt. And I tried to explain to her, but she wouldn’t listen. And I tried to give the money to Kipps back, but he wouldn’t take it. I can’t fix anything I just… I broke it all.”

“You’re an idiot Lockwood.” Lucy says.

“A big one at that.” George adds on.

“Just go and try and fix it because she was the best thing to happen to you. I don’t care if you have to grovel for a month, or throw pebbles at her window, or send her letters for a year. Just fix it.” Lucy tries to angrily reason with him.

Lucy may have been right, but he knew you needed space right now, but Lucy had the right idea though. He needed a gesture even if it wasn’t grand.

It was killing them both not seeing each other for so long, and it had been three weeks since they last spoke.

Feelings don’t disappear, they linger like the manifestations they deal with on a daily bases.

Y/n thought Anthony waiting at her front door, so you decided to take the long alley way back to the back door. It was getting closer to dawn, and you just wanted to avoid him for hopefully forever.

What you didn’t expect however was to find was a manifestation on the way through the alleyway. The type two decided to smush you in between a pallet and the wall.

It was coming close to you, and was reaching out to touch you, and you closed your eyes accepting your fate, until you’re freed from being stuck, and Lockwood being your hero.

“C’mon. Before it comes back.” He extends his hand and you take it.

You’re shake off the shock, and start storming towards your front door.

“Wait, y/n please just give me five minutes of your time.” He pleads, “I’ ll leave you alone after if you want me to, please just hear me out.”

This peaks your interest, as maybe he’ll finally take off out of your life.

“Fine, five minutes.” You say.

“Thank you. It was a stupid bet I'm sure you know by now, but I only took the bet because… because then maybe I would finally have the courage to talk to you. And once I started talking to you, I didn’t ever want to stop. You’re truly the best thing thats ever happened to me, and I fucked up. Horribly. I know its unforgivable what I did, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but you’re all that I think about, going to the archives was the only thing that gave me hope in life that there are good things in this world and it's you.”

Lockwood pulls out a necklace out out go his pocket, a locket to be specific.

“I got you this.”

You take it into your hand, and open it.

It was a locket with a photo of you and the team in it.

“You can do whatever you like with it after you know this, but I used the money on you since Kipps wouldn’t take it back, because he thought he might still have a chance with you. “ he pauses before declaring, “The money wasn’t worth anything to me. You, however, are worth everything to me.”

Lockwood starts crying before turning to make his leave. He had used the money to buy you locket. Wow.

You stop him with your words.

“You’re not perfect Lockwood, but neither am I… but were good for each other… and I forgive you.” You say. He turns around, smiling with tears streaming down his face. And he reaches up to touch your cheek to wipe off the tears you didn’t notice running down your face.

You smile and you both lean in to kiss each other.

You both take each others hand and walk home shining your arms heading back to 35 Portland row.

Something you had come to realize in this moment is that there was no perfect situation, person, or deal dealt in life. The only thing is that there’s something to bet on when you find your good in life.

Taglist:

@waitingforthesunrise @sleep-i-ness

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portlandrowismyhome · 10 months ago

Text

the calm before the storm

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ in which circumstances pull two souls apart

pairing: anthony lockwood x (fem) reader

a/n: the angst queen is back. no apologies. i was craving writing another luke castellan fic, but decided it was about time i came back to the hyperfixation that began about this time last year (happy one year lockwood and co!!) so surprise!!! i'm not sorry for this, just so you know. enjoy!

warnings: canon typical violence, descriptions of murder, angst (as always)

words: 4.7K

taglist: @irisesforyoureyes @neewtmas @wellgoslowly @waitingforthesunrise @oblivious-idiot @jesslockwood @magicandmaybe @gotlostinfiction @ettadear @locklylemybeloved @aayeroace @mischiefmanaged71 @mirrorballdickinson @ikeasupremacy

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

01. the calm

There was a certain kind of peace when it came to 35 Portland Row at night.

The way the fire flickered, casting the library in a golden-orange glow and filling it with cosy warmth. How the kitchen always smelled like whatever wonderful meal George had made earlier in the day. The sound of the crackling fire and pages brushing against each other and creaky floorboards. They all compiled together to make it feel like home.

(y/n) sat curled up on one of the library’s armchairs, nose buried in one of the aged books. A steaming cup of tea sat on the coffee table beside a pile of senseless magazines - Lockwood’s guilty pleasure. He was thumbing his way through one just at that moment, and the cover - an edited photo of Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell with a big, bold-lettered caption “Inside the minds of the most treasured people in Britain!” - told her everything she needed to know.

“That stuff is going to rot your brain,” she murmured, turning the page of her book. “I don’t know how you can stand reading that gossip.”

Lockwood, still looking at the magazine before him, shot her a sideways grin. “You just don’t appreciate today’s culture.”

A laugh bubbled from her lips. “I appreciate it plenty when I’m not under threat of death from ghosts. I mean, seriously. How many times can you read about what colour dress Penelope Fittes wore to a gala, or the stupid things all those snotty old rich people keep saying?”

“You have to admit, they’re a little bit funny.”

“It’s funny how stupid the things they say are.”

Lockwood rolled his eyes, dog-earing a page before closing the magazine and setting it down atop the already massive pile. His head tilted as he looked over at her, face cast in that same golden-orange hue that basked the room. He looked positively ethereal.

“I have read plenty of books, too, you know,” he said, still smiling. “I just don’t find them as interesting.”

Raising an eyebrow, (y/n) slipped her tattered bookmark between the pages of her book, balancing it on the arm of her chair. She twisted slightly so that she could look at him in the other armchair.

“Have you ever considered joining a gossip circle?” she asked. “You know, the kind where all those old women meet up in a cafe and have a little blether about their drama? You’d fit right in. Have half of them charmed within minutes.”

His smile changed, then, shifting into the exact kind she had imagined him using to get into a little gossip session. “You think so?”

She snorted, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. “Without a doubt. You’d have them convinced that, because Penelope wore a green dress to a gala and Steve Rotwell had a green tie, there is some kind of secret relationship between them. Secretly married, or some bosh like that.”

“Well,” Lockwood drawled, “just as well one of us has the skill of charm. If it were you doing interviews, we’d have no clients.”

She swept his magazine off the table and thwacked his arm with it. “If there was no one here to keep you alive, there’d be no business.”

He laughed then, and the sound was like music to her ears. If it was something she could bottle, she’d have a thousand vials of it collected. She could listen to him laugh all day, especially if she was the reason for such a beautiful sound.

With a playful kind of annoyance, she tossed the magazine back on the table. She might have imagined it, but Lockwood watched the movement with eagle-like attention, as if studying every move she made. Every face she pulled. The thought had her heart pounding a little faster.

“I wouldn’t be surprised by that idea, by the way.”

“What?” (y/n) tilted her head. “You being dead without me to save your ass? It’s a proven statement.”

Once more, he rolled his eyes. His smile would have buckled her knees had she been standing. “No. Penelope and Steve being secretly married. I’m going to cop that idea now. Just in case it’s true.”

“As long as I get the credit.”

“Always.”

02. before

“Another murder? Lockwood, do you ever think of broadening your horizons?”

Lockwood grinned, spreading out a few pages from different newspapers in front of him. “We seem to specialise in them. How many murdered ghosts have we successfully contained? Besides, the murderer of this one is unknown. I thought it’d be a fun challenge to see if we could figure out the perpetrator.”

“We have extremely different definitions of fun,” (y/n) grumbled, flipping open a folder full of dated documents. “Don’t you fancy something less… brutal? Someone who died of old age, maybe?”

“Boring,” he said, drawing out the vowels. “We’re Lockwood and Co! How else do we get in the papers without something like a murder?”

She watched the way his eyes seemed to gleam with a strange sort of joy and shook her head, holding back a smile. They most definitely had different definitions of fun.

“Maybe we can bake some really nice cakes,” she suggested. “Donate money to help stop homelessness? End world hunger?”

His smile then was so beautiful that it stole the breath from her lungs. “While those are wonderful suggestions - I do particularly like the thought of cakes - I think we can do much better by getting rid of some ghosts. Now! What have you found?”

They went on like that for a few more hours, passing taunts back and forth while noting down any points of interest from their research. Really, it would have been more beneficial to have George researching with them - he made sense of all the big, fancy words and mixed-up dates - but he was researching his own case with Lucy.

It was an interesting case, that much she had to give to Lockwood. A woman, named Fearne Watson, who had been killed in her home a mere four years prior, whose body was not found for another two days when her neighbour had come to drop off some food she had baked for her. Police had flooded the scene and all of the journalists from popular news sources managed to squeeze their way in, getting all the details they could wring out of anybody, including the poor neighbour. (y/n) could remember seeing a glimpse of it on the news, sitting in her mother’s living room, waiting for her father to come home from work. The body had been sealed in one of those black body bags. There was caution tape everywhere, tape that journalists and paparazzi seemed to ignore.

Her family had been interviewed, each of them grieving harder than the last. It was hard to read their heartfelt words. Her sister, who had practically raised her during their childhood while their single mother worked multiple jobs, was by far the most emotional. It was even worse seeing photos of her attendance at the funeral - her pure devastation at a private memorial being disrupted by paparazzi.

What had seemed like at least half of London’s population had ganged up on the press, after that. Some smaller companies were thrown out of business.

The biggest mystery of it all had been the murderer. Whoever had committed it had covered their tracks well: nobody had seen anyone in the home with the victim - though they had not been paying much attention, therefore it had been partially investigated - nor had they seen anybody leave. No weapon was left behind, which was no matter because, as it was later revealed, Fearne had not been killed with a weapon.

The autopsy reports had not been released to the public, but Lockwood’s charm and (y/n)’s bare-faced insistence managed to garner them the second-last piece to the puzzle.

“Hemlock poisoning,” (y/n) murmured. “What year are we in? 1623? Don’t people usually use, what, paracetamol nowadays?”

Lockwood’s eyes flitted over the document, trying to absorb as much information as possible. If DEPRAC found out they had weaselled their way into getting their hands on it, there would be trouble. They had a very limited amount of time with it.

“Would’ve been a painful death, I imagine,” he said. “It’s a paralytic - says here she died from suffocation. Her respiratory system was paralysed after her muscles seized, also paralysed.”

She shuddered, taking the sheet of paper when he offered it to her. It wasn’t long before she had to pass it back, insanely disturbed.

“You sure know how to pick a belter of a case,” she mumbled. “Next time, take George with you.”

He only smiled, more reassuring than anything else, and reached over, squeezing her hand. Sparks coursed through her veins at the touch, and she looked up at him, melting at the way he looked at her.

“We’ll be okay,” he promised. “We have each other.”

A smile curved her lips, and she squeezed his hand back. “Always.”

03. the storm

The chains were heavy in her hands, cold enough that the skin of her fingers and palms were beginning to hurt. The house itself was not cold quite yet, but iron had that effect.

Lockwood stared down at his thermometer before nodding. (y/n), gratefully, began laying down the chains in a circle, closing the ends in on each other. Lockwood set a lantern down in the centre but didn’t turn it on just yet.

“Eight degrees,” he said. “You ready?”

She pursed her lips, nodding.

“No sympathising with visitors this time,” he added, and while there was a smile curling his lips, she could feel the seriousness in his statement. She did have a history of it.

The house’s living room was large enough to fit two three-seater sofas, as well as a dining table tucked under the back window with six chairs. The walls were a dingy shade of beige. A large patterned rug, red as blood, covered a good portion of the dark wood floor. With a thumping heart, she knelt down and lifted up a small corner of the rug.

She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow its beating. Nothing good would come from being in a panic. The slight tremor in her hands ceased. She was a well-versed agent, this was nothing! She had helped solve the mystery of Combe Carey Hall. She had solved dozens upon dozens of cases. One more murder was nothing.

But, as she pressed her hand flat against part of the floor, stained slightly darker than the rest, it became clear that she was wrong.

Time seemed to swell around her, spinning and spinning until she was crouched in a brighter version of the house. A version without the big rug and the dining table beneath the window. The walls were a beautiful shade of duck-egg blue. Photos hung in simple white frames, plants were dotted around the room in pots shaped like cats and hedgehogs and dinosaurs.

Music played softly, a song (y/n) recognised as one her mother used to listen to while she still lived at home. Someone was humming along.

A woman swept into view, one she recognised from the newspapers that did not do her beauty justice.

Fearne Watson’s auburn hair was swept over her shoulder in loose waves, glowing like fire in the sunlight. She had blue eyes that were ever-smiling, and her freckled cheeks were rosy. She was no older than twenty-five.

Another voice could be heard, feminine and soft. She was singing along to the song while Fearne mimicked the instruments. (y/n)’s parents had often done the same.

The second woman came into view, and (y/n) couldn’t help but smile. Her sister, Dahlia, brushed over, gently taking Fearne’s hands in hers. They spun for a few moments, dancing along to the song. When it ended, they laughed and laughed, sipping from delicate teacups.

“Mm! What kind of tea is this?” Fearne asked, smiling. “Tastes very floral. It’s not jasmine, is it?”

Dahlia smiled, too, watching her sister with soft eyes. “Something like that.”

A terrible feeling began to settle in (y/n)’s bones. The thoughts building in the back of her mind began to come to fruition, and as she watched, she could feel her blood running cold. There was a terrible, nauseous lump in her throat. The police had thought nobody had been home with Fearne.

Fearne’s hand brushed her throat lightly. There was a faint sheen on her brow. “Did you add parsley to this? It’s got a bit of a weird taste.”

Her sister merely shook her head. She had not drank any of her tea.

“Dal, this - this doesn’t taste right.”

Dahlia tilted her head just so slightly. She did not seem concerned. “Oh?”

It was then that it began. The drawn-out death.

Fearne’s skin took on a pale tint, coated in a layer of sweat. The teacup dropped from her hand, smashing on the hardwood floor. Dahlia swept it up, disposing of it in the bin beside the sofa. She watched her sister closely, bright eyes narrowed as Fearne’s limbs took on a rigid look. She slumped on the sofa, panic flaring in her eyes.

She was struggling to speak, lips coated in her own saliva. She managed one word. “Why?”

Dahlia did not respond to her question. “Hemlock tastes very similar to parsley,” she murmured, standing as her sister began shaking, trying to suck in as much air as she could. “It was a shame things ended like this.”

The question, Why? hung in the air, unanswered. But the glaring look in Dahlia’s eyes revealed truer feelings than she had expressed in interviews. She resented her sister. Wholly and irrevocably. Why exactly she hated her was left a mystery hidden by a cruel smile.

(y/n) was torn from the vision as Fearne’s face began to turn purple, her lungs failing. She was saved from the horror of watching her die.

Lockwood was crouched in front of her when the present world began to melt back around her, his copper-and-caramel eyes taking the place of the sofa Fearne’s body had slumped upon.

His hands were on her face, warm and calloused. “You okay?” he asked gently. “Need any water?”

She shook her head, goosebumps rising across the skin of her arms. “It was her sister.”

“What?” Lockwood frowned, hands slipping from her cheeks to rest on the skin between her shoulders and neck. His touch made her shiver. “The newspapers -”

“They got it wrong,” she said. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. “She - she put hemlock in their tea. She murdered her own sister. She lied to the journalists. I can’t even begin to understand -”

Her voice fell flat. In some space in the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware of Lockwood speaking, trying to draw her attention back to him, but all she could focus on were the whispers. The glow.

A few feet behind Lockwood, there was a faint shimmer in the air, akin to how heat shimmered above pavements in summer. But this was all wrong. This was the dead end of winter. This was inside a house, where that kind of heat didn’t appear anywhere but the oven. This shimmer was glowing.

At first, it was no more than that - a shimmer - but the features soon developed. Long auburn hair. Freckled cheeks. Down-turned eyes and a wide nose bridge.

“Fearne…”

Lockwood’s hands were on her face again, trying to get her to look at him. “What? (y/n), talk to me.”

Dahlia, said the apparition with such spite that (y/n) could taste it. Bitter and pungent and poisonous. Dahlia.

She sounded out the name as if speaking to a child and teaching them syllables. Her very voice, strained of air and yet still, somehow, melodic, had her frozen on the spot.

“Fearne,” she uttered again. She could not move.

Perhaps had she not felt such sympathy for their visitor's circumstance, she would not have found herself ghost-locked. Perhaps she would have been standing already, rapier in one hand and a salt bomb in the other, prepared to hold her off whilst Lockwood found her source. Or, no, really it would be the other way around - Lockwood would never let her fight a ghost on her own, his pride and needless urge to protect were a killer. So maybe she would have been searching for that source by now. Maybe she would have found it already.

But it felt as though her joints had locked up, preventing her from moving at all. Her eyes could focus only on the shape of Fearne Watson’s ghost and not Lockwood, who she would much rather have been looking at.

He seemed to realise then what was happening, standing as he spun around to face the ghost. His rapier was drawn in mere seconds, angled towards her purple, glowing face. Her teeth were bared in some gruesome excuse of a smile that creased her tear-stained cheeks.

“(y/n).” His voice was steely as he looked ahead at the ghost, hiding any of the fear she wasn’t entirely sure he ever felt so as to not empower the ghost. “I need you to find the source. Snap out of it.”

She couldn’t, not when Fearne’s voice whispered in her ears so painfully, so full of betrayal. Her sister’s name over and over and over again, tear-filled and sickening. All (y/n) wanted to do was wrap her arms around Fearne and promise her that things would be okay, that she would take her story back to the news with the revelation of her killer. Even if it was just her word against the world’s, supported by no evidence but her Talent, she would do it.

Then, Lockwood threw a salt bomb at Fearne’s face, dissolving her spectral form for a moment.

He turned back to (y/n), eyes uncharacteristically wild. “(y/n), go!”

And she did. She was on her feet again, heart thumping in her chest as Lockwood turned to follow the moving glow of Fearne Watson, slashing at her with his rapier whenever she came too close.

(y/n) grappled for anything that could be a source, feeling them in her hands for any signs. Ice cold. Traces of memories that she would be able to see or hear. Most were fruitless, just ghastly-looking vases and pretentious photo frames. What on earth would be the source if somebody else was living here now?

A thought came to the forefront of her mind, driving her back to the blood-red rug. She folded the corner over itself again and again until she reached somewhere near the middle, cringing at the wailing noises that came from the visitor. Salt exploded in the air, tangling in her hair and melting on her lips. With the miasma she had misunderstood as fear and sympathy, it was a horrible taste.

The dark floor was stained darker in one spot, splotchy and strangely shaped, exactly where the teacup had fallen in the vision. Fearne howled when (y/n)’s fingers brushed it.

“Hurry!” Lockwood called, twisting his rapier in ways far too complicated for (y/n) to ever attempt. “I know what you’re thinking!”

And he likely did. She was unsure as to why Lockwood expected any different from her - to not feel even the slightest bit bad for these ghosts. Some had died so brutally, so heartbreakingly, that sometimes she doubted if he truly had a heart, despite the way she so often saw him looking at her.

This poor woman had been killed by her sister for nothing more than existing. She had died horribly, unable to move or breathe as her sister watched her struggle, ignoring the hemlock tea stain on the floor beneath her feet. She had remained at the site of her murder for years, with no escape from the memories of her death.

How could she not feel bad? How could she not wish for something more for ghosts like Fearne, more than a fight and another violent end, surrounded by the flames of the Fittes Furnaces?

The wailing disappeared for a moment, and all she could hear was Lockwood panting behind her. And the whispers. The whispers from the floorboard.

“Have you found the source?” he asked, his voice cool. She wasn’t sure when the last time he had used that tone on her was.

His answer was a resounding yes.

Fearne’s glowing apparition appeared in front of (y/n)’s face, her haunting smile and glassy eyes like a hand around her heart.

Dahlia, she murmured. A tear slipped down her purple cheek as one of her hands slowly reached upwards, towards (y/n)’s cheek. Her other hand neared the site of the source, from which she had just appeared. Dahlia.

(y/n) didn’t notice how cold her hand felt until the chill was gone, replaced by the weight of a silver net. All noise felt as though it had been sucked out of the room, replaced by a heavy silence.

Then came the angry breathing Lockwood so often resorted to when he could not bear to speak to George or Lucy when they had particularly annoyed him. But never had he done it because of (y/n). Never.

She turned her head, slipping her hand out from beneath the net, and met Lockwood’s gaze. His brows were drawn close over his shadowed eyes, lips curved downwards as his shoulders rose and fell with each deep, steadying breath he tried to take.

“We get rid of ghosts,” he said, voice tight. “We aren’t paid to sympathise with them.”

(y/n) stood slowly. “They deserve more than this.”

“They are ghosts.” His words were clipped now. “They deserve nothing.”

“She didn’t deserve to die.”

“And neither do we!”

He had raised his voice just so slightly, but, even still, it took her by shock. He slipped his rapier into his belt, pocketing his salt bombs, and stared angrily at her in a way he never had before.

“I let you off the first time something like this happened,” he said, “because you were new. I wanted to see how you worked, see how you processed these things. The second time, well, that was different - the ghost had no intention of doing anything but sitting sadly in a corner. The fifth time? Well, I suppose that, along with every other time you’ve pulled this, was because of my feelings for you. But you’ve put both of us at risk today, again. I won’t have it.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What? So you want me to go around with no feelings whatsoever and just get rid of all of these ghosts?”

He threw his arms into the air, exasperated. “Yes! That’s what I pay you to do!”

“Well, I won’t do it.” (y/n) bit the inside of her cheek. “Without the emotion, I wouldn’t be able to find the sources the way I do. I’m not going to be some emotionless paramount of an agent like you. And if you don’t want me to work that way, then I won’t. I'd rather leave than do that.”

“Then go.”

The words hung in the air, and (y/n) found herself immediately regretting hers. But Lockwood's certainty in his, they had her dead-set. If he was so blasé about her threat of leaving Lockwood and Co after all they had been through, all she had felt for him, then she would go.

She didn’t want to work in any way but hers. She had perfected her technique, used it on every case to support her findings. Sure, she sympathised with many of the ghosts; how could she not, when many were late children or murdered women or family members taken too soon? Telling her not to work that way, to not use the pain felt by the victims to help her bring them peace, was like trying to cut a piece out of her body. She’d kick and scream and stop it at any cost.

With a breath that constricted her chest, she clenched her fists. Pain flared up through her right hand and, when she looked down, she had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn’t making up the blue tinge her skin had taken on.

Lockwood seemed to notice it at that very moment, eyes widening as he stepped forward. His voice softened as he said, “(y/n), let me see -”

Taking a step back, she clutched her hand to her chest. “No.”

She said it with more force than she has ever used with him. It shocked her almost as much as it did him.

With her good hand shaking, she turned and strode out of the living room into the kitchen, where their kits were stashed.

DEPRAC’s main goal was to protect and provide for the agents that fought off visitors across the whole of Britain, and they had recently managed to get legislation approved for agents to carry adrenaline shots with them to cases. Far too many agents, most of them being barely teenagers, had died waiting for ambulances to provide the shots after being ghost-touched, especially when working in remote areas. DEPRAC wanted to reduce fatalities as much as possible.

So she reached into Lockwood’s bag - legislation had only been approved with the compromise that supervisors or business owners carried adrenaline shots with them, rather than allowing other agents to have possession of them - and pulled out the box containing the shot.

Lockwood was at her side in a second, reaching over to help her out, seeing her struggle with only one hand, but she turned away from him. She hoped he hadn’t seen the tears clouding her eyes before she had moved.

“(y/n),” he murmured.

“Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t.”

And, so, she stabbed the needle into her arm, administering the adrenaline despite the rules surrounding even that part of the legislation. She did not want to feel his hands on her skin. Not anymore.

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

(y/n) sat curled up on her chair, newspaper laid out before her.

Her last case with Lockwood and Co had made it into the news, page eight, much to Lockwood’s likely chagrin. That was a guess, though. She supposed she wouldn’t know anymore.

Light flooded in through her window, illuminating the walls of her childhood home. She had not wanted to return, but what choice had she had? Getting a flat in London was almost impossible.

Her parents had taken her back with open arms, happy to have their little girl back, but they fell into old habits quickly. It seemed that the years she had spent living in 35 Portland Row had left them to store some passive aggressive comments ready for her return. Everything she did elicited some kind of comment.

She flicked through the newspaper, filling in crosswords and drawing devil horns on the heads of the Fittes agents that had made it into the paper.

Page eight, though she hated it, held her attention. After the effects of ghost-touch began to fade away, Lockwood had called the police and DEPRAC regarding the case, informing both of their findings. Though no evidence had been found to prove their claim, paragons of each big agency with the talent of Touch were brought in the DEPRAC van. Every single one confirmed her story.

The police disappeared shortly after, alerting higher ups and figuring out a strategy. Dahlia Watson still lived in London.

The floorboard was pried from the house, wrapped tightly in a silver net and taken by a DEPRAC officer en route to the Fittes Furnaces. She didn't miss the way Lockwood looked over at her at the announcement of the source's destination.

Journalists appeared shortly after, shouting their questions and writing down every move (y/n) and Lockwood made in their frustrating notepads as if their silence was condemnation. DEPRAC officers managed to shoo them off, but not before they snapped pictures of the two walking out of the house.

Lockwood looked as he always did, with that charming smile that, despite (y/n)’s anger, had a horrible flutter arising in her stomach, His long jacket blew back just so in the breeze, and his hair brushed his forehead softly. (y/n), on the other hand, looked far sterner than she had ever seen herself, her hand still a faint shade of blue, her eyes wan. Anybody who had seen their pictures in the news before that point likely knew that that was the end of their business together at Lockwood and Co. They were stood about two feet apart.

She should have left it there, left her remorse and fury mixing terribly in her chest, but she didn’t.

Her eyes caught onto the final sentence, and she felt rather sick. “I give full credit of the discovery to my partner, (y/n) (l/n), (pictured left). This case, and Fearne Watson's murder, would not have been solved without her. Always.”

Former partner, she thought with a lump in her throat. And, well, always did not seem so true anymore.

She tore the page from the paper, ignoring the bewildered look on her mother’s face. With bleary eyes, she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire.

Perhaps always was only for fairytales.

#KAJSJSJJSJSJD SPEECHLESS #PLS PLS WE NEED A RUINION SCENE 😭😭😭😭

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