#*buries head in hands* aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAA

[bella-rose29]

SOBBING

GENUINELY CRYING

I’M GOING OUT LATER HOW DO I DO THAT NOW

(a warning that I have written a LOT of reactions under the cut, and also spoilers to everyone that should go read it if they haven't yet because OH MY GOODNESS GO READ IT)

(y/n) sat curled up on one of the library’s armchairs, nose buried in one of the aged books. compared to (y/n) sat curled up on her chair, newspaper laid out before her. 😭 <- my actual face rn

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. gyfuytvdtyrfjbtvdyhtrjyk of course he does, he's a pretty boy

“Have you ever considered joining a gossip circle?” NO BC LOCKWOOD WOULD FIT RIGHT IN OMG

His smile would have buckled her knees had she been standing. it does have that effect I can confirm

her neighbour had come to drop off some food she had baked for her. ok but let's just take a moment to appreciate the neighbour bc that's someone who is an angel incarnate I'm sure of it

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. omg what a great team we make 😊

If DEPRAC found out they had weaselled their way into getting their hands on it, there would be trouble. of course this is happening slightly illegally, it's Lockwood and Co what else was I expecting?

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.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

a song (y/n) recognised as one her mother used to listen to while she still lived at home. (y/n)’s parents had often done the same. omg obSESSED with how there's a history of getting sympathetic towards Visitors and now there's links between reader and Fearne??? idk how else to word it but I LOVE this

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

Bitter and pungent and poisonous. Dahlia. HAVE I MENTIONED THAT I AM OBSESSED??? because the English student in me is analysing this wayyy too much but omg the juxtaposition of the first three words and then Dahlia??? when dahlia flowers are known for their beauty and not actually having much of a scent at all??? AAAAAAAAAAAA

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. I agree I would much rather be looking at him

eyes uncharacteristically wild. omg he's losing his cool bc he's scared about losing the person he loves OMG

sometimes she doubted if he truly had a heart, despite the way she so often saw him looking at her.  TAKE MY MONEY. TAKE MY HEART. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“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. 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. 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. 😭 <- my actual face again

(y/n) didn’t notice how cold her hand felt until the chill was gone, replaced by the weight of a silver net. THE WAY I HAD TO NOT SCREAM BECAUSE I WAS IN PUBLIC

“She didn’t deserve to die.” “And neither do we!” Oh so now he decides to not have a death wish??? my man is so down bad omg

The fifth time? Well, I suppose that, along with every other time you’ve pulled this, was because of my feelings for you. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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. once again I had to not scream because people would have thought I was being strange but internally it was like that scene from inside out where all the emotions are just running around with an alarm blaring

His touch made her shiver. PAIRED WITH She did not want to feel his hands on her skin. Not anymore. WHY. I FEEL LIKE FEARNE RIGHT NOW. I HAVE PASSED AWAY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US (but also keep going bc I am now obsessed with your writing)

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. that is absolutely something I would do omg

She didn't miss the way Lockwood looked over at her at the announcement of the source's destination. I don't have the words to describe my thoughts on this but I have thoughts and it made me cry a bit more (I wasn't in public at that point so I could do that)

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. this whole paragraph made me cry more than I already was

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

“Always.” A smile curved her lips, and she squeezed his hand back. “Always.” This case, and Fearne Watson's murder, would not have been solved without her. Always. Perhaps always was only for fairytales. I am crying again literally an hour after reading this for the first time because of these quotes and your writing and literally everything about this

“Tastes very floral. It’s not jasmine, is it?” I don't know if this was intentional but I just looked up jasmine properties and it's the opposite of hemlock, like it literally is used to treat severe pain and the fact that hemlock causes severe pain and- (again idk if that was intentional but if it wasn't then that's worked out beautifully for you op)

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.

[firebird-inkheart]

Give a little kiss

Pairing: the idea of us Word count: 1219 a/n: welcome back to another episode of “I was weak and overwhelmed by extreme fluff and now I’m gonna make it everyone else’s problem”

+++++

“Remind me why we’re doing this?” Bruce grumbled while readjusting his sun glasses. He squinted at the park looming before them. There was a vague sense of apprehension building up in the back of his mind as he clocked in all the people roaming about the green field. 

This was one of the better maintained parks in Gotham; the grass was vibrant and well kept in spite of the extensive amount of rain the city received year round, the trees stood proud and tall, and the litter was kept well under control. Families gathered in clusters by the dozens, with young children running amok with one another, sheer, unadulterated delight coloring the cadence of their squeals and shrieks. Other people took advantage of the large area for their work outs, running laps around the perimeter with dedicated determination. Even couples had deigned to take advantage of the sunny, if not blustery weather, and nice scenery.

“Pretty sure it had something to do with Alfred going from subtly implying to aggressively insisting that we do a bizarre and spontaneous thing, such as: Going Outside.” Ellen raised a hand and dramatically blocked the air with each word for emphasis. “Touch some grass and all that jazz.”

A sharp breeze pushed into them and they both ducked their heads. Shivering, Ellen pressed a little closer to his side. He extended his arm and she gratefully looped her own around it.

Bruce tucked his chin into his hoodie. He scowled. “I go outside often enough.”

“During the day? With the people and the sunlight?”

There were times when he forgot she didn’t know about his night habits. Times when the things she’d say would hit closer to the truth than he’d been prepared for and he would almost, almost respond as if she were in on his secret. (And he would wonder, then, about how he had become so comfortable around her. How he almost wished she knew.) But he caught himself. Reanalyzed her tone, the non-serious teasing lilt, and responded accordingly.

“Crowds suck. Sunlight especially sucks,” he remarked, albeit somewhat petulantly. 

“Okay Dracula. We’re still going on this walk, in the sun, and we’re gonna like it.” She playfully bumped his shoulder. “Appearing in public once in a blue moon and only because Alfred made you do it hardly counts as ‘going out’.”

A disgruntled noise emanated from the back of his throat and she merely grinned. (How light he always felt when she looked like that. When she smiled because of him. At him. He relaxed in spite of himself.)

Another gust hit them, causing Ellen to scrunch up into her jacket like a turtle retreating into its shell. Loose strands of hair whipped across her face and she― rather futilely ― attempted to brush them out of the way. The tips of her fingers had gone rosy from the chill in the air. Without so much as a second thought he slipped his hand from his pocket and intertwined it with her own. The rosiness now colored her cheeks.

“How is it that even with all this wind, your hair still manages to look great?” she groused. “You’re like a windswept model while I’m over here probably looking like Medusa’s back up wig.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was a writer or if strange comparisons were just naturally built into her, but they never failed to be amusing.

He reached out with his free hand and tucked a rogue strand behind her ear. “Medusa was said to still be considerably beautiful even when cursed by Athena.”

“Hey! You― That’s not―” Ellen’s face grew redder as she made a series of undistinguishable sounds between half formed, flustered protests. She shook out her other hand, fingers partially closed, palm splayed, thumb out. His lips quirked a little more. She was happy.

She glanced away, mumbling, “Don’t tease me.”

But she was smiling anyway. (And he continued to relax.)

Ellen continued to stare at something to their left for a moment before looking back at him. It was a fluid motion, casually rolling her neck, coming to a stop by bumping her forehead on his shoulder.

“You know,” she started casually, “I’ve always kinda wondered: Do the paparazzi inject themselves with the DNA of a bloodhound when they get a job, or are they just naturally born with the instinct to hunt down celebs in public?”

Her eyes flicked over towards the field. With an imperceptible tilt of his head, Bruce observed the alleged offender― And really, the prick wasn’t even being subtle; the phone was far too suspiciously pointed in their direction to be considered taking a picture of something unrelated, the distance between them, the direction being taken, all far too well spaced to be considered coincidental. He ducked his head, frowning. This was one of the many reasons he didn’t like going out during the day.

“Just ignore―”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say that guy is expecting something.” Ellen peeked at the guy again, rather amused over annoyed or uncomfortable.

“They always are,” he muttered. 

“Perhaps you should blow him a little kiss.”

A loud snort escaped him, the sudden and rather undignified sound both horrifying and surprising him, which he hurriedly turned into a cough. In spite of himself, Bruce found it increasingly difficult to keep from laughing again. 

Ellen was blocking out the air once more, her back straight and voice modulated with mock seriousness. “I can see the headlines now Brucie! Breaking news: Wayne Heir Woos Press While Out On Afternoon Stroll! Former Recluse Turns Playboy? Find out more on page 23!”

He kept his head low in an attempt to hide the growing amusement. On the other hand, Ellen laughed easily and loudly, pressing closer into his side to preserve her balance. Boisterous. Genuine. Infectious. That laugh elicited a number of responses within, most he found he couldn’t put a name to. The warmth those feelings brought was undeniably comforting though.

Stopping, Bruce briefly considered the woman beside him, an idea (selfish, it was so selfish) striking. Perhaps he could give a little kiss....

“Bruce?” Ellen looked up at him, breathless.

Before he could think it through― or maybe before he could over think it and chicken out ―he leaned down and softly pressed his lips to her cheek. 

She was warm. So very warm. (He melted.)

Ellen’s face was probably bright enough to light up any dark space by the time he pulled away. The area around his collar grew terribly warm. Bruce ducked his head, choosing to focus on their feet instead. Focus on the way the smaller pair of faded combat boots shifted restlessly, scuffing the ground in alternating patterns of heel to toe, toe to heel. (Happy feet, just like the movie, she had once told him. When there was so much good energy she couldn’t help but tap it out.)

A delicate feeling pressed into the back of his hand. His head snapped up as Ellen pulled away, face so bright and warm, and a smile that reached to light up her eyes. Her free hand was shaking faster than before. 

(Maybe. Just maybe. To walk in the light wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.)

[pristine-rose]

imagine the soft morning after with signora <3

so rough and loving the night before, kissing you so softly even as she breaks you right from underneath. and when you wake up right after such a night, you feel her lips all over you in the morning as she embraces you from behind. lips trailing over the marks and bruises she left the night before, hands gently rubbing at your sore, sore hips and pulling you gently into her even more, softly rubbing over the marks on your thighs.

turning over in her hold as she sweetly greets you good morning with a slow kiss, burying your head into her soft chest as she kisses you on the head for how well you took her last night, praising you for being such good girl, so sweet and compliant to what she wants. gentle kisses all over your face and sleepily kissing back whenever she goes for your lips, so adorable and precious to her, feeling her smile against your lips as you can barely keep your eyes open. dozing off in her arms as she continues to sweetly whisper how good you are for her. <3💖

wow this was a bit of a long one, soft signora is just🙏🙏

-🐤

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 😭😭😭😭😭💔

/ implication of sex the night before

waking up to her lips on you :((

she can’t help it. you just look so peaceful in her arms and before she knows it, her lips are planting themselves on you before you even wake up </3

and now that you are awake, she does not hold back from kissing you even more, eyeing the marks on your body that she left previously, and tracing them with her thumb. she’ll quietly ask if they hurt; and when you say no, she’ll kiss you again, and again, and again until you’re dozing off to more sleep

pulling you closer as you fall back asleep, she can’t help but cuddle and kiss you even more

[channoticedmeuwu]

`°cuddling with haechan

overview

Basically cuddling with Donghyuck will include alot of teasing

ALOT of teasing

Most of the time I feel like he'd have an arm around you while his head is buried in your neck and you can FEEL his lips curling against your skin and you can FEEl his breath and the moment is just very serious and your heart is going WE GOT THAT BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM uknow?

And he says something stupid like, "Oh, uknow what, I gotta go pee-"

And he just

Leaves you

And goes to pee

But he doesn't actually like, uknow, pee, he just goes to the bathroom and the moment he hears the door click he goes AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Because literally he just wanted to see you pout

Because OH BABIE this guy is just head over heels because of how easily he can tease you

he just wants wants to see you pout and give him those cute cute sparkly eyes of yours and hE'D MELT

He'd come back out shortly and plop next to you and notice you're kinda mad

So he'll just be like "aWEEEEE IS MY BABIE MAAAAAAAD???"

"DONT BE MAAAAAD CUTIEEEE"

He'd also have a lot of nicknames for you but he'd usually refer to you by your actual name

But when y'all are cuddling he's just muttering those names like his life depends on it because hoLY FUCK you make him so mf SOFT

When you're tired and want him to cuddle you

OOOOOÆ

RADDI RA RA RA

BABÆ LETS GO

Alright so look, Donghyuck is very touchy

VERY

This guy would do ANYTHING to make your day because his life revolves around you

Literally you.

Everything YOU

He's the living embodiment of the heart eyes emoji

And when you're tired and you need him

He's like mentally screaming because HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK SHE NEEDS MEEEEEEEEEE

IM HER PRINCEEEE

Ok anyways after he's like done fanboying over his one and only

He'll let you sit on his lap, facing each other

He'll close most of the lights and only turn the side lamps on

And keep your face on his chest, and slowly rest his head on yours

He'll close his eyes and rub circles onto your back and whisper something like "You know how much I love you, right? I love you alot. Close your eyes with me. Let's breath together. Oh, fuck, you're so cute ugh."

He wants you to hear his heartbeat and runs his hand through your hair again

And you can hear him slowly breath with you

Shortly he'll pretend like he's dozing so you look up

And see him like that

He's pretty good at acting so he'll just be too good for you to notice

So you kinda shift your position so that your face is right above his because you're tRYING TO TELL if this cute ass bitch is actually sleeping

He'll open one eye, and then open the other, and put his hands around your waist as he smiles at you

And fUck he's so in love at that moment, he'll just kiss you

And hold you so mf cLOSE as if you'll slip out of his grip

At some point he'll get kinda emotional

And just sniffle

And get you concerned but trust me he'll make sure to compliment you so that you're too shy to speak

Because he's crying because holy fuck he loves you so so so SO much

mom help me I'm in love

PLEASE I LOVE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH HHH

When he's tired and wants you to cuddle him

This is when I feel donghyuck would need you

Desperately

I feel like donghyuck is the type to be open and passionate with the people he values and he values you alot

So he wants you to lace your arms around him and pull you close to your chest

he'll listen to your heartbeat and play with your fingers in his

And this is when he kisses you alot

Just pressing kisses into your soft hands and roaming up to press a small peck on your lips tiredly

He's not really the type to be shy over you

But the moment you show a little domestic side and start babying him and telling him how cute and pretty he is

And just compliment him

He'll try to uno reverse card but fail miserably

MISERABLY

He'd giggle underneath his breath and hide his face in your neck

And say something like "uGh yNNNNN stOPPPPPP"

but you both know damn well he DOESNT want you to stop

and when you DO stop just to tease him, he'd get all angry and glare at you

As a joke of course

He's not actually mad lmfao

But he'll slowly turn his head to look up at you and say something in an unusually deep voice like "why did you stop?"

"because, baby, you told me to."

He'll look down and mumble something like

"no, I didn't mean it hhh"

And you'll be all like "wHAT WAS THAAAAAAAAAT"

And fuck he'll just burst into the biggest blushes ever

Like all the blood would RUSH to his cheeks

And he'll obviously try to hide his face

And the room is just filled with your laughs and his shy giggles

He'd slowly fall asleep in your arms and smile alot

As he's dozing off he's lazily placing pecks all over your neck

And after a couple of pecks, you'll hear a compliment escaping from his beautiful rosy lips

And that's the story of you both waking up on the couch the next morning ;D

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM

BRB CRYING

nct dream : masterlist

nct 127 : masterlist

[nyanzaya]

Anonymous inquired: 💕 Zuo/Hana cuddles, if you're still doing them

Send 💕 and I’ll write cuddle headcanons for our Muses.

Im literally always accepting these yes aaaaaa

Out of the two, you would think Zuo would initiate the cuddling, but actually they are both extremely cuddly with each other. Sometimes Hana starts it and other times Zuo starts it. I love to think that Hana starts the cuddling because she always wants to hold Zuo or have her arms wrapped around his middle.

Zuo is the big spoon and Hana is the little spoon.

When Zuo is laying on his back, Hana rests her head on his chest. She loves to hear him purring because she thinks she is making him happy. 

OKAY BUT CONSIDER: Zuo resting/leaning against Hana’s side as they are laying in bed, while Hana is doing something else, like reading or is on her phone. Zuo has his arms wrapped around her waist and she is petting him. God bless.

Zuo loves to carry Hana around. So, when they are cuddling and Zuo has to get up, Hana is going with him. No matter what. Unless it’s the bathroom then he leaves her on the bed. 

They cuddle when they are watching movies or TV together. They talk during the movie, criticizing it in a fun manner if it is a bad movie.

As they cuddle, Hana inspects Zuo’s hands. She notices small details, like how sharp his nails are, if he got anymore battle scars, how rough they are, how the tips are soft and softly, traces over the scars on his hands. Pressing soft kisses.

Zuo would run his hand through her hair and if there’s exposed skin he would drag his hand there to caress or massage the spot in an affectionate manner. If she’s ticklish there, he would purposely try to tickle her

They don’t get sexual while they cuddle. Sometimes they get heated when they kiss and caress each other but they don’t go that far. More out of respect for each other in not wanting to push the other into the situation.

Consider: Hana being the big spoon and Zuo being the small spoon. Hana literally pressed against Zuo’s back, her face buried and she can just feel Zuo purrs get louder before she hears him laugh and it’s so calming and peaceful that she passes out like that. Only to wake up to Zuo almost crushing her under his weight? And she just “W-wait Zuo-- ZUO WAIT. WAKE UP PLEASE.” But she doesn’t get crushed, and Zuo just-- EMBRACES HER AND SNUGGLES HIS FACE INTO HER CHEST OR NECK AREA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

[domain-of-friendship-blog]

Episode 2-3

A rumble of thunder shook the Golden Oak Library.

"GAAAAH"

Tank Buster made a mad dash for the pillow pile, burying himself beneath it at blinding speed. Within seconds, all that was visible of him were a green snout and a pair of terrified eyes.

"What the hay?" Rainbow Dash's eyes darted back and forth between Tank's hiding place and the spot where he'd been standing just a moment prior.

"Oh no..." Frowning, Twilight slowly approached the pillow pile and sat beside it. "I heard about this from Big Macintosh after that last storm we had. Poor Tank has - "

"Wait a sec," Rainbow interjected. "You heard something from Big Mac that wasn't 'eeyup' or 'nnnope'?"

Twilight rolled her eyes. "Yes, Rainbow Dash. Big Macintosh does, in fact, talk. Just... not very often." She glanced away briefly at this admission. "Now may I finish?"

Rainbow shrugged. "Eh, sure."

Twilight's expression softened once more as her gaze fell upon the petrified pony in the pillow pile. "Tank Buster has astraphobia."

"Gesundheit," Rainbow Dash offered.

Twilight sighed audibly and raised a hoof to her forehead. "Astraphobia is an abnormal fear of thunder and lightning. In other words, he's terrified of thunderstorms."

Rainbow Dash was silent for a moment as she landed slowly and joined Twilight by the pillow pile. After a moment of biting her lip nervously, she spoke. "Aw man, I didn't know. I'm really sorry I couldn't warn you guys sooner..."

Twilight shook her head. "Don't blame yourself, Rainbow. If you weren't fast enough to warn everypony in time, then nopony would've been."

Spike peered over Twilight's shoulder. "So what do we do now?"

Twilight gave one of the pillows a gentle pat with her hoof as Tank trembled beneath it. "The best thing to do is to stay here with him until the weather clears up. We shouldn't be going outside anyway now that the storm's here."

"Yeah, no kidding," Rainbow agreed. "For anypony to go out now, they'd have to be - "

SLAM

"APPLE BLOOM!"

Rainbow Dash's statement was interrupted by the sound of the library door bursting open as a thoroughly sodden Applejack charged through it, looking frantically about the room. "Have any of y'all seen Apple Bloom?"

Briefly taken aback by the orange pony's abrupt arrival, Twilight glanced between Rainbow Dash and Tank Buster for a moment before responding. "Er... no, we haven't. Is everything alright?"

Applejack shook her head, flinging a cascade of droplets from her hat in all directions as she did so. "She was supposed to be back from Zecora's by now. I can't bear the thought that she's stuck somewhere out there in the storm..."

Twilight trotted forward and put a gentle hoof over Applejack's shoulder. "I'm sure she's fine, Applejack. If she was on her way back to the farm when the storm arrived, it's very likely she just stopped somewhere to take shelter from the rain. If we ask around town, I'm sure we'll find her before long."

Applejack looked up at Twilight and nodded, adjusting her hat. "Yeah... you're right. Thanks, Twi."

Twilight offered a reassuring smile before turning to look over her shoulder. "Come on, Rainbow. We'll need your help too."

Rainbow scratched her head and gestured at the pillow pile. "Um... okay, but what about Tank? You just said somepony's gotta stay with him."

Twilight blinked, hesitating as she pondered the problem. After a moment, she returned to the pillow pile and crouched low to the floor until she was at eye level with the pony buried within. "Hey... Tank?"

Tank turned his head a fraction of an inch to meet her gaze.

Twilight smiled softly at him, just as she had with Applejack. "Will you be alright if we leave you with Spike while we go looking for Apple Bloom? I promise we'll be back before you know it."

After a moment's pause, Tank's response came in the form of an almost imperceptibly small nod.

Twilight's smile broadened as she stood back up. "Stay strong. I know you can do it." With that, she turned back toward the others. "Okay then. Spike, I need you to come over here and sit with Tank. Applejack and Rainbow Dash, let's get moving. We need to stay in sight of each other at all times for safety's sake; the storm's not getting any lighter by the looks of things. Ready, girls?"

Applejack's expression hardened. "You bet your bottom bit I am."

Rainbow Dash threw her forehoof into the air. "Let's do this!"

"Let's go!" With a glow of her horn, Twilight threw the door open and the three ponies charged out into the darkening storm. Spike watched as that same magic closed the door behind them before jogging his way over to the pillow pile and unceremoniously plopping down onto one.

Never really sure what to do with himself without Twilight around, the little dragon spent a moment staring at the claws on one hand before a sudden thought struck him. "Wait a second..." The pillow beneath him slid easily on the smooth wooden floor as he spun around to face Tank. "Does anypony else know about the sinkholes on the forest path?"

It seemed to take a moment for this question to sink in, but when it did, the force of Tank sitting bolt upright sent some pillows flying several feet away. "No... no, I don't think they do!" The realization seemed to be momentarily distracting him from the storm as he rose from his hiding place and began pacing slowly. "I didn't find the first one until just after Apple Bloom passed by, and I didn't get the chance to mention it to anyone just now because we were distracted by that weird book."

Spike raised his hands to his face in alarm. "So does that mean Apple Bloom didn't make it back because she fell in one and got stuck and now she's trapped in a hole in the middle of a storm?"

"If it is, then the others will never find her in time," Tank declared. "That settles it, then. It's up to - "

A loud thunderclap headed this statement off at the pass, resulting in Tank immediately diving underneath the nearby table and covering his head with his forelegs. "Nope nope nope it's up to somebody else 'cause I'm not going anywhere no thank you"

Spike tugged insistently at Tank's tail, slowly dragging him out from under the table. "Tank, come on! Apple Bloom needs our help!"

"Our... W-Wait, that's it!" In spite of the trembling, Tank beamed as the idea came to him. "Y-You can go f-find the girls and t-tell them where she is!"

Spike put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, sure! I'm totally going to catch up to three full-grown ponies who are running full tilt through a thunderstorm when all I've got are these stubby little baby dragon legs." He stuck one out and pointed at it for emphasis.

Tank hesitated for a moment before offering an encouraging grin. "Uhh... I believe in you?"

This elicited little more than an impatient glare from Spike.

Tank's smile faded as he gave a quiet sigh of defeat. "I... really have to do this, don't I?"

Spike nodded. "I know you're scared, but Apple Bloom might be in serious danger. We have to try." With that, he climbed onto the prone pony's back and gave him a gentle pat. "Don't worry. You'll be fine as long as I'm here!"

Slowly, steadily, Tank rose on four shaky legs and made his way to the front door, opening it with one trembling hoof. The town was nearly pitch black as the rain came down in sheets; where the street lights weren't lit, he could barely see more than a few yards through it. As far as Tank was concerned, he may as well have been staring at a brick wall for how willing he was to walk through that doorway.

"Stay strong. I know you can do it."

While this ostensibly hadn't been what she'd meant, Twilight's words echoed in Tank's mind nonetheless. His gaze lingered on the falling rain as his mind processed the task ahead of him, prompting the trembling to pick up once again. "...Okay. I can do this, I can do this. Apple Bloom needs our help. I can do this..." He closed his eyes, the better to focus on slowing his breathing and retaining what control he could manage over his nerves. "Okay. I'm... I'm gonna count to five, and then we're gonna go. We're gonna... we're gonna do this thing. Okay." Another deep breath punctuated this sentence. "One... two - "

RUMBLE

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

Tank's eyes shot open as the loudest thunderclap yet rolled its way through town as though swallowing it whole. With a scream that might have curdled milk, he took off like a bullet out the door and into the storm, aiming as best he could in the gathering dark for the Everfree Forest.

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