#lockwood hurt/comfort

[themetaphorgirl]

Give No Quarter

(a collab with @cats-and-metersticks)

"Are you sure you’re okay to come out on the case tonight?”

Lockwood paused, and took a moment before turning around to face her, expression perfectly smooth. “Of course I am. What would make you think otherwise?”

Lucy took a deep breath. This was always a delicate dance, and one she hadn’t entirely perfected yet. “Just… you know it’s the type of thing George and I can handle alone, and it’s been a while since you’ve had a night off.”

He frowned. “But you don’t have to handle it alone. And I don’t need a night off.”

Or, the last time Lockwood works a case with a headache.

-----------

I think my main contribution to Lockwood and Co writing circles is my firm belief that Lockwood has the immune system of a wet paper towel. Luckily Yammy also believes in this and together we are an unstoppable force. we were basically like "what if Lockwood had the migraine from hell?" and just ran with it.

[arielleshaina]

Hey guys, remember when Mr Stroud traumatized us with that Christmas one-shot? @teaandtoastandthyme and I wrote a hurt/comfort thread on Twitter to make up for it, and I realized it would make a nice one-shot 😆 Pen sketch by me!

[mirroringdust]

Lucy works on her listening talent during the black winter and finds an unusual way back to Portland Row. A Lockwood and co fic with mind palace and little lotr vibes 😊

When the skull had first told her about it, she had straight up laughed at him. When he hadn’t stopped telling her more, Lucy had no choice but to listen.

After all, there was little distraction and no one else to talk to during this long, meaningless winter she had barricaded herself in. The flat she had lived in since leaving the place she had called home and the people she had belonged to was just that, flat and devoid of light and any sense of comfort. She just stayed here after a job, ate and waited until the next job could distract her. In all the grey fog she tried not to think about, talking to Skull was actually a delight. And during all those days of brooding and aimless gazing out of the window, she was more than grateful to have someone to talk to. Usually, it was his sarcastic comments that got her through the day, making her laugh and forgetting for a moment that she was far from the place that had brought her joy for the first time in her life. Perhaps the skull had noticed, if a floating skull in a jar could notice such trivial things, but sometimes Lucy thought he knew her better than anyone else and knew what and who she was missing.

He mocked her for it, but lately his words had been more serious than usual. He must have watched her stare into the void once too often, or maybe he was bored by her growing silence, but one day in the cold of that winter, he had told her about the concept for the first time. Surely he had wanted to help her, but after she had laughed, Lucy had just raised an eyebrow.

“Locis anthoenius?”

The green flicker in the jar floated angrily. “Don’t play dumb, you can’t be that language numb. Can’t believe I’m even rhyming now. This requires change!”

“I’m not a hundred years old like you. Please enlighten me.” Lucy replied with a tired look.

There was a sort of eye roll. At least that’s what Lucy could interpret by now.

“Lo-cus A-moe-nus.” The skull emphasised each syllable in her mind as if talking to a little child.

Lucy moved across the bed and closer to the windowsill the jar was standing on.

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s something I've heard of. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about it.”

Now Lucy got curious, which was probably exactly his intention. “I know it’s like you to play around like that, but I’m really not in the mood.”

“You should be. It’s the only thing that might get us out of this senseless hole, if only for a distracting while.”

“This isn’t a hole!” Lucy rose with a look of indignation.

“It's definitely a mess. There are clothes all over this place.”

“It is not!” She narrowed her eyes, adjusted her position on the bed and looked at her room for what must have been the first time in weeks. She swallowed, it really did look horrible. Clothes lying around everywhere, old parcels from deliveries, a couple of used teacups, shoes scattered around and not in pairs, her equipment - and it did not stop there. The chaos in the other place she had escaped from had been somehow charming, but this was far from it. No wonder she was not feeling well. She made a mental note to clean up this mess later and sighed. "Fine. What is this thing?"

The skull didn’t wait a second for his reply, "a kind of concept. Or some kind of sense that can only be furthered by those who are able to listen, and as you’re someone who can talk to me, perhaps you can do it."

"Do what?" she asked, her voice demanding and annoyed, not sure if this conversation would lead anywhere, but if it could bring some colour to this grey mass, what harm could it do? No more than the weight on her shoulders anyway.

"You can return to a place of… joy, that’s how you’d name it. You need to recall a feeling of a place that feels very strong to you, and you need to remember some details." He paused for a moment. "And I know very well which place you'd like to return to."

[Continue on AO3]

[13atoms]

just me, in all of my plain jane glory (Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle)

Stuck on the train home, it's just Lucy and Lockwood left overtired and awake. [3.6k]

Contains: hurt/comfort, pre-relationship locklyle, imposter syndrome, body image issues, very brief suicidal thoughts but in a jokey Lucy way, overtired agent babies, train journey, lucy stealing lockwood's hoodie

every time I start struggling with confidence at work I write a locklyle fic. also I’m sorry if this is too political but #ReNationaliseTheRailways

It was customary for Lockwood and Co. to economise on travel wherever possible – as much as Lucy could tell it embarrassed Lockwood and his posh sensibilities. She’d never minded much, the back of a private car or a first class carriage would only make her feel uncomfortable. Trains, then, became a staple part of their larger mansion-clearing jobs.

By now, there was a pattern to the way they travelled. Bustle onto the train with bags reeking of lavender and metal, dump everything on a table surrounded by four seats facing inwards. Letting George sprawl out across two seats guaranteed that no other passenger would dare to join them.  With rapiers at their sides and the clink of chains as the train rolled along, being recognised as agents tended to keep the seats around them empty. Lucy liked the window seat, resting her head against the window and watching scenery rush past her. Lockwood liked being between Lucy and the aisle. George could sleep anywhere – and he did. Often slumped over the kit bags. Overall, catching trains was one of the more well-oiled parts of their operation.

They could always rely on strangers to stay away from them. On George getting a kip ten minutes after they’d left the station. On Lockwood buying them a round of tea and biscuits from the trolley. The trains themselves, though, were less predictable.

Lucy had never thought of the Peak District as particularly far north, but returning from clearing a particularly aggressive Phantasm from Haddon Hall was proving the longest journey she could recall them taking. Through driving rain, their bus to the station had never materialised, so Lockwood had furiously called a taxi, who insisted on extra pay to transport three soggy, sweaty agents. No one had slept the night before, because the job had taken so long, and they’d only made their train because it was late. A blessing, until a technical fault left them stationary at sunset between Derby and Leicester.

A barely-comprehensible voice over the Tannoy told them that an engineer wouldn’t make it out until curfew lifted. Lockwood had found the conductor, offered to escort the engineer himself, and returned rejected and sulking to their empty carriage.

The three of them had played rummy for a bit to cheer him up, cards splayed across the table as night fell outside the window. It was getting cold. Noises and movement outside were enough to make Lucy jump. After twenty minutes their game of cards had fizzled out, and Lockwood hadn’t found anything particularly interesting to read aloud on his second perusal of The Times. After the conductor wandered through with the paltry remains of the first-class catering (and another thanks to Lockwood for his offer), Geroge had fallen dead asleep. Lucy watched him with envy, contemplating opening a fourth shortbread biscuit. The night was so absolute that she couldn’t make out the bushes outside anymore.

Lockwood slumped backwards, toeing his shoes off and resting pink-sock-clad feet on the seat beside George. He sighed, and rubbed a thumb between his eyes.

“I need to fucking learn to drive,” he sighed.

“We live in Central London,” Lucy pointed out.

He shrugged.

“Well we work in the middle of nowhere. What kind of outfit are we, if we need picking up at the station?”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“You only turned 17 last month.”

Lockwood said nothing, which was as close as he ever got to ceding an argument. They’d spoken for a while longer, first about how they’d get home. Then about how much they wanted showers, and about how jealous they were that George could sleep anywhere. Then, they’d fallen silent for a while, though Lucy knew he was still awake.

“Can you see if my coat is still wet?” she murmured.

It was no surprise, when Lockwood reached over to feel the material, that it was.

“Sorry Luce. I’d give you mine, only…”

The thing wasn’t waterproof in the first place, and still dripped into the luggage rack.

“Of course. Thank you, though.”

“’S okay.”

He watched her for a while, and it only made Lucy feel colder as she tried not to shiver.

“I have a spare hoodie. It’s been worn, but…”

“That’s okay.”

He rummaged around for the hoodie, and made a show of straightening out and folding it just so she could clumsily pull it over her head. Wearing two jumpers, Lucy was sure she looked ridiculous and bulky, but she didn’t care. Copying Lockwood, she shucked off her trainers. Lucy pulled her feet up, jamming her legs between her chest and the table, and finally stopped shivering.

His sleeves were too long, and she pulled them down over her hands, feeling like a kid again, stealing her big sisters’ clothes. Though she could never remember noticing the smell of another person as much as she noticed that Lockwood’s hoodie smelled of him. She tucked her chin into the neckline, feeling the fabric over her chin and her lips.

Because she was cold.

No other reason.

When Lucy looked up Lockwood was watching her, his face not quite reaching amusement. His eyes were too wide. The frown lines had disappeared from his forehead.

“Sorry, I’m stretching it.”

“No!” He insisted, moving his hands but not reaching for her, “No, sorry. Keep it. I’m just tired.”

“Right…”

She settled back in the seat, pulled the hood up, tried to rest against the window before changing her mind. She’d fallen last night, and not had a chance to examine the huge bruise on her hip except for under the fluorescent light of the train toilet. It ached as she shifted her legs.

“I really am so jealous of how he sleeps like that.”

“It’s like a superpower,” Lockwood agreed.

Neither of them slept well. Lucy knew that. She often heard him creeping down the stairs, or turning over and over in bed in the late night silence of the house.

“Maybe he’s drunk or something.”

It was a stupid comment, and Lockwood didn’t pretend to laugh.

“That would explain it,” he murmured.

She liked having the hood up. Liked being in Lockwood’s clothes. Liked that he was there, with her, sharing time with her that George didn’t get. She also knew those were dangerous thoughts.  

“There’s one thing I’ve never understood about you, Lucy,” Lockwood said suddenly.

He was nervous to ask the question, and it made her stomach swoop.

“One thing?” she mumbled, aware of how little she wanted George to wake up and interrupt.

It was the exact type of comment George would make.

“Well. More than one thing. Though I do hope I understand you a bit, I mean, we are…”

He trailed off, and Lucy wondered what he’d been about to say. Colleagues, probably. Or something dafter. Housemates.

“Are you going to ask me, then?”

He wasn’t sure how to find the words. Lockwood leant out from his seat, one long arm bracing himself against the seat opposite as he took another sweep of the train, checking it was empty.

“I know you don’t like me talking about you to the press.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, and groaned just to make him laugh.

“I know! I know,” he insisted, “but you’re so powerful. Types 3s, your listening… This could all be easy for you. And you’re spending an evening trapped on a broken-down Off-Peak train without dinner.”

“We didn’t get lunch, either,” she pointed out, and regretted it when that line reappeared between his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m just teasing, don’t be so soft.”

She was ignoring his question. Thinking about it. Or, rather, about why he’d asked it.

“I know,” he said again.

For a while longer, Lucy looked at the Caledonian Sleeper advert on the wall opposite. Scotland looked nice. She’d never been.

“I just don’t want to see myself in the paper,” she told him.

“I literally do not understand that.”

She knew he was joking, but she’d always suspected Lockwood really didn’t understand.

“Just… I already hate seeing photos of myself with the level of press we do get. And my mum… she’ll see it at the corner shop and buy a copy just so she can tell all her friends I’ve only got here by sleeping around or lying or something –”

Lucy stopped herself. Checked if George was awake. Looked straight ahead at the picture of a castle on the Caledonian Sleeper advert. Lockwood wasn’t saying anything, and she thought maybe if she kept speaking he’d never say anything.

“She always reckoned Mary was the prettiest of us, anyway. No idea why they’d waste ink on that one.”

“Luce –”

“No, it’s fine. I know I shouldn’t care what she’d say. I mean, I might be wrong, even –”

Lockwood’s hand found her arm. Lucy’s head ached. She realised that if she breathed wrong, she’d start crying.

“Sorry,” she murmured, “I think I’m overtired.”

“You can’t be serious?” he asked, and she had no idea which part he meant, so she didn’t say anything. “Lucy…”

“No, it’s fine. Sorry, I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

“No, I’m glad you brought it up. I just… no, sorry. I really can’t understand it. Your mum wouldn’t say that.”

When Lucy laughed, it was wet, and she brought her sleeved hand to her nose.

“No offense, Lockwood, but she very much would.”

“Can I hug you?”

She leant into him, and focussed everything she had on not crying at Lockwood’s arm wrapping around her shoulder. George’s curls were splayed out on the kit bag, his face indented from one of the buckles pressed into his forehead. Lucy was careful not to jostle the table. This was mortifying enough. If George woke up now, she’d have to throw herself onto the tracks.

Lockwood was bonier than Norrie, but not by much. He was warm. They were at a different angle, but even sitting side by side and through a hoodie, she recognised the curve of his cheekbone resting against her forehead. She couldn’t see his face at all when he spoke.

“I’m sorry you think that.”

“I don’t think that, Lockwood. It’s dead true.”

“Well then, I’m very glad you’re here with us. And I hope I’ll never have the displeasure of meeting her.”

“You’d beat her in a duel.”

Lucy tried to joke, but the words fell flat. Her lungs ached for air, but a gasp would be the start of sobs. And she was hoping the hoodie might be maintaining some of her dignity.

“I think I forget, sometimes, because of my parents…” he trailed off. He was heavy against her, “I always imagine anyone with parents is really lucky.”

He meant so well, she hardly had it in her to tease. Stitches were breaking, and Lockwood was offering her an open wound.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe, because I was so young… but I don’t think they’d have ever said anything like that. No one’s parent should.”

Lucy didn’t say anything, she wasn’t sure what she could say. Lockwood was talking more candidly now.

“I wonder if we’d have ever fallen out.”

“I bet fourteen-year-old Lockwood would have gotten into some good screaming matches with them, about sleeping in and cleaning your room” she teased, before backtracking, “but they sound like they’d have always forgiven you.”

“Jess said she’d never heard either of them raise their voices.”

Lucy swallowed something thick and uncomfortable in her throat.

“They sounded really special.”

He nodded, silently, and moved away from her for a moment to clear his throat. In the reflection of the train window, she could see his eyes swimming.

“I hope you don’t believe a word of it, Luce. I’ve never seen a picture where you don’t look beautiful.”

“Yeah, why do you think we never take photos,” she snorted.

“We should take more.”

Lucy inhaled, frustrated, but let Lockwood indulge in his fantasy. It would soon be forgotten. She thought George might have a camera – but fortunately film was strictly saved for taking photos of illegal sources that Flo stole. And maybe the odd photo of Flo.

“You don’t believe I will,” he said.

“I just hate it when the press takes photos. I don’t want to have to see my mug on some paper on a train,” she gestured at Lockwood’s copy of The Times, folded and discarded. “And then they’ll just make up gossip, to try and get a scoop… I saw what happened to Marissa, and she was like some… model.”

Lockwood mock-gasped, though she could still hear the thickness of tears in her throat.

“Lucy Carlyle, reducing a woman to her looks – you of all people, Luce –”

She shoved against him, and then let her shoulder stay pressed to his. Lockwood didn’t flinch.

“Shut up, you know what I mean. Besides, I’ve seen the poster in your old wardrobe…”

“I’d rather have a Lucy Carlyle poster.”

“Ew.”

Even as she let her voice fall flat, Lucy could feel the blush threatening her cheeks.

“Not like that!” He was insisting, “I had a Tom Rotwell poster too. Agents I admired.”

“I’m not judging, Lockwood… whichever way you swing.”

It was Lockwood’s turn to squirm, even though they both knew she didn’t mean anything by it. Lucy used her secret window-reflection trick to watch his mouth fall open and closed again. He moved away from her to throw his head back against the train seat.

“I’m trying to be sincere, and you’re being mean,” he complained, voice sotto as midnight approached.

When his head lolled towards her, all soft eyes and long lashes with dark smudges settled beneath them, Lucy couldn’t stand to keep eye contact.

“We should get posters made. Best looking agency in London, I reckon,” he drawled.

Now Lockwood was being mean. Or delusional, maybe. He had the capacity for either.

“We absolutely shouldn’t.”

“I think they’d do them as a Sunday special in The Spectral Scene.”

He was smiling now, all sharp white teeth, and Lucy hated how he could control her moods so quickly.

“A whole new generation of teenage Anthony Lockwoods could have us on their walls,” he teased, head lolling against her shoulder in exhaustion.

“We absolutely should not do that. Besides, I don’t exactly look like an agent. I’m not sure anyone would want me on their wall.”

Lockwood’s mood shifted again, and brought hers with it, right into the realm of deadly serious.

“What the hell does that mean? You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with.”

“You know what I mean,” she waved him away.

“No, I don’t. You don’t really mean what you said about your mum? About photos? Jesus, Lucy.”

“I know it’s not all about looks, but I guess… I’m not Marissa.”

Lockwood was about to interrupt, but Lucy spoke over him.

“I know, but you’re the only person who thinks of me like that.”

“And George.”

“Well yeah, George. But that’s because of you.”

“It absolutely isn’t, Luce. He’s worked with you as much as I have, he knows how good you are.”

“I’m not… I don’t know. Sometimes I just wonder if I’ve gotten lucky, over and over again… I make mistakes literally every day. You said that yourself – that I’m volatile and insubordinate and overly-emotional –”

“I don’t remember ever saying that! Ever! And even if I had, you bloody well shouldn’t believe it. You saved Lockwood and Co., we’d… we’d be nothing without you.”

Poorer, that voice in her head reminded her, they’d be financially poorer without you, Lucy. He’s worried you’ll leave again, and that then people won’t book Lockwood and Co. for their big spooky houses. No wonder he wants you in the newspapers.

She often wondered if Skull had left his jar and moved into her brain. But no, that was all her. All the weakness that lived up there. Kat wasn’t like this. Flo wasn’t. Or George. Or…

“If I was really as good as Marrisa, I wouldn’t find this all so… hard,” she snapped.

“Maybe you find it hard because you beat yourself up over every little mistake!”

Lucy didn’t speak. Not for a while. She felt like Lockwood had physically stuck a hand through her ribcage and into her heart. The tears were back, after she’d tried so hard to keep them at bay. She looked at the Caledonian Sleeper poster. Thought about running away on it. Things had worked out, the last time she bought a train ticket and didn’t look back. She’d had less to lose, then.

Or maybe not. Lockwood knew now. That she wasn’t as good as she projected. The girl who lied about her Grade 4 and was the most powerful listener since stupid bloody Marissa Fittes, and goaded a ghost in a jar all day. She’d never earned this. Wasn’t anything special. If she was put in the newspaper, they’d all know. The whole of London would see right through her, and they’d find out about the Mill, and about her family, and every single time she’d not been good enough.

Lockwood was overtired and exasperated. So was she. Her heart ached where he’d stabbed at it with his fingernails.

“Goodnight, Lockwood.”

She turned away from him and tried to settle in against the seat. She wished they’d turn the emergency lights off. Her stupid face was looking back in the window reflection. Plain. Puffy with tears. Stupid.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured finally, and one hand resting on her bicep. In the reflection, he was looking right at her, “I only mean that I hate it when you’re so hard on yourself.”

Yeah, well. I don’t need you being hard on me too.

Lucy couldn’t say anything out loud. She was too busy trying to level out her breathing, sobs coming with heaves of air that made her lungs ache as she tried restrain herself from making a sound.

“God, Lucy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, for all of it…”

“It’s not your fault,” she choked out.

This was all her fault, and now she was making it his problem. She tried so hard to be easygoing. To pick her battles. Keep all of this away from him. Away from Geroge. From everyone. This deserved to be locked up in her attic room, or her grimy little Zone 3 bedsit. Lockwood was starting to cry.

“Tell me how to make it better,” he begged, but Lucy shook her head.

She glanced at George, checking he was still asleep. This was mortifying.

“I just want to go home.”

“Oh, Lucy, I’m sorry,” he paused, “do you mean… London?”

They both froze. Lucy felt her stomach plummet. She didn’t have anywhere else. Wasn’t Portland Row her home? Lockwood’s hands were shaking. She didn’t know why.

“If that’s… if that’s okay,” she choked out, and Lockwood relaxed visibly.

“Of course! Of course it’s okay. More than… Portland Row is your home as long as you want it. Of course.”

“Oh. Good.”

He didn’t ask his time. Didn’t move slowly to avoid the table. Lockwood threw himself around her and dragged her closer and held her so tight Lucy finally believed she was never going anywhere.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I’m so emotional.”

“God Luce I thought you were leaving again. Please, I don’t… I don’t care about the press. I was just asking.”

“I don’t know why I’m like this, Lockwood, I’m sorry. I just can’t see myself…”

“It’s fine. I don’t care about the papers. Ignore me, I never should have brought it up. Besides, I like seeing my face enough for the both of us, I think.”

When Lucy laughed it was wet and snotty and the best thing Lockwood had ever heard. He was no stranger to fear and relief, each time they captured a source both emotions chased each other through his veins. But this was potent. Something he’d never replicated anywhere other than Lucy. She was the scariest thing in the world.

He saw George’s eyes crack open, and slip closed again with an understanding nod. Surprisingly tactful.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, high on adrenaline and entirely delirious, “I’d buy a poster of you. I’ll put it on my bedroom wall now.”

“Lockwood,” she whined, “shut up.”

“I’m buying a polaroid camera.”

“Don’t be gross.”

She was joking. He knew she was. His chest clutched with fear anyway.

“No, I mean… like the photos you have with Norrie. I love those. You look so beautiful in them. Happy and real, laughing.”

When Lucy agreed, she didn’t mean it. But Lockwood had her pulled to his chest and she was wrapped in his hoodie and he had told her (in a rather indirect way) that he thought she was beautiful, so she let it slide.

“Do you think you can sleep like this?” she asked.

“Yeah, probably. Why?”

“Good. I’m really comfy. Is that weird?”

“No! Not at all. Definitely sleep, if you can.”

He didn’t care if he slept. She was still here. They’d fought, and he still wasn’t sure why, but she was still here. Her eyes were slipping closed, and selfishly, he didn’t want her to go yet.

“Luce?”

“Hm?”

“You’ll have to give me your family’s address – I need to have a stern word with your mother.”

Lucy snorted. He didn’t need the address, it was on her Grades One through Three certificates. She liked the idea of it though, showing up in his suit with all his posh charm and repressed anger. Lucy had never needed saving, but she’d love Lockwood to give her mum a bollocking. The fantasy followed her all the way into her dreams, and she wondered if Lockwood could tell somehow, with her head against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her on a stationary train.

[fictional-addiction]

I'm Not Really Here.(Pt.2)

Relationship: Anthony Lockwood x Fem!Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, reader whump and pain and general chaos

Requested: icl it wasnt 100% in the works but so many of you came forward asking for pt2, thank you, so here we are🙏🙏

Word Count: guys.. idk. probably similar to the last one lol

Part: 2/2

Summary: A mission goes terribly wrong. You and Anthony are left to face the consequences. !! PART 2 OF 2 !!

Warnings: blood, swearing, angst, creeps, violence, torture. I AM NOT CONDONING/ROMANTICISING VIOLENCE. THIS IS PURELY FICTION. PLEASE TAKE THIS INTO ACCOUNT. DO NOT READ IF THESE WARNINGS TICKLE YOUR BRAIN THE WRONG WAY. THANKS BESTIE

-/-/-/-/-

It had been hours.

Your throat was scratched raw with the echoes of screams. Cheeks stained with the remnants of tears that had tracked down your face. No sense of what was real, and what was in your mind.

Chaos.

The blade dragged against your jawline once more, never enough pressure to make a cut, yet just enough to leave your skin burning with the scrape of the uneven edge.

A new tear slipped out the corner of your eye, a silent plea for this agony to end.

The man saw it.

The blade pressed harder.

"Didn't I tell you, you weren't to let a ano'her one of them tears to fall? Oh, princess.." he snarled. "Time to start with our favourite toy again, no?"

Your eyes squeezed shut. When the man had showed it to you and Lockwood all those hours ago, you had almost scoffed at its appearance. Small, rusted, and seemingly barely functional enough to make a dent.

A drill.

You would have thought otherwise. Yet this, this thing; it had deceived you.

The man yanked the chain and fired up the ancient tool as it grated and grinded, specks of rust flying in all directions.

I'm not really here. I'm not, I can't be, I'm not here, I'm not-

"Ohh, princess?" the man taunted. "What-" , he brought the drill closer, "did I say about sleeping on the job?"

A horrifying smile glimmered on his face.

"You sleep- you pay," he whispered, breath hot on your neck.

Another tear slid down your grimied face as he held the drill even closer to you- this time grabbing your left leg.

"I think it's a'out time we do th' other one, yeah? Since your right one seems to be all dolled up now', aight?"

The blood had dried somewhat a long time ago on your right leg. In certain places, fresh drips seeped out of the cuts. The tidy handwriting.

'Lockwood's bitch', it read. All neatly cut out and on display for all to see.

Well. At the moment, 'all'... was Lockwood.

He sat opposite you, eyes wide. Hands still bound behind him, his futile attempts at escape falling flat as he struggled to undo the knot of the fabric. Mouth stuffed with a rag - courtesy of the man, who had wiped the blood off your right leg with it, before promptly shoving it in his mouth to silence his shouts and protests.

He was helpless. And Anthony Lockwood couldn't bear it.

The man began to softly drag the drill up your leg, prolonging the process of digging in to the skin. Your eyes followed the moment of the drill, a deep panic settling in the pit of your stomach.

"Ah, 'ere we are. This seems like a perfect spot, dontcha' think."

The fear crept through your body; it trembled in anticipation. I’m not really here, I’m not, I’m not here, I-

The man dug the drill into your calf. You bit down harder on your lip, as you tried not to scream. You couldn't give in this time.. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe your body had gotten used to the pain, maybe it was going to be fin-

It wasn't.

The drill bit into your skin and your mouth flew open as a shrill scream ripped out of your throat.

"Y/N!" Lockwood bit down on the rag, struggling to speak through the material.

"Y/NNN!"

You tried to look at him - he always knew how to ground you. If you could just catch a glance, maybe it would hel-

Nothing but blinding pain tore through you. Your vision went white, your ears deaf to the screams... your screams. Oh god, it- it ripped across your body, leaving streaks of raw pain in its path.

It was the type of pain that you couldn't get used to. Sometimes, one can bite down and bear raw pain-- but this, this was unreal. This seemed to only grow, trawling through your veins, clawing its way out as it scrabbled up your throat- filling the room with ugly, horrid screams.

And all you could do, was... struggle to breathe. Struggle to live.

You wished you would die; you couldn't.

But if you truly wanted to die, wouldn't the world grant you that?

-/-/-/-/-

"Boss, come here. Look at this."

With a sneer, the man eventually pulled the machine away, the drill bit dripping blood onto the dirty cement and stomped towards Cliff. Your vision was screwed beyond belief, but your eyes could still carve out shapes, colours; his face.

Your ears were- ringing-

painfully

ringing.

Your head dropped back, your neck protesting at the steep, uncomfortable angle that it was now dangling at. Yet it dulled in comparison to the fire burning in your leg as air seeped into the fresh wounds.

"Oh god... I..," your voice strained, fading as it became harder and harder to form words. "Please..."

Lockwood could only watch as the horror unfolded before him. Limp. Pale. Almost dead.

He wanted to reach out, assure you that he had a plan, that he knew what to do- but he couldn’t. He was frozen, heart beat-beating beat beat beat beating.. louder, and louder, and loUDER-

I’m not really here.

The man's head twisted over his shoulder, ignoring Cliff as the plea fell from your cracked lips. Striding back towards you, his heavy footfalls causing you to wince and furrow your eyebrows as the sound went straight to your pounding head.

He pouted. "Please, what?" he taunted. "Please, again? Tha' can be done-"

You pushed yourself to interject, "-No; please, no.."

The man cocked his head, eyebrow raised as he continued to mock you. "But hun, dont'cha want to add to the beautiful handiwork? My, there's s' much already etched on you, we could turn ya into a art piece, fit for one of them fancy galleries uptown. Like the one you an' your little friend here tried to catch us at." His eyes darkened as he recalled the previous events of that night. The trap you and Lockwood had attempted to set for them to walk into.

How ironic- you had fallen into theirs instead. No longer the hunters, but the hunted.

You could only hope George had realised what had happened and was doing... something. Anything. At this point, you could barely think straight.

The man had continued to drawl on, and you forced yourself to try and focus on his words- anything to keep you lucid.

"See, princes-" he had been saying before he noticed your head lolling as you struggled to maintain consciousness. "Oi-"

A sharp pain burned against your cheek.

Your head had dropped to the side from the contact, and you managed to make brief eye contact with Lockwood.

One look in his dark eyes told you that things did not look good. At all. He was terrified. You were terrified.

Yet…

I’m not really here.

Strangely, in this moment, your fear seemed to have melted away. Your pain dissolved into numbness. Your heart no longer felt like it was being crushed, without breath. You felt… nothing.

You couldn't let this sicko win.

The man seemed to have lost his focus on you and instead began to walk back to Cliff. Until you muttered a few choice words that spun him right back around.

"Excuse me." He stated, voice lurking dangerously low.

You raised your head from where it had been lolling, before turning your gaze to him.

"I said-"

Thwack.

"I heard what you said, you stupid bitch."

A slight smirk ghosted over your face. You could taste blood. You could taste freedom.

He dusted his hand on his grimy trousers and proceeded to straighten up, as he raised his hand to prepare to strike again.

Your head hit the back of the chair with a crack.

crack.

cRAck

cr a c k.

He searched for the spark in your eyes as you blinked them back open. When you turned and spat at his feet, contempt coursing through you, he drew his fist back and let the full weight of it slam into your jaw.

Your head twisted under the force and whacked against the chair frame again. This time, stars danced across your vision and your ears protested, ringing loudly.

The room-

Room-

The room spun. You couldn't...

"Oi, lady-"

"She's losing conscious-"

"Look what you did to her face man, what the f-"

"Boss, maybe we should lay off..."

You couldn't..

It hur-

Wh-?

Hel-

No.

Don’t help-

-want to be free

Life should give you death,

surely?

Through your bleary eyes, you caught Lockwood's gaze. You wanted to tell him it was alright. You wanted to reach out your hand and intertwine it with his. There were so many words that were desperate to be said, but your mouth wouldn't open. Your voice lay dormant in your throat. There was nothing.

The room spun. The world stopped. Your heartbeat slowed. His eyes clouded with distress. Your body stilled.

It's dark.

It's dark here.

Cold.

Cold, here.

The world

stopped

bre at h i n g.

And you were-

no lon g e r

Here.

-- fictional-addiction (and all my grammar errors. we ❤️ chaotic writing)

-/-/-/-/-

ahh hey everybody!!

I'm back besties with more on the way (I'm being fr this time 🤍) can't wait!

do y’all want a pt3? idk if it needs one or not. if yes lmk what you wanna read in pt3! help me choose my ending cause I feel like it can go many, many different ways lol

so basically yeah hope you liked, hope it was worth a lil wait andddd check you next time :) keep sending in requests I'm starting off there!

byeee loves have a great day/night xx

taglist: @wordsarelife @cassiopeiia24 @superpositvecloudshipper @shampoocovers99 @fox-bee926 @ettadear @a-candle-maker @navznak28

(just ask if you'd like to be added to the taglist! sorry for those that aren't working I apologise :( )

[lockwood-fic-recs]

and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love

by thethinkingcloth on ao3

Rating: T | Category: F/M, M/M, Multi | Relationship: Lockwood/Lucy/George

“Oh good, you’re both here,” Lockwood says. “Don’t suppose you’d like to join me for a bit? Take our minds off tomorrow?”

George turns to Lucy, splayed out on the couch, her legs across his lap, and raises his eyebrows.

Lucy shrugs in return as she shoves herself off the couch. “Might as well, right George?”

“I’m not getting anything else out of this rubbish,” He says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Might as well.”

A cot3 rewrite of the scene in book 5 where Lockwood brings Lucy to his family's graves.

[fail-eacan]

if you like..

-Lockwood & Co

-Good Omens

-The Sandman

-Marauders era shit

-Homosexuality

you will like Dead Boy Detectives. Pinky promise.

Also, if you like any of the above, you will like the others too. So try whatever you haven’t tried yet :) especially homosexuality

[teaandransacking]

Heyy could you please do an Anthony Lockwood x reader fic where the reader has a panic attack on a hunt because it gives her pts (it's no longer a disorder) from a previous hunt where her friends and family were killed infront of her xxxxxx

Words: 600 ~ Content: panic attack, symptoms of PTS, angst, comfort.

a/n: for you, friend <3

-----

The walls are closing in on you.

You pride yourself on how well you keep it together, most days. A good day is if you don’t have a flashback, or any nausea. And there’s been a few good days in a row, lately, thanks, you think, to the three people who live with you at 35 Portland Row.

But tonight, you’re hunting just with Lockwood.

You should have known it’d be a disaster right from the start. 

The house is red brick, like your family home used to be.

Pretty as a picture, net curtains, welcome mat.

When you look at it, you heard their screams in your head again, but you shook it off.

Beside you, Lockwood runs his hand down your arm, takes your hand, his dark eyes searching yours.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” you mutter. Maybe if you say it enough times, it’ll end up being true.

Lockwood lets you go and opens the door with the key from your client.

But as soon as you step inside the hall and the front door shuts behind you, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake.

No, no, no.

This house is so similar to yours, and your talent tells you a family were killed here.

Maybe in the same way your family were killed right before your eyes.

You shrink back against the wall as the images from that night flash before your vision, making your head swim.

Why are the walls so close? Why is everything crashing in around you?

Your head spins.

Lockwood zeroes in on you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “What is it?”

You press your hands to your chest. Your heart has leapt into your throat, or, it feels like it. “Can’t breathe,” you wheeze. Your skin is crawling. “This house - the house, it's just like... It's the same as when my family-”

You’ve never told him the real truth, and even if you wanted to, you can hardly form words. 

Understanding dawns over Lockwood’s face. He’s always been smart, and you think perhaps he knew, even though you never explicitly said.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, and his hands stay steady on your shoulders. “Breathe.”

He rests his forehead against yours, and that little touch helps ground you. “With me,” he adds. “In…” he takes a deep breath, catches one of your hands and places it on his stomach. “...And out.”

It takes some effort, but the feel of his warm body under your palm is calming, and in a few more heartbeats, you’re breathing steadily.

You still feel rotten - overhyped, sick - but it’s not as bad as it was. Not with him by your side.

Lockwood draws back to examine your face, cupping your cheek. Apparently, he’s satisfied with what he sees, because he nods. 

“All right. We’re going outside, and we’ll find a phonebox and call the others. You’re not going back in there.”

It’s easier in the night air.

Lockwood sits down with you on the doorstep, wrapping his arm around you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head mutely. Then eventually you add, “Later. Not here.”

He drops a kiss on your hair. “After this, then. When we’re all together. We’ll get you through it, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

[warrenposts]

George Karim + Mirror Symptoms

Hypnotism, Obsession

Irritability, Paranoia

Nightmares

[agentearthling]

Finally finished my 5+1 Lockwood and Co fic! (Contains major Hollow Boy spoilers) Veryyyy excited about this one I had a lot of feelings while writing it.

Summary:

Five times Lucy comforted Lockwood, and one time he tried to comfort her.

[hurtcomfortficstilltheend]

Sometimes it's just better (not to know).

Chapter two: Killed by uncertainty

Lucy Carlyle x gn! Reader

Summary: Is this supposed to be the calm before the storm?

Warnings: not much, maybe a nap that lasts too long lmao

Word Count: 950

Your boots are too tight. You don’t like them one bit, but you had made the decision to buy new ones for cold winter nights -with equally cold Visitors-, and now you have to live with rock solid shoes, at least until they soften a little with use.

Your rapier is in place in your belt, and so are your salt bombs and greek flares. You had -against Anthony’s wishes for the team to take a week-long break- decided to take back your verdict on the Geralds case.

You had just gotten out of the library, a while after the reading that ruined your morning (and maybe your life too), all puffy eyes and incoming migraine, when you bumped into George. 

-

“Have you already called the client?” 

There was a frown forming on his face, “I was just about to do that.” He held up the folder where you assume he must have had the contact number. He seemed impatient and irritated, you didn’t blame him.

“Don’t bother, we are going tonight, as scheduled.”

His grimace was replaced by a look of surprise, but he covered it quickly and turned around to head to the basement.

You went right up the stairs and flopped on your bed. You didn’t notice Lucy in the corner of the room until you heard her speak (for a second there you thought she would actually be feeding Skull biscuits, just out of spite). “What was all that about?”

Startled, you turned around and held your body up in your elbows.

“Nothing. I was wrong. We’ll do the Geralds’ case tonight, as planned, so we better start preparing in a little bit.” 

“You sound like you’ve been crying.” She stated, simply.

“Allergies, you know how much dust there is in the library. I was just talking to Lockwood about a new brand of salt bombs that seems to be more effective in dissipating ectoplasm.”

“Love, we make our own salt bombs.” She caught up on your bullshit too fast.

“Did I say salt bombs? I ment flares- greek fires. Remember the other day and how that cold maiden didn’t react to our usual ones?” 

Lucy walked closer to the bed, she kneeled beside it to be the same height as your face. Her calloused fingers found their way to your cheeks. “You know you can talk to me. About anything.” 

You leaned into the touch, closed your eyes, and tried to enjoy the moment. “I know. I’m gonna take a 30 minute nap, and then help you with the chains.” You took her hands in yours, pulled her a little bit. “Wanna join me?”

She rolled her eyes but laid down with you until you fell asleep.

-

“Should I go wake them? There is only a few hours till sundown.” 

“No, let them rest. I’ll get their chores, what was it? Snack packing?”

“Chain oiling.” The pair headed to the office to get the duffel bags prepared. “What happened today? They were so out of themselves, I’ve never seen them like this.”

“It was just a rough night. Believe me, this happens more than you’d think. A beauty nap is all it takes for them to get back to normal.” Even as Lockwood said this, he didn’t seem convinced. “That is assuming we don’t get their post-nap grumpy mood. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.” He chuckled lightly.

Lucy’s lips twitched, right about to form a smile, but she noticed her friend was avoiding answering the question. She knew how closed off you Lockwoods’ could be; after all, it took a year for Anthony to show her the room on the landing, and two years and a half for you to admit your feelings for her, but she wished it wasn’t so difficult to get some actual information. The team was founded on trust, and survival depended on how well you communicated with each other goddammit.

-

What was supposed to be a half hour nap turned into an I-have-only-forty-minutes-left-to-prepare-for-the-case-’cause-I-slept-six-hours-non-stop nap, which was quite inconvenient. Still, you managed to get ready, apologize for the lack of help on the iron chain department, and chug up half a liter of water on one go, before getting into the waiting night cab.

This is fine, and your boots don’t bother you, and neither does the little tag on the neck of your shirt that you forgot to cut out (again), or the judgy stares you are receiving from George, or the worried ones from your cousin, or the feeling that very soon everything will end. You are perfectly fine, and this is just another day on the job.

From the moment you get to the house, to the moment you emerge from it, everything goes smoothly. The source is easy enough to find, and the Visitor turns out to be a weak type one, not the type two you were expecting. The client paid full price anyway, and the team got back safe and sound.

It was all perfect. And that was alright. More than alright, actually, it was marvelous, but something felt wrong. You knew there was something about to happen. You wouldn’t admit it, but you wish it had been a rawbones or an impromptu cluster, the Geralds’ case that is. It would have been a pain in the ass, that’s for sure, but you had already gotten out alive from situations like that, and such a vile set of apparitions would have fulfilled the readings’ prophecy. Maybe. 

The anticipation that had started in your chest was unbearable. You wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, but still, you felt it wasn’t going to be that easy. It never was.

Taglist: @myownpainintheass @superpositvecloudshipper @carpinchodetecta

A/N: I would love to hear (read) what you think! Hope you enjoyed :)

This story is lowkey stuck, but just because I finished The Creeping Shadow like a month ago, and I haven't started The Empty Grave cause I'm in denial, I don't want to finish the series T-T

[psychicbluebirdmiracle]

I just found out that this was the actor for lockwoods first real project after drama school and I can't believe he's THIS good already he (and a lot of others in the series but mainly him) has so many little subtle acting choices that I love like the arogent way he just holds himself is so freaking funny and the way he sits etc. I hope he has a good career after this show he's earned it

[kamryn1963]

Chicago Med Fanfic: Will, Connor & Maggie

Summary: Will starts to figure out that maybe being cared for and having his friends worry over him, isn't that bad.

Sicktember Day 12: “You’re not fine, you’re throwing up\coughing up a lung”

It didn’t take a genius to see that something was clearly wrong with Will that day. Connor had clocked it the second he started his shift. It also helped that Maggie wasn’t hiding the fact she was watching Will like a hawk. 

“What’s going on with him?” Connor asked quietly as he came over to the nurses station and grabbed his tablet, making sure that Will wasn’t looking in their direction as he spoke. 

“He’s sick, the flu probably. Not like he’ll admit it or go home”. Maggie responded with a deep sigh and Connor figured she had already tried to convince Will more than once. 

“I’ll keep an eye on him”. Connor said just as the paramedics came in, rolling in their next patient. 

Connor caught Maggie’s nod before he was heading over to help the paramedics, his worries about Will momentarily forgotten. 

Will sighed as he finally had a minute to himself and headed to the locker room, collapsing on the couch with his head in his hands. He had a twelve hour shift that day and he was only halfway through. Will didn’t know how he would manage another six hours. 

He had seen this flu coming days ago but had chosen to ignore it. Tylenol, Advil, a long sleeve shirt under his scrubs, helped him fight off the worst of his symptoms for the first few days, but they were rapidly winning. 

Will was also well aware of how Maggie and Connor had been looking at him most of the day. Maggie had cornered him twice in the first hour of his shift, and questioned him. Will knew she didn’t believe him when he said he was fine, but Will was grateful she had let him go after that. 

Connor, Will knew, would've forced him to go home if he hadn’t been in surgery for the last three hours. At that moment Will’s pager went off, and he groaned as he forced himself to his feet. 

Which proved to be a mistake. The room spun and so did the meager contents of Will’s stomach. He barely managed to get to the nearest bathroom, before he was doubled over throwing up and gasping in a toilet not having enough time to close the stall door. . 

Unfortunately for him the universe must’ve had it out for him, because the next moment Will heard footsteps coming towards him and tried to look up, when another round of nausea forced him to put his head down and vomit again. 

He felt a firm hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles and then a soothing voice in his ear. 

“Just get it all out. I’ve got you, Will”. Connor. 

Will didn’t respond, just gagged again wondering just how much more he could possibly throw up. Finally his stomach was empty, and Will took the paper towel offered to him and wiped his face before Connor helped him lean against the bathroom wall as he regained his bearings. 

“I’m fine”. Will muttered not meeting Connor’s eyes. He heard Connor scoff as the other man sat next to him. 

“You're not fine, you’re throwing up a lung, you’ve been coughing like crazy, shivering and”, Connor paused and Will wasn’t able to shake off the hand Connor placed to his forehead and then his cheeks. “You're burning up too”. Connor finished. 

“I’m fine”. Will repeated, finally forcing himself to meet Connor’s eyes. 

“No you're not, man. There’s no point in denying it anymore”. Connor said sternly. He was getting a bit fed up with the red head’s denial of being sick when it was obvious to everyone around him. 

“Fine, fine”. In any other condition Will would argue longer and refuse to admit his own weakness. But he felt like hell and just wanted to be in his own bed. 

“Good”. Connor felt satisfied as he helped the younger man stand up, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. 

“Now come on, me and Maggie are going to check you out and then you're going home”. Connor stated as he led Will out of the bathroom, and towards a thankfully empty treatment room gesturing for Maggie to join them as he got Will settled on the bed. 

“Or we could skip this and I could just go home?” Will suggested though he couldn’t deny getting a chance to lie down was nice. 

“Not a chance, Red”. Maggie said her voice stern as she entered the room, closing the curtain behind her. 

Will just groaned as he leaned back against the pillows as Maggie picked his hand up to start an IV for fluids. 

An hour later, Connor and Maggie agreed to let him leave, confirming he had the flu and telling him not to step foot back until he was well again. Connor also insisted on driving him home as Will’s car was currently in the shop and in Connor’s words “There’s no way you're taking the bus home in your condition. Don’t be an idiot”. 

Will didn’t fully mind though. Not like he’d admit it but he was grateful for Maggie and Connor’s worry. Even if they worried a bit too much. 

[evadne01]

The Vampire Diaries Masterlist

Unwavering loyalty

The Mikaelsons and Esther aren't the only new arrivals at Mystic Falls.

An old friend of one of the Mikaelson came as well, ready to burn everything to dust and helping her old friend

Kol Mikaelson & Original Female Character(s), Elijah Mikaelson & Finn Mikaelson & Klaus Mikaelson & Kol Mikaelson & Rebekah Mikaelson, Damon Salvatore & Stefan Salvatore & Original Female Character(s), Bonnie Bennett & Caroline Forbes & Elena Gilbert & Original Female Character(s)

Sunshine is far away, rain clouds linger on 

There is a limit to how much you can hurt someone before he isn't anymore able to forgive you. Damon reached that limit a long time ago.

Elena Gilbert/Damon Salvatore

All men are idiots 

Elena Gilbert is very tired of her friends' plans.

She runs into Rebekah at the Grill. Somehow, she spends all the time with the Mikaelsons

Elena Gilbert/Elijah Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert/Klaus Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert/Rebekah Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert/Kol Mikaelson

Welcome to the 21st century! 

Elena discovers that Elijah, Klaus, Stefan and Damon are discussing her future at dinner. Her solution: steal the coffins from Stefan, crash dinner, and steal Klaus' food.

Elena Gilbert & Rebekah Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert & Kol Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert/Elijah Mikaelson/Klaus Mikaelson

One Last Deal

When Elijah shows up at her door to talk, Elena kicks everyone else out of the house.

“So, it looks like we have a lot of catching up to do.”

Elena Gilbert & Elijah Mikaelson

Chasing my enemies 

When your best friend's sister has two vampire by her side, but you have two protective best friend and two older vampires by your side.

Or

Alexandra Forbes, Jeremy Gilbert and Tyler Lockwood friendship.

Jeremy Gilbert & Original Female Character(s), Tyler Lockwood & Original Female Character(s), Matt Donovan & Jeremy Gilbert, Matt Donovan & Elena Gilbert, Elena Gilbert/Stefan Salvatore, Bonnie Bennett & Caroline Forbes & Elena Gilbert, Caroline Forbes & Original Female Character(s)

Always and Forever 

Elena isn't Tatia nor Katherine. She wouldn't let Esther use her blood to kill Elijah and his siblings.

So, when Elijah asked her about his mother, she tells him the truth.

And, just like a butterfly effect, all the story changes

Elena Gilbert & Elijah Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert & Rebekah Mikaelson, Elena Gilbert & Jeremy Gilbert, Elena Gilbert & Tyler Lockwood, Matt Donovan & Elena Gilbert, Matt Donovan & Tyler Lockwood, Jeremy Gilbert & Tyler Lockwood

Welcome to the world

Elena knew she had a weakness for small, cute people.

So when she went to the doctor after feeling sick (being a vampire and going to a doctor was not something she would ever think of doing, but there she was), Elena was speechless when she realized she was pregnant.

Return to the General Masterlist

[fictional-addiction]

I'm Not Really Here. (Pt.1)

Relationship: Anthony Lockwood x Fem!Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, reader whump

Requested: no

Word count: 1.6k

Part: 1/2

Summary: A mission goes terribly wrong. You and Anthony are left to face the consequences. !! PART 1 OF 2 !!

Warnings: swearing, blood, angst, creeps

_________________________________________

It’s cold.

That’s the first thing to come to your mind as your vision swirls and flickers before you.

Something is cold.

Blood rushes to your ears as you try to lift your head, pounding headache pressing against your temples.

A very specific something on you is cold.

You try to lift your arms to support your head as the wail of your thoughts echo too loudly to focus.

Your wrists are cold.

And then, there’s a new thing that you become aware of. A sound.

Clink. Clink.

Where is it coming from?

Dazily, you’re finally able to pull your head up. Eyes closed as you try and still the intense roar grating through your mind.

God, why can't you move? And what the hell is that sound?

You shift.

Clink. Clink.

You shift again.

Clink. Clink.

It’s now when you realise that you’re not alone. At least, you can’t be.

Because you can’t be the one who handcuffed your wrists to the back of a chair.

Clink. Clink.

___________________

"..think we should start the process of extracting immediat…"

A voice faded into the room, trailing off as you twisted your head slightly to catch a glimpse of who had walked into the room.

The voice belonged to a rather… imposing man, whose stature simply towered over yours as he leant down, acrid breath mingling close to yours. Eyes, darker than a raven's feathers, gleamed cruelly under the flickering lights.

You wrinkled your nose distastefully as his scent overwhelmed you.

His mouth stretched into a wicked grin, revealing a mouthful of surprisingly brilliantly white teeth.

Odd.

He pulled back, and you're finally able to breathe the somewhat cleaner air as he turned to his accomplice.

"Bring in the other one."

The feeble, puny accomplice scuttled towards the door, squeaking out a tiny, "yes sir!" as he backed away and disappeared behind the rotting wood.

Your eyes followed him out, before returning to the large, unpleasant figure before you.

Your head continued to pound.

At least you could see better.

You weren't sure if that was necessarily a good thing.

A familiar voice echoed from the passage.

"...et go! Once my fellow agents realise I'm gone, you'll really have it the.."

Suddenly it was no longer just your wrists that were cold. Deep fear began to settle itself in every limb.

The voice was right by the door now.

"..y're top notch agents! Best in their field, you won't stand a chance-"

Your skin prickled with nerves. Please, no, don't let it be-

The door swung open to reveal the voice.

"-at all! Especially Y/n, you'll never be able to capture her a-"

The voice broke off.

You stared at the shoes of the voice, dread pooling in your stomach.

"Y/n," the voice breathed.

You dragged your eyes from the floor to meet the voice's, praying that by some miracle, it just happened to be someone who sounded just like him, and somehow also wore the exact same scuffed business shoes with the little jam stain on the laces.

Your hopes were immediately dashed.

Lockwood's face seemed to be stuck in an expression of shock as he took in your appearance. You weren't really sure what you looked like, but the taste of something dirty; something metallic, on your tongue told you that something must look... wrong.

You could barely look him in the eyes. Would he be upset? Afraid? Disappointed?

Instead you swept your gaze over his own appearance - he didn't look too bad. Some bruises on his wrist from being gripped by the man's accomplice, and a split lip seemed to be the only injuries.

You visibly relaxed. The man caught on to that.

He stalked closer.

"Bring him here." he commanded.

The weasel of an accomplice squeaked, jerking his prisoner forwards. Lockwood stumbled on the uneven floor as he was pushed towards the man.

He slowly turned to look at the young man.

You knew Lockwood was too proud to back down from confrontation. But still, you prayed that he wouldn't make eye contact with him.

"And now who may you be, sir? I would expect you know who Y/n and I are, what business do you have with us?"

Briefly closing your eyes, you let out a small groan.

Lockwood stared boldly into the man's eyes. Not a flicker of expression, besides defiance, could be found on his features.

The man sneered down at him.

"Eh, here's Anthony Lockwood in th' flesh, yeah? Big ego, smart aleck, naive fucker of an agent."

Lockwood's eyes flickered dangerously.

"I wouldn't say naive; more so subtle in the art of deflecting blame and avoiding situations like these." he replied.

The man guffawed. "Couldn't avoid this one, eh?"

"Well, if you would just enlighten me on why you have Y/n and I in this dingy basement, we could resolve this a lot faster. It'll be like we were never here."

At the sound of your name, your head snapped up from where it had been lolling as your headache worsened.

A laugh.

"Ah, she's proper 'wake now, hey? Shall we get started then?"

Your vision pulled in and out of focus as you struggled to follow what was being said.

"I…" you rasped.

Thwack.

"Answer the goddamn question."

Lockwood bit his lip to prevent from asking you if you were okay. He knew that if he showed his worry, they would capitalise on that.

Your face stayed stoic as you spat on the floor next to you, cheek flaming from the contact.

Raising your eyes to the man, you glared.

"Yes." you grated out.

With a curt nod, the man grabbed Lockwood's arm and motioned for his accomplice to bring him a chair, which he then shoved the young agent onto. He then turned to you, dragging your chair across the cobblestone floor to face Lockwood's, the screeching of wood on stone echoing throughout the dank room.

Once he let go of your chair, he beckoned his accomplice towards a long wooden table at the back, where they began to murmur under their breath.

Metal clinked and scraped.

You hesitantly brought your eyes to meet Lockwood's.

'I'm so sorry,' you mouthed. 'The mission didn't go as planned. They caught me as I was leaving their office.'

He nodded, mouth twisting in dismay. You knew he was hiding his disappointment in his failed plan. Anthony Lockwood was nothing short of a perfectionist, and took immense pride in his mission plans. You knew this was a setback he'd take upon himself as his fault - something you would constantly try to convince him not to.

But now was no time for regrets. Not when the man had strided back over to them with a hand behind his back.

He stopped with a rather loud thud of his boot against the stone.

"Well. Two- no, one agent who owes me," he squinted at Lockwood, "and one agent who got in my way."

"He," the man gestured towards Lockwood, "is in serious debt with me, you see. And you.." he leaned over your chair, lips ghosting over your cheek, "you, little lady, you're just for fun…"

You flinched away, and his mouth stretched into a terrifying grin.

Lockwood strained to keep his hands to himself. You flashed your eyes warningly at him, but to no avail. He sprung up and forcefully shoved the man away from you.

"Get away!" he ground out.

The man stumbled backwards, the remains of his smile ghosting his face.

"Ah.. the little man is protective of this one. Cliff!" he barked. "Get that sheet and tear off a piece. Lockie here seems to have issues keeping his goddamn hands to himself."

The accomplice, who now had a name, scurried towards the man, clutching a strip of material which he swiftly bound around Lockwood's wrists, securing them to the back of the chair - despite the young man's struggles.

Once Cliff ensured there was little chance of the material knot slipping apart, he backed away to the corner of the room by the wooden table, head bowed.

The man, who had easily recovered from Lockwood's forcible shove, advanced towards him with a rather dangerous glint in his eye. The clink of metal behind his back sent a chill down your spine, pulling you from your hazy state once again.

Struggling against the bonds, Lockwood glared fiercely up at the man.

"No matter what you do," he grinded out. "I can take it. I don't care what the hell you do to me. I. Don't. Owe. You. Bloody. Anything," he cursed, his voice laced with threats.

The man's lips curled into an unforgiving smirk.

"Oh, I know," he said, leering closer to Lockwood's face. "That's why I'm doing it to her."

___________________

Your blood ran cold.

To… you? What was he planning to do?

Lockwood's eyes widened ever so slightly. "No. No, she's of no worth to you, she has nothing to do with thi-"

He was abruptly cut off by the man. "Ah, but Lockie, you said so y'self - Y/n is your best agent. Now, wouldn't it be a fine day if I could get my money, and a pretty, pretty girl mess a'ound with?"

His voice dripped with sleaze, and you cringed away from it on instinct.

Lockwood saw your eyes close, and he knew what you were trying to do. You always did this when you were afraid, or fearful; close your eyes and try to convince yourself that you weren't really there.

I'm not really here. I'm not really here. I am NOT really here. You chanted in your mind.

The man's putrid breath grazed over your face, and you cracked one eye open to find him staring face to face with you.

It didn't work.

"Ooh, the princess is fin'lly awake again. Ready to start, princess?" he taunted.

Your eyes flicked open, full of hatred and discontent.

"Good."

The metal clinked behind his back once again, but this time, he brought it out to show you and Lockwood what it was.

"Well. Two li' agents who owe me. Now, which one wants to go first?"

___________________

also P.S apologies if there's grammer/writing errors😭

omg heyy my little raviolis and various pasta noodles,

how are you?! it's been so long and im SO SORRY. life is such a crazy deck of cards with wild twists and turns and unexpected trips to supermarkets at 12am cause you're craving ice cream. so valid tbh

anyhoozals

I MISSED YOU!! and I've seen the requests and I promise that I will be answering those. xoxo

i hope this will tide you over till then though😌

have a good day/night,

- fictional_addiction (yes this is hufflepuff-haze still, changed my acc name!) 💛

🕺

[ethan-elliott]

thinking about all my DBDA fic drafts but also thinking about projecting onto Anthony Lockwood