Ash

18+ Minors DNI i have no idea how i ended up back here again

[aislinrayne]

✦ ! ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔐𝔢 ! ✦

All of my writing is intended for audiences 18+ due to adult themes, language, and strong personal preference. Additionally, I do not write for minor characters. If you see a character on this list that is canonically underage, understand that they will be aged up to a minimum of 18 years old.

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 ] 𝔗𝔬 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔞 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 ] 𝔉𝔬𝔯 my 𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 ]

𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰 - ✎ 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔰𝔱 - 🗡 𝔴𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔭 - ☠ 𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔣𝔣 - ❀ 𝔰𝔪𝔲𝔱 - 🛏

✎ 𝔰𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫' 𝔪𝔢 - 𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 - 🗡☠ -Series. Anthony Lockwood is always late, actresses are liable to be murdered, a mystery is afoot, and Reader is having a very bad week.

𝔦 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔬 - 𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 - ❀ -Oneshot. Lucy needs her old room back for the night, leaving the current occupant without a bed.

𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔦𝔰𝔪 - 𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔶 𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔴𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 - 🗡❀ -Oneshot. After a particularly rough case, Reader starts acting distant. Lockwood thinks giving her space will help. When he's woken by the phone ringing, George doesn't need to know what happened to know it's probably Lockwood's fault.

[aislinrayne]

𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔯 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰.

Hello, it's been a long time!

Thank you for being so incredibly patient with me in the past year, and giving me room to stretch and grow as a writer behind the scenes. I'd also like to apologize for not keeping you all in the loop more, and formally announce the end of that.

For those of you familiar with my multi-chapter work, this post is primarily for you.

I'm happy to report that the first draft of the entire series is finally complete. Throughout the process of this all I've realized that dusting off my writing skills after four years and launching straight into an ambitious project might have been setting myself up for failure. I've learned and grown, and alongside that, so has this project.

I will be leaving the first four chapters as they are on my profile, but removing them from my masterlist when I'm ready to begin uploading weekly in February. This is due to an exciting piece of news! Savin' Me will be re-written from start to finish to reflect the changes in both my writing and the overall storyline. It will still be the same dynamic, and same overall idea, just executed better.

And so, in conclusion... Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart. I hope you're as excited to read their story as I am to finally finish writing it.

𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔲𝔰: To apologize for my absence, and to drive a lil more excitement for this next leg of our literary journey together, have some zero context spoilers.

(P.S, I'm not proud enough to deny that sounding off in the comments will help encourage me to push through the final stretch here and get this out ahead of schedule!)

[aislinrayne]

Once again relevant 😂😅

[aislinrayne]

Chapter 7 was SO good, I've been itching to read it all day and I'm so glad i finally had the time because it was absolutely incredible, such an insanely good storyline!! I did not expect it to get so dark but honestly I'm loving it, the underground ghostfighting ring is such a cool idea and the moment in the cells at the end where she falls asleep with his hand her pillow was sickeningly sweet omg i love them so much <3333

Thank you so much!! I think a lot will of people missed the angst and whump categorization of this fic in my masterlist hehe

Consider this an advanced warning that it’s going to get darker before it gets better, but I’ll make sure to continue including any and all warnings at the beginning of the chapter!

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The real monsters are always human.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, confinement, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Hey look, it's the other 'half' of chapter six! As we can see, it got... a little out of hand. So?! What do we think?! I've been sitting on this for so long waiting to get to a skill level I was proud enough to release this, and I think I've finally done it.

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.24k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of bootsoles against concrete pull him from his thoughts, nearly drowning Anthony in the wave of dread that acts as a prelude to the hurricane of emotions threatening to overwhelm him as reality sinks in once more. Heavy feet come to a stop outside the door to his cell, replacing the sound of footfalls with the unmistakable clatter of keys knocking against each other. His stomach tightens in anticipation. He doesn’t need to see who’s coming through the door to know it has to be one of the goons from earlier—no one with two brain cells to rub together would be able to make that much noise unlocking a padlock. Light floods the room as the door is finally swung open to reveal the mountain of a man who’d landed the lucky gut-punch that got him into this mess. Ugly #3, as he’s mentally dubbed him.

Disappointment, it seems, is his only constant companion in situations like this. The glee in the man’s eyes as they fall on him is a stark contrast to the thorny tendril of dread rooting itself in Anthony’s gut. He looks downright thrilled to see the shell of a younger man before him, all of his earlier bravado choked out not by his own treatment, but by the screams from down the hall that still echo in his ears like an infernal symphony.

The faintest huff of air escapes him—maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh of satisfaction. He circles behind the chair, keys jangling ominously from his belt as he fiddles with the ropes binding Anthony’s handcuffs to the metal chair. The clinking of metal and the creaking of the ropes create a maddening cacophony, each sound adding to the tension in the small, grim room.

Anthony’s mind races, hundreds of half-formed ideas flittering through his pounding skull, not one of them slowing enough for him to catch them. He’s torn between the animal instinct to lash out, and the human need to know she’s safe before he throws caution to the wind. He won’t lie and deny that the thought of headbutting the guard and making a desperate bid for freedom isn’t deeply satisfying, but he knows it’s a reckless–and useless–gamble. He needs to know where she is, to know what fate has befallen her, before he can formulate a plan for escape. There are too many variables to risk her safety now just to soothe his wounded pride.

The guard’s fingers are methodical as he works, his movements slow and deliberate. A thoroughly disturbing thought occurs to him; if the man was shite at something as basic as unlocking a door, how much practice must he have to be able to untie a man so efficiently?

Anthony’s wrists ache as the rope gives way and the chain between the cuffs goes slack, the sudden rush of circulation making his arms feel foreign and heavy. When he’s pulled to his feet, his legs, numb from hours of restrained sitting, barely support him. He stumbles, catching himself with a strained grunt. The pain in his joints is a sharp reminder of how long he’d been stuck there, helpless.

There were no words, no explanation shared, as the guard hauls Lockwood unceremoniously to his feet. He hadn’t really expected there would be, but it would have been nice. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Every stumbling step is a fight he isn’t sure he can win. His heart pounds in his chest, providing a drumbeat to the thready melody of anxiety coursing through his veins as he struggles to maintain his upright position. The only feeling capable of cutting through the fog of his panic is the clear, driving need to find out where they're keeping her—and how he can save her before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Once he’s been ejected from the room by an unceremonious shove by his apparent escort, Anthony feels a cold focus settle over him in a way he'd only experienced once before—images of sources piled within rings of iron chain, black shimmering gates, clouds of breath suspended in stagnant air, pale hands clutching colourful feathers, the sting of the unrelenting chill in the air—as his eyes scan the dimly lit hallway. The narrow concrete corridor stretches out behind him, an endless grey passage punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a failing fluorescent light. The heavy silence is broken only by the dull echo of their footsteps, and the low hum of a distant air vent. Every shadow, every echo, seems to whisper of looming danger. He fights the defiant urge to turn and spit in the face of his captor, to make one last desperate bid for freedom. He wouldn't succeed, and angering these people more than he already had wasn't going to get him anywhere.

For now, he follows, his mind rushing with strategies, and scenarios that grow more and more dire with each iteration. The real fight is coming, he can feel it in the marrow of his bones, and he needs to be ready for whatever lies ahead.

His focus is quickly yanked back to the present when a calloused hand smacks the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. The impact is just as jarring as he remembers. The brute grabs him by the back of his neck, his grip like a vise as he forces him to keep his head down. With a final, almost contemptuous shove, the man propels him forward. The scuff of the soles of his shoes echoes off the walls as he stumbles onward.

Anthony considers counting the steps, but the thought evaporates quickly as he realizes the lack of distinguishing features in the hallway would render the effort futile. He turns his focus inward instead, silently organizing the pieces of the puzzle he'd collected so far, hoping to find a kernel of useful information he might have gathered without realizing. The sound of what he suspects to be distant machinery is almost as effective as white noise in helping him concentrate.

After a seemingly interminable walk down the maze-like corridor, a firm hand clamps onto his shoulder, bringing him to a sudden halt. The grip is almost painful, guiding him through a heavy steel door that seemed to materialize from the grey. It creaks open reluctantly, revealing a stark, utilitarian stairwell bathed in harsh, artificial light. One that nearly becomes his grave when his escort decides he's moving too slowly, giving him a sharp prod to urge him along. The steps are old, concrete, and worn, their surfaces marred by sizable cracks and chips. His foot slips off of one such chip—roughly the size of his fist—forcing him to do his best impression of a worm in the rain in an attempt to regain his footing.

He counts the steps meticulously—fifty-six, if he includes the longer slabs that marked the start of another flight—each one leading him deeper into the bowels of the building. A coil of dread tightens in his stomach, the loaded silence in the stairwell amplifying his growing unease. He knows every step brings him closer to the answers he desperately needs, but can’t bring himself to hope for.

Finally, they arrive at another set of doors. These are heavier, reinforced, and secured with a key from the same ring that held the key to his cell. The sound of the lock turning echoes ominously through the corridor, the click of the latch doing nothing to soothe his fried nerves.

His mind goes blank at the sight before him. No amount of wracking his brain for clues could have prepared him for this. He hadn’t given them enough credit. Even in his darkest scenario, he could never have thought them capable of this level of inhumanity. The room sprawls out before him, dimly lit and foreboding. Rows of floor to ceiling dog cages line the walls, each separated by thick, rusted, unyielding bars. Inside each cell is nothing but a filthy mattress haphazardly thrown on the floor. The stench of decay, infection, and despair permeates the air. Bile bites at the back of his throat, but he’s unsure if it’s the scent or the realization that some of the slumped shadows within the cages are silhouettes that's made him feel so nauseous.

As he is shoved roughly through the room, Anthony’s eyes dart from one cell to the next. The darkness makes it hard to discern details, but he can make out the shapes of bodies huddled together against the bars, curled into themselves in an effort to conserve what little warmth they can. Each silhouette seems to tell a story of suffering, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

A short, sharp tug on the chains of his handcuffs jolts him back to the present. The metal bites into his wrists as he’s forced to an abrupt stop. Bitter dread trickles like ice down his spine when he sees they’ve come to a stop before the door to one of the cells. The brute yanks on the chain, forcing Anthony to his knees, and begins rifling through the comically oversized key ring with one hand.

Anthony watches the best he can over his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s clumsy attempts to find the right key are frustratingly slow, each moment stretching into an eternity. Finally, with a grunt of effort, he selects the correct key and shoves it into the lock. The door groans and shrieks as it swings open, its sound seemingly amplified by the silence of the room. Several of the huddled figures begin to stir, their movements slow and wary.

Instead of departing with nothing but another shove as a parting gift like Lockwood had come to expect from the miniscule eternity he’d spent with the man, he surprises him by pulling out a single key and expertly removing the handcuffs with practiced ease. Before Anthony can react, he grabs him by the back of the neck with a rough grip and throws him unceremoniously into the cell—now that was more in character for the large fellow. The door slams shut behind him with a resounding clank, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the empty space.

Ugly #3 spares no time for heartfelt goodbyes, opting instead to storm back the way they came, his heavy footsteps growing fainter as he leaves Anthony alone in the cell. The darkness closes in around him, and the cold, damp air of the cell seeps into his bones. His heart races as he takes in his new surroundings, the weight of his predicament settling heavily on his shoulders.

It takes him longer than he thinks it should to regain his bearings. His eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, and he begins to scan for any potentially useful details. The room is small, and entirely devoid of furnishings. The only object besides the mattress is a wooden pot against the wall, which he refuses to acknowledge until it becomes otherwise impossible not to.

The mattress, though stiff, lumpy, and somehow flat at the same time, is a welcome relief as he sinks onto it, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall at the rear of his cell. The physical discomfort is minor compared to the blow to his pride. He hasn’t been manhandled like this in years—not since the DEPRAC officer who still visits him in nightmares. The humiliation now feels sharper, more acute, though he was far from a novice even then.

He takes several deep breaths, attempting to steady his racing heart and calm his nerves. Each inhale is a battle against the rising tide of panic, each exhale a vow to find a way out. With each breath, the dim light grows a little clearer, and the creeping darkness in the edges of his vision recedes a little further. His hands tremble slightly as he rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The effort is a small gesture of defiance against the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind.

As he surveys the cell again with a clearer mind, he can feel the crushing weight of anxiety pressing against his carefully constructed walls. The room is still a maze of shadows and stark edges, but now he can see the minimal light filtering in from a small, barred window high above. Now he can hear that the eerie silence is occasionally punctuated by distant, indistinct noises—footsteps, muffled voices. He can’t afford to let fear control him now. He misses things when he’s afraid, and he can't afford to miss a single thing if he wants to get them all out of here alive. He needs to think clearly, to piece together a plan before the weight of drastically rising stakes make good on its threat to swallow him whole.

The cell to his left is empty, a gaping void that seems to echo with a desolate silence. The two cells to his right, however, are occupied. His own mattress is pushed against the rear wall, positioned almost exactly in the center between the two rows of bars that separate him from the others. The mattresses in the two cells to his right are close enough that they nearly touch the bars dividing them. He wonders if the occupants are familiar with each other. The proximity might suggest a shared connection, the comfort of which might make them more willing to converse with him.

His curiosity piqued, Anthony studies the shadowed figures in the adjacent cells. The mattress closest to him is eerily still, with no sign of movement. The figure on the far side, however, has shifted into a sitting position. The dim light plays tricks on his eyes, but he can make out the silhouette of long, dark hair cascading down the figure’s back. The faint light reflects off his own pale skin like moonlight, stark against the darkness, but their skin casts a warm, rich ochre glow.

There’s a tense moment as he weighs his options. He’s unsure of what to say, feeling the pressure of his recent missteps drastically reducing the faith he has in his ability to talk his way out of any situation.

The figure on the far side seems to be inspecting him with a curious, if wary, gaze. His throat feels dry as he searches for the right words, grappling with the strange sense of vulnerability and the nagging urgency to establish some form of rapport with the girl.

“Sorry, but… are you Anthony Lockwood?” A woman’s voice cuts through the gloom, soft yet tinged with a rasp consistent with days of unuse. Though she sounds undeniably rough, there’s an underlying clarity and crispness that suggests she would normally occupy a far more organized and vibrant space. The simple elegance of her voice in juxtaposition to their environment catches him off guard, momentarily overshadowing her surprising familiarity with his identity.

When he recovers, he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying to peer into the darkness where her voice emanates from. “At your service, Miss?” He mirrors her soft volume, letting the question hover between them. He’s cautious, careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises.

“Ah, forgive me,” she responds, her voice taking on a rueful edge. “It’s only been a few weeks and I’ve already managed to forget my manners.” Her quiet laugh is laced with bitterness, but it doesn't stop the soft smirk from rising to his face at the sound. “Holly Munro, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you before, in the papers. Even considered applying with you a few years back.”

Her admission carries an undercurrent of wistfulness, a longing for something that might have been. Anthony’s mind feels sluggish as he tries to process her words. He wonders about the circumstances that led her to this place, as well as any potential implications of her recognizing him, but he can't seem to hold on to the thoughts darting around inside his skull. Names and faces from past interactions blend with the immediate reality, leaving him incapable of holding any accurate memory for more than a split second. The brute's backhand is really not to be trifled with.

“How did you end up here?” Anthony asks, trying to mask his lack of tact behind a veneer of concern. He’ll chastise himself for being so direct later, when he isn't facing the horrifying unknown. Holly’s familiarity with him should afford him a bit of leniency anyway, and he’s a bit too preoccupied still scanning every visible cage for a glimpse of his agent to worry about it right now.

Holly’s voice falters as she begins to speak, her tone laden with pain. “I’ve been out of the business for a few years now, since my last employment ended… poorly.” She hesitates, and for a moment, the silence is thick with her struggle to maintain composure. “But my, um…” Her voice catches, thick with emotion. “My friend was a freelancer. She got an offer for a job that could set her up for a long time. All she needed was someone to fill in, because the client wouldn’t accept less than two agents on the job.”

The details align disturbingly well with the information from the newspaper article he’d read. Anthony nods grimly, absorbing the confirmation of what he suspected. The pattern of disappearances is becoming clearer, yet the implications are no less chilling than the unknown.

“And your friend?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. He suspects he already knows the answer, but can't bring himself to assume the worst.

Holly’s response is nearly inaudible. “She, um… They came and took her for a match two nights ago. Normally, they’d take us together, but…” Her voice breaks, wavering as if the weight of her words is almost too much to bear. She forces the next part out, each word seeming to catch like razors in her throat. “They haven’t brought her back.”

His heart sinks at her words, a pang of sorrow for the stranger's loss making him feel disgusted with himself over the selfish, single-minded focus still hounding him to push her for more answers. “I’m sorry,” he replies solemnly, swallowing his tongue for the moment.

Holly seems to sense his inner turmoil and speaks again. “You can ask me.” Her sudden offer makes him wonder if she can somehow read his mind, but he dismisses the thought as a product of stress and the possible concussion. He stares at her, feeling like an absolute imbecile, until she takes pity on him and continues. “I’ve been here long enough to know that we all come in pairs, but I’m afraid there’s been a lot of traffic in the past few days. I’d like to help you find your friend, if I can.”

Her offer to assist gives him a sliver of hope. He hadn’t realized how much faith he'd lost in the good of mankind over the past however many hours, how welcome some basic human decency would feel.

“I—thank you,” Lockwood says, his voice rough with exhaustion and gratitude. “My… associate and I were brought in for a last-minute job. Our oh-so charming host spun a tale that was impossible to resist, and sold us a story so convincing that we walked right into their trap.” He grimaces, the memory of their deceitful invitation stinging more than the physical wounds. “I didn’t realize the danger we were in until it was too late. We were vastly outnumbered before I had a chance to warn her. She was injured before I was knocked out—one of her sleeves will be soaked in blood.”

He pauses, the words hanging heavy in the air as he shifts to lean his head against the cold concrete wall behind him. The frigid touch of the stone is a harsh but grounding presence, a small comfort amidst the turmoil of emotions causing an ache behind his eyes. “She might… she might be in pretty rough shape. I could hear her screaming until roughly an hour ago.”

His voice falters as the gravity of his words settles in, the anguish evident in his strained tone. Up until now, there had been enough happening to distract him, he could avoid acknowledging the nauseating possibility that the worst had already happened. Not anymore. He can see her face in his mind, warped with the pain she must have endured, and it fuels his growing desperation. The barred walls seem to press in on him, threatening to crush him.

“Oh!” Holly exclaims, her voice rising a bit with her urgency, almost startling him with the contrast to the subdued volume of their conversation until then. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting anxiously toward the cell between them. They fall silent, the tension palpable as they wait for any sign of movement from the nearby occupant. After a moment, when the cell remains still, Holly continues, her voice dropping back to a whisper. “They wouldn’t have tortured her—at least, not in the way you’re thinking. They need us strong enough to put up an entertaining fight. But if she was hurt badly enough to bleed that heavily, they would have stitched the wound before sending her to the cages. Anaesthesia isn’t something they worry about here.”

Anthony's breath catches in his throat at her words. If they’d cleaned and stitched her arm without any form of numbing, it would explain the agonizing cries he heard. His heart clenches painfully as he recalls the panic in her voice, the desperate plea that cut through the darkness and filled him with a helpless dread. She hadn't been particularly fond of needles to begin with, he could only imagine how much worse it would be now.

He slumps back against the wall, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his thoughts. His hands move to his face, rubbing at the tension and exhaustion etched into his features. Despite the relief that they hadn’t inflicted further damage, the realization does little to soothe the ache of her suffering or his own feelings of inadequacy.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled and thick with emotion as he speaks through his palms. The words are simple, repetitive, and hardly seem sufficient.

“What’s her name? What does she look like? I can pass the word around when others wake up. We’ll find her,” Holly says, her eyes searching Anthony's, shining with a glimmer of hope.

Before he can ponder the seemingly impossible task of breaking everything she is down into a few descriptive sentences, a familiar voice calls out from the cell between them. “Lockwood…?” It’s ragged, strained from overuse, but unmistakable.

Holly’s gasp of surprise is barely registered as Anthony springs into action. He’s across the cell in an instant, his hands gripping the icy bars with a white knuckling desperation. He curses the metal that keeps them apart, every fiber of his being thrumming with frustration and helplessness.

“Sleeping Beauty, I should have known that was you,” he calls out, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anguish. The words are intended to be light-hearted, a small attempt to ease the tension. Her soft, broken laughter on the other side of the bars briefly lifts his spirits, but it quickly dissolves into a harsh coughing fit. The sound of her wheezing, each inhale ragged and painful, tightens the knot in his stomach.

His heart can’t continue carrying the weight of his helplessness. He can almost feel the shivers of her pain through the bars, the sound of her distress cutting through him. Every instinct screams for him to be beside her, to offer comfort and soothing words, but all he can do is reach through the narrow gaps and wish desperately for a way to bridge the gap between them.

“I don’t feel particularly beautiful or well-rested right now, so I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me,” she finally rasps, her voice a low, throaty murmur. She rolls onto her side, the movement labored and pained, before trying to push herself upright. A stifled yelp escapes her lips, triggering another coughing fit, and she collapses back onto the mattress, her body curling inward in distress.

“Shit,” Lockwood hisses, his voice filled with concern as he watches her struggle. “You okay, love?”

“Just peachy,” she retorts through gritted teeth, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the obvious agony. “Caught a boot or two to the ribs after they knocked you out, no big deal.” Her attempt at bravado is undermined by the grimace that accompanies her words. Holly’s worried glance toward Lockwood tells him that he's not the only one not buying the whole ‘badass’ act this time.

“Any idea why they brought us here?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “Or what hell-hole ‘here’ crawled out of?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Lockwood admits, frustration edging his tone. “But I get the feeling your neighbor will be able to shed some light on the situation for us.”

As he speaks, she extends her uninjured arm towards Holly, her movements cautious but determined. She slips her hand through the narrow gap between the bars, reaching out toward the other cell. The greeting is a silent plea, an unspoken request for connection in the midst of their dire predicament. Holly accepts the proffered hand, her grip firm despite the weakness in her voice.

“Holly Munro, pleasure,” she says, her tone both warm and weary. “Though I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“Likewise.” The other woman introduces herself and replies, her voice carrying a note of gratitude amidst the exhaustion.

Lockwood finally pulls his stiff hands away from the cold metal bars, feeling the residual chill bite at his skin. He watches as Holly brings his associate up to speed, her voice cutting in from time to time as a soft murmur of reassurance or inquiry. Meanwhile, he turns his attention to the narrow space between his cell and hers, pushing his mattress toward the metal separating them. Considering the placement of her own, the difference it will make is laughable, but he’s desperate for any semblance of closeness he can manage.

Every clink of metal and shift of the mattress heightens his sense of urgency. He’s well aware that his emotions are rapidly outgrowing the bounds of mere professional concern, becoming more personal and fervent with each passing moment. He tries to shove aside the intense feelings bubbling up inside him, but it—like so many things this evening—is an effort in futility.

Settling back onto his mattress and leaning against the wall, he shifts slightly, attempting to find a comfortable position amidst the jabbing of exposed springs. The thin layer of padding does little to ease his discomfort, but he forces himself to endure.

“So what is this place, exactly? Any luck finding out?” The question hangs in the air as Lockwood's gaze shifts back to the woman, her voice breaking the spell of his thoughts. In the dim light, he can see she’s managed to pull herself upright, her silhouette leaning against the bars, still holding Holly’s hand.

“Yes, actually!” The other woman’s voice carries a note of weary triumph. “This place is an underground facility that was once used for dog-fighting during the prohibition era. The walls here are steeped in a grim history.” She pauses, her voice trembling slightly, and Lockwood notices the subtle shiver that runs through her as she continues. “There are networks of tunnels connecting various buildings to this place. We suspect that the primary entrance for the cages is from an abandoned railway station directly above us.”

If he had to guess, he'd say she had tightened her hand around Holly's. The exchange is quiet, but the gratitude in Holly’s eyes is unmistakable. His agent’s expression softens, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“I think the audience comes in through those tunnels, though,” Holly adds. “It’s never loud enough in here to account for the foot traffic. It’s a constant low hum of activity, like a distant, eerie heartbeat.”

Lockwood’s heart swells with a mixture of admiration and concern. The bravery and compassion displayed by both women in the face of disaster is both inspiring and heart-wrenching. As he processes the new information, he feels his sense of urgency grow deeper still. That network of tunnels could hold the key to their escape—or lead them to their deaths.

“I’m sorry to cut in, but you keep mentioning ‘matches’, and now an audience. What exactly do they do here?” He can’t resist addressing the elephant in the room any longer. When Holly flinches and goes silent, he instantly regrets it.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Holly. It must be painful to talk about. We won’t push you, but knowing what to expect will help us put together a plan to get everyone out of here safely.” Her voice is gentle and Anthony can hear more than see her scooting closer to Holly.

“Thank you.” It’s barely more than a whisper, the words almost lost in the tremor of her voice. “They, um… Well, it’s kind of a morbid repetition of history, in a way. They abduct agents in pairs, interrogate us about our skills, keep us in cages, and feed us well enough we don’t lose our strength. When the sun goes down they fetch two with complimentary Talent and bring them up to what they call the ‘arena’, arm them with a silver net and a measly handful of salt bombs, and toss in the Source of a Type Two. If you win, you go back to the cells to wait for your next match. If you lose…”

He’d read enough of that paper to know what happened to those who lost. Their Ghost-Touch swollen bodies would be dumped unceremoniously miles from here.

“I’m sorry to make you think more about this, but I have a few questions if you’re up to it.” Lockwood’s voice is steady, but his eyes betray the urgency of his request. He waits for Holly’s slight nod before pressing on. “When you mention ‘complimentary Talent,’ I'm assuming you’re referring to one with the Sight and one with either the Listening or the Touch?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Holly’s voice is subdued but clear. “They used to take me and Em together because she had the Sight and I had the Listening. But...” Her words falter slightly, and guilt tugs at her tone, nearly overwhelming. “I think they figured out that my Talent faded years ago. I’m afraid they might see me as expendable now.”

Before Lockwood or his associate can offer consolation, Holly plunges ahead with the weight of her revelations. “It’s safe to assume they’ll come for you tonight, Lockwood. They’re aware of your Talent, and they’ve been murmuring about ‘the big night’ for days. I didn’t grasp the full meaning until I recognized you. The only real question is who they’ll pair with you, considering your friend is too injured to be of much use for entertainment.” She adds quickly, “No offence intended!”

“None taken, believe me.” She gives Holly’s hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. Pushing herself to her feet with a groan of effort, she waves a dismissive hand at her neighbours cries to lay down and rest. “I will, I will, don’t nag! I’m just trying to make myself a bit more comfortable. With what we know now, I’d say our best option is to conserve our energy and stay focused on surviving until we can figure out a way out of here.”

Anthony’s frustration simmers beneath his surface as he watches her struggle. She grabs a corner of her mattress with one hand and starts dragging it across the grimy floor, her movements laboured. Realising her intent, he reaches out as soon as it's within his grasp and helps pull the mattress the remaining distance until it’s pressed snugly against his own through the bars. The two beds are now practically fused together, their surfaces puckering around the narrow gap between their cells.

With a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a groan of discomfort as a particularly stiff spring pokes at her ribs, she collapses onto the makeshift bed. Anthony reaches out tentatively, his fingers brushing against hers, recoiling slightly from the cold.

“Christ, you’re freezing,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with concern. He leans closer, gently lifting her hand to his face. Cupping it between his warm palms, he alternates between blowing gentle puffs of breath over her chilled skin and lightly massaging it to stimulate circulation.

“It’s practically an icebox in here, if you hadn’t noticed,” she retorts, her tone making a play at sharp, but being softened by her discomfort. When Anthony looks up, he’s struck by the depth in her eyes—a look that’s almost hypnotic. For a brief moment, they find haven in each other's eyes, a shared understanding amidst the chaos. But then, a shiver races through her body, and the moment shatters. His concern surges to the forefront, pushing everything else aside.

She reluctantly pulls her hand away, shifting beneath the tattered blanket draped across her mattress. The thin, threadbare fabric offers scant protection against the cold, its ability to retain warmth practically non-existent. Anthony watches her struggle for a moment, his frustration mounting as he witnesses her futile attempts to find some comfort.

Without hesitation, he moves to free his own blanket from beneath him, carefully maneuvering it through the narrow space between the bars. While he can't slip through the bars himself, his arm is long enough to extend through the gap up to his shoulder. He holds the blanket out toward her.

She fixes him with a defiant glare, her mouth opening to argue. Anthony’s expression remains resolute.

“Shut it, Sleeping Beauty. You know I run warmer than you anyway,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite the cold.

Another shiver wracks her body, but it’s the look in his eyes—a blend of genuine concern and blind stubbornness—that finally convinces her. With a soft murmur of thanks, she reaches out and takes the blanket from him. She wraps it around herself, the fabric immediately offering a small measure of comfort against the icy chill.

She tosses and turns restlessly for a while, each shift only deepening her discomfort. Frustration eventually gets the better of her, and she attempts to lift her injured arm to tuck it under her head, only to bite back a cry of pain.

With a sigh that carries a note of mock suffering and a twinkle in his eye, Lockwood shifts to lay on his back, moving as close as the confined space allows. He tucks his left arm behind his head, stretching the right through the bars to gently tap her on the head with the back of his knuckles. When she lifts her head, ready to scowl, he nods toward his arm, offering it as a makeshift pillow.

She contemplates the offered limb for a moment. Finally, she relents, lowering her head onto his arm and wriggling into a position that allows her to stay close to him without displacing her meager blankets. As soon as she settles, Lockwood bends his arm to cradle her head, gently stroking the side of it. The soft, contented hum that escapes her lips is a small victory he treasures.

She falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing evening out into a peaceful rhythm. Lockwood gazes down at her, his heart swelling at the sight of her serene expression—one he'd almost given up hope of seeing again.

When he looks up, Holly is still sitting, her gaze fixed on the pair of them. The expression on her face takes a moment to decipher in the dark, but he finally recognizes it as a bittersweet mix of wistfulness and quiet understanding.

“Does she know?” Holly’s voice is barely a whisper, but the question pierces through the silence like a knife. Anthony’s heart leaps into his throat. Though her words are soft, they feel as though they’ve reverberated throughout the confined space, making him acutely aware of the woman sleeping on his arm.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound emerges. Instead, he opts for a slow shake of his head, the gesture more eloquent than any words he could muster.

An uneasy silence stretches between them, filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional creak of the cell.

“Em, she… she wasn’t just my ‘friend’,” Holly confesses. The admission, though he had suspected it, lands with an unexpected weight, deepening the ache he's sure he'll feel for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says. His own experiences with loss have been numerous, but to lose someone he loved in a place as merciless as this is a fate he cannot fathom.

Holly offers a weak smile, though it is tinged with sadness. “You should try and get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you later.”

Anthony nods, acknowledging her advice. He watches as Holly settles herself, her form curling up in a bid for rest. Despite his agreement, he knows sleep will remain elusive. His mind is awash with concerns and fears, and the weight of the world resting on his arm makes it impossible to drift off.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[uku-lelevillain]

part 7 of saving me?! in the year 2025?! spent a good five minutes with a fly catching gape just from receiving this notification

then spent the second half reading with my mouth once again open because holly?!?! and that twist?!

1000% worth the wait no questions asked except maybe what is going to happen next? i did NOT see this coming and i’m now SCARED for the next part (but also very excited and i can’t wait)

[aislinrayne]

Hehehe 😈🖤

Thank you for always being such a vocal supporter of this fic, I swear you are the only reason why I’m so determined to finish this fic, even if it takes me way too long!!

Excited to hear more of your thoughts on where this is going, ‘cus it’s gonna get pretty dark before they get their ending 😬😅

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The real monsters are always human.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, confinement, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Hey look, it's the other 'half' of chapter six! As we can see, it got... a little out of hand. So?! What do we think?! I've been sitting on this for so long waiting to get to a skill level I was proud enough to release this, and I think I've finally done it.

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.24k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of bootsoles against concrete pull him from his thoughts, nearly drowning Anthony in the wave of dread that acts as a prelude to the hurricane of emotions threatening to overwhelm him as reality sinks in once more. Heavy feet come to a stop outside the door to his cell, replacing the sound of footfalls with the unmistakable clatter of keys knocking against each other. His stomach tightens in anticipation. He doesn’t need to see who’s coming through the door to know it has to be one of the goons from earlier—no one with two brain cells to rub together would be able to make that much noise unlocking a padlock. Light floods the room as the door is finally swung open to reveal the mountain of a man who’d landed the lucky gut-punch that got him into this mess. Ugly #3, as he’s mentally dubbed him.

Disappointment, it seems, is his only constant companion in situations like this. The glee in the man’s eyes as they fall on him is a stark contrast to the thorny tendril of dread rooting itself in Anthony’s gut. He looks downright thrilled to see the shell of a younger man before him, all of his earlier bravado choked out not by his own treatment, but by the screams from down the hall that still echo in his ears like an infernal symphony.

The faintest huff of air escapes him—maybe a laugh, maybe a sigh of satisfaction. He circles behind the chair, keys jangling ominously from his belt as he fiddles with the ropes binding Anthony’s handcuffs to the metal chair. The clinking of metal and the creaking of the ropes create a maddening cacophony, each sound adding to the tension in the small, grim room.

Anthony’s mind races, hundreds of half-formed ideas flittering through his pounding skull, not one of them slowing enough for him to catch them. He’s torn between the animal instinct to lash out, and the human need to know she’s safe before he throws caution to the wind. He won’t lie and deny that the thought of headbutting the guard and making a desperate bid for freedom isn’t deeply satisfying, but he knows it’s a reckless–and useless–gamble. He needs to know where she is, to know what fate has befallen her, before he can formulate a plan for escape. There are too many variables to risk her safety now just to soothe his wounded pride.

The guard’s fingers are methodical as he works, his movements slow and deliberate. A thoroughly disturbing thought occurs to him; if the man was shite at something as basic as unlocking a door, how much practice must he have to be able to untie a man so efficiently?

Anthony’s wrists ache as the rope gives way and the chain between the cuffs goes slack, the sudden rush of circulation making his arms feel foreign and heavy. When he’s pulled to his feet, his legs, numb from hours of restrained sitting, barely support him. He stumbles, catching himself with a strained grunt. The pain in his joints is a sharp reminder of how long he’d been stuck there, helpless.

There were no words, no explanation shared, as the guard hauls Lockwood unceremoniously to his feet. He hadn’t really expected there would be, but it would have been nice. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. Every stumbling step is a fight he isn’t sure he can win. His heart pounds in his chest, providing a drumbeat to the thready melody of anxiety coursing through his veins as he struggles to maintain his upright position. The only feeling capable of cutting through the fog of his panic is the clear, driving need to find out where they're keeping her—and how he can save her before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Once he’s been ejected from the room by an unceremonious shove by his apparent escort, Anthony feels a cold focus settle over him in a way he'd only experienced once before—images of sources piled within rings of iron chain, black shimmering gates, clouds of breath suspended in stagnant air, pale hands clutching colourful feathers, the sting of the unrelenting chill in the air—as his eyes scan the dimly lit hallway. The narrow concrete corridor stretches out behind him, an endless grey passage punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a failing fluorescent light. The heavy silence is broken only by the dull echo of their footsteps, and the low hum of a distant air vent. Every shadow, every echo, seems to whisper of looming danger. He fights the defiant urge to turn and spit in the face of his captor, to make one last desperate bid for freedom. He wouldn't succeed, and angering these people more than he already had wasn't going to get him anywhere.

For now, he follows, his mind rushing with strategies, and scenarios that grow more and more dire with each iteration. The real fight is coming, he can feel it in the marrow of his bones, and he needs to be ready for whatever lies ahead.

His focus is quickly yanked back to the present when a calloused hand smacks the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. The impact is just as jarring as he remembers. The brute grabs him by the back of his neck, his grip like a vise as he forces him to keep his head down. With a final, almost contemptuous shove, the man propels him forward. The scuff of the soles of his shoes echoes off the walls as he stumbles onward.

Anthony considers counting the steps, but the thought evaporates quickly as he realizes the lack of distinguishing features in the hallway would render the effort futile. He turns his focus inward instead, silently organizing the pieces of the puzzle he'd collected so far, hoping to find a kernel of useful information he might have gathered without realizing. The sound of what he suspects to be distant machinery is almost as effective as white noise in helping him concentrate.

After a seemingly interminable walk down the maze-like corridor, a firm hand clamps onto his shoulder, bringing him to a sudden halt. The grip is almost painful, guiding him through a heavy steel door that seemed to materialize from the grey. It creaks open reluctantly, revealing a stark, utilitarian stairwell bathed in harsh, artificial light. One that nearly becomes his grave when his escort decides he's moving too slowly, giving him a sharp prod to urge him along. The steps are old, concrete, and worn, their surfaces marred by sizable cracks and chips. His foot slips off of one such chip—roughly the size of his fist—forcing him to do his best impression of a worm in the rain in an attempt to regain his footing.

He counts the steps meticulously—fifty-six, if he includes the longer slabs that marked the start of another flight—each one leading him deeper into the bowels of the building. A coil of dread tightens in his stomach, the loaded silence in the stairwell amplifying his growing unease. He knows every step brings him closer to the answers he desperately needs, but can’t bring himself to hope for.

Finally, they arrive at another set of doors. These are heavier, reinforced, and secured with a key from the same ring that held the key to his cell. The sound of the lock turning echoes ominously through the corridor, the click of the latch doing nothing to soothe his fried nerves.

His mind goes blank at the sight before him. No amount of wracking his brain for clues could have prepared him for this. He hadn’t given them enough credit. Even in his darkest scenario, he could never have thought them capable of this level of inhumanity. The room sprawls out before him, dimly lit and foreboding. Rows of floor to ceiling dog cages line the walls, each separated by thick, rusted, unyielding bars. Inside each cell is nothing but a filthy mattress haphazardly thrown on the floor. The stench of decay, infection, and despair permeates the air. Bile bites at the back of his throat, but he’s unsure if it’s the scent or the realization that some of the slumped shadows within the cages are silhouettes that's made him feel so nauseous.

As he is shoved roughly through the room, Anthony’s eyes dart from one cell to the next. The darkness makes it hard to discern details, but he can make out the shapes of bodies huddled together against the bars, curled into themselves in an effort to conserve what little warmth they can. Each silhouette seems to tell a story of suffering, and the sight is almost too much to bear.

A short, sharp tug on the chains of his handcuffs jolts him back to the present. The metal bites into his wrists as he’s forced to an abrupt stop. Bitter dread trickles like ice down his spine when he sees they’ve come to a stop before the door to one of the cells. The brute yanks on the chain, forcing Anthony to his knees, and begins rifling through the comically oversized key ring with one hand.

Anthony watches the best he can over his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest. The man’s clumsy attempts to find the right key are frustratingly slow, each moment stretching into an eternity. Finally, with a grunt of effort, he selects the correct key and shoves it into the lock. The door groans and shrieks as it swings open, its sound seemingly amplified by the silence of the room. Several of the huddled figures begin to stir, their movements slow and wary.

Instead of departing with nothing but another shove as a parting gift like Lockwood had come to expect from the miniscule eternity he’d spent with the man, he surprises him by pulling out a single key and expertly removing the handcuffs with practiced ease. Before Anthony can react, he grabs him by the back of the neck with a rough grip and throws him unceremoniously into the cell—now that was more in character for the large fellow. The door slams shut behind him with a resounding clank, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes through the empty space.

Ugly #3 spares no time for heartfelt goodbyes, opting instead to storm back the way they came, his heavy footsteps growing fainter as he leaves Anthony alone in the cell. The darkness closes in around him, and the cold, damp air of the cell seeps into his bones. His heart races as he takes in his new surroundings, the weight of his predicament settling heavily on his shoulders.

It takes him longer than he thinks it should to regain his bearings. His eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, and he begins to scan for any potentially useful details. The room is small, and entirely devoid of furnishings. The only object besides the mattress is a wooden pot against the wall, which he refuses to acknowledge until it becomes otherwise impossible not to.

The mattress, though stiff, lumpy, and somehow flat at the same time, is a welcome relief as he sinks onto it, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall at the rear of his cell. The physical discomfort is minor compared to the blow to his pride. He hasn’t been manhandled like this in years—not since the DEPRAC officer who still visits him in nightmares. The humiliation now feels sharper, more acute, though he was far from a novice even then.

He takes several deep breaths, attempting to steady his racing heart and calm his nerves. Each inhale is a battle against the rising tide of panic, each exhale a vow to find a way out. With each breath, the dim light grows a little clearer, and the creeping darkness in the edges of his vision recedes a little further. His hands tremble slightly as he rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The effort is a small gesture of defiance against the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind.

As he surveys the cell again with a clearer mind, he can feel the crushing weight of anxiety pressing against his carefully constructed walls. The room is still a maze of shadows and stark edges, but now he can see the minimal light filtering in from a small, barred window high above. Now he can hear that the eerie silence is occasionally punctuated by distant, indistinct noises—footsteps, muffled voices. He can’t afford to let fear control him now. He misses things when he’s afraid, and he can't afford to miss a single thing if he wants to get them all out of here alive. He needs to think clearly, to piece together a plan before the weight of drastically rising stakes make good on its threat to swallow him whole.

The cell to his left is empty, a gaping void that seems to echo with a desolate silence. The two cells to his right, however, are occupied. His own mattress is pushed against the rear wall, positioned almost exactly in the center between the two rows of bars that separate him from the others. The mattresses in the two cells to his right are close enough that they nearly touch the bars dividing them. He wonders if the occupants are familiar with each other. The proximity might suggest a shared connection, the comfort of which might make them more willing to converse with him.

His curiosity piqued, Anthony studies the shadowed figures in the adjacent cells. The mattress closest to him is eerily still, with no sign of movement. The figure on the far side, however, has shifted into a sitting position. The dim light plays tricks on his eyes, but he can make out the silhouette of long, dark hair cascading down the figure’s back. The faint light reflects off his own pale skin like moonlight, stark against the darkness, but their skin casts a warm, rich ochre glow.

There’s a tense moment as he weighs his options. He’s unsure of what to say, feeling the pressure of his recent missteps drastically reducing the faith he has in his ability to talk his way out of any situation.

The figure on the far side seems to be inspecting him with a curious, if wary, gaze. His throat feels dry as he searches for the right words, grappling with the strange sense of vulnerability and the nagging urgency to establish some form of rapport with the girl.

“Sorry, but… are you Anthony Lockwood?” A woman’s voice cuts through the gloom, soft yet tinged with a rasp consistent with days of unuse. Though she sounds undeniably rough, there’s an underlying clarity and crispness that suggests she would normally occupy a far more organized and vibrant space. The simple elegance of her voice in juxtaposition to their environment catches him off guard, momentarily overshadowing her surprising familiarity with his identity.

When he recovers, he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying to peer into the darkness where her voice emanates from. “At your service, Miss?” He mirrors her soft volume, letting the question hover between them. He’s cautious, careful not to make any sudden movements or loud noises.

“Ah, forgive me,” she responds, her voice taking on a rueful edge. “It’s only been a few weeks and I’ve already managed to forget my manners.” Her quiet laugh is laced with bitterness, but it doesn't stop the soft smirk from rising to his face at the sound. “Holly Munro, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve seen you before, in the papers. Even considered applying with you a few years back.”

Her admission carries an undercurrent of wistfulness, a longing for something that might have been. Anthony’s mind feels sluggish as he tries to process her words. He wonders about the circumstances that led her to this place, as well as any potential implications of her recognizing him, but he can't seem to hold on to the thoughts darting around inside his skull. Names and faces from past interactions blend with the immediate reality, leaving him incapable of holding any accurate memory for more than a split second. The brute's backhand is really not to be trifled with.

“How did you end up here?” Anthony asks, trying to mask his lack of tact behind a veneer of concern. He’ll chastise himself for being so direct later, when he isn't facing the horrifying unknown. Holly’s familiarity with him should afford him a bit of leniency anyway, and he’s a bit too preoccupied still scanning every visible cage for a glimpse of his agent to worry about it right now.

Holly’s voice falters as she begins to speak, her tone laden with pain. “I’ve been out of the business for a few years now, since my last employment ended… poorly.” She hesitates, and for a moment, the silence is thick with her struggle to maintain composure. “But my, um…” Her voice catches, thick with emotion. “My friend was a freelancer. She got an offer for a job that could set her up for a long time. All she needed was someone to fill in, because the client wouldn’t accept less than two agents on the job.”

The details align disturbingly well with the information from the newspaper article he’d read. Anthony nods grimly, absorbing the confirmation of what he suspected. The pattern of disappearances is becoming clearer, yet the implications are no less chilling than the unknown.

“And your friend?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. He suspects he already knows the answer, but can't bring himself to assume the worst.

Holly’s response is nearly inaudible. “She, um… They came and took her for a match two nights ago. Normally, they’d take us together, but…” Her voice breaks, wavering as if the weight of her words is almost too much to bear. She forces the next part out, each word seeming to catch like razors in her throat. “They haven’t brought her back.”

His heart sinks at her words, a pang of sorrow for the stranger's loss making him feel disgusted with himself over the selfish, single-minded focus still hounding him to push her for more answers. “I’m sorry,” he replies solemnly, swallowing his tongue for the moment.

Holly seems to sense his inner turmoil and speaks again. “You can ask me.” Her sudden offer makes him wonder if she can somehow read his mind, but he dismisses the thought as a product of stress and the possible concussion. He stares at her, feeling like an absolute imbecile, until she takes pity on him and continues. “I’ve been here long enough to know that we all come in pairs, but I’m afraid there’s been a lot of traffic in the past few days. I’d like to help you find your friend, if I can.”

Her offer to assist gives him a sliver of hope. He hadn’t realized how much faith he'd lost in the good of mankind over the past however many hours, how welcome some basic human decency would feel.

“I—thank you,” Lockwood says, his voice rough with exhaustion and gratitude. “My… associate and I were brought in for a last-minute job. Our oh-so charming host spun a tale that was impossible to resist, and sold us a story so convincing that we walked right into their trap.” He grimaces, the memory of their deceitful invitation stinging more than the physical wounds. “I didn’t realize the danger we were in until it was too late. We were vastly outnumbered before I had a chance to warn her. She was injured before I was knocked out—one of her sleeves will be soaked in blood.”

He pauses, the words hanging heavy in the air as he shifts to lean his head against the cold concrete wall behind him. The frigid touch of the stone is a harsh but grounding presence, a small comfort amidst the turmoil of emotions causing an ache behind his eyes. “She might… she might be in pretty rough shape. I could hear her screaming until roughly an hour ago.”

His voice falters as the gravity of his words settles in, the anguish evident in his strained tone. Up until now, there had been enough happening to distract him, he could avoid acknowledging the nauseating possibility that the worst had already happened. Not anymore. He can see her face in his mind, warped with the pain she must have endured, and it fuels his growing desperation. The barred walls seem to press in on him, threatening to crush him.

“Oh!” Holly exclaims, her voice rising a bit with her urgency, almost startling him with the contrast to the subdued volume of their conversation until then. She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting anxiously toward the cell between them. They fall silent, the tension palpable as they wait for any sign of movement from the nearby occupant. After a moment, when the cell remains still, Holly continues, her voice dropping back to a whisper. “They wouldn’t have tortured her—at least, not in the way you’re thinking. They need us strong enough to put up an entertaining fight. But if she was hurt badly enough to bleed that heavily, they would have stitched the wound before sending her to the cages. Anaesthesia isn’t something they worry about here.”

Anthony's breath catches in his throat at her words. If they’d cleaned and stitched her arm without any form of numbing, it would explain the agonizing cries he heard. His heart clenches painfully as he recalls the panic in her voice, the desperate plea that cut through the darkness and filled him with a helpless dread. She hadn't been particularly fond of needles to begin with, he could only imagine how much worse it would be now.

He slumps back against the wall, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his thoughts. His hands move to his face, rubbing at the tension and exhaustion etched into his features. Despite the relief that they hadn’t inflicted further damage, the realization does little to soothe the ache of her suffering or his own feelings of inadequacy.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled and thick with emotion as he speaks through his palms. The words are simple, repetitive, and hardly seem sufficient.

“What’s her name? What does she look like? I can pass the word around when others wake up. We’ll find her,” Holly says, her eyes searching Anthony's, shining with a glimmer of hope.

Before he can ponder the seemingly impossible task of breaking everything she is down into a few descriptive sentences, a familiar voice calls out from the cell between them. “Lockwood…?” It’s ragged, strained from overuse, but unmistakable.

Holly’s gasp of surprise is barely registered as Anthony springs into action. He’s across the cell in an instant, his hands gripping the icy bars with a white knuckling desperation. He curses the metal that keeps them apart, every fiber of his being thrumming with frustration and helplessness.

“Sleeping Beauty, I should have known that was you,” he calls out, his voice trembling with a mix of relief and anguish. The words are intended to be light-hearted, a small attempt to ease the tension. Her soft, broken laughter on the other side of the bars briefly lifts his spirits, but it quickly dissolves into a harsh coughing fit. The sound of her wheezing, each inhale ragged and painful, tightens the knot in his stomach.

His heart can’t continue carrying the weight of his helplessness. He can almost feel the shivers of her pain through the bars, the sound of her distress cutting through him. Every instinct screams for him to be beside her, to offer comfort and soothing words, but all he can do is reach through the narrow gaps and wish desperately for a way to bridge the gap between them.

“I don’t feel particularly beautiful or well-rested right now, so I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me,” she finally rasps, her voice a low, throaty murmur. She rolls onto her side, the movement labored and pained, before trying to push herself upright. A stifled yelp escapes her lips, triggering another coughing fit, and she collapses back onto the mattress, her body curling inward in distress.

“Shit,” Lockwood hisses, his voice filled with concern as he watches her struggle. “You okay, love?”

“Just peachy,” she retorts through gritted teeth, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the obvious agony. “Caught a boot or two to the ribs after they knocked you out, no big deal.” Her attempt at bravado is undermined by the grimace that accompanies her words. Holly’s worried glance toward Lockwood tells him that he's not the only one not buying the whole ‘badass’ act this time.

“Any idea why they brought us here?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “Or what hell-hole ‘here’ crawled out of?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Lockwood admits, frustration edging his tone. “But I get the feeling your neighbor will be able to shed some light on the situation for us.”

As he speaks, she extends her uninjured arm towards Holly, her movements cautious but determined. She slips her hand through the narrow gap between the bars, reaching out toward the other cell. The greeting is a silent plea, an unspoken request for connection in the midst of their dire predicament. Holly accepts the proffered hand, her grip firm despite the weakness in her voice.

“Holly Munro, pleasure,” she says, her tone both warm and weary. “Though I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“Likewise.” The other woman introduces herself and replies, her voice carrying a note of gratitude amidst the exhaustion.

Lockwood finally pulls his stiff hands away from the cold metal bars, feeling the residual chill bite at his skin. He watches as Holly brings his associate up to speed, her voice cutting in from time to time as a soft murmur of reassurance or inquiry. Meanwhile, he turns his attention to the narrow space between his cell and hers, pushing his mattress toward the metal separating them. Considering the placement of her own, the difference it will make is laughable, but he’s desperate for any semblance of closeness he can manage.

Every clink of metal and shift of the mattress heightens his sense of urgency. He’s well aware that his emotions are rapidly outgrowing the bounds of mere professional concern, becoming more personal and fervent with each passing moment. He tries to shove aside the intense feelings bubbling up inside him, but it—like so many things this evening—is an effort in futility.

Settling back onto his mattress and leaning against the wall, he shifts slightly, attempting to find a comfortable position amidst the jabbing of exposed springs. The thin layer of padding does little to ease his discomfort, but he forces himself to endure.

“So what is this place, exactly? Any luck finding out?” The question hangs in the air as Lockwood's gaze shifts back to the woman, her voice breaking the spell of his thoughts. In the dim light, he can see she’s managed to pull herself upright, her silhouette leaning against the bars, still holding Holly’s hand.

“Yes, actually!” The other woman’s voice carries a note of weary triumph. “This place is an underground facility that was once used for dog-fighting during the prohibition era. The walls here are steeped in a grim history.” She pauses, her voice trembling slightly, and Lockwood notices the subtle shiver that runs through her as she continues. “There are networks of tunnels connecting various buildings to this place. We suspect that the primary entrance for the cages is from an abandoned railway station directly above us.”

If he had to guess, he'd say she had tightened her hand around Holly's. The exchange is quiet, but the gratitude in Holly’s eyes is unmistakable. His agent’s expression softens, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“I think the audience comes in through those tunnels, though,” Holly adds. “It’s never loud enough in here to account for the foot traffic. It’s a constant low hum of activity, like a distant, eerie heartbeat.”

Lockwood’s heart swells with a mixture of admiration and concern. The bravery and compassion displayed by both women in the face of disaster is both inspiring and heart-wrenching. As he processes the new information, he feels his sense of urgency grow deeper still. That network of tunnels could hold the key to their escape—or lead them to their deaths.

“I’m sorry to cut in, but you keep mentioning ‘matches’, and now an audience. What exactly do they do here?” He can’t resist addressing the elephant in the room any longer. When Holly flinches and goes silent, he instantly regrets it.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Holly. It must be painful to talk about. We won’t push you, but knowing what to expect will help us put together a plan to get everyone out of here safely.” Her voice is gentle and Anthony can hear more than see her scooting closer to Holly.

“Thank you.” It’s barely more than a whisper, the words almost lost in the tremor of her voice. “They, um… Well, it’s kind of a morbid repetition of history, in a way. They abduct agents in pairs, interrogate us about our skills, keep us in cages, and feed us well enough we don’t lose our strength. When the sun goes down they fetch two with complimentary Talent and bring them up to what they call the ‘arena’, arm them with a silver net and a measly handful of salt bombs, and toss in the Source of a Type Two. If you win, you go back to the cells to wait for your next match. If you lose…”

He’d read enough of that paper to know what happened to those who lost. Their Ghost-Touch swollen bodies would be dumped unceremoniously miles from here.

“I’m sorry to make you think more about this, but I have a few questions if you’re up to it.” Lockwood’s voice is steady, but his eyes betray the urgency of his request. He waits for Holly’s slight nod before pressing on. “When you mention ‘complimentary Talent,’ I'm assuming you’re referring to one with the Sight and one with either the Listening or the Touch?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Holly’s voice is subdued but clear. “They used to take me and Em together because she had the Sight and I had the Listening. But...” Her words falter slightly, and guilt tugs at her tone, nearly overwhelming. “I think they figured out that my Talent faded years ago. I’m afraid they might see me as expendable now.”

Before Lockwood or his associate can offer consolation, Holly plunges ahead with the weight of her revelations. “It’s safe to assume they’ll come for you tonight, Lockwood. They’re aware of your Talent, and they’ve been murmuring about ‘the big night’ for days. I didn’t grasp the full meaning until I recognized you. The only real question is who they’ll pair with you, considering your friend is too injured to be of much use for entertainment.” She adds quickly, “No offence intended!”

“None taken, believe me.” She gives Holly’s hand a comforting squeeze before letting go. Pushing herself to her feet with a groan of effort, she waves a dismissive hand at her neighbours cries to lay down and rest. “I will, I will, don’t nag! I’m just trying to make myself a bit more comfortable. With what we know now, I’d say our best option is to conserve our energy and stay focused on surviving until we can figure out a way out of here.”

Anthony’s frustration simmers beneath his surface as he watches her struggle. She grabs a corner of her mattress with one hand and starts dragging it across the grimy floor, her movements laboured. Realising her intent, he reaches out as soon as it's within his grasp and helps pull the mattress the remaining distance until it’s pressed snugly against his own through the bars. The two beds are now practically fused together, their surfaces puckering around the narrow gap between their cells.

With a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a groan of discomfort as a particularly stiff spring pokes at her ribs, she collapses onto the makeshift bed. Anthony reaches out tentatively, his fingers brushing against hers, recoiling slightly from the cold.

“Christ, you’re freezing,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with concern. He leans closer, gently lifting her hand to his face. Cupping it between his warm palms, he alternates between blowing gentle puffs of breath over her chilled skin and lightly massaging it to stimulate circulation.

“It’s practically an icebox in here, if you hadn’t noticed,” she retorts, her tone making a play at sharp, but being softened by her discomfort. When Anthony looks up, he’s struck by the depth in her eyes—a look that’s almost hypnotic. For a brief moment, they find haven in each other's eyes, a shared understanding amidst the chaos. But then, a shiver races through her body, and the moment shatters. His concern surges to the forefront, pushing everything else aside.

She reluctantly pulls her hand away, shifting beneath the tattered blanket draped across her mattress. The thin, threadbare fabric offers scant protection against the cold, its ability to retain warmth practically non-existent. Anthony watches her struggle for a moment, his frustration mounting as he witnesses her futile attempts to find some comfort.

Without hesitation, he moves to free his own blanket from beneath him, carefully maneuvering it through the narrow space between the bars. While he can't slip through the bars himself, his arm is long enough to extend through the gap up to his shoulder. He holds the blanket out toward her.

She fixes him with a defiant glare, her mouth opening to argue. Anthony’s expression remains resolute.

“Shut it, Sleeping Beauty. You know I run warmer than you anyway,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite the cold.

Another shiver wracks her body, but it’s the look in his eyes—a blend of genuine concern and blind stubbornness—that finally convinces her. With a soft murmur of thanks, she reaches out and takes the blanket from him. She wraps it around herself, the fabric immediately offering a small measure of comfort against the icy chill.

She tosses and turns restlessly for a while, each shift only deepening her discomfort. Frustration eventually gets the better of her, and she attempts to lift her injured arm to tuck it under her head, only to bite back a cry of pain.

With a sigh that carries a note of mock suffering and a twinkle in his eye, Lockwood shifts to lay on his back, moving as close as the confined space allows. He tucks his left arm behind his head, stretching the right through the bars to gently tap her on the head with the back of his knuckles. When she lifts her head, ready to scowl, he nods toward his arm, offering it as a makeshift pillow.

She contemplates the offered limb for a moment. Finally, she relents, lowering her head onto his arm and wriggling into a position that allows her to stay close to him without displacing her meager blankets. As soon as she settles, Lockwood bends his arm to cradle her head, gently stroking the side of it. The soft, contented hum that escapes her lips is a small victory he treasures.

She falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing evening out into a peaceful rhythm. Lockwood gazes down at her, his heart swelling at the sight of her serene expression—one he'd almost given up hope of seeing again.

When he looks up, Holly is still sitting, her gaze fixed on the pair of them. The expression on her face takes a moment to decipher in the dark, but he finally recognizes it as a bittersweet mix of wistfulness and quiet understanding.

“Does she know?” Holly’s voice is barely a whisper, but the question pierces through the silence like a knife. Anthony’s heart leaps into his throat. Though her words are soft, they feel as though they’ve reverberated throughout the confined space, making him acutely aware of the woman sleeping on his arm.

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound emerges. Instead, he opts for a slow shake of his head, the gesture more eloquent than any words he could muster.

An uneasy silence stretches between them, filled only with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional creak of the cell.

“Em, she… she wasn’t just my ‘friend’,” Holly confesses. The admission, though he had suspected it, lands with an unexpected weight, deepening the ache he's sure he'll feel for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says. His own experiences with loss have been numerous, but to lose someone he loved in a place as merciless as this is a fate he cannot fathom.

Holly offers a weak smile, though it is tinged with sadness. “You should try and get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you later.”

Anthony nods, acknowledging her advice. He watches as Holly settles herself, her form curling up in a bid for rest. Despite his agreement, he knows sleep will remain elusive. His mind is awash with concerns and fears, and the weight of the world resting on his arm makes it impossible to drift off.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[ukulelevillainwrites]

writer's block is a bitch

[aislinrayne]

rt

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood wakes up. The pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Abductions, fear, implied torture, blood, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Okay, so, full disclosure: this is less than half of what was initially supposed to be chapter six. It just kept getting longer, so I made a few small changes to get this posted before the rest of it gains another few thousand words

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.21k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  The echo of water dripping onto concrete is the first thing to worm its way into his consciousness. Next comes the throbbing pain through his skull, the relentless pounding that sends sharp waves of agony through his head. Lockwood lets out an involuntary hiss of discomfort, which in turn brings an unfortunate awareness of how dry his mouth is.  Each breath feels like sandpaper against his throat. His head hangs forward, and the muscles in his neck ache from the strain. It takes an immense effort to gather the strength to lift his head and look around, and when he finally does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

  The room is a grim tableau of grey, its walls, floor, and ceiling a continuous expanse of cold, unyielding concrete. The only breaks in the monotonous shade are the occasional questionable reddish-brown stains that mar the porous material. Hints of past violence are embedded in the very fibre of this space. To his left, a heavy iron door looms.  With its surface pitted and scarred by time, it stands as an ominous sentinel to his dreary prison.

  The throbbing between his ears intensifies, making it difficult to piece together the events leading up to this moment. How did he end up here, bound and trapped in a room straight out of a horror film? Lockwood’s memories slowly rise to the surface through the fog of his headache, and with them comes a growing awareness of his predicament. His wrists are bound tightly to the arms of a metal chair, the cold steel biting into his skin. 

  Something important is still begging to be remembered, some crucial detail just barely out of reach. He struggles to focus, his mind a chaotic swirl of fragmented memories and disjointed thoughts. They should be on a job right now, shouldn't they?

  It all comes back to him in a rush.

  ‘Hughes’, the alley, the fight. The memories crash over him like a wave, and he feels as if he’s finally awake. Where is she? His heart pounds as he wonders about the fate of his companion. Is she somewhere nearby, tied up like him? Or has she met a worse fate? She’s never been one to shy away from confrontation, especially with arrogant men like these. Her sharp tongue often gets her into trouble. Before he can fully lose himself in the depths of his fears, the large metal door swings open with an ominous creak. The echo reverberates through the cold, concrete room, and in walks their would-be client.

  Lockwood immediately schools his features, burying his rage and fear for his companion behind a mask of aloof and casual amusement. He takes a deep breath, pushing the worst-case scenarios from his mind.

  “Did you sleep well, Mr. Lockwood?” asks the man, his voice dripping with false politeness. He pulls a chair Anthony had previously missed away from the wall, dragging it with a harsh screech across the floor, and sits down directly in front of the bound agent.

  “Oh, like a baby,” Lockwood quips, shooting him a crooked smirk. He leans back in his chair, straining against his bindings to maintain a facade of nonchalance. “Woke up every couple of hours crying. You should consider marketing this place as a spa retreat. The concrete walls and the ambiance of dripping water are just so... soothing.”

  ‘Hughes’ barks a laugh at that, a glimmer of admiration for the young man dancing in his eyes. Lockwood’s heart races, but he doesn’t let it show. He needs to stay sharp, keep this man talking, and find out where he is– and, more importantly, where she is.

  “If we’d met under different circumstances, I think I could grow to like you, Mr. Lockwood. I’ve never met a man capable of looking so unbothered whilst bound to a chair.  Shame it had to be this way, what a waste of potential.” The heavy implication that Anthony won’t be leaving alive hangs in the air as the man props his elbow on the arm of his metal chair, resting his chin on his hand. He inspects Anthony as if he’s nothing more than a rat caught in a trap.

  “It hardly seems fair that you know my name, but I haven’t a clue what yours is.” Anthony risks the challenge, watching his captor’s face closely.

  “My man must have a heavier hand than I thought. If he’s addled your brain enough that you’ve forgotten already, maybe I should give him a raise.” The man laughs, waving his hand dismissively.

  There just now; the tiniest twitch of a vein on his left temple.

  “Surely a man of your intelligence wouldn’t be so foolish as to use his real name to hire a pair of Agents he has no intention of allowing to live. I’d hoped by now you’d have enough respect for me not to assume I’d be thick enough to believe you would.” Of all the reactions Anthony was prepared for, laughter wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. ‘Hughes’ almost doubles over in his chair, clapping his hands together before wiping tears of merriment from the corners of his eyes.

  “Boy, if you didn’t have those bloody morals of yours, I’d recruit you to take over when I retire. Damon Martin, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offers Lockwood a hand to shake, then rescinds it with a mock-apologetic shrug as though he’d forgotten he’d bound Anthony’s hands.

  Anthony’s mind races, filing away the name, the mannerisms, the arrogance. This is a man used to getting his way, a man who found joy in toying with his prey. But Anthony knows something he doesn’t. There’s still hope, still a chance. He just has to bide his time and keep Damon talking.

  “If I didn’t have these ‘bloody morals,’ I might be inclined to accept your generous offer. In another life, perhaps,” He pauses for a moment, weighing his options carefully. The chances he’s garnered enough favour to get away with a question are still slimmer than he’d like, but feigning ignorance might tip the scales his way. “Why did you go through all this effort? Surely there are easier ways to kidnap a few agents, at the very least an easier agency to grab them from. I’m assuming you need our Talent for some nefarious reason or another?”

  Damon chuckles at that; it’s an uglier sound than before. It can’t hide the treacherous vein on his brow, oh so eager to betray him.

  “Definitely easier agencies, but none that have pissed off as many Relic Hunters – and other unsavoury folks – as the lovely little lilies at Lockwood & Co.” He shakes his finger in time with every alliteration, the obvious enjoyment glittering in his eyes is almost sickening.

  “So it’s a matter of revenge, then?” If Mr. Martin is so willing to believe him a fool, he might as well use it to his own advantage. “Not unusual in this field, though not precisely expected either. So, what cruel fate do you have in store for us?”

  Damon leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Revenge. Justice. Call it what you will. Your little agency has made quite a name for itself. Stepping on toes, disrupting operations, making enemies. It was only a matter of time before someone came to collect.”

  Anthony’s mind races, trying desperately to fit together the final pieces of the puzzle. The throbbing behind his eyes hasn’t eased, and it isn’t making it any easier. “So, you’re just another wronged party in the long list of those seeking retribution. How original.”

  Damon’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “Oh, it’s not just about retribution. It’s about sending a message. You and your friends have a habit of poking your noses where they don’t belong. It’s time someone reminded you of the consequences.”

  Lockwood’s jaw tightens, his mind whirling with strategies. “And what consequences would those be? An untimely demise in your charming little dungeon?”

  “I hate to make it too easy on you, so we’ll leave it at ‘you’ll find out soon enough’ and move on. Surely there’s another question itching away at the back of your mind.” The smile on his face sends a chill down Anthony’s spine, a feeling he imagines to be akin to someone walking across his grave.

  “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “Ah, see? I thought we were getting somewhere, but it seems you still have all the subtlety of an ox.” The other man snorts, shaking his head ruefully. “Your companion is alive and, well… not ‘well’, but alive.”

  Anthony is almost certain there are more words following, but he loses the ability to hear through the blood rushing in his ears. If he has harmed her in any way, there will be hell to pay.

  “Anything else you’d like to know while you’re still inclined to speak with me?” The delight in Martin’s voice is sickening, but it is essential Anthony maintains his composure. No matter how desperately he wants to hurl insults and threats at this monster, he can’t.

  “You say that like you’re certain our time is coming to an end. I do like to consider myself quite tolerant, in the grand scheme. What do you have planned?”

  Damon checks his watch, grinning a Cheshire cat smile before looking back at the lad in the chair. “I’m afraid our time is up, Mr. Lockwood. For what it’s worth, I’ve enjoyed this little game of wits.”

  Anthony’s mind races as Damon’s words sink in. He has to think quickly, to find some way to delay whatever is coming next. “Well, I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual, Damon. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed your hospitality.”

  Damon laughs, a dark, hollow sound. “I didn’t expect you to. But, alas, our paths cross for a reason, and I have my own agenda to follow.”  He watches Anthony with a predatory glint in his eyes.

  Lockwood strains against his bindings, his eyes darting around the room for anything he might be able to use to his advantage. “This isn’t over. You think you have the upper hand, but you don’t know us. You don’t know what we’re capable of.”

  Damon’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Oh, I’m well aware of what you’re capable of, Mr. Lockwood. That’s why I’ve taken every precaution to ensure you won’t get the chance to show it.”

  Anthony’s mind races, formulating plans upon contingency plans. He knows he can’t afford to lose hope. Not now. Not when so much is at stake. The tension in the room is palpable as the two men stare each other down, the silent battle of wills raging on. Anthony knows he has to stay sharp, stay focused. They will find a way out of this.

  The scream erupts through the air, sudden and unrelenting, slicing through the stillness like a blade. The sound is raw, visceral, and it sends a jolt of icy terror racing through Anthony’s veins. All the steely resolve he’s been clinging to shatters in an instant, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His heart pounds like a drum in his chest as he struggles against the metal bindings that confine him. The chair groans and creaks ominously under his frantic movements, the metal biting into his skin as he throws himself forward in a desperate bid for freedom.

  “I swear to God, if you don’t let her go I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. There will not be a rock you can hide under that will save you from me,” he vows, his voice a low, dangerous growl filled with a venomous intensity. He spits in Damon’s direction, a tangible manifestation of his fury.

  Martin’s only reaction is a dark chuckle, a sound devoid of any real fear or concern. He lounges back in his chair with a nonchalant ease, his smile wide and untroubled. “Bold words from a man strapped to a chair in my basement,” he says with an almost lazy disdain. The words are dripping with mockery as he stands up, pushing himself to his feet. “Do try to keep your strength; it would be a shame to cut the entertainment short this evening.”

  With a final smirk, Damon pushes himself from his chair, and strides toward the metal door. His footsteps echo in the cold, sterile room. The door slams shut behind him with a resonating clang, sealing Anthony in darkness. The only sound that remains is the tortured, muffled sobs and anguished cries echoing faintly through the corridors.

  Lockwood closes his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the sound that haunts him. His teeth are clenched so hard they ache, and he fights the overpowering urge to rage against his restraints. The sound of his own name falling from her lips had never made him feel sick before.

  He whispers silent apologies into the void, each one a fragment of his broken heart as he hears her cries fade to wrecked sobbing in the distance. Tears stream uncontrollably down his cheeks, each one a testament to his helplessness. He forces himself to remember that if he exhausts his strength now, he will have no energy left to save her when the time comes. His mind is a whirlwind of anguish and determination, driven by the urgent need to endure for her sake.  If he exhausts himself now, he’ll have no way to help her through the next part of this.

  He knows what’s happening here. At the very least, he has some very well founded theories. 

  He’d begun to piece the clues together on his way back from running errands, the headline of a fresh edition of the paper catching his attention.

  ‘Missing Bunchurch operatives found ghost-touched three miles from job location.’

  George had mentioned something about these disappearances a few days ago. Lockwood had dismissed him without putting much thought into it, infuriating his researcher to the point of him storming out after curfew.  Lucy had scolded him senseless about it, and even he’d been forced to admit he’d handled it poorly. George’s Talent might have faded, but his mind is sharp as ever.  In the spirit of ‘making an effort’, as Lucy would say, Lockwood paused to buy a copy from the paperboy and stepped under an awning to avoid foot traffic as he leafed through the pages to find the article.

  ‘“A man approached them when the agency was nearly vacant for the evening, requesting their assistance for a high-profile case that required their immediate attention and discretion. Unfortunately, we didn’t get any details about the suspect before the disappearance of our operatives,”’ a supervisor explained when questioned. The story bore an uncanny resemblance to those reported by other agencies. ‘Who is this mystery man, and why does he seem to be targeting agents?’

  Lockwood’s gut twists as he absorbs the implications. Agents go missing or die on jobs more often than anyone is willing to admit. The constant flow of cases had prevented the authorities from connecting the dots until recently. Agents, typically in pairs of two, would leave on last-minute assignments and simply vanish without a trace. When their bodies were discovered – if they were found at all – it was often days later, in locations far removed from where they were supposed to be. The details are vague, but the true intrigue lies in the spaces between the lines, the picture painted by the gaps in the written words.

  He ponders the logistics. For a small-scale agency like Bunchurch or his own, it would be easy for one man to watch for an opening. But Fittes or Rotwell... catching a large-scale agency with few occupants requires more than luck. It demands extensive reconnaissance, meticulous notes on routines and schedules, and perfect timing.

   This isn't the work of a lone psychopath. This is organised crime, a network with resources and coordination.

  Lockwood’s mind races. If the person staking out their targets was consistent, someone in the neighbourhood must have noticed them, even if they didn’t realise it. DEPRAC and Scotland Yard had surely canvassed the area, asking questions. But had they inquired about the weeks leading up to the kidnappings? About any oddities that initially seemed out of place but became so routine they were almost invisible?  Inspector Barnes would surely have asked those questions, but Lockwood has his doubts about the competency of the other men under his command. The picture is becoming clearer: a network of criminals, a methodical approach, agents watched and taken with precision. Lockwood folds the newspaper, now fully alert. 

  Everything in this report suggests a calculated effort to target and eliminate agents under the guise of urgent and confidential assignments. These abductions are not random misfortunes or isolated incidents; they are part of a cruel and systematic scheme to exploit the talents of the agents and dispose of them in the most horrific ways imaginable. Lockwood’s thoughts churn with grim realisation. If one were to calculate the number of missing agents, and compare it to the number of bodies found… The numbers simply don’t add up. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place, and with each one, the urgency to act becomes more pressing. This is not just a matter of solving a mystery, or bringing justice to the fallen; it’s a race against time to save those who might still be trapped in this nightmarish scenario.

  He makes a mental note to make time to talk to Barnes, to offer his services as a consultant. Maybe even as bait.

  The thought barely has time to form before the pieces finally click into place, each realisation deepening the pit of dread in his stomach.

  They couldn’t be bait if they were already targets.

  A bolt of ice stabs through his chest as he realises the time. A quick glance at his watch confirms his fear. He is going to be late.  Again. He’s been so slow on the uptake—she could already be in danger.

  He curses himself under his breath, looking around wildly. Despite every instinct screaming at him to blindly run to her aid, he knows he has to find a way to pass a message to their team. It’s their only hope of surviving the trap he’s unwittingly led them into. His gaze flicks side to side as he forces himself to breathe in, hold, and breathe out for equal counts of four. Combat breathing helps regulate his body’s response to stress. He needs to think clearly and appear calm to pull this off. The faces around him blur together as he moves with purpose in the direction of their rendezvous spot, buying time for himself to come up with a reasonable plan. He knows the enemy could be anywhere. Watching. Waiting. The seconds tick by, each one a reminder of how close he might be to losing everything. 

  He turns a corner and catches sight of the river, the water glinting in the afternoon light. Amid the crowd, a distinctive outline catches his eye. He can’t help but grin, thanking his lucky stars for the first time in his life that he lives so close to the Thames.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[aislinrayne]

currently sitting on almost 10k words to pair down and edit for SM, but i might manage to get another chapter out tomorrow! say a prayer for me

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood is horrible at keeping promises, Reader's week just keeps getting worse, and not everything is as it seems.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Angst, anger, broken promises, strong language, insinuations of death and dying, time blindness, fighting, injury, blood, canon typical violence.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: This honestly should not have taken me nearly as long as it did, but such is life! Slowly we tick on to the penultimate chapter... Does anyone have any theories?

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.63k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  She’s actually going to murder him.  She’s said it before – hell, she’s even meant it before – but she’s really going to do it this time.  It would be disturbingly easy; it’s not like she’d end up under suspicion if he suddenly went missing on a case.  No one would bat an eye. She could easily stroll over to the corner store, put on a good show of wallowing in misery, and claim she stormed out after their argument earlier. Even if the one man who would potentially look into his disappearance found a lead that could point back to her, Detective Barnes would probably thank her for putting him out of his misery.  Hell, he might even offer her a medal for it.

She huffs softly, her patience wearing thin as she paces back and forth. The glare that had made itself a permanent home on her face keeps darting to her wristwatch as if she can frighten it into rewinding its wee hands.  Ten minutes till sunset, and still no sign of that infuriating liar of hers.

  …hers?  The word echoes oddly in her mind. It carries a… possessiveness she hadn’t anticipated. She frowns, trying to shake off the fleeting sense of ownership that accompanies the thought. She shouldn’t be thinking like that.  Especially not when she’s this pissed at him.  The minutes crawl by at a maddening pace. She clenches her fists, nails digging into her palms, trying to keep her frustration at bay. Each minute that ticks by only heightens her sense of dread and impatience. 

  She glances back toward the golden glow on the horizon, watching the shadows grow longer with each passing moment. The setting sun casts eerie, elongated shapes across the street, making every miniscule movement seem menacing. Her pulse quickens with the mounting pressure of time running out. Her nerves are frayed, and the weight of her decision feels heavier with each tick of the clock.

  As she shifts her weight from foot to foot, her mind racing through scenarios of what might happen if he doesn’t show. The possibilities range from a simple missed opportunity, to catastrophic failure.  If she’s being honest with herself, it’s more likely to be the latter.  Despite his serial unreliability over the past few months, there’s no way she could ever bring herself to believe he really wasn’t coming.  She’d die alone in this alley before she’d ever give up on him.  The morbid thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “‘It won’t happen again’ my arse, you miserable little–” she mutters through gritted teeth, her voice a harsh whisper of exasperation. Each word drips with the bitterness of unfulfilled promises. She continues to pace back and forth at the mouth of the alley, her anger burning hotter with every step.  The darkening sky serves as a constant reminder of the fleeting time, deepening her sense of betrayal.  She’d gone to great lengths to give him the best chance to keep his word – ran to Satchell’s for the flares he’d forgotten, adjusted her own schedule, and even fought off the gnawing worry that he’d bail on her once again. And still, here she is, waiting alone. It feels like an insult to her efforts and patience.

  Her eyes dart to her watch once more, the ticking of the second hand sounding like a mockery of his promise, mind churning with jumbled thoughts – none of them flattering.  Her frustration finally boils over and she stomps her foot in a vain attempt to expel her frustration, aiming a kick at a small rock on the ground and – completely missing.  Her toe slams into the pavement, sending a jarring shock through her leg. 

  “Still waiting on Mr. Lockwood, I take it?” a kindly voice calls out to her.

  Fighting the urge to crumple in on herself and fill the air with expletives that would put a sailor to shame, she plasters on her fakest smile and turns to face the man approaching her from the other end of the partially overgrown path.  He’s already halfway closed the distance between them.  A chill runs down her spine at her lack of awareness.  How had she not noticed his approach?  His cane is hardly quiet, ticking its way towards her down the pavement.  This is how mistakes happen, she scolds herself, and mistakes this early are not conducive to surviving the night.

  “Ah, Mr. Hughes!” she greets him as cheerily as she can, clapping her hands together in front of her audibly, “Yes, he’s just had to stop for some additional supplies; flares and the like, you know how it is.” 

  She hides the lie behind a carefully practised reassuring smile, mentally stomping on the spark of irritation threatening to burst to flames as she’s forced to cover for her boss yet again.  The portly man nods sagely at this, and she has to resist the urge to roll her eyes.  As if he’d ever stepped foot inside of a supply store.  Still, he’d accepted it without a fuss.  It’s nice to know her luck isn’t completely shot, and at least one thing had gone without a hitch today–

  “Forgive me if this comes across as impatient, Miss, but would you be willing to begin the assessment yourself?  I’d like to be here to answer any questions you might have for me, but I’d rather not linger after sunset.”

  – she’d like to rescind her earlier statement.

  Some instinct tells her to wait for reinforcements.  A thorn of doubt works its way deeper and deeper into the lining of her stomach, growing into a sizable pit of dread.  There’s no way she can deny his request and maintain any semblance of professionalism.  She’s an agent, for god’s sake.  This is her job.

  Gritting her teeth and willfully ignoring her better judgement, she graciously replies, “Of course.  Let’s get you home before curfew, hey Mr. Hughes?” before gesturing for him to lead the way.  He tips his head to her in gratitude and turns back the way he’d come.  She silently punctuates every click of his cane down the ominous alley with a different creative insult to her incredibly late roommate.  

  Hughes stops about halfway down the alley, vaguely gesturing to a patch of brush bordering the edge of the crumbling asphalt path. “This is the area. Eye witness accounts describe Alexandria’s echo desperately trying to claw her way out of the bushes here. Truly dreadful, really,” he laments.

  “Were you close to her before her death?” she asks absentmindedly, dropping into a crouch. She throws herself into her work, trying to distract from the building anxiety gnawing at her gut. Her eyes dart across the path, raking through the thick underbrush for any hint of what they might be dealing with come sundown. Maybe, if she’s lucky, the Source could be some antique locket only partially buried beneath the decaying leaves.

  As she continues her search, that optimistic delusion quickly fades.

  “No more than anyone else in that production. She might have performed in my theatre, but I’m afraid I never had the chance to speak to her outside of the green room,” Oscar says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The eagerness in his eyes betrays his desire to leave the alley. She can’t blame him; even the hairs on the back of her neck are standing at attention.  It’s her job to remain composed, to not let herself be swayed by the eerie nature of her profession. But something about this place... She can’t shake the feeling that something is profoundly wrong.

  Forcing herself upright, she pushes off her thighs and claps her hands together, the loud sound echoing in the narrow alley. Dust flies off her palms, but it does little to dispel the growing sense of unease.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hughes. I think it’s time for you to head home now, before things start getting strange,” she says with a crooked smile, eager for a moment alone to gather her thoughts before the shit hits the metaphorical fan.

  “Ah yes, well, I appreciate you taking this case on such short notice.” He turns to leave but pauses, his hesitation stretching the moment. He looks back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Are you sure there’s nothing more you need from me?”

  “You’re very kind, but we should be fine.”

  His reluctance to leave feels almost deliberate, and that persistent thorn begins to fester in her stomach. He stands there, staring at her, as if weighing her very soul.

  This could mean one of two things. Either he truly is who he says he is, and is genuinely concerned about leaving a young woman alone at this time of evening in a potentially haunted alleyway, or fears are correct and he harbours some kind of insidious intentions. The air thickens with an unspoken threat, making her pulse quicken.

  “Very well, miss. I’d say ‘break a leg’, but I fear in your line of work it’s too much of a possibility.” He shoots her a little smile, dipping his head in farewell before resuming his journey out of the alley. She calls a final farewell after him, scolding herself for letting her environment make her paranoid.

  She’d like to be reassured by his departure, to smooth her bristling hackles and be free to lick her emotional wounds before she’s forced to face off against an otherworldly menace.  But then the source of the persistent sense of wrongness finally clicks into place. There’s no echoing click. He isn’t limping anymore.

  He stalls in front of her, turning slowly and fixing her with a stare that sends chills down her spine. The cane he’d been using to support his weight hangs loosely in his hand, no longer being used.

  With a silent curse, she realises she must have spoken aloud in her surprise. The alley seems to darken, the shadows lengthening as if reaching out to her. Hughes’s eyes gleam with a malevolent light, and a slow, unsettling smile spreads across his face.

  “Very perceptive,” Oscar (had they ever checked if that was really his name?) leers at her.  Gone was the cowardly mouse-man that had arrived on their doorstep earlier that day, leaving behind a snarling hunting dog in his place.  “But a little too late, I’m afraid.”

  The air grows colder, and the oppressive feeling of danger wraps around her like a vice. She’s alone, with no immediate backup, and the man before her is not who he claimed to be.  Feeling a strange sort of empathy for foxes – and any other animals that consider themselves hunters until they suddenly find themselves as prey – she reaches for the familiar weight hanging from her belt.

  Anthony rounds the corner, moving with the nonchalance of a cat returning for dinner, but the sight that greets him brings him to a sudden, rigid halt.  She wants to be furious with him for swaggering up like nothing’s happened, but all she can feel is a wave of relief that nearly makes her crumble.

  “I take it the gentlemen about to follow me up this quaint little alley are yours, then?” Anthony calls out, his tone disturbingly casual. The implications of his words are anything but. The scene before her is grim: she’s about to be surrounded.

  Already bracing herself for the worst, she spins around just in time to see the first man emerging from the corner behind her, his face set in a cold smirk.

  “This end too,” she snaps over her shoulder, her voice tight with urgency. “They’ve got us boxed in.” The hiss of her rapier sliding free from its sheath cuts through the tension like a knife.

  Anthony doesn’t hesitate to follow her lead. He draws his blade in a single, fluid motion, its edge gleaming with deadly intent as he points it toward their would-be client. The man, however, merely laughs, an unsettling sound that echoes off the narrow alley walls. He raises his hands in mock surrender and takes a deliberate step back, a chilling grin spreading across his face. His goons close in, their movements slow and deliberate, tightening the noose.

The alley begins to feel like it’s closing in.

  The girl drops into a fighting stance, her eyes darting between the four men closing in on her. The first to charge is a burly brunette with a face marred by scars. He roars and lunges, hands reaching out like iron claws. She springs back, narrowly avoiding his grasp, as the metallic clash of blades erupts behind her. Her attacker’s frustration is palpable as he gathers himself for another attack.

  Her smirk is resigned as she sidesteps his predictable swing, ducking under his arm. She’d been expecting at least a little bit of a challenge.  Her rapier flashes as it bites into his right side, drawing a pained roar from him. But before she can capitalise on the strike, his massive fist is dropping with the kind of speed a man his size should not be allowed to have and crashing into her back with a force that feels like a thunderclap. The impact slams her to the ground, knocking the breath out of her.

  She barely sees the foot descending towards her before she’s rolling away, every ragged gasp for air burning in her lungs. Ignoring the sting in her hands and the raw scrape along her jaw, she forces herself to her feet, raising her blade to the ready.

  A blur of movement flies at her head and she ducks on instinct, narrowly dodging another incoming fist. Her rapier swings in a blur, slicing through the air and tearing through fabric and flesh. There’s no time to savour the hit; her focus sharpens as a flash of movement catches her eye. Pain erupts in her sword arm, searing through the muscle. A scream tears free from her, despite her best efforts to avoid distracting Lockwood.  She stumbles back, creating distance between her and her foe as she fights to stay on her feet and keep her wits about her.

  The shriek of pain behind Lockwood turns his blood to ice. He spins on his heel, eyes wide with fear and fury. The sight that greets him freezes him in place: the girl is staggering, blood seeping through her fingers as she clutches her injured bicep. Her rapier hangs limply from her arm, its tip scraping the ground with every pained step she takes. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and she tries to retreat, but her movements are slow and pained.

  A red-hot wave of protectiveness floods through him, burning away any hesitation.

  Lockwood bolts toward her, heart pounding in his chest. He reaches her in a few swift strides, pulling her against him with a desperation that borders on frantic. His left arm wraps around her, holding her close, while his right hand wields the rapier with fierce determination. He swings it with a snarl, the blade slicing through the air to meet the large man who’d injured her. The man yelps, clutching his bleeding hand as the knife drops to the ground, his grip broken.

  The next threat becomes painfully clear: a heavy crunch of gravel warns Lockwood of another assailant closing in. His instincts kick in. He shoves the girl behind him, forcing her to safety. When he glances at her over his shoulder, his eyes burn with protective fire.

  Lockwood’s focus snaps back to the enemy. His initial opponent has been joined by six brutish reinforcements, each one bigger and more menacing than the last. Desperation fuels every move he makes. His swings are wild, fueled by raw fear and a single-minded determination to keep her safe. Every strike, every dodge, is driven by the urgent need to protect her, his breaths coming in sharp, laboured gasps.

  The chaos around him becomes a blur. He feels each incoming blow with a jolt of adrenaline but doesn’t let it slow him down. His mind is fixed on one thing: keeping her safe, no matter the cost.

  Anthony had faced impossible odds before and triumphed, but never with the weight of his own mortality so starkly pressing down on him.  His hands shake uncontrollably, the extended blade of his rapier trembling in the dimming light of the setting sun.  The sight is almost surreal, the tremor a physical manifestation of the dread that was clawing at his insides.  He’s afraid.  For the first time in a long while.  That fear ignites something in him – a rush he hadn’t felt since he’d stopped pushing the boundaries of his own mortality. It's intoxicating, a stark reminder of the reckless abandon he’d once embraced, now tempered by a deep, newfound sense of self-preservation.  It would have been almost exhilarating if it weren’t for the sharp, stifled groans of pain coming from the girl behind him. Each sound is a dagger twisting in his chest, a brutal reminder of the urgency of their situation.

  He has to get her out of this nightmare, has to get her to a hospital before the misfortunes of the evening consume them both. He’s resolved this time; there would be no arguments, no hesitations. She needs medical attention, and he’ll make damn sure she gets it, even if he has to drag her himself.

  The dark-haired man has retrieved his knife.  His gaze locks onto Lockwood with lethal intent. The once scattered group of attackers now move in unison, their collective malice palpable.

  In an instant, all hell breaks loose.

  A bloodied hand moves to throw a knife, but Anthony’s reflexes are too honed. He lunges forward, his rapier slicing through the air with vicious intent. The tip buries itself in the man’s thigh, and Anthony twists the blade. He savours the man’s howl of pain, a grim satisfaction pulsing through him as he withdraws the blade at an angle, causing even more agony. The burly thug collapses to one knee, clutching at his leg with a desperate, pained expression.

  Anthony barely has a moment to process the sight before Ugly #2, the oaf who had distracted him earlier, charges in with a ferocious swing of his arm. A knife glints ominously in his palm, and Anthony’s heart pounds with the realisation of what he’s going to have to do. Dodging to the side isn’t an option with the girl behind him in such a vulnerable state, so he does the only thing he can; braces himself for the impact.

  The force of the blade crashing against his rapier’s hilt reverberates up his arms, the screech of metal on metal filling the alley with a jarring cacophony. Anthony grits his teeth, every muscle straining as he holds his ground. The weight of the attack is immense, and for a moment, he feels the pressure threaten to drive him down. Sweat mingles with blood on his brow as he glares defiantly at the man before him, refusing to yield.

  Ugly #3, seizing the opportunity presented by Lockwood’s struggle, lunges in from the side with a powerful, unguarded punch aimed directly at his midsection. Anthony braces himself as best as he can, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The impact is like being struck by a sledgehammer, leaving him winded and reeling as the force sends him stumbling back. His vision blurs momentarily, the air exploding from his lungs in a painful whoosh. The girl’s distressed cry pierces through the haze of his pain, a sharp reminder of the high stakes.

  Gritting his teeth against the nausea and the overwhelming pressure in his chest, Anthony struggles to regain his footing. He’s momentarily disoriented, but Ugly #2 uses this lapse in his defence to press down even harder, their blades emitting a horrifically shrill noise as they grind together in a brutal clash. The weight forces him to one knee, each second feeling like an eternity as he fights to draw in a breath. His legs tremble under the strain, and he feels every ounce of weariness from the day’s events beginning to catch up, pressing down on him.

  Meanwhile, Ugly #4 has used the commotion to his advantage, sneaking around to the left with a stealthy approach. The thug’s sinister plan becomes apparent when he grabs the girl’s injured arm, trying to drag her from behind him. She shrieks in agony, a gut-wrenching sound that fuels Anthony’s desperation. Adrenaline surges through him in a fiery burst of energy that drowns out the pain and exhaustion. With a final, determined push against the blade of Ugly #2, Anthony manages to send the thug staggering back.

  His rapier, now freed from the oppressive pressure, arcs through the air as he pivots toward Ugly #4. With a fierce swipe, the blade finds its mark on the thug’s shoulder. Blood spurts from the wound, and the man curses vehemently, stumbling backward with a pained expression. The momentary reprieve is hard-won, but short-lived.

  He realises he’s lost track of Ugly #3, and the sense of dread that follows is tangible. The thug’s absence is unnerving, the tension in the air thickens as Anthony’s attention is drawn back to the girl’s anguished cries.

  “Anthony, behind you!” Her voice is urgent, tinged with panic – but it’s too late. The sound of heavy footsteps slamming against the gravel precedes a thunderous crash. Anthony’s world erupts in a blinding flash of pain, and his vision narrows to a painful pin prick before everything goes black.

  The last sensation he feels is the cold, unforgiving ground beneath him, and the hollow echoes of the alley around him. He’s left in darkness, his body sprawled out in a vulnerable heap, as the final chaotic moments of the fight rage on without him.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁ @autisticbiologistmess ❁ @xyaxyn ❁

❁ @forget-me-not-my-dear ❁

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood wants Reader to go to the hospital. Reader does not want to go to the hospital. A mysterious visitor arrives...

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Language, alluded medical trauma, Reader has a past, dealing with fear via anger, allusions to unfortunate and untimely demise, canon typical violence... pretty sure that covers it!

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Two chapters in one week?? Who am I. There's only been a few major changes to this one since the original release as I was actually pretty happy with it, so I didn't want to make you wait any longer than was 100% necessary. Shorter word count on this one too since the next two are already monsters

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.66k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  “For the last time, I am not going to the fucking hospital!” she spits, the final threads of her restraint turning to spider’s silk and breaking under the weight of the fear hiding behind her anger.  Lockwood’s narrowed eyes glare daggers at her across the thinking cloth.  He scoffs as he leans back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

  He swears he can see steam pouring from her ears.  She swears he’s an argumentative prick.

  Their… ‘disagreement’ has been slowly building over the course of several hours, culminating in an explosion of epic proportions in the kitchen around lunch time.  She insists she’s fine, that she barely even has a headache left over from the incident the night before.  He insists she’s irritable, and is clearly having difficulties focusing.  George – who had spent the previous night in his old room after losing track of time researching an upcoming case – chimes in to mention that isn’t exactly out of the ordinary, and the look she gives him in response could probably peel paint.

  He mutters something under his breath about picking something up from Arif’s as he flees the room, grabbing his coat from the floor in front of its designated hook and opening their front door just as Lucy reaches the top step.  She quirks an eyebrow and opens her mouth to question his urgent departure, but he vehemently shakes his head to silence her.  Grabbing her by the wrist, he drags her behind him as he flees the scene of what he is certain will soon to be a crime.

  The first one to break the terse silence of their glaring contest is Lockwood.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be an arse-”

  “Since when do you have to try?” she interjects bitterly, pushing away from where she’d been leaning against the counter and raising her arms to rake her fingers through her hair.  He grits his teeth, trying to bite back a scathing rebuttal.  Her fingers lace behind her head and she stares at the ceiling as if begging for strength.  She paces back and forth in front of the kitchen sink like a caged animal, and his heart aches at the sight.  Even if he disregards whatever past she’s unwilling to disclose and only considers what he knows about the strength and nature of her talent, it’s understandable why she isn’t keen to be surrounded by the painful echoes of lives lost in a multitude of traumatic ways.

  That being said; some things are worth facing discomfort for, and her long-term safety will always be at the top of that list to him.  He takes a deep breath, schooling his expression into something more neutral before trying another approach.

  “I understand you don’t like hospitals, and I respect that you have your reasons,” he assents, “so what about a clinic?  Something small practice, with no ghost-locked patients?”  He uncrosses his arms and raises his palms in a placating manner, silently imploring her to be reasonable.

  She fixes him with a suspicious glare and he worries he’s accidentally stumbled upon a landmine, but it isn’t long before she visibly deflates, dropping her arms and staring intently at her now fidgeting hands instead of meeting his gaze.  While it wouldn’t remove the discomfort of the dull lights and surgical cleanliness, nor the chill she still gets from being around doctors in general, not having to be around ghost-locked residents would help a considerable amount…

  “Fine,” she eventually mumbles, more misery and reluctance packed into one syllable than he’d ever heard before.  She wants nothing more than to hide and wait for the problem to go away, but when he looks at her with those eyes – soft, pleading, filled with distress – she can’t say no to a half-decent compromise.  No matter how desperately she wants to. “but only on one condition.”

  “Anything,” he replies instantly.  He’s too relieved to be embarrassed by his immediate willingness to do whatever she’d ask of him, or by the breathless quality of his voice.

  She picks at the skin around her fingernails as she gets lost in a maze of tumultuous thoughts.  Showing any sign of weakness isn’t exactly easy for her.  Vulnerability is terrifying, and the concept of actually relying on someone else is as intimidating as it is foreign.

  Familiar with this pattern by now, Lockwood takes the time to gently rotate his neck and release some of the tension he’d built up.  He gives her the space she needs to muster the courage necessary to coax her thoughts into words.

  When she does speak again, it’s so quiet he almost can’t hear her.

  “Come with me,” she begs, her voice hardly more than a whisper.  It’s such a contrast to the bravado and indignant fury from earlier that it almost steals his breath away.

  He has to fight every fibre of his being as it screams to cross the table and hold her, to protect her from anything and everything that has ever made her feel the need to make herself small.  Suddenly he’s filled with hatred towards faceless memories he’s never even heard as more than fearful cries echoing through the house on the nights she wakes from night terrors she never speaks of come the light of day.

  It takes a moment for him to remember how to use his voice again.

  Anywhere, he wants to say.  “Of course,” he says instead; as though it were a fact, some kind of indisputable truth.  As though there was never any other way he could answer.  If he were to be completely honest with himself, there wasn’t.  He would do anything to have a front row seat to every glimpse of vulnerability showing through the cracks of her perfectly constructed mask. 

  

He’s distracted from his lovesick internal monologue by the sound of an urgent knocking on their front door.  

  The noise startles her. She jumps, lifting her head to meet his eyes.  She raises a challenging eyebrow at him.  It’s a look he knows is accusing him of arranging a meeting with a client today and forgetting about it.  He shrugs, replying with a series of nods and puzzled looks that he hopes conveys his understanding of her reasons for doubting him, but he genuinely doesn’t know who it could be.  He pushes himself out of his seat to go greet their guest.  

  The sound of her quiet footsteps on the linoleum tells him she’s not far behind, likely planning to eavesdrop from out of sight in case it happens to be trouble knocking.  Considering their track record, that’s probably a good call.

  His hand grasps the door handle– but something stops him from opening it immediately.  A strange shiver down his spine urges him to look through the peephole.  The first thing he sees is the top of a balding head, the portly man attached to it coming into view a few seconds later as he steps back to wait and wring his hands.  The man looks harmless enough.  Lockwood shakes off his unease, slides the locks back, and swings the door open theatrically.

  “Good afternoon, sir.  Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Co., at your service.  Do you have an appointment today?” he asks, extending his hand and donning his megawatt smile despite knowing damn well the startled little man did not.  

  The man in question stares with too-big eyes from behind too-small spectacles, and for a moment Lockwood can almost see a terrified mouse standing frozen on his welcome mat instead.    The man gasps and lurches forward, quickly stuffing a clammy and trembling hand into the one offered to him.

  “Oh, yes!  Yes, very good.  My name is Oscar Hughes, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the mouse/man proclaims, shaking the offered hand vigorously, “I don’t have an appointment, but I do have some information that I think will pique your interest.”  

  The name lights a spark of recognition at the back of his mind, but Lockwood can’t quite put his finger on why, leaving him standing in awkward silence for a split second longer than he’s comfortable with.

  “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but are you the same Oscar Hughes who owns the Lighthouse Theatre?” asks the woman behind him, and Anthony has the urge to either give her a raise or sweep her off her feet.  He makes a mental note to check their wages budget.  Oscar dips his head in confirmation, glancing down the street behind him with what seems to be concern.  

  “It appears I’ve been quite rude.  Terribly sorry, Mr. Hughes, why don’t you come in so we can talk in private?” Lockwood accepts the man’s cue and steps aside to allow him entry, returning to the picture of professionalism with zero hesitation.  He can almost feel the girl behind him fighting the urge to roll her eyes at him.  It’s only once he realises that the shorter man hasn’t moved that he sees the cane in his right hand, bowing under the strain of supporting the majority of his weight.  Internally scolding himself for becoming so distracted, Anthony offers Oscar his arm to cross the raised threshold.  

  As her boss helps the fidgety man into their foyer, she offers him a reassuring smile and extends her hand to take his jacket.  He bows his head repeatedly in thanks, firing off a few rapid sentiments of gratitude before allowing himself to be led into the sitting room to discuss the case.

  Lockwood takes a seat in the armchair, gesturing to the loveseat to convey his want for their potential client to sit across from him.  Oscar hesitates for a split second before shuffling over and dropping onto the well worn cushions.

  “Now, that’s much more comfortable.  All that’s missing now is some tea and biscuits; would you mind, love?” his voice is soft, the pet name slipping past his lips before he has a chance to think about it.  There’s a pause, the slight twitch of his brow the only significant outward sign of his immediate panic.  Thankfully, she takes it in stride and exits the room with a quiet affirmation and an air of purpose.

  He doesn’t see the blood rushing to her cheeks, or notice her relief at being given an excuse to exit stage right to compose herself.  He does find the lack of ribbing slightly unusual, but he figures she’s probably trying not to embarrass him in front of their client.  That theory is swiftly dismissed when he remembers she would definitely jump at the opportunity to do precisely that.

  He’ll have time to worry more about the implications of that when there isn’t a potentially high-profile client sitting less than five feet away from him, he reminds himself.  

  Clearing his throat, Lockwood leans back into his seat, crossing his legs and fixing the cuffs of his sleeves in one smooth motion.  

  “Excellent!  While we wait, Mr. Hughes, I believe you’d mentioned having some information that might interest me?”

  “Right, to the point, then.  You may have heard of the tragic case of Alexandra Wright?” he stares at the younger man expectantly, waiting for confirmation as if the whole of Marylebone hadn’t been following the case for years.

  Alexandra Wright had been a young local stage actress at the start of a very promising career when she’d suddenly disappeared without a trace.  She’d been playing Titania in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Mr. Hughes' own theatre on the last evening anyone had seen or heard from her.  She’d declined her Oberon, Matthew Moffat’s invitation to have a celebratory drink with the cast on the eve of their final performance, opting instead to go home for a quiet evening with her feline companion and a bottle of wine.  

  Unfortunately she’d never made it back to her flat.  Death wasn’t exactly uncommon even in those days, but it was the mystery of it all that made it so hard for the town to move on.

  Occasionally there would be whispers of spottings; the grocer down the way who closed late one night would swear he’d seen her hurrying along from ghost lamp to ghost lamp, or Mrs. Peterson who swore her granddaughter had told her of seeing a ghost perfectly matching Alexandra’s description.

  Despite the small town rumblings and rumours, no legitimate reports of a Visitor matching her description had been seen since her unusual disappearance.

  Until now, if one were to believe the claims of Mr. Hughes.

  Apparently, the ghost of Ms. Wright had been Visiting an alley adjacent to the theatre, leaving those unlucky enough to have to pass through even before curfew with a persistent sense of dread.  Those with Talent who lived in the flats above the alley reported seeing her wailing as she tried to drag herself away from the invisible echo of the assailants responsible for her untimely demise.

  His associate had returned part way through Oscar’s account, and when she steps away after handing their guest his cup she looks downright nauseas.

  Lockwood can’t resist the urge to reach out and run the back of his fingers comfortingly up and down the back of her arm.  She turns her head to give him a grateful little smile, and surprises him by moving to perch on the armrest of his chair instead of taking one of the other empty seats in the room.  He’s never been more unsure about what to do with his hands.

  “As you can imagine, these rumours haven’t exactly encouraged paying customers to come knocking,”  Hughes laughs dryly, his eyes portraying an edge neither of them had thought him particularly capable of.

  “My team and I will investigate tomorrow evening, and I assure you we will do so with the utmost discretion,”  Lockwood flashes him his signature grin, easily gathering the underlying meaning behind the man’s words as he leans back 

  “Oh, well, you see…  Time is of the essence, if I dare be so bold.  I was hoping you’d be willing to take a look this evening.”

  Lockwood considers him for a moment.  On one hand, he’s certain Lucy would tan his hide if she caught wind of him taking on a case of this magnitude without her.  On the other, there are so many similarities between the cases of Alexandra Wright and Annabel Ward that even after all these years he finds himself eager to solve it without sticking her in the middle of it all.

  And George…  Well, with his Talent now gone, George preferred to avoid being in the field whenever possible.  The likelihood of a scolding from him was much lower than it would have been when they were young.  Hell, Flo would probably even thank him for keeping the man out of it–

  A hand resting featherlight on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.

  When he turns to look at her, her eyes are already on him, and they’re glittering with excitement.  She knows as well as he does what solving this mystery could do for Lockwood & Co., and for him.  He’d told her about Fairfax and Ward when they had started becoming closer to friends than colleagues.  About the crushing frustration and disappointment that had hounded him for years after, urging him to make impulsive and reckless decisions to try and regain what he felt had been stolen from him.

  Frustration at a system supposedly put in place to protect Agents being manipulated to treat them as tools and nothing more, disappointment at having the crown jewel accomplishment of the legacy he’d been trying so hard to build torn from his hands mere moments after earning it. ‘Do it,’ her eyes seem to urge, ‘say yes.’  His heart soars.

  Emboldened by her touch and eager to right a wrong once done upon him, ignoring a strange sense of dread as that familiar feeling of invincibility settles over him, he fixes his eyes on their client once more.

  “All right, Mr. Hughes.  We begin at sunset.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁

[aislinrayne]

since this is the blog that saw my first fics in a decade, i think it’s only fair that it be the one to see my first digital art debut since early deviantart 🙈

i love writing reader insert fics but i also love making original characters, so i tend to picture a character instead of myself while i’m reading/writing. here’s a lil glimpse at who i’m picturing in my Lockwood x Reader fic while i’m writing it 🖤 (which may or may not possibly maybe be a spoiler for a later chapter 🙊)

her name is Niamh Imogen Mordecai, but her friends usually call her Vee or Nim. probably a pipe dream but if anyone has any questions about her i’d love to answer them 🖤

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Anthony Lockwood is not comfortable being left alone with his thoughts, and Reader takes a long nap.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Angst, unrequited pining, anxiety attacks, spiraling thoughts, Lockwood being a simp, unreliable author... probably some more, let me know if I missed something obvious

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: I know they say better late than never, but I'm not sure if disappearing for months at a time between chapters fits under that umbrella. In other words, sorry again! (Raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by the fanfic writers curse ...✋)

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.17k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  Anthony stands over the silver-wrapped portrait, rapier hanging loosely from his hand as he waits on baited breath.  She’d never been wrong about a Source before, but he isn’t about to risk both of their lives by not taking appropriate precautions.

  The second he’s certain the shrieking form of Mr. Roland isn’t about to make a disastrously surprise reappearance, he lets the blade fall from his hand and rushes to the crumpled heap of fabric and flesh at the foot of their clients bed. He’d wake in a cold sweat from nightmares featuring the echoing crack of her skull connecting with the frame for a long time after this.  Trembling fingers smooth the hair away from her face, stomach in knots over the alarming pallor of her skin.  Shifting his hand to her shoulder, he rubs briskly up and down her bicep in an attempt to rouse her.  He curses under his breath when it becomes obvious it isn’t working.  Swallowing hard, he brushes the hair away from her neck and places two tentative fingers on her pulsepoint. ‘Relief’ doesn’t come close to describing the emotion that floods his body at the presence of the steady – if a little shallow – beat beneath his fingertips.

  Still alive, then.  He can work with that.

  Normally he hates this part, but he can’t be anything other than grateful they’ll have the chance to fight later when he insists she go to the hospital to have herself checked by a professional.  If he hadn’t learned to better value his own life he’d already be on the phone with the paramedics, but he knew better than to be the one responsible for her waking up unexpectedly strapped to an infirmary bed.

  She’d been quick to disclose she had a complicated history with hospitals upon joining his agency, though she’d been reluctant to go into the details of why.  They had accepted this without question, assuring her it was her story to tell if she ever felt ready.  If anyone could understand withholding tales of woe until it was absolutely necessary to share them, it was the members of Lockwood & Co..

  After carefully performing a field assessment to ensure he isn’t going to cause any damage by jostling her unconscious form, he shrugs off his long coat and drops it unceremoniously on the ground, then eases his hands beneath her shoulder and knees.  Rolling her onto her back and lifting her into his arms, he sits with his body between her and the bed and places her gently on the floor between his legs.  When she’s nestled safely against his chest, he rests her head on his shoulder and grabs the pile of cloth from beside him to drape his jacket over her.  Now, he waits.

  His leg shakes restlessly.  His fingers tap nonsensical rhythms on his thigh.  In a moment of weakness he brushes his fingers through her hair, combing it gently away from her face.  It’s soft, and the scent of her shampoo is beyond comforting.  In another world, a happier one, would he have found himself this close to her under better circumstances?  Would they have come home from their normal jobs, to a home where they were simply roommates?  Maybe they would have started their evening in the kitchen, preparing a meal with the intention of dining together instead of fighting for their lives.  She would laugh gleefully at his best attempt not to burn anything before shooing him out of her way to try and fix whatever monstrosity he’d created – heaven knows she’d had to do so often enough in the real world.  Maybe they’d retire to the sitting room to watch a movie on the old television in the corner.  She’d doze off before the end, as always, having fought the siren song of sleep until it weighed her head down to rest on his shoulder.

  If he really tries, he can almost make himself believe they’re settled on the small uncomfortable couch, not on the cold bedroom floor of a widow.  Almost.

  The white walls of the small room seem to be creeping closer and closer, threatening to crush him.  His heart thunders in his chest, a horridly high pitched ringing building in his ears.  He breathes in through his mouth for a count of four – holds it for two – and exhales through his nose for a count of six.  He repeats this for as long as it takes for the darkness to recede from the edges of his vision.  Having regained control of his thoughts, he lets his head fall back to rest on the edge of the wooden frame.  The breathing exercise George had taught him the first time he’d found him having a panic attack in the library is effective, but not so much he can afford to stop letting his mind wander.  He decides instead to reminisce on the small selfish moments he allows himself from time to time; the ones he uses to antagonise himself in his more self-pitying moments. Sometimes it’s as simple as a stolen glance here or there, almost always in the moments where she’s too focused on research –  or lost to time in the echoes of a Visitation.  His favourite is when she falls asleep on the couch; it’s easy to admire how peaceful she looks when she isn’t arguing with him about something stupid.  More than once he’d been lulled into sleep himself by the delicately lingering scent of her perfume on the couch the following day.  Lucy had definitely caught on the last time it had happened, judging by the mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she’d arrived early carrying doughnut’s as a bribe to get George to look into something for her to find Lockwood blinking awake curled around the same throw pillow their coworker had fallen asleep on the night before.  She’d winked at him, miming zipping her lips before carrying on her way.  Obviously she’d given him a hard time about it later – she wouldn’t be much of a best friend if she didn’t – but she went easy on him given her own fondness for the woman.  They had made quick friends, after all.

  There had been just three months left on clock tick tick tick-ing down to Lucy’s departure when the solution to almost all of his problems had – quite literally – fallen into his lap.

  He’d barely stepped one foot out of the shower when he’d heard a knock at their front door.  George had managed to make it out of his basement office at a reasonable hour the evening before and Lucy slept like the dead, which left the responsibility of answering the door squarely on his shoulders.  Another knock had urged him on as he’d rushed to at least partially dry and dress himself.  

  When he’d finally jerked the door open, she’d been about to knock a third time.  He’d startled her, causing her to take a step back in an attempt to avoid rapping him on the chest with her knuckles.  Unfortunately, the top step of 35 Portland Row had never been as large as it should have been.  He can still vividly recall the look of abject horror on her face as she’d realised she was about to fall.

  Somehow he’d managed to break free from the trance he’d fallen into the second he laid eyes on her to lunge forward, catch her by the elbow, and pull her away from the edge.  He must have put more strength into it than entirely necessary, because the next thing he’d known they’d been on the ground inside the foyer.  The floor had been ice cold beneath his back, which had done almost as much to soothe the ache of the impact as the feeling of the young woman laying on top of him.  She’d stared down at him with wide eyes, doing a rather convincing impression of a deer in headlights.  He’d flushed red hot, floundered desperately for the words to say to regain control of the situation, and come up with nothing.

  Of course, that was the moment Lucy had chosen to wake and stumble languidly down the stairs.  They’d been alerted to her presence by the creek of ancient floorboards at the base of the stairs, two sets of eyes suddenly drawn to the agent staring confounded at the bizarre sight of a stranger straddling her boss in their foyer.  The aforementioned stranger had begun to panic in earnest at that point, stammering apologies to him and his co-worker alike as she’d scrambled off of him.  Lucy and Anthony had stared at each other in confusion as she’d profusely apologised to the Listener.  Trying to piece together what specifically she had been apologising for in the first place was a struggle, since every sentence was left unfinished in the urgency of the next rushing to be heard.  Finally, it had dawned on them; she was under the impression they were living together under vastly different circumstances.  Luce had laughed, Lockwood had laughed, and their guest had looked like she was going to be sick in their entrance hall.

  It had taken two full cups of tea and countless assurances for the perpetual state of mortification to wear off enough for her to explain why she’d sought them out to begin with.  After seeing their agency in the papers she’d become convinced it had to be some form of ‘destiny’ that the three of them meet.  The automatically exasperated look he’d shot Lucy had not gone over the head of their guest; she’d lost patience with him as quickly the day they’d met as she had every day since.  As she’d shouted her reasoning at him across the Thinking Cloth, he’d been forced to admit she had a point – and not just to diffuse the tension.  He hadn’t thought it particularly unusual that he and Lucy – the only two reported cases of agents over the age of twenty not having lost their Talent – had been gifted with different abilities, but to meet a third and have her be gifted with the Touch?  Two may well have been a coincidence, but three… Three is a pattern.

  It had at least been enough to drive him to involve George.  He’d left to call the researcher in place of replying, leaving her staring in incredulous fury at his empty seat.  Thankfully, Lucy had intervened before she could find anything sharp to throw at his back.  When he’d returned to inform them he’d made the call, the softness behind the surprise in her eyes had been the final nail in his coffin; he’d been smitten ever since.

  George had arrived in record time, which made the thud of the front door being forced open more alarming than it should have been.  He’d dropped a comically large stack of books on the dining table, forgone introductions, and launched immediately into his cursory theories.  She’d won his approval almost as easily as she’d won Anthony’s.  She’d listened intently, asked the right questions at the right times, slid the plate of biscuits they’d served in his absence his way, and launched into a detailed explanation of her own research as soon as he’d finished.  It had been well after midnight when Anthony had managed to get a word in edgewise to insist they call it an evening.  She’d slept in Lucy’s room that night – and every night since.  In the days that followed, the newly formed team of four had spent every waking hour bent over one book or another.  By the time they’d finally been forced to leave the house to complete a job, it had seemed beyond question for their guest (new roommate?) to join them.  That first job together had cleared any lingering tendrils of doubt from his mind; not one word had been said out loud, but every step had been in perfect harmony.  

  Before any of them knew it, months had passed in a comfortable rhythm.  Their evenings were spent on cases, whilst their days were spent reading every piece of literature on Talent and the Problem they could get their hands on.  In spite of their best efforts, the mystery of why the three of them retained their talent remained unsolved.  No matter how they looked at it, it was apparent there was still a piece of the puzzle missing.  One cold and sleepless morning they’d rubbed the sleep from their eyes, gathered around the kitchen table, and agreed to set the matter aside to focus on more pressing issues.

  As the date of his Listener’s departure loomed on the horizon, he’d gathered every ounce of courage and charisma he possessed to try and seem cool whilst half-begging their new friend to join his agency.  She’d accepted his offer with minimal ribbing, and if he hadn’t known it was just his own hopes influencing his perception of reality, he might have thought she’d blushed when he’d asked her to move in permanently.

  In the final days of Lucy’s employment, something they could have never expected had happened.  Instead of waking to the sound of the phone ringing, Anthony had been woken by Lucy thundering down the stairs to answer it.  That in itself was unusual, given her habit of sleeping deeper than a hibernating bear.  But it had been something else – some weird gut feeling he still couldn’t explain – that brought him to immediate and alert consciousness.  The sound of the phone clattering to the ground had thrown him from his bed, sending him barrelling down the stairs as he hastily pulled a shirt over his head.

  He’d frozen when he found Luce on her knees on the ground, hands pressed to her mouth and tear-filled eyes wide with shock.  Another set of footsteps echoed down the stairs above him, the final member of the household rushing past him seconds later.  She’d brushed Lucy’s hair away from her face and quietly asked her what was wrong.  When she received no reply she’d dropped to the ground, wrapped the other girl in her arms, and picked the phone off the ground to get to the bottom of it all.  Having felt rather useless, Lockwood had set to work doing the only thing he could think of; making tea.

  When he’d returned, three steaming cups precariously balanced in his hands, he found them still clinging to each other in a heavy silence.  Though he could see the phone had been returned to its cradle, he hadn’t had the courage to push for answers.  Instead he’d settled down onto the floor with them, placed their cups on the old wood in front of them, and reached out to rest a comforting hand on Lucy’s knee.  She’d looked up at him then, slowly, and he was confused to find a glimmer of hope in her bloodshot eyes.  Her choked explanation had stolen the breath from his lungs.

  “Norrie’s awake.”

  The early hours of that fateful morning had passed in a flurry of planning, packing, and crying in a manner achingly similar to the day she’d confessed she’d never wanted to be an agent to begin with.  They’d decided to end her employment effective immediately, to use the inevitable media coverage of the literal miracle unfolding in front of them to announce her departure without too many follow-up questions.

  By late afternoon – after George had awoken and made a mad dash to the house – they’d stood together in the doorway sharing bittersweet tear-filled farewells.

  She’d called to let them know she’d arrived in one piece, but from that point on all communication was one sided and in the form of postcards from various towns all over Europe.  Money had changed hands when the household received their New Years card since, tucked neatly inside, was a polaroid photo of the two sharing a New Years kiss in a large iron circle in front of the Eiffel Tower.  George had put money on them not figuring it out until at least January, while Anthony had bet on Valentine’s Day.  The smug smirk on the face of their companion when she’d pulled their money from their hands was as infuriating as it was adorable.

  And so they’d carried on, attempted to settle into their new state of ‘normal’ as an agency with only two field operatives, and did everything within their power to avoid speaking of the listener-shaped hole in their hearts.

  Then, a year after she’d left, Lucy Carlyle had knocked on his front door holding a damned employment application.  As if she didn’t know she’d always have a home in Portland Row, always have a place in his agency.  He’d stared at it like it was written in latin before tearing it in half and pulling the woman into a bone-crushing hug.  Though, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been slightly relieved to find out she wasn’t in need of accommodations this time around; he’d grown comfortable with the casual intimacy of sharing his home with only the little spitfire upstairs.  Lucy had been pink all the way to the tips of her ears as she told him she’d be living with Norrie in a flat just a few blocks away, a state he found himself all too sympathetic of.

  The sound of voices had finally drawn his remaining live-in employee down from her attic.  He’d almost gone deaf at the shriek she’d let out at the sight of her old roommate.  When they’d run to embrace each other and laugh, he’d decided she needed time to catch up than he did.  He’d made her promise to fill him in on all the juicy details over drinks some time in the near future before making his way to the library to give them some privacy.  As the sound of laughter echoed through the house that night, it seemed to banish the final remnants of grief and loneliness from every last shadowy corner of Portland Row.

  A nauseating question creeps to the forefront of his mind; will he ever hear her laugh like that again?   He tries to conjure the sound again, but now all he can hear is the rush of air leaving her lungs and the echoing thud of her head hitting the bed frame.

  Desperate for some kind of distraction, he glances out the window.  The sky is filled with blushing shades of lilac and pink, making promises of a clear day it’s not likely to keep.  The early morning sun shines ethereal rays through the sheer white curtains, turning the miniscule specks of debris still hanging in the air to angel dust.  If the sun has already risen, she’s been unconscious for an alarming amount of time.  Doubt strikes through his thoughts.  Did he make the right choice?  Did his fear of her being angry with him dissuade him from thinking objectively?  If he’d subconsciously prioritised her bloody opinion of him over her health and safety he’d never forgive himself.

  Unable to vanquish the dark thoughts now spiralling farther and farther out of control, Lockwood tries to tether himself back to the present by focusing on the gentle puffs of her warm breath feathering across his chest.  Significantly less pleasant – though no less persistent – is the aggressive tingling of his extremely numb right leg.  He winces, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he shifts his position to encourage blood flow to eliminate the painful TV static in the limb.

  He almost drowns in the tidal wave of relief that washes over him when she lets out a frustrated groan in response to the light jostling.  Gently cradling her cheek to prevent her head from falling from his shoulder, he pushes himself back and further upright.

  “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he says softly, lightly tapping her cheek with his palm in an attempt to rouse her.  She only whines louder in reply, twisting in his lap to burrow her face into his neck.  He can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks as the warmth of her body presses against his front.  The fluttering of her eyelashes against his pulsepoint reminds him of a butterfly’s kiss.  He isn’t entirely sure how to react.  Quite a large part of him wants to wrap his arms around her, cradle her against him and hold her until he can silence every sadistic whisper in his mind telling him he’s going to lose her, too.  

  He doesn’t end up having to worry about what to do for long.  She gasps, shooting upright and scrambling across the floor to create some distance between them.  It’s a very convincing impression of a cornered animal, which leaves his heart aching.  If it serves any positive purpose at all, at least the cold reminder of her feelings toward him banish any doubts of the legitimacy of this reality from his mind.  Then she winces, face contorting with agony as she clutches at her skull, and self-pity is suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. 

  “Easy now,” he keeps his voice low in consideration of what’s sure to be one hell of a headache, “you’ve hit your head and had quite the respectable nap about it.  I’d be surprised if you weren’t at least a little out of it.  Does anything else hurt?”  She lifts her head to look at him, but there’s an absent look in her eyes that makes a pit of anxiety begin to form in his stomach.  When she drops her gaze back to the floor – hand still cradling her skull – he caves.  Pushing himself to his knees, he crawls towards her and brushes his fingers against her thigh.  With a shiver, she looks back at him.  Confusion and pain are painted clear as day across her features.  He doesn’t need a mirror to know his own expression is growing to resemble hers more by the moment.  

  “Sorry, I – uhm, I don’t…” she trails off, glancing at his hand on her leg.  He pulls back like he’s been burned, waiting on bated breath for her to finish.  “I – …do I know you?”  

  His heart sputters to a stop in his chest.  Nothing could have prepared him for that.  His jaw hangs open almost comically as he stares at her with complete devastation.  Mentally, he’s already running through every potential outcome of this situation. How much memory is she actually missing?  Maybe it’s only the ones involving him.  That would be a cruel twist of fate, but his life thus far has been nothing but a series of those, so why stop now?

  All of his strength leaves him at once.  It becomes a struggle just to stay upright.  He can’t afford to fall apart, not when she needs him to be calm, not when she’s – trying not to smile?

  She cracks, stifling a giggle behind her hand before it can bubble into something more.  His brain hasn’t caught up yet, still staring at her slack-jawed and very visibly confused.  Her attempts to stifle her merriment fail entirely, her laughter devolving into something closer to a cackle.  

  “I’m fucking with you, Lockwood,” she wheezes, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “you should have seen your face!”  Wincing again, she presses a palm to her throbbing skull before looking up at him and dissolving into laughter once more.

  For likely the first time in living memory, Anthony Lockwood is legitimately speechless.

  “I-”  he starts, and then stops.  Feeling like a bloody fish, all he can do is open and close his mouth, which does nothing to calm the hysterics of his companion.  After a few prolonged moments of this, she starts to actually worry she might have broken him.

  “Lockwood…?” she asks, reaching tentatively for his shoulder.  “Look, I didn’t mean to – to traumatise you or anything, I was just pissed you left me alone –” He reaches forward and catches her forearm before she can register the movement.  She yelps in surprise, the noise abruptly stifled as he pulls her into his chest and wraps his arms around her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold her tight enough.  Taking a deep and steadying breath, he drops his head to rest on top of hers.  Slowly, she returns his embrace with trembling arms, tucking her chin into her chest and nestling into him.

  “I’m sorry I was late.  It won’t happen again,” Lockwood’s voice is ragged when he breaks the silence, emphasising his point by tightening his arms.  She nods, feeling lost for words.  

  They stay there, curled together, until the birds start singing their morning chorus.

  He figures she’s too shaken up to push him away.

  She figures he’s been too worried to care about his personal space.

  Neither is willing to be the first to let go.  

  “Hey, Lockwood?” her voice is soft as she pulls her head back to look up at him.

  “Yes, darling?” he replies, carefully sculpting his trademark smile back into place.

  “Let’s go home.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!): @shakespearseclipse @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @ettadear @kassandra1000 @stardust611 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @hellojameshowyadoin @sarahhelpimsinking @soapshipper @myownpainintheass @furblrwurblr @sleep-i-ness

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[uku-lelevillain]

omg omg OMG it’s BACK

the best lco fic here is BACK

HELL YEAH

beautiful amazing show stopping

if you have 0 fans then i’m dead

welcome back i missed you a lot! also i can’t believe i haven’t asked you to add me to the taglist yet but could you? 🫂

i love this fic so much

[aislinrayne]

you're literally the sweetest human being and i would die for you <3

and i've officially added you to my taglist!!!

(also, i almost had a massive heart attack when i opened tumblr up for the first time in forever to post this and my horrible internet made it look like you'd deleted your blog and i stg i almost cried)

[gingerbearbaby]

Superstitious (Lockwood x Reader!AU)

I am absolutely obsessed with Lockwood and show choir and I was desperate for someone to write it. So this came out. It's my first (and likely only) work, so enjoy! Best read with F!reader (sorry!).

Basically, Lockwood and reader are co-dance captains in their show choir. Barnes is their director and Holly is their choreographer. Their girls group is called Elegance and their mixed group is Fusion. Also Kipps and reader used to date.

As for their ballad, it's called Maybe I Like It This Way from the musical The Wild Party. It's such a good song!

Tropes: enemies to lovers, fake dating, forced proximity

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: cussing, mentions of cheating, one line of slut shaming, kissing, a little bit of angst but plenty of fluff, they're idiots your honor, mentions of unrequited love (but it's really requited), regular mentions of superstitions

“Luce, I’m not so sure I can do this anymore.” You looked to the redhead next to you, shrugging your rehearsal bag further onto your shoulder.

“You said that last year.”

“Well last year I didn’t have to dance with him.”

Lucy opened the school door, a heavy sigh escaping her. “He’s not that bad once you get to know him.”

“Correction: he’s not that bad to you.” You swung open your locker door, wrestling your duffle bag into it. “You guys are friends we are…”

“Two people with intense sexual tension.” Lucy interrupted as you trailed off. A quick smack to her thigh was received.

“Not every rivalry has sexual tension.”

“No, but yours does.”

“Oh shut up!”

“Why is Lucy shutting up?” You looked up to see Norrie wrapping her arm around her girlfriend.

You stood up and began walking to the choir room. “She’s trying to convince me that I have sexual tension with that asshole.” You gestured to the lanky figure at the front of the room, fixing his hair in the mirrors whilst vehemently arguing with George.

Norrie gave you a look as if to say ‘Is she wrong?’ which left you shaking your head as you walked to the front of the room.

“Ah, my vice captain. Nice of you to join us.” Lockwood poked.

You raised your eyebrows. “Vice captain?”

He nodded. “Like a presidency? I’m the captain, you’re my vice captain.”

“You’re mistaken. I’m the captain and you’re my vice captain. I mean,” you crossed your arms in an effort to seem more nonchalant, “I have more experience as a captain, being the dance captain of Elegance too.”

“If I was a girl, there’s no doubt that I would be the dance captain of Elegance and you would be my vice captain there too.”

“There is no such thing as a vice captain. You’re co-captains. Sit down.” Barnes spoke, gesturing to an empty spot on the risers.

Lockwood leaned to whisper quickly in your ear, “He only said that to save you the embarrassment of losing that argument.”

You flicked his thigh, whispering back a, “Fuck you.”

He gave you a wolfish smile in return. “In your dreams.”

You simply rolled your eyes. You don’t truly remember when you really began hating Lockwood. You suppose it had always been that way. You never really spoke much except for talking about choir in history your freshman year, and even then it was brief comments about upcoming concerts. Then came your sophomore year with a shared English class, which began this weird competitiveness between the both of you. Though you have to admit, your rivalry was the primary reason you escaped that class with an A. But that didn’t make him any more bearable.

You turned to your right to see Lucy already looking back. She mouthed ‘tension’ before flashing an innocent smile and turning towards your director. 

“Your show this year will be a kind of romance-y theme. Think rom-com. Weird tension to soulmates.” Lucy nudged you. “To combat any… hormonal drama,” you cringed at his words, “we’re gonna pair you up for the show. You’ll each get a designated dance partner, bond with them throughout this season. Learn to trust them. There will be a lot of partner dancing.”

“Just make smart choices.” Holly smiled. Barnes gave her a quick thumbs up for her addition to his little spiel.

“Our first pair is our two dance captains.”

“Kill me now.” You muttered through gritted teeth.

“Kill me first.” He muttered back.

You were in for one hell of a season.

The first rehearsal was admittedly rough. Every chance you and Lockwood had, you were whispering insults underneath your breath or coughing while the other demonstrated a move.

By the fourth rehearsal, you and Lockwood began to trust each other in your dancing. And even began to bond a little. Sure you still traded little insults whenever he stepped on your toes (or vice versa), but for the most part you became friends.

By the tenth rehearsal, you realized you actually enjoyed your little dynamic. Your hatred turned to teasing and you even began talking to him after rehearsals. This of course earned you more teasing from Norrie and Lucy, but soon even George began to join in as your friend group developed.

Next thing you knew, it was the night before your first competition. You turned to Lockwood after your final runthrough of the night, hoping to give him a high-five, but was caught off guard as he ran his hand through his hair. Dancing and singing was no easy feat so you weren’t surprised that he was sweating, it was just the fact that you found his sweaty hair attractive. It was probably just the stage lights, but you quickly found yourself staring at him.

“You alright?”

You quickly nodded, shaking yourself out of your thoughts of, well, him. “Just thinking about our competition tomorrow.”

“Hey, we’ll be fine. It’s not our first time competing against Fittes. There’s nothing to be worried about.”He reassured as your face dissolved into one of horror.

“Shit.” Lockwood raised an eyebrow at your choice of words. “Kipps.” You answered. His brows furrowed.

“You worried your boyfriend isn’t gonna like our show or something?” You shook your head in dismissal, your face changing to one of disgust.

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. Cheated on me with Kat Godwin about a month ago.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” You shrugged off his sympathy till his lips forged into a grin. “It’ll make our win even more rewarding. We’ll put that motherfucker in his place.”

“Yeah, except there’s one step of our little revenge plan missing.”

“Oh?”

You nodded. “In my heartbreak, I may or may not have made an ill-advised decision. And let's say that I told him that I already found a new boyfriend.”

“Oh.” You nodded, pursing your lips as the reality of your situation sunk in.

“So we need to find you a boyfriend.” You nodded. “They don’t sell those at the supermarket, how are we gonna find one overnight?”

“You don’t.” You sighed. “I’ll need to find someone to fake date me for the season.”

“One hiccup with that plan. Fake boyfriends aren’t sold at the store either.”

You nudged him with your shoulder as you began the walk to your car. “I know they don’t. But to get the ultimate revenge, I happen to know someone who he very much hates.”

Lockwood paused beside you, leaving you to turn to him, facing the consequences of your suggestion. “You want me to fake date you?” You gave him a sheepish smile.

“Maybe?”

You watched as he considered it in silence. “If I said yes, I would be doing this the whole season?”

“Preferably.” You watched as he fiddled a bit with his ring. A habit of his you began to notice more as you increasingly spent time together. “But only at competitions. The rest of the time you can go back to hating my guts.”

“I don’t hate your guts. I never have.” You felt heat begin to creep into your cheeks at his words. Maybe you won’t have to worry about finding a fake boyfriend overnight if you get sick before the first comp. “So we’ll just piss off Kipps?”

“Only at comps,” you assured. You sat in silence once more, the cold February air leaving you impatient at the length of his consideration. He was likely finding the best way to turn down your proposition.

You turned to walk away, reaching your car door as he called out, “Let’s do it, babe.” You looked to see him wink at you, feeling the heat flush once more. “Let’s get our revenge.”

You sent him a smile, climbing into your car, and hoped that the feeling in your stomach would subside before tomorrow morning.

The bus ride to the competition was spent huddled over your phone resting atop your shared mountain of garment bags, conversing the details of your fake relationship, and drinking a coffee that Lockwood gave you earlier that morning. He told you they gave him the wrong order and offered it to you, saying it was “too sweet” and that he only wanted an americano. Luckily for you, they mistakenly gave him your favorite latte.

By the time you arrived at the competition, you were a bundle of nerves just itching to finally perform. A quick glance at the clock (and your comp itinerary) left you and Lucy in a rush to find your dressing room to get ready for your performance with your girl’s group, Elegance.

You and Lucy stood backstage after your warmups, watching your stage crew and band load on. You fidgeted with your dress as you double checked your heels were on the right feet. You made that mistake once in a rehearsal your freshman year and vowed to always check before each performance. Just in case. It was a superstition you’d developed.

Thinking of superstitions, you grabbed Lucy’s wrist, giving it a quick tap as you watched Barnes motion you all on stage. Taking your places, the show began.

It was an utter blur, the adrenaline melding the whole show together into what felt like seconds, until your solo began. As you grabbed the mic, you looked to the audience and finally acknowledged the brunet boy sitting front and center. You met his eyes from the stage as he smiled brightly at you. With a quick wink in his direction, you returned the mic to the stand as the rest of Elegance returned from their costume change.

The bows began too soon. You could’ve spent all day on that stage just to know that Lockwood was watching you. He was smiling at you. And not one of his teasing smiles, a real smile.

Still in your costume, you met him in the hallway, running to give him a hug.

“You were incredible. That was incredible!” He was muttering in your ears, as he placed your feet back on the ground.

You simply smiled up at him, caught up in your proximity to him. It wasn’t uncommon to hug people in the midst of a post show reverie. It’s just that you’ve only ever been so close to him when choreographed. It felt different to feel his hands on your waist when it was a choice of your own volition. Your attention shifted as you felt a tap on your back.

Lucy, who you lost earlier in the hallway as she ran to find Norrie, was now pulling you back towards your homeroom to get changed.

“What the hell was that?”

You looked at her. “What the hell was what?”

“Your sexual tension turned romantic.”

“It did not.”

“It did.”

You jumped. “Jesus, George! Where did you come from?”

“I was right next to Lockwood. You were just so caught up in your little rom-com moment that you didn’t notice me.” You frowned.

“Not true, it was not a rom-com moment.”

“You literally just reenacted running through the airport to stop him from flying to Amsterdam to start a new life without you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t kiss him,” Lucy added.

You simply groaned in response. “Lockwood and I are just friends who are fake dating.”

The two raised their eyebrows. “That’s new.”

“That’s really new.” George agreed.

“Kipps is here. We’re trying to piss him off.”

The two nodded. “You’re going for a Proposal kind of thing.”

“Luce, what does that even mean?”

“We have to get you caught up on your rom-coms.” Lucy nodded at George’s comment.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Just, if Kipps asks, Lockwood and I have been dating for a couple of weeks since the breakup.”

And with that, you entered your homeroom to change back into your normal clothes.

“They’re hopeless, Luce. Hopeless.”

“They’ll figure it out sometime soon. Just give them till the end of comp season.”

Once changed, you met Lockwood in the cafeteria, the two of you looking for a seat in the expanses of the cafeteria.

“Well, what do we have here?” You steeled yourself at the sound of your ex’s voice and looked to Lockwood who had already spun around.

“Kipps. What a surprise.”

“Tony! Always a misfortune to see you here.” He turned to you. “I see you’ve become the rebound for our little princess over here.”

“She’s not your princess.” Lockwood stepped forward as you reached for his wrist. “Why don’t you find someone else to bother? I’m sure some of Tendy’s kids are getting bored without someone to insult.”

Kipps simply ignored Lockwood and looked at you. “Tony? Really?”

You let out a dry chuckle. “I could say the same thing about Kat.” Kipps’s face twitched with anger as you continued. “And at least I found someone who actually cares about me, something you could never manage.” You laced your fingers with Lockwood’s. “And his name is Anthony, not Tony.” And with that you pulled Lockwood away.

When it was finally time to perform, you found yourself fidgeting backstage again. Lucy quickly tapped your wrist, leaving to go back by George, her own dance partner. Still toying with a sequin on your dress, you glanced at Lockwood whose hair was in spikes as he continuously ran his hand through it.

“You look like a mess.” You whispered. “Are you always like this before a performance?”

He only nodded. As stage crew was almost done loading on, you quickly grabbed his wrist to stop him. “There’s no way I’m letting you go onstage like this. You look like you’ve been electrocuted. Can I fix your hair for you?” He simply nodded once more as you went on your tippy toes to fix it, wobbling a bit in the process. Lockwood’s hands flew to your waist to steady you, giving you a rush of that same nauseous feeling in your stomach. You brushed off the thought, rationalizing it as nerves, and quickly admired your work with his hair. Adjusting his tie, you flashed him a smile. He responded with a simple squeeze to your hips before he turned to see Barnes gesturing the choir onstage.

The performance was a whirlwind, and before you knew it, Lockwood was dipping you in his arms, his hands supporting your waist. He gave you a little squeeze, identical to the one before you began performing. A large smile had engulfed his features, as he pulled you out of the dip, twirling you as you both exited the stage to the sound of a thundering applause.

“Holy shit.” You exhaled a laugh and turned to Lockwood.

His hands had found their way back to his hair, spiking them up yet again. You found yourself thinking back to yesterday’s rehearsal when he had done the same thing. Without the stage lights, he somehow looked even more beautiful, with his leather jacket pulled taught around his arms. He smiled at you before leaning in to whisper, “We put that bitch in his place.”

You simply laughed along with him, walking back to the homeroom to meet up with Lucy, George, and Norrie.

Later that evening, your choirs were huddled together in a corner of the vast auditorium awaiting the emcee to announce the finalists. In a swarm of the students, one Lockwood was missing, leaving you frantically searching for him. Swatting a sophomore from the seat beside you, you felt Lucy lean over to whisper, “You’re whipped.”

Her words were quickly forgotten by the arrival of the boy holding a pretzel. He tore a piece, squeezing through the row to settle beside you. “Want some?”

Wordlessly, you took it, and turned your attention back towards the stage as the emcee, one Mr. Fairfax, entered. Reaching to Lucy, you linked pinkies with her.

“Going first in your large mixed finals is Tendy High School Swing Sensations!” Squeezing Lucy’s pinky harder, you felt Lockwood’s knee knock into yours, his hand opened beside him, inviting yours.

Lacing your fingers, you heard Fairfax continue. “Second in the large mixed finals is Bunchurch High School Encores!” You felt your body tense. Only two more finalists.

A thumb brushed over the back of your hand, softly. Like a whisper of comfort that one was unsure to offer. You squeezed his hand again. He squeezed right back.

“Your third finalist tonight is Fittes Academy Vocal Excellence!”

You dropped your head, holding your breath to better hear the announcer. “And last but certainly not least, Portland Row High School’s Fusion!”

You exhaled, leaning over to Lockwood and linked your arms with his. “One step closer to revenge.” And with a smile you turned back to Lucy to discuss the possible results of the competition.

On the way to your warm-ups, you felt Lockwood reach over to lace your fingers together. Looking up at him, you saw the pure anxiety on his face. Squeezing his hand, he turned to you, his brow unfurling ever so slightly.

As the Fittes crew exited their warm-ups, Kipps shoulder bumped Lockwood, knocking him into you. His once anxious features dissolved into one of anger, his jaw clenching.

“He’s only doing that because he knows he can’t win.” Lockwood turned back to you, taking a deep breath before the warm-up began.

Once again huddled backstage, you checked down at your shoes while Lucy tapped your wrist again.

“Can you fix my hair again maybe?” Lockwood whispered.

Back on your tippy toes, you checked his hair and straightened his tie. “Are you superstitious, Lockwood?”

Without words, he squeezed your hip before turning to wait for Barnes’ directions.

On the stage, you only got to see Lockwood performing. With his big smile and irresistible charm, it was impossible to think of the boy you saw backstage. The one who holds your hand and squeezes your waist. You’re not sure which Lockwood you liked more: the dazzling performer or the one who needs you to fix his hair. Once your second number was finished, you hit your pose, one Holly was quite proud of. It’s not necessarily even a pose, it’s just a hug. In your quick embrace, you heard Lockwood exhale into your ear, quiet enough to not be picked up by any of the mics, but loud enough for you to hear his words.

“I like when you call me Anthony.” As Norrie began her solo, your mind kept repeating his words. It was as though he was stuck in your head; a broken record on repeat. You found yourself suddenly relating even further to the ballad as you began to sing once more.

Once the bows commenced, you met Lockwood’s eyes as he dipped you for your final pose. It was then you decided that the Lockwood you liked most was Anthony. And as he twirled you offstage, you felt that same nauseous feeling settle into your stomach.

Smiling at him, you rushed to find Lucy and Norrie. “You were right,” you whispered. “Our tension has gone romantic.” Lucy grabbed your elbow, pulling you closer to the wall. “He told me he likes when I call him Anthony.”

“What, during our show?”

“Yes!”

“When is there time to do that?” Norrie asked, huddling around the two of you. “We’re singing the whole time.”

“He whispered it during the hug. Before the ballad.”

“Oh shit.” The two whispered. “Well is it so bad that he maybe has a crush on you?” Lucy continued on. “We’re all waiting for it to happen.”

You ran your hand through your hair, squeezing your eyes shut. “No! No. He doesn’t have a crush on me. I have a crush on him.” The two shared a look before turning back to you. “Telling your friend to call you by your first name is normal. It’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about it that’s throwing me off.” 

“Well it happened only 10 minutes ago, I’d say it’s fine to think about it after such a short duration.” You groaned.

“It’s not that it’s recent. I don’t get thrown off by things like that. Especially not onstage. He’s gotten into my head.”

“What he’s gotten into is your heart. Is that so bad?”

“Yes! Because it’s Anthony fucking Lockwood! We’ve hated each other for years, he’s only being like this because of forced proximity. Or a bet or something.”

“Keep telling yourself that. But the longer you deny it, the worse it’ll get.”

You sighed, beginning down the hallway. “I just need space from him. It’s just like a showmance, right? None of this is real.” You began nodding slowly. “I don’t like Lockwood.”

“No, you don’t. You like Anthony.” You smacked Norrie’s arm and entered the auditorium, finding Lockwood’s leather jacket over a chair. As soon as he noticed you, he began waving his arms, leaving you no choice but to shimmy your way down the rows and into the seat beside him.

“Thanks, for saving me a seat.”

“Anytime. What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t save a seat for you?”

“A pretty crappy one.”

“Well many sources have said I’m the best fake boyfriend on the market.” You wrinkled your nose.

“What are they grading you on?”

“Charm, chivalry, and chemistry.” You rolled your eyes.

“I don’t think the person who judged you had their proper credentials.”

“Rude.” He whispered, as Fairfax entered the stage.

Reaching for his hand, Lockwood laced your fingers together and gave you a quick squeeze.

“Your third runner up, from Bunchurch High School, it’s the Bunchurch Encores!” Snapping with your free hand, you felt Lockwood’s grip tighten. “Your second runner up is the Swing Sensations from Tendy High School!”

You closed your eyes, bending your head as you awaited for the caption awards to be announced. “Best vocals go to Fittes Academy Vocal Excellence.” Holding your breath, you heard Fairfax continue. “Best visuals awarded to Portland Row High School Fusion!” You let out a sigh of relief. There was still a chance.

“And now, for our first runner up. From Portland Row High School, it’s Fusion! Which means that Fittes Academy Vocal Excellence is our Grand Champion. Congrats!” Jumping up and down with the rest of the choir, you turned back to Anthony.

“Sorry we didn’t win.” You bumped your shoulder into his, breaking him from zoning out.

“Why are you sorry? I’m sorry I talked it up so much.” You shrugged. “We’ll get our revenge at the DEPRAC comp, right?” You smiled at him.

“Until then, you’re off duty as my boyfriend.”

“You know? I was really starting to like it.” You watched him wander over to George before Lucy tackled you from behind.

“First runner up for our first competition means we can only go up.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Three weeks later, you found yourself smashed in the bus seat with Anthony for three hours. Holding an empty latte cup— they messed up his order again— you had dozed off on his shoulder halfway into the ride. Feeling a shove, you woke up to see the high school in front of you. The DEPRAC Invitational was an exclusive competition filled with dozens of the best show choirs from your area. You were lucky to even walk the halls.

Placing your garment bags in the homeroom, you heard your name being called.

“You’ve got the solo today.” You looked at Barnes quizzically.

“What solo? Elegance isn’t performing today.”

“Norrie’s out sick. You need to cover the solo.” You nodded. You had auditioned for the 

song earlier in the season so you knew the part. But covering for Norrie left some huge shoes for you to fill. “Can I trust you?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this.”

Meeting Lockwood in the cafeteria, you told him about the switch before being interrupted.

“Come to lose to the big dogs again?” This time it was you turning around first.

“Fuck off, Kipps!”

“Woah, calm down, sunshine. It was just a question!” Lockwood scowled. “And remind your little guard dog here that you were mine first. We both know you’ll come crawling back in the end.”

“That’s enough, Kipps. Leave my girlfriend alone.”

“Sure thing, Tony. No one wants a slut like her anyway.” And with that, Kipps turned sharply, leaving the two of you fuming.

“If it didn’t mean getting us disqualified, I would have kicked his ass for you.”

“That’s not your job to do. I can handle myself!” 

“I know that but I’m your boyfriend I wanna-”

“You’re not my boyfriend!” You seethed. Not sure where this anger with him was coming from, you stormed off to avoid any further arguments.

You avoided him for the rest of the day, only going near him to fix his hair and tie or to dance. You didn’t squeeze his hand or hug him after performing, despite his attempts to compliment your solo.

As finals rolled around, you found yourself more anxious than ever before. As Lockwood squeezed your waist one last time, you finally met his eyes before snapping out of his trance. You refuse to get blindsided by his pretty brown eyes, but distancing yourself from him was impossible as the whole group was packed like sardines in the wings. With a small smile, Lockwood turned around and entered the stage.

As the second song ended, you realized the breath you were holding as Lockwood posed in your hug again. His breath warm against your ear he whispered again. “I want to be your real boyfriend.” Masked by the applause, you allowed your breath to stutter before the music to the ballad began.

Departing his embrace, you grabbed the mic with shaking hands. This love song, this twisted and toxic depiction of love you were singing about found a resolve deep in your bones, the chills of the rest of the choir singing behind you settling across your skin. The fear of a boy who found a chink in your armor resounded in your heart and the anger of a confession you were too blinded to accept. It felt like hours when Lockwood finally squeezed your hip one last time as you twirled off stage.

Gripping his leather jacket, you pulled him into a hidden vestibule, the adrenaline of your performance still coursing your veins.

“What the hell was that?” You seethed.

“The truth.”

“Couldn’t the truth have waited?”

“You’ve been avoiding me all day! When else was I supposed to tell you?”

“Never! You were never supposed to tell me!”

He groaned, running his hands through his sweaty hair. “I had to tell you! It was killing me! I’ve wanted to be your boyfriend since freshman year. And the second I finally thought I had a chance with you, you came to school with that stupid Kipps as your lock screen. How do you think that felt?

“To be second place to an asshole like that for so long! I hated how I still liked you, so I pretended to hate you. To drive you away. And it finally worked! But the instant you asked me to fake date you was like a dream come true. I couldn’t deny it anymore that I still wanted to be yours. To even pretend you actually reciprocated any feelings was as good as any other. But it wasn’t enough for me! I need you.”

“You’re making this up. You got caught in the whirlwind! It’s just a showmance!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! You don’t mean any of this and you’ll regret it all by next week. Trust me I’ve-”

He pulled your waist, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. Grabbing his lapels, you quickly found yourself kissing him back. Wrapping his arms tighter around you, he further pulled you into him till your bodies were fully flesh against each other. Pulling away, you tried to lean back in but he further pulled back. “Since you’re so sure it was fake, there’s your proof. I’m done waiting for you.” And he turned down the hallway.

The second you snapped from your daze, you ran to find him, but he was already lost in the crowd. Finding Lucy, she pulled you aside, taking you to Barnes. “Found her!”

“Perfect, where’s Lockwood?”

“Behind you,” you turned to look at him but his attention was fully on your director.

“You two are our reps for awards tonight. Got it? Head backstage.” You both looked at him. “Now!” Turning back towards backstage, the two of you departed, a heavy silence falling over you.

“Can we talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about?” Crossing his arms, Lockwood turned from you.

“Anthony, please?”

“Some lovers quarrel.” You look up to see Kipps and Kat. “This is just your first heartbreak of the day. Can’t wait to watch you lose.” And with that, you were beckoned on the stage for the presenting of awards.

“Your second runner up, from Rotwell High School, the Rhythm Makers!”

You brushed your pinky against Lockwood’s, smiling when he relented and linked them together.

“Your vocal caption award goes to… Portland Row High School Fusion!” Your smile spread further as Lockwood squeezed your pinky. “And our visual caption award goes to… Fusion again!” Turning to smile at Lockwood, you found him already looking at you.

“And now, for your first runner up.” You began holding your breath, squeezing Lockwood’s pinky even tighter. “Fittes Academy!” Your jaw dropped as you began smiling in realization. “Congratulations to our Grand Champions from Portland Row High School!” 

Holding the caption awards and trophy, you and Lockwood watched as the rest of your choir joined you on the stage. Each given a medal, tears and hugs were shared. Exiting the stage, you grabbed Lockwood by his medal, pulling him back to that same vestibule.

Pulling his lips to yours, you felt his hands find your waist, squeezing it gently. “Revenge is only fun if it’s real.” You muttered, lips still brushing gently over his. “This is real for me, Anthony.” Looking into your eyes, he pushed your hair back before capturing you in another kiss.

You felt him begin to smile into it, brushing his thumb over your cheeks. Reaching to play with his hair, you deepened the kiss until finally pulling apart for air.

“I think we should kiss after each performance.”

“Yeah?” He looked at you, the teasing smile you were so familiar with painting his face.

“Maybe I’m a little superstitious.”

[aislinrayne]

[wellgoslowly]

hey yall

before we go rushing to rubys post and comment speculating if the guy in the picture is cam or not, maybe take some time to think if it is really that important.

yes it is human nature to be curious. i was curious at first too, and then i thought to myself “who cares”. the guy in the pic is facing away from the camera and he’s not tagged so it’s obvious that the intention wasn’t to make his identity known. you need to be ok with that. yes ruby is an actress and an extremely successful one at that, but her profession doesn’t remove the fact that she’s still just a regular person who works in the industry. would you react the same way if you saw a woman and a man who worked together at a grocery store talking? no.

also to the people who think this is “soft launching” their relationship: calm down. there’s nothing in that photo that indicates they’re dating. they’re not holding hands, nothing. it’s just the back of a guys head. even if it was cam and even if they are dating, it’s none of our business.

also, slight newsflash: women and men are allowed to be friends and go on trips without being interested in each other/dating. the stereotype that women and men can’t be friends because there’s always going to be “sexual tension” is a stereotype founded on queer erasure, misogyny, and it’s just downright outdated.

men and women are allowed to be friends. celebrities are allowed to date without telling you. you’re not entitled to know everything about a person just because they work in the acting industry. please just be respectful of both ruby and cam’s privacy.

[aislinrayne]

(surprise, i'm alive)

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Anthony Lockwood is not comfortable being left alone with his thoughts, and Reader takes a long nap.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Angst, unrequited pining, anxiety attacks, spiraling thoughts, Lockwood being a simp, unreliable author... probably some more, let me know if I missed something obvious

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: I know they say better late than never, but I'm not sure if disappearing for months at a time between chapters fits under that umbrella. In other words, sorry again! (Raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by the fanfic writers curse ...✋)

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.17k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  Anthony stands over the silver-wrapped portrait, rapier hanging loosely from his hand as he waits on baited breath.  She’d never been wrong about a Source before, but he isn’t about to risk both of their lives by not taking appropriate precautions.

  The second he’s certain the shrieking form of Mr. Roland isn’t about to make a disastrously surprise reappearance, he lets the blade fall from his hand and rushes to the crumpled heap of fabric and flesh at the foot of their clients bed. He’d wake in a cold sweat from nightmares featuring the echoing crack of her skull connecting with the frame for a long time after this.  Trembling fingers smooth the hair away from her face, stomach in knots over the alarming pallor of her skin.  Shifting his hand to her shoulder, he rubs briskly up and down her bicep in an attempt to rouse her.  He curses under his breath when it becomes obvious it isn’t working.  Swallowing hard, he brushes the hair away from her neck and places two tentative fingers on her pulsepoint. ‘Relief’ doesn’t come close to describing the emotion that floods his body at the presence of the steady – if a little shallow – beat beneath his fingertips.

  Still alive, then.  He can work with that.

  Normally he hates this part, but he can’t be anything other than grateful they’ll have the chance to fight later when he insists she go to the hospital to have herself checked by a professional.  If he hadn’t learned to better value his own life he’d already be on the phone with the paramedics, but he knew better than to be the one responsible for her waking up unexpectedly strapped to an infirmary bed.

  She’d been quick to disclose she had a complicated history with hospitals upon joining his agency, though she’d been reluctant to go into the details of why.  They had accepted this without question, assuring her it was her story to tell if she ever felt ready.  If anyone could understand withholding tales of woe until it was absolutely necessary to share them, it was the members of Lockwood & Co..

  After carefully performing a field assessment to ensure he isn’t going to cause any damage by jostling her unconscious form, he shrugs off his long coat and drops it unceremoniously on the ground, then eases his hands beneath her shoulder and knees.  Rolling her onto her back and lifting her into his arms, he sits with his body between her and the bed and places her gently on the floor between his legs.  When she’s nestled safely against his chest, he rests her head on his shoulder and grabs the pile of cloth from beside him to drape his jacket over her.  Now, he waits.

  His leg shakes restlessly.  His fingers tap nonsensical rhythms on his thigh.  In a moment of weakness he brushes his fingers through her hair, combing it gently away from her face.  It’s soft, and the scent of her shampoo is beyond comforting.  In another world, a happier one, would he have found himself this close to her under better circumstances?  Would they have come home from their normal jobs, to a home where they were simply roommates?  Maybe they would have started their evening in the kitchen, preparing a meal with the intention of dining together instead of fighting for their lives.  She would laugh gleefully at his best attempt not to burn anything before shooing him out of her way to try and fix whatever monstrosity he’d created – heaven knows she’d had to do so often enough in the real world.  Maybe they’d retire to the sitting room to watch a movie on the old television in the corner.  She’d doze off before the end, as always, having fought the siren song of sleep until it weighed her head down to rest on his shoulder.

  If he really tries, he can almost make himself believe they’re settled on the small uncomfortable couch, not on the cold bedroom floor of a widow.  Almost.

  The white walls of the small room seem to be creeping closer and closer, threatening to crush him.  His heart thunders in his chest, a horridly high pitched ringing building in his ears.  He breathes in through his mouth for a count of four – holds it for two – and exhales through his nose for a count of six.  He repeats this for as long as it takes for the darkness to recede from the edges of his vision.  Having regained control of his thoughts, he lets his head fall back to rest on the edge of the wooden frame.  The breathing exercise George had taught him the first time he’d found him having a panic attack in the library is effective, but not so much he can afford to stop letting his mind wander.  He decides instead to reminisce on the small selfish moments he allows himself from time to time; the ones he uses to antagonise himself in his more self-pitying moments. Sometimes it’s as simple as a stolen glance here or there, almost always in the moments where she’s too focused on research –  or lost to time in the echoes of a Visitation.  His favourite is when she falls asleep on the couch; it’s easy to admire how peaceful she looks when she isn’t arguing with him about something stupid.  More than once he’d been lulled into sleep himself by the delicately lingering scent of her perfume on the couch the following day.  Lucy had definitely caught on the last time it had happened, judging by the mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she’d arrived early carrying doughnut’s as a bribe to get George to look into something for her to find Lockwood blinking awake curled around the same throw pillow their coworker had fallen asleep on the night before.  She’d winked at him, miming zipping her lips before carrying on her way.  Obviously she’d given him a hard time about it later – she wouldn’t be much of a best friend if she didn’t – but she went easy on him given her own fondness for the woman.  They had made quick friends, after all.

  There had been just three months left on clock tick tick tick-ing down to Lucy’s departure when the solution to almost all of his problems had – quite literally – fallen into his lap.

  He’d barely stepped one foot out of the shower when he’d heard a knock at their front door.  George had managed to make it out of his basement office at a reasonable hour the evening before and Lucy slept like the dead, which left the responsibility of answering the door squarely on his shoulders.  Another knock had urged him on as he’d rushed to at least partially dry and dress himself.  

  When he’d finally jerked the door open, she’d been about to knock a third time.  He’d startled her, causing her to take a step back in an attempt to avoid rapping him on the chest with her knuckles.  Unfortunately, the top step of 35 Portland Row had never been as large as it should have been.  He can still vividly recall the look of abject horror on her face as she’d realised she was about to fall.

  Somehow he’d managed to break free from the trance he’d fallen into the second he laid eyes on her to lunge forward, catch her by the elbow, and pull her away from the edge.  He must have put more strength into it than entirely necessary, because the next thing he’d known they’d been on the ground inside the foyer.  The floor had been ice cold beneath his back, which had done almost as much to soothe the ache of the impact as the feeling of the young woman laying on top of him.  She’d stared down at him with wide eyes, doing a rather convincing impression of a deer in headlights.  He’d flushed red hot, floundered desperately for the words to say to regain control of the situation, and come up with nothing.

  Of course, that was the moment Lucy had chosen to wake and stumble languidly down the stairs.  They’d been alerted to her presence by the creek of ancient floorboards at the base of the stairs, two sets of eyes suddenly drawn to the agent staring confounded at the bizarre sight of a stranger straddling her boss in their foyer.  The aforementioned stranger had begun to panic in earnest at that point, stammering apologies to him and his co-worker alike as she’d scrambled off of him.  Lucy and Anthony had stared at each other in confusion as she’d profusely apologised to the Listener.  Trying to piece together what specifically she had been apologising for in the first place was a struggle, since every sentence was left unfinished in the urgency of the next rushing to be heard.  Finally, it had dawned on them; she was under the impression they were living together under vastly different circumstances.  Luce had laughed, Lockwood had laughed, and their guest had looked like she was going to be sick in their entrance hall.

  It had taken two full cups of tea and countless assurances for the perpetual state of mortification to wear off enough for her to explain why she’d sought them out to begin with.  After seeing their agency in the papers she’d become convinced it had to be some form of ‘destiny’ that the three of them meet.  The automatically exasperated look he’d shot Lucy had not gone over the head of their guest; she’d lost patience with him as quickly the day they’d met as she had every day since.  As she’d shouted her reasoning at him across the Thinking Cloth, he’d been forced to admit she had a point – and not just to diffuse the tension.  He hadn’t thought it particularly unusual that he and Lucy – the only two reported cases of agents over the age of twenty not having lost their Talent – had been gifted with different abilities, but to meet a third and have her be gifted with the Touch?  Two may well have been a coincidence, but three… Three is a pattern.

  It had at least been enough to drive him to involve George.  He’d left to call the researcher in place of replying, leaving her staring in incredulous fury at his empty seat.  Thankfully, Lucy had intervened before she could find anything sharp to throw at his back.  When he’d returned to inform them he’d made the call, the softness behind the surprise in her eyes had been the final nail in his coffin; he’d been smitten ever since.

  George had arrived in record time, which made the thud of the front door being forced open more alarming than it should have been.  He’d dropped a comically large stack of books on the dining table, forgone introductions, and launched immediately into his cursory theories.  She’d won his approval almost as easily as she’d won Anthony’s.  She’d listened intently, asked the right questions at the right times, slid the plate of biscuits they’d served in his absence his way, and launched into a detailed explanation of her own research as soon as he’d finished.  It had been well after midnight when Anthony had managed to get a word in edgewise to insist they call it an evening.  She’d slept in Lucy’s room that night – and every night since.  In the days that followed, the newly formed team of four had spent every waking hour bent over one book or another.  By the time they’d finally been forced to leave the house to complete a job, it had seemed beyond question for their guest (new roommate?) to join them.  That first job together had cleared any lingering tendrils of doubt from his mind; not one word had been said out loud, but every step had been in perfect harmony.  

  Before any of them knew it, months had passed in a comfortable rhythm.  Their evenings were spent on cases, whilst their days were spent reading every piece of literature on Talent and the Problem they could get their hands on.  In spite of their best efforts, the mystery of why the three of them retained their talent remained unsolved.  No matter how they looked at it, it was apparent there was still a piece of the puzzle missing.  One cold and sleepless morning they’d rubbed the sleep from their eyes, gathered around the kitchen table, and agreed to set the matter aside to focus on more pressing issues.

  As the date of his Listener’s departure loomed on the horizon, he’d gathered every ounce of courage and charisma he possessed to try and seem cool whilst half-begging their new friend to join his agency.  She’d accepted his offer with minimal ribbing, and if he hadn’t known it was just his own hopes influencing his perception of reality, he might have thought she’d blushed when he’d asked her to move in permanently.

  In the final days of Lucy’s employment, something they could have never expected had happened.  Instead of waking to the sound of the phone ringing, Anthony had been woken by Lucy thundering down the stairs to answer it.  That in itself was unusual, given her habit of sleeping deeper than a hibernating bear.  But it had been something else – some weird gut feeling he still couldn’t explain – that brought him to immediate and alert consciousness.  The sound of the phone clattering to the ground had thrown him from his bed, sending him barrelling down the stairs as he hastily pulled a shirt over his head.

  He’d frozen when he found Luce on her knees on the ground, hands pressed to her mouth and tear-filled eyes wide with shock.  Another set of footsteps echoed down the stairs above him, the final member of the household rushing past him seconds later.  She’d brushed Lucy’s hair away from her face and quietly asked her what was wrong.  When she received no reply she’d dropped to the ground, wrapped the other girl in her arms, and picked the phone off the ground to get to the bottom of it all.  Having felt rather useless, Lockwood had set to work doing the only thing he could think of; making tea.

  When he’d returned, three steaming cups precariously balanced in his hands, he found them still clinging to each other in a heavy silence.  Though he could see the phone had been returned to its cradle, he hadn’t had the courage to push for answers.  Instead he’d settled down onto the floor with them, placed their cups on the old wood in front of them, and reached out to rest a comforting hand on Lucy’s knee.  She’d looked up at him then, slowly, and he was confused to find a glimmer of hope in her bloodshot eyes.  Her choked explanation had stolen the breath from his lungs.

  “Norrie’s awake.”

  The early hours of that fateful morning had passed in a flurry of planning, packing, and crying in a manner achingly similar to the day she’d confessed she’d never wanted to be an agent to begin with.  They’d decided to end her employment effective immediately, to use the inevitable media coverage of the literal miracle unfolding in front of them to announce her departure without too many follow-up questions.

  By late afternoon – after George had awoken and made a mad dash to the house – they’d stood together in the doorway sharing bittersweet tear-filled farewells.

  She’d called to let them know she’d arrived in one piece, but from that point on all communication was one sided and in the form of postcards from various towns all over Europe.  Money had changed hands when the household received their New Years card since, tucked neatly inside, was a polaroid photo of the two sharing a New Years kiss in a large iron circle in front of the Eiffel Tower.  George had put money on them not figuring it out until at least January, while Anthony had bet on Valentine’s Day.  The smug smirk on the face of their companion when she’d pulled their money from their hands was as infuriating as it was adorable.

  And so they’d carried on, attempted to settle into their new state of ‘normal’ as an agency with only two field operatives, and did everything within their power to avoid speaking of the listener-shaped hole in their hearts.

  Then, a year after she’d left, Lucy Carlyle had knocked on his front door holding a damned employment application.  As if she didn’t know she’d always have a home in Portland Row, always have a place in his agency.  He’d stared at it like it was written in latin before tearing it in half and pulling the woman into a bone-crushing hug.  Though, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been slightly relieved to find out she wasn’t in need of accommodations this time around; he’d grown comfortable with the casual intimacy of sharing his home with only the little spitfire upstairs.  Lucy had been pink all the way to the tips of her ears as she told him she’d be living with Norrie in a flat just a few blocks away, a state he found himself all too sympathetic of.

  The sound of voices had finally drawn his remaining live-in employee down from her attic.  He’d almost gone deaf at the shriek she’d let out at the sight of her old roommate.  When they’d run to embrace each other and laugh, he’d decided she needed time to catch up than he did.  He’d made her promise to fill him in on all the juicy details over drinks some time in the near future before making his way to the library to give them some privacy.  As the sound of laughter echoed through the house that night, it seemed to banish the final remnants of grief and loneliness from every last shadowy corner of Portland Row.

  A nauseating question creeps to the forefront of his mind; will he ever hear her laugh like that again?   He tries to conjure the sound again, but now all he can hear is the rush of air leaving her lungs and the echoing thud of her head hitting the bed frame.

  Desperate for some kind of distraction, he glances out the window.  The sky is filled with blushing shades of lilac and pink, making promises of a clear day it’s not likely to keep.  The early morning sun shines ethereal rays through the sheer white curtains, turning the miniscule specks of debris still hanging in the air to angel dust.  If the sun has already risen, she’s been unconscious for an alarming amount of time.  Doubt strikes through his thoughts.  Did he make the right choice?  Did his fear of her being angry with him dissuade him from thinking objectively?  If he’d subconsciously prioritised her bloody opinion of him over her health and safety he’d never forgive himself.

  Unable to vanquish the dark thoughts now spiralling farther and farther out of control, Lockwood tries to tether himself back to the present by focusing on the gentle puffs of her warm breath feathering across his chest.  Significantly less pleasant – though no less persistent – is the aggressive tingling of his extremely numb right leg.  He winces, inhaling sharply through his teeth as he shifts his position to encourage blood flow to eliminate the painful TV static in the limb.

  He almost drowns in the tidal wave of relief that washes over him when she lets out a frustrated groan in response to the light jostling.  Gently cradling her cheek to prevent her head from falling from his shoulder, he pushes himself back and further upright.

  “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he says softly, lightly tapping her cheek with his palm in an attempt to rouse her.  She only whines louder in reply, twisting in his lap to burrow her face into his neck.  He can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks as the warmth of her body presses against his front.  The fluttering of her eyelashes against his pulsepoint reminds him of a butterfly’s kiss.  He isn’t entirely sure how to react.  Quite a large part of him wants to wrap his arms around her, cradle her against him and hold her until he can silence every sadistic whisper in his mind telling him he’s going to lose her, too.  

  He doesn’t end up having to worry about what to do for long.  She gasps, shooting upright and scrambling across the floor to create some distance between them.  It’s a very convincing impression of a cornered animal, which leaves his heart aching.  If it serves any positive purpose at all, at least the cold reminder of her feelings toward him banish any doubts of the legitimacy of this reality from his mind.  Then she winces, face contorting with agony as she clutches at her skull, and self-pity is suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. 

  “Easy now,” he keeps his voice low in consideration of what’s sure to be one hell of a headache, “you’ve hit your head and had quite the respectable nap about it.  I’d be surprised if you weren’t at least a little out of it.  Does anything else hurt?”  She lifts her head to look at him, but there’s an absent look in her eyes that makes a pit of anxiety begin to form in his stomach.  When she drops her gaze back to the floor – hand still cradling her skull – he caves.  Pushing himself to his knees, he crawls towards her and brushes his fingers against her thigh.  With a shiver, she looks back at him.  Confusion and pain are painted clear as day across her features.  He doesn’t need a mirror to know his own expression is growing to resemble hers more by the moment.  

  “Sorry, I – uhm, I don’t…” she trails off, glancing at his hand on her leg.  He pulls back like he’s been burned, waiting on bated breath for her to finish.  “I – …do I know you?”  

  His heart sputters to a stop in his chest.  Nothing could have prepared him for that.  His jaw hangs open almost comically as he stares at her with complete devastation.  Mentally, he’s already running through every potential outcome of this situation. How much memory is she actually missing?  Maybe it’s only the ones involving him.  That would be a cruel twist of fate, but his life thus far has been nothing but a series of those, so why stop now?

  All of his strength leaves him at once.  It becomes a struggle just to stay upright.  He can’t afford to fall apart, not when she needs him to be calm, not when she’s – trying not to smile?

  She cracks, stifling a giggle behind her hand before it can bubble into something more.  His brain hasn’t caught up yet, still staring at her slack-jawed and very visibly confused.  Her attempts to stifle her merriment fail entirely, her laughter devolving into something closer to a cackle.  

  “I’m fucking with you, Lockwood,” she wheezes, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “you should have seen your face!”  Wincing again, she presses a palm to her throbbing skull before looking up at him and dissolving into laughter once more.

  For likely the first time in living memory, Anthony Lockwood is legitimately speechless.

  “I-”  he starts, and then stops.  Feeling like a bloody fish, all he can do is open and close his mouth, which does nothing to calm the hysterics of his companion.  After a few prolonged moments of this, she starts to actually worry she might have broken him.

  “Lockwood…?” she asks, reaching tentatively for his shoulder.  “Look, I didn’t mean to – to traumatise you or anything, I was just pissed you left me alone –” He reaches forward and catches her forearm before she can register the movement.  She yelps in surprise, the noise abruptly stifled as he pulls her into his chest and wraps his arms around her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold her tight enough.  Taking a deep and steadying breath, he drops his head to rest on top of hers.  Slowly, she returns his embrace with trembling arms, tucking her chin into her chest and nestling into him.

  “I’m sorry I was late.  It won’t happen again,” Lockwood’s voice is ragged when he breaks the silence, emphasising his point by tightening his arms.  She nods, feeling lost for words.  

  They stay there, curled together, until the birds start singing their morning chorus.

  He figures she’s too shaken up to push him away.

  She figures he’s been too worried to care about his personal space.

  Neither is willing to be the first to let go.  

  “Hey, Lockwood?” her voice is soft as she pulls her head back to look up at him.

  “Yes, darling?” he replies, carefully sculpting his trademark smile back into place.

  “Let’s go home.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

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𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[k9effect]

Fanfic writers, how old are you?

Under 10 years old

11 - 15 years old

16 - 20 years old

21 - 25 years old

26 - 30 years old

31 - 35 years old

36 - 40 years old

41 - 45 years old

46 - 50 years old

Over 50 years old

Voting ended onApr 10, 2024

Reblog for a larger sample size!

No "show results", if you're not a fanfic writer just be patient.

I saw a post about an anon saying it was embarrasing to have an ao3 account in your 30s (it's absolutely not), so I want to do a poll and see what the age range actually is.