Hiiii, I realized I did not say ANYTHING about how to make requests or if they were still opened or anything and I am SO SORRY
This time of blur has officially ended.
REQUESTS ARE OPENED
Fandoms :
Lockwood and Co.
Marauders
Detroit : Become Human
Life Is Strange
Greek Mythology
The Last Of Us
/!\ I can definitely write crossovers between those fandoms, you just have to tell me how you want it!
I tend to hyperfixate on Lockwood and Co. nowadays so I'll prioritize those requests. However, most of the time, requests are going to be published chronologically, first come first served.
Pairs :
I would tend to say everything, however I need to make some ground rules regarding the romantic ones
No minor/major
Not between family (in the Marauders, far relatives for Pure Bloods pairs do not count)
No pair with abusing dynamics
What I write :
Romantic, Platonic, Family
Angst, Fluff, not sure about Smut yet but ONLY between adults no questions asked (can age up charactersà
One Shots, Stories in multiple parts
Something happening in one moment, Something happening in more (a month, a year, even more NO LIMIT)
How to request :
Just comment it! Tell me the reader's pronouns or I'll use they/them. You don't have to tell me everything that is above, only if you want something precisely how you imagined it!
To explain your request, you can :
Give me a detailed plot
Give me some info and let me create around
Give me a quote (from a song, a movie, a book, ...) that reflects how you want it to be
hi! Im not sure if ur taking requests but I have a song fic idea and I love ur writing. And by song fic I mainly mean fic based on the song lyrics and overall vibe. The song Born for Loving You by Adrianna Lenker (or their band big thief i honestly don’t know sorry lol) with reader x George Karim. Like a sort of friends with benefits/situation ship to lovers type vibe if ur comfy. She/her pronouns for reader please. Sorry if ur requests aren’t open lol.
HIII, my requests are definitely open!! Feel free to give me more 🙂↕️
This one seems very tasty, I can absolutely do that!! I'm currently writing one with the same prompt (I posted about it a few months ago... help how is time passing by so quickly), I'll listen to the song and see if I can actually make that mix together well, but don't hesitate to warn me in my dms if you think it's too far fetched from what you imagined!
“Do it scared” “do it alone” are all great tips, but my biggest takeaway from therapy is do it messy. This is especially true if you’re getting out of a burnout, which I experience often. Literally just do it messy. You don’t need to pick the perfect trail to walk, the perfect playlist to listen to, whatever the fuck it is. You don’t need to have a meticulous to do list and wake up at the exact time you planned and drink the exact amount of water you planned to drink. Like the biggest thing for people like me to remember is sometimes it’s okay to do it messy. Put on a random yt workout and just get it done in sweats. Do 5 minutes of a daunting task and go from there. Sometimes just getting up is a win during intense burnouts or depressive funks. Literally just do it messy.
Fandom: Lockwood & Co
Prompt: It was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission. In and out. But of course, nothing’s ever that simple when ghosts are involved. You take the hit—shielding George without thinking—and everything goes sideways. By the time Lockwood and Lucy fight the ghost off, you’re unconscious and bleeding, and George is spiraling. He won’t leave your side. He keeps pressure on your wound with shaking hands and mutters under his breath like it’ll keep you tethered. “You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—” And then he freezes, realizing what he just said out loud. When you wake up, pale but alive, your first words are, “Tell me what, George?” Bonus: He tries to brush it off. You grab his wrist and whisper, “Say it again. I heard you.” by @dearhnymn
Pairing: George X Reader
TW: Mention of blood, angst, but also they're so cuttteee
An in-and-out retrieval. The kind they could do blindfolded by now—get in, find the Source, contain it, get out. Quick. Clean. Controlled.
The house was quiet when you stepped inside, unnervingly so. Every breath felt like it echoed. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your boots, as if the house remembered pain. Dust hung in the air like old breath, and the cold—it was already curling around your ankles, soft and slow, like fingers testing your pulse.
Lockwood led with his torch raised, coat sweeping behind him like a story in motion. Lucy followed close, her grip steady on the hilt of her rapier. George walked beside you, one hand fumbling in his satchel for his notebook, muttering the details from the case file under his breath.
“Male. Died on-site. Age unknown. No documented burial—body was likely lost in the collapse. Cold spot reported near the northeast room.”
You nodded, listening more to the rhythm of his voice than the words themselves. It was easier to stay calm when he talked like that—steady, focused, George.
The northeast room was the library, or what had once been one. The shelves had mostly caved in, spilling mouldy pages and shattered glass across the floor. A grandfather clock stood frozen in the corner, its pendulum stilled mid-swing. Something in your chest clenched at the stillness.
And then the temperature dropped. Fast.
The kind of cold that didn’t creep—it sank. Bone-deep, soul-shaking. Your breath fogged instantly. Lucy’s torch flickered once, twice, then steadied.
You all stopped.
The ghost rose from the debris like it was waking from a long dream. Slow. Drifting. Not angry, not at first. Just… there. A boy, maybe seventeen, maybe younger. His eyes were wide, glassy, unblinking. He didn’t float—he hung, suspended in something invisible, arms limp at his sides.
George inhaled sharply beside you.
And then, he faltered.
Just for a second. Split-second of stillness. He stared at the ghost, face unreadable, fingers tightening on his rapier but not moving. Like he saw something—someone—in that face. A flicker of recognition, or regret, or too many nights spent studying names that didn’t belong to living children.
You didn’t think. You moved.
One step. Two. You cut in front of him, arms raised, body squared. You were used to his pauses. Used to being the first one in, the one who acted while George still processed. It never felt like a choice—just instinct, fierce and fast.
Then everything shattered.
The ghost lunged—not at George. At you. Its face twisted, mouth stretching open in a scream that made no sound, just a piercing ache inside your skull. You felt it, the impact—not physical, not exactly—but like being knocked backward inside yourself.
The cold tore through your ribs like knives of ice. You screamed, or maybe you didn’t, because sound didn’t matter anymore. Your limbs lost their shape. Your chest caved inward. You fell to your knees, the shield you tried to build slipping from your fingers.
Then came the blood.
A thin, hot trickle at first. Then more. From your nose, your mouth, somewhere deeper. You collapsed sideways, vision splintering at the edges.
"No!" George’s voice cracked. You barely heard it over the thudding in your ears. His hands were on you in seconds, frantic and too warm, pressing somewhere on your side where it burned and pulsed and hurt like your body had turned against itself.
Lucy's blade sliced the air with a scream. Lockwood barked orders, but you couldn’t catch the words. Everything was muffled now, like cotton had been stuffed into the world.
You could still feel George’s hands. One shaking as it pressed on your wound, the other gripping your arm like he could anchor you to the floor.
“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”
You wanted to look at him. Wanted to say something. Joke about how dramatic he was. But your eyes wouldn’t stay open, and your lips were too heavy to move.
His words were inaudible, you could not process them. They were just sounds, music to your ears as if it was the last, the most beautiful one. The last thing you clearly heard was George’s voice—cracked and trembling, full of panic and something else, something sharp and breaking.
“You’re not allowed to die. Not before I tell you I—”
The sentence ended in a silence so loud it hurt.
And then—
black.
There was blood under George’s fingernails.
He couldn’t stop staring at it.
It dried in the creases of his knuckles, caught beneath the edge of his bitten nails, warm once and now turning tacky. It didn’t feel real—not on his hands. Not yours. It was supposed to be theoretical. Distant. Something in reports. Not something he pressed his palms into.
But your blood soaked through his sleeves. It was real.
You were too still. Wrongly still. Not unconscious like sleep, like the gentle collapse of someone at peace. No, this was stillness like a paused heartbeat, a body frozen mid-fall. Your lips were pale, eyes closed, lashes twitching like they were trying to dream their way out.
George pressed harder on the wound, his hand sliding as more blood welled up. “Please,” he whispered. “Stay with me. Just stay.”
Lockwood stood near the door, coat torn, face pale. His voice had lost its usual brightness. Lucy was crouched nearby, torch gripped so tight her knuckles looked like ghosts of their own. Neither of them spoke. Neither tried to touch you.
Because George was the one breaking.
“I shouldn’t have hesitated,” he choked out. “I should’ve moved. I should’ve—God, you’re such a bloody idiot, why’d you—why’d you jump in for me?”
He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, breathing shallow and hot. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, fogged and streaked with tears he didn’t remember crying.
“Stay with me—come on—don’t you dare—”
The pain didn’t matter. Not the ache in his back from kneeling too long, not the way his wrists shook from the effort. The only thing that mattered was keeping your chest rising. Just. One. More. Breath.
"You’re not allowed to die,” he said again, lower this time, like a ritual. “Not before I tell you I…”
He stopped.
The words spilled out like a broken pipe, and the silence that followed was worse.
He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with blood on the floor and your pulse fading beneath his fingers. Not when it felt like the world was caving in.
He looked at your face, eyes searching for some sign—anything. A twitch. A flinch. A miracle.
Nothing.
So, he stayed there, hands red and heart raw, saying nothing more. Just breathing for you, holding pressure like penance.
Until help came.
And then the rest was noise—paramedics, lights, movement. But George didn’t move from your side, not even when they pried his fingers loose. Not until they promised you were still alive.
Not until he saw your fingers curl, just slightly, against the edge of the stretcher.
Only then did he allow himself to fall apart.
The world returned in fragments.
A beep.
The prickle of warm light behind closed eyelids.
The heaviness of limbs weighted by sleep—or something deeper.
Your mouth tasted like metal and cotton, and your throat burned as if you'd swallowed fire and tried to apologize for it. There was a dull throb somewhere in your side. Not sharp. Just present. Like a bruise made of memory.
And then—
A voice. Quiet, hoarse, too close.
“—still not awake. That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve got all night.”
George.
You didn’t open your eyes right away. His voice was cracked at the edges, the way old records skip when you listen too hard. He was trying to sound normal, you could tell—still mumbling facts, little tangents, telling you how many types of ghosts had been miscategorized in the last Fittes Journal of Psychic Studies—but every word trembled.
There was a weight on your wrist. Warm. Familiar.
His hand.
“…you scared the hell out of me,” he whispered eventually, and now the facts had stopped. “You looked like you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I just—” He stopped. Exhaled. “You can’t do that to me again, okay?”
You finally opened your eyes.
It took effort, like peeling back layers of something thick and stubborn. The light was low, and everything hurt—but your gaze found him instantly. Slumped in the chair beside your bed, glasses smudged, curls a mess, hoodie stretched and wrinkled like he hadn’t changed in days.
He looked like he’d fallen through grief and landed in a chair and stayed there.
“…George?” Your voice barely made it past your lips. A scrape. A ghost of a sound.
He bolted upright. Eyes wide. Like you’d just come back from the dead—which, technically, you had.
“You’re awake.” He blinked hard, and then again, and you thought he might cry. “You—bloody hell, you’re awake.”
You managed a tired smile. “Tell me what, George?”
He froze.
Like a record skipping again. He stared at you, breath caught between ribs like it didn’t know if it should leave.
“I heard you,” you whispered. Your fingers found his—weak but insistent. “You said something. When I was bleeding out and you thought I couldn’t hear. Tell me what.”
His hand twitched in yours. “You… You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“But I did.”
Silence.
His jaw worked like he was chewing through a thousand possible denials, trying to swallow them before they left his mouth. But you saw it. In his eyes. The thing he’d been burying behind sarcasm and science and safety.
Your thumb brushed his knuckles. “Say it again.”
He didn’t look away this time. His voice was barely a breath when it came.
“I love you.”
The words trembled like a confession to a god he wasn’t sure believed in him.
“I was supposed to tell you when you weren’t covered in blood,” he added weakly. “When we were both, I don’t know, breathing properly.”
Your laugh came out like a wheeze. “Terrible timing, George.”
“I know.”
“…I love you too.”
He blinked, stunned. Like all the air had been knocked out of him—but softly, this time. Like the fall was worth it.
And when he leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against yours, you realized he was still shaking.
But now you were awake.
And he wasn’t letting go.
The scar isn’t large.
A small crescent near your ribs. Pale, healing, insignificant by battlefield standards. But for George, it’s a fault line.
And ever since you came back—lips pink, pulse steady, eyes burning with life again—he hasn’t stopped watching you. Not in a romantic way (though, yes, that too). No, it’s something deeper. Sharper. Like his eyes are trying to memorize every movement in case you blink out of existence.
You call it hovering.
He calls it being thorough.
Lucy calls it “creepy as hell, George, back off, she’s fine.”
But he doesn’t back off.
Not when you go upstairs without a word. Not when your laugh drifts from the kitchen and he doesn’t see the context. Not when you flinch slightly while pulling your shirt over your head and he rushes over like it’s day one again.
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It’s healing."
“Let me see anyway.”
You sigh, roll your eyes, let him check. His fingers hover just above the scar like he’s scared to touch it, like pressure alone could undo the stitches that already dissolved. He doesn’t speak while he looks. You let him. You know this isn’t really about your side.
It’s about his.
Because something inside George broke that night.
And he’s terrified it’ll break again.
On missions, he doesn’t stray more than a few feet. If you’re near the Source, he’s next to you—torch ready, heart in his throat. He startles when you gasp, stiffens when you run. He sleeps with one ear turned toward your door.
“George,” you say one night, gently. “I’m here.”
He’s sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall, knees pulled up like a kid lost in thought. His eyes lift to meet yours, haunted and tired and heavy.
“You stopped breathing,” he murmurs. “On the floor. Just stopped. And I thought—what if that’s the last thing I ever remember of you?”
You kneel down in front of him, touching his face. “But it’s not.”
He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him to gravity.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not when I only just—when we only just—”
“Started,” you finish.
He nods.
You slide your hand into his and press it gently against your chest. “Feel that? That’s mine. Still going.”
“It better keep going,” he mumbles. “Or I swear to God I’ll fight death itself.”
You smile. “Dramatic.”
“Desperate.”
He kisses your knuckles.
And maybe he’ll stop hovering one day.
But tonight, you sit beside him in the hall, tangled in silence, in shared breath, in a love that clings tight like ivy around a scar.
PAIRING ⊱ g. karim × fem!reader
WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.5k
SUMMARY ⊱ when a late-night research session at the archives turn into an accidental lockdown, you and george are forced to pass the time with banter, more haunted case files, and one jar of questionable pickled onions.
The National Archives exuded the musty scent of old paper mingled with a lemony polish that hinted at long-forgotten tales. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets and the slow death of your patience. You flipped through yet another brittle journal, its pages crackling like dry leaves, filled with outdated Type Two classifications and field notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting that only a corpse could love. Across the long reading table, George was in his element—his glasses slightly askew and his face warm and illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp.
He paused, gesturing toward the wooden card catalog drawer he had yanked open just ten minutes prior, like a judge in the courtroom. “This filing system is a war crime,” he declared, indignation lacing his voice.
You didn’t look up, tone bored. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, pulling out a yellowed index card with a flourish reminiscent of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “No one who organizes specter cases under ‘Slightly Corporeal Floaters’ should be allowed near a label maker.”
“Maybe they were being poetic,” you retorted, unable to resist the urge to defend the outdated system.
“They were being wrong,” he shot back, slamming the card back in as though it had personally offended him.
With a resigned sigh, you scribbled a note beside a date, the pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. “We’re supposed to be researching the Wexford case, not verbally eulogizing the Dewey Decimal System,” you said, trying to refocus.
George leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You’re only grumpy because I got the last working pen.”
You glared at your own pen, which was sputtering like a dying beetle, refusing to cooperate. “Give me yours.”
“No.”
“George.”
He popped the cap off and pretended to write air-notes with an exaggerated flourish. “Sorry, I need it. In the service of truth.”
Unable to hold back your laughter, you tossed a crumpled scrap of paper at him, and it bounced off his forehead.
Despite the light-hearted banter, a comforting rhythm settled in as you flipped through the journals. You found a promising lead in a 1970s field log—something about inconsistent readings and a ghost that changed its voice mid-manifestation. George perked up, his energy palpable.
“Mimics aren’t supposed to switch tones that fast. That’s more Type Three-adjacent,” he remarked, excitement threading through his voice.
“That’s not a real classification, George,” you countered, rolling your eyes.
He held the log up, tapping a line with fervor. “It’s in ink. It’s real enough for me.”
You leaned closer, pointing with a sense of purpose. “That says ‘possibly mimetic residue,’ not ‘Type Three.’ You’re reading what you want to read.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And correct.”
The playful scrutiny continued—snapping back and forth like fencing foils—but there was something undeniably nice about it. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar. You exchanged journals across the table like a secret language, he refilled your tea without prompting, and you corrected his notes with a red pen, each mark a silent understanding between you.
Then, in a moment that felt charged with electricity, you both reached for the same volume—a thick, battered record bound in cracked leather—and your fingers brushed against each other.
Silence stretched, thick and full of unspoken words.
His fingers paused above yours, and you both looked up simultaneously.
His eyes widened behind his glasses, a spark of surprise mixed with something else. There was a brief pause—more intimate than you expected—before he cleared his throat, pulled away, and muttered, “You can… you can take it.”
And so you did, though you felt your heartbeat quickening slightly, a vivid sense of awareness washing over you as you quietly claimed the book.
Neither of you spoke for what felt like an eternity after that.
The desk lamp flickered twice, a hesitant heartbeat in the quiet, before the overhead lights emitted a loud click and dimmed to half power, casting strange shadows across the room.
You both froze, tension settling over you like a heavy fog.
“Was that...?” you began, uncertainty creeping into your voice.
A second click followed, more deliberate. Metal echoed in the distance—doors slamming with a heavy finality that sent chills down your spine.
You shifted your posture, sitting up straighter, heart racing as anticipation gnawed at your stomach. George tilted his head like a bloodhound catching a scent, his expression sharpening with awareness.
“I think that was the front lock,” you said slowly, the realization hitting you.
He stood, urgency coursing through him as he moved toward the main hall. “Yup. Yup. That was the deadbolt.”
You followed closely, dread rising like cold fog enveloping your thoughts. “You said we had until ten.”
George snorted, reflecting your mounting anxiety with a hint of humor. “I said probably ten. Archives policy says nine-thirty. And you didn’t check the clock, did you?”
'I was busy doing actual research,” you shot back defensively.
“And flirting with footnotes, clearly.” He reached the door and yanked it hard. Nothing. He rattled the handle once, twice, for good measure, then pressed his forehead against the thick glass, frustration mingling with concern.
“Well,” he said after a beat, frustratedly running a hand through his hair, “we live here now.”
You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “We what?”
He turned to face you with a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome to the night shift, partner.”
With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.
“Best get back to it then,” you murmured to yourself, a hint of resignation lacing your tone. You pulled your chair out with a creak that echoed the weariness of the day, sinking into its familiar embrace. With a heavy sigh, you leaned over the journal sprawled open before you, its blank pages seeming to taunt you as you fought against the tide of exhaustion and the daunting task that lay ahead.
With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.
Behind you, George let out a soft whistle, his silhouette crossing the dusty spill of moonlight filtering through the tall windows.
“Locked in with nothing but dusty manuscripts, ghost taxonomy, and my sparkling company,” he said, plopping into the armchair across from you. “Truly, a dream come true.”
You didn’t even look up. “If I vanish tonight, you’re going to be the prime suspect.”
He grinned around a biscuit. “If you vanish, I’m eating the rest of these in your memory.”
You gave him a long look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You already ate most of them.”
“Exactly,” he said, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t want them to go stale.”
Despite everything—the flickering lights, the locked doors, the oppressive quiet—you felt the tension ease, just a little. The familiar rhythm returned. You scribbled notes while George mumbled half-formed theories aloud, flipping between sources and occasionally tossing a book your way like you were his very reluctant lab partner.
“So,” he began, flipping open a journal so worn its spine groaned in protest, “do we think the Wexford ghost is a mimic, a restless residual, or just an unusually noisy radiator?”
You flipped a page. “If it’s a radiator, it’s the first one to whisper children’s lullabies in reverse Latin.”
George blinked. “Touché.”
You smirked behind your notes, and for a few minutes, you both worked in a companionable quiet. Only the occasional sound of paper rustling, a pen scratching, or George mumbling something vaguely intelligent under his breath punctuated the stillness. The library, despite its locked doors and aging woodwork, felt less like a trap and more like an eccentric sleepover—if sleepovers involved crumbling files, mild existential dread, and at least one person who brought an entire pantry in their satchel.
Time lost its edges sometime around the third footnote dispute.
You were half-curled around a cracked volume of Spectral Residue and Other Oddities, fingers smudged with ink and dust, George cross-legged beside a tower of marginally useful witness statements. You’d both settled into that strange, caffeine-fueled rhythm where silence didn’t mean disinterest—it meant concentration, immersion, a truce forged in mutual exhaustion and the shared pursuit of answers.
“No way this one’s real,” you muttered, nudging a tattered page toward him, the thin paper crinkling under your fingers. “A headless monk and a cursed weathercock? Bit greedy for ghost stories, don’t you think?”
He didn’t even look up, his focus laser-like as he studied the contents. “It’s from the St. Wythorne collection. They added embellishments to everything. One file claims a ghost interrupted tea with Queen Victoria.”
“Now that’s the haunting I want,” you said, grinning at the absurdity of it. “Imagine getting cursed over chamomile—it’s practically scandalous.”
George flicked a page pointedly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, yet he stayed stubbornly silent.
Minutes later, he found himself snorting as he read another witness account—so overwrought it could have been a poorly-written romance novel. He tapped the edge of the page, incredulous. “This woman claims the ghost moaned at her window for ‘fourteen consecutive nights.’”
You leaned in closer, your curiosity piqued, and replied, “Romantic.”
“She was eighty-three,” he said, incredulous.
You raised both eyebrows, a grin creeping onto your face. “Still romantic! Well, in a way.”
He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned closer, your breath stirring the hair near his temple. The small space felt electric, the proximity igniting an unexpected connection between you.
For a little while, the atmosphere shifted. You both fell into a rhythm, the dim light of flashlights illuminating the array of notes, files, and journals scattered around you. He read aloud in exaggerated accents, and you couldn’t help but correct his footnote citations. It was in those moments, as laughter punctuated the silence, that the task transformed into something deeper—a shared experience, strange yet exhilarating.
Then, without warning, your flashlight flickered.
Both of you looked up, the stillness of the room pressing in, curtaining off the outside world. The clocks had long ceased their ticking, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.
“Alright, this is unbearable,” You declared, stretching. “We need cushions, snacks, and a morale boost! Preferably in that order.”
“You mean we need to make a camp,” he replied dryly, looking up from his notebook.
“Yes, exactly! Every good stakeout has a proper base of operations,” you said, beaming.
Albeit reluctantly, George helped you gather supplies—dragging a few neglected coats and archival binders from a shadowy back corner, rearranging a reading rug and a stack of encyclopedias into something that vaguely resembled a fort. You, as always, pulled more snacks from the cavernous depths of your bag: crisps, boiled sweets, a squashed chocolate bar, and, to your horror, pickled onions.
“Absolutely not,” George protested, recoiling.
“You say that now,” You replied smugly, placing the jar beside the biscuits with the reverence of a curator unveiling a masterpiece. “But give it an hour; you’ll understand.”
George didn’t argue.
You both settled cross-legged on opposite sides of the makeshift rug, flashlights propped upright like guardians between stacks of books, casting a soft, warm glow around you. The scent of the biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the dust and the musty aroma of the old pages. For a moment, time lost its weight, and the quiet felt like a comforting embrace. Your shoulders, once tense from the work and the atmosphere, began to relax. The pages took on a gentle blur, but it was a blur you didn’t mind—one that wrapped you in a sense of calm.
Eventually, the quiet fractured, giving way to scattered conversation. You shared your worst field assignment, a tale of a collapsed root cellar filled with ancient animal bones and a lingering odor that had haunted your coat long after. George responded with a story of nearly falling into a canal during a night stakeout, trying to impress a girl.
“Did it work?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.
He smiled faintly, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “She laughed at me. But I still kind of liked her for it.”
You laughed, the sound mingling with the shadows of the room as you reached to grab another file. Your flashlight caught the edge of one of his open notebooks, and you paused, squinting at the scribbled pages before you.
“George,” you said slowly, the words lingering between you, “is this… your handwriting?”
“Allegedly,” he replied flatly.
“It looks like someone tried to summon a demon using only their left foot,” you snorted, unable to hide your amusement.
“That’s rude,” he shot back, clearly offended “My left foot has very elegant penmanship, thank you very much.”
You leaned in, the space between you narrowing. “Is this the word ‘lantern’ or ‘lemonade’?” you asked, caught between laughter and curiosity.
He examined it, shrugging with a playful grin. “Yes.”
You burst out laughing, the sound brightening the dimness of the room. George’s expression shifted; he beamed as if winning a small victory, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver of warmth down your spine.
There was something softer about him in this light—no bravado, just the raw and unpolished boy who always had too many thoughts swirling in his head and never enough notebooks to capture them all.
“Truth is,” he said, almost absently, “I like this part better.”
You looked up, intrigued by the unexpected candor in his voice.
“This—research. Sitting still. Books don’t shout or disappear through walls or throw things when they’re angry,” he continued, his gaze growing distant as if he were lost in a memory.
You tilted your head, taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Books don’t scream,” he added softer now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. “They just… wait for you.”
The silence that enveloped you felt pregnant with understanding, a shared moment that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.
“I used to be scared of libraries,” you offered after a beat, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you. “Back when I first started. One time, I stayed late to finish filing a report, and the building creaked like it was breathing. I thought I was alone.”
George raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of rapt attention.
“Then I heard someone say my name. My exact voice. But I hadn’t spoken,” you continued, your heart racing just from the memory.
He didn’t joke, didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his silence an invitation for you to share more.
“I didn’t sleep for three nights after that. I never went back in without backup again,” you finished, the lingering fear of that experience weighing in your chest.
There was a pause, his hand shifting a little closer to yours, the warmth of his presence grounding you amidst those memories.
You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.
The world outside the windows had succumbed to darkness, the kind of pitch black that pressed against the glass like a wall, isolating you in your little haven. Your limbs ached from being curled up for too long, and George, seeking comfort, had sprawled beside you, close enough that your knees brushed together every time either of you shifted.
At some point, you leaned over to pass him a chocolate biscuit, your fingers grazing his. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a quiet thrill coursing through you, an understanding unspoken, lingering in the air between your hearts.
Eventually, your head found its way to his shoulder, a gentle surrender to the moment. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; it just happened. His shoulder was an unexpected refuge—warm and inviting—his coat soft against your cheek, the fabric a cocoon that shielded you from the world outside. You could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, a calm rhythm that matched the rising and falling of your breath, grounding you in this space between uncertainty and comfort.
George remained motionless, his body relaxing into the shared silence, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was as if this was the very outcome he had yearned for but never dared to hope would come true. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a thread woven from the moments that had brought you here, binding your fates in a tapestry of emotion both delicate and profound.
Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with words. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say; instead, the air around you vibrated with unexpressed thoughts and feelings—an intimacy that transformed the quiet into something tangible. It was a soft, full, golden silence, rich with promise and unfulfilled desires. The kind that seems to whisper, stay here a little longer, as if the universe had conspired to suspend time just for the two of you, inviting you to linger in the warmth of each other’s presence.
The first sound that stirred you was the slow creak of the library doors swinging open. Not the phantom sounds you'd imagined all night—the ones you’d half-convinced yourself were ghosts or dreams—but something real. Solid. Morning had arrived with it, golden and certain, spilling into the dusty quiet like it belonged there.
Your eyes blinked open, sluggish and unfocused. The world smelled like old books and fading candle wax, and something warmer—someone warmer. A slow, steady heartbeat not your own, the whisper of shared breath.
Books were everywhere. Notes trailed across the floor like breadcrumbs, mingled with biscuit crumbs and half-drunk tea. You shifted slightly—and that’s when you felt him.
George.
At some point in the long, ink-stained night, he had drifted closer. His head rested gently against yours, as if it had simply found its way there in sleep. His coat was wrapped around both of you, one side slipped over your shoulder like a quiet promise. And his hand—his hand was curled around yours. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it had always been there.
Your breath caught. And across from you, his did too.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. The silence between your fingertips was louder than anything you’d ever read in a haunted case file.
Then came the second sound: Lockwood’s voice, far too smug for this hour. “Well, well. Hope we’re not interrupting.”
You jolted upright, heart lurching painfully in your chest. George twitched like he’d been struck, narrowly missing a precarious tower of case files. Your hands tore apart, clumsy and sudden, as if you’d been caught with a spell half-cast.
Lockwood stood in the doorway like it was a stage entrance. Behind him, Lucy held two takeaway coffees and a smile that hovered somewhere between genuine delight and knowing mischief.
“Didn’t know the research division had turned into a sleepover club,” she said sweetly.
“We were—locked in,” you blurted, your voice hoarse with sleep and something else you didn’t want to name.
George ran a hand through his hair, his curls standing on end. “Very haunted door,” he offered. “Wicked personality. Wouldn’t let us out.”
Lockwood gave him a long look. “You’re not assigned to a haunting.”
“No,” you said, too quickly, stumbling to your feet. “Just… archival cross-referencing. For future cases. You know. Standard protocol.”
George stood as well, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. But his ears were pink. So were yours.
Lucy’s gaze drifted over the mess—the blanket-fort of paperwork, the twin mugs gone cold, the trail of sleep-drunken scribbles—and she raised her brows. “Well, this explains why no one answered their phones. I was this close to assuming one of you had fallen into a cursed filing cabinet.”
“Oh, that almost happened,” you said in grinning sarcasm. “Very narrow escape. Tragic.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped in to help as you fumbled through gathering the scattered notebooks and wrappers, your hands clumsy, your thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Lockwood’s grin was sharp, Lucy’s knowing. George joined you wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again in a moment so fleeting it could’ve been missed.
Neither of you said anything about it.
don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed! + if you want to be added to the taglist :)
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
The other day my mom blanked on the words she wanted to use when I was making out a grocery list and asked me to pick up 'the morning muffins that are like swiss cheese'. It took a minute but I finally realized she meant English muffins.
Our bloodline was not meant to communicate before coffee.
This is definitely not a google drive full of the sleep stuff from the Headspace app, including sleepcasts, music, and wind down meditation, that normally costs 17.99 a month, no siree and you definitely shouldnt share this with people
The kitchen at 35 Portland Row was filled with the aroma of freshly baked cookies. George and you had decided to take a break from ghost-hunting and try your hand at baking. Naturally, it had turned into a competition.
"You call that a cookie, George?" you teased, holding up a slightly misshapen lump of dough. "I think it's trying to escape!"
George adjusted his glasses, pretending to be deeply offended. "That, my dear friend, is a masterpiece in the making."
"A masterpiece of what? Modern art?" you quipped, giggling. "It looks like it melted."
"Fine talk from someone whose cookies are more like dry biscuits," George shot back, a mischievous glint in his eye.
You rolled your eyes, scooping up some flour. "Oh really? Well, let's see how it holds up against this!" With a swift motion, you tossed the flour in George's direction.
He sputtered, momentarily blinded by the cloud of white powder. "Oh, it's on!" he declared, grabbing a handful of cookie dough and launching it at you.
You ducked, laughing as the dough splattered against the wall behind you. "Missed me!"
"Did I?" George smirked, advancing with another handful of dough.
You grabbed a bowl of sugar, brandishing it like a weapon. "Stay back, or I'll make sure you look like a sugar plum fairy."
He paused, raising an eyebrow. "A sugar plum fairy, huh? You might need to work on your threats."
You scoffed playfully, flicking a pinch of sugar in his direction. "Consider it a promise."
Laughter filled the kitchen as flour, dough, and sugar flew through the air. By the end, both of you were covered in ingredients, the kitchen a complete mess.
Breathless, you leaned against the counter. "Truce?" you asked, holding out your hand.
George took it, a smile spreading across his face. "Truce," he agreed, shaking your hand. For a moment, neither of you let go, the playful tension hanging in the air before you both pulled back, chuckling nervously.
"You know," George said, looking at the disaster zone that was once a kitchen, "we might have to clean this up before Lockwood sees it. Unless you want to be on cleaning duty for the next month."
"Oh, so you do care about cleaning after all," you teased, nudging him lightly.
"Only because I know you'll make me do all the work," George replied, his tone lighter than usual. "Besides, I think we make a good team. Even if your baking skills are a bit questionable."
"Questionable?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'll have you know, my cookies are the epitome of perfection."
"Sure, if perfection means slightly burnt," he retorted, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Before you could respond, the door swung open, and Lockwood walked in, freezing mid-step as he took in the scene. "What on earth happened here?"
You and George exchanged a guilty look, both of you covered in flour and dough, the kitchen a disaster. "Um, baking experiment gone wrong?" you offered weakly.
Lockwood shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "You two are impossible. Clean up this mess, and next time, try not to destroy the kitchen, okay?"
As Lockwood left, you turned to George, both of you bursting into laughter. "I think we got off easy," you said, still giggling.
"Yeah," George agreed, wiping flour from his glasses. "But I wouldn't trade it for anything."
You nodded, feeling a warm glow in your chest. "Neither would I, George. Neither would I."
Nightmares gripped you tightly, tossing you into a realm where fear and reality blurred. You watched helplessly as George, his face contorted in pain, struggled against the ethereal grip of a malevolent ghost. The scene played out in agonizing slow motion, his eyes pleading for help that never came. The terror peaked as the ghost's icy fingers grazed his skin, and you woke up gasping, covered in cold sweat.
Heart racing, you stumbled out of bed, desperate to escape the lingering nightmare. The house was eerily quiet as you navigated through dimly lit corridors until you reached George's bedroom. Hesitating only briefly, you pushed the door open gently.
George lay on his side, his features softened in sleep. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Without thinking, you crawled into bed beside him, seeking solace in his presence.
He stirred slightly, blinking awake with a mix of surprise and concern as he registered your presence beside him. Before he could say anything, you buried your face into his chest, seeking comfort in his warmth.
For a moment, George hesitated, not accustomed to physical touch. But seeing your distress, he tentatively wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His touch was tentative yet comforting, a silent reassurance that you were not alone in your fear.
"You're safe now," he murmured softly, his voice breaking the silence.
"I... I saw you..." you started, your voice trembling. "It was... I thought..."
George tightened his embrace, his hand gently stroking your back. "It was just a nightmare," he assured you, his own voice surprisingly steady despite the emotions swirling within him.
"I was so scared," you admitted, your words muffled against his chest.
"I know," George replied quietly. "But I'm here. I've got you."
The tension ebbed away with each passing moment, replaced by a quiet understanding that words couldn't fully express. As you lay there together, the night slowly gave way to dawn, the world outside beginning to stir.
You yawned, eyes filled with tears from exhaustion. "I was terrified. Don't ever leave, we love you too much for that."
"Even you?" His voice was low, as if he was already sleeping.
"You have no idea."
When morning finally came, you both stirred awake, still entangled in each other's embrace. George looked at you with a rare softness in his eyes, a vulnerability that mirrored your own.
"I'm glad you came," he said softly, breaking the silence.
You met his gaze, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. "I needed to be here," you admitted honestly.
There was a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken words and shared emotions. Finally, George spoke again, his voice hesitant yet sincere.
"You know, I... I care about you," he confessed quietly, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on your arm.
Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a rush of emotions flooding through you. "I care about you too, George," you replied softly, meeting his gaze with equal honesty.
There was a pause, the air thick with unspoken implications. Neither of you moved, content to simply exist in this moment of fragile intimacy.
But as the morning light filtered through the curtains, reality began to assert itself once more. The weight of your confession hung in the air, yet neither of you addressed it directly as you untangled yourselves from each other's embrace.
The day unfolded with a semblance of normalcy, filled with routine tasks and the familiar banter that characterized your relationship. The night's confession lingered just beneath the surface, unacknowledged yet subtly altering the dynamics between you.
As you went about your day, there were stolen glances and small gestures that spoke volumes. Yet, when Lockwood and Lucy arrived, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between you and George, the moment of vulnerability shared in the dark hours of the night seemed like a distant dream.
It was as if the confession had never happened, buried beneath the weight of unspoken agreements and the unyielding demands of their ghost-hunting profession. And so, life at 35 Portland Row continued, with its ghosts, mysteries, and the unspoken truth that lingered between you and George, waiting to be acknowledged once more.
The sky had opened up, pouring rain in sheets as you and George hurried through the streets of London, having just left the Archives after a long day of research. The chaotic weather had left you both drenched and disoriented, separated from Lockwood and Lucy in the midst of a downpour (your coworkers stayed home, lucky for them).
"Great, just great," George muttered, wiping water from his glasses. "Can this day get any worse?"
You laughed, the sound echoing faintly against the rain. "At least we're not being chased by ghosts. Or relic men. Or both."
George shot you a sideways glance, a small smile playing on his lips despite the circumstances. "Small victories," he conceded with a nod.
As you continued along the rain-soaked street, George suddenly stopped, pulling a small umbrella from his pocket and opening it above your heads. "Here," he said matter-of-factly, "this should keep us a bit drier."
You blinked in surprise, grateful for his gesture but also caught off guard by the unexpected intimacy of sharing an umbrella with him in the middle of a storm.
Seeking refuge from the relentless rain, you soon found an awning and hurried beneath it, the patter of raindrops creating a cocoon of sound around you both. Leaning against the sheltered wall, you turned to face George, rain dripping from your hair.
"There," George said with a hint of concern, gesturing to your soaked appearance. "You're going to catch a cold if you keep getting soaked like this."
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "I'll be fine, George. It's just a little rain."
He sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "Stubborn as always."
There was a moment of silence between you, the only sound the steady drumming of raindrops all around. His gaze met yours through the curtain of rain, and without words, you knew that the moment had come to express what had been silently growing between you.
Taking a deep breath, you reached out, your hand brushing against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against your palm. George's eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he made no move to pull away.
In that moment, as the rain poured down around you, the weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air. Without another word, you leaned in, your movements guided by an unspoken understanding. The kiss that followed was gentle yet filled with intensity, a testament to the feelings that had silently grown between you. Well, that was about time.
The world around you faded into insignificance as you stood there, the rain soaking through your clothes. It was just the two of you, caught in a moment of raw honesty and shared vulnerability. The kiss tasted of rain and unspoken confessions, each touch and breath a silent affirmation of what had been silently acknowledged but never spoken aloud.
When you finally pulled back, breathless and unsure of what would come next, George's eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. There were no words needed, no grand gestures required. It was a moment of quiet revelation, shared beneath the stormy skies of London.
I'm not really a fan of this, but my laptop is STILL BEING AWFUL. writing on my phone is... well, let's say it's not that nice.
I'm so sorry if that took so long, being happy with your own writing is so complicated, but now it's done! if you have any other request, I'll be happy to write them!
George has a pen pal (Reader) with whom he feels a deep connection, sharing similar interests and ways of thinking. They decide to finally meet in person for a casual picnic. As George gets ready in his usual casual clothes, Lockwood and Holly question his outfit, suggesting he should dress to impress. George firmly replies, "That’s how I am. Take it or leave it."
You’d been counting down the days. After months of exchanging letters filled with theories about ghostly phenomena, discussions on obscure historical facts, and shared frustrations about the peacock types in your respective fields, you were finally going to meet George in person. The picnic was your idea—a casual, no-pressure setting where you could both be yourselves. You had carefully chosen a spot in the park, a place with a mix of sun and shade, where the two of you could talk for hours without interruption.
Meanwhile, at 35 Portland Row, George was in his room, staring at his open wardrobe. He rifled through his clothes, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Should he go for something a bit more polished? Maybe a shirt without holes? No, he decided, shaking his head. He pulled out his favourite band T-shirt, one that had seen countless adventures and cases. It was soft, comfortable, and familiar—much like how he hoped the meeting with you would feel. He paired it with his trusty worn jeans, the ones that fit just right.
As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to tame it but ultimately giving up. It sprang back to its usual dishevelled state. George nodded to himself, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. This was him, and he wanted you to meet the real George.
Downstairs, Lockwood and Holly were waiting, their curiosity barely contained. Lockwood, with his usual impeccable style, crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow as George descended the stairs.
‘You’re going like this?’ Lockwood asked, his tone a mix of disbelief and amusement.
George paused on the last step, looking down at his outfit, then back up at Lockwood. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he replied, shrugging. ‘It’s a picnic, not a gala.’
Holly, always the picture of grace and fashion, tilted her head and scanned George’s attire critically. ‘A picnic, George? Don’t you want to make a good impression?’
George rolled his eyes, feeling a mix of irritation and amusement. ‘I’m meeting someone who already knows me, Holly. They’ve read my letters, they know my thoughts. If they don’t like me for who I am, then what’s the point?’
Lockwood and Holly exchanged a glance. Lockwood’s stern expression softened slightly. ‘Just make sure you bring back some good stories,’ he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
Holly sighed but smiled warmly. ‘Fine, but at least comb your hair a bit more.’
George laughed, running his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to neaten it. ‘Happy now?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Close enough,’ Holly replied with a chuckle.
As George walked out the door, he felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. He was about to meet someone who had become a significant part of his life through letters. Someone who understood his passions and frustrations. He hoped the reality would match the connection they had built on paper. Who understood him.
You arrived at the park a little early, your heart racing with anticipation. You chose a spot under a large oak tree, spreading out the picnic blanket and arranging the food with meticulous care. The sun bathed everything in a warm glow, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, creating a peaceful atmosphere.
As you adjusted the layout, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. You wondered if George would be the same in person as he was in his letters—thoughtful, engaging, and deeply passionate about the supernatural.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. You looked up and saw George, exactly as you had imagined him: dishevelled hair, casual clothes, and a warm, genuine smile.
‘Hey,’ he greeted, his voice as familiar as his written words.
‘George!’ you exclaimed, standing up to meet him. ‘It’s so great to finally meet you in person.’
He smiled back, a bit shyly. ‘You too.’
You both settled down on the blanket, and the initial awkwardness quickly dissolved as you began to talk. The conversation flowed naturally, just like in your letters. You discussed the latest happenings in your agencies, shared your most recent discoveries, and vented about the superficial people you had to deal with in your line of work.
‘I can’t stand those types at Rotwell,’ you said, rolling your eyes. ‘You know, the ones who think a charming smile and a nice suit make them experts.’
George laughed heartily, nodding in agreement. ‘Tell me about it. They’re more interested in networking than actual research. It’s infuriating. Holly used to work with them, the lunatic.’
You felt a deep sense of camaraderie. Here was someone who truly understood your frustrations and shared your passion for uncovering the truth about the supernatural. That's exactly what you needed and wanted.
As the afternoon wore on, George began to talk about his latest project—a discovery he had made about the origins of a particularly aggressive Type Two. His eyes lit up with excitement as he described the breakthrough, his hands animatedly sketching out the details on a napkin.
‘And the best part?’ he said, leaning in closer. ‘It ties back to an old Persian legend my grandmother used to tell me. I’ve been researching it for months, and I finally made the connection.’
You listened intently, captivated by his enthusiasm and depth of knowledge. It was clear how much he loved what he did, and it made you appreciate him even more.
As the conversation shifted, George started talking about his passion for cooking, particularly Persian dishes. He recounted stories of his grandmother’s recipes, describing the rich, aromatic flavours with a reverence that made your mouth water. You remembered him writing about it, but now you could smell the faint scent of saffron on him, making it real.
‘You’ll have to try my tahdig sometime,’ he said with a grin. ‘It’s a crispy rice dish, and I’ve perfected the recipe over the years.’
You smiled, feeling a warm connection with him. ‘I’d love that. It sounds delicious.’
The sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the park. You both fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. The fading light painted a serene picture around you, enhancing the sense of intimacy between you—a shared understanding and mutual respect that went beyond words.
George glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. ‘This has been really great,’ he said quietly.
You nodded, feeling a rush of warmth. ‘It really has.’
As the sky turned shades of orange and pink, you knew that this meeting was just the beginning. There was so much more to explore together—more conversations, more shared moments, and perhaps even more Persian dishes to taste.
Back at 35 Portland Row, Lockwood and Holly were waiting eagerly for George’s return. They sat in the cosy library, Holly flipping through a book while Lockwood sipped on a cup of tea, both stealing glances at the clock every few minutes.
Finally, they heard the door open and George’s footsteps approaching. Lockwood set down his cup, his expression curious yet guarded. Holly closed her book gently, her eyes bright with anticipation.
‘Well?’ Lockwood prompted as George entered the room, a contented smile playing on his lips.
George grinned, the glow of satisfaction evident in his eyes. ‘It was amazing,’ he began, his voice filled with excitement. ‘We talked for hours. She’s exactly as I imagined—smart, funny, and so easy to talk to. We just clicked.’
Lockwood raised an eyebrow, his demeanour cautious. ‘And did you discuss any sensitive matters?’
George’s smile faltered slightly. He knew exactly what Lockwood was referring to—Joplin, the painful reminder of the dangers of revealing too much to those outside the agency. Too much, about the Problem, about him.
‘Nothing too sensitive,’ George assured him quickly, his tone earnest. ‘Just general discussions about work, our interests... you know.’
Holly’s eyes softened with understanding as she exchanged a glance with Lockwood. They both knew how cautious they had to be, especially after what happened with Pamela. Lockwood leaned forward in his chair, his expression serious yet supportive.
‘We’re glad to hear it went well,’ Lockwood said genuinely, reaching out to give George a pat on the back.
‘Yeah,’ Holly agreed, her voice gentle. ‘Sounds like you found someone who appreciates the real you.’
George nodded, feeling a sense of contentment settle over him. ‘I think I have,’ he replied softly, grateful for their concern yet eager to protect this new connection he had forged.
He knew he had to tread carefully, to not let his guard down completely. But in that moment, surrounded by his trusted friends who had become like family, George felt a rare sense of hope—that maybe, just maybe, this time things could be different.
After the first picnic with George, you returned home feeling a mixture of exhilaration and contentment. As you stepped into your shared apartment, your roommate greeted you with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling mischievously over the rim of her teacup.
‘Well, well, well,’ she teased playfully. ‘How was your date?’
You chuckled, setting down your bag and joining her at the kitchen table. ‘It wasn’t a date,’ you clarified with a grin. ‘Just a picnic. But it was amazing. George is exactly as I imagined him—smart, funny, and so easy to talk to.’
Your roommate raised an eyebrow knowingly. ‘Sounds like a date to me,’ she quipped, taking another sip of her tea.
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. ‘Okay, maybe it felt a little bit like a date,’ you admitted, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks.
She leaned forward, curiosity evident in her expression. ‘So, are you going to see him again?’
You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. ‘I hope so. We really clicked.’
She grinned, setting her teacup down with a satisfied nod. ‘I’m happy for you. It’s about time you met someone who gets you.’
You felt a rush of warmth at her words. It was comforting to have someone who understood you so well, who supported your happiness without hesitation.
‘Yeah,’ you replied softly, gratitude filling your voice. ‘Me too.’
As you recounted the highlights of the picnic—George’s stories, his passion for the supernatural, and even his talent for cooking—your roommate listened attentively, sharing in your excitement and offering words of encouragement.
By the end of the conversation, you couldn't help but feel even more certain about the connection you had with George. And as you settled into bed that night, thoughts of future picnics and conversations danced through your mind, filling you with anticipation for what was to come.
Days turned into weeks, and George found himself eagerly anticipating each interaction with you. Whether it was meeting for coffee after work or exchanging late-night messages about the latest supernatural phenomena, every moment spent together deepened your connection.
Lockwood and Holly watched with cautious optimism as George navigated this new friendship. They could see how much George valued you, how your presence brought a new lightness to his demeanour. And while they remained vigilant, they couldn’t deny the genuine joy they saw in George’s eyes. After a month of bright eyes from their coworker and best friend with your name always on his lips, Lucy, Lockwood, and Holly decided that, perhaps, they could trust you.
As weeks passed, the bond between you and George continued to grow stronger. Every meeting brought new conversations, shared laughter, and a deepening understanding of each other's passions and quirks. Lockwood, Lucy, and Holly observed with cautious optimism, seeing how much joy you brought into George's life and how well you fit there, with him.
One evening, George received a rather unexpected invitation from Lockwood. ‘How about dinner at 35 Portland Row tomorrow night?’ Lockwood suggested "casually". ‘I thought it would be nice for all of us to spend some time together.’
George, surprised yet pleased, agreed. He relayed the invitation to you, and you gladly accepted, feeling both nervous and excited at the prospect of spending more time with George outside of your usual hangouts.
The next evening, you arrived at 35 Portland Row, the unfamiliar house exuding an air of mystery and warmth. You opted for a casual outfit—a comfortable jumper and jeans—but as soon as you stepped inside, Holly and Lucy greeted you with laughter.
‘Oh, you look absolutely adorable!’ Holly exclaimed, her eyes twinkling without an ounce of malice.
Lucy smiled warmly. ‘It's nice to see someone not dressed to impress for once.’
You chuckled, feeling immediately at ease with their playful banter. Lockwood appeared from the study, a gracious smile on his face as he welcomed you.
‘Welcome, please make yourself at home,’ Lockwood said, gesturing towards the dining room where the table was set for dinner.
The evening flowed smoothly as everyone settled in. Lockwood proved to be a gracious host, regaling you with stories of their recent cases and engaging you in lively discussions about supernatural phenomena. You found yourself drawn into the conversation, sharing your own insights and experiences, feeling a sense of belonging among George's friends.
During dinner, you found yourself seated next to George. He smiled warmly at you, his eyes reflecting the same joy and comfort you felt. As you talked, you realised how much you shared in common—not just your interests in the supernatural, but your values and perspectives on life itself.
‘I'm glad you're here,’ George whispered to you softly as you savoured his exquisite cooking.
‘Me too,’ you replied with a genuine smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your heart.
Lockwood and Lucy watched the interaction with subtle approval, exchanging knowing glances. After dinner, as you helped clear the table, Lockwood approached George discreetly.
‘I trust your judgment, George,’ Lockwood murmured, his voice low but earnest. ‘Both in your work and in your... friendships.’
George met Lockwood's gaze, a sense of gratitude and responsibility settling over him. ‘Thank you, Lockwood,’ he replied quietly. ‘I appreciate that.’
Lockwood nodded, his expression serious yet supportive. ‘You've both earned it,’ he added before returning to help Holly and Lucy with the dishes.
As you said your goodbyes later that evening, you felt a renewed sense of connection with George and his friends. And as you walked away from 35 Portland Row, you knew that you were becoming a part of something special, something that felt like home.
I AM SO LATE LMAODOSO HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY!!! I hope it was good, my laptop has been annoying the whole time I couldn't really get IN you know.
I love how george is just being like yes I'm gonna meet her and it's either she likes me or she can go home
I'm trying to get back to writing, the exams killed me but it's okay I'll fight back SO IF YOU WANT TO MAKE ANY REQUEST IT'S OPEN
