#portie writes fanfic

[writtenontheport]

Just a Night at Portland Row

(pt.1) (pt.2)

Anthony Lockwood x (gn) Reader

Warnings/Tags: Literal romcom, These people are silly, Everyone’s so sillycore here, teary confessions, someone accidentally confesses, nothing dramatic happens he’s just silly, Childhood friends to lovers, Lockwood is kinda stupid (affectionate), no smut or suggestive content, Lockwood and co and reader friendship, whether or not what Lockwood says at the end actually happens is up to you!!

Notes: I have quite a few issues with this one, and I’m not entirely satisfied with it, but I think it’s one of the better ways I could go about it. I also put all the flowers meanings at the bottom, so if you were curious I did in fact plan the flower meanings (I am a nerd). This finale has gone through about 20 revisions on the first day alone, so if anything seems jarringly out of place, I am so sorry 😭 I was all over the place with my ideas.

Summary: Just before supper time, you and Lockwood have a heart to heart, and it starts as it always has: with flowers, with tears, and a little funny thing called love.

word count: 2.4k+

“George,” Lockwood says seriously. It’s the first time George has ever seen him so serious about something that isn’t Lucy or him dying and it shocks him how quick he is to steel himself for whatever it is. “I need you to get Lucy to bring them down here, if you can, please.”

Now, ‘them’ is obviously referring to you, who’s laughing away upstairs with Lucy so loud they can hear it ring through the vents. If this wasn’t something George has genuinely been excited for, he would have smacked Lockwood upside the head for using that terrifying tone. “Don’t say it like that, prick. Thought someone was dying there.”

Lockwood grins at him from where he’s messing with the bouquet stood up on the table. The paper wrapping hasn’t been removed, courtesy of the empty vase and that water would most likely melt it; ribbon still intact. They stand, not quite fully in bloom (which is the best way to buy flowers, because otherwise they wilt right away) but just on the precipice of it. It’s packed with other, smaller additions, but at the heart of it, well. Maybe Lockwood did know something about the language of flowers.

“How’d you even pick them out?” George asks instead, watching Lockwood’s grin wobble.

“I made friends with the shopkeeper. He wouldn’t tell me what any of them meant, but he said they were good flowers— like the carnations. One of them though… these white ones here, just felt familiar somehow.” He kept messing about with the bouquet, meddling with any loose leaf or bud. “Can you please go get them? I want them to be able to see the flowers before they wilt.”

George does swat Lockwood for that, but he goes upstairs to get you. You and Lucy have moved to her room on George’s urging (he made Lockwood wait outside before coming in to make sure you didn’t know) and were lying in her bed on your stomachs, reading and sharing books. Lucy’s the first to look up at him, raising a brow as she nudges you.

“George? Everything ok?” You ask, propping yourself up to sit criss cross on the mattress. “Has Anthony come back yet?”

“He has,” he says simply, “He says he needs you in the kitchen. Lucy should stay since she must be tired from the case yesterday.”

From behind you, Lucy has a moment of realization that has her tucking her lips to hide a smile. Quietly, she puts a hand up to her forehead in a salute to George.

“You should go check,” she says, “Who knows what kind of trouble he might be in.”

“A lot of trouble,” George adds, nodding slightly along. You narrow your eyes in suspicion, but you get up off the bed.

“I’ll save your place!” She calls just as you’re headed down. George walks 2 steps behind you to hide his expression before he can school it, feeling giddy with nerves that aren’t even his to have. He wonders how Lockwood’s doing, stopping just at his bedroom door.

You turn back, asking “You aren’t coming?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He rocks gently on his feet and pulls his hands behind his back, reassuring you with a calm nod. “Off you go, Lockwood’s probably burnt himself making tea by now or something.”

“I’d hope not…” you mumble, each step down like a crescendo in the world’s most suspenseful piece of music— every floorboard creak like the lead instrument and your heartbeat acting a steady base. On a sheet you’re sure it looks hideous, but it levels out when you open the door and Lockwood’s waiting there by the counter, looking like he’s straight off a magazine. The silence creeps in, but the piece rises to new heights as the sound of everything— the floorboards, the vents— suddenly dulls out.

You step into the kitchen, and let the door shut behind you.

There is your Anthony, standing there in the middle of the kitchen with a bouquet full of dazzling pink tulips, red roses, and spots of white jasmine flowers. There is Anthony, the boy you’ve known and loved for years— looking at you like he always does: like you’re the whole world and sky and everything he wakes up for.

Neither of you speak for a good minute, but it’s not without trying. Lockwood spends that pregnant pause fumbling for words, before—

“I love you,” He says.

The words come rushing out his lips, hurried and desperate. It shocks you how simply he puts it, like a sudden rest in the notes that takes you by surprise. He looks surprised too; horrified, really, that he’s just blurted that out. He swallows thickly, steeling his expression into something determined.

“I—“ you pause, the words caught in your throat, blood pounding in your ears. You think you tear up, but you can’t really tell when the whole world narrows down to Anthony Lockwood across from you in the kitchen of Portland Row, professing his love in the spur of the moment. You grow warm with affection, taking a step closer to him as the music of your singing heart drowns out everything but his words.

He takes a deep breath, his face pale with fear as he swallows and says quietly,, “Today, when I went down to the shops to get you these flowers, I met the really old man tending to them. Don’t look at me like that, he was really old, alright?”

“Anthony,” you scold quietly, tutting at him as you wrap your hands around his.

He bites the inside of his cheek before he keeps going. “Anyways he isn’t the point— I brought him up because he made me realise that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I never gave telling you a shot. He lived loving someone else until they died— even after they did, and if… if there was a chance I could have that with you, I wanted to take it. I can’t promise you that I’ll be alive for as long as you will be, but I can promise you that I will love you for everyday I live and breathe if you let me.”

“Anthony,” you start, breathlessly. You take his face in your hands and he puts the bouquet down to cover your hands with his. He looks so scared like this, fragile like glass in your hands and pale with nerves.

“I can’t promise you forever,” He says solemnly, “But I can promise you my heart for as long as it beats.”

You take a deep breath through your nose, and will yourself not to kiss him. Years down to minutes— minutes to seconds. The silence hangs like a winding note. You glance back quickly at the bouquet, picking out one of the jasmine flowers before sliding it behind his ear and resting your hands on his face.

“Do you remember the first flower I gave you?” You ask just as quietly. He shakes his head, cheeks rubbing against the skin of your palms. “We were… quite young at the time, and I must have been mad, because I stole it from the neighbour’s garden. Yes, the grumpy one, you remember her. Well, I ran straight over from all the way from home with this crumpled little thing in hand— stop giggling. I’m telling you an important story— and you lit up like a light. Cheeky little thing you were, finding a way to give it back to me when I got scolded the same day for stealing and I was awful sore about the whole thing.”

“You looked all sad,” He cut in, voice hoarse in a mumble, “It made me happy, so I wanted it to make you happy too.”

You laugh, just as breathless, “And it worked, Anthony. It’s still one of my favourite flowers. Did you know that? They were the first flowers I read up on when I learned flowers could have meanings.”

“What’d you find?” He asks, the nerves fading into a hopefulness that fills his eyes with stars. It’s helplessly endearing where you see them shine, nearly nose to nose with how close you’re holding him.

You hum and close your eyes, pushing your forehead against his. “We gave each other white jasmine flowers, that day. A lot of people say they mean purity or innocence, but the one that stuck out to me was that people say it meant “everlasting love” too. When I look back on it now, it must’ve been fate.”

“Cause I always loved you and you probably realised that with how stupid I get about you?”He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

You chuckle quietly, just as helplessly lost, “Not quite. I didn’t even think there was a chance you could love me back, though that does make everything a bit easier… because I’ve always loved you, Anthony.”

Like a child on Christmas day, Lockwood’s eyes grow wide; he’s helpless to the grin that splits his face. “Really?”

“I’m no liar, Anthony, and certainly not about this,” you laugh, unable to help yourself as you tip back and rest your nose lightly against his.

“No like— you mean it?” He asks, voice cracking with hope as he searches your face, “You love me? You love me?”

You’re helplessly endeared, helplessly in love and helplessly lost to it, so you just whisper back with a grin as wide, “Yes, Anthony. I love you.”

What little space between you both is gone in a second when he pushes his lips against yours. It’s a desperate thing, all relief and comfort and love pouring out. At some point, you’re both smiling too wide and too much for it to be anything more than just pushing your lips against each other’s and you pull away with a wet laugh.

He grins wider, and you didn’t think it was possible but he manages it. “I’m so glad, because if I had to go back to the shopkeeper with a terrible story about how I got rejected by the love of my life—“

You giggle and swat at his arm, wrapping your arms around him, “Of course that’s what you worry about. This is all a publicity stunt, yeah? To boost your ego.”

“Of course,” he says, with no weight to the words as he sniffs and blinks away the last of his tears, “Though that just means we should make it a bigger stunt and get married. I’ll even invite Kipps just to rub it in his face.”

You hum, helplessly amused, when the door slams open and George shamelessly walks in with at first his usual deadpan, then a pleased expression. From behind George, Lucy is brimming with happiness, smiling cheek to cheek.

“Gross,” George says, simply and without malice. He steps around you and Lockwood, patting you both on the back sincerely and pulling out pots and pans. It occurs to you a little late that he’s starting on supper. “Took you both a while to actually confess. Mental, the two of you.”

“It was cute,” Lucy says kindly, taking you from Lockwood (he does pout lightly, but she just sticks her tongue out at him) hugging you dear. “George just means that we’re both very happy you two finally got together. He was starting to go bald actually from pulling his hair out too much, look at his hairline—“

“You can’t even pretend like you weren’t too, Lucy.” George sends her a glare as she separates from you. Lockwood quickly fills the space at your side again and all but wraps himself around you. Lucy pats him on the back with a congratulatory smile.

“You can’t go bald before my wedding, George, that’d just ruin it,” you say, clicking your tongue as you reach over (not without struggling over Lockwood) and pat his curls into place. The pot nearly slips out of his hands while Lucy’s eyes grow big as saucers.

“Wedding?!?” They ask simultaneously. Lockwood giggles into your neck, the cheeky bastard.

“This one here,” you gesture at Lockwood with a look, “said we should get married since this whole thing is a publicity stunt or whatnot. Said he might even invite that Kipps bloke he hates.”

“That is the lamest proposal I have ever heard,” Lucy immediately cuts in, the most disappointed scowl pointed at Lockwood’s head.

“I’ve got to agree. You could absolutely do better than that, Lockwood. Also, Quill Kipps? Do you want to have start a fight at your wedding?” George asks, his back turned to everyone. You pull away from Lockwood to pick up the flowers, but not without him frowning as you do. He stops frowning as soon as you smile at him, though, before he turns his attention to Lucy and George when they both pretend to gag.

“I gave them flowers, a really sentimental bunch I think, then I had a good speech,” He says to Lucy first, who raises a brow at him.

He turns to George next. “I need to rub it in his face that he’s probably miserable and forever alone.”

“I thought it was gonna be a publicity stunt, not a revenge plot,” You mutter, clicking your tongue.

“I’m not letting you have a lame wedding, Lockwood, because that means they—“ she points to you “— will have a lame wedding and I will not let that happen.”

“But you’d let me have a lame wedding if it was just mine?” His face is scrunched in offence as he ‘discreetly’ wraps himself around you again.

“Yes,” Lucy and George say simultaneously.

“I’d marry you at a lame wedding.” You play with his hair where you can reach it, pressing a kiss to his forehead where he’s dumped it again on your shoulder. Lucy and George gag, Lockwood beams so bright you’d think he won the lottery that night.

They manage to convince you that it’s too dark out to leave (it was past curfew, the sun had set already) so you spend the night recounting everything you can with them until the stars had gone to sleep and the sun started rising.

The next day, he brings down the bouquet of carnations you’d first given him, and you mix both the bouquets into one. A year later, Portland Row becomes home to not only to the people living in it, but a garden full of flowers blooming with love, laughter, and a lot of hard work. White Jasmine flowers bloom on the veranda and a house of three becomes home to four.

A/N: Finally finished this series!! Whew, that was… hmm!! And just because I couldn’t add it to the story without it getting clunky, have these idk, headcanons? fun facts?:

Reader tells Lockwood all about the flowers after, and informs him about why the Jasmine flowers were so familiar

The grumpy neighbour reader stole the white jasmine flowers from was actually the old man gardener’s wife

Lockwood goes back to tell the old man, and they have a laugh about the whole thing

It is so hard to get one straight meaning for a flower, but if you dig enough you can find flowers that mean so many cute things:

Red carnations mean deep love and affection

Pink tulips mean caring and affection

White Jasmine flowers can mean many things but for this story I went with: Eternal love, persevering love, and new beginnings

Everyone knows red roses, but I also like to think Lockwood’s bouquet had thornless red roses because they mean love at first sight

Yes he one upped the reader even without knowing what all the flowers mean because he’s a competitive little freak (affectionate) and I love him

This series has been very dear to me, and I am especially thankful to @tangledinlove <3 Thank you for your kind reblogs, I hope you know I read them and always look forward to seeing how you find each part in the series even if I don’t respond to them <33333

Also @milesmorals asked me to tag her too!!

#portie writes fanfic #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you

[starsfic]

can I have Red Son getting even for the clones flirting with him by flirting with Xiaotian the way the clones did

"I can't believe you guys!"

Another day, another battle requiring clones, and another break from these three.

Delivery was the only one who looked even the slightest bit sorry. Porty was looking at his phone as Artist focused on his sketchbook. Qi Xiaotian sighed, pinching his brow. "I'm not even gonna ask what you were thinking." They had been through this way too many times.

Red Son was still getting used to being friends with him and Long Xiaojiao. Xiaotian didn't want to drive him away because of his weak heart. Not to mention these three and the One Who Shall Not Be Named. Thankfully, he hadn't come out during the fight.

"Oh, good!" Porty chirped. "Then, how 'bout we get back to partying with the hottie?"

"No! Absolutely not!" Xiaotian groaned. "Between you trying to take off his coat," Artist looked up briefly but then shrugged. "You trying to "dance" with him," Porty snickered. "And that whole huge bouquet-"

Delivery shrugged sheepishly. "I think he liked that-"

"I'm surprised I don't have a restraining order on me yet!" His phone and Xiaotian sighed, pulling out his phone. Red's name flashed across the screen, and he winced. "Until now." All three perked up and Xiaotian made the dismissing gesture.

As all three poofed into hair, he checked the message.

Red Son: Hello, Noodle Boy. I was hoping we could meet in an hour in my chambers? I have a surprise for you.

Huh. Maybe Red wasn't gonna put a restraining order on him.

You: Oh, yeah! I can do that! Be there in a few!

Xiaotian pulled out the staff and stuffed the phone into his pocket. "I'm gonna be at Red's!" he called before ducking through the window onto the fire escape. The staff extended and off he shot into the sky.

In an hour, like they had agreed, the Demon Bull fortress appeared. By now, Xiaotian had learned not to knock on the door. Despite the repairing relations between them and Sun Wukong, DBK and Princess Iron Fan didn't like him too much. Instead, he aimed for a balcony with open doors that led right into Red's chambers. He landed on the railing with a grin. Yeah, he had nailed that landing.

"Hey, Red!" Xiaotian hopped off the railing. "I'm here, what's the surprise-"

He crossed the doorway.

The room suddenly darkened. Xiaotian froze before he was assaulted with light, this one coming from a spinning disco ball, throwing light around as music began to play. The Monkie Kid blinked. "What the..." Before he could finish his sentence, red was invading his vision.

Xiaotian leaned back.

Oh, that red was a bouquet of roses. Held by Red, his coat off, smiling at him.

"I figured I would repay the favor." the fire demon said. One hand released the flowers to be held out. "May I have this dance?"

...okay, maybe his clones had the right idea.

#my writing #LMK #Monkie Kid #LEGO Monkie Kid #Spicynoodles #Spicynoodleshipping #Red Son #Qi Xiaotian #Delivery Clone #Porty Clone #Artist Clone #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #prompt fill #prompt fic

[mereeples]

Quick question. What would Y/N's reaction be to Porty MK?

Good question. To be honest Y/N would probably be real freaking confused as to why her brother was not only dressed like he stepped out of a thrift store but why and how he got his teeth sharpened. Y/N probably never met Porty during his appearance in the first season, but probably experiences the clone in Pigsy's that gorged on all the noodle orders. Not saying Y/N will never meet Porty, but if they did it would probably mainly be irritation/confusion. But this is just my determination, you guys can also come up with what Y/N exactly feels towards Porty. :}

#lmk #lego monkie kid #my fanfic writing #my readers give me joy #porty mk #porty clone #my answers #lotusmaidenau

[karmaspirit]

I came up with a fanfic idea but I don't know if I should post it. This idea was particularly based on the fanfic called "Oblivion" on AO3. So I'd like if you all could help me. I'll give a quick summary of the idea and maybe you all could add your own stories based on my idea.

Summary: While Porty Mk was having fun at the arcade with Mei he ran into an old friend of Mk's that he hasn't seen in years. Porty invites them to hang out with him and they accept his invitation. While partying though the friend asks about why everyone looks so tranced out. Porty is both surprised and happy that his friend didn't fall under the hypnosis and explains that he and the other Mks can use hypnosis and also teaches them how to use audio hypnosis, his specialty. The friend learns how to use audio hypnosis and then continues dancing and messing around but they hide away when the real Mk comes in and just watches as he fights before sneaking out with a new goal in mind, learn more ways to hypnotize people.

If you haven't realized this is an x reader fanfic. I tend to add in some of my own personality to these things but you can write the story how ever you want but I do ask that you tag me or something in the post as I would love to both see and read the stories you all come up with.

#monkie kid #porty mk #x reader #lmk mk #hypnosis

[lopsushi]

Okay now someone needs to write Porty!Wukong flirting with Macaque.

And either Macaque is melting and flustered or he's fully just flirting back partly to spite and fluster the real Wukong. extra points for MK being extremely confused before it clicks about the two of them

Ohhh that would be an interesting fanfic to read! Wukong having to handle a Porty Wukong clone like Mk and having to go through the same thing Mk went with Porty Mk but twice WORSE! I would love to read that, maybe write one but for now sadly I can’t. I’m sick and can’t function to type stories so yeah. 😭

For now I’ll just be drawing till my cold goes away and I��m better to be able to type my next chapter of my Broken Thread AU. 😷💕

#ask #ohhh that would be funny #Porty Wukong fanfic interesting #i would love to read it #but first I need to get better from my cold #no typing stories but I can still draw!!

[lunar-wandering]

i doubt im ever gonna have the energy to write this as a fanfic so im just going to infodump the entire final arc of the Uno Reverse Card Swap AU right here and now.

What, you thought this whole AU was just gonna be comedy??? I mean most of it is but,

- they're in a fight against WBS (always a horrible place to start)

- WBS throws an attack at MK, who freezes in fear and won't be able to dodge in time

- Wukong takes the hit for him and falls into a coma

- MK is fucking distraught. he drops the staff on the ground and starts trying to wake Wukong up, Red Son goes and starts trying to reassure him that's its not his fault, but MK keeps insisting that it is, he’s the one who’s is apparently destined to bring the Monkey King’s downfall after all.

- Mei picks up the staff and charges at WBS....who quickly subdues her, captures her, and vanishes, much to the horror of Red Son and MK. (she leaves the staff behind, which was kinda a mistake on her part)

- in case this wasn’t obvious, they go to hide out on Flower Fruit Mountain

- MK and the others struggle to find a way to wake Wukong up. (Tang and Pigsy, having been studying history for a long time, have a few ideas but nothing concrete yet)

- Red Son and MK have a fight over MK not wanting to go out and search for WBS and Mei. ("I can't, I wouldn't be able to beat her." "You're only saying that because you're scared.")

- MK gives Red Son the staff during this fight (”Take it, I never deserved to have it anyways.” “MK that’s not what I-” “Just take it.”), and Red Son goes off to search for Mei.

- Macaque, Pigsy, Tang, and Sandy have this whole Mini Quest to find something to wake Wukong up. its during this that they find out that Macaque is essentially powerless, his powers are sealed by the bracelet he wears on his wrist. only Wukong can remove said bracelet, but Macaque never bothered to ask him.

- they have to fight a demon for this Miracle Medicine. Macaque plays the role of being a distraction (since he doesn’t exactly have powers that’d be effective), while Sandy and Tang get ready to sneak attack the demon, and Pigsy secretly steals the Medicine. at the end of this fight, Pigsy somehow ends up getting the last hit in, much to the shock of the other 3.

- Meanwhile, MK guards Wukong's body, and has like. a moment of self reflection and eventually kinda Pulls Himself Together. (probably with the help of some clones. he got lonely and wanted someone to talk to. Porty MK wasn't his first choice, but he'll take it.)

- after they wake Wukong up, they get a distress call from Red Son. he's found Mei, but WBS has possessed her, and has managed to take the staff from him and he needs help, now

-Wukong is barely awake at this point, even after taking the medicine, and he’s in no condition to fight, so the others have to go without him, but as Macaque walks by Wukong grabs onto his arms and silently slips the bracelet off, giving Macaque his powers back

- Macaque fucking kicks ass during the fight and MK is like “wh....what?? since when could my therapist fight”

- and then Pigsy also starts doing some epic fighting stuff and were MK not more focused on saving Mei and Red Son he’d be losing his mind

- MK and Red Son make up at one point during the fight. ("I'm not scared anymore." "Good. I never doubted you anyways.")

- MK has this big moment during the fight against WBS where he steals the staff back from her in this epic way that truly says hes more confident in himself now.

- "Get. Out. of my. FRIEND." and then MK ~literally blasts~ WBS out of Mei's body

- Wukong shows up at around the end of the fight, just to get a few hits in. the others are concerned about him but he insists he's fine enough to punch WBS.

- MK gets the last hit in though like:

WBS: you can never defeat me-

MK, pulling an uno reverse card out of his jacket pocket: think again, bitch

MK: *(beats her up)*

Wukong: im so proud of you, but also. how long have you been waiting to do that

MK: literally ever since I pulled the staff

- after the uno reverse card scene they seal WBS away again, this time locking her in a box and just. yeeting it into the ocean.

- Mei shouts "sayonara BITCH" as they do so

#Monkie Kid #Uno Reverse Card Swap AU

[frenzyartist-voe]

Master list for shit-

Also rules

Heya I'm Voe and I do headcanons when I feel like it! But also sometimes mainly art

This the masterlist for shit I've made so you can easily find your favourites ^^ I used to write fanfics but not anymore rlly but I'll leave the links up for ppl who wanna find them

Mostly art blog now and it will contain some oc x canon things sometimes so if u dislike that pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee throw yourself out of my airlock because I'm here to be mentally ill and free or vibe here just filter out the oc x canon I'll do my best to tag

Anyways-

🍓 = wholesome shit

💀 = angst

Transformers shiiiiii:

Human Blitzwing design (TFA)

Rumble fan design

Biscuit walk/hj

Poly villains (red velvet x lico x dark choco)

Espresso adopts Strawberry crepe art

Twst junk lmao

Ocs: (goes by RL but full name is Luther Removial) -Based on Leroy from Lilo and stitch (Savannaclaw)

Jacaquez Meriones -based on Hamsterviel from Lilo and stitch (Scarabia)

Slurpee (unknown last name) ((ramshackle prefect)) - based on Oh from home

Normal art stuff for twst

Cult Of The Lamb

Leshy drawing 💀

Just darkwood related drawings

Cotl oc

Human rakshasa

Lego monkie kid

Porty!Syntax

Toxicinsanity Art

Syntax headcanons

Shadowpuppet ship art

Older brother wukong and macaque (separate) (headcanons)

Mayor drawing

Mayor sticker design

Macaque x reader drabble

Reborn Monkey king

Song inspired oneshot

Another x reader oneshot 🍓

Hidden strength x reader oneshot

Huggy wuggy

Human huggy design

Overall headcanons for him

Huggy drawing

Human Huggy drawing part 2

Huggy Thanksgiving headcanons

Kissy Missy

Overall headcanons

Headcanons for both of them

Huggy and kissy Vanity hcs

Sibling headcanons

Hat in time

Mario Sports Mix

Mario sports mix villains (poly couple)

Mario sports mix (villans overall)

Ninja overall headcanons

Black mage overall headcanons

Mario sports mix (other characters)

!Hazbin hotel!

Alastor headcanons

#masterlist #gender neutral y/n

[young-ugly-god]

Sometimes I think about how long I've actually been apart of fandom culture, and how I've watched the mediums in which it has been expressed chance. I've lived through fanfiction.net (I remember when authors were suing 16 year old fanfic writers), LiveJournal, I remember when quizilla went from just quizzes to letting you post long form, gaiaonline,deviantart, wattpad, early days tumblr, and now archiveourown. Back when it was lemon and limes, and my emo boyfriend this and bad boy that.

Maybe a decade and half of being in fandom culture and it really took till black panther for me to actually see not only myself but other woc being portyed in fandom. I spent my formative years reading about women who did not look like me fall in love and get happy endings. And the worst part is I saw NOTHING wrong with it, I never questioned why I never saw myself or why reader inserts were never (and some still not) as ambiguous as they claimed to be.

I think a lot of us never realized how much this hurt until we finally were resprensted. Now I'm reading fanfic from different fandoms and I'm seeing black and brown authors flurishing. So many not afraid to write our stories that represent us as love interests, showing us being soft and beautiful. Something I never knew I needed until I had it and I thank all of you amazing writers.

#fandom #black women #black panther #blackexcellence #fandom culture #fandom criticism #fandom commentary #vikings #on my block #5sos #fanfiction #fanfic #marvel #sons of anarchy #captain america #the last kingdom #arrow #mayans mc #black authors #archive of our own #livejournal #gaiaonline #wattpad #quizilla #deviantart #important

[starcrier]

For the fanfic ask game-- B, E for "We Built Our Own House", H, P, R, S, and/or Y!

Ah, thank you, my dear friend!

B - Are any of your stories inspired by personal experiences?I don’t… think so? My life could not be more of a snooze-fest than it is (which is fine) but also I tend to divorce myself from myself whenever I write. I prefer to create from scratch, if that makes sense. 

E - If you wrote a sequel to we built our own house, what would it be about?I don’t want to say too much, because it might end up happening depending on how the next season of ASOUE goes, but I think I would get Friday Caliban involved. The Halcyon House has a lot of spare bedrooms, after all. ;) 

H - How would you describe your style? I answered this in my other ask, but I’m chiefly detail-oriented and analytical, I think. I like to get at the motivations and ambitions behind the characters I’m writing. 

P - Are you an “Architect” or a “Gardner”? Oh I’m an architect for sure! I hit writer’s block hard enough when the story is fully plotted and organized - can you imagine how much worse I’d be without any kind of guide for myself? XD

R - Are there any writers, fanfic or otherwise, you consider an influence?Well you, of course! But I honestly tend to consider myself a hoarder of words - I read whatever fiction I can get my hands on, and try to absorb the best parts and hope it translates into my writing. That being said, anybody who writes a well-rounded, well-developed, realistic female character is considered a good influence in my book. Charles Portis and Thomas Harris are two of my favorite, more classic writers, and Gail Carriger and Katherine Arden are great modern ones. And there are honestly too many fanfic authors that I adore to list here. 

S - Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?Any kind of “Us Against the World” Arc, but my favorite tropes of ALL TIME are arranged marriage/marriage of convenience AUs. They bring me a ridiculous amount of joy. 

Y - A character you want to protect?Literally each of the Snicket siblings. Just let me wrap them in warm blankets and give them hot cups of tea and a ton of books and keep them safe in a library somewhere with their librarian (or bat-trainer) of choice. 

#ask game #star speaks #my fic

[d-joana-a-shippadora]

First impression: "Wow you sure do reblog a lot and there's not that much writing going on meh I'll keep following anyway" Current impression: "Oh look the shippadora person the absolute sweet heart and best person of all time just put another post on my dash sweet"

Aaaaaaawn! Thank you! That’s so sweet!

First impression is so true, tho ashuashuash. Sad, but true :’v By the way, I’ll probably post more fanfics in this week due to the Culture Week. I… Just need to stop procrastinating and go writing about my babe Porty. :’v

Tell me your first impression and current impression of me!

#Answered

[writtenontheport]

Hi can you do a lockwood fic where you’re in the library late at night and you decide to play classical music and he asks you to dance (kiss on hand as a greeting, lucy recording and having a bet with george, etc) thanks!

Hear the Crackle of the Radio, I Know I’m Home

Anthony Lockwood x (gn) Reader

Warnings/Tags: Fluff, sleepy Lockwood, dancing but it’s more like just staying in each other’s arms for the sake of it, repetition, I’m a SUCKER for fluff

Notes: Thank you anon for this sweet little request, I absolutely adored writing it!! I didn’t know how to incorporate a classic piece at first (considering their technology would be quite behind and they don’t have access to boomboxes or speakers) but then I remembered the old radio my family used to have. Lovely thing it was, I miss the crackle of it dearly!

ALSO, I MISREAD YOUR REQUEST SO BAD ANON. IM SO SORRY 😭 -added after posting LMAO,,,,

Summary: It’s a quiet day in the library— until Lockwood comes and forces you up from your seat to dance with him.

The static of the radio fades away into the crunch of violin and piano compositions, coming through gently and filling the room. There’s an air of old books and frail paper about you as you handle the fragile pages. The paper is old under your fingers, the texture familiar in your hands; the library smells of the past and sounds of it too.

You didn’t expect anyone else to be awake considering they all just got back home after a long and tedious case, but Lockwood comes into the library with a sleepy smile and you find yourself pleasantly surprised. He’s in a loose white T-shirt and the pyjama pants you bought him not too long ago, looking just about ready to pass out as he makes his way over to you. Much like a cat, he smiles patiently as you put away your book before unceremoniously dropping himself into your lap.

“Anthony,” You laugh, moving him around into a more comfortable position. He’s like putty in your hands, he is; sleepy and warm and all too happy.

“I checked, and you weren’t in bed,” He mumbles, his face resting in the space between your head and collar. His eyes peer at you from behind his lashes, hooded with exhaustion that has him blinking slowly. “ ‘Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I am very alright, now that you lot are all home.” You press a kiss onto his head, a hand combing through his hair. “I was about to head to bed, actually. Have you checked on Lucy and George?”

“Already—“ he yawns here, stretching out all his lanky limbs “—did. They’ve both headed into their rooms already.”

He leans into your touch and into you, relaxing in your arms. He snakes his arms your waist and his lips end up on your jaw. If Lucy or George were here, they might have had half the mind to call you both out on your lovesick behaviour. Since it was just you two, though, that goes unspoken. You hope Lockwood ignores the quick beating of your heart just as Lockwood hopes you can’t feel his smile on your skin growing coy. The world filters back in around you with every breath; library pages and the sound of something slow and relaxing.

“Let’s dance,” Lockwood mumbles, not pulling himself up. “This is our song.”

It is not your song; you don’t have one, (yet, you secretly hope) but you indulge him with a laugh. “Get up then. I can’t dance if you’re on me now, can I?”

It takes a solid minute for him to make good on that, at which point you think he’s fallen asleep before he blows into the skin of your neck and you swat him. It’s a giggly affair getting up, books left forgotten on the table and the radio drowned out by your joy. You take your places in the center of the room, Lockwood more awake as he gazes lovingly into your eyes. The piece rises to new heights as you both begin dancing slowly, a bit off beat with the music, but in tune with the rhythm of your hearts.

With one arm wrapped around your lower back, and the other in yours, it’s more of a sway than a dance. And yet you sway, to and fro, to and fro, as the music swells and softens through the radio crackle. His eyes trace your face with such tenderness and care; smiling subconsciously as he sways with you.

When you’re on the job, Lockwood is doing little more than burning himself into ash and soot to protect you all; ghoulishly hollow in all the ways he has already given himself up for you, George, and Lucy. You scold him for it, all of you, and he does try to make it better, but sometimes you can only be thankful of what you have still. This look of his is one of them.

This particular look is reserved for you alone, made of gentle edges whittled down by your persistence to get close; the walls around his heart so low they’re all but flattened. This particular look is full of something more than just ash and hollow soot: it’s full of warmth and giddy happiness. This particular look is one you can’t help but cherish.

“You look lovely today,” He hums, peering into your eyes as he masterfully dodges stepping on your feet. His hair is messy and crumpled from where you’d ran your hand through it, making him all the more endearing.

“And you look like you’re about to pass out,” you tease, squeezing his hand.

“How do I look like besides that, though?”

“Gorgeous and radiant,” You playfully coo, laughing when his face splits into a wide grin.

Nothing else is said after as you both fall into the rhythm of being near each other. To and fro, to and fro, you sway; to and fro. The smell of old books and the sound of a crackling radio all fade into the background as you and Lockwood slowly but surely lean in to rest your foreheads gently against one another’s. He pushes his nose into yours, humming along to the song, and like instinct your lips fall into each other’s. The world sways as you do, to and fro, to and fro.

Kissing him tastes like warmth and joy bottled up; feels like sinking into your bed and hiding yourself away from the world. Kissing him feels like everything is going to be all right.

A camera click startles you both and you quickly pull away (still in each other’s arms) to find Lucy at the door. She’s grinning ear to ear with a twinkle in her eyes as she leans back out of the doorway and yells,

“George! I won!” and leaves.

You and Lockwood stay there standing, before slowly falling into a fit of giggles and deeper into each other’s arms. From beyond the door, Lucy and George race down the steps in a thunderous manner, and suddenly the whole of 35 Portland Row is awake well past midnight. You wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Your song plays again the next day in the library, and the smile that takes you over has Lockwood kissing you again just for how beautiful you are to him. The world settles in your kisses, and when you dance you do little more than hold onto each other and sway; to and fro, to and fro.

A/N: This actually gave me some nostalgia, because I used to love the radio (the old classic ones they don’t make anymore) and I loved when we used it. I’m also SUCH fan of swaying with someone you love gently, and just— UGH.

#portie writes fanfic #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you

[writtenontheport]

Just a Morning at Portland Row

pt.2 : Just an Afternoon at Portland Row

Finale: Just a Night at Portland Row

Anthony Lockwood x (gn) Reader

Warnings/Tags: Nothing, just a lot of romcom cheese, Pining, Idiots in Love, Lockwood and Reader don’t really interact in this much, but they do, just not directly, George and Reader friendship, Lucy and Lockwood Friendship, George and Lucy being the lomls

Notes: George being silly, Lockwood doesn’t actually show up until after the cut, Lucy being the loml and being silly, might do a part 2 if I feel like it, sorry if they’re a bit ooc, I haven’t actually written in a while so I might be rusty.

Summary: You don’t live at 35 Portland Row, but you visit daily. Some part of you might be able to make the excuse that you’re doing it simply to make sure your longest childhood friend doesn’t die of self-neglect, but your better majority, and unsurprisingly George Karim and Lucy Carlyle, know better than that.

Word count: 1.6k+

The sound of a whistling kettle flits down the hall, and you quickly pull it off the stove. You listen for a moment telltale footsteps creaking around 35 Portland Row, and are relieved when only silence calls back. It’s too early in the morning for any of them to be awake, if what Lockwood had told you yesterday about another case was true. It seemed so when nobody came down to check on the kettle, and long after, you’d made your tea and settled down on the dining table. You ran your hands over the thinking cloth, pressing on the spaces between the ink and hovering gently where there was any. George’s caricatures of the other two made you giggle, and Lucy’s sarcastic comments tickled you funny. Lockwood’s was especially interesting, because he would write to you as if he was sure you would be reading it.

‘bread in the bread bin about to go bad, try not to eat it’ He’d written, right beside where he’d carefully written your name. The ink on this one was new, so you know he wrote it recently. A chuckle works its way out of you, and you fish a pen from somewhere on the table to write, ‘threw it out already, got you a new loaf’.

You’d always reply to Lockwood wherever and whenever he addressed you, and you wondered if he did it because his fleeting subconscious brought you up like yours did him. A smile wiggled its way to your lips, and you pulled your shoulders back to look down at the cloth.

“You’re already here,” someone said sleepily, the voice familiar as his handwriting. Looking up you spot George sleepily yawning, a palm to his eye and his glasses in his other hand. “Did you make yourself some tea already?”

“I did, might need to put on the kettle again, though. How are you already awake? Lockwood told me you lot were on a case last night somewhere far.” You pulled out of your seat just as George pulled into his, sleepily resting against the thinking cloth.

“He and Lucy dealt with it, as far as I know they came back after I fell asleep,” He said, tapering off into another, shorter, yawn. His curly hair was all over, and he had forgone his trousers again, but you weren’t one to tell him off for it. Often Lockwood would liken it to geniuses and their ‘weird habits’, George being the brains of the agency and all that.

“I saw their coats by the door this morning, dripping all over the floor,” George scoffed at that, picking his head up off the table just to thump it back down, “I mopped it up though, no need to worry.”

He looked grateful, especially as you pushed him a cup of hot tea and a donut.

“Lockwood should marry you for how much you pick up after him alone, at this point. Never mind all the times you guys act like you’re already basically married,” He’d said. Casual as he might have been, you find yourself choking on air.

“It’s not like that,” you cough, brows furrowing as George gives you an exasperated frown, “Come off it, it’s not like that. I doubt he’d… y’know.”

He rolls his eyes and tears off a chunk of donut; you take the out when he chooses to say nothing more. Changing the subject is easy with George, but he often makes pointed statements— when he notices something, he just has to say it.

“You brought some more flowers today, yeah? Are the red carnations for Lockwood?” He’d asked, sipping on his tea, more awake than before. As he ate you’d been rushing about the kitchen cleaning up what you could, so you close the cupboard just as he adds, “Do you reckon he’ll pick up on it this time?”

You freeze where you’re pulling a chair out for yourself, worrying your lip between your teeth. “He hasn’t before. I just… I don’t think he will. Get it, I mean. I just— I don’t know. What do you think, George?”

He hums at you, and shuffles to give you a quick pat on your shoulder. “I think you should just tell him at this point. He’s either being intentionally dense or is just being stupid about it.”

“Has he…” you gesture lamely with your hand, arm propped up on your elbow before you slump back in your seat, “Has he said anything about… maybe, liking me back?”

“He doesn’t need to, he makes it clear enough anyways. He’s always banging on about you,” He says, clearly frustrated. You give him a pointed look he doesn’t break, unimpressed as he always is. You sigh. It’s frustrating, but you know George wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t objectively the truth. “Whatever happens, if you do tell him, it’s not going to be as bad as you think.”

You sit in silence for a while after that, George scribbling on the thinking cloth as the seconds pass on by. An hour into your visit, you pull yourself up and out of your chair and head for the front.

“Tell Lucy and Anthony I said hi, please, George. I’ll be heading off now,” You say from the kitchen doorway, he nods your way with a wave, focused on the thinking cloth.

“Do you want me to tell him—“

“No, thank you, George,” You hissed, cutting him off. A grin finds its way on George’s face just as you run off.

An hour later, Lockwood finds himself in the kitchen just as Lucy’s finishing up her breakfast. George had woken up way earlier and had likely dove back into his research if his absence meant anything; you had been gone for an hour as Lockwood passes the doorway. Lucy’s grin turns teasing and Lockwood slumps into his chair.

“Did you see them before they left?” He asks Lucy, who hums a ‘no’ with a knowing grin as she sets down the papers. She reaches over to his side of the table, tapping on the cloth, before pulling the papers back up to her nose.

Pouring himself a quick cup of tea, Lockwood settles down to find where you’d earlier written ‘threw it out already, got you a new loaf’ and smiles. His hand traces reverently along the curves and lines of your inking, and can’t help his chuckle at the little smiley face at the end.

“What’d they say today?” Lucy asks, folding up her paper and propping up her elbows. Her teasing grin hasn’t once dropped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He quips, pulling his shoulders back. Lucy doesn’t look willing to let up, wholly bemused.

“I bet you it’s something not at all even funny enough for you look as giddy as you do,” She grins, rushing out of her chair to read it before Lockwood can cover it up. Her jaw drops when she finds it, turning to Lockwood, who’d turned away and refused to meet her eyes.

“Look at you—“ She starts.

“Stop—“

“Giddy over the fact they went and fetched us bread?” Lucy gasps, wholeheartedly teasing Lockwood as he fumbles for words. Oh, if only you were here so she could do the same to you. “Like a schoolboy, you are, yeah?”

“Lucy,” he groans, hiding his face in his hands as he dumps his head on the table, “It’s not like that— I just. It’s a kind gesture, alright?”

“George makes us dinner everyday but you don’t kick your feet and giggle when he writes to you on the thinking cloth do you?” She goads, relishing in the way Lockwood looks up to glare.

“George calls me a dick when he writes to me on the thinking cloth,” He pauses just as your name runs out his mouth, frown softening, “They wouldn’t do that.”

Lucy rolls her eyes as she stands up, bringing her cup to the sink. Her hair is combed, but she’s still in pyjamas, so it’s likely she’s just woken up too. Lockwood reckons she hadn’t caught your visit, but he asks anyways. Lucy shakes her head just as she settles back down in her chair.

“Ask George, he probably woke up early enough.” She takes a generous bite out of her toast, the crunch of it waking Lockwood up. Last night had been exhausting, but luckily they’d gotten it under wraps. Lucy headed straight up to bed when they got home, but Lockwood had stopped by the kitchen to write you a note on the cloth just before he scrambled up the stairs to his room and passed out in his bed. George had been quiet when they got back, so Lucy was most likely right. Lucy shoves a plate of cheese on toast his way, and he takes it gratefully.

“I’ll just ask him later,” He says around a mouth full of toast. “Have you seen George today, actually?”

Lucy’s grin widens into something mischievous and cheshire, but she tucks it in quickly and simply hums an affirmative. Lockwood narrows his eyes at her, and she looks away.

“Whatever you two talked about—“

“Nothing!” She cut in, holding her hands up. “George says they left you flowers though, red carnations.”

Lockwood feels his breath escape him at the thought— you bringing him flowers? Damn his sleep schedule, he would have woken early just to see you give them yourself if he’d known. The thought of you and your care for him leaves him warm and defenceless; vulnerable in all the ways only you can make him. It’s so so sweet it has him pushing a hand on his lips to stop his grin from splitting his whole face open.

“God,” Lucy laughs, watching him with unfettered amusement, “You—“

“Where did George put them?” He cuts her off, earning a laugh at the grin he can’t hold back. Some part of him wants to make the excuse that he’s this happy and giddy because of how kind a gesture it is, but more than a majority of him knows that’s just not true.

When Lockwood finds the flowers in the library, he knows even in the deepest recesses of his denial and ache, that it’s not the kind gesture leaving him helplessly lost in love with you. Now if only he could find a way to admit that to your face.

A/N: Sorry if this isn’t the best, kinda just let my brain write and lightly edited it after.

#anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x you #Portie writes fanfic

[writtenontheport]

Hey, would you write Anthony Lockwood x reader, in which George and Lucy are fed up with the reader and Lockwood arguing and lock them in the basement for the whole night until they reconcile, and at the same time profess their love for each other. Thanks in advance

Skeletons in the Closet but it’s Actually Just Us

Anthony Lockwood x (gn) reader

Warnings/Tags: Romcom levels of fluff, You’ve Got Mail level of romcom, no suggestive content, Lucy and George friendship, They are deeply fed up, ‘Locked in a cupboard until they confess’ trope, Lockwood is a silly guy, confessions, Reader is a bit of a grumpy person, Valid tbh when the love of their life is some self-sacrificing bozo, A bit of angst given the nature of the Problem, mentions of death,

Notes: Just reviewed all the romcoms I’ve watched these past few weeks so this might be extra cheesy. Also I am rereading your request, anon and I am so sorry but I misread it so BAD 💀But also I changed the time a bit from it being night to it being right after a case! I’m so sorry this isn’t how your request put it 😭 I have terrible reading skills VERY LOOSELY EDITED AND SHORT

Summary: You and Lockwood are unable to voice your own feelings for each other, which frustrates Lucy and George enough to take action. An argument, locked storage, and a heart to heart about the nature of your world later, you’re setting up… a date..???

Anthony John Lockwood was an annoying prat who strutted about like a peacock in desperate need of a slap. Now this frustration is usually the result of something smaller; minute, you might even say, but today— oh, today.

“You ran straight into danger—“ You repeat yourself for what must be the 4th time the past hour. Anthony is sitting across from you in the kitchen “—even though George and I had specifically warned you—“

“Lucy went in too!” He blurts, throwing his shoulders up.

“Keep me out of this,” Lucy hisses, narrowing her eyes at him, “I actually brought iron chains with me.”

You gesture at her wildly, nodding in vindication as you turn back to Lockwood, “Exactly. Lucy knew what she was doing, you were just being reckless! I basically had a heart attack when that Visitor nearly ghost-touched you because you—“

“I didn’t need you to push me aside and put yourself in danger, though!” He hissed, just as frustrated. “I knew what I was doing. I’m very well aware of how it looked like, but I swear I knew what I was doing. Even if… I did need your help getting out of the trouble I put myself in after.”

A pregnant pause hangs in the air, frustration and worry laying under tension so thick you could it with a knife. You look away first with a defeated huff. Lockwood raises a brow and his lips split into a wobbly smile, the charming bastard. He lounges back into his seat and rests one arm on the table in front of him— a gesture for your hand. The look would have been more impactful if a bruise wasn’t already forming on cheek and there wasn’t blood drying on his brow. Still, you make your way over to him to fix his tie (which had gotten caught on banisters during the case) and push his collar up. He beams at you when you pat his jacket neat, but you’re still upset.

“Reckless… stupid prick…” You mumble, brushing his hair with your hands.

Under you, Lockwood’s grin grows just the faintest bit soft as he lolls his head back just to watch your frown.

“I think, hear me out, this is just because you’re worried about me,” Lockwood hums.

You scoff, tugging his tie down harshly, “Someone has to with how little you seem to worry about your own life. Like, seriously Anthony? Our lives are on the line—“

“Want to go on a date?” He asks, interrupting you. You choke on air and quickly let go to swat at his chest. Even if he meant that jokingly, something blazing seemed to unfurl in your chest and stuttered your breathing. You’re usually warm around Lockwood, human heater that he was, but this was a feeling that had your palms clammy and your teeth burried into your lips.

“Now is not the time to joking, Lockwood,” you grit out.

“Well I’m not. I really mean—“ he starts, but the sound of a clang startles you both. Lockwood springs up and takes your hand in his, putting himself between you and the basement door. You look around to find Lucy, but her chair’s empty and pushed in. Worry seeps into your bones with a familiarity like the hand holding yours.

“Lucy? George?” Lockwood calls out, stepping closer to find the door ajar.

Distantly you hear both of them call for you and Lockwood, sounding distressed. You push yourself in front of Lockwood into the spiral staircase down, dismissing the small click of his tongue from behind you.

“You’re being reckless now,” He whispers harshly, which you ignore.

It’s a quick trip to the bottom (with Lockwood likely frowning the whole way down), as you rush into the basement. Lucy and George are standing by the ‘high security’ storage room, something unreadable and determined in their expressions. You rush forward, checking on both of them and giving each a hug after.

You flutter about them both, brows furrowed in worry, “Are you two alright? Are you hurt? Is everything—“

From behind you, Lockwood’s hands rest on your shoulders then rub up and down along your arms in a soothing gesture. “What’s happened?”

Lucy gives George a look, and he clears his throat to say, “We found something in the storage. I couldn’t see it that well, and Lucy—“

Lockwood, the absolutely reckless prick, was already making his way inside. You take a breath through your nose and follow right after him, sending reassuring smiles to Lucy and George as you step in. You whip back to glare at Lockwood’s head, ever the reckless hero he was.

“Lockwood don’t just walk in without even hearing about the situation.” You check a shelf for the sources you keep locked away, Lockwood taking the opposite. A quiet moment passes as you run a hand along the line of the shelf, trying to sense for anything out of the ordinary.

“Probably a Visitor took a break from being in one of our… usually foolproof containers.” He looks over a small, see-through box to check for any cracks or breakage.

You whip back to glare at him, feeling not only worried, but frustrated as well. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t have just waltzed in, Anthony. This is exactly what I mean when I say you’re completely reckless sometimes—“

The door to the high security storage clicks closed, and you both startle. You make your way over to push the door open, but the lock is keeping it shut.

“Shit,” Lockwood rasps out. Yeah, that’s fair.

When you got home from the case that day, you didn’t think the rest of the night would be spent being locked in the basement storage for the next morning. After a quick argument with Lucy and George (who promised to be back whenever ‘you two (you and Lockwood) had stopped arguing and acting like idiots’) where they had insisted they wouldn’t be too far and to just yell for them if anything went wrong.

Now, Lockwood sat beside you with your backs to the door. Lucy had had the foresight to leave you behind with medical supplies, and you found one of George’s sticky notes on a tray of quick snacks. Messily scrawled in the way only George ever could, was Get yourselves together, thanks.

If getting yourselves in order and making up looked like awkward silence and Anthony’s self-soothing stretching and everything you did to self-soothe, then it was looking fantastic. Lockwood had yet to say anything but a few curses when he tried to open the door, though he’d given up half an hour in. Now it was just you two munching on biscuits in a semi-awkward silence.

“I meant it, you know,” He says suddenly, as you’re patching him up and cleaning his wounds. His eyes don’t mean yours when you look up, but you know what he means.

“It was a terrible time to suggest that kind of thing, Anthony,” You bite back, careful to dress his wrist properly.

“I meant it though.” He says sincerely; challengingly. He was always like this, baiting for you to fight back or ague for more, even if you could never tell why.

“Then we’d go on a date, do whatever it is people who like each other do, then I…” you rest your fingers over his open palm, and he slides his own in the spaces between yours “… I watch you throw yourself into danger— into sure death and just wait for either our talents to dry up or for either of us to die?”

“No,” he hums, peering at you through his long lashes, “Well, sort of, just—“

“What else, Anthony?”

“I wouldn’t word it like that.” He squeezes your hand and you purse your lips. Here you are with someone you love dearly wondering if the next time either of you go out there someone dies.

“Then how would you word it, Lockwood?” You want to hope, voice cracking under the weight of your need. Your soft heart lurches from the thick walls of your chest— through the ribs and the muscle and whatever the fuck else was there— reaching with its sharp claws for a scrap.

“We… go on a date. Because I like you and you like me, and because even without the problem hanging over us, we could die at any minute. I, for one, wouldn’t want to waste any of it I could have with you, now or after.” Like a ray of hope, the twinkle in his eyes. Like a ray of hope, that punchable, kissable grin. Your heart lurches and your breath stutters.

You take a free hand to tuck loose strands of his hair out of his face, humming, “How are you so sure I like you, Lockwood?”

“I don’t,” he admits sheepishly. He’s boyish like this, whispering and grinning at you with something not so cocky and infuriatingly cute. “Just a guess really.”

“George told you.” Even though you never told George.

“George did tell me he had a theory, yes… Backed it up with evidence and everything”

You glare at him for a moment, this ray of hope your heart has chosen to cling onto in these times and troubles, and find yourself faltering.

“One condition. Then we can go on however many dates you want for however long you’ll have me,” you offer, dropping your hands down to look proper into his face.

“Anything,” he says easily, shuffling closer to you.

“Try not to be so reckless. We can’t have you dying before even the first one— or any of them, understand?” You pinch his nose lightly, earning a gentle swat back from him.

“You have to try, too. I can’t lose you either.” He brings your hands to his lips, pressing kisses along each knuckle.

I love you goes unspoken, but he sees it in the way you smile so warmly at him, and you see it in the way he holds your hands like it’s the world. Not today, but maybe someday you will tell each other. Today you yell for George and Lucy to finally let you both out and face the world hand in hand.

A/N: I’m such a fan for the “couple who’s not yet a couple bicker endlessly with each other over every little thing” cause I find it so cute. I am a ‘love at first argument’ girlie to the core. Some of my most major crushes have been people I argue with near constantly. Also, because you didn’t anon specify I flipped a coin and it landed on (gn).

Side note: This is especially short because I’m still thinking on how to go about a few things I’m writing. Been having ideas for an angst fic for either Lockwood or Lucy (x reader, ofc) and continuing George’s series because I am deeply in love with him

#anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x reader #portie writes fanfic

[writtenontheport]

Just an Afternoon at Portland Row

Pt. 1: Just a Morning at Portland Row

Finale: Just a Night at Portland Row

Anthony Lockwood x (gn) reader

Warnings/Tags: Idiots in love (again), mentions of death and loss, Still a romcom though, major tropes, a bit of bittersweet angst, Lucy and Reader friendship, Old Man with advice, Lockwood’s a silly guy and I stand by this, George and Lockwood friendship, Norrie is mentioned indirectly, please tell me if you catch any more, Imagine that moment where character a dumps on a random elderly stranger and has an epiphany about character b

Notes: I wrote this all under a trance, I will be 100% honest with you, I only lightly read it over after 😭 I will make a part 3, but who knows when it’ll be!! This fic is what happens when you’re forced to binge classic romcom 2000’s movies and then treat yourself to Lockwood and co LAWL.

Summary: Lockwood wants to return the favour for once, and gets a bit of advice from an old-timer along the way. You have a lovely chat with Lucy, and George is too close to pulling his hair out over everything happening.

Word count: 2k+

The jingle of a bell has Lockwood turning up to find it hanging over the door, his lips pressed thin. The shop is empty as he walks in, sunlight pouring from the windows lining the walls and splaying over the flowers tucked in every corner and on every surface. The whole place smelled refreshingly sweet; cool despite the heat. Teal walls hide behind endless arrays of every other colour, tables strewn and pots haphazard.

An old man comes out from a door behind what must be the counter, small pots lined along the top. He hobbles over and squints his eyes at Lockwood, a dopey smile on his wrinkly face.

“Would you like to come in?” He asks kindly, his voice like a croak. Lockwood sends him a small smile as he steps out of the doorway and shuts softly behind him. “Do you have anything specific you’re here for, or are you just looking around?”

He runs a hand along the edge of the nearest table, basking in the openness of each and every bud and bloom. “I’m here to return a favour. Someone I… know gave me a bouquet recently and I…“

“My,” the old man laughs when Lockwood’s words fail to come through, “You sound awfully shy! Someone you fancy?”

“Well—“ he thinks about it for a second, and the weight of his words lies like a dam in his throat “—I don’t… know?”

“Are you asking, or telling me?” The old man (who Lockwood doesn’t really know what else to call but The Old Man, which is starting to get repetitive) says, rounding the counter to make his way opposite of where Lockwood is lingering. There, a whole shelf of red flowers sits like a still parade, and the old man looks back at Lockwood curiously when he catches him caught on one bouquet.

“Those- um, the red carnations,” He says, making his way over, and gently picking up the red bouquet. The flowers shake and settle in his hands.

The elderly man hums, giving him a terse nod with his eyebrows lifted. He doesn’t say anything as Lockwood fumbles for words, and waits with an amused smirk as he picks up a watering can from the corner and starts on some of the pots.

“…What does it mean when someone gives you red carnations?” Lockwood finally asks, his voice small and his eyes focused on the flowers twirling between his hands.

“My better half used to tell me that they meant pure adoration or true love. Not much different from a red rose then, that lot,” He chuckles, and Lockwood is surprised dust doesn’t burst out of the cough that follows. He sounds worn but content, the old gardener. Lockwood wonders if he still misses them, and aches.

The thought of losing someone after so long frightens him. He doesn’t want to be someone people lose and he doesn’t want to lose anybody else, but there’s just so much love hanging around him. It chokes him sometimes; scares him when he realizes he can lose something— some people. He wonders how any one, even the gardener, can handle it at all.

“Are they not here now?” Lockwood blurts out before he can catch himself, but the elderly gentleman just shrugs.

“No, but it’s not like that’s surprising,” He chuckles, “I’ll be with them soon, anyhow. These old bones won’t be running around for much longer I tell ya’. No use in waiting to just join them, though. The shop still needs tending, and there are people to love, still.”

Thoughts of Portland Row call to him, an echo of all the people he’s loved and still loves. The house still stands whether or not the people in its walls are still the same, like how this old shop still stands, whether or not how many flowers pass in it. His hands tighten lightly around the pot of the carnations, and in his peripheral he can feel the man watching him patiently.

“When someone gives them to you—” Lockwood says instead, because what can you say to that? “—say, a friend of mine received a bouquet of these from someone they… fancied, what does that mean?”

“I think it means they really like you enough to give you flowers,” The shopkeeper laughs, deepening the wrinkles on his temples. Lockwood hides his smile at that, giddy even if it might not be the answer he had exactly been fishing for.

It takes him another half an hour before he’s found a bouquet fitting to give you. He gets the bouquet for free (the shopkeeper insists), but in return he has to come back after and tell the old shopkeep what happens.

“Good luck on you,” The old man smiles on his way out, “Don’t let those flowers go to waste, you hear me?”

The door to 35 Portland Row clicks open with ease, and you carefully step around the line of shoes near the front to slip yours off. A breeze ruffles you from behind as the door falls shut, and you hang your coat up on the stand. Surprisingly, only Lucy’s coat seems to hang up by yours.

“Lucy?” you call out, feeling your voice echoing about the walls. The main hall of the house is spotlessly clean (all thanks to George) yet the walls feel lived in and old. You can feel the history of the house rumbling in your bones; a welcome wave of nostalgia washing over you.

“In here!” Lucy calls from what sounds like the kitchen, “I’ll come out to meet you in a second! Don’t come in!”

You quickly find a seat in a stray chair out in the hall, and settle down to wait. Lucy pops out not a moment too late, quickly shutting the door behind her. Something about the way she doesn’t look away from you as she shuts the door makes you raise your brow in suspicion.

“Thought you would come by a bit later,” She says, pulling you up from your chair with a guiding hand on your arm.

“Did I stop by too early? I can go, if…” You ask worriedly, checking her over in case she was hurt. She’s dressed casually business-like, and it makes you wonder if you’d interrupted her from something important instead. She shakes her head quickly, a sincere smile finding its way onto her cheeks.

“Just— some gadgets in the kitchen that we’re trying out.” She takes you both up the stairs to the library, going on about some new salt bomb as she wildly gestures with her other hand. You eye her suspiciously; she never does that unless she’s nervous.

“Uhuh… and George and Anthony?” You ask playfully, stopping by the doorway of the library. She teeters on the balls of her feet in front of the bookshelf.

“At Satchell’s,” She says easily. Too easily. “How are you and Lockwood?”

Ah, you finally get it. “Did he get himself into trouble again? You don’t have to cover for Anthony, Luce.”

When she quickly shakes her head, you feel a little more confused and suspicious. She pulls an old book out of the shelves, and throws it open, pretending to read it.

“Just… wondering. Can’t a girl just ask her friend how they and their other friend who they’re totally not in love with, are doing?” She hums, flipping a page as she glances at you from the corner of her eye. Her words hit you with a resounding strike, but you manage to keep steady.

“We’re… fine.” You look away from her, which was a mistake because she catches the way you tuck your lips in, and her grin grows teasing.

“Fine? You gave him flowers!” She says, incredulously. When you snap your head her way to protest, she holds a hand up and starts listing all the things you and Lockwood do together that just don’t make sense for ‘fine’.

“…I’m pretty sure you guys pretend to be mad at each other just so you can stare at each other and call it glaring— which, the only thing glaring thing there is the glaringly obvious fact you are ogling each other—“ She takes a breath, all but dumping herself onto a chair, and you take it as a chance to interrupt her.

“Who even says ogling anymore—“

“You are ogling at each other. Face it.” She levels with you, glaring at you through her lashes.

You shuffle your feet for a second under where you’re sat across from her, and you huff in something close to defeat. You bury your head in your hands and refuse to look up. She softly whispers your name and reaches out to pat your shoulder.

“What if… he doesn’t like me back though? I don’t want to ruin all that just for my silly feelings, Luce. I can’t lose him like that.” You meant for it to be playful, but it comes out self-deprecating and quiet. Lucy hums thoughtfully, and you hear the note of it turn a bit sombre.

“Gross as you guys are, I think it’s sweet that you have each other— that you’ve always had each other. It can be easy to lose something like that, and it hurts like hell when you do, but… I don’t think that would happen so easily to you two. I mean, with how long you’ve both been dealing with each other, it’d be mental to let this be the end of it.” Her eyes are glazed over when you peek up; her hand still on your shoulder. You pull her hand into yours and give it a squeeze.

“You’ll be ok, no matter what happens,” she whispers like a secret. You wonder if it is one; if it’s a secret like the cassette tapes she sends home and the flowers you give to Lockwood. You wonder if they were really that much different at all.

“Thanks, Luce,” is all you can say, as you pull each other into a hug that squeezes at the doubts and the fears and the worries.

“You know, George, this makes me think you actually care about me,” Lockwood chirps, walking backwards as George scowls at him from behind a big hefty bag of supplies.

Curfew’s soon to set in, and George is not keen on wasting anything they could save for a case by being tardy of all things. So he scowls at Lockwood, even though he’s endlessly amused.

“Did you hit your head hard enough to finally start hallucinating?” Is all he replies, huffing as he bounces the bag in his arms. Lockwood’s got one full bag, too, but he’s strutting along like it doesn’t bug him. He should have made him take the heavier bag, George thinks.

“You came to fetch me when I took too long—“

“Cause you were taking too long, dickhead!” George feels a smile slip onto his face, and Lockwood beams. They’ve rounded the corner before they spot the house’s porch lights, the route familiar to George.

“I was already at the door when you opened it!” Lockwood argues, spinning forward and slinging the bag about.

“With flowers, Lockwood. You went out to get supplies and came back with flowers—“ George froze as they came up to the house. In one of the higher windows of the townhouse, he can spot two silhouettes in the window laughing about. “Lockwood.”

“It slipped my mind! Besides, we ended up getting the supplies anyway and having a nice little adventure, yeah?” Lockwood goes on, still walking up to the house without a clue in the world.

“Lockwood, stop walking,” George hisses a bit louder, trying to catch up.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had an adventure with us two, if I remember correctly. Last time was… that case, with Ms. Whittle? Luckily Lucy’s still there to make sure they haven’t seen the flowers yet just in case they stop by early,” Lockwood says, still completely unaware.

“Yes, but— Lockwood,” George whisper-yells, finally catching his attention, “They’re already here!”

Now, George Karim is a sensible and (in his very right opinion) incredibly patient person, but it still took everything in his power not to strangle Lockwood when he begins to panic-walk to the front door, rambling the whole way. Sometimes it helps to have had siblings, just so they can train you for moments like these and your head doesn’t go flying at how frustrating people can just be.

The things George does for his friends, he’s glad someone can tolerate Lockwood’s scatter- brained attitude enough like you can. He finds it endearing how much you both go stupid about one another, and just hopes one day you both level out, or else he’s going to go absolutely mental.

A/N: There’s an almost completely written version of this where Lockwood was 100x sillier and miscommunication ensues, but my instinct just told me not to post it. Instead, I got sappy, and you all get this. I wrote the other version mind you, and almost completed it, the same night I started and finished my George x reader fic, so I was honestly a little proud of it. Took a bit to the ego when I realised I could absolutely go about it in a more satisfying manner, but I’m glad I went and took the plunge

Also @tangledinlove asked me to tag her in case I wrote a part 2 so here you go!! Hope it isn’t too bad of a sequel!! Though I did write this mostly sleepy…

#anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x you #Portie writes fanfic

[writtenontheport]

Walk Me Home?

Part 1: Today (pt. 2) (pt. 3) (pt. 4)

George Karim x (gn) Reader

Warnings/Tags: Meet cute (sorta), Sorta Stalker situation (George is not the stalker I FORGOT TO ADD THAT), Reader is also a nerd, no angst, off-screen mentioned mild violence (someone throws a shoe), Happy ending

Notes: I love George, but I sincerely struggled on figuring out how to write him. He’s just so everythingcore like… How would I even manage to express that???

Summary: You and George meet while you’re avoiding someone, and in a moment of pure recklessness he dare never tell Lockwood or Lucy, he plays along when you ask him to pretend to know you.

Word count: Uhhhhh… Around 1k probably (I am too lazy to check) 👍

On a good day, George might visit the library to fetch himself more research material. On a good day, all goes well and George gets back home just in time to put on the kettle and fetch himself a cuppa before he dives into an afternoon of old books and sloppily written notes. Lockwood would scold him for not taking care of himself, George would call him a hypocrite, and then Lucy would come in and make fun of their bickering. On a good day, George makes dinner for everyone, cleans, then heads off to bed with a brain buzzing with theories.

When he sees you skipping over to him in his peripheral, he thinks nothing of it. The other tables are full, so he expected that someone would ask for a seat soon. He shuffles his books out of the way to make room for you, eyeing the strain of your smile as you sit just across him with a few books of your own. He’s never one to pry, but the look on your face is worrying him enough to ask you simply, “Is someone after you?”

You look behind yourself discreetly and George feels like he’s about to get himself involved in something unpleasant. The second floor has a sparse population of active readers about, even less browsing the shelves. This late in the day, people are running off to head home before curfew hits. When you turn back, you level him with a serious stare.

“Can you please pretend to know me if someone comes over and asks?” You whisper quickly, giving him your name in a stammered breath.

George feels his eyes widen, but schools his expression when you mouth ‘please?’. He pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and thinks this day might not be so good after all.

“Why? Are you being followed? I wouldn’t appreciate getting dragged into something illegal, thank you.” He ducks his head down to his book as he says so, but he looks up through his lashes and you freeze. Something about you is intriguing enough for a second look, and he can’t reason out what.

“I— um, well,” You cough, settling yourself into your seat, “I was on my way home when I noticed some guy following me. It’s this guy who’s been bugging me for a while; won’t stop hitting on me. I came running back here and I’ve been trying to lose him since.”

Someone calls your name and you hiss a curse under your breath, ducking into your book. George pulls his shoulders back to sit up square, and glances back down at you. Your lips are pulled up into a sheepish grin, and he can’t help but soften a little at the way you mouth ‘please’ with those pleading eyes of yours.

There’s a moment where George has the choice to either play along or just keep himself out of trouble; where he spots the bellend quickly stomping to you from over your shoulder, and wonders if it’s worth the risk.

‘Lockwood you dick,’ George thinks to himself as he forces a smile on his face, ‘look at how reckless you’ve made me.’

The relief pulling your shoulders back has him feeling warm, and the gratefulness in your grin glues him to the spot. Many people have smiled at him before, but never so genuinely and never so wholeheartedly. It’s captivating the way the light dances in your eyes. He doesn’t think much on it before he actually has to talk to the prick.

“I think I’ve seen you before, at the library,” George says, after you’ve found yourselves away from the library and the creep. He’s insisted on walking you home to keep you from trouble, or so he says. You tease him all the while that maybe he just feels bad for taking your shoe and lobbing it at the bastard’s head. The thick-headed brute managed to damage it with his head, but you told him you didn’t much mind. Doesn’t change the fact that he feels a little bad about it, though.

“Maybe we’ve bumped into each other once?” You ask, and George shrugs.

“I think so, haven’t a clue where exactly.” George follows you as you turn around the corner, eyes flitting about. He checks over his shoulder quickly, and the wind blasts in his face like a rogue leaf blower set on low. His nose scrunches at the chill, and catches you staring at him when he turns back.

“Something on my face or am I just pretty?” He asks, the snark.

“Maybe you’re just pretty,” You hum.

He stumbles a little at that, but catches the teasing grin you shoot at him with ease. He settles back in step with you as you take the lead again. The wind’s blowing a bit harsher now, sliding through his hair like the bitter breath of winter. His face rests itself in the cold, eyes darting to and fro to watch for any other creeps lurking about.

“I go to the library in the morning,” You say suddenly, and he focuses his attention on you as you smile back at him, “Sometimes I catch you sitting by yourself up on the second floor as I’m about to leave. Sometimes you look up.”

He hums, considering the thought. Usually he only looks up if something’s concerned him enough or, well— catches his eye. Ah, right then. Now he remembers.

“You’re usually taking out books on the history if the Fittes’ agency, yeah?” He asks, and you duck your head in a nod.

You turn back to him, “You’re usually reading up on The Problem.”

It’s not a question, he notices. George wonders then how many times he’d seen you pass him by or, hell, even stop at his table before. He wonders if he’s caught your eye before too.

You fall into a silence the rest of the way, marching through the cobble and asphalt of the gloomy London streets; buildings towering over you like mountains. Somewhere in between all the walking you make it back home to a small building tucked between ones thicker and thinner, just as tall. You take a moment to hug George gratefully, and struggle for words when you pull back.

“I know I’m being a bit impudent, asking this of you, but could I find you again tomorrow?” You ask him.

George teeters on the balls of his feet. “I usually wake up pretty late in the morning, is that alright?”

“Absolutely. I’ll see you tomorrow….?” You trail, forgetting that you never quite asked for his name.

“George. George Karim.” He holds out a hand for you to shake, and you do it with a smile that makes him warm even in the bitter cold.

“See you tomorrow, George,” you whisper gratefully, climbing up the steps and closing the door with a wave back to him.

He feels winded by the time he gets him and his books back to Portland Row. The front door bolt clicks in with ease, and he shakes off the dampness of his coat before he hangs it up on the rack. Somehow the day has gone awry and yet he doesn’t find himself too displeased with it.

“George? Is that you?” Lucy pops her head down from the staircase, and looks quizzically at him. “You’re not usually home this early, did something happen?”

He pauses, feeling light and a bit fuzzy as he rests his back on the wood of the door.

“I think… I owe someone new shoes,” he says, but finds a small smile growing on his face.

A/N: I’m not too proud of this one, because I absolutely love George and don’t think I can ever accurately capture all his loveliness proper, but I decided to post it anyways because someone else might like it more than me LOL.

#george karim x reader #george karim x you #lockwood and co x reader #Portie writes fanfic

[writtenontheport]

Lockwood falling in love with the type three ghost of a girl.

That's it.

That's the ask.

The Haunted Boy and His Ghostly Girlfriend

Prologue

(pt. 1) (pt. 2)

Anthony Lockwood x fem reader

Warnings/Tags: Reader is in this for like 2 paragraphs, Romcom 😭, Ik you gave me angst but everything I touch turns romcom I’m so sorry, George gets mad at Lockwood for a bit, Old people clients, mentions of death, Reader is literally a fucking ghost 😭, please tell me if there’s anything I forgot to tag

Notes: I absolutely adored this request omfg. When I saw it, I just KNEW I had to write it omg. This is— this needs to be multipart I’m so sorry. I can’t get it out of my head that he’ll have a little ghostly girlfriend PLEASE ITS SO CUTE IN MY HEAD. Also; very badly edited!! I was exhausted when I first posted this and am still currently combing through it for errors.

Summary: It starts, as all things do here: with a meetcute, the undead, and maybe a bit of tomfoolery. It goes, as it almost never does, with meeting the undead love of his life. What a big day for Anthony Lockwood.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Lockwood is staring into the eyes of the most breathtaking girl he has ever seen, and she isn’t even alive anymore. The girl looks as she probably did when she was alive; a beautiful face with only the most kissable lips he has ever seen in his life, not that he ever could kiss her. He should be calling for Lucy and George— yelling for them to tell them he’s found their ghost, but instead…

“Hi,” He says, clearing his throat, “I’m Anthony. Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and co. You’re a ghost.”

He winces when your frown deepens, and feels bad immediately for blurting that out. Before he can apologize, he sees you mouthing something and realizes quite late that he does in fact need Lucy and George here to be able to talk to you.

“I can’t really hear you, sorry. I have… my friend can though. Just a second—“

Before we can go forward, we have to go back a little to just before this began. So let’s start with a fact: even with Skull being able to talk with Lucy, Lockwood still had his reservations on type threes. Type ones and type twos were the predictable result of certain situations— murders, death by illness, accidents, and all the “good” things that made the visitors more likely to visit. Type threes? It took the literal manifestation of the actual thing for him to even accept they existed. Suffice to say, Lockwood didn’t think he could ever fully warm up to the idea of a ghost he couldn’t understand.

Then one day, a case comes to him with a rather peculiar situation. The living don’t often find themselves attached to the undead, especially ones with no relation to them. The Thistlebrows prove to be an exception. The case? Their family ghost is lonely now that their granddaughter’s been sent away.

Lucy and George have stepped out for supplies when the old Thistlebrow couple stops by, so he takes them to the sitting room and prepares them tea. From the first word that comes out of them, Lockwood thinks he’s having some sort of hallucinogenic episode.

That’s more of an exaggeration actually as it seemed reasonably normal at first; strong presence, solid apparition visible enough that even in their old age they could see wisps of it lurking. Nothing more than a stubborn spectre, he was sure. Then—

“It’s an old house,” Mrs. Thistlebrow croons, sipping her cup of tea. “We’ve only lived in it for a few years, and we doubt we’ll be able to keep her company for much longer.”

“I’m sorry?” Lockwood asks, genuinely confused. He was sure he must have misheard them, before Mr. Thistlebrow spoke.

“We don’t know where she is, really, nor have we ever fully seen her… but our granddaughter is taken with her. We thought at first she just had an imaginary friend, but then…” He pulls out a polaroid.

There was nothing in the photo worth noting— a pair of shoes on the windowsill of an open window. The flash of the camera didn’t illuminate past the frame, but that was expected for a photo taken so late. He keeps a patient smile on his face, but he nods slowly with his brow furrowed in worry.

“The window was locked when we left the room. It’s too tall for our granddaughter to reach, and nothing was moved before or after this picture was taken— at least not by the living. Our granddaughter had asked her to open it to prove to us she was real, and the ghost left her shoes on the windowsill to hammer it in.” He leaves the photo in front of Lockwood, pulling back into the seat.

Lockwood’s brow scrunches in confusion as the gears turn in his head. Many type twos form apparitions, but poltergeists do not. Incidentally, only poltergeists can interact with heavy objects and the window certainly wouldn’t have been light. It looked to be a thick pane of glass with a metal on wood frame, pushed open farther than a stray breeze could push it.

“How old is your granddaughter?” He asks, his own voice distant to him. The photo makes something in him itch to solve the case.

“Just turned 7,” Mrs. Thistlebrow says with a click of her tongue, bringing a hand up to her wrinkly cheek. “Her parents sent off abroad when they realised she had Talent; didn’t want her having anything to do with the Problem. Heart broken, she was. The ghost was her first best friend.”

The Thistlebrows look genuinely devastated at that, and Lockwood bites back an incredulous frown. Oh the story he has for Lucy and George when they come back, absolutely mental it all is.

“We know this might be a lot to ask, but we’ll pay you as much as you need to keep the ghost company. Our granddaughter was so devastated knowing the poor girl would be lonely without her, and we certainly couldn’t talk to her no matter how much we tried.” Mr. Thistlebrow picks an envelope from his suit pocket, and slides it across the table to Lockwood. It’s a thick thing with obviously quite a bit of cash, and a cheque is peeking out from where the lip has opened.

Now, he could absolutely refuse the case. The agency was stable and the cases they have lined up were far less troublesome than finding and keeping another possible type-three ghost; George would even call him stupid for not refusing it right away, but…

“We’ll do it. You both have nothing to worry about,” He says instead, reassuring as he can be as he pulls on the lapels of his jacket. Mr. and Mrs. Thistlebrow’s faces split into smiles, and Lockwood can’t find it in him to regret his decision.

“—And you took the case?” George says, all but yelling as he leans over the table to stare wide-eyed at Lockwood. Lucy’s frozen in her seat, her pen still on the thinking cloth.

“I authenticated the money, and they offered to meet us at the house as soon as we can if there were any more issues with compensation.” He takes a spoonful of supper, and hums in delight. “You’ve really outdone yourself today, George.”

“That’s not the problem, Lockwood,” George hisses, always so dour. He doesn’t settle down into his seat, even going so far as to cross his arms in disapproval. Still, he mumbles out a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Did they say anything else?” Lucy finally speaks up, her eyes still on the thinking cloth. It’s good she’s at least started doodling again, so Lockwood manages to look back up at both of them (which is very hard when George is glaring at him so severely).

“Their granddaughter’s name is Pepper, thought it might help us if we pretended to be her friends at least. It…” He pauses, tapping his spoon against his supper as he thinks of the right way to say it, “As far as they know, it isn’t aggressive and seems cooperative. They even— actually, wait.”

He pulls out the polaroid from his inner pocket, looking it over (even though he knows nothing would have changed) before sliding it to the center of the table. Lucy and George both lean in to have a look, coming back to stare at him in confusion.

“It was able to unlock and push the window open, then left the girl’s shoes on the windowsill to further prove it existed. Not only that, but both the Thistlebrows have said it is a rather heavy window too high up for their granddaughter to reach.” He takes another bite of his dinner, watching their expressions morph.

“But they said it had an apparition?” George asks first, seeming on the edge of worried and heavily intrigued. “Spectres can’t interact with heavy objects, but poltergeists can’t have apparitions. This ghost can’t exist unless it really was…”

Lucy is deep in deliberation as her eyes flit to somewhere out of the kitchen; the skull, Lockwood realizes quickly. “If this is a type three… and it was cooperative…”

A pregnant pause fills the room, only the ticking of a faraway clock echoing about the walls. George settles into his seat with a sigh, finally picking up his utensils. Lucy, rests her hands in her lap. They all look up and at each other, waiting for a beat, before falling into a quiet supper. They were definitely going to have to see this through now.

So here Lockwood finds himself in front of the house that starts and ends it all; that houses what might just be the strangest thing to happen in his haunted life. He meets you in a flurry of strange things— through a polaroid of an open window, a ghost goose case, and then meeting the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen— before he finds himself asking:

“Would you like to come home with us?”

You nod quickly in surprise, your eyes shining in mirth and other-light. He doesn’t even need Lucy to translate that as anything but a firm ‘yes’.

A/N: Everything I touch… turns to romcoms… I am like King Midas of romcoms PLEASE.

Also! Starting a silly taglist, just somehow reach out if you’d like to be added!!

Taglist 🏷️

@tangledinlove

#portie writes fanfic #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you