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writtenontheport · 2 months

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I’m glad you found them cute!! I was worried they’d be annoying 😅 So I am glad!!

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!!

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writtenontheport · 2 months

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I just saw this but thank you!!!

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.

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writtenontheport · 4 months

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I am sorryyy,,, To the followers of this account and my few moots (Ily… I’m so sorry I was gone…) I have moved around accounts,,,

I kept neglecting to mention it here because I’m in a very rocky stage of, well, everything! My gender, my self expression, etc. (18’s only magical for how it confuses you, I’ve found) and I felt bad having so many neglected fics (about 12 in my drafts). I’ve also long left the Lockwood and co fandom due to no longer having that same spark of wonder for it, but have been, bouncing around too often in fandoms to really warrant linking this account to any of my many side accounts. Trust me, the pipeline is so weird I genuinely don’t think it’d be a good idea to show you guys my new accounts 😭 (not because I do nsfw now or something, heavens no!! It’s just on another side of the interest spectrum that just… makes no sense)…

That said, I will tey to be more active here again, but I don’t think I will write any more about lockwood and co :( I’ll update my pinned to reflect that change, and while maybe I’ll pick up my old fics, I doubt it’d be soon.

#portie goes on a ramble #portie non-fandom posts #portie is talking to themself again

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writtenontheport · 7 months

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portie its been so long when do u return from war (hiatus)

OMG LOVE IM SO SORRY I JUST SAW THIS TODAY 😭 MY LIFE’S BEEN SO CRAZY 😭

School’s been kicking my ass so I went and hyperfocused into school ;—; then my birthday came and went and before all of that, I had gone on a 2 week trip and came back just a day before school started. Then I got ill in the middle of school, which knocks me out for a good week or two, and I’ve been playing catchup for the whole of the month.

So all in all, I am so sorry I am seeing this basically a month later 😭

I am returning from the war soon hopefully, I’m getting my bearings and I’ve got one foot planted firm in terms of catching up to my classes!! Hopefully this keeps up in time for me to start writing again but we’ll see. I hope you’re doing well Love 🫶🫶🫶🫶 Thank you checking in and I’m sorry I’ve basically been MIA 😭

#portie goes on a ramble #portie non-fandom posts

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writtenontheport · 8 months

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Hello!! Just a little update in case any of you were wondering!! When I said a few days I actually meant a week or two,,,, I should have elaborated 😭 I’m writing but the posting’s been put off!! my ass just FORGOR to mention 💀 Sorryyyyy,,,,

#portie goes on a ramble #portie non-fandom posts #portie is talking to themself again #portie writes fanfic

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writtenontheport · 8 months

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Hope you take care at college!! Kick ass and take names!!! And also hydrate and eat well if you can <3 So honoured to be on here

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a/n: another update... probably my last one for a while, college starts in like 3 days so yeah :) give some love to the authors and I completely understand reading a fic without reading tags (I do it all the time) but please please pleeeeeease read the trigger warnings. Also idk if you like... tag authors in these anymore, bit I am going to.

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Criminal Minds I know I have a spencer reid problem

Stardust - Spencer Reid - @imagining-in-the-margins (Im so sorry in advance)

New Traditions - Spencer Reid - @railingsofsorrow

the nice guy - Spencer Reid - @ebullientheart

afternoon nap - Spencer Reid - @in-another-april

tenesse whiskey - Spencer Reid - @evansflowers

im sorry - Spencer Reid - @gizmo-writes

meeting the team - Spencer Reid - @tinyluvs

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I won't let go - Aaron Hotchner - @0and0its0doctor0

running to safety - Spencer Reid - @gizmo-writes

You're Losing Me (pt 2) - Aaron Hotchner - @14buddy22

glasses Reid!! -Spencer Reid @luveline

Hair cut - bau/derek - @luveline

fainting - Spencer Reid - @luveline

Harry Potter

seven minutes in heaven - slytherin gang - @azrielscrown

Neville Longbottom blurb - @sarahisslytherin

IF I CANT HAVE YOU BABY - Mattheo Riddle - @earthgirl616

Theo Nott - @veryberryjelly

baby, won't you be my girl? - Theo Nott - @azrielscrown

Pretty Crier - Mattheo Riddle - @ancientparsnips

Theo blurb - theo nott - @suugarbabe

butting heads - Lorenzo Berkshire - @s1ater

Theo Nott HC - @evergone

LOVEBITES AND POTIONS - Theo Nott - @caramelcal

romance by the season - Theo Nott - @anakinellie

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writtenontheport · 8 months

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Just an update for the lovely request senders <3 I have your requests I’m just working through them!! For one of them I’m half done, though I am yet to start on the other,,,

Promise I will post fics soon, just working through some irl stuff so I barely have time or motivation to write,,,

#portie goes on a ramble #portie non-fandom posts #portie writes fanfic

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writtenontheport · 9 months

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LOVEEEE 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 HELLO!! WELCOME BACK!!!

One day you will find a Lockwood cat irl of your own!! You just go “pspspsps” and 10 will suddenly appear one day I’m sure of this

ALSO FRIENDS MAKING BETS!! YES!! I FIND IT SO FUNNY!!! Nobody will ever know you better than friends who live with you (real)

ALSNDIFNSKENEJFNFSKEB HEARING THAT FROM YOU IS AN HONOUR I LOVE YOUR WRITING 🫶🫶🫶🫶 Every time you say it is like getting hit with a dose of serotonin like a shot of expresso to the veins, thank you 🤞🤞🤞❤️❤️❤️❤️

I HOPE YOURE DOING AS AWESOME AS YOU ARE <3 THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS GIVING THE MOST SUPPORTIVE FEEDBACK 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

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.

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writtenontheport · 9 months

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Hii!!! So my ten year sister made some sticker packs on Etsy, and she'd really appreciate it if you could buy some! They're downloadable stickers! So you can print them out. And if.. you aren't able to buy you can always reblog! To help other people see it too! She'd really appreciate it, art has always been her forté, and she drew these on her iPad herself! And she spent a lot of time on them so yeah <33

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writtenontheport · 9 months

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SOBBING. BITING MY NAILS DOWN. PATHETICALLY CRYING. THIS IS SO GOOD.

This cat is me after crying my eyes out. I love this so much. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

They’re both so stupid reckless, and they’re both so stupidly in love. UGH. I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.

I can’t even point out a favourite moment, this entire thing was a lovely read 😭🫶🤞

Hi!!!! Your L&C fics are my favorite thing ever, your writing is absolutely incredible, I'm a bit obsessed I think XDD

Apologies if this request is too specific, but I would die for a Lockwood x reader fic where the reader makes up their mind to do something stupidly reckless for a case, something even Mr. Reckless himself can't support, especially not when it's YOU. He begs you not to, you do it anyway, get badly injured, but he's still there to patch you up after all of it.

Have an awesome day!!!!!

a/n: my day is absolutely awesome so far, i hope yours is too!! and thank you so much, i'm so so glad you enjoy my stuff!! i hope you enjoy <3

warnings: language, injury gn reader

You knew the case was going to be a bad one from the get-go, you just didn't know how bad.

Everything had seemed fine when you and the other members of Lockwood and Co met with the clients, a pair of men who owned a nearby butcher's. A Type Two haunting the place, nothing you couldn't handle. George had even found a lot a decent information on the place that could help you guys figure out where the source was. The notion of it being in a butcher's made you uneasy, and you knew very little about the Type Two, though Lockwood was sure you'd all be fine.

But, standing in the shop, facing a ghost you can't see, you know you're fucked.

It's just your luck to be faced with a poltergeist, honestly.

Unlike other Visitors, poltergeists can't inflict ghost touch which, in the long run, is very handy. If ambulances can't get to agents on time to give them an adrenaline injection, then it can lead to loss of limbs or death. It sounds like a positive, right?

Well, staring at the carving knife floating a few feet away, you would much rather be faced with a Wraith or even a Rawbones.

The thing is, poltergeists have no physical form so it's harder to look for a source, hence George and Lucy scrambling around in the backroom, clattering about as they rush to look.

Ahead of you, the knife hovers in midair, its sharp, gleaming point slowly turning as if to decide which person to dart at: you, Lockwood, or Lucy and George. It's like a horrible version of Spin the Bottle.

"So, this lovely Visitor was the old butcher?" you say, keeping your voice light. Poltergeists feed off negative emotions even more than other Type Twos.

Lockwood nods, rapier in hand as he looks around the rest of the room, rooted in place. "That's what George says."

"What reason does it have to be haunting the place?"

"Killed by an angry employee, I think."

You hold back a grumble, forcing down your anger at stupid people from the past. If they'd known how many problems they'd cause in the future, would they still have been such idiots?

Probably.

"Watch your back then," you joke. "You have three employees. Keep us happy, will you?"

"There's only so much tea I can make."

The knife rises in the air slightly and you falter back a step as its sharp end points at you.

"I think I'm the favourite," you mutter, trying to keep your fear in check. It's not often ghosts threaten you at knifepoint. "Lockwood, you go help Lucy and George look for the source. I'll keep its attention."

"No way." He looks at you incredulously. "We're doing this together."

Palms sweating, you say, "Your rapier isn't going to do much against a ghost we can't see, and not all of us can look for the source because then none of us stands a chance."

"I'm not letting you face it on your own," Lockwood insists. "Not a chance. The thing's got a knife, and it can do much worse."

But Lucy shouts something from the backroom, drawing Lockwood's attention. Through the buzz of fear in your ears, you think she says they might've found something.

"Lockwood, go!"

"(name), I'm not just going to leave you to -"

The knife whizzes in the air, lodging itself in the wooden doorframe, awfully close to your shoulder. It's like the Visitor wants Lockwood to stay, but you aren't going to let him. He's the leader of Lockwood and Co, the face of it. The company needs him. But not you. You're expendable.

Your Talent isn't anything special, not like Lucy's, and your research skills are nowhere near the standard of George's. All you're good at is using a rapier and sweet-talking DEPRAC when cases go tits up. Lockwood can easily fill in for you.

"Lockwood," you grit out, trying to keep the frustration at a minimum. "Go."

He's about to argue, but George calls for help - whatever they've found is stuck. He doesn't move.

Before you can think about it, you rush over and shove him in the direction of the backroom, and he stumbles, falling into the door. He barely gets his footing before Lucy's dragged him through.

"(name)!" he shouts, but he doesn't appear. Thank god for Lucy.

"All right," you murmur, turning to look at the knife in the doorframe. "Just you and me, now, Polty."

Slowly, threateningly, the knife dislodges from the frame, shining in the dim lanternlight. From the far wall, a knife rack trembles on its hooks, and more come free. Your heart is in your throat. Maybe you'll end up like a ghost you've defeated before, an old man who'd been jumped and stabbed endlessly.

Hopefully, you'll be an easy ghost to get rid of.

The carving knife comes flying at you, and you barely deflect it with the thin blade of your rapier. Another knife darts across the room, and you duck out of the way, though it nicks your ear. You can feel the little dribble of blood sliding down the skin already.

"Do you guys mind hurrying up a bit?" you call, eyeing the large collection of knives hovering. "Not to rush you or anything, but, you know, I'm not the biggest fan of being threatened by knives."

"Almost there!" Lucy shouts. "George got his arm stuck trying to get the source out. We're trying to get him unstuck."

Swallowing, you say lightly, "Yeah, sounds fun. Maybe speed it up a little."

You can hear a little arguing, likely Lockwood trying to come back out to help but getting told off by Lucy. You almost smile. Almost.

This time, the small knife that launches at you catches your shoulder and you resist crying out in pain. If you do, Lockwood will definitely come running out, and you can't afford that. They need to get the source.

Blood oozes down your arm, staining your jumper. Your grasp on your rapier weakens, and you swap the blade into your other hand, although this hand is considerably worse with it.

"It's rude to stab people," you grumble.

The next knife is deflected clumsily from your face, half from the inability of using your other hand and half from the pain in your shoulder. You'd pull the knife out, but you know it'll make things worse. At least it hasn't hit anything vital.

You can feel the presence of the poltergeist, thick and hanging over the whole room like a blanket. It isn't the most powerful one, not like the ones you've heard Fittes agents dealing with, because, even though its presence is everywhere, its focus is dealt solely on you. If it were stronger, it'd be targeting the others, too.

"Go on then, give me your worst."

Another knife, another dodge. It feels like it goes on forever, on and on and on with the same knives over again. The blood from your shoulder has reached your hand now and, god, how you wish you could throw a salt bomb at this thing. Your fingers itch to hold one.

"Hurry up!"

Mistake. You regret speaking immediately, having let out a little too much frustration, and the poltergeist feeds on it. The knives tremble in the air, every point staring menacingly at you, and the one hanging in your shoulder tears out, bringing with it another gush of blood. You can't help the cry that escapes your lips this time.

"Get the silver net, hurry!" Lucy's voice shouts.

The world moves in slow motion. As the knives fly in your direction, gleaming, one covered in blood, your heart feels like it ceases all functions. This is where you die. You'll never be able to dodge all of them in time.

Then the first blade sinks into your shoulder, just inches below the first puncture, and you shut your eyes.

You'll miss Portland Row and your friends. Maybe you didn't cherish their antics enough - the way George sings in the shower in the mornings, waking you up, or how Lucy will blast music at full volume while hacking away at the dummies in the basement for rapier practice. Most of all, you'll miss Lockwood. His smile, the way his eyes sparkle when he realises you've bought him a new magazine from the shop, the feeling of his fingers brushing yours as he passes you a mug of tea after every case.

There isn't much you regret, but you regret not telling him how you feel about him. About the nights you spend thinking about him, wishing for something more between you both.

Metal slams to the ground. The heavy pressure sitting on your shoulders dissipates, and silence ensues.

Slowly opening your eyes, you startle, seeing a dozen knives scattered on the floor right in front of your feet. Droplets of blood drip from your fingers, forming a little puddle on the floor. You're breathing heavily, much more than you should be, and your body is trembling.

The others stumble into the room, eyeing the blades that have fallen before you. Lockwood is the first to notice the blood soaking the sleeve of your jumper.

He practically leaps over the counter to get to you. "Lucy, George, go get rid of the source and get us a night cab. Quick."

Wordlessly, the two sprint from the shop and into the night.

"You're okay," Lockwood says.

You almost believe him, falling for the assured tone of his voice, but you feel a little woozy. Knees buckling, you drop to the floor, but he catches you with gentle hands, slowly lowering you down so you can sit after kicking the knives away.

"You're okay," he says again, though it sounds like it's more for himself than for you.

"I'm fine," you say, smiling albeit weakly. "Polty didn't stand a chance."

"Polty?" Lockwood parts from your side, grasping his bag from the corner and digging in it for a first aid kit. "You named the ghost?"

Nodding, you lean your head back against the wall. "He was my best mate."

There's a small laugh. "I don't think Lucy will appreciate that sentiment."

He's beside you again before you can even really process it, gingerly touching the ripped hole in your jumper. There's a lot more blood there than you initially realised.

"Do you think you can get your jumper off?" Lockwood asks. "I need to see the cuts."

Normally, you would've made a comment at that, but your throat feels awfully dry. "Take the knife out first?"

He goes pale, eyeing the - thankfully - small knife stuck in your arm.

"This will hurt. Hold onto my arm."

And you do. You weakly wrap your hand around his forearm, bracing yourself for the pain. He begins to count down from three, but he yanks the knife out on one, and you shout in pain, squeezing his arm.

"You pulled it early!"

"You would've made it harder to get out if I'd counted down the whole way." He looks a little bad for doing it, but you can understand why he did it. "Jumper?"

With his help, you manage to pull the thing off, hissing as you move your injured shoulder. Your T-shirt is stained at the sleeve, too, and partially at the neckline. It stings to pull it from the wound, but, soon enough, the cuts are visible. They're neat little things, nothing more than small slits in your skin, but they go deep. Lockwood will only be able to do so much.

With shaking hands, Lockwood pulls some things out of the first aid kit. You're too sore to really notice.

"You're an idiot, you know that, right?"

His voice shocks you out of the daze you were slipping into. "Hmm?"

"You shouldn't have done that alone. Look what's happened."

As he brings an alcohol wipe to the gashes, you wince at the sharp sting and the pressure he applies but say, "And what should I have done? Let you be the one to do it alone? We both know that you wouldn't have let me help, Lockwood. And you're more important in the grand scheme of things. I think I would've made quite the sacrifice if it had come to it."

"Don't say that." His voice wavers slightly, so quietly you barely hear it. "You're important to me."

He applies more pressure to the wounds, then he places wound dressings over them before grabbing a water bottle from his bag and soaking a tissue. Gently, he takes your arm in his hand and cleans away the slowly drying blood. It's messy work - the tissue keeps flaking apart, but it does the job and, soon enough, your arm is only faintly stained with your blood. He cleans the little bit of blood away from your ear quickly, placing a little plaster over the cut.

"I wasn't going to let you do it," you say, gratefully swallowing the painkillers he hands you. "You would've killed yourself to save us."

"And you didn't just try practically the same thing?"

There's an undertone of anger in his voice, but it's weak, taken over almost completely by his concern.

"(name) -" He hesitates, looking away from you. His ears are tinted slightly red. "You can't just be reckless like that. Not when..."

His fingers brush yours as you say, "When what?"

You can feel the tremble in his fingers. Although you're the one with stab wounds that still need medical attention, you worry. His smile, that cocky grin you've grown so fond of, is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by parted lips and heavy breathing. The pulse you can feel in his fingers is erratic.

"Not when you mean so much to me. I can't lose you."

The words take you aback. For a moment, you're acutely aware of his skin touching yours, of the sound of his breaths, and the way the light accentuates the features on his face. His cheekbones look sharper, and his eyes glimmer, darkness set alight with little stars.

He mistakes your shocked silence for rejection. "A night cab should be here soon, then we can get you to a hospital and -"

His words falter when your good hand touches his cheek. Slowly, his gaze turns to your outstretched arm, gradually making its way up the limb until he's looking at you - your eyes, your lips. This is the most nervous you've seen him, and it makes you feel a little triumphant. Not many people make Anthony Lockwood nervous.

"I'm okay," you promise. "You've patched me up, and we're going to get me taken care of, yeah? But, first..."

"But first?" His eyebrow quirks, and he watches you closely.

It's something you never would do in normal circumstances. Really, you're probably not in the right state of mind, but you've wanted to do this for months. And Lockwood doesn't stop you.

When your lips touch his, you feel a sense of completeness. Like your soul has been made whole. It's as if they're the missing piece to a puzzle you've been trying to finish all your life, finally found after years and years of searching.

One of Lockwood's hands holds the back of your neck, his touch gentle, giving you enough leeway to pull away if you so wish. But you don't. You won't. No, instead your clutch his shirt with your good hand, holding him close. You never want this to end, this feeling of finally being whole. Your heart is racing, and it feels as though your very being is going to implode from pure elation.

Carefully, reluctantly, he pulls away, but his face stays close. His eyes search yours for any glimpse of regret, but he finds none, and he grins, at last. The smile sends a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself smiling, too, despite your pain.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for that," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You can feel his breath on your lips. "I might have an idea."

And then he's kissing you again, snatching your breath away.

Silently, you're thanking the poltergeist for the wounds, a thought that almost makes you laugh.

#portie reblogs #anthony lockwood x reader

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writtenontheport · 9 months

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After writing on this dock for over two weeks with 4 days break, I think I finally have to slow down 😞😞😞

As is, I don’t plan on abandoning the series (plural) I have, but I won’t be writing (as much)!! I’ll be reading more actually, as there are lovely fanfics in this fandom and I’d love to get around to reading them!! 🥰👍🫶

Ok, that’s it, Portie out >:]

P.S. Let’s hope I remember to reblog, I’m too used to the kudos system on AO3,,,

P.P.S. By ‘I won’t be writing’, I mean that as in… for a few days I will not be!! Requests are still open, I might not get to them as quickly, but I will still write in general!!

#portie goes on a ramble #portie non-fandom posts #portie is talking to themself again

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writtenontheport · 9 months

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I am putting something in them yes 😈😈😈 (cinnamon and sugar)

Thank you for the comment though! Glad you enjoyed it!!