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novelizt · 11 months

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I CAN BUILD A CASTLE OUT OF ALL THE BRICKS THEY THROW AT ME ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

GENRE ➺ angst + fluff, fake relationship

SYNOPSIS ➺ you recruit the daring anthony lockwood to stage a relationship that will rile up the press and give his company publicity.

WC ➺ 10.9k

DISCLAIMER ➺ actress! reader. the fic also sings the "all these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret" beat. lockwood calls reader "darling" and "starlet" because... you'll read why. i'm not sure if The Daily Gazette is a real thing. if it is, i mean no slander — this is merely fiction and I needed a publication name.

NOTE ➺ this is for the oldest/only child who takes on a lot for their family — i see you. also, imagine the nick-priyanka chair pull; i like to think that it's lockwood and darling in a nutshell. my ideas were all over the place so this came out a bit messier than i anticipated, but it is lockwood content so i hope you enjoy! especially you, @t2sh0 !!

They say the brightest stars are the ones that burn out first. That was probably what the gazette was counting on, at least.

Ever since you stepped into the limelight, and shortly earned the title of London's Darling, they made a dime a dozen in making your business their business. They would sing your name to high praise one moment then drag it through the mud the next.

You were content with letting them run their mouths, because it was no skin off your nose, but you drew the line at insulting your family.

Someone at the gazette thought it would be absolutely riveting to write about the dirt poor origins you were raised from. In the article, they not only criticized you, but put your parents under a microscope as well.

"All that really happened is, their daughter put on diamonds and called herself a queen," the Daily Gazette said. "It's only about time until they return to their roots—of which aren't much."

They insinuated that you might not even be your father's daughter—or if you were, it wouldn't be long 'til you came out to be as ill as he was. They called your mother weak for not being as proacticve in generating money, and you a fool for being their lapdog. No one in their right mind would just sit and let a publication sully their name like that.

If they were going to make up hullabaloo, you were going to step ahead and give them something else to talk about, and what better play than having London's Darling Starlet fall in love?

It had came to your attention that the gazette had set their eyes on one agency in particular: Lockwood and Company. Specifically one, Anthony Lockwood.

Where they besmirched your name, they glorified his. The kid was talented at weaving through a conversation, you'd give him that. From what you'd read, you already knew he liked being in the glare of publicity.

You were taking a gamble when you walked right up to their statute of work without a disguise. If the someone at the gazette saw you, you hoped that they would get the ball rolling. All that would be left to do is recruit Mr. Lockwood.

But Lockwood hadn't been the one to greet you at the door. You tried not to appear too shocked, but no one really expects to see someone geared in oversized cleaning gear. Whoever it was looked more alien than human.

"Arif's?" the curly haired boy inquired.

You were tempted to scratch your head, because what in the world was an 'Arifs'?

You were conjuring up a response, but then the boy was shoved aside. The girl who had taken his placed looked both inquisitive and sleep-deprived at the same time. Some kind of recognition happened in her eyes and you smiled, mirroring hers.

The curly haired boy looked positively disturbed by it.

"Hello," you said delicately. "does Mr. Lockwood happen to be in at the moment?"

"He is," the girl said. "You must be the Darling of London. I've seen you in the papers. My friend, Norrie, would be so happy if you could—"

"Luce?"

You weren't usually struck by strangers but you knew right away, that it must be him: Anthony Lockwood. He had the timbre and tone of a well-trained celebrity. It was no wonder the gazette was tripping over themselves to write him.

"Lucy's busy smiling at the Darling of London, or whatever she called her," the curly-haired boy reported, akin to a child who wanted to see their sibling be scolded.

"George," Lockwood turned his attention with a terse intonation. "why don't you pop on the kettle?"

George's smirk fell. He muttered something at Lucy before retreating to the door beside the stairwell. The wide berth he left gave you your first glimpse of the gazette's most recent favorite.

Anthony Lockwood was a spectacle in a suit and tie, looking exactly like his pictures in the papers. He cleaned up nicely enough. You just couldn't help but wince at the disarray his hair was in.

"Lucy, will you please?" Lockwood gave Lucy a look. She cast a glance at you before hesitantly joining George in the kitchen.

You made a mental note to ask about her friend, Norrie, later. It's the least you could do for her saving you from George.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Lockwood turned his attention back to you. He leaned easily against the doorframe, giving off the impression that he was conversational enough, even if you weren't being very good at being polite.

"Welcome to Lockwood and Co., I'm Anthony Lockwood," he said courteously, flashing a smile that would make the press go crazy. You've seen just one like it on cast mates, but he had done it so well you know he'd practiced to get it perfect, or maybe he was naturally good at smiling. You wouldn't know. His voice waded through your reverie. "How can we help you?"

"The kind of help I need isn't a usual request, Mr. Lockwood," you said forwardly. You glanced over his shoulder before offering a chaste smile. "May I come in?"

—

You didn't expect an audience of three after being lead to the receiving room. Then again, you should have. The reasonable assumption was that you were here for ghost-related troubles. You weren't sure how to clarify that you weren't.

You accepted a cup of tea and took in the air in the room before proceeding. Lockwood was sat right across from you, attentively bent toward you. Lucy was trying to keep on a amiable façade in her seat (likely to get a signature for her friend). George was... being himself. He was an odd one, but he had rid himself of his space suit, so that was nice. None of them seemed to be hostile though. That was always a good thing.

"I have a personal favor to ask of you," you started. You rested your hands over your knees, retaining your resolution. "and it involves the recent rumors about me."

"Which one? The one about your prissy attitude or the inevitable downfall of your entire family?" George wasn't as ignorant as he made himself out to be. He took a sip of tea when Lucy glared his way. Lockwood didn't look too surprised by his snide, George must regularly be like this.

You stifled a laugh of your own, amused by his forward nature. "Both, to be honest. The gazette has been generous with their slander lately." You tapped your finger on your knee. "One can only take so much . . . That's what brought me here. I need your help to keep them under control. You'll be properly compensated, of course."

"Miss Darling—" Lockwood started. It wasn't your name but you let it be since he sounded genuine enough. "—we are a psychical agency. What you're asking, it's out of our area of expertise."

"I am aware of that, but I'm not making this request to Lockwood & Co.," you said firmly. You steeled yourself when you set your eyes on him. He flinched under the intensity. "I'm asking you directly, Mr. Lockwood."

George hunched forward, unsuccessfully staunching a laugh. Lucy had straightened in her seat, eyes bugged out of her head. And Lockwood? The surprise on his face couldn't have been fake. He blinked and blinked, but his brain couldn't catch up.

You went on. "My family's been involved. I can't sit idly by while their names are being tarnished. I need something to dissolve those rumors, or at least distract the public enough to forget about them."

He cleared his throat but it was clear he was still ruffled by your earlier admission. "And how would I contribute to that?"

You tried to sound professional, but even your most prim tone sounded odd when it came to a request like this. "I need you to court me."

George stopped trying to muffle his laughter. He even grew bold enough to take a biscuit to snack on. "This is rich. 'Court' and 'Lockwood' in the same sentence? Never thought I'd see the day. You're better off with someone like Quill Kipps, Miss Darling—was it? At least he can act."

Lockwood shot a glare at George but he didn't budge, smiling as he devoured his biscuit. Lucy had recovered and gave her two cents. "George is right. Lockwood doesn't have the best track record in terms of subtlety."

Lockwood looked affronted. "I'm not as bad as you make me out to be."

"You're right," George said gleefully, smiling at you with his eyes. "He's worse."

"You know what," Lockwood said with renewed inspiration. "I'll help you, Miss Darling. Regardless of what my colleagues have to say." He turned his attention to you. You almost cracked a smile at the sheer determination in his complexion. Anthony Lockwood clearly despised being bad at anything. "I'm at your service, starting this very second." He poked the table to enunciate every word. Amused didn't feel like an apt word to describe what you were feeling.

"I was hoping you'd be the opposite of subtle," you said with a polite smile. "You're an enigma to the gazette, Mr. Lockwood. I need you to attract as much attention to us as you can."

He lifted his chin with that award-winning smile. "Consider it done."

George was still grinning to himself, finishing off his biscuit with a dodgy sort of laugh. Lucy had thrown herself back, likely holding in a sigh by the way her shoulders sunk.

Regardless, you felt hope rush through you as you reached across the table, sealing the deal with a handshake that shouldn't have been half as memorable as it was.

—

Lucy's Norrie had set off the domino effect, and you would be forever grateful for it. It didn't take long for the gazette to catch wind and write up their narrative.

!! LOCKWOOD & CO.'S SPECIAL CONNECTION TO LONDON'S DARLING

Recipients, it has come to our attention that London's Darling has shipped out a special signed poster for a friend from Lockwood & Co. The two parties have never had an interaction prior to this instance. We suspect a budding alliance from two very distinct worlds. More about Lockwood & Co.'s most recent escapade on page 7!

It was the first time you finished reading an article without your jaw tensing. It was doing well for your family's temperaments as well. Your mother was now inquiring about the blooming relationship between you and a certain someone instead of agonizing over the manic rumors told about the family. Whenever asked, you feigned ignorance and left the conversation at that.

—

The next time the gazette wrote about London's Darling and Lockwood & Co., it had been about a genuine act of kindness that had been caught on camera.

The trio had finished up a case late in the morning and you dropped by to gift them a hearty breakfast. You didn't intend for the gazette to pick up on the minute interaction, but they always found ways to weasel their way into things. If you didn't despise them so, you would have given them credit for their tenacity.

!! LONDON'S DARLING NOW BECOMING THE DARLING OF LOCKWOOD & CO.

Recipients, an insider recounts the story of seeing our Darling at 35 Portland Row. Coincidentally, the official offices for the psychical agency, Lockwood & Co. She narrates that the starlet had hand-delivered doughnuts and some other necessities; Actively taking time out of her bustling schedule to tend to the operatives she has recently befriended. For the first time since her limelight debut, she has a heart! Our insider also notes a particularly bright smile from the agency's founder and boss, Anthony Lockwood. Is this another one of our Darling's summer flings? See page 4 for news about Darling's controversial role in unveiled coming-of-age film.

You saw a couple reading the recent print as you were walking to Portland Row. They were particularly giggly, so it was safe to assume that the public was falling for your theatrics.

You arrived to Lockwood's abode with a smile.

—

"The gazette's gone feral, haven't they?" George exasperated, throwing the paper on the table after he had cut out Lockwood & Co's bit in the headlines. "You didn't even have to try for this one, did you?"

"Not at all," you chuckled. "They have a way of finding out, even if we don't mean for them to."

"They could have chosen a better picture," Lockwood murmured, eyes permanently narrowed at the cut-out George had hung on their wall. "I did not look that worn out that morning."

"I can't remember it, so I can't lie," Lucy said passively. She slid a pot of tamarind soup through the disarray of cups and papers. It gave you a wider glimpse of the doodles on the cloth. Lockwood had explained the nuance of the doodles earlier. You strongly believed anyone would find the scrawled notes (and insults) endearing.

You leaned over the table as the fragrance of the soup wafted into the air, like tendrils of smoke tempting you for a taste. You held back a smile and tried not to stare at their dinner for too long. You had more self-control than that, but, despite your best efforts, your stomach had a mind of its own.

Your stomach didn't usually rumble but it had chosen that specific moment to do so. You tried to play it off but the members of Lockwood & Co. had already paused in their steps, turning to you with varying levels of surprise. George looked disturbed; Lucy, startled; and Lockwood, amused.

"Hungry?" Lockwood asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not at all," you waved off. He saw right through your stoicism with a growing smile. "It was just a stomach cramp," you insisted.

He didn't move his eyes away from you as he pulled out a chair, but didn't sit in it. "Can't send you home with your belly doing that, can we, George?"

"The gazette might as well write us up for being terrible hosts," George said agreeably.

Lucy set out an additional plate and bowl. "We have a reputation to uphold, you know."

There was an air of something you couldn't quite place. You saw Lockwood's smile first, amused and welcoming all at once. From the corner of your eye, you found George and Lucy doing the same. There was no other word that could describe the moment other than 'warm'. With a feeble smile, you sat in the chair Lockwood had pulled out for you and tried not to look like a mangy raccoon in the midst of a famine.

Only when the sound of clinking cutlery and plates filled the room did you muster the courage to speak again. "Thank you for having me."

"Don't mention it, Starlet," Lockwood said, nudging your side. "You're the reason our clients have been burgeoning lately."

"Who knew a movie star had so much influence?" George asked rhetorically. "If we keep this up, we might be able to afford more biscuits."

"Even if that happens, the biscuit rule stays," Lucy stated, pointing her spoon at George.

There was always something gleefully odd about this place. Sometimes, it was hard to keep up. "What is this biscuit rule?" you asked, looking between all three of them.

"I'll tell you after dinner," Lockwood promised, carefully placing a bowl of soup next to your plate. "Eat. You must be starving."

You withheld the urge to smile but found that, even with your experties in pretending, you had a hard time acting in the company of Lockwood and Co.

—

"How strict is the biscuit rule rotation?" you inquired Lucy.

You had never experienced sleeping over at someone else's house. Doing so, at your mature age, felt a little zany. Not that you could do much about it.

The expert (Anthony John Lockwood) was firm about not letting you walk home at this dark hour. Even more so because the sun had set earlier than expected. Hence, the reason you found yourself rooming with Lucy for the night.

"Strict," was Lucy's answer; half with you, half not. She was at the vanity, writing in a journal. Likely for her friend, Norrie—if their names scribbled on the front was anything to go by. She looked so focused, you would have guessed she was aspiring to out-write the folks at the Daily Gazette.

Defeated, you heaved a sigh and submitted yourself to a few moments of quiet in a place so unfamiliar.

The bed bounced under your weight. The springs you heard in the mattress reminded of you of home, yet, the stars on the ceiling reminded you that you weren't. Most of them clung on but some had fallen off, leaving behind star-shaped irregularities in the paint. You counted four fallen stars before you were reeled back by the feeling of another weight falling beside you.

"Comfortable, Miss Darling?"

Lockwood.

You righted your posture. He sat up with you, taken-aback by your shift in demeanor.

"Yes," you said stiffly, combing down your hair. "Thank you for letting me stay the night."

"I couldn't let you go in good conscience," he said offhandedly. "Don't be tense. I'm only here to offer pajamas."

Your eyes found the neat pile stacked right beside him. The little act of kindness had warranted him a smile, one he returned with equal sheepishness.

"Thank you," you said again.

"It's no trouble." He flourished his hand as he said it. The springs creaked again when he shuffled off the bed. "Sleep well, Miss Darling."

"My name or just 'Darling' is fine, Mr. Lockwood. 'Miss' is much too formal."

"It's Anthony then, darling." He said it with such resounding charm, you almost regret allowing him to continue on that way. "Sleep well," he trailed off.

He stared at you, like he was looking for something in you. You were accustomed to getting weird, prolonged glances in the street, but you felt conscious when it was him. You blamed it on First Sleep-over Jitters. When you finally averted your gaze, he snapped out of his reverie. With a noncommital smile, he jerked a thumb at the door. "I'm right downstairs if you need anything."

"I'll keep that in mind, Anthony." As you said it, you couldn't shake the feeling similar to stepping into a classroom for the first time. There was a flash of surprise on his face before he schooled his expression, back to his notorious smile.

You wouldn't have known, but he couldn't shake the thought that he'd never heard his name sound so nice before.

He held back a smile as he said, "Goodnight then, darling."

You did worse at hiding yours. "Goodnight, Anthony."

You said his name so carefully, he ought to think he was important. Even if the smiles exchanged were bashful, it encapsulated his world.

He retreated to the steps, halting to occasionally look at you before Lucy had gotten sick of his snail pace and told him to bugger off. She had taken her side of the bed when her journal entry for Norrie was finished.

"Is he always that odd?" you asked her, taking the pajamas and heading to the bathroom to change.

The clothes were light, but they weighed much more to you. Who could blame you for admiring a simple shirt and pajama pants? That was your first sleep-over, after all.

Past your ogling, you could still hear Lucy's voice through the door. "Who, Lockwood? Not usually. Suppose he wants to make a good impression."

"Because I'm your highest paying client?" you inquired in a sing-song tone, slipping the shirt over your head. You should have expected the smell of lavender to engulf you.

Lucy snorted, laying back on her pillows. "Because he's a fan, Miss Darling."

"You can call me by my name, Ms. Carlyle," you chuckled, trying to keep your tone even as you examine which way the pajama pants go.

"And you can call me by mine, Miss Darling," she retorted.

When you got your pajama situation under control, you poked your head out of he door. "Touché, Lucy."

She tipped her invisible hat. "I try, Miss Darling."

"Is my name ugly?" You questioned, tone bordering on a sigh. You set yourself down on the vacant side of her bed, planting straight into the pillow on contact. "Just tell me that it is, I won't be offended. Why else would people avoid it like the plague?"

"Miss Darling does sound odd, doesn't it? In my opinion, it's quite regal. You should change your surname to it, honestly. The word just fits you."

You exhaled, catching sight of the stars on the ceiling once more. "And who gave you that absurd idea?"

"Lockwood did," she told you, taking you by surprise. You physically reeled at the fact. "He watched—What was the name of that film again?—Timeless. You played the teenage version of the main character. He wouldn't shut up about the movie for ages, said your character was his favorite. I believe her name was—"

"Darling..." you whispered the same time she said it.

"—and he kept going on and on and on about how you were the epitome of the word. He wouldn't put a stopper on it," Lucy shook her head, recalling his raving vividly. "We couldn't get him to shut up, even while we were off on fieldwork. Eventually, it stuck with us. I couldn't unsee you as 'Miss Darling'. Then the press started calling you 'The Darling of London'. It only proved his case. If there was a word more fitting than 'insufferable', 'Lockwood' would be it."

You believed snorting was the only correct response to that.

"I'm surprised he hasn't fallen over himself trying to impress you," she chuckled. Lucy crossed her arms over her belly, cozying up to her pillow. "Don't tell him I told you though. He might take away my turn in the biscuit rotation. He can be petty like that."

"Sounds childish," you muttered.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Lucy said with a shrug. "He already thinks he's God's gift."

"He's in the good graces of the Daily Gazette. So, he's close enough to it for me," you chuckled.

"Only you would think that." Lucy shook her head. "Go to sleep, Miss Darling. Else you'll have nightmares 'bout him."

"Is that a real warning?"

Lucy shut off the lights. "Yes," she said into the dark.

It was far too late for you. Just seeing the gentle limerence on the ceiling brought your thoughts right back to him.

Unbeknownst to you, Lockwood couldn't put his mind to rest either. Him knowing you were just a stairwell away was an involuntary shot of adrenaline.

—

Amusement parks smelt like burned popcorn and sugar. It was unbearably noisy but the neon lights and the shining attractions negated the cons. Lockwood thought he might just kiss you for bringing them here on a Thursday.

There were enough people to make the place feel alive but it wasn't so crowded that they couldn't get on the rides they wanted to try.

He namely appreciated that fact because Lucy and George didn't look too upset about being out of their element. They looked excited, even. Lucy was glancing at a shooting game and George was oddly fascinated by the horror house.

As if driving them here wasn't surprise enough, you dropped a heavy pouch in each of their palms with the simple instruction to knock themselves out.

After agreeing to meet up before dark, the group broke into three. Lucy went off to win herself a rapier, George was off to scare the clowns in the horror house, and Lockwood was trailing behind you.

"You can do your own thing, Anthony," you reassured, lined up for cotton candy. "I can handle myself in daylight."

"Darling, I'm a gentleman. I can't leave a dame alone in such a vast scape," he replied, bold enough to tap your nose. "What kind of make-believe boyfriend would I be if I did?"

He was amused by the way you rolled your eyes. Lockwood was convinced that only you could make something so trivial so enigmatic. Warmth prickled on your cheeks, turning them the same shade of pink as the cotton candy the store owner handed to you. You ordered one for Lockwood before telling him, "Press isn't here—they'd have to pay the tall entrance fee to enter. At ease, soldier."

"Negative. I'm staying by you—as a very concerned friend," he rebutted with resolve, asking for a brief pause to receive the cotton cone spun for him. "Is that so bad?"

"I thought you three deserved to enjoy some time away from work," you confessed.

You didn't know where to head so Lockwood steered you toward a bench, guiding you with one hand on the small of your back. It took all your effort to keep your expression neutral but you continued to chatter, biting down the urge to grin like an idiot.

The only way you knew how to distract yourself was to speak. And speak, you did. "You're either working with ghouls or with me for you know what. I thought you'd be sick of me by now," you joked.

"Of you? Never."

He said it like it wasn't an arrow straight to your heart, and you couldn't shirk the feeling that you should have prepared yourself better. He was Anthony Lockwood, after all.

Like the heathen he is, took a sizeable bite out of his fluff of cotton candy. In your favor, your attention was drawn somewhere else. His upper lip was crusted in princess pink sugar and he was flashing his princely smile, completely unaware of his mustache. You pressed your lips together to keep your laugh in.

He lowered his head, trying to meet your eyes, to no avail. You screwed them shut and curled into yourself to keep your composure.

He cocked a brow. "Cute as you are, I want to know what are you laughing about."

"Nothing," you said unconvincingly. You took a glance at him and snorted.

With a pinched expression, he looked at himself in the reflection of a metal stall then he rubbed the sugar away with the sleeve of his coat, scarlet tinging his ears.

"Never speak of this," he told you.

You mimed yourself zipping your lips and he nodded, satisfied.

Your composure broke the moment he crossed his arms and hunched into himself like a kid.

—

You'd been to that same amusement park many times in your life. You rode the same rides back when you were a starlet in the entertainment world. You won the same prizes when you wanted to impress your parents. You ate the same food you did when you were a tyke.

All those memories, and none of them compared to experiencing all of it with Anthony John Lockwood. His incandescence weaved into every new memory, leaving his face seared into the back of your eyelids. Even if you tried to deny it, the pain in your cheeks reminded you that you spend hours on end smiling with him or at him.

Despite your best efforts, his presence made you feel something you never expected to feel for anyone. There was no word for it, and you refused to give it a name.

When the sky theatened to turn orange, you snagged his arm and drove him all the way to your favorite ride. Even if you craned your neck all the way, you could never see the top of the ferris wheel. Perhaps Lockwood could, but you were too timid to ask.

The decorative lights looked weak in daylight but it was magical nonetheless. Nothing could complete your day like hopping into your favorite gondola and seeing the park from all the way up.

When you pulled him back, he had to complain. "That one was empty." Lockwood frowned at the dandy green gondola that circled past.

"No, no. We can't take that one, it has to be this one."

Lockwood had never seen so much excitement shine through your usually collected demeanor. It was like a breath of fresh air. He couldn't bring himself to fight you on it.

When the coral pink gondola swung to a stop and creaked its doors open, you pulled him right into its bowels. The interior was vandalized with countless pens and markers. Even in the chaos, he recognized your penmanship. It was messier than it was now but it was undeniably yours. Only you swooped your 'y's that extravagantly.

Someday soon, I'm going to be the biggest star you'll ever see!

Some of the ink was scratched off but the message stood the test of time. He wondered if you remember even writing it, but one glance at you told him all he needed to know. You paid no mind to the vandalism, eyes enthralled by the rising view outside. He felt his cheeks ache from the beginnings of a smile. He forced it down when you laid your eyes on him.

"Just wait 'til we reach the top. The pathways form a giant star if you look down. There's nothing quite like it."

Endeared, he asked, "How did you find that out?"

If your smile was anything to go by, the memory was very fond to you. "The first time I passed an audition, my parents took me up here and told me to look down. I was terrified of heights back then but they told me some things were worth conquering fears for." You let out a seraphic laugh at the memory. "I saw the giant star . . . and I swore that I'd be a bigger star than it one day; that all their sacrifices would be worth it. They did their best to support me and my pipe dream. I would pay back their labor, ten-fold."

"And you did," Lockwood said in an out-of-breath kind of way. You didn't know what to make of it.

"And I did," you whispered in reply. "I even scribbled my promise somewhere in here. I don't remember where exactly. May have been scratched off."

"Maybe," Lockwood chuckled, leaning his side against the wall; hiding your kiddish penmanship from your view. He had no explanation as to why he did, but he'd rather you to focus on the present. You achieved a lot between then and now. He thought it was much nicer to look forward than to look back.

He didn't realize how long the trip to the top would be. The silence didn't feel tense or forced, it was comfortable. Like an air of understanding had made the air warm instead of still.

Perhaps it was you and how unguarded you had become since stepping into the gondola, but all he knew was that your honest heart inspired him to be brave. He took a leap in a brightly painted gondola, miles up from the ground, just about to touch the clouds.

"My family would have loved seeing this," he said.

Your eyes tore away from the view to look at him. Curiosity whirling in those eyes of yours. "Where is your family? I don't think I've seen them. Are they abroad?"

When you looked at him like that, he forgot all his fears. "They aren't around anymore."

Your expression heartened. You turned all your attention to him. "I'm so sorry, Anthony. I shouldn't have—"

"No," he interrupted you, a ghost of a smile on his face. "I want you to know."

Your lips quivered, forming something that was a half-smile, half-frown. "I don't know what to say..."

"You don't have to say anything. I just thought you should know." His eyes fell to his knees, picking at the frays of his coat sleeves to distract himself. "My parents were researchers. They wanted to know what rituals other cultures had to communicate with spirits and keep themselves safe. They were working when they passed away. My sister, Jessica, she was ghost-touched." Everything came out when he was looking directly at you. Knowing you were paying attention was solace enough. "You should have seen the ghost when I was done with him, ha. As for my family . . . Even if they're not around anymore, they continue to remind me of the most valuable lessons. I do my best to never forget."

"Must be why you're so protective of Lucy and George," you said lightly, offering him a sunrise of a smile that brought back the color into the world.

"I am," he said with renewed confidence. "I'd do anything for them."

"Like make deals with prissy, troubled actresses?" you jested, bumping your knee against his.

His lips twitched, threatening a smile. "Yeah." He bumped his knee to yours but didn't move away, content with being close to you in any way you'd have him. "Exactly."

A smile crept up your face. "You have a wonderful family now, Anthony."

"I would say the same but I realize I haven't met them yet."

You threw your head back, laughing. The sound was so precious, he wished he had half the hearing of Lucy to remember it well. "Someday, Anthony. Someday..."

"I'll hold you to it."

The light that filtered in turned yellow, touching your face with gold. The sun was dipping between the far hills and, finally, your gondola had reached the pinnacle of the wheel.

You gently cupped his chin to turn his attention to the view. Your touch made his breath hitch, but the view had successfully stolen the air from his lungs. Even in his wildest dreams, he couldn't have predicted just how breath-taking the view was.

True to your word, the amusement park was laid out in a way that made the pathways draw a star—the stall lights that began to appear accentuated the shape. The stripped roofs of the attractions were like swirling patterns that encircled the the display. For lack of a better word, it was stupendous.

Your voice matched the sereneness of the moment. "My grandparents said that seeing fireworks from the top of a ferris wheel was an experience like no other, but with the Problem and the curfew, we might never be able to see something like it..."

"Wouldn't hurt to dream though, would it?"

You chuckled. "No, it wouldn't..."

Vaguely, in the reflection of the window, he saw your smile. A true, unfiltered smile. It's the brightest you'd ever appeared to him, and it was worlds better than the view you were gawking over.

The magic fizzled when the gondola began to decend, bringing you closer to earth and away from the utopia in the middle of a ferris wheel.

He couldn't recognize you once your mask came back on. Lockwood didn't realize why until he saw a flash of light in the corner of his eye.

The gazette had spilled coffee all over a perfectly good day.

—

!! LOCKWOOD'S DARLING

Recipients, we can confirm that there is a blooming romance between London's favorite Starlet and Lockwood & Co.'s charismatic leader. In the middle of a busy week for both individuals, they set aside time for a romantic ferris wheel ride in Starcrest Amusement Park—an ideal recreational venue for families and couples. See also: additional reports from our inside sources on page 7.

!! A DARLING'S DARLING

Recipients, we have more news on London's most fetching young couple. Both Darling and Lockwood have been growing bolder in putting their relationship in the spotlight. Recent reports state that Darling had invited Lockwood and Company to her film set — a feat of trust we haven't seen from her until she'd been swept of her feet by her latest and only suitor, Anthony Lockwood. He even presented her a bouquet of her favored flowers upon visiting. Backstage photographs from our insider on page 3!

!! A NOT VERY INVISIBLE STRING

Recipients, London's most captivating young couple was spotted wearing matching red-string bracelets, shifting to the 'private but not secret' path in their relationship. However, we always fetch you the ripest updates on their heart-stopping romance. More on page 4!

—

You were more than pleased by the sound of swishing newspaper and the snip of scissors. George had extracted another pretty picture of the recent news and hung it on the wall of achievements.

"Featured on a handful of headlines and it hasn't even been a year," Lockwood said, sounding very pleased with himself. He barely lifted a finger and Lockwood and Co. already had five additional clippings to their wall. "Gazette patrons are calling in to have us take care of visitors with all this media exposure." He set his hands on the stair newel and set his chin on them, looking up at you. It may have been a trick of a light but he was more radiant from where you were standing. "I have you to thank for that."

"You're the one helping me," you smiled. "I haven't heard a bad word about myself or my family. The peace is . . . unsettling. They really are bent on painting you as a saint, Anthony."

"Am I not?" he smiled.

You returned it, just as joyous. "That's the charisma I need for my birthday ball."

That made him straighten and grow brighter, if that were possible. "Birthday ball?"

You nodded, returning your eyes to Lockwood & Co.'s wall of accomplishments. "Lucy and George, too. It's a black tie event, and, yes, you may bring your rapiers."

He tilted his head, jarred. "What kind of people will be in attendance if we're allowed rapiers?"

"The most terrifying kind," you said with exaggerated dread, starting for the door. "Extended family I don't know well and journalists."

He sped ahead, clicking the door open for you. "Petrifying."

"Very," you chuckled. "Can I expect you to be there?"

He leaned toward you and you deluded yourself to believe he was doing so for his own benefit, but you knew damn well that there was a camera in the corner of your eye. Lockwood had caught sight of it before you, crowding you against the doorframe to paint the stomach-fluttering picture of a boy who simply couldn't resist being near his girl.

The idea was far more appealing than it was supposed to be.

His voice sounded saccharine up close. "What kind of flowers does your mother like?"

You titlted your head. "What for?"

"It's common courtesy to gift the in-laws. It wouldn't hurt to be prepared." He grinned at you, and you couldn't help but return it.

"She likes roses, and my dad is a fan of Ferrero Rochers."

"Noted," he chirped. He tugged a strand of your hair lightly before pulling away, taking his warmth with him.

You mustered a convincing enough smile. "Goodbye, Anthony."

"Goodbye, darling starlet."

He should have known you were going to do something. You grew up under the limelight, after all.

You've kissed many boys but he hoped you don't kiss them like you kissed him. Truthfully, it was only a kiss on the cheek, but he'd recall the feeling of your lips at the most untimely moments. He was ghost-touched because he couldn't shirk it.

—

You gave them a plot of the house. So, they did expect your house to be massive. What you did not tell them was the fact that your birthday ball was a masquerade ball. Lockwood was quite struck as he watched people file in with half their faces concealed under frivolously decorated masks. Lucy and George were just as confused.

"You're sure you didn't hear her say anything about this?" Lucy asked, hugging her arms as the evening chill began to creep in.

"Positively. Would I lie about something like this?" Lockwood replied, readjusting his grip on the generous bouquet of roses.

"Lie or not, we have to head in eventually. Unless your girl has a butler or handmaid who'd fetch us," George nipped. It was bad enough that Lockwood had forced him into a suit, but he had to stand in the freezing cold while passerbys walked right into the grandeur of your family's estate. The chandeliers casted gold silhouettes across the shadows. George bet it was warm in there. "Perhaps a visitor will come put us out of our misery."

"Keep your shirt on, George," Lockwood said firmly. "Perhaps having us enter without decoration was her intention."

"Who goes to a masquerade ball without a mask?" George scoffed.

"Lockwood & Co., apparently." Lucy rolled her eyes. She cast a nervous glance behind her but found lanterns had been lit. They smelt of lavender, reassuring her that despite your family's reputation, you weren't ignorant to the Problem. "Shall we head inside or face the treacherous cold?"

Lockwood, thoroughly done with their snideness, promptly decided on the former. He rolled his shoulders back and righted his posture before joining the line to the threshold.

"I see a buffet," Lucy said with new-found energy. Suddenly, the cold wasn't so unforgiving.

"Is that a chocolate fountain?" George inquired. Even if he did his best to keep his tone even, they caught the subtle intonation on the word 'chocolate'.

"Compose yourselves," Lockwood reminded primly. "we are representatives of the agency as well as guests, so, do try to mingle before losing yourselves in the smorgasbord."

"Sure."

"Absolutely."

Lockwood didn't know who said what, but he knew their answers were merely supplementary. They would bolt for the buffet as soon as the made it past the front door. At least their concerns about the lack of disguise were put to rest.

As they neared the doors, the warmth from the inside began to thaw away their frigidness. By the time they stepped into your abode, they were swallowed by the luxury. The word 'cold' didn't exist in a place as decadent as this.

The velvet curtains were pulled back fully, showcasing ceiling-length windows that glimmered with reflections of your guests, . A large chandelier illuminated the ballroom, washing everyone in supple, golden light. It brought out everyone's best features. Even the floor was polished so perfectly, it could have been a mirror.

If he didn't know better, Lockwood would have thought he walked right into a fairytale. He didn't realize Lucy and George had made their escape until he looked behind himself to find them gone.

He didn't have to idle by for very long. Like how sun rays pierce through storm clouds, you parted the crowd. You shone under the chandelier-light, a star put on earth, and you smiled so brightly he had to think you only smile like that for him. Lockwood lost his words, but his mouth was moving.

You were chuckling when you neared. Only when you dodged the roses and leaned on your toes to kiss his cheek did he realize that you didn't supply yourself with a mask either. His earlier guess had been right.

Whatever mirage he was in the middle of was cut through by two more figures coming into view; your parents, most likely. You resembled them a lot.

His joints went rigid but he was experienced enough to project an easygoing energy. All while he repressed bubbling exclamations.

He played on his best smile and reached for your father's outstretched hand. They met in the middle for a firm handshake.

"You must be the lad our little darling speaks so highly of," Mr. Darling chuckled. He had the kind of smile that put everyone in the room at ease. It reached his eyes. He must be the one you inherited your eye-smile from. A nail of guilt hit him right on the head because it was obvious that the man didn't know his daughter's romance was a fad. "Anthony, is it?"

"You're correct," Lockwood said amiably. His smile widened as he watched your mother's eyes gravitate to the bouquet of roses. "Anthony Lockwood, at your service, sir. And ma'am . . . These are for you." He offered the arrangement to your mother, who accepted them with the grace of a royal. You must have inherited that from her. He would have found it adoring if another strike of guilt didn't come down on him.

"How courteous," your mother said, hiding a smile behind her newly acquired bouquet. Her eyes moved to you and you shared a look Lockwood didn't quite understand. His stomach churned. Your mother then shot a peculiar look at him — like she could see right through him. It made his blood run cold.

Lockwood didn't have the option to ponder on it. Your father had seized Lockwood's attention with a firm pat on the shoulder. Lockwood had to tense his back to keep himself from toppling over.

As grayed as your father was, he had the kind of voice that commanded authority. "Don't be coy, boy. You can call us Ma and Pa. If our little starlet likes you enough to introduce you to us, you must be something special."

Lockwood glanced at you, momentarily paused by your smile. "She's the special one between us, sir—"

"Pa," your father corrected.

"Pa," Lockwood rectified smilingly. He wasn't sure what about it made him feel so melancholic and comforted at the same time. "I should be groveling at her feet. I'm very lucky to have caught her attention."

"I like the way you talk. It's no wonder she's so taken by you, Anthony."

Your father surprised Lockwood with a boisterous laugh. He was sure the room tremored for a moment. Lockwood was happy enough to laugh with him, the same time his heart was pounding against his ribcage.

The exchange was interrupted by your mother's squeal of delight. She had found the Ferrero Rochers laying in the bed of roses. She, with bright eyes, brandished them to her husband and Mr. Darling looked positively thrilled by the surprise.

"And thoughtful, too." Your father gave Lockwood the kind of nod you'd only get after you ask for their daughter's hand in marriage. "He's a keeper, little darling."

Lockwood's smile shook. Your mother looked at him strangely once more. He tried to regained himself.

Guilt.

GUILT.

It was drowning him, yet, he kept his cool. (At least, tried to.) You didn't seem to notice the change in his attitude.

You, with your rosy cheeks and resplendent smile, hooked your arm with Lockwood's and said, "I know, pa. That's the plan."

—

"That was not the plan," Lockwood respired, loosening his tie as soon as he stepped into open air. Even when he breathed in lavender, his lungs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton.

You had lead him to a balcony to give him a moment of reprieve only to be met with a glare. So much for being bad at acting, you were convinced his earlier niceties were real.

You regarded him with crossed arms, your cool façade practically a wall between you. "I invited, and you came. That's all that happened here."

"You made a spectacle of me," he rasped, his breath coming out as frost. "I would have been alright with that, but you brought your parents into this. They don't even know you're doing this, do they?"

The way he motioned between you as he said 'this' made you feel like someone's dirty secret. The way you faltered was laughable. Your heart clenched and your nails dug into your palms. You replied the only way you knew how: stronger.

"I don't see what the big issue is, Anthony," you scoffed. "I pay you, you do as I say. What if my parents don't know it's a ploy? The point is to set the stage for the press. I told you that."

"God," he laughed without feeling, raking a hand through his hair. He was heaving like he had just ran a marathon, face turning red. "You don't get it do you? We don't play with people. I don't want to play with people. And that's your family, starlet! Does it not bother you that you are lying to their faces?"

"No, it doesn't," you replied, stoically, standing your ground. "and neither should you. You know I'm doing this for them."

"Are you?" Where you stepped back, he stepped forward. He scoffed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "It's ironic that a whole ballroom of people hiding behind masks are more honest with themselves than you are to yourself."

"What are you implying?" Your words come out through gritted teeth.

He stood tall, more intimidating than you'd ever seen him. The gauntness in his eyes were more pronounced then. His stature made your composure slip. His words made your knees buckle. "You're an actress. You're a professional at what you do. Even in your own home, you have a façade. Maybe you are, in some twisted way, doing this for the sake of your family, but I can't see that anymore. You're stringing them along . . . As far as I can see, you're just as bad as the gazette makes you out to be. I don't even know if you've been lying to me for the sake of keeping your mask on."

You feel the full force of his words drop down on you. Taking a few steps isn't enough to quiet the rush of throughts crowding your mind. All you see is his despondent face and a hundred and one headlines flash before your eyes.

He takes your hand—making you wish the circumstances were different—before he dropped his red-string bracelet into your palm. It felt heavier than it was supposed to. You couldn't pry your eyes away.

When he turned and left, your thoughts turned into white noise. He had taken every joy with him, deserting you in the muted chatter of what was supposed to be a celebration.

—

!! TROUBLE IN PARADISE

Recipients, it is to our sorrow that the couple that took the country by storm, Darling and Lockwood, seems to have called it quits. Lockwood no longer flaunts the bracelet that had started a trend for couples on this side of the globe. It is unknown whether he had lost it during a skirmish or willingly stopped wearing his. With Darling's trail of broken hearts, it's safe to assume the worst. The Starlet seems to be continuing activities, as usual. The ice princess, unmoved by a romance put to the grave. On a lighter note, read more about Lockwood & Co.'s achievements on page 7.

—

The gazette went for the jugular with that one. For once, they wrote something that had some truth to it. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Even your newly developed habit of morning walking barely helped your heartbreak. You've never mourned for something that never was, but, damn, did it hurt. You knew you were in too deep when your feet carried you right to 35 Portland Row.

You stared at the agency plaque for an unnecessary amount of time before you folded yourself over and hugged your knees. At the time, George and Lucy would be out running errands before a case and Lockwood would be arranging their bags inside. Perhaps the security of knowing their schedule made you so confident to sit and wallow the death of what could have been.

Yet, you couldn't mourn that in peace. The silence was interrupted by a shutter. You lifted your head and spotted a paparazzo who didn't even try to hide his presence. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties and already fading. He had a smile on but it set off alarms in your head. You didn't have to ask. You had a feeling. The gazette was all too good at dampening a sunny day.

You stood up quickly but found yourself backed against the wrought-iron gate.

"The Darling Starlet of London... Quite the title. Never thought I'd get to see you in person." His smile widened. You didn't budge. Even with your fiercest glare, he didn't get the message. He looked down at his camera before his smile fell. "Do you know how upset we were when you started going out with that... that pathetic excuse of a human—"

"He's an agent," you cut off. "and he's the reason degenerates like you get to walk the streets without being ghost-touched at every turn."

"Degenerates?" He laughed, covering his mouth. "Oh, Darling Starlet—" The name you found home in was chemical coming from him. "you should know that we made you. He's lucky the chief likes him enough. You'd be nothing without us."

"Without the gazette?" You scoffed, tempted to roll your eyes at the fool. "You do more harm than good."

"But we make or break a career." His hand came away from his mouth, revealing a smile made of pointed teeth. "and what would happen to your folks if your reputation makes a sharp decline, hm? Your father needing all that medicine, your mother taking care of him... What would happen if our little darling turned out to be a little bitch?"

Your anger was boiling over, but the fear of that possibility had crippled you. Words died in your throat. Your will fizzled to nothing. You felt blood drip into your palm, nails clenched into your flesh.

You were still trying to regain yourself when the cold of the gate was pardoned from your back. A familiar warmth replaced it, an arm coming around your middle and a voice that quelled all your fears sounded in your ears. A rapier crossed the distance, severing the neckstrap around the photographer and sending his camera into the pavement. It's lens shattered and the photographer let out a yell.

"If you ever talk to my girlfriend like that again, a broken camera will be the least of your problems."

"Anthony J. Lockwood," the paparazzo snorted. "Your agency hinges on the exposure you get from us. Don't play hero when you know you're defending a sham."

"I'm defending my girlfriend," Lockwood's grip tightened on your hip, and his rapier shined in the light. Your heart did immeasurable things in lieu of Lockwood's doing. "and if you ever threaten my family like this again, I will come after you. The gazette isn't the only publication in London, and I've built a rapport with enough people in the industry to secure my place. I'm not afraid of you."

"You—"

Lockwood turned you around, covering you from view and urging you toward the door. "Head inside, darling. I'll take care of this."

You looked up at him, searching his eyes for resentment or even hate, but found none. His eyes were sunlight through bottles of whiskey. The smile had disarmed you, finally getting through to you.

You took a few hesitant steps before he nodded, assuring you that it was alright. He made sure you were safety inside before he returned his attention to the photographer.

"I do have morals. So, I'll be civil." Lockwood poised his blade. " That said, get off my street before I show you how proficient I am at my job."

—

Some part of you was desperately hoping that things would smooth themselves out after what had transpired. When he offered you his coat before telling you that he'd be walking you home, you knew you were in over your head.

That same night, you flipped the events over in your head. Clenching and unclenching your newly bandaged hand to remind yourself that it was real.

You didn't get much sleep with his voice echoing in your ears and his eyes burned into the back of your eyelids.

—

Your mother must have known something was wrong with you. You mistaked salt for sugar in your morning coffee, you walked into a wall on more than one occasion (a large vase had fallen victim to your daze), and you refused ice cream for the first time in your life.

In the middle of the day, Mama Darling decided that she'd seen enough. She set her knitting things down and urged you to put your book down. You obliged because you couldn't absorb the words anyway.

"My darling girl," your mother started. Her tone is so heartfelt, you felt yourself lax in your seat. A smile came to your face as she caressed your cheek, just as she'd always done. "You've always been such a kind child. So selfless . . . Your only flaw is that you need to know when to let go of your fear and let us handle ourselves, dearest."

You stared at her, lost. She simply smiled, taking your hands in hers. "I know your recent escapades with Anthony were a play, my dear girl." Your spine calcified, heat prickled your eyes. "I always knew. I'm honest when I say he's good for you. He brings out your ugly smile— Don't frown, I mean it in a romantic sense. I know the look of love when I see it, dearest. Don't sacrifice it for pride or fear, my girl. Go get him back."

"Ma," you shuttered, pausing to collect yourself. You were choking on yourself and that wasn't the worst of it. Your vision had blurred from your tears. "you and Pa need me to focus on my career. I have to—"

"No, you don't." She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and swiped her thumb across your cheek. "You'll always be a princess in the eyes of the public, dearest. Any person with two eyes and common sense will see that. You just have to break out of your shell, actually talk to the journalists. Just not the ones from the Daily Gazette—they are something else entirely."

"They are, aren't they?" You manage to laugh through your tears. Only your mother could make you feel these many things at once. She saw right through you. "Right now, Anthony doesn't even want to talk to me. I'm so scared that if I try, he'll tell me everything I don't want to hear. I'm scared he'll see all the nasty things the gazette talked about and hate me for them."

"Darling," your mother said sternly. "we just went over the fact that the gazette is complete and utter bullshit."

You can't help but snort. The rare curse from her had broken through to you. "Sorry, Ma."

"Don't be sorry, my dear girl, be brave." She flipped your hand over and drew lines across your palm. She did it three times before you realized what she was doing; she was drawing stars. "Some things are worth conquering fears for."

The Starcrest ferris wheel. Stolen smiles. Dreams of fireworks.

Your mother smiled at the renewed light in your eyes. She didn't question you as you bolted to the exit.

"Home before dinner! You may bring Anthony!" she called just before you smiled and closed the door behind you.

—

"Lucy?"

"No, this is George."

The world must hate you. You couldn't do much about that. You coiled the telephone wire around your finger as you took a deep breath. "This is... darling."

"I don't know anyone with a ridiculous name like that. Sorry."

You bit your cheek, inhaling the urge to sigh. "The prissy actress."

"Oh. You." He shuffled, crossing his arms. "Speak, before I hang up."

"I have a favor to ask of you," you winced, already expecting the worst.

"What's in it for me?"

You took a breath. "What do you want? Biscuits? An allowance? Access to the VIP collection in the library—"

"All of that, and you have yourself a deal."

"Done."

—

"George— You're usually against room invasion," Lockwood quipped, allowing himself to be dragged up the steps. "and Lucy wouldn't be happy about this."

"When I tell her what I bargained, she'll be fine with it."

"Bargained?"

"Not that important right now, Lockwood. Sit. And for all things grotesque, don't move."

George had pushed Lockwood into the mustard seat beside the attic window. The latter was ready to protest, confusion evident.

A resounding pop had interrupted him. The lights in the room shifted. The shadows stretched and receeded. It took a moment for Lockwood to realize that there were fireworks going off outside.

On the third floor, he had a bird's eye view of the shower of sparks in varying shades of blues, reds, and yellows. He was wondering where the firework show had come from, but his questions were put to rest with a singular look onto the street.

Other than the tins of fireworks, he saw you—looking much like a panicked frog while lighting the fireworks. You looked absolutely ridiculous. His perceptions of you had been thrown to the wind, and he couldn't help but smile.

The last firework burst into pink sparks, lighting up his eyes and your silhouette; embedding itself into his memories. When the air had cleared, he cracked the window open.

"What are you doing down there? Have you gone mad?"

You cupped your hands around your mouth, shouting an answer at him. "Lighting fireworks! You like dem?"

He shook his head, endeared. "How do you even know how to light them?"

"I don't! It was about time I learned!"

"You really are a lunatic..." he chuckled.

You cocked your head. "What did you say?"

"Come in!"

You showed him your thumbs, scuttling to the front door.

Lockwood had never raced down the stairs so quickly before. He apologized quickly to George, who he had almost bumped to ground floor, and Lucy, who had just gotten home with groceries. He raced for the door; hair a mess, breathing short, but smiling widely. He greeted you with the same smile he had on when you first met.

Cute as he was, you couldn't take it anymore. You reached up, fingers brushing his forehead and fixing the strands that had been bothering you for ages.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing you said. You were still heaving from outrunning fireworks but he wasn't in much better shape. "I was scared, and my first instinct was to act like I don't care, but I do. I care so much. About you."

"I got the message," he laughed, looking over your shoulder to the smoke remnants of the showcase.

"No, I'm not done." You took a breath, bracing yourself for it. "I want you to know about me, too. Pa has been sick for a long time. He worked through it so they could afford my commute to and from auditions. The money Ma made was used for medicine or keeping me in school. We struggled for a long time. Some days, I couldn't sleep because I felt so helpless. I wanted to give back to them with every fiber of my being. When I finally could, I never wanted to go back to having nothing. I was willing to do anything to stay where I was—"

"Darling, I get it—"

"—and I lost sight of who I was doing it for. I was so comfortable in allowing anything just to keep a pristine reputation—"

"Darling—"

"—and I hurt you. I never meant to, I'm so sorry. I realize now that I was wrong and I should have been more honest with you because I don't just want to be colleagues anymore—"

"Oh, shut up already."

He bunched your shirt in his fist, pulling you to him with the anticipation born from a thousand dreams. When his lips touched yours, it felt like all of this was worth the wait.

You were sweet and a little smokey, he could have laughed but settled with smiling into the kiss. You stole a breath from him when you nipped at his bottom lip. He could have spent the night like that but the resounding boom from outside made the two of you jump, breaking away from The Best Kiss Ever™ to see the last of the fireworks finish off the moment with golden sparks.

Lockwood couldn't stay upset. After a short laugh, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him right back to you—giving him another kiss to think about for the rest of his life.

—

!! THE COUPLE OF THE CENTRURY, BACK AGAIN !!

Recipients, after a short-lived break, the couple of the century are back—stronger than ever! Various photographs have been taken of them: Dancing in the foyer of the Darling estate, partaking in Mrs. Darling's notorious tea parties, and running away from premiers to steal time for themselves. To see more of them, see page 4!

That was possibly the last good article written about anyone coming from the gazette. Not long after that, they began to be brazen in their attempts to tarnish your reputations. They published photos of the two of you flipping off the photographer, spitting your tongues out at unwanted paparazzi, and spreading the most degrading rumors you had ever heard.

At the same time, the gazette had been losing viewership to London Squire, who was only gaining traction with every article written about the It Couple of Europe. Soon enough, the gazette had lost all credibility; reduced to a mere scandal sheet. It was a breath of fresh air.

The public was enamored by your honest nature and respected the fact that you'd prefer to keep your relationship private. Though, you would be the talk of the town once the Squire got a hold of an exclusive interview.

The topic? Vows, silver rings, and rapiers to cut wedding cake.

DARLING-LOCKWOOD

— It's now official. Our Darling Starlet is off the market after exchanging vows with Lockwood & Co.'s founder and president, Anthony Lockwood. The union took place this weekend in a private ceremony with close family. The couple reveals that the ceremony was grand but they would like nothing more than to keep it to themselves. We are honored that both Mr. & Mrs. Lockwood has given us the opportunity to publish a few pictures taken during their most special day. The writers here at London Squire send all our warmest regards to the newly weds.

The picture wasn't much; Just a scene recreated from the movie that earned you the title of 'Darling'. Even when you shared his name, he persisted in calling you his darling starlet. Though, he takes the utmost pride when he does call you his missus.

NOTE ➺ i don't know if i can get all my 1989 tv songfics done in time but i plan to get them all published before the end of 2023 !

i hope this finds you when you need it. as always, don't be afraid to leave your thoughts in the comments or reblogs. i love to read feedback so don't hold back!!

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

#— ❨ 🌺 ❩ 𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐙𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐀 ₊˚.༄#1989 tv songfic collection #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood x you #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood x y/n #anthony lockwood angst #anthony lockwood fanfiction

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novelizt · 1 year

Text

THIS LOVE CAME BACK TO ME ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

GENRE ➺ fluff with a little angst, friends to lovers (everyone can see it)

SYNOPSIS ➺ you're back in town. as promised, lockwood welcomes you with open arms. the only difficulty was the fact that you kissed the last time you saw each other.

WC ➺ 4.8k

DISCLAIMER ➺ fem! wedding planner! reader, and i try to write a more descriptive kiss scene (i apologize in advance), the trio has been aged up to about 18-19, and lockwood calls reader 'sweetheart' but in a totally (not) platonic way.

WARNINGS ➺ profanity (one curse word), reader is briefly jealous of lucy, QUILL KIPPS, description of pools and being underwater, a little suggestive but nothing graphic

NOTE ➺ here's the beginning of my 1989 TV sonfic collection!! (full collection masterlist will be out on oct 27.) belly and jeremiah's pool kiss popped into my head while writing. do with that information as you will. this also came out fluffier than i intended it to be. @t2sh0 , here's one of your favorite 1989 tracks turned into a fic, i hope you enjoy 💙

Anthony Lockwood had a way of charming people. You knew you were a goner the second he flashed his teeth at you.

In the eleven months you were employed in Lockwood & Co., you hoped that the subtle touches over case files or the longing glances across the table meant the same to him as it did to you.

That said, you weren't sure what to make of it when he did kiss you—right before you boarded a plane out of the country. You tried to imagine it to be as magical as you dreamed of, but the only impression it left was a confusing one.

Did he kiss you out of pity? Did he do it because you might never come back? Did he do it because it was a spur of the moment thing?

Luckily, your studies distracted you enough to give you some peace. It's only when the world settled into night that you pondered it over and over again, until you agonized over it enough to cry yourself to sleep.

Your contemplations still haunted you as you lugged your bag off the conveyor belt, actually breathing in London air for the first time in three years. When you centered yourself, you scanned the crowd and found your name scrawled in messy, familiar handwriting. The person that held the sign hadn't aged a day.

Lockwood looked older than he did when you first met him, but, now, he had grown into himself. His smile remained unchanged. It speared you in the heart, just like it did the first time.

"Hello, stranger." He was first to speak.

"Hi," you said. You considered adding a witty remark but found that you couldn't conjure one up as quickly as you used to. Instead, you smiled to fill in the awkward silence.

He returned your grin but it didn't reach his eyes. You didn't say anything else before he lowered the sign and held out his arm. You let out an uneasy laugh as you shrugged your bag off your shoulder and onto his.

Even if your mind grappled for something to start with, small talk didn't pick up like how you imagined it would. How could it? The last time he walked beside you, you two were different people. At least, you were.

You were never going to be the kids who bumped fists or laughed at jokes only you two knew again. You were never going to be his partner in crime the same way you were years ago.

Your talent had nulled, leaving you with the only choice to pursue a new life elsewhere, in another country. You knew you had changed, but did Lockwood? The uncertainty was a stake between you. He was acting like nothing was wrong, which made it difficult to gauge whether his lack of speaking was on purpose or he was as lost as you were.

He had taken the side of the walk closest to the road—like he always did. You remembered that he said it was the "most gentlemanly thing to do in the presence of a lady." You called bullshit, but you found yourself softening 'round the edges thanks to his chivalry.

You paced a ways behind him, watching his back and the swish of his coat tails. Like a dagger to the heart, you realized that his coat was new.

"What happened to the trusty old boy?"

It was your first attempt at a conversation. You hoped your voice didn't quiver.

Lockwood slowed his pace to fall in line beside you before shooting you a confused look. Realization hit shortly after. He pinched the lapels of his coat. "You mean my old coat?"

"Yeah." You smiled, forcing yourself to make it convincing. "What happened to it?"

"Lost it," he explained. He chuckled with a far-off look in his eye. It was a fond memory by the looks of it. "Smeared in plasma. There was no salvaging it. Why, you miss it?"

"A little bit," you lied.

He had kept you warm under that coat on more than one occasion. You knew where the seams unraveled, and you knew what he put in each of its pockets. You missed it terribly, and it wasn't even yours. Just like a certain someone. It was pathetic, really.

If he had caught on to your disappointment, he didn't show it. Instead, he teased you with a smile. "Life goes on, sweetheart." He closed the space between you to nudge your arm, just like the good ole days. "There's plenty of coats in the sea."

You stiffle a laugh behind your hand. The endearment had brought the butterflies in your belly back to life. Three years and that hadn't changed at all, and only Anthony could make you chuckle over a bad joke. "Yeah? Where did this one come from?"

He shrugged, pursing his lips. "I haven't got a clue. George and Lucy got it for me."

George, you knew. He was the grump who refused to say one good thing about you but didn't hesitate to make you lime pie when you were in low spirits.

Lucy . . . Lucy was new. Her name had made your hair stand. "Lucy?"

Lockwood snapped his fingers. "Ah, that's what I forgot to tell you." He looked both ways before taking your arm and crossing the street. Portland Row was standing right in front of you, but it felt different now that you knew that someone else was occupying your old room. "Lucy Carlyle is our newest recruit. A Listener. A bloody good one, at that."

He looked elated, so you knew she was doing good for the agency. Something about the way he talked about her made your heart sink.

You were still coming up with a reply when Portland Row cracked open and George Karim's face entered your periphery. He wasn't the type to smile widely, but you took the minute tilt of his lips as an attempt at one.

Perhaps the trip had warped your senses because that was probably the most enthusiastic you'd ever heard him. "About time you came back, trouble."

Aww, he remembered you. The sentiment comforted you more than you cared to admit.

—

Lucy Carlyle's eyes widened the moment Lockwood introduced you. Something finally clicked for her, yet you didn't know what it was. All you really did was shuffle awkwardly and utter a feeble "nice to meet you."

"Oh my God . . . You're the agent they can't shut up about," she grinned.

Lockwood's nettled eyes darted to you. "'Can't shut up about' is being generous."

"Come off it," Lucy scoffed, swatting him away as if he were nothing more than a mosquito. "I was wondering if your name was some weird code. "You-know-who would know what to do", "I'd kill to have her help right about now." Ugh! Now it makes sense!"

Lockwood set his fists on his hips, licking his lips in search of an alibi. "George brought you up more often than not."

George shot him a glare—one that threatened to break the biscuit rule. "Because you'd start. Then you'd talk even louder if I told you to shut up."

"You were part of the conversation regardless."

"Well, she wasn't! You just couldn't quit your yap—"

Lucy kicked out one of the chairs at the table. You smiled gratefully as you took the seat, the boys' bickering melting into the background.

"Are you rejoining the agency?" Lucy asked, propping her elbow on the table. "I'm on the brink of going insane, so I could use a friend. One that doesn't think it's normal to walk around without a shirt or trousers."

You graced her with a gentle laugh. "That's the boys for you, but I'm afraid not, no. I no longer have the Talent to stay in this line of work..." You look down at your hands, remembering the countless stars you wished on to fix you. None of them granted your wish. Your Touch never came back to you. You'd abscessed over the same issue countless times before but now that you were back, you were writing a new chapter of your life. You clenched your fist with reborn determination. "Lockwood promised that I would always have a place here while I get back on my feet, and it would be lovely to be friends with you. Right now, I'm looking for places to bring my other skills. Just because my abilities changed doesn't mean the world will wait for me to get used to it."

When you looked up, you were surprised to not only find Lucy's glazed eyes on you, but George and Lockwood's, too. George coughed into his fist, turning away and finding interest in the kettle. Lockwood's brows furrowed, etching lines of sadness across his face. Lucy tried to plaster on a smile.

"You're very brave. I wouldn't know what to do if my Talent started to fade," Lucy said, hoping the vote of confidence would do what she intended it to.

You appreciated the sentiment but the sorrow in the recess of your mind would always stick at the mention of Talent. "Thank you, Lucy. And you don't have to worry about that right now. From what I hear, you're the best Listener in London." You placed your elbow on the table then set your cheek on your palm. "Tell me, what is the most horrendous thing you've heard?"

—

"I wouldn't mind sharing a room, really."

Despite Lucy's willingness, Lockwood refuted it. "Nice as you are, Luce, half the things you keep up there will unsettle her. Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

You shook your head, an amused smile on your face. "I was an agent, too. It takes a lot to bother me, Anthony. I didn't turn into a wuss just because I've been out of the country."

"Yes, well," Lockwood flourished his hand. "She keeps a jarred skull swimming in sludge with her. Letting you witness that tragedy would be unjust of me."

"I can handle it," you reassure positively. Skull in a jar sounded intriguing. The bigger question was why Lucy kept it in her room, but the was a question for another day.

Lockwood shook his head. When he crossed his arms, you knew the meeting had been adjourned.

"Are we really surprised?" George whispered to you on the way upstairs.

You chuckled and shook your head. "Not really."

—

The only reason you were familiar with Lockwood's room involved chess matches at the most ungodly hours of night. When insomnia had troubled you, you'd come right down, plop the board in the middle of the bed, and play until one or both of you would slump over.

You wondered if he was itching to even the score from three years ago, but you were surprised by the order in which he put his room in. Lockwood wasn't one to worry about a mess, but he was conscious enough to put it away that day. It was the tidiest you'd ever seen the place.

The only stain was the chessboard on the bed and your luggage that had taken over the ottoman at the foot of said bed.

When you rounded on him to ask, he presented you with a smug smile. "We have a lot to catch up on. What better way than over a game of chess?"

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight onto one leg. "Because I won last time?"

"And that," he admitted, shuffling over to his side of the bed and claiming the white pieces. "You know me so well, sweets."

You shook your head in a beguiled way, charmed by his truthfulness. "You're so predictable."

His eyes lit up, like they always did when he was presented a challenge. "See if you can say the same when I check your king."

"In your dreams, Anthony Lockwood." The bed dipped as you sat on your side, mentally prepping yourself to spend the night humbling him whilst trying not to stare at the motions of his hands for too long.

He moved the first pawn, and the game began.

You were so immersed, you missed the book folded open on his bedside table. In it was highlighted: 'the best way to beat jet lag; stay awake for as long as you can.'

—

You finally had a foot in the door three weeks after arriving in London. Sure, it wasn't glamorous and you spent more time advertising yourself than making money, but it was progress nonetheless.

Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but the fact that Quill Kipps was also a resident in these parts completely went over your head. You received your reminder when he had reached for the book you wanted for you. It took a little effort not to sneer at him—muscle memory.

You wouldn't have obliged but Kipps had already started a conversation. "Thought I'd never see you here again, trouble." As nasty as he usually was, he didn't show it. Dare you say he was civil? He even smiled at you. Chills. "Does Tony know?"

You clutched the book to your chest, disconcerted by how kind he was being. "He does, yeah. I'm staying with him until I can afford a place of my own."

"Figures," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. He was looking a lot like himself. "I'm surprised he hasn't popped the question."

Your jaw tensed. You had a sudden urge to thunk him over the head to get his mind back in order. "That's because there is no question to pop, Kipps." You looked away, mustering the last of your patience. "My Talent faded. I plan weddings for a living now. I don't have much of a name here yet so business is quite slow."

You didn't see his face change but you sure heard it. "Sorry to hear that..."

"Me, too. I guess."

"Don't give me cheek. I quit because my Talent faded, too."

Your eyes bugged out. The admission was like a carpet being pulled out from under you. "You're kidding."

He chuckled morosely. "I wish I was. I'm trying to find my way but it is challenging."

"With that attitude, of course it is."

Kipps snorted, squaring his shoulders. It didn't do much. He looked as punchable as he usually did. "You sound like him."

"I don't think so. He has more to say about you than I do. He makes me look nice."

Kipps nodded, giving you an invisible tip of a hat. There was a period of brief silence before he opened his mouth again. "Say, the complex I live in has a vacancy on the third floor. If you're interested, I can give you the address."

You tapped the cover of your book, mentally tallying the pros and cons before shrugging. "What's the harm in asking? I have a yellow note in my bag, let me fetch it.

"I'll come along. I'm about to get my books checked anyway."

You allowed him to follow you to your table and bade your tense farewells after he had scribbled down the address and the custodian's telephone.

—

It was no mystery that Lockwood had caught wind of the momentary interaction. You were unaware of how, but he had ways, apparently. He caught up to you on your walk home.

"Was he bothering you?" was the first thing he asked.

He came out of nowhere, so it was reasonable that his voice made you jump. You didn't expect to be intercepted at a cross-walk, of all places. With one look at his face, you relaxed then resumed your steps. "Who are you talking about, Lockwood?"

"Kipps," he said quickly. "was he bothering you?"

"Oh," you look down at the yellow note wedged in the cover of your book. "no. He just gave me a referral for a flat."

Lockwood disappeared from your periphery. For a moment, you thought that would be the end of it, but then you remembered that whenever it involved Quill Kipps, he would never keep his nose out of it. Lockwood returned to your side not long after. "You're staying in Portland Row," he said with the conviction of a hundred unspoken confessions. "You don't need rubbish referrals."

"I can't room with you forever," you replied. You faltered because of the hurt on his face. You must have imagined it because he was back to normal in a blink of an eye. You steeled yourself. "Lockwood & Co. is a psychical agency, not a rental place. And I have weddings to plan. I need more space."

"We can make room in the library," he bargained.

You halted in your steps, raising a brow at him. "You've never seen a proper wedding planning if you think that little room will suffice. You need that space for your case documents."

"We can move them to the office," he insisted, stopping in front of you. He thought a smile would work but you didn't budge, even after he showed you his best grin. "We can make it work."

You sighed, exasperated. The street was empty, so you had nothing else to preoccupy your mind with. "Lockwood... I can't plan weddings in the same house George rants about the Problem in."

"I really don't see the issue there."

He sealed his lips when you narrowed your eyes at him.

—

If Anthony Lockwood was anything, it was petty. A few nights later, he deposited himself in the seat beside you and decided to made your business his business.

"I think the ivory looks better with that shade of violet."

You cocked a brow at him, flipping to the next page of your photo book. "Pray tell, what are you doing here?"

With an unmoving smile, he said, "Learning a thing or two about wedding planning, so I can gauge just how much room you need."

"Lockwood... You don't have to be here."

"Oh, but I do," he retorted. "Lest you make a hasty decision, like living in a flat with Quill Kipps."

He flinched when you shut the book. The cold stare you gave him was just as paralyzing. "I won't be living in a flat with Kipps. He'd be living in the floor below mine. And for your peace of mind, this isn't a hasty decision. I'm only staying here until I can afford to rent my own place."

He bit the inside of his cheek. "Why do you have to go? We're perfectly happy here, aren't we? George knows your favorite recipes, Lucy's ecstatic to have another girl around, and I— well, I . . ."

"You . . . ?" Hope, like you've never felt before, rushed through you. Your ears could hear a pin drop with how attentive you were then.

Much to your disappointment, he cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. "I would hate to lose a friend."

It was flattering, truly, but you were hoping for more than that. Perhaps an indication that the kiss three years ago had actually meant something. When he said nothing about it, you reverted back to assuming your affections were unrequited. Dejected, you thumbed at the pages of the photobook.

"I won't be leaving soon, and we'd still be friends when I move somewhere else," you reassure. You found it hard to get the words out. There was a prickling feeling behind your eyes you tried to bat away. You turned your attention to the flower options splayed on the coffee table. You were seeing, but you weren't absorbing anything. "I'll be here a while so you don't have to worry."

"Right..." He sounded even more dejected than you. You fought the urge to look up at him with every fiber of your being.

Your heart fell when he got up and abandoned you in the library. Even if you were surrounded by photographs of weddings—the happiest day of some lucky people's lives—you couldn't find a drop of joy when Lockwood had taken all of it with him.

—

The thing about realizations were that they always came late. Especially for someone as dense as Anthony Lockwood.

When he had turned the events of that night over in his head, he realized that he had been a fool. He was saying something, but he wasn't actually getting a message across. For someone who valued verbal affirmation, you must have felt alienated.

He had resolved to apologize, and apologize thoroughly. He had put on his best suit under his coat and picked his best shoes (the only ones without plasma burns) before heading to the site you told Lucy you were heading to that day. He sacrificed his five turns in the biscuit rotation to get the information from her, but he couldn't be too mad about it when he finally laid his eyes on you.

You traded your usual trousers and blouse in for a dress. Not that you weren't pretty in trousers and blouses, but the fact that your dress was white altered something in his brain. Something was wrong with him. Could have been anticipation. Could have been the terrible urge to get down on one knee.

He shook his head, putting that idea on the back burner. He was there to grovel for forgiveness. He had to apologize before all else.

Lockwood, with reborn inspiration, approached. Striding closer and closer—eyes trained on you.

Only one thing was on his mind, and that one fact may have been the cause of his downfall, because he hadn't seen the toy at the lip of the pool before it was too late.

Your face grew further and further until his body had broke the surface of the water. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. All he could see was blue. All he could feel was the cold. A sharp inhale hurt. Opening his eyes stung.

Once his feet reached the bottom of the pool, sense returned to him. He kicked off, gasping for air when he reached the surface. Another splash forced him to shut his eyes.

Then he heard it: The frantic way you were calling his name.

Your hair was matted to your head and drips of water slid down your face, yet, you looked as majestic as ever. You were a vision. His voice had been stolen, perhaps his heart, too (as if it wasn't already).

He regained feeling in his face when you set your hands on his cheeks. Then the world came rushing back. The splashing of water, the commotion that caused passerbys to run, and your voice that called to him above all that.

"Anthony? Anthony! Oh, heavens, are you okay?" You smoothed the hair away from his eyes. He wondered if you knew that it made him love you even more. "That was terrible fall. Are you hurt? Bleeding?"

He shouldn't be enjoying your doting when you were so obviously stressed over his condition, but how could he think straight when you were at arm's length—just this close to touching lips with him.

And you were touching him. Your palms were warm on his cheeks, cozied up under his ears. You could feel him smile if you wanted to.

It was no place or time to think about kissing you. He had talked himself out of it countless times before, but his restraint crumbled the moment he witnessed your teeth sink into the plush of your bottom lip.

He knew it was your nervoud tick, but his mind went blank. He seared every detail into his memory before he threw caution to the wind.

He found your waist, clutched your dress, and drew you to him with the urgency that had been restrained for years.

He's not sure whether you kissed back right away, but he did know that you were. Just as eager as he was.

With ignited confidence, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers carded into his hair and you clung to his shoulders for stability.

It was painfully obvious that Touch was your specialty. Every brush of your fingertips set fire across his skin. He wouldn't forget it, even if he tried. His arms wound around you, his palm finding the back of your neck to hold you fast to him.

For a second, you parted. He caught a glimpse of your dazed eyes and ephemeral smile before you brought your lips down on his once more. You could very well be the death of him.

The belief grew stronger as you grew bolder, shifting to be able to wrap your legs around him. Squeezing your thighs against waist and warranting a gasp. You felt the rumble against your lips and beneath your fingers, earning a smile.

You would have done so much worse if a rigid scoff hadn't cut through the lavender haze.

He pulled away. You blinked, still encroached by the spur of the moment. The smell of chlorine polluted the space between you, but that only made your senses heighten. You were staring at Lockwood as water clung to his lashes. He was smiling at you, and you were smiling just as much. His thumb drew circled into your waist, and your fingers grazed the nape of his neck. It was chilling, in the best way.

The scoff came again, stealing your attention. Both of you looked up at the hotel manager with sheepish grins.

"Hello, sir," Lockwood started, amping up his charm with a disarming laugh. "Contrary to what you may be thinking, this didn't happen in purpose."

The hotel manager didn't buy any of it. He raised a practiced brow and regarded Lockwood with a frown that rivaled a wishbone.

There was no corporate talk that would get you out of this. You chuckled, patting Lockwood's back for the good try, but you already knew security was on the way.

"I take it that you're not hurt?" you murmured to Lockwood.

"No. In case I am, would you like to take my shirt off and take a look for yourself?"

You two had to walk home in soaked clothes, but you did take him up on his offer. Excitedly, too. Suffice to say, he didn't have a bruise on him.

—

You and Lockwood had returned to your roots; a peaceful game of chess. You had the upper hand on the board but Lockwood felt like a winner just seeing you in his shirt.

"Just in case it wasn't clear, I'd like to be more than friends," he said. He had lost another bishop but he was fine with it because you smiled at him.

"Yes. I know that now, Anthony."

"I don't want to just be friends with benefits either."

You snorted, amused. "I understand that, too."

He didn't move a piece until you looked at him. "It would pain me if you moved out. Three years apart was bad enough."

Your gaze softened and you reached across the board to hold his hand. He was the one who laced your fingers together. "I won't be going anywhere."

"Good," he chirped, eyes alight. "because I've already began moving the shelves into the office. You can have the library for work."

Even with your best efforts, you couldn't help but laugh. He bent toward you, wishing he could bottle the sound. "You are ridiculous, you know that?"

"I do," he said, inflating his chest. "and I'd like to be your lover as well."

You cocked a brow. "Would you?"

He squeezed your hand lightly, eyes shining with determination. "I can hear you thinking, sweetheart. What do I have to do to get you to say 'yes'?"

If he hadn't stolen your heart already, the way he raised your hands to his lips and planted a kiss on each of your knuckles would have. His eyes never strayed, honey brown eyes placating yours.

"Sweetheart?" he hummed, pleading for an answer.

You drew out the silence for a little longer. You felt that it was fair for him to suffer, just for a little while. He was the catalyst for years upon years of emotional turmoil.

But he had resolved it all with another kiss, this time on the sweet spot on your wrist—just over your racing pulse.

You were kind enough to put him out of his misery. "Kiss me again."

You were weak for how he smiled then.

"Gladly," he whispered, sliding the board aside and sending the chess pieces toppling to the floor to fulfill your request.

Your complaints were squashed down by his lips. He'd never forget the way you laughed as he tackled you into his bed.

Well, it was yours now, too.

NOTE ➺ did you notice that everyone calls reader 'trouble' but lockwood calls her 'sweetheart' 👀👀 i want what they have.

i have so many ideas lined up for my boy, but i just don't have much time to write them. life got busy lol.

anyway, this is the first of many 1989 TV songfics!! master list for the whole collection will be out on 1989 TV release day, I promise. i'll do my best to finish more wips because you can never have too much anthony lockwood.

i've also been thinking about making a tag list but I'm not sure how to go about that...

as always, don't be shy to leave some feedback, constructive criticism, or cute lil comments! i love raving about my boy 💙 i hope you enjoyed this one, because this isn't the last of me!

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

#— ❨ 🌺 ❩ 𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐙𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐀 ₊˚.༄#anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood fluff #anthony lockwood angst #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x y/n #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood x you #1989 TV songfic collection

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