#brice catledge/reader

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

ℌ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔏𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥 | 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐭

𝑪𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒖𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂 | 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑾𝑰𝑷 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

[𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉] [𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒆]

Crockett Island is a very calm and peaceful place. Just like a beautiful and imposing oak, and just as the oak, the island hides a rotten inner, putrefied secrets just in plain sigh waiting the perfect time to fall apart. Sometimes the broken things can be fixed easily by the right person.

𝑬𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅!𝑵𝒖𝒏!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝕴𝖓 𝕸𝖞 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑬𝒙𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑵𝒐𝒍𝒊 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝑨 𝑭𝒓𝒆𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑺𝒍𝒊𝒑 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

ᎷᎪᎩᏴᎬ Ꮖ ᏟᎾᏬᏞᎠ ᎻᎾᏞᎠ ᎩᎾᏬ ᏚᎬᎡᏆᎬᏚ

𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑺𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒚𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑨 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞

𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝑮𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕] | [𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉]

After being dumped by Sophie, Brice became bitter. Decided to focus on his work, running the fortune of his family, he lets the flower that grew on his chest wither and rot. Months pass and a great ball is coming. He’s invited by one of his colleagues, and after a huge pressure of his sister Caroline, he decides to go. There he meets a clever widow, duchess Kathryn Artherton. And the feelings he battled to bury are taking control once again. Will they be able to open their hearts once again and give a chance for love?

𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐡 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫

This character has only dark fics. Exclusively Dead Doves. Be aware.

𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚 𝑶𝒓 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑻𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Adelaide knew it was only a matter of time before he found her again. She dreaded the arrival of that day every morning and every night. She avoided this moment as much as possible, changed states, changed her name, and locked herself in a cottage far away from it all. However, John Tyler was free and missing. And when she received the news in that particular morning, she knew he was coming for her. After all… She was his first.

𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑻𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑵𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

“You’re a wolf!” Esther’s voice still echoed in the young nurse’s mind. “You’re a wolf!” She heard the old lady screaming at her. Thomasin could hear her clearly. She felt the hot, swollen tears run down her temples, getting lost in her hair. She felt the excruciating weight on her, the strength of the noose that held her wrists, the deep voice whispering her name. “You. are. a. wolf.” She should have listened.

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏’ 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 | 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑬𝒙-𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑮. 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕

Werewolf OC inspired by this photo.

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒆 | 𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇! 𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰

𝔗𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

@stardustandgunpowder @liesandghosts @girlwiththenegantattoo @midnight-mess @un-kiss-de-breakfast @ledzeppelindeanmon @jyngerpeach @hungrhay @agirlinherhead @aherdofbees @littleredwritingcat

[chronic-ghost]

He regarded you with light disdain but also something that resembled weariness, a tiredness that didn’t seem to fit the wealth exuded by his clothes. He carried something, some sadness.

The spirits whispered, shellshock. And then, heartbreak.

But you shook your head.

“Mr. Catledge, please be careful.”

Title: a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen

summary: late summer. 1927. The absurdly wealthy Catledge siblings return to Pittsburgh after the older brother suffered heartbreak after a particularly public end to his engagement to the medium, Sophie Baker. They return quietly and Brice hopes that the monotony of embracing his father’s company can bring some stability back to his life. Until a girl from nowhere emerges from the smoke of a train and quite literally falls into his arms — and immediately predicts his untimely murder. Despite his insistence that he is done with pretty mediums, she comes with her own secrets he can’t seem to ignore. Is this girl the real thing or just another con artist? And if she really can see the dead, what will she see in him? Will she be one of the few who can see his specters for what they really are? 

pairings: Brice Catledge/Reader

category: M/F

rating: M

archive warning: depictions of violence, tw for discussions and depictions of domestic abuse/violence, survivor’s guilt

tags: reader has psychometry, references to WW1, 1920s tennis matches, cable girl adventures, meet cutes at the train station, library sex, making out on beaches, angst but happy ending!

playlist for the fic: the ghost of you

fanart for the fic:  thank you 🤯 to @aherdofbees for this BEAUTIFUL PIECE! 

(AO3 Links: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9)

                                       Read the next chapter below!

Chapter 9: aris moriendi

T W O  W E E K S  A G O

The fire crackles behind the thick metal grate, the arch of night just beyond its midpoint outside the crimson drapes. On the oak desk, the tumbler’s nearly empty, the ice melted and whiskey watered down beyond recognition. Were it not for the faint flicker of flames, the room would be in total darkness.

He sits and stares and knows it’s becoming an obsession. In the light of day, he would not call it that. Even now that word is wrong, but in the spiral of darkness his mind follows, it’s the only word that lingers there. Drawings of her have now grown so numerous, they liter the floor. The latest hovers in the flames, her smile, her cheeks consumed by a faint red edge before transforming into black ash.

It’s not obsession, he muses. He knew what that felt like and this isn’t it. Sophie was obsession, infection, an infestation – and this girl was none of those. No, instead, it is an external force drawing him to her, instead of internal. Like space dust attached to a comet, he feels dragged along by something greater than himself – something that humbles him and makes him feel more powerful than any creature alive. His chest roars with it.

In some way, he knows she feels it too. Haunted by inevitability.

In one of his better moods, his father had taken the family to the British Museum when he was just a child. While Caroline had shown interest more in the anatomy wing, he had been taken with great fascination by a giant, smooth circle made of stone. The whole thing was concave, the very center disappearing into a small hole, and with a free shilling from his father, he watched with rapturous delight as the shilling spun round and round, whistling as it went, down the sides until it looped tightly before disappearing entirely.

The effect itself was marvelously entertaining, but when a second shilling was added, his child's mind almost couldn’t comprehend: no matter when a second coin was added, no matter how long they raced in parallel, they would also disappear together.

Ghostly ashes of a dozen sketches curl up beneath the fire. He thinks about those coins and the duality of physics, long into the night. Long after the fire swallowed up the logs and died, satisfied and full. He remembers the loops, the shrill rush of the metal against the stone, the blur of children’s hands as they lunged forward to try and snatch the coins as they spun. But they missed each and every time. Each and every time, the coins spun and spun and spun until they overlapped, their ringing loud, and consumed each other, a single silver blur where once there were two.

*~*~*

N O W

It was nearly two in the morning when the party on the island finally came to a close. After some lazy packing that consisted mostly of smaller items being thrown into anything that could carry them and every open champagne bottle was raced to be finished, Caroline had taken the wheel of the boat and drove them back to the mainland. In a monumental act of self-discipline, she had stopped imbibing hours ago, seemingly content to dance and eat and drink nothing heavier than water from the metal pitchers. She was still red-faced, though more from the sun than being a giddy drunk, as she announced that it was time for the magic to end.

“We, unfortunately, all must wake up from this lovely dream!” The crowd of beautiful people at her feet groaned and booed. She nodded sagely. “Yes, yes, it is quite terrible, but we tempt the eye of the gods if we misbehave too long without reprimand. We must not burn too hot or bright lest we burn out!”

“Impossible!” yelled one of the redheads spread out beneath a white towel over the sand.

“Tis true, my loves!” Caroline scolded, her beauty only magnified by the light of the lanterns on the cooling sand, the echo of waves adding music to her voice. “Wake up and face the consequences.”

Consequences, you thought darkly as the spray of foamy water brushed over your face as the boat raced along the black waves. What did Caroline Catledge know of consequences?

Hopefully, nothing.

Nothing at all, you begged to an indifferent universe – neither she nor her brother would ever know how close you got to destroying their lives, if there was any kindness in the elementary make up of this existence. Because the instant you touched land, you decided firmly and resolutely, you would disappear from their lives. Consequences from Tom be damned.

And it seemed Brice knew it.

He said nothing when you walked back to the party silently, over the hill and down the dark lane back to the beach. You couldn’t quite look straight at him, out of fear of what you might say or do, so he did it all for you. He pressed the cup of his hand gently around your wrist and when you allowed that, he slid forward and held your hand. Held it, then squeezed it the longer you let him touch you. Like a fire consuming treeline after treeline, he touched more and more of you until, as the boat carried the party home – its passengers sun-warm and skin flushed with the bubbles of champagne – he folded himself around you where you stood at the bow of the boat, in the darkness of the night. He pressed a worried kiss to your hairline as if he knew you would float away the moment he let go. Fear never made him frantic, as though speed would only burn the matchsticks faster, but instead more assuredly, his movements weighted and steady. To smother and embrace.

Despite the wind, the air was thick with words he didn’t say and words you couldn’t bear to hear.

Your skin went colder and colder the longer the boat soared across the black lines of water, the moon bright and prying as if the party was in fact being watched by some otherworldly being. Soon your cheeks began to sting and your teeth chattered and Brice lended more and more of himself to you; both arms around your shoulders, his chest, his hips, all aligned with yours as more and more of you turned to cold stone.

You were jostled, a grim awareness of touching land again, then a bustle as you were transferred from the boat to a warm car, the dull echoes of the party all around you and yet nothing affected you. Nothing made its way in until it was too late.

You blinked and the smell of algae was replaced with pine and gravel. From water went rolling hills and the spark of the city in the distance, until the road ran long and dark and the drive went into the countryside. To an earthy grave.

Through all of this change, through your skin melting from porcelain to ivory to steel, finally back to flesh in the back of this warm, dark car, his hand never left yours and it was this, amongst the rush and crash of chaos, amongst the years of hiding and the loneliness of being misunderstood, you finally could tell him.

“Brice,” you murmured against his shoulder, now covered in dark blue wool instead of a wetsuit. His breathing changed slightly, as if waking up from a shallow sleep. “Brice. I have to tell you something.”

“What is it, darling?” Where the moonlight did not fall, where your lap and his must have been but instead were intertwined in the darkness, you felt him gently squeeze your hand where he held it in his.

With a deep breath, you searched for his face, then his eyes, his features smudged in the absence of light. He smelled faintly sweet, the ghost of champagne smearing the inside of his mouth, and of lake water, of comfort and warmth. You wanted nothing more than to curl up inside him, inside that broad chest, and tell him because there would be consequences – of this you were absolutely sure – but at least you would have the strength of courage on your side to look him in the eyes and tell him every horrible thing you had done, were about to do but your love, your undying love stopped you because even putting him in an ounce of pain, you’d rather be boiled alive.

Swallowing and sitting up out of his arms, you took his sleeve between your fingers, wondering if there would be any sense to what you were about to say or if it would just come out in a triumphant stream like a fire hydrant with the cap knocked off.

You opened your mouth –

And a strange noise came out of it.

“We’re here, Mr. Catledge,” said the cabbie. The car slowed to a stop and the noise continued, grew louder.

For a single moment that seemed to stretch on through time and infinity – a moment that was forever perfect and still and uninterrupted or tarnished – the mansion behind you lit up Brice Catledge, his face achingly, hauntingly beautiful in the golden luminosity. Every dark line of his lips, every generous curve around his nose, the fine hairs of his brows, the lush pink of his cheeks – it was all incredibly yours if you could just take it. And in the center of this face, this angelic face, he stared straight ahead at you, with nothing but adoring love beaming from his gaze.

Love in that moment was as palpable as moonlight. As if designed by magic.

And then came the eclipse.

“Strange, isn’t it, Mr. Catledge. That the police should be here so late.”

The car door opened, the siren still screeching behind you, and you almost tumbled onto the ground, were it not for Brice grabbing your forearms.

His shadow was unmistakable, though you had only caught it once before. In the grimy shadows of a room in the basement of the police station.

“So glad you joined us here, miss,” Detective Robinson said, his voice as heavy as concrete. “Makes things easier. You’re under arrest.”

*~*~*

The vaulted ceiling of the foyer had never been so bright, your eyes fluttering to adjust from the darkness outside to the intense white light, as if you were under the pointed and unforgiving gaze of a doctor’s operating theater. One of the bully police officers behind you harshly knocked against your shoulder the instant you had taken a second to let your eyes adjust. Keep moving, his scowl seemed to say, as if you were some sort of flight risk.

But then again, perhaps you were. The emotions had been washed clean from your body and a pounding ache was beginning just above your left eyebrow. What kind of person were you when put on trial?

If it was half the person you were on a good day, then the officer had every right to grip you roughly by the elbow.

“I demand an explanation.” Brice rounded on Robinson the moment he entered the foyer, a finger raised. “You cannot just show up on my property and make outrageous demands.”

If the detective was bothered or ruffled by seeing a man who was moments away from starting a physical brawl, he appeared completely unbothered by it.

“Can I smoke in here?” he asked.

Brice flushed red as Caroline came around the two guards at the front, her hair still windswept.

“You absolutely may not,” she snapped, her eyes red and dry. She made no attempt to be modest and hide her swim pajamas from the leering policemen. “You’re ruining my birthday party.”

You could see the smeared black mascara under and around her eyes. The flush had sunken low in her cheeks and her hair had lost that smooth, glossy shine. She looked wind-swept, a little blurred, but fierce-eyed, as if her eyes were two black stones at the bottom of a rushing river.

You couldn’t even begin to look at Brice. So, as the bright lights adjusted to your eyes, you realized there were more people in the foyer than you originally saw. Your eyes met his moments before he opened his thin mouth.

“Mr. Catlege, Ms. Catledge, I deeply apologize for this intrusion. This was not how I intended for any of this to happen, but these things are outside of my control.” Peeling off the wall like a leech letting go after it had its fill, Mr. Crock slid up next to Detective Robinson. He was grinning in a way that seemed to split the lines on his face wide open, the faint white hair powdering his face like pile on the body of an insect.

“Mr. Crock, what are you doing here?” Brice asked. Despite the redness from the sun, his skin had a damp pallor to it that made your stomach twist.

The grin on Crock’s face slipped, a wholly different expression taking over his lean features. His shoulders hunched a bit, and that waxy mouth turned downwards.

“Oh, Mr. Catledge, none of this brings me any joy to tell you any of this. Please know if there’s anything my family can do for you, just ask.”

Brice’s brilliant beautiful mouth thinned to white line and the muscle in his cheek twitched. For a fraction of a second, you could have sworn his gaze jumped to you before remaining steadfast on Crock, then to Robinson.

“Alright, that’s enough. It’s very late and I’m very tired. There’s only a few hours remaining of my sister’s birthday and I’d like to celebrate it with my family. If you can’t explain why you made such a horrendous claim out on my front lawn, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

While Crock had sobered up, those sickly lips still twisted downwards, Robinson’s expression hadn’t changed. His hands deep in his navy slacks, his salt and pepper mustache twitched once before his steel gray eyes fell on something down the hall, behind the wall, and he nodded.

There was a shuffling, as if clumsy feet were dragged across a marble floor, and three men stumbled out into the foyer. Two of them were exactly like the men at your side: wide, square-jawed, built like pugilists made to fight mountains, and wearing officers' uniforms. Indistinguishable from one another, you didn’t recognize either one, but the third one, the one in between, hand-cuffed and glowering, was –

“Tom,” you breathed and it felt like your last. The air was sucked from your lungs in a single devastating punch. Your two worlds had collided, finally, intensely and sickeningly, and you were standing in the crater, smoke rising from the ground.

You could feel the blood draining from your face.

“Who the hell is this?” Caroline sighed, as if all of this was simply an inconvenience, a stumbling block between her and her plush, feather-down mattress on the second floor.

Brice stared at your husband, more confused than irritated with that straight line between his eyebrows. Oh God, he hadn’t figured it out yet.

Crock slid forward, his eyes downcast. “Sir, madam, if I may, I hope to bring you some clarity, if not peace.” He somehow managed to sound sincerely contrite.

Brice nodded, the corners of his eyes tightening. “Go on, then.”

“As a long time friend of the family and someone who saw your own father as a brother, not only a business partner, I only wanted the best for you Catledge children . . . which is why after learning your new acquaintance claimed to be another psychic, I had her looked into.”

Both Caroline and Brice erupted into outrage.

I thought I told you to leave it alone!

Crock, you have finally gone too far!

How dare you!

You had no right to do that!

“Let him speak.” Robinson cut through both of them without moving in his position. His slate gray eyes were fixated on something on the floor, but his voice was as loud as a shotgun. The siblings stared at him, eyes wide.

Brice swallowed. It was dawning on him that something wasn’t right.

“I know now it was a breach of privacy,” Crock continued, wincing as though burned. “But believe me, I did it with the best of intentions. And you should know I found something. Something you should know. She’s in debt. Massive debt.”

You blinked, slowly as though concussed.

For the first time all night, you really looked at your husband. A purple ring swelling over his eye, his shoulders hunched and hands bound behind him, you had never seen such an expression on his face. It was as if the thing that had been Tom had closed up shop and left the building. There was nothing in his eyes. No fear, no guilt, no sadness, no remorse. He was selling you up the river and he didn’t feel a damn thing about it.

He had taken loans out in your name, you realized in that elegant, glorious foyer. His greed had exceeded far beyond what you had ever expected.

Have you ever thought about doing some good with your gifts?

Hey, my buddy Rob is coming over today, why don’t you show ‘em what you can do, eh?

Oh, doll, I’ve lost my hat. Can you find it for me?

You were ruined. In every sense of the word.

“Gambling debts, a mile long.” Crock went on, shaking his head. “Collectors began calling in early summer. The bank was foreclosing on the house next week. To say she was desperate wouldn’t be justice.”

Next week. Tom’s deadline. Everything lined up. All of it happened without you having the faintest idea.

“Desp– ,” Brice began but then stopped as if his throat closed. He still didn’t see it. “Desperate to do what?”

Crock turned towards him, as if he were the only person in the room, his eyes soft, and you saw how big men like the Catledge elder might have confided in him. “Mr. Catledge, has she asked you for any money?”

The light. The first thing that changed about his face as the understanding struck him, was the light in his eyes.

It faded.

Then he went bone white. The color of teeth.

“Just as I suspected.” Crock nodded sagely, sadly, gleefully. “But it wasn’t going to be enough. She didn’t have the time to ask for all the money required to pay off the debts. Asking for an amount all at once like that would be suspicious. No, a conwoman like her knows when to play her hand and she couldn’t risk it. But she was desperate. Time was short so she had to resort to more . . . aggressive measures. Detective, if you please.”

Robinson glanced up, as though remembering there were other people in the room. His fingers twitched to his jacket pocket, where his pack of cigarettes sat, but he left them alone. Instead, his hand went back to his pocket and retrieved his notebook. He flipped, casually, unhurried, until stopping on one of the last pages.

“At twenty four hundred hours, a Mr. Bramley reported a break-in to the police and five minutes past the midnight hour, a patrol car was dispatched to investigate. Upon arrival, the officers on the scene identified a broken window in the first floor office and the bottom drawer of an oak desk had been cracked open with a crowbar left at the scene. Further investigation of the grounds found the perpetrator hiding in the nearby woods. Perpetrator was identified as Tom Beauford with the evidence still on his person.”

Every muscle in your body locked up. Every breath was low and shallow. The corners of your vision blurred.

You had told him exactly where to find it. It had been your plan but he couldn’t wait. Not with the collectors. Not with the bank calling.

You had told him exactly where to plunge the knife.

“Detective, please show Mr. Catledge the evidence.”

Robinson lifted his gaze and something softened for a moment before he reached back into his pocket for something smaller than his notebook. Smaller than a box of cigarettes.

It arched as it left his hand before landing squarely in Brice’s lap. He caught it and stumbled, as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He slipped on the marble, backwards, until he caught the low wooden bench by the back of the knees and he crumpled onto the flat seat. He stared at the small box as though he expected it to catch fire.

“Further investigation concludes that Tom Beauford is listed in the Hall of Records, amongst birth and marriage licenses, as her husband. Married four years this May.

Robinson dropped his gaze to you and snapped the booklet shut with finality.

And there it was. All out in the open. They had some things right, but the rest of it was wrong. So very wrong, but it was there.

All exposed.

You searched and clawed and begged to find your voice. You swallowed. His name was the first word that came to you.

“Brice.”

He didn’t look up. He just . . . flinched.

“Brice–,”

Crock coughed, a dissatisfied sound. “Now you understand why we arrested her on the front lawn. They clearly are working together to not only rob you of your money, but swindle you of your engagement ring. Now if you’d be so kind as to share how much she asked for and we can add embezzlement charges as well.”

The first sound he made wasn’t a word but a sound, softly, barely audible. Nothing more than a groan, low from the back of his throat, as though something had dislodged with him. A rib. An organ. Displanted. Ruptured.

And then came his words.

“No.” His elbows rested on his knees, his face obscured by his curls. He held the box loosely with his fingers. “No. This . . . came to an end before either of us said anything we’d come to regret.”

Crock tutted then waved at the detective as if he were ordering around a servant. “Well, we’ll address that bit later. But for now, let’s allow the Catledges retire for the evening. Robinson, round up the criminals and take them to the station.”

Thick hands clasped your upper arms and the pressure startled something in you, breaking loose the voice you couldn’t find earlier.

“Brice, please –,” you gasped.

Again, he flinched. The arch of his shoulders went taught, then loosened, then went tight again.

“I don’t want to press charges.”

Crock stilled. Robinson lifted his eyes again. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not . . .” Brice swallowed. Every word he spoke was labored, rough, as though he had to dig it out from the pits of his guts. “Let them go. Both of them. I’m not pressing charges for the break-in or the attempted robbery. I’m – I’m not . . .”

“Brice.”

But that wasn’t you. Caroline, sun-drenched and narrow, crossed the marble floor, her eyes fixated on her brother, before freezing. She stood mere feet from you.

“How much?”

Crock was losing control of the situation and it was clear he had no idea how that happened. “How much is what, dear girl?”

“How much are the debts?”

“Well over ten grand,” Robinson said. His expression had changed. Curiosity breached his thick brows. Like a shark smelling blood.

“Bramley, my check book if you please.”

In the folds of her linen pants, her fists trembled.

There was a shuffling, the trample of feet, and then the old butler handed over a pad of yellow square notes. The shakes in her hands were gone as she wrote something, furiously scribbling. And with a tear that sounded like the clap of thunder, she yanked the check free and, without warning, slammed the check into your chest with the force of a full shove. You stumbled, your ribs aching, into the two officers behind you.

“Caroline,” you croaked.

You had never seen anger like that before. Never in your parents, or even Tom. It was more anguish than anger. More devastation than ire but it came out just the same.

“Think of it as payment. In exchange, we never, ever have to see you again.”

Sounds came to you as if you were underwater. Distant. Low. Wavering at the edges.

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Robinson peeled off the wall and the officers took you by the arms again. Caroline ran to her brother’s side but the shoulder of the giant man next to you blocked your vision before she got to him.

“No, wait–,” here at the end, you tried to speak. “Caroline – Brice, please let me explain–”

The cold night air hit you like a slap in the face as the officers dragged you out onto the front porch. Your joints felt swollen, numb but you pushed back.

“Stop. Let me talk to him. I need to – get your hands off me – Brice!”

It took the two men, one grabbing your feet and the other holding your chest back to take you to the police car waiting outside. You could feel yourself becoming hysterical but you didn’t care. Couldn’t.

“Put me down! Brice, please, I have to – let me just – let me go!”

The door slammed shut and you scrambled to the window. You fought the door handle but it’d had been locked from the outside. You wanted to scream, yanking furiously, panicked against the handle with a feverish intensity. Your sweaty palms streaked across the window as the car lurched into motion.

“Brice, n-n-no, Brice,” you hiccup, fighting against the restraints. “No, p-p-please, let me out. I can’t do this to him. He can’t think that I –,”

Those slate gray eyes pinned you in the rearview mirror.

“Doesn’t matter what he thinks. He just wants you gone.”

*~*~*

Outside, a storm raged. You sat at the edge of your marital bed, in the house Tom purchased for you both after you had gotten married. It all smelled the same. Same hot patches, and cold spikes in the air. Not thing had changed and yet . . .

Lightning flashed, the sound of thunder shaking the thin walls and copper pipes, the white light spilling over the ridges and valleys of the body next to you. Tom, with his swelling black eye, was silent when the pair of you left the car, silent when he let you both back into the house, silent as you both went to bed and fell asleep. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t touch you. You moved around him, as if you were vapor. As if you were a ghost.

As if you never meant anything in the first place.

His back was to you, obscuring his face, but you don’t sleep next to someone for years and not know when they were awake.

“Tom.” Rain slapped the glass windows, like anxious claws. “Tom. I have something to tell you.”

His body didn’t move, didn’t change.

“I’m leaving you. I’m leaving you and I’m telling you this time because you’re not going to follow me. Do you understand?”

Another thunderclap and you thought you saw him turn but it was just the rain reflecting on the scratchy gray blanket over his shoulders.

“Where are you going to go?” He asked almost softly, almost surprised.

At one point, he knew. And he knew what it meant to take you away from that place. And he knew what it meant to go back.

The door to the phonebooth clicked beneath a grumble of thunder as warm rain poured over the crest of your forehead and down your cheeks, your neck, your shoulders. Hands empty of anything that were yours, you sat down on the concrete step, streaming water slipping off your eyelashes and into your mouth. The night was dark, the torrential downpour obscuring the faint yellow light coming from the windows of the townhouses on the block.

Are you alright? Did you sleep in your clothes?

You can hear Emily’s voice, bright and loud, and there���s such an ache in your chest for the boarding house you nearly stop breathing.

I’ll tell the other girls to say the same, if they see anyone. Come, inside, dinner’s almost done.

You would have given anything to sit at Martina’s table – the smells, the taste of her fresh cooking, the sound of indulgent laughter. Those girls, that place – it had been a refuge, a place of strength when you felt helpless. When you couldn’t imagine your life being any different from where you came.

Now, the memories kept you seated, despite your soaking wet clothes and the wavering sense of drowning beneath the outpouring, kept you from going back into the dark and the gray blankets. You shuddered from the cold and from the ache in your chest.

If things were ever going to change, they had to get better right now, right at this very moment. Whatever was ahead, it was unknown, but at least it wasn’t what was behind you.

Soldiers from the war often spoke of a phantom limb, pain existing from a loss of a thing that was no longer there. There was something within you that had been irrevocably severed but you still felt it. There but not there. Even the ghosts in your head never felt this close.

In fact, they had been remarkably silent for the past day and a half. There was space inside your head and for a moment you wished there wasn’t. At least with them, you carried someone with you. At least with them, you weren’t completely alone.

A glistening shadow emerged in the night. A long black car turned round the corner, its lights flashing like the eyes of a snake, and when it stopped by the phone booth, you opened the door and got in.

*~*~*

T H R E E  W E E K S  L A T E R

Breakfast with your parents was a silent affair.

Outside, birds chirped and the gardener snipped back any fly-away leaves, sculpting perfect hedges – startling in their uniformity. Down the long front lawn, a car rolled by, the tires treading loudly on the gravel as it went by the front iron gates. You waited, your breath in your chest, for your mother to stand up, sigh with the same intonation as a burst balloon, and slam the heavy curtains shut. Too much light was bad for your mother’s condition, the doctor claimed only ever in writing. What that condition was exactly was as much a mystery to you as why she let in so much of the outside world today while she was eating.

Your mother liked the dark, the sounds that muffled things made, and her rituals. Since returning home, you had been expected to respect and immediately become a part of those things and like muscle memory, you eased back into it. Tom had always been so appreciative of how quiet you were. He too didn’t like a lot of noise.

Lost in your thoughts, your hand slipped and the spoon swirling your morning tea clinked once against the side of the tea cup. Like the twitch of a tiger’s tail, your mother’s gaze snapped away from her bloody red grapefruit to you; things that made noise became the focus of her attention.

“Sit up straight, darling, you’re slouching.”

You adjusted in your seat and the dress she selected for you dug into your back.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked and delicately drank her tea, her head balanced on some imaginary level. She asked despite having arranged your tutor herself.

“Etiquette lessons until one,” you said, head down and staring at the single bit of dirt on your mother’s linen table runner. “Then classics study with Ms. Abigail, and finally practicing piano until dinner.”

“Good.” She frowned as her eyes roamed your face, as if picking out a prized cow from a herd. “We shall also have the stylist come by tomorrow. When’s the last time you got a haircut? Your split ends are ghastly.”

“Yes, Mother.” You knew not to eat until she was finished.

She drank from her cup again, elegantly pleased, and she nodded. “Isn’t it lovely that everyone is back home again? It’s almost as if you never left, dear.”

This was how it was going to be. Every day of your life. You were safe, high up in your ivory tower, away from everyone and everything. But that was a prison of its own. A prison you chose and designed yourself.

You purposefully dig the dress into your back. “Yes, Mother.”

Across the table, your father makes his presence known by flourishing the day’s paper and clearing his throat.

“Veronica,” he began, addressing your mother, in his usual bored drawl, “did you hear that that Catledge boy got his car blown up?”

The world lurched and for a moment you thought you were going to projectile vomit across the breakfast linens.

“That’s the second attempt on his life, isn’t it?” He asked of no one. “Quite shocked they managed to miss him again. Surprised the Catledges don’t just go back to Europe until this whole nasty business just blows over.”

You grabbed a fork to steady yourself, to feel something cold over your heated skin.

“What else does it say?” You blurted out. Too much and your chest would explode. “Do they have any suspects?”

Your father’s frown met you over his newspaper, as if just now realizing you were there. He opened his mouth to respond but your mother cut him off.

“Can we not talk about violence at the breakfast table? It gives me such a headache.” And there came the sigh that had been hanging over all morning. “Ah, dear Eustice, my pills, right away.”

The maid stationed at the door silently went out as the housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, came in. She bowed appropriately.

“Ma’am, there’s a doctor MacIntosh here to see you. Says you had an early morning appointment.”

Beleaguered and sighing, your mother nodded as your father folded up his newspaper, expectantly. He stood and helped your mother to her feet.

“Your mother is trying a new doctor,” he said again to no one, but you were the only other person in the room. “This one has some experimental treatment out of Australia.”

Your mouth dried up. No. There was no way. No possibility that it could be –

But that red hair was unfortunately unmistakable. Mac, the very same one as all those Catledge parties, with her tweed jacket, bowler’s cap, and brilliantly intelligent blue eyes. She shook hands with your father first, whose eyes nearly bugged out when he saw a woman in pants, before gently taking your mother’s limp rag of a hand and cupping it over her own.

“Good morning, sir, and ma’am. So sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. But I can assure you and your family that –,” As she spoke, she glanced, full of genuinity, to your father, your mother, and then to you. She stopped in the middle of her sentence, eyes wide as if she had just been slapped.

Your mother, irritated she stopped being the center of attention for a moment, stood up right and looked over her shoulder at you.

“Do you know my daughter, Dr. MacIntosh?”

You both responded; “No.” “A little.”

Mac recovered herself and her smile softened her shocked face. “Only a little. I think we saw each other at a social event, here or there. No matter. Let’s get you situated on the couch.”

You couldn’t stop staring. Mac was in your house. Mac who was with the Catledges’ frequently. Spoke to them. Probably had seen Brice since the car explosion –

Your heart nearly wrenched itself out of your chest and you stood up. All three sets of eyes fell on you and again your mother glared at you for the competition.

“Uh, can I help?” You asked. There came a flicker of understanding in Mac’s eyes, before she turned and patted your mother’s hand.

“What a kind daughter you have, ma’am. If it would be alright with you, I could use some assistance preparing your medicine.”

With a groan as though gripped in the throes of agony, your mother nodded and leaned back on the couch, her hand over her eyes and your father tutted, dabbing her brow with his napkin.

Glancing at the door, Mac picked up her case and motioned for you to follow. Astutely, she walked with ease and knowledge directly to the servants kitchen – a smaller room where servants were allowed to prepare their own meals and eat outside of on-duty hours.

You followed her, your heart in your throat, as she shut the door behind you.

How perfectly stupid you had been. Maybe she wanted you alone to yell at you because of what you had done to her friends. Maybe she wanted to accuse you again of murder, because clearly crime was something you were comfortable with and –

Mac dropped her bag and in two swift steps enveloped you in such a tight hug it made your knees buckle.

“Oh, sweet thing, I am so sorry.”

The heady combination of genuine compassion and sorrow obliterated any resistance you had left and your eyes filled with tears that burst out the corner of your eyes. You tightened your hold on her the harder you cried.

You had cried so much that first week. You laid in bed, curled up, sobbing, feeling as though you were going to choke on your heart. It wasn’t until days later you realized your mother hadn’t bothered you. No one, for better or worse, came in to check on you. It was the nicest thing your mother had ever done.

When you could literally feel your skin drying out from all the tears you shed, you had gone and asked your mother’s handmaid for a new dress and the next morning your mother arrived with an itinerary to keep you busy and that was the end of it. But this – Mac and her kindness and her compassion and her belief in you – this pushed you over the edge again.

“Mac – Oh, God, Mac – what have I done?”

“Shhh, none of it was your fault, lovey.” She petted the back of your head. “I heard all about it the next day and knew it was wrong. The things they accused you of, I knew you couldn’t do it.”

“He didn’t even press charges, Mac!” You sobbed into her shoulder. “Why would he do that if he b-b-believed them?”

Mac tutted and pulled back, offering you a handkerchief from her pocket. She patted your cheek, her blue eyes soft, as you wiped your eyes. “I think the answer to that is a bit more complicated than you might think.”

Your heart dropped, the idea too ridiculously painful to contemplate, but so wonderful you thought you might burst out of your lungs. In your emotional state, the spirits swooped in, chattering and yelling. They had come back full force in the past few days, and you hadn’t even left the room until your mother’s attendant came back with new gloves – the old ones were unwearable, according to your mother. The force by which they pounced made you dizzy and Mac, noticing you swaying on your feet, took you by the shoulder and had you sit at the small wooden table.

“How – how is he, Mac?” You sniffed, shoving off the dizzy spell as Mac got you some water from the tap.

Her face fell, worry shifting to something deeper. “Not good, darling. Not good. Last week I got a call from George, asking if I’d come do a wellness check on him, but when I got there, he refused to see anyone. After that, no one’s been around at all, to see any of them. You drive by, and it sometimes looks like no one lives there anymore. I’ve tried to share ‘round to the gossips that it’s just because of the second attempt on his life, that they’re closing ranks for safety, but . . .”

She returned and handed you the glass. The water looked slippery and thick. You set it down, swallowing dry air in the back of your throat. She sat across from you and rubbed her eyes with her fingers.

“I know all of that was cooked up by that weaslly little Crock. He’s always been a dirty brown-noser–,”

“Mac!”

“Well, it’s true! But, darling, I really must know,” she leaned forward and took you by the hands, “are you really married to that man, Tom?”

You swallowed, then nodded, then shook your head. “I was. My parents and their very expensive lawyer managed to annul the marriage without his signature last week. But it wasn’t difficult, given they could not find any evidence that the marriage happened in the first place.”

“But it was in the Hall of Records.”

“But no license. Nothing with his signature or mine on it.” You shrugged, wiping your eyes with the back of  our hand. “I suppose someone recorded it, but apparently it didn’t hold up to legal snuff. It doesn’t matter anyway. Brice thinks my husband and I tried to swindle him.”

Mac sat back, her eyes narrowing. “Does Brice know you’re here? That you’ve left Tom?”

You shrugged again and sniffed. “I can’t imagine he would. I never told him about my parents, who they were. For all he knows, we’re blowing his family money on even more gambling. Besides, I don’t know what he would do if he did know, that I was here.”

She watched you, a frown on her face smeared between pity and sorrow. “Like I said, I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

She stood and began to take several vials out of her bag. She traded the liquid back and forth between them before shaking one of them and handing the vial to you.

“Now, give this to your mother three times a day. Should help with the headaches, numbness, and malaise.”

You held it up to the light. “What is it?”

Mac grinned subtly. “Brand new regiment called a placebo.”

You laughed, the sound wet, despite your eyes being dry. She grinned gently, her blue eyes going soft again, as she put a hand on your cheek.

You could almost hear the music, taste the sweet drink on your tongue, feel the rush of bodies on the dancefloor the night of the fundraiser in the garden. You and Mac had laughed for what felt like hours and there was something soothing having her touch you, stand before you, knowing it was all real and not some beautiful dream. You closed your eyes and leaned into her palm.

“Don’t give up, darling.” She said softly, fiercely. “It’s not all lost. He’s grieving because he’s been lied to – they all are – but not by you. He doesn’t want you to give up on him, I know it.”

“Mac, I broke his heart,” you cried, your eyes wet again. “I did the one thing he swore would never happen again.”

“What happened between you two, it takes two people.” Your heart swelled and your eyes opened. She smiled again. “He doesn’t care about the past. Only the future. Only one with you in it.”

“So what do I do, Mac?” You gasped, pleading. The hand that held the tissue shook. “How do I change things?”

“You fight, dear girl. You fight.”

*~*~*

You watched Mac’s car drive away down the lane from your window. The instant she was gone, you yanked off your gloves and strode towards your bed where the doctor’s handkerchief laid. You snatched it up and the immediate force of the psychic connection brought you to your knees. You gasped at the pain of the images rippling through your skull.

Mac picking up groceries from the local boy at her back door.

Mac drinking something of lemon and vodka.

Mac touching the face of a beautiful girl across from her in a dark club.

“No–,” you snarled, clenching the cloth in your hands tighter. “No–,”

Mac blotting the skin of a dying man in his elegant bedclothes.

Mac wiping her mouth after a meal at a hotel on the edge of the ocean.

Mac sitting –

You ground your teeth as you grasped the memories with an iron fist and pulled them back from your skull. They held on in strands, memories and sensations and feelings all rushing to drive a wedge between you and sanity the longer you held onto the cloth.

“NO!”

Your grip slipped and the pain knocked you onto your back.

They had all come true. It was three in the morning on day three of the deluge when you realized every image you had seen the morning on the train platform had come to pass. And they had all involved moments with you and Brice. They had all come to pass. All, except for one.

Mac’s memories were half-formed now, stifled, as they tried to cram their way in. The spirits shuddered and groaned around you, shrieking above the gloom, desperate to be heard.

You focused on one voice, a single voice – a single smell you inhaled on the front steps of a beautiful mansion. In front of a beautiful man.

Lords of England. Cigars. Whiskey. An elegant glass.

You clawed into that memory like it was a lifeline.

Music, then. Soft music played to a woman who meant a great deal to the smoker. A man who by conflicting accounts was either a great man or a great father but he was not both, but still he lingered. Still he watched out for those who he loved – and you knew them – yes, you know his son –

Gasping, head feeling like it was about to split open, slowly you sat up, the handkerchief still clutched in your fist.

The roar of memories slowed as you concentrated on one singular sensation; the Lords of England smoke.

And then a memory of your own.

Soft, brown eyes. A drop of curly hair across a wide brow. A smile. God, a smile that made you light up.

An anchor. Amidst the chaos and the noise and the pain, you had found an anchor.

With a grin, your chest still heaving and your head spinning, you looked down at your hand. Still you held Mac’s handkerchief. There was some noise, yes, but now you could watch her go about her day as though you stood just behind her. Call to you any memory she made while she kept this bit of cloth on her person.

The spirits were quiet, subdued into control. A river running in the back of your mind. You could pay attention to it or not if you wished.

Swallowing, you stood up and got water from the pitcher. Drinking slowly, you checked the locks on your bedroom door again.

With a sigh you tossed the handkerchief on the bed and sat at your desk while you finished your water. When the sweat had cooled, you stood up and prepared yourself for the dark wave to come crashing down. And you would do it, time and time again until you no longer had to drag yourself out.

This time would be different. This time you would practice and practice until you no longer drowned beneath the weight of your gift.

Because you had an anchor.

Because you had him.

Your fingers flinched as you reached out.

Again.

[prettyboyhamish]

IT'S OVER

the finale of my porter collins series is here, and I can't thank you all enough for your support along the way. I won't say much else, but I'm eternally grateful. what an adventure this has been!

I think my next ambition will be finishing my brice catledge x reader series... but you never know, and I need a break first anyways lmao thank you all so much for everything!

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

𝑬𝑩𝑰𝑬'𝑺 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

Hello, everyone!

First of all, before the list begins, I feel that I need to warn you that English isn't my first language, so might happen you find some writing/grammar mistakes, I also don't have a beta reader, again I'm sorry for any mistakes.

Most, if not all my fanfictions are 'x ofc/c', however, I write them as reader fics. That means that the only differences from a 'x reader' fic is that the character will have a name and the narration will be in the third person. But no details about the embodiment of the character will be given, with a few exceptions in a couple stories, but I'll be warning in the notes and warnings of the piece when that happens.

Also, I made this Google form, so you can tell me where you want to be tagged. That's all for now.

Enjoy :)

Update: ALL my fanfictions are on indeterminate hiatos. But, I'm not abandoning them, I promise 😘

Update #2: Some changes in the Masterlist, I'm reorganizing the whole thing to get a better view of what I'll be doing, hopefully I'll be able to post something soon.

𝔖𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔤 𝔇𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝔇𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔡 𝔅𝔬𝔴𝔦𝔢

𝐉𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝑯𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔

𝔇𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔩 𝔅𝔯𝔲̈𝔥𝔩

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐙𝐞𝐦𝐨

𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐳𝐥𝐨 𝐊𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐥𝐞𝐫

𝐄𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐭

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰

𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝑳𝒆𝒏𝒛 𝑴. 𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒏

𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒓

𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒐 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒐

𝔇𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔡 𝔇𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔞𝔫

𝐀𝐛𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐊𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 [𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐚-𝐃𝐨𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐧]

𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰

𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝑯𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑮𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒅

ℌ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔏𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥 | 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐭

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞

𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐡 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰

𝔒ℭ'𝔰

𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑮. 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕

𝕺𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖒𝖘

𝔓𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔰

And that's it for now.

I'll make a separate post for each fanfic and one-shot, with the specs of genres and warnings.

𝑰𝑴𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑨𝑵𝑻!

These stories are 100% mine, that is, I created, started and will finish them the way they were planned within the proper time. That said, I do not consent anything originally posted on this blog being copied/pasted/translated/or any other form of reproduction, to any site other than here, on this blog, without my permission. In short, not even over my dead body.

Thank you in advance for your attention and I hope you enjoy these stories made with great care and effort.

Good reading!

[chronic-ghost]

moodboard (#001) for:

a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of spectres few have seen (brice catledge/reader)

@taxontaxoff i went rogue and posted something without your express approval

[chronic-ghost]

a playlist for a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of spectres few have seen (coming 08/12)

( collection of big band, swing jazz, and some funky ukulele to consume while you drink mint juleps on the veranda - listen here )

1. A Lady (Tally Hall)

I know a lady, Good & Evil

2. Looks, Looks, Looks (Sparks)

At night she masquerades her passion covered by a veil of calm Say, put on your shoes

3. Sweetheart Blues (Boyd Senter)

🎺🎺🥁🎶

4. The Sea of Tranquility (The Music Tapes)

Oh we'll be old and weary friends God bless let all this never end

5. We’ll Meet Again (The Ink Spots)

We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day.

6. LIke Ships Need the Sea (Emily Hearn)

Finally, you gave me your heart Gladly I gave you the love you'd awaited

7. Patient Is the Night (Chris Issak)

How I long to see her face now Her starry, moonlit gaze now

8. Good Night, My Beautiful (Russ Morgan and His Orchestra)

🎺🎹🎷🎻

9. Map to Your Heart (Copperlilly)

And that second glance looked quite nice I decided I would keep my eyе on you

10. J’Attendrai (The Music Tapes)

J'attendrai le jour et la nuit J'attendrai toujours ton retour

11. Sophie (The Altogethers)

Sophie, your friends all think I'm lonely But they don't really know me

12. Ett Stilla Regn (Ashely Erikkson)

Jag blundar länge och tänker, åh, det blir skönt, snart kommer en vår

13. Hearts a Mess (Gotye)

You have lost Too much love To fear, doubt and distrust

14. Young and Beautiful (The Bryan Ferry Orchestra)

🎻🥁🎼🎹

15. Ain’t Misbehavin’ (Louis Armstrong)

Just me and my radio Ain't misbehavin' I'm savin' my love for you

16. Do the Strand (The Bryan Ferry Orchestra)

🎺🪗🎹🎷

17. Over the Rainbow (Israel Kamakawiwoʻole)

Where trouble melts like lemon drops High above the chimney top that's where you'll find me

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

🌹🌹🌹Lemme see ‘em all!!!

*excited noises* Uhhh three roses!!!! Hope you like!!!

First, this is from "Shiver" a John Tyler one-shot that is in my drafts for AGES.

He gripped the wheel tightly as he thought of Mary, of her arrogance and contempt for him. The way she treated him when he did her the favour of revealing the loopholes he knew so well that left women so exposed, so vulnerable to him. John hated the way she didn't even consider his proposal, his help.

There was a gulf between Mary's behaviour and what he had just witnessed. There was a pure, almost angelic kindness in how the nurse — Thomasin, he remembered — acted. The care and zeal she had for a dying old man who probably didn't have more than a few measly weeks to live. For a moment, John envied the attention the old man received from the young woman. John had noticed the affable familiarity between them. He wanted that for himself, that…affection.

John didn't even realize that he had already returned to the Twin Cities hotel, only when he parked the red vehicle did he realize how interested in the nurse he was. The lapse of the immaculate sparkle of the young woman's smile flashed in his mind. Something seemed to snap inside him, as if a key had been turned, or a switch pressed. John sighed in another attempt to calm down. A slight discomfort below the waist gave away something he already knew.

It would be a long night of meditation.

Second, a lil snippet from "Young American", my haimgruder short-fic, also lying in my drafts for some time now, it is staring at me from the docs page so here it is.

Sitting up, Eden took a deep breath, her well-cut nails painted beige as opposed to the usual cobalt blue, tapping against the zipper of her cheap little black leather bag that rested on her lap. If she was honest, and she always was, it wasn't not getting the job that scared her, but being surrounded by close-minded old men who most likely wouldn't be content to just stare.

Linda warned her about this.

Linda was her neighbour, friend and former owner of the position she applied for. She knew that Eden was in need of a job, especially after what happened, she thought about it a bit and they both talked about the possibility. Linda had told her that her typing skills would come in handy.

Oh, if Linda had known what she used to use those abilities for, she wouldn't even have suggested that her friend work with them.

The truth was, Eden March spent her mornings helping an old friend of her father's — an Irish gentleman who had lived in the US since being exiled as an unfaithful guerrilla ex-member of the IRA — named Declan. He owned a small bookshop, which at first looked like an ordinary bookshop owned by a nice old man, but which contained one of the most magnificent collections of books on Communism, Socialism, Bolshevism, and Marxism that Eden had ever seen. Declan had a space in his attic where he would meet with some young revolutionaries, and together they would run a newspaper column on social democratic politics.

That's where Eden's typist skills came in.

Working almost full time as a writer for a small left-wing newspaper was rewarding, she loved it, learned a lot, lived a lot, and it was great while it lasted.

Then Nell got sick.

Her sister needed her full attention, just like her nephew, and she had less and less time for her work as an unpaid pseudo-journalist. Too bad, she still wasn't able to take care of Nellie. Nell was gone, and she had no choice but to take the reins of someone else's life but herself.

The rustling of some sheets of paper brings her back to the present.

Inhale. Expires. She remembers Linda's advice.

And as a bonus, because I know you have a AMAZING Brice fic in progress, I'll share a piece of mine as an offering, bc you inspired me sm to improve my writing skills. This is from "If I Give My Heart to You".

Autoimmune encephalitis, the doctors said. Two misdiagnoses later and the disease was already in its final stages. Make her comfortable, stick around and say goodbye. It was the advice given.

Experimental treatments were considered, but the Catledge siblings didn't want to inflict any more suffering on their poor mother.

Brice felt the corners of his eyes sting with the memory of Grace's final days. He moved her to his room, where he could keep an eye on her. A desk by the bed and stacks of papers to sign. A cheeky tear slipped down the waterline of his eye. Many bad memories were made during the worst periods of the illness, but without a doubt the hallucinations she had with his father were the ones that shattered his chest the most.

On the last day, after a particularly severe seizure, Brice lay awake most of the night, sitting in an armchair beside the bed, trying to bring down his mother's fever with cold cloths, when she suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. Brice recalled with a shudder the lack of sparkle — of life — in the indigo of her confused eyes. Grace repeated disconnected phrases deliriously, babbling half-words, calling him 'Harry'. He said nothing, just leaned over, and gently held his mother's wrinkled hand, whispering sweet words each time she looked scared, or confused.

Later, just before sunrise, she fell asleep with heavy eyes and slow breathing, and he knew that this time, she wouldn't wake up again. So he hugged her and cried. He cried the hardest of his entire life. Until his eyes stung, and his throat itched, until the blue sleeve of Grace's nightgown was soaked with his sweat and tears, until the only things he was able to feel were the hot trails on his cheeks and the stinging pain beneath his sternum.

Icy splatters hit his skin, and he stared at the gray sky. The pouring rain drove him off the porch, as if it mourned him or was just tired of watching him grieve.

I hope you've enjoyed those! I'm working to finish them, now that I finally have the free time I needed! Thank you for the ask 💜, beloved!!

[chronic-ghost]

playlists (and their accompanying fic)

the ghost of you (giving up the ghost - TBD) - Magic in the Moonlight: Brice Catledge/reader

a hybrid signal (the chimera) - Horizon Zero Dawn: Aloy/Avad

you’re a holy fool, all colored blue (the hush of the very good) - Midnight Mass: Monsignor John Pruitt/reader

gothic 60s (something wicked this way comes - TBD) - Midnight Mass, John/Millie

this girl, this thorn - general vibe for Mad Wife (American Gods)

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

𝑬𝑩𝑰𝑬'𝑺 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

Hello, everyone!

First of all, before the list begins, I feel that I need to warn you that English isn't my first language, so might happen you find some writing mistakes, I also don't have a beta reader, again I'm sorry for any mistakes.

Also, I made this Google form, so you can tell me where you want to be tagged. That's all for now.

Enjoy :)

UPDATED MASTERLIST

Update: ALL my fanfictions are on indeterminate hiatos. But, I'm not abandoning them, I promise 😘

𝐉𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠:

Aurora has always been a lonely and imaginative young woman, always reading about faraway realms, fantastical creatures and cruel and heartless kings. After an argument with Harry, her younger brother, the young woman asks the Goblins; magical creatures that kidnap children to take their little brother. At her request, the King of the Goblins, a character in one of Aurora's books, kidnaps the little boy. Repentant, the young woman will have to face a labyrinth and rescue her brother before the thirteen hours are up to prevent him from being turned into a Goblin forever and she, being imprisoned in the king's castle.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄 𝒐𝒇 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 | 𝑱𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒉, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒙 𝑶𝑭𝑪 — 𝑾𝑰𝑷

[𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉] [𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒆]

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤:

𝑪𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑺𝒆𝒙𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓!𝑮𝑵! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

As a lonely and melancholic vampire widow, John decides to drown some of his painful memories of his beloved deceased wife Miriam, in a sensual and desperate sex worker with an unhealthy attraction for death and danger.

John Blaylock is the perfect history teacher, he's smart, patience, kind and devilish handsome. One day, during a particularly boring class, he feels the unmistakable sentiment of someone staring eyes on him, and his sparkling blue eyes lay down on you. A shy young woman in the bottom of the class, when she is catching looking at him, she blushes strongly. At that moment, John has a very mischievous idea.

𝑰 𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝑩𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑺𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒆 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓!𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

OC's:

𝐻𝑎𝑦𝑤𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝐽𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠:

𝑻𝒆𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 | 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓!𝑯𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Haywood accepts the chance of teaching St. Bartollomew's students literature and writing methods. There, he meets you, a promising young woman who's suffering with an abusive relationship. After developing some feelings for her, he decides to help her with the toxic boyfriend.

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐙𝐞𝐦𝐨:

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝑺𝒐 𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑫𝒊𝒆 | 𝑻𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒕𝒔!𝑨𝑼 | 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

After you have helped Val and Yelena to take Baron out of the Raft, you all go to a bunker, we're you will stay to hide, until the day of your mission.

(𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍) 𝑺𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆 | 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒅!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨

𝑭𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍 | 𝑻𝑭𝑨𝑻𝑾𝑺 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒏!𝑨𝑼 | 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨

𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒂𝒎𝒆 | 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑴𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑮𝑵!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑴𝒓. 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒎𝒂𝒏 | 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑮𝑵!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑰𝒕 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓 | 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒆 | 𝑯𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍!𝒁𝒆𝒎𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐳𝐥𝐨 𝐊𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐥𝐞𝐫:

𝑹𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒛𝒍𝒐 𝑲𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒛𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑶𝒇 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 | 𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒛𝒍𝒐 𝑲𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒛𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓— 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐄𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐭:

𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝑰𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑬𝒚𝒆 | 𝑬𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑺𝒄𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒕 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑫𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒔 𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒎 | 𝑬𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑺𝒄𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒕 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐒𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐙𝐨̈𝐥𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫:

𝑨 𝑴𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝑶𝒇 𝑨 𝑭𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝑭𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 | 𝑺𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒁𝒐̈𝒍𝒍𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬𝐤𝐢:

𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒛 𝑶𝒇 𝑭𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 | 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒔𝒌𝒊 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱 𝐊𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫:

𝑻𝒐𝒐 𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑻𝒐 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒚𝒆 | 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒙 𝑲𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐍𝐢𝐤𝐢 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚:

𝑭𝒂𝒓 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑨𝒏𝒚 𝑹𝒐𝒂𝒅 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑵𝒊𝒌𝒊 𝑳𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒂 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠:

𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒊𝒏 | 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒙 𝑳𝒊𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Random Characters:

𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒅 | 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓!𝑨́𝒍𝒆𝒙 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒍 𝒙 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝑩���𝒍𝒍𝒔 | 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑭𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑵𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 | 𝑲𝒐𝒏𝒓𝒂𝒅 𝑲𝒐𝒄𝒉 𝒙 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑰𝒕'𝒔 𝒂 𝑺𝒊𝒏 | 𝑨𝒓𝒃𝒐 𝒙 𝑵𝒖𝒏!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝑾𝒆 𝑨𝒓𝒆 | 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝑲𝒓𝒂̈𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑨𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒕!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 | 𝑻𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒊 𝒙 𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒆!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑲𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰’𝒎 𝑵𝒐 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅 | 𝑻𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒂𝒔 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒏 𝒙 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒚!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

OC's:

𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐳 𝐌. 𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧:

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔 | 𝑳𝒆𝒏𝒛 𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒏 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓/𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒆!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑮𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄] | [𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉]

Lenz was a handsome, dangerous man, drowned in his own dirty little secrets and his own thirsty issues. One glorious night gave birth to what would become the Devil himself. This is an anthology. Same character, different situations, different times. In Greek mythology, Thanatos was the personification of death. He was a minor figure in Greek mythology, often referred to but rarely appearing in person. (Wikipedia)

𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫:

Inspired by the OC Patrick Klein, created by @creme-bruhlee

𝑨𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝑪𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝑰𝒏 | 𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑾𝒂𝒓 𝑵𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝑴𝒂𝒊𝒅!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨:

Inspired by the OC Father González/Domingo, created by @creme-bruhlee

𝑺𝒎𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓𝒔 | 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖈 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖚𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘:

[𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙] [𝕻𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖚𝖌𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖊 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙]

Mateo is a man of faith, a good pastor and a just presbytery. However, even on its pure surface, the good father concealed his impure thoughts towards the young novice who always attended his masses. On a particularly revealing night, the priest comes across the entity his repressed desires have invoked. Shall he surrender to the unholy tongue of a demon?

𝑰𝒏 𝑵𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒎 | 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒙 𝑫𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

[𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉] [𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒆]

𝐀𝐛𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐊𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 [𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐚-𝐃𝐨𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐧]:

𝑰 𝑺𝒆𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 | 𝑷𝒐𝒍𝒌𝒂-𝑫𝒐𝒕 𝑴𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝑺𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒅!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

After years seeing only the traumatic face of his mother, something changed when Abner was designed to be part of the suicide squad, and he meets you. After a dangerous moment in the beach in Corto Maltese were Spectro pushes him far from an explosion, he starts to really see her. He doesn't understand why, only after that moment he looks at her, and she's the only one who don't look like his mother. He also doesn't understand why she's so kind to him, or even what is she doing with that group. The reader has a codename, so mostly she's called by Spectro.

𝑱𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝑶𝒇 𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒄𝒚 | 𝑷𝒐𝒍𝒌𝒂-𝑫𝒐𝒕 𝑴𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝑮𝑵!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜:

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑪𝒂𝒏 𝑩𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒔𝒔 | 𝑫𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝑴𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒐𝒄 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑾𝒆 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝑲𝒏𝒆𝒘 | 𝑫𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔 𝑴𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒐𝒄 𝒙 𝑨𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧:

𝑵𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒙 𝑺𝒆𝒙𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑹𝒆𝒅 𝑭𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒙 𝑺𝒆𝒙𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

OC'S:

Nothing here yet! :)

𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥 | 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐭:

𝑪𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒖𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂 | 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑮𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄] | [𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉] [𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒆]

Crockett Island is a very calm and peaceful place. Just like a beautiful and imposing oak, and just as the oak, the island hides a rotten inner, putrefied secrets just in plain sigh waiting the perfect time to fall apart. Sometimes the broken things can be fixed easily by the right person.

𝑬𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅!𝑵𝒖𝒏!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝕴𝖓 𝕸𝖞 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘:

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑬𝒙𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒖𝒎 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑵𝒐𝒍𝒊 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒖𝒍 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞:

𝑨 𝑭𝒓𝒆𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑺𝒍𝒊𝒑 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Ꮇꭺꭹᏼꭼ Ꮖ Ꮯꮎꮼꮮꭰ Ꮋꮎꮮꭰ Ꭹꮎꮼ Ꮪꭼꭱꮖꭼꮪ:

𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑺𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒚𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑨 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 | 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞:

𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝑮𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕] | [𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉]

After being dumped by Sophie, Brice became bitter. Decided to focus on his work, running the fortune of his family, he lets the flower that grew on his chest wither and rot. Months pass and a great ball is coming. He’s invited by one of his colleagues, and after a huge pressure of his sister Caroline, he decides to go. There he meets a clever widow, duchess Kathryn Artherton. And the feelings he battled to bury are taking control once again. Will they be able to open their hearts once again and give a chance for love?

𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐡 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫:

This character has only dark fics. Exclusively Dead Doves. Be aware.

𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑻𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑵𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

"You're a wolf!" Esther's voice still echoed in the young nurse's mind. "You're a wolf!" She heard the old lady screaming at her. Thomasin could hear her clearly. She felt the hot, swollen tears run down her temples, getting lost in her hair. She felt the excruciating weight on her, the strength of the noose that held her wrists, the deep voice whispering her name. "You. are. a. wolf." She should have listened.

𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚 𝑶𝒓 𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑻𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Adelaide knew it was only a matter of time before he found her again. She dreaded the arrival of that day every morning and every night. She avoided this moment as much as possible, changed states, changed her name, and locked herself in a cottage far away from it all. However, John Tyler was free and missing. And when she received the news in that particular morning, she knew he was coming for her. After all… She was his first.

𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲 (𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬):

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏’ 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 | 𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒆𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒅 | 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒓!𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 | 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌!𝑨𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝑲𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑬𝒙-𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

Random Characters:

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 | 𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑨𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝑮𝒂𝒎𝒆 | 𝑵𝒐𝒂𝒉 𝑩𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚-𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑰𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒎 𝑺𝒆𝒂 𝒐𝒇 𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 | 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑫𝒆𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒚 𝒙 𝑴𝒂𝒍𝒆!𝑴𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑨𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔 | 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑱𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒑𝒉 𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒃𝒔 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑩𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒓!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑯𝒐𝒕 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 | 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔 (𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑪𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝑵𝒐) 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑯𝒊𝒈𝒉 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒍𝒆) | 𝑹𝒂𝒍𝒑𝒉 𝑩𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒂 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑵𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑨 𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 | 𝑱𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒂 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑳𝒂𝒘𝒚𝒆𝒓!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑴𝒚 𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 | 𝑬𝒗𝒂𝒏 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒙 𝑴𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍!𝑮𝑵!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑨 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝑯𝒊𝒅𝒆 | 𝑫𝒓. 𝑱𝒊𝒎 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑫𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓!𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

OC'S:

ℌ𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔶 𝔊. 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔱𝔱:

𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒆 | 𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇! 𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑶𝒏 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 |𝑭𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝑵 𝑭𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑺𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑴𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝒔 𝑶𝒏 | 𝑺𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒕 | 𝑫𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑫𝒓𝒚𝒂𝒅 | 𝑫𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒔𝒕 | 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 — 𝑻𝑩𝑨 [𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕-𝒇𝒊𝒄]

And that's it for now.

I'll make a separate post for each fanfic and one-shot, with the specs of genres and warnings.

IMPORTANT!

These stories are 100% MINE, that is, I created, started and will finish them the way they were planned.

PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME! REPORT IT.

Thank you in advance for your attention and I hope you enjoy these stories made with great care and effort.

Good reading!

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 

𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖑𝖊 If I Give My Heart to You

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 Brice Catledge x Fem! Reader (OFC)

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖊 After being dumped by Sophie, Brice became bitter. Decided to focus on his work, running the fortune of his family, he lets the flower that grew on his chest wither and rot. Months pass and a great ball is coming. He’s invited by one of his colleagues, and after a huge pressure of his sister Caroline, he decides to go. There he meets a clever widow, duchess Kathryn Artherton. And the feelings he battled to bury are taking control once again.

Will they be able to open their hearts once again and give a chance for love?

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊𝖘 Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Hurt&Comfort.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 Angst, Aggression, Alcohol, Smut, Fluff, Mentions of Depression, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Past Trauma, Adultery (but not really), Self-harm (mentioned).

More notices to be added if needed. Let me know when something requires to be added to the warnings, I’ll probably forget something.

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎 — 𝕴 𝕯𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖂𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝕾𝖊𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖊 (WIP)

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎𝖎 — 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕬𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝕳𝖚𝖗𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖓𝖊𝖘 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊 (TBA)

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊

First of all, I feel that I require to warn you that English isn’t my first language, so might happen you find some writing mistakes, I also don’t have a beta reader, again I’m sorry for any errors. If you feel comfortable, you can tell me about them, so I can fix it.

Initially this story was planned to be a 2nd person reader fic, and everything was going really well, until I found out that I’m complete rubbish writing in 2nd person. So, I turned (and will turn) this (and others) story(ies) into an OFC fic(s). However, don’t worry, dear grasshopper, as everything has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

If you desire to be tagged use this Google form to inform me, please, so I can keep it organized =)

The character has a playlist on Spotify, you can find it here.

If you, dear reader, have decided to ignore all warnings about this story, you are on your own, I am not responsible for anything you find. By the way, minors, this is obviously not for you!

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@stardustandgunpowder, @liesandghosts, @un-kiss-de-breakfast @girlwiththenegantattoo

If your name is streaked, it’s because Tumblr don’t let me tag you for some reason. =(

[chronic-ghost]

Tag Nine People You Want To Get To Know Better

Thank you for the tag @lovepollution - and going through it, we are basically the same person. Father John Misty is my BOOOYYY and i’ve had Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings stuck in my head for daaayz. I wanna play Real Love Baby at my wedding! 😭

favorite color: blueish-purple

currently reading: River of Teeth by Sarah Gailey. I’m 90% sure this is what I said on the last one of these and it’s a short ass book and I have no good excuse as to why I haven’t finished it 🤷‍♀️

last song: Cool Again by Shoffy. It’s my background music when I daydream about Rob Thomas Weir and the divorce between him and ofc when they were young and dumb, but she’s come back to her hometown after many years and they fall in love again because they’ve both grown as people since she left. So much plaid, so much snuggling. 

last series: I’m watching She-Hulk too @lovepollution ! But I’m also watching the new A League of Their Own (i can feel the chemicals changing my brain) and going through Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries AGAIN

last movie: . . . Alien vs. Predator: Requiem 👀 i don’t know what i watched but it certainly was A Movie.

sweet/spicy/savory: Savory because I’m nauseous and exhausted

currently working on: 

my brice catledge/reader fic: a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen - THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all that have left comments and reblogged. Given that like 5 whole people in the world have seen the og movie, i was real worried about posting. 

The Twilight Shrike: thank you to the SWEETEST anon ever who periodically pops by and tells me how much they enjoy it ❤️

aaand 👀 👀 a Matthew Kimble musician AU that is entirely inspired by smoke on the water - it’s a oneshot i promise

Tagging (and of course no pressure to do this!): @thegardenarcher @dandydevildog @the-crowe-and-the-magpie. @pegplunkett @thatfaerieprincess @muchmorethanaprincess @piplup @wyvernrider98 @mutt-thingy @tuntematonkorppi @fortysevenswrites @myletternevercame @astarkey

[chronic-ghost]

Fic writing lightning round:

-What fandoms have you written fics for?

-Do you have any original stuff?

-What's your oldest fic?

-What story are you most proud of?

-What stories are in the works?

-Where can I read your stuff?

Oh wow - here we go!

What fandoms have you written fics for?

Over the years, I've written for a lots of fandoms. In my early years, it was a lot of HP, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and The Vampire Diaries (do you see the theme? and no I will not be linking to those fics). More recently, I've written for Star Wars, American Gods, From Dusk Till Dawn, and Avatar the Last Airbender. My current most active fandoms are Horizon (videogame series) and Midnight Mass (shout out to the Haim fam for being the primary consumers of that insane fic). I also have drabbles for Veronica Mars and Fleabag that I've never published.

Do you have any original stuff?

I do, actually! It's not published anywhere but I've got ideas for a:

1880s gothic western that's a retelling of Antigone

an Inuit-based culture fighting with orca mermaids in a frozen city

a mystical mall where mythical creatures run the various shops

a young social worker works with two gay vampires to run a wayward home for magical creatures

What's your oldest fic?

A Draco/Ginny fic where Draco gets turned into a vampire and held captive at the Burrow 😳

What story are you most proud of?

It’s a tie between the hush of the very good and Good Grief. Good Grief has been my most original work to date and I was really proud of how I wrote it, and that was years ago. THOTVG was written in a month where I didn’t sleep, hardly ate, published like an absolute mad woman, but people consistently comment on how much they love it and how much it means to them. 

What stories are in the works?

hehe.

In progress but published:

a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen - Brice Catledge/reader

The Twilight Shrike - Aloy/Avad

In progress but not published:

a Cal Zapata + ofc character stuck in a research station together

a Matthew Kimble + ofc musicans AU

a gothic 1960s young John/Millie AU

Where can I read your stuff?

Come find me at chronicghost on AO3. Let’s talk all things fanfiction!

[chronic-ghost]

Navigation

☾ multifandom, spooky things, & lamentable scribblings ☽

About Me - for personal asks and tags, I tag everything either taylor talks or taylor tags

Safe Space - Feel free to pop into my ask box, DM me, leave me comments… I’m always around! If you’re on discord, I’m probably lurking around there too! 

Library/Writing Blog - I post all of my fic recommendations (as well as where all of my writing) over on @libraryofachronicghost. Please visit that blog and turn on notifications to be notified when I post new work or updates.

WIPs - Feel free to ask about the status of any of my projects. I tag everything with wip so you are welcome to dig around. 

AO3 - If you prefer AO3, you can find me here. However I tend not to post most drabbles or requests there.

Minors DNI - This blog contains content that is for adults (18+). By following or engaging with this content, you are agreeing that you are 18 or older.

Horizon Zero Dawn

Aloy/Avad

Twilight Shrike

this particular king. this particular man

The Chimera

Aloy/Nil

Breathe as though you are drawing your bow

Fic: The Trial of The Running Silver

Hamish Linklater Characters

Brice Catledge

Father Paul

the ghost of you (a brief, fragmentary and most imperfect record of spectres few have seen) - Magic in the Moonlight: Brice Catledge/reader

a hybrid signal (the chimera) - Horizon Zero Dawn: Aloy/Avad

you’re a holy fool, all colored blue (the hush of the very good) - Midnight Mass: Monsignor John Pruitt/reader

gothic 60s (something wicked this way comes - TBD) - Midnight Mass, John/Millie

this girl, this thorn - general vibe for Mad Wife (American Gods)

[ebiemidnightlibrarian]

💜 of course! It’s supposed to be fun it’s not supposed to hurt you. I literally just finished the series today and I am going feral I need. More. Of that awful trash man I just adore him oh my god

I watched Midnight Mass and Tell Me Your Secrets within the span of like 2 weeks I need content lmfao

If you want someone to bounce ideas off of I volunteer! But yay thank you 💜 hope you have a great day!!

I would ADORE if you dropped some ideas, really.

Got some half-written headcanons to a couple of Hamish's characters, but nothing for John yet. I'll be very glad if u just bounce some of your thoughts abt the character (and others if u like 😉). Maybe if I got some good suggestions I'll be able to scope this whole thing out of my brain 👀 👀

For now I'm writing a Father Paul x Reader (chap 1 and 2 already written, just need to brush up), and a Brice Catledge x Reader (it's his character from Woody Allen's Magic In the Moonlight, I fell really hard for the moron 😂)

Thanks for volunteer! It will be fun to hear your thoughts!

[everythingbutresolved]

Brice 😍. The HamFam keeps being a wonderful, bountiful and talented group of amazing creators 🖤 I'm so happy this baby has some attention (and I hope he'll get a lot 😈)

Ok just read this:

"When he glanced across the room to you, it was those same eyes that came at you out of the fog. Kind. Gentle. So gentle in fact, a cruel man might mistake him for a fool, kindness a sign of nativity and idiocy. As if it were an indication of a weak mental constitution.

But a man like that would be very wrong."

He regarded you with light disdain but also something that resembled weariness, a tiredness that didn’t seem to fit the wealth exuded by his clothes. He carried something, some sadness.

The spirits whispered, shellshock. And then, heartbreak.

But you shook your head.

“Mr. Catledge, please be careful.”

Title: a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen

summary: late summer. 1927. The absurdly wealthy Catledge siblings return to Pittsburgh after the older brother suffered heartbreak after a particularly public end to his engagement to the medium, Sophie Baker. They return quietly and Brice hopes that the monotony of embracing his father’s company can bring some stability back to his life. Until a girl from nowhere emerges from the smoke of a train and quite literally falls into his arms — and immediately predicts his untimely murder. Despite his insistence that he is done with pretty mediums, she comes with her own secrets he can’t seem to ignore. Is this girl the real thing or just another con artist? And if she really can see the dead, what will she see in him? Will she be one of the few who can see his specters for what they really are? 

pairings: Brice Catledge/Reader

category: M/F

rating: M

archive warning: depictions of violence, tw for discussions and depictions of domestic abuse/violence, survivor’s guilt

tags: reader has psychometry, references to WW1, 1920s tennis matches, cable girl adventures, meet cutes at the train station, library sex, making out on beaches, angst but happy ending!

tagging: @femalecynic @everythingbutresolved @ebiemidnightlibrarian @jyngerpeach @taxontaxoff (tagged because they’re on my tag list or expressed interest in my fic — let me know if you’d like to be tagged for upcoming chapters!)

(AO3 Links: Chapter 1/11)

                                       Read the first chapter below!

Continua a leggere

[agirlinherhead]

🚨PART 3 IS UPPPPPP🚨

He regarded you with light disdain but also something that resembled weariness, a tiredness that didn’t seem to fit the wealth exuded by his clothes. He carried something, some sadness.

The spirits whispered, shellshock. And then, heartbreak.

But you shook your head.

“Mr. Catledge, please be careful.”

Title: a brief, fragmentary, and most imperfect record of specters few have seen

summary: late summer. 1927. The absurdly wealthy Catledge siblings return to Pittsburgh after the older brother suffered heartbreak after a particularly public end to his engagement to the medium, Sophie Baker. They return quietly and Brice hopes that the monotony of embracing his father’s company can bring some stability back to his life. Until a girl from nowhere emerges from the smoke of a train and quite literally falls into his arms — and immediately predicts his untimely murder. Despite his insistence that he is done with pretty mediums, she comes with her own secrets he can’t seem to ignore. Is this girl the real thing or just another con artist? And if she really can see the dead, what will she see in him? Will she be one of the few who can see his specters for what they really are? 

pairings: Brice Catledge/Reader

category: M/F

rating: M

archive warning: depictions of violence, tw for discussions and depictions of domestic abuse/violence, survivor’s guilt

tags: reader has psychometry, references to WW1, 1920s tennis matches, cable girl adventures, meet cutes at the train station, library sex, making out on beaches, angst but happy ending!

(AO3 Links: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3)

                                       Read the next chapter below!

Keep reading