#Talking Heads Southampton

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Your Hands Are Tough, But They Are Where Mine Belong

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader 2.2k words Warnings: Language, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, extremely protective and angry father, angst, violence (👀), Reader is hot for violent Roy (understandable)

“Go home.”

“Dad-”

“You’re banned from the club. Go home.”

Even though you’d expected an icy welcome, some part of you still figured you’d be allowed to work. After all, it was almost time for you to head back to school; surely your dad could handle a couple weeks of you fetching coffee and organizing files so his kid could collect a paycheck and buy a pint at the campus pub now and then.

Apparently not though, based on how red his face was when he saw you stroll as casually as possible into his office. His greeting to you was a two-word demand to leave and no eye contact whatsoever. There was definitely a part of you that wanted to listen, to head home with your tail between your legs and stay in your room until it was time to head back to Southampton. But your mother’s words about not raising a daughter who hides rang in your head over and over- and then you caught sight of those familiar brown eyes in the changing room. They bore into yours with that mix of adoration and concern, maybe even with a hint of sympathy, giving you the ability to stand up a bit straighter.

“I’ve got a job to do,” you reminded your father pointedly. “An actual ‘I-have-a-badge-and-get-paid’ job. If you don’t want to talk to me, fine. But I’m here, and I’m going to work.”

Instead of the shouting you were fully prepared for, your father simply stared at you and let out the gruffest sigh you’d ever heard. “I don’t want to see you even look at him,” he hissed. “Not a glance. You understand?”

Progress. Miniscule progress, but progress nonetheless. “Yes, sir,” you murmured.

Without another word to you, your father stormed into the changing room, where all noise silenced immediately. You watched, with utter humiliation in your tight chest, as he stood nose to nose with Roy, whose wide eyes were clearly straining not to lock with yours. He gave a few frantic nods and managed to say a couple of words before your dad turned and fumed out. After a few moments, those brown eyes found yours again. You offered Roy a half-hearted wave, which he returned with a firm nod, clearly intent on not drawing your father’s ire with winks and smirks. 

You slumped into your father’s chair so you could turn your attention to some emails he needed to answer. As you opened one and began to type out a response, you pondered your mothers’ appeal to give your dad some time and wondered: how long would it take?

~

A full day of training wasn’t long enough, you discovered. Not that you expected your father to thaw so quickly. Unsure if you were sparing yourself or your dad the tension, you’d avoided the pitch as much as possible, opting to spend your day in his office instead. The ache in your chest that missed Roy tempted you to sneak out for just a glimpse of the midfielder, but a wry voice in your head suggested that perhaps you’d had enough sneaking around for one summer.

But the fear of your father’s reaction wasn’t enough to stop you from fixing your gaze on the footballer when he returned to the changing room at the end of practice, all sweaty and out of breath, his clothes clinging to him enticingly.  When Roy peeled off his drenched shirt, all thoughts of playing it cool left your mind; you leaned your elbows on the desk and let your face fall onto your hands, practically drooling at the now-familiar sight. Surely Roy would be up for a sleepover, you reasoned as your eyes raked over that furry chest. Especially if you asked nicely enough.

“Aww, look! Princess is staring at Kent again.”

Oh, fuck, you thought, immediately sitting up and turning your attention to the blank computer screen. Drew, one of Chelsea’s newer signs, was smirking at Roy, who wore his usual scowl in return. Roy did not like Drew; the guy was chatty and tried too hard to be ‘one of the guys’. And, Roy had admitted in bed late one night, he really didn’t like the way the young striker looked at you. (“It’s the way I fucking looked at you when I first came to Chelsea,” Roy had grumbled.)

Now, Roy frowned and approached his snickering teammate. “Fuck did you say?”

That smirk remained as Drew shrugged at Roy. “Say, Kent,” he started, faux friendliness dripping from his voice as the rest of the guys began to perk up at their conversation. “Just curious, how did Coach react when he found out his little princess calls you ‘daddy’ too?”

Roy’s face went bright red as he pressed his chest to Drew’s. “You keep her name out of your fucking mouth,” he growled.

“And what does she have in her mouth?” Drew taunted.

If you had blinked, you would have missed the sight of Roy’s fist colliding with Drew’s smug face. It was pure instinct and without warning. The striker wobbled, but quickly recovered to return Roy’s punch with one of his own. The two footballers began to scuffle, with punches flying and loud swears filling the air in the changing room. At the first sight of blood dripping down Roy’s nose, you got the feeling back in your body and leapt from your seat and bolted into the changing room.

“Kent!” you gasped. Before you could take a step towards the brawl that several of the guys were attempting to break up, a pair of arms wrapped around you and tugged you back. When you looked up, you saw Jules, his eyes on his scrapping teammates.

“Don’t,” he grunted, still not looking at you. “You’ll just make it worse.”

If you had thought you’d felt helpless watching the press conference where you and Roy were exposed, it was nothing compared to how powerless you felt now, watching punches and slaps land on Roy’s snarling face. His eyes were wild as he tried to continue throwing punches while his teammates attempted to restrain him and shouted at him to calm the fuck down, Kent. 

“What the absolute fuck is going on in here?”

Your father's face was even redder than Kent's as he looked in the doorway. His gaze jumped between Kent- and Drew- and Jules- and finally you. Jules quickly let you go and stepped back; even the very married striker was scared to be spotted so close to you, apparently. Your father narrowed his eyes at you before turning back to the footballers, who were finally pulled apart by exasperated teammates.

Roy spoke up. “Coach-”

“Suspended,” your dad interrupted, staring icily at his midfielder. “Next match, you're both on the bench.” He sneered at Roy. “Neither of you deserves to wear a Chelsea kit.”

“Coach,” Jules tried, stepping further away from you. “Kent was just-”

Your father’s eyes blazed at his player. “Next man who says anything is out for the season.” Without another glance at anyone, he stormed out, leaving behind him silence among his team.

While the players awkwardly began to gather their things and left the changing room, heading home or to pubs or wherever they went after training, you slunk back into the office, wondering what the hell you were supposed to do. Some hopeful part of you had assumed your dad would offer you a silent ride home, but that seemed completely out of the question now; he was probably halfway home anyways. Maybe you should call your mother? But then she’d know your dad had left you, and that would probably lead to another argument between the two of them, and you couldn’t bear to be the reason for a fight two nights in a row. Maybe you could still catch Jules, he probably wouldn’t mind-

“Oi.” Roy’s eyes were dark as he gazed down at you, mouth in a straight line. He’d washed off the blood and changed, but you could see some cuts and noted where the bruising was already starting. “Need a ride?”

~

For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, you sat silently in Roy Kent’s car. Normally, the two of you would chatter away, or you’d turn up the radio and sing along while Roy rolled his eyes when you went off-key just to make him laugh. But now, a heaviness filled the car, a feeling you were desperate to rid yourself of.

“Could I come over?” you finally whispered as Roy came to a stop light.

When he turned to look at you, the conflict in his eyes was clear as day; your name came out of his mouth as a sigh. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he murmured, reaching out to touch your knee gently. “Your dad-”

“Left me there,” you reminded him pointedly. “For all he knows, I’m walking home.” You laid your hand on top of Roy’s, cherishing how warm he felt at your fingertips. “So can I come over? Please?”

Despite himself, the corner of Roy’s mouth ticked upwards as he shook his head. “How the fuck can I ever say no to you, princess?”

That small smirk stayed on Roy’s bruised face as he settled on his couch, watching you make your way to the kitchen. When you returned with a pack of frozen peas, he raised a thick eyebrow at you.

“You making me dinner or something?” he teased.

Rather than answer, you shushed the footballer and sat beside him. With your free hand, you urged him to lie down with his head in your lap. Once he was settled and comfortable, you gently pressed the bag of peas to his purpling eye, your heart melting when you saw him wince at the cold contact. That wince quickly gave way to a soft smile as he reached up and touched your cheek, his version of a thank you.

“You’re too fucking good to me,” he chuckled. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Fighting for my honor seems like a good start,��� you grumbled as you let your free hand stroke his curls. “I swear, I should kick Drew’s arse for hurting your pretty face.”

Roy chuckled, the joyful rumble vibrating under your touch. “The princess fighting for her knight. Now there’s a fairytale I’d fucking read.” He sighed and shifted slightly. “I’m sorry about today, babe. I’d love to say it’ll never happen again, but-”

You quickly shook your head. “You better not get into any more fights, Kent,” you playfully scolded. “I want to see my boyfriend start in a match, after all,” you added with a pout.

The B-word brought a full smile to that gorgeous face. “Fine,” he said, unable to hide his pleased blush under the bag of peas. “No more fighting.” Something sparkled in the brown eye that wasn’t hidden under the improvised ice pack. “But you did think it was hot, didn’t you?”

A blush crawled up your neck at the low tone he spoke with. “Don’t flatter yourself, Kent,” you scoffed. “My boyfriend beating some prick to a pulp and getting himself benched? In what universe would I find that hot?”

The small hum that rumbled in Roy's chest told you he didn’t believe a word of your protest. “This universe, princess.” His grin turned smug. “Don’t pretend seeing me all bruised and bloodied up isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.

Dammit. Roy Kent really did know you well at this point. Without thinking, you bit your lip as you gazed down at him, remembering the sight of his fists flying and blood dripping down his face. It was sexy, you admitted to yourself. And not just because it made your heart flutter to see Roy so protective of you. No, it was because he looked so wild and rough, and, fuck, his muscles had been flexing deliciously, and-

“Princess,” he drawled, bringing you out of your imagination. He took the frozen peas from your hand and placed the bag on the coffee table as he sat up. “Alright there?”

Embarrassed to have been so obviously indulging in a fantasy, you could do nothing but smile bashfully at the man who was still ridiculously beautiful, even with the black eye that he’d surely be sporting for a while. Hell, if anything, it managed to make him look even more gorgeous than he already was.

Not bothering to answer his question, you pulled yourself onto his lap, straddling him and nudging his cheek with your nose. “Maybe it was a little attractive,” you murmured as you pressed a slow kiss to his neck. “But only a little.”

“Sure.” His hands found your waist, tugging you closer until your chest was pressed to his. “Only a little.”

His mouth met yours with ease, the way it had all summer, sweet and soft and familiar. You melted against him and gave the softest grind over him, still rational enough to want to be careful with your injured boyfriend. But that rationality didn’t stick around for long, not when his tongue flicked against your lip. Your lips parted for him, letting out a little groan when his tongue began to brush against yours. When his hands began to slide lower, lower, until they gripped your ass tightly, you knew you had lost the battle to see who would keep their cool the longest.

But spending your evening in Roy Kent’s bed was a hell of a consolation prize.

Taglist:@gee72sstuff@book-of-roses@kissykissymouth@emmy2811 @hart-kinsella @klaine-92@dearvoidgoodnight@misshall14@issieruby@royal-sunflower@kissmekent@itswhateveripromise@slaymybreathaway@darkmagazineblaze@larascorneroftheworld@infinetlyforgotten@caught-the-feels@rae4725@sisinever@cskidjgsjaoaknayan52782@dd122004dd@veryprairieberry@spacecluster@dark-academia-slut@her-fandom-sanctum@wosokirby@mmmgl29@aadu2173 @her-fandom-sanctum @wosokirby @mmmgl29 @honey-dew-woo @harpsichord93 @samstopsecrets @wosokirby @kitcat599 @emma-is-a-nerd @amieinghigh @sisinever @jeffswh0re @radiantactions @esw1012 

[aziraphales-library]

Hello, do you perhaps know of any fics set on the Titanic?

There are quite a number of Titanic fics, including several human AUs, but I've focused on through the ages fics here...

RMS Titanic by Bloodrose84 (T)

Aziraphale really felt like he was part of a major piece of history – he loved it when that happened. All history was wonderful, of course, but he did enjoy being able to say to himself "I was there," when people were still talking about a thing decades or centuries after it had happened. ******** Aziraphale and Crowley take a trip on the ill-fated maiden voyage of the Unsinkable Ship. Needless to say, it doesn't go as either one had planned.

Nearer to Thee by canolacrush (T)

On April 11, 1912, the RMS Carpathia sets sail from New York City, bound for Gibraltar and other Mediterranean ports. On board are 743 passengers, about 240 crew members, and one stowaway demon. On the night of April 14, 1912, the RMS Titanic, carrying approximately 1,317 passengers, 885 crew members, and one trouble magnet of an angel, hits an iceberg in the North Atlantic Ocean. Cue history’s most daring, famous, and perilous nautical rescue in maritime history.

The Titanic: Feelings and Folly by Ecchima (T)

The date is April 10th 1912. The Titanic is leaving Southampton with a hedonistic angel on board and is headed to Cherbourg where a demon - who is definitely not nice - is waiting to embark as well. What could go wrong? This is the story of the only voyage of the RMS Titanic. Of the people on board, of the needlessly luxurious amenities and the beautiful silliness that happened before it all went down.

Ocean of Secrets (illustrated) by magicbubblepipe (E)

When Crowley uncovers a plot to sink a so-called unsinkable ship, he decides to take credit for it and collect a commendation from the safety of his London flat. That is, until he spots a certain flaxen haired angel with a weakness for expensive creature comforts boarding the ship. He's forced to take action, lest his beloved be horribly discorporated. TL;DR Crowley and Aziraphale were on the Titanic.

Apsides by Theluminousfisheffect (T)

Aziraphale knows what fate awaits all those onboard the Titanic before it even leaves the port. Crowley has no idea and Aziraphale would very much like to keep it that way.

Sinking Into the Sea by pocketknifeknight (T)

In 1912, Aziraphale's worries include his bookshop, his printing friend's sick wife, and how he's going to make his way to the first class dining room on the Titanic for an unforgettable meal. When his friend, a book printer, asks Aziraphale to go collect master plates from a publisher in America, he also offers Aziraphale his ticket aboard the Titanic. Aziraphale can't resist. The Head Office has nothing to say, so Aziraphale decides he's earned himself a vacation. Unfortunately, a demon, not the one he wants to see, is aboard causing trouble on orders from Hell. Possibly, a demon, the one he is desperate (but unwilling to admit he wants) to see, is also aboard, trying to find a way to save Aziraphale without anyone being the wiser.

What A Dangerous Night (to fall in love) by ahyperactivehero (T)

Both Crowley and Aziraphale are assigned a mission on board the luxury cruise ship, RMS Titanic. It goes about as well as expected. XXX "What're you gonna do?" a man from the group shouted. "Shoot us?!" The group seemed to intensify after that. There was something in the air now and it was a hell of a lot more dangerous than anything Crowley could have ever hoped to create. It was a group of scared humans. He stepped forward, moving so that he was completely in front of Aziraphale and put his hands on the bars. It would take a second, just a quick second to magic- Fire seemed to shoot through his side. Screams rang out around him as he let go of the bars and fell backwards.

Icebergs and Angels (Spicer Relationship Version) by The_Bentley (M)

It's 1912 and Aziraphale, not wanting to be lonely during his mission aboard Titanic, invites Crowley along for a cruise. But he boards the ship before knowing exactly what his mission is. When he learns Heaven wants to teach humanity a lesson for the claim even God couldn't sink it, it could damage his relationship with Crowley, who has his own views on Heaven's need to punish innocents. Can he repair things with Crowley and can they work together to save as many lives as possible? Please note: There are two versions of this, one rated Mature (for sexy times) and one rated Teen (friendship/ace-aro relationship, depending on how you choose to interpret it). The only difference is the level of relationship that adds some extra material in the M version. Otherwise, they're identical. This is the relationship version. My friend, whom I wrote this for, doesn't ship these two, but I do, which is why there are two versions. If you're looking for the one that could be either a friendship or ace-aro relationship, go here

A Diamond Sky Above Titanic by SeaBlueEyes (E)

The year is 1912, and one angel and one demon's lives are about to change forever as they embark on the fateful maiden voyage of the R.M.S. Titanic - and a relationship utterly forbidden by both Heaven and Hell. Rating and warnings for Chapter 13, the rest being far more mild. Some slight amendments to the 2011 FanFiction version, nothing major. Once again, I apologise to the fandom for reading a comedy and writing a tragedy.

- Mod D

[mysunshinetemptress]

Ever Since New York

Part 2 of Meet Me in the Hallway

Leah Williamson x Styles!Reader

Warnings:Angst hidden relationships, lots of sighing

You hummed into Leah’s chest as she brushed her hand through your hair the two of you wrapped up on her couch watching The Arsenal boys against Southampton, you loved these moments the mundane couple things where you were able to forget that you lived four hours away and rarely saw each other unless it was through a phone or you had a free day to drive down to her for a few hours. You smiled hearing Leah whisper a quite yes as the boys took the offence “if they don’t win this one Le they will prove themselves to be absolutely shite.” Leah squeezed you slightly “hey United are just as bad “you shook your head “yeah but we have a trophy in our collection that’s younger then 20 years old.” Leah laughed squeezing you again huffing as Arsenal lost the ball. This was the few times in the last few months where it had been just the two of you, both being called up to the Olympic squad didn’t mean you got to spend time with your blonde lover instead you both kept your interactions to a minimum so this right here was bliss until it wasn’t.

You groaned lifting your head from Leah’s chest as you answered the phone “hi Harry.” Leah watched concerned as you sat up abruptly “how did you know I’m in London.” You looked at Leah panicked “just a friend H from the national team.” Leah sat up before getting off the couch and standing in front of you. “Yeah I can call around in an hour.” You looked at Leah “stay the night.” You felt your heart sink as you watched Leah nod her head, you didn’t want to stay at your brothers you wanted to stay at hers this was the only break you where getting for the next few weeks and you wanted to spend as much of it with her as possible. Sighing you agreed “yeah H I’d love to I’ll see you soon alright.” Hanging up the phone you began getting your shoes on as Leah looked at you confused “hey where are you going you told him an hour love.” You looked at Leah “I am not in the mood for this conversation right now I’ll see you in a few weeks ok.” Leah looked at you confused “but Y/n..” you shook your head “I’ll text you when I get there, I love you.” You kissed her goodbye before jumping in the car to head to Harry.

Harry to his kindness never asked which national team mate you where visiting simply talking about his up coming shows in New York titled “Harryween.” Before you both decided to watch a movie and just relax, we’ll try to relax you instead sat picking at your fingers thinking about your girlfriend who lived less than an hour away.

You hadn’t seen Leah in since you left her that night to stay at Harry’s but you had been talking daily trying to organise your schedules so you could drive down to London to spend time together only something always came up “sorry can’t do this weekend Arsenal girls are going out.” Or “sorry love not this weekend family thing, event I have to go to with Al, family night with the Arsenal.” The list went on and you felt yourself hating your hidden relationship more than before.

You where sat in your Mums house for a small family dinner, it was one of the rare occasions you all seemed to be in the same place as Harry was home, Gemma wasn’t working and you didn’t have a match. Harry cleared his throat before looking at you excitedly “so you know how my team and I came up with the plan to do HarryWeen.” You hummed in acknowledgment focused on cutting your roast potatoes “well my team checked your schedule for October and you’re free to fly out for it so.” You looked up at Harry “so what H.” Harry rolled his eyes “so will you come over to New York.” You looked at him eyebrows raised in surprise “I don’t know Harry I don’t know what the plans are for Halloween yet with the girls.” Truth was you had been hinting at Leah that you wanted to spend it with her “Invite them.” You nearly chocked on your dinner “what.” Harry nodded “invite the girls, even your national squad if you want.” You looked to your mum then Gemma “oh that would be lovely Ella, Alessia, Chloe and Alex. I agree darling invite them.” You sighed dropping your fork to rub your head, they would love to go you knew that but it was Leah you wanted to see not them. “Yeah I’ll ask.” As if on cue your phone rang as you flipped it over to see the photo of you and Leah staring back at you “sorry I have to take this I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Hey Le.” Leah sighed happily down the phone “god I miss you.” You smiled sitting on the stairs “I miss you too, what’s up are you ok.” Leah began talking about the match she had just finished playing a match you had recorded back in your apartment to watch later but nevertheless you sat happily listening to her talk about it. You began picking at the carpet as you worked up the nerve to ask “Hey Le.” Leah hummed softly telling you she was listening “Harry was just talking about his show in New York next month and eh well he said our schedules are free and asked if I wanted to invite some of the eh the girls over like you know El, Less, Chloe and Al and I was..well I was wondering if you wanted to maybe come over too you know to see him perform.” “Y/n.” Leah tried to speak but you couldn’t let her to scared of what she would say “I could introduce you this time like you wanted and you I mean you could even invite Kiera and Georgia that way it’s not just you so it’s less suspicious with the girls and all.” “Y/n” you hummed this time halting your speech “I would love to, I’ll text the girls now ok, Halloween with my girl in New York sounds cool.” You smiled happily “yeah.” Leah laughed “yeah.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you where holding “ok cool, ehm listen I have to get back to the table but I love you and I’ll text you later.” Leah laughed at how excited you sound “ok go on I’ll text the girls now and ask, I love you pretty girl.” You stood up on the stairs and squealed happily at the thought of Leah coming to New York with you as you went and sat back with your family. Harry laughed looking at you “what’s got you so happy.” You shrugged “New York.”

You had excitedly texted the girls that night asking if they all wanted to come to New York for the concert as well as a small shopping trip before texting them back when Harry said he was going to give you his jet for it before excitedly texting Leah “oh my god Le Harry said we can use his jet for New York.” Leah sighed looking at the text “cool.” You texted back immediately “maybe we could sit together, only if you’re comfortable with it.” Leah’s head shot up as her mum spoke “who’s texting you that you can’t listen to a word I’m saying.” Leah rolled her eyes “just one of the girls asking if I wanted to go to New York, I have to check.” Amanda hummed “which girl.” Leah shook her head “one of them god mum stop snooping.”

As the days grew closer to your departure date your family couldn’t help but smile at your excitement, it’s the first time they had seen you this excited in a while. The plan had been set weeks ago you, Ella, Less, Chloe, and Alex would all stay at your house and leave for the airport together and meet your Mum and Sister in New York, you had texted Leah the plan but she simply said she would stay at Kiera’s and that Georgia was going to stay with them.

You had all gotten up at 4 am happily getting yourselves ready for the airport texting Leah updates before squeezing into the car Harry had sent to get you. You shot one last text to Leah telling her you were leaving and that you would see her shortly. After arriving at the airport you all got on the plane and sat waiting patiently for the last three girls, it was a surprise for the rest of the girls who were coming. An hour later Ella groaned “Y/n we have been waiting for ages come on your other friends aren’t coming.” You looked down at your phone again, all your texts had been left on delivered since you got up and you had tried calling her 15 times but to no avail, finally it was when the captain came out that you agreed to leave.

Landing in New York you turned on your phone to see a text from Leah stating her and the girls had slept through their alarms and where so sorry but they arranged to get a flight that would land 6pm New York time. Sighing you got in the car to drive to the Hotel before leaving to meet up with your Mum and Sister at a restaurant. “Come on Y/n cheer up we made it and your friends are on the next flight out.” You nodded along to Chloe’s words “right ok yeah let’s go.” Sitting in the restaurant with your mum you couldn’t help but keep checking the time on your phone. “Hey im going to head to the airport to meet the girls arriving in I’ll meet you all back at the hotel ok.” The girls all wished you goodbye as you hoped back into the black Cadillac to the airport. You texted Leah “hey you never sent your flight details, I’m guessing T1 I’ll see you soon, I don’t think I’ve said it yet, but thank you for doing this I love you Le.”

You stood excitedly at the welcome gate ready to wrap your girlfriend in a hug before your other friends. You sighed checking your phone as it read 6:45 before googling flights arriving into JFK only to see that the 6pm flight had in fact landed already and they should have been out ages ago, shaking your head you decided to text Leah again “hey love, did you girls get lost??.” You decided this time to also text Kiera “hey Kie, did you guys get lost on the way out, where are u??.” You looked up as more strangers emerged from the airport but still couldn’t see the trio before looking back at your phone as it buzzed “Y/n wtf are you talking about get lost where.” You frowned in confusion before typing Keira back “Getting lost in JFK in New York, Leah said your guys flight landed at 6pm.” You watched as the bubbles appeared on screen “eh wtf why would I be in New York, Y/n are you sure you’re texting the right girl.” Your breath hitched as you stared at your phone “Keira where are you.” You felt tears begin to prick your eyes “I’m in Manchester, with Lucy, Leah hasn’t texted me in a few days.” You shook your head, deciding to call Leah but of course it went straight to voice mail, you let out a huff as you began to speak “Le, darling I’m..I’m not mad I promise I just…what’s going on..please Le..Keira said you never said anything to her about New York…I just..Le please call me..I’m sorry if I pushed you to fast just let me know your ok…. We can organise to see each other when I get back…I love you…Le god do I love you.” You hung up the phone before turning to head back to the driver.

You couldn’t wait for New York but now all you wanted was for this trip to end.

[ms-hells-bells]

Because senator Kamala Harris is a prosecutor and I am a felon, I have been following her political rise, with the same focus that my younger son tracks Steph Curry threes. Before it was in vogue to criticize prosecutors, my friends and I were exchanging tales of being railroaded by them. Shackled in oversized green jail scrubs, I listened to a prosecutor in a Fairfax County, Va., courtroom tell a judge that in one night I’d single-handedly changed suburban shopping forever. Everything the prosecutor said I did was true — I carried a pistol, carjacked a man, tried to rob two women. “He needs a long penitentiary sentence,” the prosecutor told the judge. I faced life in prison for carjacking the man. I pleaded guilty to that, to having a gun, to an attempted robbery. I was 16 years old. The old heads in prison would call me lucky for walking away with only a nine-year sentence.

I’d been locked up for about 15 months when I entered Virginia’s Southampton Correctional Center in 1998, the year I should have graduated from high school. In that prison, there were probably about a dozen other teenagers. Most of us had lengthy sentences — 30, 40, 50 years — all for violent felonies. Public talk of mass incarceration has centered on the war on drugs, wrongful convictions and Kafkaesque sentences for nonviolent charges, while circumventing the robberies, home invasions, murders and rape cases that brought us to prison.

The most difficult discussion to have about criminal-justice reform has always been about violence and accountability. You could release everyone from prison who currently has a drug offense and the United States would still outpace nearly every other country when it comes to incarceration. According to the Prison Policy Institute, of the nearly 1.3 million people incarcerated in state prisons, 183,000 are incarcerated for murder; 17,000 for manslaughter; 165,000 for sexual assault; 169,000 for robbery; and 136,000 for assault. That’s more than half of the state prison population.

When Harris decided to run for president, I thought the country might take the opportunity to grapple with the injustice of mass incarceration in a way that didn’t lose sight of what violence, and the sorrow it creates, does to families and communities. Instead, many progressives tried to turn the basic fact of Harris’s profession into an indictment against her. Shorthand for her career became: “She’s a cop,” meaning, her allegiance was with a system that conspires, through prison and policing, to harm Black people in America.

In the past decade or so, we have certainly seen ample evidence of how corrupt the system can be: Michelle Alexander’s best-selling book, “The New Jim Crow,” which argues that the war on drugs marked the return of America’s racist system of segregation and legal discrimination; Ava DuVernay’s “When They See Us,” a series about the wrongful convictions of the Central Park Five, and her documentary “13th,” which delves into mass incarceration more broadly; and “Just Mercy,” a book by Bryan Stevenson, a public interest lawyer, that has also been made into a film, chronicling his pursuit of justice for a man on death row, who is eventually exonerated. All of these describe the destructive force of prosecutors, giving a lot of run to the belief that anyone who works within a system responsible for such carnage warrants public shame.

My mother had an experience that gave her a different perspective on prosecutors — though I didn’t know about it until I came home from prison on March 4, 2005, when I was 24. That day, she sat me down and said, “I need to tell you something.” We were in her bedroom in the townhouse in Suitland, Md., that had been my childhood home, where as a kid she’d call me to bring her a glass of water. I expected her to tell me that despite my years in prison, everything was good now. But instead she told me about something that happened nearly a decade earlier, just weeks after my arrest. She left for work before the sun rose, as she always did, heading to the federal agency that had employed her my entire life. She stood at a bus stop 100 feet from my high school, awaiting the bus that would take her to the train that would take her to a stop near her job in the nation’s capital. But on that morning, a man yanked her into a secluded space, placed a gun to her head and raped her. When she could escape, she ran wildly into the 6 a.m. traffic.

My mother’s words turned me into a mumbling and incoherent mess, unable to grasp how this could have happened to her. I knew she kept this secret to protect me. I turned to Google and searched the word “rape” along with my hometown and was wrecked by the violence against women that I found. My mother told me her rapist was a Black man. And I thought he should spend the rest of his years staring at the pockmarked walls of prison cells that I knew so well.

The prosecutor’s job, unlike the defense attorney’s or judge’s, is to do justice. What does that mean when you are asked by some to dole out retribution measured in years served, but blamed by others for the damage incarceration can do? The outrage at this country’s criminal-justice system is loud today, but it hasn’t led us to develop better ways of confronting my mother’s world from nearly a quarter-century ago: weekends visiting her son in a prison in Virginia; weekdays attending the trial of the man who sexually assaulted her.

We said goodbye to my grandmother in the same Baptist church that, in June 2019, Senator Kamala Harris, still pursuing the Democratic nomination for president, went to give a major speech about why she became a prosecutor. I hadn’t been inside Brookland Baptist Church for a decade, and returning reminded me of Grandma Mary and the eight years of letters she mailed to me in prison. The occasion for Harris’s speech was the annual Freedom Fund dinner of the South Carolina State Conference of the N.A.A.C.P. The evening began with the Black national anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” and at the opening chord nearly everyone in the room stood. There to write about the senator, I had been standing already and mouthed the words of the first verse before realizing I’d never sung any further.

Each table in the banquet hall was filled with folks dressed in their Sunday best. Servers brought plates of food and pitchers of iced tea to the tables. Nearly everyone was Black. The room was too loud for me to do more than crouch beside guests at their tables and scribble notes about why they attended. Speakers talked about the chapter’s long history in the civil rights movement. One called for the current generation of young rappers to tell a different story about sacrifice. The youngest speaker of the night said he just wanted to be safe. I didn’t hear anyone mention mass incarceration. And I knew in a different decade, my grandmother might have been in that audience, taking in the same arguments about personal agency and responsibility, all the while wondering why her grandbaby was still locked away. If Harris couldn’t persuade that audience that her experiences as a Black woman in America justified her decision to become a prosecutor, I knew there were few people in this country who could be moved.

Describing her upbringing in a family of civil rights activists, Harris argued that the ongoing struggle for equality needed to include both prosecuting criminal defendants who had victimized Black people and protecting the rights of Black criminal defendants. “I was cleareyed that prosecutors were largely not people who looked like me,” she said. This mattered for Harris because of the “prosecutors that refused to seat Black jurors, refused to prosecute lynchings, disproportionately condemned young Black men to death row and looked the other way in the face of police brutality.” When she became a prosecutor in 1990, she was one of only a handful of Black people in her office. When she was elected district attorney of San Francisco in 2003, she recalled, she was one of just three Black D.A.s nationwide. And when she was elected California attorney general in 2010, there were no other Black attorneys general in the country. At these words, the crowd around me clapped. “I knew the unilateral power that prosecutors had with the stroke of a pen to make a decision about someone else’s life or death,” she said.

Harris offered a pair of stories as evidence of the importance of a Black woman’s doing this work. Once, ear hustling, she listened to colleagues discussing ways to prove criminal defendants were gang-affiliated. If a racial-profiling manual existed, their signals would certainly be included: baggy pants, the place of arrest and the rap music blaring from vehicles. She said that she’d told her colleagues: “So, you know that neighborhood you were talking about? Well, I got family members and friends who live in that neighborhood. You know the way you were talking about how folks were dressed? Well, that’s actually stylish in my community.” She continued: “You know that music you were talking about? Well, I got a tape of that music in my car right now.”

The second example was about the mothers of murdered children. She told the audience about the women who had come to her office when she was San Francisco’s D.A. — women who wanted to speak with her, and her alone, about their sons. “The mothers came, I believe, because they knew I would see them,” Harris said. “And I mean literally see them. See their grief. See their anguish.” They complained to Harris that the police were not investigating. “My son is being treated like a statistic,” they would say. Everyone in that Southern Baptist church knew that the mothers and their dead sons were Black. Harris outlined the classic dilemma of Black people in this country: being simultaneously overpoliced and underprotected. Harris told the audience that all communities deserved to be safe.

Among the guests in the room that night whom I talked to, no one had an issue with her work as a prosecutor. A lot of them seemed to believe that only people doing dirt had issues with prosecutors. I thought of myself and my friends who have served long terms, knowing that in a way, Harris was talking about Black people’s needing protection from us — from the violence we perpetrated to earn those years in a series of cells.

Harris came up as a prosecutor in the 1990s, when both the political culture and popular culture were developing a story about crime and violence that made incarceration feel like a moral response. Back then, films by Black directors — “New Jack City,” “Menace II Society,” “Boyz n the Hood” — turned Black violence into a genre where murder and crack-dealing were as ever-present as Black fathers were absent. Those were the years when Representative Charlie Rangel, a Democrat, argued that “we should not allow people to distribute this poison without fear that they might be arrested” and “go to jail for the rest of their natural life.” Those were the years when President Clinton signed legislation that ended federal parole for people with three violent crime convictions and encouraged states to essentially eliminate parole; made it more difficult for defendants to challenge their convictions in court; and made it nearly impossible to challenge prison conditions.

Back then, it felt like I was just one of an entire generation of young Black men learning the logic of count time and lockdown. With me were Anthony Winn and Terell Kelly and a dozen others, all lost to prison during those years. Terell was sentenced to 33 years for murdering a man when he was 17 — a neighborhood beef turned deadly. Home from college for two weeks, a 19-year-old Anthony robbed four convenience stores — he’d been carrying a pistol during three. After he was sentenced by four judges, he had a total of 36 years.

Most of us came into those cells with trauma, having witnessed or experienced brutality before committing our own. Prison, a factory of violence and despair, introduced us to more of the same. And though there were organizations working to get rid of the death penalty, end mandatory minimums, bring back parole and even abolish prisons, there were few ways for us to know that they existed. We suffered. And we felt alone. Because of this, sometimes I reduce my friends’ stories to the cruelty of doing time. I forget that Terell and I walked prison yards as teenagers, discussing Malcolm X and searching for mentors in the men around us. I forget that Anthony and I talked about the poetry of Sonia Sanchez the way others praised DMX. He taught me the meaning of the word “patina” and introduced me to the music of Bill Withers. There were Luke and Fats; and Juvie, who could give you the sharpest edge-up in America with just a razor and comb.

When I left prison in 2005, they all had decades left. Then I went to law school and believed I owed it to them to work on their cases and help them get out. I’ve persuaded lawyers to represent friends pro bono. Put together parole packets — basically job applications for freedom: letters of recommendation and support from family and friends; copies of certificates attesting to vocational training; the record of college credits. We always return to the crimes to provide explanation and context. We argue that today each one little resembles the teenager who pulled a gun. And I write a letter — which is less from a lawyer and more from a man remembering what it means to want to go home to his mother. I write, struggling to condense decades of life in prison into a 10-page case for freedom. Then I find my way to the parole board’s office in Richmond, Va., and try to persuade the members to let my friends see a sunrise for the first time.

Juvie and Luke have made parole; Fats, represented by the Innocence Project at the University of Virginia School of Law, was granted a conditional pardon by Virginia’s governor, Ralph Northam. All three are home now, released just as a pandemic would come to threaten the lives of so many others still inside. Now free, they’ve sent me text messages with videos of themselves hugging their mothers for the first time in decades, casting fishing lines from boats drifting along rivers they didn’t expect to see again, enjoying a cold beer that isn’t contraband.

In February, after 25 years, Virginia passed a bill making people incarcerated for at least 20 years for crimes they committed before their 18th birthdays eligible for parole. Men who imagined they would die in prison now may see daylight. Terell will be eligible. These years later, he’s the mentor we searched for, helping to organize, from the inside, community events for children, and he’s spoken publicly about learning to view his crimes through the eyes of his victim’s family. My man Anthony was 19 when he committed his crime. In the last few years, he’s organized poetry readings, book clubs and fatherhood classes. When Gregory Fairchild, a professor at the Darden School of Business at the University of Virginia, began an entrepreneurship program at Dillwyn Correctional Center, Anthony was among the graduates, earning all three of the certificates that it offered. He worked to have me invited as the commencement speaker, and what I remember most is watching him share a meal with his parents for the first time since his arrest. But he must pray that the governor grants him a conditional pardon, as he did for Fats.

I tell myself that my friends are unique, that I wouldn’t fight so hard for just anybody. But maybe there is little particularly distinct about any of us — beyond that we’d served enough time in prison. There was a skinny light-skinned 15-year-old kid who came into prison during the years that we were there. The rumor was that he’d broken into the house of an older woman and sexually assaulted her. We all knew he had three life sentences. Someone stole his shoes. People threatened him. He’d had to break a man’s jaw with a lock in a sock to prove he’d fight if pushed. As a teenager, he was experiencing the worst of prison. And I know that had he been my cellmate, had I known him the way I know my friends, if he reached out to me today, I’d probably be arguing that he should be free.

But I know that on the other end of our prison sentences was always someone weeping. During the middle of Harris’s presidential campaign, a friend referred me to a woman with a story about Senator Harris that she felt I needed to hear. Years ago, this woman’s sister had been missing for days, and the police had done little. Happenstance gave this woman an audience with then-Attorney General Harris. A coordinated multicity search followed. The sister had been murdered; her body was found in a ravine. The woman told me that “Kamala understands the politics of victimization as well as anyone who has been in the system, which is that this kind of case — a 50-year-old Black woman gone missing or found dead — ordinarily does not get any resources put toward it.” They caught the man who murdered her sister, and he was sentenced to 131 years. I think about the man who assaulted my mother, a serial rapist, because his case makes me struggle with questions of violence and vengeance and justice. And I stop thinking about it. I am inconsistent. I want my friends out, but I know there is no one who can convince me that this man shouldn’t spend the rest of his life in prison.

My mother purchased her first single-family home just before I was released from prison. One version of this story is that she purchased the house so that I wouldn’t spend a single night more than necessary in the childhood home I walked away from in handcuffs. A truer account is that by leaving Suitland, my mother meant to burn the place from memory.

I imagined that I had singularly introduced my mother to the pain of the courts. I was wrong. The first time she missed work to attend court proceedings was to witness the prosecution of a kid the same age as I was when I robbed a man. He was probably from Suitland, and he’d attempted to rob my mother at gunpoint. The second time, my mother attended a series of court dates involving me, dressed in her best work clothes to remind the prosecutor and judge and those in the courtroom that the child facing a life sentence had a mother who loved him. The third time, my mother took off days from work to go to court alone and witness the trial of the man who raped her and two other women. A prosecutor’s subpoena forced her to testify, and her solace came from knowing that prison would prevent him from attacking others.

After my mother told me what had happened to her, we didn’t mention it to each other again for more than a decade. But then in 2018, she and I were interviewed on the podcast “Death, Sex & Money.” The host asked my mother about going to court for her son’s trial when he was facing life. “I was raped by gunpoint,” my mother said. “It happened just before he was sentenced. So when I was going to court for Dwayne, I was also going for a court trial for myself.” I hadn’t forgotten what happened, but having my mother say it aloud to a stranger made it far more devastating.

On the last day of the trial of the man who raped her, my mother told me, the judge accepted his guilty plea. She remembers only that he didn’t get enough time. She says her nose began to bleed. When I asked her what she would have wanted to happen to her attacker, she replied, “That I’d taken the deputy’s gun and shot him.”

Harris has studied crime-scene and autopsy photos of the dead. She has confronted men in court who have sexually assaulted their children, sexually assaulted the elderly, scalped their lovers. In her 2009 book, “Smart on Crime,” Harris praised the work of Sunny Schwartz — creator of the Resolve to Stop the Violence Project, the first restorative-justice program in the country to offer services to offenders and victims, which began at a jail in San Francisco. It aims to help inmates who have committed violent crimes by giving them tools to de-escalate confrontations. Harris wrote a bill with a state senator to ensure that children who witness violence can receive mental health treatment. And she argued that safety is a civil right, and that a 60-year sentence for a series of restaurant armed robberies, where some victims were bound or locked in freezers, “should tell anyone considering viciously preying on citizens and businesses that they will be caught, convicted and sent to prison — for a very long time.”

Politicians and the public acknowledge mass incarceration is a problem, but the lengthy prison sentences of men and women incarcerated during the 1990s have largely not been revisited. While the evidence of any prosecutor doing work on this front is slim, as a politician arguing for basic systemic reforms, Harris has noted the need to “unravel the decades-long effort to make sentencing guidelines excessively harsh, to the point of being inhumane”; criticized the bail system; and called for an end to private prisons and criticized the companies that charge absurd rates for phone calls and electronic-monitoring services.

In June, months into the Covid-19 pandemic, and before she was tapped as the vice-presidential nominee, I had the opportunity to interview Harris by phone. A police officer’s knee on the neck of George Floyd, choking the life out of him as he called for help, had been captured on video. Each night, thousands around the world protested. During our conversation, Harris told me that as the only Black woman in the United States Senate “in the midst of the killing of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery,” countless people had asked for stories about her experiences with racism. Harris said that she was not about to start telling them “about my world for a number of reasons, including you should know about the issue that affects this country as part of the greatest stain on this country.” Exhausted, she no longer answered the questions. I imagined she believes, as Toni Morrison once said, that “the very serious function of racism” is “distraction. It keeps you from doing your work.”

But these days, even in the conversations that I hear my children having, race suffuses so much. I tell Harris that my 12-year-old son, Micah, told his classmates and teachers: “As you all know, my dad went to jail. Shouldn’t the police who killed Floyd go to jail?” My son wanted to know why prison seemed to be reserved for Black people and wondered whose violence demanded a prison cell.

“In the criminal-justice system,” Harris replied, “the irony, and, frankly, the hypocrisy is that whenever we use the words ‘accountability’ and ‘consequence,’ it’s always about the individual who was arrested.” Again, she began to make a case that would be familiar to any progressive about the need to make the system accountable. And while I found myself agreeing, I began to fear that the point was just to find ways to treat officers in the same brutal way that we treat everyone else. I thought about the men I’d represented in parole hearings — and the friends I’d be representing soon. And wondered out loud to Harris: How do we get to their freedom?

“We need to reimagine what public safety looks like,” the senator told me, noting that she would talk about a public health model. “Are we looking at the fact that if you focus on issues like education and preventive things, then you don’t have a system that’s reactive?” The list of those things becomes long: affordable housing, job-skills development, education funding, homeownership. She remembered how during the early 2000s, when she was the San Francisco district attorney and started Back on Track (a re-entry program that sought to reduce future incarceration by building the skills of the men facing drug charges), many people were critical. “ ‘You’re a D.A. You’re supposed to be putting people in jail, not letting them out,’” she said people told her.

It always returns to this for me — who should be in prison, and for how long? I know that American prisons do little to address violence. If anything, they exacerbate it. If my friends walk out of prison changed from the boys who walked in, it will be because they’ve fought with the system — with themselves and sometimes with the men around them — to be different. Most violent crimes go unsolved, and the pain they cause is nearly always unresolved. And those who are convicted — many, maybe all — do far too much time in prison.

And yet, I imagine what I would do if the Maryland Parole Commission contacted my mother, informing her that the man who assaulted her is eligible for parole. I’m certain I’d write a letter explaining how one morning my mother didn’t go to work because she was in a hospital; tell the board that the memory of a gun pointed at her head has never left; explain how when I came home, my mother told me the story. Some violence changes everything.

The thing that makes you suited for a conversation in America might be the very thing that precludes you from having it. Terell, Anthony, Fats, Luke and Juvie have taught me that the best indicator of whether I believe they should be free is our friendship. Learning that a Black man in the city I called home raped my mother taught me that the pain and anger for a family member can be unfathomable. It makes me wonder if parole agencies should contact me at all — if they should ever contact victims and their families.

Perhaps if Harris becomes the vice president we can have a national conversation about our contradictory impulses around crime and punishment. For three decades, as a line prosecutor, a district attorney, an attorney general and now a senator, her work has allowed her to witness many of them. Prosecutors make a convenient target. But if the system is broken, it is because our flaws more than our virtues animate it. Confronting why so many of us believe prisons must exist may force us to admit that we have no adequate response to some violence. Still, I hope that Harris reminds the country that simply acknowledging the problem of mass incarceration does not address it — any more than keeping my friends in prison is a solution to the violence and trauma that landed them there.

In light of Harris being endorsed by Biden and highly likely to be the Democratic Party candidate, I thought I would share this balanced, understanding of both sides, article in regard to Harris and her career as a prosecutor, as I know that will be something dragged out by bad actors and useful idiots (you have a bunch of people stating 'Kamala is a cop', which is completely false, and also factless and misleading statements about 'mass incarceration' under her). I'm not saying she doesn't deserve to be criticised or that there is nothing about her career that can be criticised, but it should at least be representative of the truth and understanding of the complexities of the legal system.

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

F I C A R C H I V E

My Art

if you’d like to join me on my journey of trying my luck with publishing, have a look at @madampayne 💕

Currently Active

☕️ Hot Chocolate

(Zelda Spellman x Larissa Weems)

Unbearable loneliness has been plaguing Larissa for years. One drunken night, she decides to put an end to it by contacting a local dominatrix.

E

73,040 words

👑 Camyla, the Petulant

(Rhaenys Targaryen x Reader)

All Camyla wants to do is run, all Rhaenys wants is for someone to stay.

When Corlys leaves Rhaenys on her own to grieve the loss of their children, an old friend of her husband requests her help dealing with his misbehaved daughter Camyla. Rhaenys agrees to take her under her wing, but the young woman is hell-bent on driving her mad.

E

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Finished/Upcoming

Adrienne Beaufort

🌅 Sun & Ocean Blue

(Adrienne x Reader)

When Adrienne comes to get Amy out of Greenhaven, she lays eyes on a troubled young woman in need of guidance. Perhaps Adrienne will take in another rescue kitten…

Essentially this is my The Bell Jar

E

105,448 words (completed)

Farah Dowling

Haunt me, then

Farah x Rosalind but as a character/relationship study

The story of how Rosalind was put into stasis.

M

801 words

👻 baby, you’re just harder to see than most

(ghost!Farah x Reader)

Farah’s partner can’t come to terms with her death, and so, every night, she dances with her ghost.

E

2,026 words

🌬️ Grow Wings

While Farah is away on a field trip, Aster hits rock bottom. But after what happened last time, she doesn’t want to tell Farah—even when she finally returns. Good luck tricking a mind fairy…

M

21,631 words (completed)

🩸 Black Dahlia

(adoptive mum!Farah & Reader)

Miss Dowling discovers Dahlia’s self harm.

M

18,510 words (completed)

🎀 Sugar & Sweetness

(upcoming sugarmommy!Farah x Reader)

E

🧁 Common Burn

(upcoming Farah x Reader cottagecore AU)

Rhaenys Targaryen

👑 Camyla, the Petulant

(brat-tamer!Rhaenys x Reader)

All Camyla wants to do is run, all Rhaenys wants is for someone to stay.

When Corlys leaves Rhaenys on her own for years, to grieve the loss of their children all by herself, an old friend of her husband requests her help dealing with his misbehaved daughter Camyla. Rhaenys agrees to take her under her wing, but the young woman is hell-bent on driving her mad.

E

🎭 Gentle into the Night

(Corlys x Rhaenys)

Rhaenys survives Rook's Rest, Meleys does not.

M

1,631 words

Morissa

🌂 This Is What Makes Us Girls (prequel)

(Morticia Addams x Larissa Weems)

It’s Larissa’s 18th birthday, but she doesn’t get what she wants.

M

15,256 words

❄️ Roommates

(Morticia Addams x Larissa Weems)

When the Addams Family attends Larissa Weems' funeral, Morticia is confronted with the truth about the relationship she used to have with the woman.

M

49,965 words (completed)

🥶 Barren Cold (sequel)

(upcoming)

💨 Invisible (on hold)

On the night of their graduation, Morticia is forced to see that she can't have it all - Or can she?

E

14,520 words

🏰 Gwyneth of Rivia

“My name is Gwyneth of Rivia.” She gestured towards the cadaver. “And this is the beast I’ve slaughtered for you.”

E

3,686 words

Madam Spellman

🚢 Ship of Dreams

(Titanic AU)

Every year for the past decades, Lady Morningstar and Lady Blackwood have been meeting aboard an Ocean Liner. This year, it is the RMS Titanic, travelling from Southampton to New York.

E

26,174 words (completed)

🌆 Kiss Me Hard Before You Go

(Las Vegas AU)

“There’s no use in talking to people who have a home. They have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people. For home to be wherever you lie your head.”

M

14,420 words

(somewhat completed, but more could come)

🎤 It’s gonna take a Queen of Hell to sweep me off my feet

Lilith can't believe her eyes (and ears) when she returns to the Mortuary after a fight with Zelda.

T

1,096 words

💜 I plant violets every time someone leaves me

(Zelda x Reader)

Clara is about to end her life when Directrix Spellman steps in.

E

4,519 words

🔨 Kiss with a Shovel

One would assume that after all the times she’d killed and buried her sister, she’d have it down and she did, but the transportation aspect of it frequently proved to be rather arduous.

M

1,914 words

🎁 Pandora’s Box

Zelda Spellman has been begging Hecate to bring Sabrina back for months, but maybe she’s been praying to the wrong goddess all along?

E

50,042 words (completed)

🏷️ Whatever the Price

Sabrina has just come back from the dead, together with her boyfriend Nick, and now she wants to get married! But as it turns out, Aunt Zelda isn't the only one standing in the way...

E

91,097 words (completed)

😈 Cherubic Little Devil

About one year after the arrival of their grandson Magnus, Zelda and Lilith now have a child of their own on the way. A baby, created from a witch and a demon. Born to claim the throne of Hell as well as represent the Order of Hecate. What will their path look like?

M

30,211 words

🌙 Pavor Nocturnus

When Zelda and Lilith's daughter is 5 years old, something scary happens...

T

9,666 words

🥵 Heatwave

A heat wave has hit Greendale - but that is nothing against what's going on in the Spellman bedroom.

E

5,607 words

🐎 Calloused Heart

(upcoming Cowgirl AU)

Wolves, storms, and money turn into the least of Zelda Spellman's problems when her sister invites Mary Wardwell-Masters to stay at the family's ranch.

M

3,056 words

✨ Whispers at Witching Hour

Zelda and Mary met at the wrong time and apparently in the wrong lives. Still, they can't seem to keep apart and find themselves in the messiest relationship of all realms. Can they make it work despite their cosmic problems and personal issues?

-An attempt to make Madam Spellman canon from P1 to P4-

E

185,993 words

✨ Wishes at Witching Hour (sequel, on hold)

When Lilith came home one night, she hadn't expected her whole life to change. Now she's living in the constant ache of not knowing the answer to one question: What really happened that day?

E

45,204 words

Miranda Croft

🫒 Handcrofted

You’re Miranda’s former assassin-colleague and after five years, you’ve decided to pay her a visit on her olive farm.

E

6,625 words

[tomsparkyr]

heyyyyyyyyy

could I get a mason x fem footballer reader where the reader has a really bad injury that worries everyone especially mason bc there dating (or mason is in looooveeee, and so is the reader) I don’t want to be specific but like yk (you might not) when Azpilicueta got really injured by a player in the match today (chelsea v Southampton)

this would be very 👌🏼 and I just love your writing so much 🤭🤭🫶🏼🫶🏼

𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

masterlist

can we talk about how tf the southampton player didn’t get a red ??? and i’m sorry but potter out👀

warnings: MAJOR INJURIES!! like azpi’s😞😞 hope he gets well soon xxxx fluff and angst and this is really short!! sorry!!!

don’t steal any of my work, thank you!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 it happened or how it happened, but the sharp stab of multiple studs hitting the back of your head at full force would make that information ironically knock right out of your mind.

Mason watched it all happen at once, further away from the scene in case of a counter attack. He watched the opponents swing the ball in from the corner, no where near a teammate until Chilly cleared it to just around your head height.

Your back was to the ball, unaware of your surroundings. The player, I guess, thought it would be a grand idea to try and volley the ball into the back of the net; completely disregarding his surroundings and how close your head would end up to his studs.

His right foot swung up and made harsh contact with your head, studs scratching the back of your skull and pulling on your hair. Mason watched you fall forwards instantly, landing on Kepa as his gloved hands came out and caught you, his face paler than a ghost.

Mason didn’t even wait to hear the referee’s whistle to signal a foul before he found himself legging it towards you, his girlfriend on the bring of unconscious and limp body dropping closer to the grassed floor.

The brunette pushed everyone out the way, including his own teammates to get to you. Ben pushing Mason closer to you and shoved a few opponents out the way, ignoring their protests and begs for an overturned red card.

Mason knelt down to your body, Kepa was shaking and refused to let his hand off the back of your head. “What happened, Mason? I turned around and she just fucking collapsed!” The spaniard rushed out, his voice wavering at his friends lack of movement.

“Some fucking prick lodged his studs into the back of her head!” He brushed the hair out of your face, eyes closed and cold. Azpi called the medicals over immediately watching Mason’s breathing quicken the more you showed lack of communication. Kepa removing his gloved hand off the back of your head, seeing some blood stains painting the palm of where he assumed the studs had landed.

Mason blinked looking at the blood, biting back the tears as he pushing everyone away from you. “Y/N, I know this hurts and you’re getting help right this second, but please tell me if you’re okay?” You didn’t respond. Mason swallowed hard and didn’t want to touch your face, afraid of hurting your head. He grabbed your hands as the Chelsea medicals sprinted to you and did the most treatment they could do on the pitch, before they knew you had to be stretched off.

Mason held your hands delicately, scared you’d snap under his touch; he pressed desperate kisses to your knuckles and the palm. “Please, baby. Please be okay.” He feared the worst, any wise boyfriend would if their girlfriend had around ten studs borderline lodged into your skull.

Chilly hovered over you and Mase, hands on your boyfriends shoulders and head hung low; praying on anything that you’ll be okay. Kepa was still in shock, rushing over to the bench to get rid of his blood stained gloves, the more he looked at it, the more he wanted to vomit; he could barely look at you unconscious.

“I love you, Y/N. Please.” Mason cried, gripping onto your hand the longer you lacked any sort of ‘life’. One of the medics tapped Mason and nodded at him with a smile, telling him you’ll be okay. He sobbed into your hand with relief. “She just needs to receive treatment from us and possibly a hospital but she might be out for a while.”

Mason didn’t care, he knew you were okay and signalled to Potter that he would come off as a substitute alongside you, he refused to leave your side. When you were stretched off, his hand never left yours. The crowd cheered you on in hopes of a quick recovery, and praised Mason on doing the right thing; all relying on that you’ll come back stronger.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[petercapaldi-press]

INTERVIEW

1990

Maintaining the link

Jane Garner talks to Peter Capaldi whose latest role in Chain sees him hold on to his Scottish roots

(transcript under the divide)

When a world of BMWs, good wine, marinas and monogrammed socks is paraded alongside a poorer, less privileged society, the contrast is stark.

The Have-nots might hold their proud heads high and ignore the frippery of their neighbours. Or ruffians will set out to destroy what the Haves have built…

Straddling these worlds is Senior Crown Prosecutor Michael Cassidy, northern lad made good in the big southern city. In court he deals with the Have Nots who fought back, but there is vandalism on another plane wreaking havoc unseen in Chain. The four-part thriller, written by Desmond Lowden, directed by Don Leaver, produced by Carol Parks with music by Courtney Pine for the BBC, deals with destructive forces at work in a sideways look ahead to 1992…

Central to the action in Chain is McRae, played by Peter Capaldi, financial whizzkid turned investigator, poacher turned gamekeeper. A Scot with a sharp eye, a computer terminal brain and a determination to h alt a crime which knocks the destruction caused by the Have Nots into a cocked hat.

The Haves always want more. Murder, beatings, multi-million pound business swindles and more are uncovered.

“It is about fraud on a very large scale, corporate fraud. McRae is not a policeman, as he points out a number of times, but he is a specialist from the City who has been rather successful and – really just for the mental challenge – takes on this fraud case.

“He is rather well off because he has made a lot of money. He always distrusts the establishment and knows that some of the most respectable people around are the biggest thugs…” says Peter Capaldi. Chain was shot in Southampton but is based on Desmond Lowden’s mythical city where a European consortium is in for the financial kill. Capaldi enjoyed his role partly because it allowed him to be a Scot. “McRae is rather well off but they needed him to be not genetically of the area he is exploring. I like playing Scottish characters, but want to do other things, too. It is a battle to convince people I can because I haven’t adopted an English accent in life and don’t intend to,” he said.

Capaldi, now 32, first found himself acting in Bill Forsythe’s now cult film Local Hero, playing Danny – ‘a bit of a prat’.

“I had been at art school and got to know Bill through a rock band. He asked me if I wanted to be in a film, but I didn’t know it was going to be on that scale. Danny was just a useful comic character. As a bit of a prat, he was easy for me to play!”

Despite the young Glaswegian’s desire to act, he had become an illustrator and his work was in demand.

“I did things like comic greetings cards which was fun because I also dreamed up the jokes. I worked for the BBC on and off doing drawings for title sequences, but when I got the break I thought must be fate telling me to act so I did.”

After Local Hero, Capaldi headed to London in search of work and after a ‘long time’ joined the Young Vic and really started to learn about acting and the theatre. During the past two or three years he has been in demand, playing a servant in the film Dangerous Liaisons, as an archaeologist who discovers a monster in Ken Russell’s horror movie The Lair of the White Worm. He was in Dream Baby and played a guilty man acquitted of murder in Shadow of the Noose. Having done Valued Friends at Hampstead he returned after filming Chain last year to play alongside Tom Conti in Treats, working again with Christopher Hampton who had done Dangerous Liaisons and actress Geraldine McEwan in her second directing job.

Since then he has done a Screen Two film, the first screenplay by Timberlake Wertenbaker, called Do Not Disturb and he is in the midst of recording a Ruth Rendell mystery for TVS in which he plays a pop star.

In this run of projects Capaldi has switched from Scottish to English to American accents with ease. He enjoys comic roles as well as serious ones and has ambitions to do more film work.

“I am fascinated by that medium and I am not terrible attracted to Shakespearean roles or have any great ambition in that area. I like to do things that I am not really sure I can do and that stretches me – then I am working towards something new.

“Chain was different for me because it was terribly serious and a lot of the time before, I had played a lot of rather comic roles which I love and I am comfortable in.”

Capaldi – who, like his character McRae, has moved from the far north to the ‘prosperous’ south – has seen the sharp practice of businessmen operating on his own doorstep though he does not suggest there is anything like the activities in Chain going on. It is just good business in Tottenham.

“I live in the area where there were the riots a few years ago and people moved out and the property developers came in and bought up everything and now it’s a nice place and they are selling them for a fortune.”

Goings-on in high places are rife in Chain, which makes topical references to current court cases. Capaldi’s McRae joins forces with Cassidy, played by Robert Pugh, who has combined a successful writing career with acting.

“Cassidy is home-loving and believes in justice and the establishment,” says Capaldi. “McRae is looking for justice in his own way and he shows Cassidy a much darker side…”

Desmond Lowden’s book of the series is published to coincide with the screening of Chain, which follows his success with the novel Shadow Run, for which he was awarded the Crimewriters’ Association Silver Dagger for 1989. Other books include Bandersnatch, Sunspot and Cry Havoc and his screenplays include The Newsbenders, Jake’s End and the adaptation of Bellman and True.

Director Don Leaver has moved on to directing the new series of Lovejoy, a Witzend co-production with he BBC, and producer Carol Parks is filming Survival of the Fittest, also for the BBC.

[valdomarx]

struck by fucking lightning

Five times Roy and Jamie kiss by accident (and one time it's on purpose)

Jamie is a touchy person, that much is obvious. He's always hanging off Sam or bumping shoulders with Colin, ruffling Dani's hair when he plays well. Roy watches with cool amusement as Jamie sits with or on or over half the team, splayed out like a particularly tactile octopus.

So it shouldn't really come as a surprise when Jamie scores a banger of a goal during a match against Southampton and runs past the coaches' box in celebration. He rushes over to Roy, grabs his face in both hands, and plants a kiss fully on his mouth.

The other coaches snort with laughter, and Roy swats at Jamie and rolls his eyes.

That's just the kind of thing you should expect when you have Jamie Tartt for a teammate.

-

"I told you to take it easy with those presses," Roy tuts as Jamie sits up on the bench and rubs at his shoulders.

Jamie flashes him a sheepish grin. "You know I gotta keep up all of this hotness though," he says, gesturing at himself.

Roy sighs. "Idiot," he sighs, walking behind Jamie so he can massage out his traps, digging his knuckles into the knots of muscle.

Jamie makes appreciative noises as he works, and Roy takes the opportunity to lecture him about balancing his training properly. By the time he's done, Jamie's shoulders are loose and relaxed.

"Cheers, coach." Jamie takes his hand and, of all the things, drops a kiss onto his knuckles. "You're always looking after me."

-

Roy walks into work on match day with three cups of coffee, as per usual. He finds Keeley and Jamie, heads close together, deep in conversation about the merits of various brands of hair conditioner.

"Morning, Keeley." He hands her a coffee and gives her a kiss on the cheek, which makes her smile. It's a nice feeling.

"Morning, Jamie." He hands a coffee to Jamie as well and, without thinking, leans over to kiss him on the cheek too.

Roy freezes as he pulls back, eyes wide as he realises what he's done, but Jamie just beams at him.

"Thanks, Roy," he says, and goes back to talking to Keeley, who is hiding a grin behind her coffee.

-

Roy rings Jamie's doorbell at 4am for training and when Jamie first throws the door open, he's bright-eyed and raring to go. But then he looks at Roy and a frown creases his brow.

"Mate, what's wrong?"

Roy intends to lie and say he's fine, but instead what comes out is, "Keeley dumped me."

"Aww, shit."

Jamie refuses to run that morning and hustles Roy inside instead, sitting him down on the sofa and making him a mug of unbearably sweet tea.

"You'll be alright," Jamie says, flopping next to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. He squeezes Roy tight and presses a kiss to his temple. "It'll be okay."

It's actually kind of comforting, even if the tea is terrible.

-

The next time doesn't even count, not really. They're both drunk off their arses and high on victory, celebrating a win against Tottenham in some grotty club. The music is loud, the shots are plentiful, and the rest of the team are off somewhere in the thrumming darkness.

"Oh! I love this song!" Jamie perks up as a heavy beat pounds over the speakers. "We gotta dance!"

It's a terrible upbeat house track but Jamie is so excited that Roy finds he can't refuse, so he lets Jamie pull him to his feet and lead him to the dance floor.

For a skilled athlete, Jamie dances like an idiot, but it's kind of endearing. He looks good like this: disheveled, happy, free. Roy puts his hands on Jamie's hips as they dance and thinks about Amsterdam, about Jamie teaching him to ride a bike and to embrace something new.

Jamie loops his arms around Roy's neck and presses their foreheads together, and they've done this before too. But it seems like a lifetime ago that they were scrapping in the locker room. They're both different people now.

Maybe it's the nostalgia, or all the shots, or the dark warm cocoon of the club, but then Roy does something stupid. He leans in and brushes their lips together. Just a touch, easily deniable. An invitation.

Jamie has never been cursed with indecision though, so Roy feels his fingers flexing at the back of his neck before he pulls him in to kiss him properly.

They make out on the dance floor like teenagers, sloppy and inelegant and with an undercurrent of desperation, until Isaac and Colin come bustling over to drag them to the corner where the rest of the team is partying.

It doesn't count, obviously. But Roy finds himself thinking about it all the same.

-

The next Monday morning Roy hauls himself out of bed ready to head to Jamie's for early training. But when he opens his door he finds Jamie there waiting for him, the first pink of the sunrise streaking softly through his hair.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Jamie chews a fingernail. "I've been thinking, right."

"Never a good sign."

"Shut up, I'm tryna be nice here."

Roy cocks an eyebrow. This should be good.

"Cause, like, I've been trying to be better. Not at football, obviously, I'm still the best at that. But at everything else. Looking out for the team and that. Being accountable."

Roy nods. He knows that, of course, and Jamie is braver than he is to be able to talk about this shit out loud.

"And the thing is, the better I am to other people, the happier it makes me. Wild, innit? But when I put love out there, I get a whole lot more back. It's a fucking deal."

"That it fucking is," Roy agrees. Ted would be so proud.

"And it made me think, right, about what made me change. About who was there. It was Keeley, for sure, she put in a lot of groundwork that I didn't appreciate at the time. And it was Ted, with his endlessly chipper Yankee thing that gets into your brain somehow. And it was the team, who really are top lads."

Roy wonders if Jamie might be dying. Or moving to another club?

"But most of all, it was you." Jamie flashes him a bashful smile. Roy's heart stammers for a second. "You saw something worthwhile in me, and you dug it out. I like who I am because of you, and I wanted to tell you that." Jamie's eyes flick down and he scuffs the toe of his trainer against the brickwork. "I'm yours, right? You know that."

The blood is rushing in Roy's ears. He didn't know that, actually. He had no fucking clue.

"You absolute fucking prick." Roy's voice comes out rough.

Jamie's eyes flick back up to him, wavering and anxious.

"You come here and give me that speech at half three in the goddamn morning and expect me to be coherent about it? Christ, I can barely string together a sentence about my feelings at the best of times, and here you are laying all this shit out."

"Right, sorry, yeah." Jamie has shrunk into himself, and he turns to leave. "I'll go."

Roy darts out of the house in his socks to grab Jamie's shoulder. "No, fuck, I'm getting this all wrong." He spins Jamie back around to face him. He dredges up his courage. "What I mean is, I've been happier in the last year than I have in my entire fucking life, including when I was winning cups for Chelsea. I finally learned it's the people around you that are more important than winning. The people that make you more than you are. And it's you! It's fucking you."

Jamie is blinking at him with those big, wide eyes of his. Roy's hands sit on each of his shoulders, holding him in place.

"You're the highlight of my day, Jamie fucking Tartt. I'm yours too."

"Oh." The smile that blooms over Jamie's face is brighter than the rising sun. "Oh."

Puddles of last night's rainwater are soaking Roy's feet but he hardly notices, especially when Jamie looks up at him from under his lashes, chewing at his lip. Roy stares at the movement of his lips, captivated.

"So can we. Can I. Uhh." Jamie blushes, then laughs. "Fuck it," he says, and surges forward to kiss Roy.

Being kissed by Jamie is quite the experience, especially now he's not holding anything back. Jamie's hands are running over Roy's back and his hair is tickling against his forehead and Jamie is kissing him like he might drown without it.

Roy feels unstable himself, and he's glad he's still holding on when they break apart for air. He's unsteady on his feet but Jamie holds him up and he can't stop smiling.

Ahh, Roy thinks, with sudden clarity, and there it is.

Struck by fucking lightning.

[trekkitkat]

Some more reasons why Thomas Andrews my favourite person from history.

As a kid, his friends nicknamed him “Admiral” because of his skill and fondness of boats. 

He loved animals, looked after bees and horses and was very kind and gentle with them. 

At school, he wasn’t so great at academics, but the teachers and students still loved him for his generosity and honesty, “Wherever he went, he carried his own sunshine.” 

Staying at a hotel on a trip with friends, someone broke a bed rail. Thomas look responsibility for it and paid for a new bed. He fixed the broken bed and gifted it to an elderly cleaning lady at the hotel for her invalid husband. He and his friends carrying it to the couples' house and setting it up for them. 

As a teenage apprentice at the Harland and Wolff shipyards, he was known to do things like finish his own work early so he could help an old workman with his tasks, stay late to catch up the work of another apprentice who was sick, encourage others who were struggling.  A foreman noted, “It seemed his delight to make others around him happy.” 

He worked all day in the shipyards, then took night classes in drawing, mechanics and naval architecture. 

As head of the Design Department, he had in depth knowledge of all fifty-three branches of the shipyard, 

He was a natural and good leader. The workers at the shipyard looked up to him because he was good-natured, direct and intelligent and he could bring that out in others too. He saw people and respected them. If someone had an idea or suggestion, he wanted to hear it. 

He climbed an eighty-foot scaffold during a gale to save a man who got stuck. 

He didn’t believe himself above anybody and saw the workers at the shipyard as his friends.  He advocated for better housing, education and shorter working days for labourers. And he hated politicians who tried to fuel class divide and tension. 

During Titanic’s voyage, he wrote or sent telegrams to his wife from Belfast, Southampton, Cherbourg and Queenstown, telling her how the ship was fairing and the details he was working on.  A couple who shared the same dining table with him said he was very proud of the ship, but what he wanted to talk most about was his wife, daughter and family. 

Stewardess May Sloan said, “He made you feel on the ship that all was right. It was good to hear his laugh and have him near you. If anything went wrong, it was always to Mr Andrews one went.” 

And this is just a sample of what this man was like. He was an absolute gem. One of those rare, special people that make the world better just by existing. 

[arsenalgbt]

Aaron and David are really interesting to me but not as a sexy porny couple. I feel like their potential for heart-breaking angst is untapped by evil people like me who would giggle while writing it. I had this asking explaining it all written out but my laptop died and I lost it so now I have to try recreate the magic of it. I see them having very slow and sensual love making scenes to contrast the anger and the hurt and the emotion that exists between them. Aaron feels like David has taken something from him and being mad at Mikel isn't smart because Aaron needs Mikel to be impressed by him and part of that includes his character and how Mikel seems him so he smiles and gets on with things while secretly loathing David. Slowly but surely faking positive feelings turns into him having such feelings for David. They view their thing very differently though, David feels like Aaron has made his transition to Arsenal easier and that Aaron is the reason Arsenal feels like home. Aaron harbours resentment towards David and hates that when he fucks him that he's giving so much pleasure the man that stole his pleasure from him by taking his spot on the team. David signs his contract for a permanent move thinking that Aaron is happy to be a number 2 as long as he's number 2 to him. Aaron tells his agent to get him a club, any club, after he fucks David to celebrate his contract. David thinks it's a welcome fuck, it's a goodbye fuck. David learns about the Southampton move from social media. David is now at Arsenal, throwing himself into work and avoiding getting too close to anyone to avoid getting hurt again. Aaron has what he thought he wanted, no loss on the field even comes close to the pain of letting himself lose David though - 💙🤍KT anon

ASJJDSAJKFKJSDFLA AJSFKASJDFKASJDFAKSFDJKA AJKSFJKDASJKFKJAKJ yeah this is exactly what I'm talking about. ofc, angst with a sprinkle of porn as per!!!!!!! so perfect.

being mad at Mikel isn't smart because Aaron needs Mikel to be impressed by him and part of that includes his character and how Mikel seems him so he smiles and gets on with things while secretly loathing David. Slowly but surely faking positive feelings turns into him having such feelings for David. They view their thing very differently though, David feels like Aaron has made his transition to Arsenal easier and that Aaron is the reason Arsenal feels like home. Aaron harbours resentment towards David David signs his contract for a permanent move thinking that Aaron is happy to be a number 2 as long as he's number 2 to him.

fuck yeah THAT is so poetic. so cruel. so naive. Aaron has to leave for the story to work. by leaving, he gets to experience the void. by leaving, not only does he get his petty revenge, but also a surprise heartbreak. I'm hearing Aaron is actually injured right now? that's a recipe of disaster. David drives down south to be with Aaron on his day off, in his head, in his defence, he's 'helping' Aaron with his training to recover from his injury. Aaron doesn't actually spat at him when David shows up on his front door - the rebound sex is earth shattering though, they make it work with Aaron's injury (David riding him cough). exactly. EXACTLYYYYYYYY

or we can always leave it at that. at Aaron leaving. at David finding out the done deal the here we go from the media. damn.............. the angstification of such a niche ship with approximately 3 passengers............................ thank you for this. amazing!!!!!

PS. LISTEN IT'S TE SECOND TIME UR WRITING SOMETHING EPIC AND EITHER UR LAPTOP/PHONE/TUMBLR ATE THEM LMAOOOOOOOOOOO MAY I SUGGEST A RISK PREVENTION ACTION??????? maybe write it first somewhere safe............. always cmd a + cmd c no matter what........ please I can't............ I need................ I'm so serious...

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

So Much For Summer Love and Saying “Us”

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader

1.5k words

Warnings: Language, lying/sneaking around, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, angst because this thing has been surprisingly angst-free so far

Summer had come and gone too quickly. All the weeks of Roy and football and fun had blurred together and given way to the transition into autumn. Before long, it would be time for you to pack your suitcase and return to Southampton, a long train ride away from Roy and the things you had shared all summer.

You did your best not to dwell on that as the days dwindled by. Instead, you focused on your time with Roy, on his hands on your body and his lips on yours and his laughter in your heart. Of course, you did your best not to let that focus wander to the uncertainty that plagued you; what happened when you returned to school? Was this just… over? Would you become a phone call when you were in town? Would you have to watch in magazines as he went back to flittering from one model to another? You weren’t sure if your heart could handle it.

As the seasons began to change, you finally allowed yourself to admit what you’d known all along: you were absolutely, without a doubt, completely head over heels for Roy Kent. And you wanted to be his girl. His only girl.

And before your term began, you knew you needed to tell him.

You were firm in your decision as you trotted down the stairs, ready to join your dad for another day of training. He greeted you in the kitchen with a friendly nod over the top of his coffee cup. Ever since that night you went with Roy to the casino- where Roy had made sure you were back at the hotel before even your dad had returned- your dad seemed to have relaxed a bit. Maybe it was because he saw Roy keep his promise. Maybe it was because the two of you had been better at hiding your flirting around the club. Whatever it was, you were grateful to see your dad start to thaw.

“There’s some eggs on the table,” your mum called as a greeting as she poured her own mug.

You grabbed a plate and sat down, rehearsing in your mind the things you wanted to say to Roy when you met him that night. He’d asked if he could make you dinner again; it was the perfect opportunity for a more serious conversation, you decided. And maybe, if he reciprocated your feelings, a little bedroom action to cement things.

Doing your best not to giggle at the mere thought of Roy Kent’s bed, you grabbed the paper, flipping indifferently to the entertainment section. Maybe reading about whatever shenanigans Prince Harry or Paris Hilton had gotten into would be a decent distraction.

As you flipped the page, a familiar face caught your eye and stole your breath.

There was Roy- your Roy- smiling next to some insanely gorgeous actress. You had seen her in some cheesy horror movie earlier in the summer; you’d recently read that she was in the running to be the next Bond girl. And she was standing far too comfortably with the man who’d been climbing out your window mere hours ago.

Your head was clouded with confusion and jealousy as your dad sat beside you, saying something you were far too distressed to hear. He repeated your name once, twice, until you finally realized he was talking to you.

“What, Dad?”

“The sports section,” he said- repeated, actually- as he stared at you. “Can you pass it to me?”

You absently handed him everything that wasn’t the entertainment section, unable to take your eyes off the photo. Below it, a small blurb speculated that this was the mystery woman Roy Kent had been seeing lately; surely he had to be seeing someone, since he hadn’t been seen out as much as usual. According to the tiny article, the two were spotted at a recent team celebration, one that you, of course, had not attended, and talked for quite a while before Roy left. Before Roy left and went straight to your bedroom window, actually.

Your dad could sense your distraction, but not your distress. “What’s so interesting?” he hummed vaguely. “The Beckhams pregnant again or something?” He shot you a toothy grin, knowing your investment in your favorite supercouple, but that grin faded when he saw the numb expression you wore. “Love?”

His eyes landed on the paper in front of you. For a moment, his face softened with pity when he saw the photo, realizing immediately what had you so distracted. But just as quickly, his face hardened as he drained his coffee mug.

“Well, that’s Kent for ya,” he mumbled. “It’s a good thing it never went beyond your little crush on him. Men like him are best left on the pitch, right darling?”

You looked down, blinking back the tears that had formed. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Best left on the pitch.”

Of course, when you walked into the changing room, Roy’s eyes were immediately on you. His normally sexy smirk instead felt mocking, as if you were nothing but a silly little fling that had boosted his ego. Not that it needed boosting; he’d always made it clear he knew how beautiful, how talented he was. And for weeks, you thought you were special, getting attention from such a beautiful talented man. Now you just felt stupid, thinking a few weeks of sneaking around together meant something more to him.

“Morning, princess,” he hummed, raising an eyebrow at you. “Got another book for you if you’re interested.”

Instead of returning his smile, instead of flirtatiously asking what book he was recommending, you simply turned your face away from his. “No thanks, Kent.”

His face looked something close to dumbfounded as you walked to your dad’s office. Even before your romance- or what you thought was a romance- had begun, you’d always had time for Roy. Always a joke, or playful eyeroll, or a lingering smile. He’d never left an interaction with you feeling anything but pleased. But now? Now you left him confused and wanting something more than the three little words you’d given him.

But that’s all you gave him all day. His smirks were met with silence. His winks had you turning away. Any effort to start a conversation was interrupted by the tasks that suddenly required your full attention. Your poor heart ached too much to act like the two of you were fine. All summer, you were able to fool yourself into thinking Roy was different than the rumors, his reputation, your dad’s expectations. Even though you had initially kept your guard up, he’d slowly torn it down, kiss by kiss. And now, you were reminded why you’d needed it in the first place.

Roy Kent was the kind of man who could truly break your heart.

Once the incredibly long day was over, you trudged outside after telling your dad you’d wait for him in the car. The lot was quiet, mostly empty, except for one other car, whose driver stood beside it.

“Oi.”

Roy’s gruff voice, which normally had you smiling and blushing, now had your heart sinking. His face was completely crumbled, those brown eyes positively pitiful. He approached you with slumped shoulders, looking nothing like the cocky football star you’d fallen for. If you weren’t so devastated, you’d probably try to smooth the crease between his thick eyebrows and invite yourself over for takeaway and a movie. Instead, you folded your arms and looked down at your shoes.

“You alright?”

What a stupid question. Of course you weren’t alright; you were spiraling, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. Roy, who had made you feel so special, had made you a fool. With all of his stupid flirtations and horribly lovely words, he’d built you up, just to drop you and let you break.

But at least you didn’t have to let him see you break.

“’m tired,” you managed to mumble as you stepped around him to try to get to your dad’s car before those tears you’d been holding all day finally fell. “Got to try to wrap shit up here and get ready to head back to school soon.”

Roy cleared his throat, clearly not leaving you alone. “Right, right. Your term’s starting soon.” He took a deep breath, letting it out heavily. “Well, maybe a nice dinner will help you relax.” He tried that sweet smile again. “I was thinking of trying a new recipe. You like paella?”

Some part of you wanted to give in. His earnest eyes and kissable mouth had your heart tugging towards him, willing to ignore whatever the newspaper said just to get a little bit more of Roy, a few more crumbs of affection to sustain you until your next great romance. But the sinking feeling in your stomach, the one that kept saying ‘Told you so’, had you shaking your head brusquely.

“I’m not coming over,” you murmured while unlocking your dad’s car. “Have a good night, Kent.” Without another glance at him, you climbed into the passenger seat, not looking up until you heard the sound of Roy’s car door slam shut and his vehicle driving away.

Taglist:@gee72sstuff@book-of-roses@kissykissymouth@emmy2811 @hart-kinsella @klaine-92@dearvoidgoodnight@misshall14@issieruby@royal-sunflower@kissmekent@itswhateveripromise@slaymybreathaway@darkmagazineblaze@larascorneroftheworld@infinetlyforgotten@caught-the-feels@rae4725@sisinever@cskidjgsjaoaknayan52782@dd122004dd@veryprairieberry@spacecluster@dark-academia-slut@her-fandom-sanctum@wosokirby

[cherryxcadbury]

prompt 3 for mason 😍

y/n: your name

WARNING: THIS IS V AWFULLY WRITTEN SORRY

2nd person pov

“Y/N hun, did you get the cake?” Your mother asked on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah yeah I’m pulling into the garage right now.” You mumbled as you parked the car in the garage.

“Great thanks. Also heads up, there’s a guest here so mentally prepare yourself I suppose.” You mum added.

You scoffed, “You act like I’m incapable of talking to other adults.”

“You aren’t.” Your dad blurted into your mom’s phone.

“Hey! What do y—oh forget it. I’m coming through the garage door.” You spoke into the phone, trying to balance the cake while squeezing the phone in between your ear and shoulder.

You inwardly cheered as you managed to make your way from the garage to the kitchen without dropping anything. You were tempted to open the cake a snag a piece before laughter from the family room interrupted your devilish choices.

“Company.” You grumbled, hoping it wasn’t anyone too important.

Your gym set (black leggings, cropped black athletic tank and oversized gray zip up) would have to do.

You leaned against the kitchen wall, hoping to be able to decipher the voice on the other side. But alas, it was not meant to be. Shrugging your shoulders, you strode into the family room until you noticed him.

He stopped in the middle of his laughter once he noticed your presence. A smirk made its way onto his face.

“You fucking son of a bi—” You started before your brother, Leo (not Lio Messi) shushed you.

“Y/N. This is my best friend in London, Mason.” Leo smiled, introducing you to apparently, the man who was his best friend.

You’d never met him before, at least that’s what your family thought. Leo had moved to London a few months prior while you opted to stay in Southampton for studies. Mason was one of the good friends he’d gained during his time in the English capital.

You weren’t stupid. You watched football, avidly at that. You knew Mason Mount. What nobody besides you and Mason knew however, was that you two had met before. It was about three months ago, when you were visiting Leo for the first time.

You’d been on your drive back to Southhampton and were stopped at a service station in Croydon for some snacks. You were sleep deprived and exhausted but needed to get home to finish exam studying. You’d spotted your favourite ever, a terrys chocolate orange. There was only one left. Just as you were about to grab it, that wanker did as well.

And though you’re normally tended to be on the quieter side and non confrontational, that man brought out the worst in you. You both fought over it at the back of the store.

Hence solidifying your hatred of the man.

“Lovely to see you again. Hadn’t seen you since our time in the service station.” The smirk growing wider as he spoke.

He was the one who ended up getting that chocolate orange on that fateful night.

“Yeah we—” You began to speak but saw your family shift uncomfortably at the conversation between the two you.

You opted to bring it up later, and begrudgingly sat down as Leo covered up the awkward silence.

hours later***

You sat at the kitchen island huddled over your laptop, you’d now changed into nightwear. This, in your case, happened to be very similar to your regular clothing. An oversized jumper and athletic shorts.

“And so though it ended in chaos, the ancient civilizations of Greece and Persia will forever hold a history beyond that of their fabled tales.” You whispered to yourself as you typed the sentence on your laptop.

It was a last minute history essay which you’d completely forgot about and had began to bullshit at 2 in the morning.

You sighed in relief, realising you’d be able to go to sleep tonight. You were just about to pack up and head to your room for the night before you heard footsteps approaching you.

Weird. Everyone in your family were heavy sleepers, including you.

Unless it wa-wait. Please no.

You grimaced when you saw a tired Mason rubbing his temples looking like a mess. You snickered at the sight.

It took a bit for his eyes to readjust to the light, having the blink a few times upon seeing you.

“Not asleep yet?” He asked you, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

What kind of person drinks coffee at 2 in the morning?

“Had an essay to finish.” You muttered.

“Oh yeah? What about?” Mason asked.

You gazed at him with sceptisim. You found it odd that something like this would pique his interest.

“I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it.” You scoffed.

A lazy smile made its way onto his face.

“Come on Y/N. I thought we were past this.”

“You may be, but me no. Call me a bitch but I hold my grudges.” You spoke, trying to avoid eye contact.

Mason rolled his eyes and walked back to the guest room. You shrugged your shoulder, happy to be rid of him.

Then however, he appeared again. Your eyes zeroed in at what he was holding in his hands.

“Think fast.” He said, tossing the box at you.

Your hands sprang up and you were satisfied that you managed to catch it. It was a box, a large one at that. Full of several Terry’s Chocolate Oranges.

“Truce?” He offered.

You looked down at the chocolates, then to Mason, then back again.

“Fine.” You obliged.

You noticed the way he was looking at you. He stared at you like you were the only one. It was 2am, you were the only one in the room. You began to feel warm, nervous, and anxious under his gaze. Like he was scrutinising your every move.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You finally mustered up the courage to ask.

“Analysis.” He answered.

“Analysis? Are you good?” You shot him a strange look.

“I’m just trying to figure out why I acted the way I did at the service station.”

“Maybe because your were getting no playing time at Chelsea and you guys were losing every match.” You laughed, before quickly shutting yourself up.

“Sorry too soon.” You apologised.

To your surprised Mason cracked a smile. He then proceeded to walk over to you on the other side of the kitchen island, you swiveled your chair around to face him.

You sat while he stood. You looked up at him, still confused and nervous at what he was doing.

His arms flew to either side of you, basically caging you in.

You gulped nervously for several reasons. One, you obviously wanted him to act on it but you were kind of inexperienced and wouldn’t know what to do if he did. Two, you were in your parents house, they were sleeping just above your heads. Three, he was your brother’s best friend.

“What are you doing?” You questioned, placing emphasis on the what.

“Are you okay with this?” He asked, eyes fixated on you.

“Yes.” You answered immediately.

“The only reason I fought with you so hard was because I thought you were cute. I didnt really know how else to get a girl’s attention.” Mason admitted sheepishly.

“So you’re not usually a dick?” You inquired, a smile playing on your face.

“Usually no. To you, yes. I like our bantering.” He smirked.

“Me too.” You nodded, laughing.

You noticed he started to glance longingly at your lips.

But before you could think or act, you heard movement upstairs, someone shuffling in their room.

“My parents are upstairs.” You thought aloud.

Mason nodded about to speak before you both heard someone coming down the stairs. You acted on instinct, pecked him on the lips then scurried away to your room.

“Call me.” You mouthed, gesturing with your hands, inwardly celebrating when you saw him smile.

Somehow managing to get up to your room and in your bed without whoever was coming down the stairs noticing, a smile was on your face.

You quickly opened up your phone and began to text your two best friends.

Today starts a forbidden romance, just like in the movies. Upon reading your text you quickly deleted the message.

Oh shit. He didn’t have your number.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be just like the movies.

I was not feeling this one at all, was a bit chaotic. hope u enjoyed though <3

[weirdestbooks]

A Civil Disagreement Chapter 2

Insurrection (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

August 21, 1831

America was talking to North Carolina when Virginia returned from her state. She looked nauseous and distressed, and immediately, America’s parental instincts went off. He approached her, worry on his face. 

"Are you alright, Ginny?" North Carolina asked. Virginia shook her head.

"Father, there's a massacre happening in my state," Virginia said, her voice full of grief. America’s stomach dropped. Oh no. Oh no. 

“A massacre?” Caleb exclaimed.

“What happened?” Arkansas asked.

“Figure out what happened. Don't just stand there in shock!” James said, snapping America back into reality.

"What...What happened?" he asked as he processed the shocking news.

"A slave started an insurrection with a group of slaves. They're attacking and murdering my people. All of them! They aren't stopping at age or sex. They're just fucking murdering every white person they see. Why the hell aren't you doing anything?" Virginia yelled at them, tears starting to stream down her face.

“How were we supposed to stop it? We didn’t know!” Arkansas said, sounding panicked.

“She's upset. A tragedy just happened in her state. She's lashing out.” James said, his voice taking on a soothing tone, clearly trying to keep the younger ones calm.

“And we need to help her,” Caleb said, “Meri, we need to help!”

"Ginny, oh my god, Ginny, how bad is it? How many people are dead?" North Carolina asked. Virginia started crying harder.

"I don't know, I don't know." She cried, "My people are dying, and I don't know...I need you to help me, Father."

America snapped out of shock. Now wasn't the time for it. He wasn't sure what he could do, but he had to do something to help his daughter. Virginia and her militias might have to deal with putting down the insurrection on their own.

"I...I'm not sure how fast my people will be able to get down there—if they can even get down there, but I'll see what I can do." America told Virginia. It wasn't a good answer, but it was the only one he could give. He had no idea if he would be able to get people in Virginia before the insurrection was over or—god forbid—got worse.

—————————————————-

Virginia took a shaky breath. Her people were being massacred and dying because a bunch of slaves decided to kill them. And all Father said was that he could do his best. Was he serious? Virginia’s people are dying!

"Pa, are you sure you can't do anything?" North Carolina asked. She had to be worried. The county this massacre is taking place in was right next to her. Her people could die, too! Father had to do something. Saying that he would try to help wasn't enough.

It's not like he had to get Congress involved. Even if he did, the North would probably continue to pretend they didn't like slavery for moral reasons and use this as an excuse for why slavery was wrong, even if they just hated slavery for economic ones. They're a bunch of hypocrites, and Virginia hated it.

"Father! You can't just leave me to deal with this. You have to do something. They killed children! They killed people who were kind to slaves. I heard one of them say that they had to kill all the white people! You can't expect me to deal with this on my own!" Virginia told him as her tears became louder.

North Carolina came over to hug her while Father looked conflicted. Why did he look conflicted? Her people were dead. Her people were dying! He had to do something, anything, that would put a stop to the murder and death in Southampton County.

"I...I...can't promise anything. I want to help...but I can't be sure the government will help. You know we're our people, not our governments. I want to help you, Ginny, but...but I don't know when I'll be able to help." he said.

"How about you help before more of my people die?" Virginia snapped before going to leave. If Father wasn't going to be here for her, then she could at least be there for her people.

"Where are you going?" North Carolina asked.

"To help my people. Something you should be doing, Father." Virginia said before bringing herself back to her land and her county. Even if she were a girl, she would stand by her people and her militias and make sure that this massacre was stopped.

Father may have a lot to manage with all of Virginia’s siblings, but that didn't mean he couldn't help her. Virginia’s people were in danger; her people were dying, and Father didn't want to do anything. These were his people, too, not just hers.

I'll try wasn't a good answer.

———————————————————

August 23, 1831

Virginia walked through the town, feeling the quiet shock and grief of the atmosphere. No one had expected an attack by the slaves. No one expected a massacre on this scale. Over fifty of her people have been killed in this massacre. 

The only people the slaves didn't try to kill were the poor white people. Why? Virginia didn’t know. But it was a small mercy because they killed anyone else they could. 

Over fifty of her people were now dead, and Father never did anything to help. Virginia’s militias, North Carolina's militias, and a few men from two of Father's ships, but no one else helped.

Father didn't help her.

They had killed many of the slaves involved with this massacre and were planning the execution of the slaves they had captured. North Carolina, when she came into Virginia’s land on the second day of the massacre, told Virginia that she had told their southern siblings of the massacre, who were now fearful of the slaves in their states doing something similar.

And those fears weren't helped by the fact that the leader of this massacre, Nat Turner, had escaped the militias, and now they had no idea of his whereabouts. It was terrifying. That murder could go to another town and incite a massacre there.

Nat Turner needed to be caught and executed for his crimes. Once he was caught, Virginia's people would be a lot safer.

"Virginia," Virginia heard her Father say as he approached her. Virginia turned around and saw Father standing there with a guilty look on his face.

"You didn't help," She said, grief heavy in her voice. So many of her people had died. Maybe if Father had helped me, there would be fewer bodies to bury.

"I'm sorry." he said, "There was nothing I could do with my government. But you and North were able to handle it well."

Handle it well? My people were murdered, and all Father could say was that Virginia handled that massacre well! If she had handled it well, fifty of her people wouldn't be dead right now!

"My people are dead," Virginia said, her voice venomous. Father flinched and frowned.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't the best wording. I'm just trying to say that I hate that this massacre happened, but you and North were able to handle it well without my help." He said. Virginia scowled.

Father really thought saying that he was proud of her was going to make up for the deaths of her people. For the fear they had to feel from their slaves?

That wasn't acceptable. Virginia looked up at her Father and saw the guilt in his eyes. She sighed. Father really did want to help. And they were their people, not their governments.

"Help me make sure something like this never happens again," Virginia told him. He gave me a slight smile before nodding.

"I’ll do my best." He said. Virginia frowned. Why did her Father insist on giving that half-answer? It wasn't like it was a hard question. Father was either going to help her or leave her to deal with things like massacres on her own.

"You can't keep saying you'll try too. Yes or no question! You're just avoiding it!" Virginia snapped at her father, tired of his half-answers. If the answer really was no, then he should just say that to her face instead of dancing around the issue.

"I'm not trying to avoid it!" Father quickly protested, putting his hands in the air. His eyes grew wide and panicked, and Virginia tried to tone down her anger.

She had witnessed her father’s revolution. She knew the emotional pain that he went through, that they went through. Virginia knew it still bothered him, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. Virginia was the first state to get a spot as a voice in Father's head. She had been with him since the beginning. She knew her Father cared for people very deeply.

Virginia knew he probably did all that he could to try and get his government to help her. But even if his government didn't want to help her, that didn't mean Father couldn't help her, maybe not as the federal government, but as her Father.

Virginia still needed an answer. If witnessing Father's revolution taught her anything, it's that being someone's parent doesn't give you an excuse to treat them however you like. Britain learned that the hard way. Virginia hoped Father would always remember that so he'd never have to take the hard way.

She wanted her family to stay together. Even if they argue, they still love each other. Losing any of her siblings would cause her more grief than she could imagine.

"Then give me an answer—a proper one this time," Virginia said. Father looked conflicted and paused, his eyes becoming slightly distant. Virginia smiled slightly. She knew that the people in his head were probably arguing and giving him a headache. Virginia was guilty of giving Father several when she and her siblings fought in his head.

"I can't control who'll be in government next time something like this happens. I can't promise I'll be able to help you." Father began. Virginia raised an eyebrow. 

"But..." She said, wanting to hear the part she knew would be added on.

"I will, if I'm able to, help you." He said. Virginia smiled. That was enough for her.

And for now. But who knows what will come in the future? This agreement might not be enough.

[iman-92]

i know i’m bad vibes bc every time i see a tiktok of some american/canadian talking about they just moved to London my head gets sooo hot omg. why don’t they move to SOUTHAMPTON. or DONCASTER. London is full please close the borders 🤚🏾

[une-sanz-pluis]

If Sir Thomas Gray's letter of confession to Henry V can be believed, Cambridge in the summer of 1415 was entertaining fantastic delusions. He told Gray, who was staying at Conisborough castle on 17 June, that the Scottish regent, Robert Stewart (c. 1340-1420), duke of Albany, was willing to trade the pseudo-Richard II in exchange for one of eighteen prominent Englishmen, headed by Bishop Courtenay of Norwich (one of the king's most trusted councillors), and the head of the Nevill clan, the staunchly Lancastrian Ralph, earl of Westmorland, who was married to Henry V's aunt, Joan Beaufort. Needless to say, there was no possibility that men of high rank would put themselves at Cambridge's disposal or become available to be used as hostages in these bizarre negotiations. Perhaps the Scottish regent, unwilling to disclose that his puppet was no longer alive, and eager to keep up the pretence that Richard II still survived, had stated unacceptable terms to evade coming to an agreement with Cambridge. It should have been obvious to Sir Thomas Gray as he rode homewards that his host, the earl of Cambridge, had lost touch with reality, and memories of that astonishing conversation at Conisborough castle, when the two men rashly talked of treason, should have been enough to deter him from getting more deeply involved in such preposterous schemes.

T. B. Pugh, Henry V and the Southampton Plot (Alan Sutton, 1988)

[disgruntledkittenface]

snippet

thank you @louisandtheaquarian and @nouies for tagging me to share a snippet! I finished a draft of the first chapter of the fic I’m working on and I think it’s rough but I reallllllly like the story

“So you all live here in Southampton?” Harry asks, looking around as Zayn and Liam nod.

“Not me,” Louis says, trying to subtly inch away from Zayn, who still has his arm around his shoulders. “My dad has a place here, but I live at my mom’s house in Sag Harbor.”

Harry rests his hand on Louis’ knee, as if to comfort him. No one he’s ever had a crush on has been able to read him so well, so quickly. He angles his body toward Harry, finally disentangling from Zayn, who’s distracted by something over by the game of cornhole.

“It’s really nice,” he says, keeping his voice down so only Harry can hear. “Our house is on the water, and the downtown area is really nice. It feels like a small town. Well, that’s kind of true everywhere in the Hamptons…”

“Yeah, there’s lots of…” Harry gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Like small businesses and American flags and people saying hello on the street.”

“See,” Louis says, tilting his head. “You already get the vibe, you know the area.”

“So why’d your mum pick Sag Harbor? Because it’s a good place to raise a family?”

“Yes and no,” Louis admits, smoothing his hair off his forehead. “It is good for families, but since the divorce, she does whatever she can to avoid my dad. She doesn’t even come out to the house in the summer, she always goes to Europe. I think she’s in Saint-Tropez right now.”

“Oh, I love it down there,” Harry says, grinning. “We try to go every year. There’s this great little Moroccan restaurant that’s a little off the beaten path, Salama. You should tell your mum to go there.”

“Oh,” Louis says, his back stiffening as he realizes that the restaurant Harry is talking about is closed. He doesn’t want to say anything in front of his friends, so he just nods. “Yeah, yeah, I will.”

“Uh, didn’t that place shut down, like, five years ago?” Luke laughs derisively from the log across the fire. “Thought you said you go every year, dude, how did you not know that?”

“Oh, shit, that’s right,” Harry says, rubbing his fingers over his mouth as he appears to remember. “Now that you say that, it’s been longer than I thought since I’ve eaten there.”

“I don’t even know if she’s still there anyway,” Louis says to Harry. He’ll have to murder Luke later. For now, all he wants is to talk to Harry outside of a tennis lesson. “She could be eating Moroccan food in Morocco for all I know. She only checks in, like, every other month.”

“One time, my parents went to Croatia for a month,” Harry says, a laugh bubbling in his voice, “and no one told me. I thought I just kept missing them at breakfast.”

“Oh my God,” Louis laughs. “Really?”

“It’s the God’s honest truth,” Harry insists, holding up a hand as if to swear it.

They huddle together by the fire, and Louis tells Harry more stories about the lengths his mom goes to in order to avoid his dad, and how she ends up avoiding him in the process. The party continues around them, and after a while Harry finally gets up to get a drink. He cracks open a can of beer on his way back from the coolers, bumping into Luke and spilling about half of it on him. Louis hides his laugh behind his hand as Luke’s date dries him off with a beach towel. He almost never gets to see Luke get any karma. There’s a twinkle in Harry’s eye when he sits back down next to Louis, and Louis starts to suspect that Harry spilled the beer on purpose, but then Luke starts cheering at his phone, distracting him.

I’ll tag @crinkle-eyed-boo @allwaswell16 @louandhazaf @kingsofeverything @haztobegood @beelou @wabadabadaba @neondiamond