#i think because my mam is an english teacher she was just more put off by it because she's very correct when it comes to words

[leaving-fragments]

i use pretty to refer to just anything aesthetically pleasing at this point

#i only realised this because i said advice (the taemin mv) was pretty and she was like well i wouldn't call it /pretty/ #and i was like... oh yeah but i mean.. it's nice to look at it's artistic it's aesthetically pleasing... #but if you look up the definition of pretty then yeah most things i refer to as pretty probably aren't actually pretty in that sense 😶 #stuff doesn't necessarily have to be delicate or graceful to be called pretty in my book heh #pretty #*to my mam i said the advice mv is pretty to my mam i didn't add that ahsgdjdjhd #i think because my mam is an english teacher she was just more put off by it because she's very correct when it comes to words

[thegirlfulloffandoms]

Boggie britgate fic

3:30 pm On Wednesday, its detention in room d12 of St Cuthbert's catholic college, London. Maths department.

Notorious Roadman Reginald Peters, better known as Rezza in the community (named after his dad's favourite rolling papers), sits in Mr Wilson's classroom, feet on the table and phone in hand. He's texting his friends about how Mr Wilson was a softie and how it's more proof that he's dodgy dave.

Then Bobby walks in, a perfect uniformed year 9 with dark curtains wanders in looking a little guilty.

' The pope visited last week,Dickhead ' Reggie says, his fingers still typing out a message, most likely one filled with more terrible spelling than Luke's pronunciation.

'Some of us have standards to upkeep you cheeky sod' is Bobby's response, not that kind Reggie expected to hear, especially from the son of the maths department head, but one that seemed to send his heart into an unexpected whirl of thudding.

'Wasteman', he mutters under his breath, looking back down at his phone smirking slightly.

'at least I can spell paedophile.' Bobby tuts sitting down beside him, much to Rezza's dislike. 'you should be in English detention for that shit spelling.'

'piss off,im dyslexic, you twat, at least my da don't pay for all my shit' Reggie scoffs as he turns towards him, a glare in his eyes, a permanent fixture of his face around most people.

He scans his eyes over the other boy. He could get along with him pretty well but, he was the son of his sworn enemy why, the fuck would he want an alliance with such-Bloody hell, Bobby, has cracking eyes doesn't he? Was that eyeliner around them?

It was like someone brought Vlad from Young Dracula to life,except he was like 14 and well,real and surprisingly even better looking.

‘Reggie,i do a goddamn paper round to pay for my shit’ Bobby huffs pulling out his exercise books and a graffiti decorated red pencil case,’anyway i pissed him off’ he grins with a strange sense of pride,who takes pride in pissing off their parents? Reggie struggles to get any positivity from his nevermind getting in trouble.

‘What the fuck did you do? Throw a paper aeroplane in the air with a rumour that he’s screwing Miss Jones?’ Reggie teases,raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms as he looks at him.

‘I broke a dining hall window’ he mutters,not looking up from his book,scribbling the date in black biro in the top corner,’with a chair’

‘You got just detention for that? Fucking hell your dad is a proper wet wipe ain’t he?’ Reggie’s glare is gone,now replaced by an impressed smirk,’HE’S NOT-’ Bobby begins to shout looking at Reggie who is now stifling a laugh,’he’s not a wet wipe,he just treats me differently because im his son,not just a random student’

‘So you’re his favourite then?’ 

‘I wouldn’t say that,i mean you called him a nonce and that's expulsion worthy’

‘Not if the paint comes off’ Reggie winks,rocking back on his chair,obviously forgetting all the teachers warnings.

‘You’re a shit you know that Peters?’ Bobby shakes his head,turning to look at his page of scruffy looking lines,’Rezza is my name innit,im meant to be’ Reggie smirks putting on the voice for effect,feeling weirdly comfortable around Bobby,even though he was the son of his worst enemy.

‘Cut the shit,you’re not hard’ he mutters back,kicking his chair,causing it to screech back.

‘Says you,daddy’s boy’ Reggie scoffs.

‘Well yeah?! I fucked your mum’ Bobby shouts getting more heated as they continue talking,’you fuck my mam? She doesn't live with me tosser’ Reggie calls back,shifting his chair forward.

Bobby stops,his snarky nature dropping when he sees the new pain in Reggie’s eyes,roadmen have feelings too. ‘Woah,hold up,you live with your dad? That prick with the old banger of a ford car?’

‘Yeah ,my childhood was rough’ Reggie shrugs casually,looking at him,’rah stop feeling sorry for me,it’s not a big deal’ he snaps,’why didn’t you tell me? My dad could help-’

‘Yuh but he’s a nonce ain’t he?’

‘For god's sake he’s not a nonce’ Bobby sighs.

‘Alright he’s done nowt wrong,but he looks dodge’ Reggie says, poking Bobby with his finger.

‘Reggie,we were friends last year,what changed?’ Bobby asks softly,changing the subject to one Reggie hadn’t planned for.

‘No we weren’t’ Reggie turns his head away,’Reg’ Bobby continues to push.

‘I COCKED EVERYTHING UP’ Reggie shouts standing up suddenly,his chair falling back,’what made you think that?’ Bobby steps back a little worried at what could happen next.

‘You took me off your snap streaks’ Reggie mutters,’you dropped me like tories drop their kids’

‘They still pay hush money,anyway i never dropped you,i stopped doing them for everyone’ Bobby takes a step closer,taking his hand in his.

‘I got caught up in the grind Rezza,and forgot about my main man,a true king never forgets about his main man,even if he egged his dad's new car’

‘Can we peng things together again?’ Reggie looks up to him,moving in a little closer.

‘Forever innit’ Bobby smiles,pulling him in for a kiss.

A few moments later Mr Wilson walks in,even though he’s happy they’re back together,public displays of affection go against school rules,meaning an extra half hour of detention.

#britgate #roadmanreggie #Vivalabritgate #american'tgate #BritverseJATP #Boggie #julie and the mandem

[captainjimothycarter]

8, 12, and 13 for the Holiday/Christmas prompts please (I don’t remember what it was called lol) 🤍

I had to search for it too, lol. I’ll be updating these in reblogs!

--

“Who threw that?!”

The tone carried across the snowy campus to let those nearby, in their close-knit circles, that the owner if it was annoying. No, pissed.

The snow fell from Peggy’s coat as she shook what snow off of her backside that she could. Her perfect vision was sharp enough in the classroom to pick out the few students who still stupidly dare to cheat on her exams and out here on the campus, she could make out a few familiar faces within her class.

And one who taught right next-door to her office.

He stood a foot shorter than her with baby blue eyes, downy soft blonde hair, and freckles dashed across his straight nose. The very nose that scrunched as he snorted, eyes wrinkling in the corner. He dropped the snowball from his hand, shaking the excess snow off of his gloves. A few flecks of snow landed on his hair, nearly blending in with the blonde locks.

She hated how adorable their new art teacher was. Not only did she hate how adorable he was, but she also hated how much the students loved him. She hated how good looking he was, she personally, and selfishly hated how she was attracted to him. 

During his time on campus so far, he fell into the easy role of being the laidback teacher who let his students get away with a lot of things. Things that would not fly in her classroom. Chatting during exam time? That wouldn’t fly, some people needed silence to concentrate, but she’d heard him saying it was fine if they talked, long as it wasn’t loud. He let them choose the soundtrack for their days, often giving the students a choice between two albums that related to his studies. He was often late to class himself, often arriving with nothing but a cup of coffee and a smirk on those full, pink lips. Later, she’d learn he was often a little late because of frequent asthma attacks given he took the bus to work and some people didn’t seem to understand that smoking on the bus was illegal.

What was the most annoying aspect of Mister Rogers was how he seemed to live up to his surname and be so helpful and kind. They were first introduced by Headmaster Coulson who seemed all too gleeful to introduce a history teacher to an art teacher, wearing a smirk on his lips as he quickly walked around the corner. Steve had offered to walk her to her office, then the car, claiming he was worried about her falling because she lacked proper snowshoes and it was starting to ice outside. She had told him, no, but he apparently didn’t take no for an answer and walked her anyway.

That had only been the start of their little acquaintance. She would watch him in between classrooms doing favors that were well out of a professor’s means for students, like researching and writing letters for students to get pets or calling home for them to talk to a difficult parent [okay, that one hit close to home for her.] She’d seen him here late at night and early in the morning, helping the janitors clean up after parties or laying out salt and putting rugs down.

Yet, their most recent encounter had been this morning, the one rare time that neither of them had class, and despite that Steve’s office was halfway across campus, he was knocking on her door. She almost didn’t look up from her lesson plan, the well-practiced sentence of office hours didn't start for another half hour when she could smell the coffee. He was standing in front of her, wearing a jacket that made him look like an over puffed marshmallow. His earmuffs were covering his ears, making him look adorable. His cheeks flushed from the cold outside and he looked almost winded as if he’d been hurrying.

“Mister Rogers,” she breathed, waving him inside. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would something be wrong?” He spoke too loudly and she cringed, pointing to her ears. He flushed as he pulled the earmuffs down, setting a cup of coffee on her desk. “Sorry, I forgot about those. Anyway, no, I wanted to beat your normal crowd of students and bring you some coffee. I sometimes hear what those students ask of you and...well, I thought it...be good…”

He seemed to stumble over his own words, flushing a brighter shade of pink as he caught himself. Clearing his throat, Steve shook his head and shoved his hands into his pocket. Oh, he was adorable.

“That’s...so kind of you.” And he seemed to know his order too after a small sip, she found she was impressed. “Thank you, Steve.”

He shrugged and cleared his throat. “I...yeah. I gotta…” He jerked his thumb behind him, to an empty hall, where she knew maybe three classes were being taught right now. The freak snowstorm had caused many students and teachers to miss class. 

“Of course. Thank you again, Steve. You’re very sweet.”

She enjoyed watching him stumble and walk away, locking himself in his neighboring classroom. He must’ve called class off because of the storm too, meaning he came to their building just for her?

Bless that man.

Right now, she couldn’t think of blessing him, as the cold snow dripped into her neck, making her shudder. She glared at Steve who still somehow managed to look just as adorable as he did this morning with his pinking nose from the cold. She was English, she didn’t do well in the cold. The heat was fine but this Brooklyn cold went right through her.

A few of their shared students snickered around them, only stopping when she glared at them. They quickly hurried off, just a few stragglers left around them. 

“Steve?” Peggy asked, lips pursed and brow raised. “Did you throw that snowball at me? Do not lie to me.”

“Or what? You’d give me detention?” There was that sassy fella she’d often hear in his lections. He must’ve found that sass again. She hated how cute he looked as he snickered. “No, it must’ve been from the trees.”

Peggy brow rose, glancing up and around them with her hand waving above. “Funny. There doesn’t seem to be any trees around us right now.” When his mouth opened, she raised a finger to silence him. “To answer your earlier question, no, I won’t give you detention. I’ll remind you as to why you shouldn’t start a battle you can’t win.”

Just as his mouth opened to sass or counter her, Peggy threw a quick handful of loosely packed snow in his direction, striking him right in the mouth. There was some satisfaction in watching him sputter and spitting the snow out.

His eyes narrowed at her as he swiped the snow off of his face, already reaching to scrape some snow off of the bench beside him. “Oh, it’s on.”

That’s how Peggy found herself engaging with one of the few professors that she tolerated on campus, in an all-out snowball fight. She used the brick wall beside her to gather the snow off of the top, lobbing a lopsided snowball in Steve’s direction. It struck him square in the chest and he shuddered but his more perfectly made snowball struck her hard and clear in the shoulder.

Turns out, that bad eyesight she heard him muttering about didn’t seem to affect him when it came to throwing snowballs at her. His aim was pretty good, just as good as his right armed throw. His snowballs were more solid than hers and didn’t seem to just disintegrate in the air as hers did. 

She threw one hard at his head again, managing to hit it just right to knock the earmuffs off and cause the snow to scatter in his hair. He laughed, throwing his head back and chest out as he laughed, shaking the snow out of his hair. He neglected to pick up the earmuffs in favor of lobbing one at her chest.

This one was solid, sending her a step back. Her scarf caught on the shoulder-high hedge that lined their walkway. Peggy abandoned it to the hedge in favor of throwing her next ball and missing Steve by a few inches.

Steve in turn, childishly stuck his tongue out at her, tossing his next ball and losing his glove with it.

Her next one struck him in the shoulder, getting snow under his jacket. He did a cute little dance, slipping and sliding to get the snow out of his coat.

“Do you see how it feels now?” She asked, her breath floating in the air around them. She felt a little breathless but Steve looked breathless with his flushed face. “Cold isn’t it?”

“Mam, I was born and raised in Brooklyn, I’ve known no warmth in my life.”

She snorted at that one and he stomped his foot, both to get the remaining snow out of his coat and to dismiss her disbelief snorting. 

“It’s true!” he insisted, waving his hand at her. 

“Has anyone told you that you’re dramatic?” She mused, rolling his eyes when he lopped a loosely packed ball in her direction and it fell short between them. “And quite rash.”

“Plenty of people. You wanna start a club about it?” He was pouting and she was caught up with the thought of how cute those pouting lips were.

“Only if you’re the president of it. I’ll bring it up to Coulson during our next meeting.”

This time, she threw the next ball to punctuate the end of the sentence. Her glove came with it too, both hitting him in the chest.

They both lost their set of gloves in separate balls, her scarf still fluttered in the branch beside her, his dark blue earmuffs stuck out in the snow in contrast to the white color, her left boot went flying next when it got caught in the root of the hedge, and his scarf came off when he caught himself on the end of the bench.

They were both winded, chest aching from the cold, but neither wanted to admit defeat. Especially Peggy who hated to lose.

Steve’s next ball came flying at her and a quick ducking motion caused it to strike the statue behind her. They both watched as the cheap statue on its weak frame started to tip over before crashing into the frozen landscape behind it.

Sharing a look with her fellow professor, Peggy made quick work of grabbing their soaked winter gear, finally snatching his hand and the both of them booking it back towards her office.

With their gear off and sitting next to a heater, Steve was able to laugh. “Do you think anyone saw us?”

“We were fighting in front of the main building, Steven, I don’t see how not.” She pursed her lips in thought before shrugging. “Though I know you mean the statue, I don’t think we’re in any trouble. Coulson has mentioned how he wants that thing done, we’re doing him a favor.”

“I think we deserve a raise,” the blonde snickered, rubbing the melting snow from his hair. “We call it a draw?”

Her lips remained pursed, regarding him with a look as they sat side-by-side on the couch, feet tucked under her to try to harbor body warmth.

“Not a draw then,” he mused, a little grin on his lips. “Though, you don’t know how to make a snowball, do you?”

Peggy gapped before a beat of laughter escaped her. “Excuse you, I grew up in snow too, Steven.” She paused, her cheeks tinting a soft pink from nothing to do with the cold. “They were terrible, weren’t they?”

“Really bad,” he agreed, looking almost nervous as he turned to face her. “I can teach you how to make a proper one if you’d like.”

Without missing a beat. “Only if we get coffee first, I’m afraid I can’t feel my fingers.” 

Steve’s face split open into a grin that should be illegal with how adorable he looked. “Deal.”

#Steggy #StevePeggy #Steggy Prompt #@peggycarter-steverogers #Ask Prompt #Holiday Prompts #CaptainAmericaPeggyCarterismysexuality fic ideas

[radishaur]

can u do a zuko x reader high school au where the reader (female or gender neutral) is part of the gaang's friend group and is a huge nerd? (in math or science or english or everything because there aren't enough nerd readers mam) feel free to do anything you want with that! ty!

As a fellow nerd, I am so in love with this idea! I actually love this idea so I think I’m gonna be turning this one into a series! I hope you enjoy this!

- Zoe

•••

Highschool AU (Zuko x Reader)

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff, Highschool AU, some angst

Part: 1/?

Summary: Zuko was, by no means, your typical student. He was super popular despite having relatively no friends. He was quite shy and mostly kept to himself. Every girl was swooning over him, but he never noticed. He also was pretty much barely passing every class he was in, besides PE and Theatre. So when the school appoints you as his personal tutor, you wouldn’t say you were surprised. What did surprise you was how well the two of you got along.

•••

The soft sound of the alarm going off brought you out of your sleep. You groaned in annoyance before sitting up. The sun wasn’t even up yet, but that didn’t matter. School started at 7 AM sharp, no excuses.

You swung yourself out of bed and hit the off button for your alarm. Stretching, you found yourself walking into the bathroom to get ready for the day.

It was the same routine every day. Get up and get ready for school. Eat breakfast and go straight to school. Go to your classes as expected and don’t cause trouble. Keep your grades up or else. Look out for your sister because she’s blind and “can’t take care of herself” (total bullshit). Come home and do your homework. Go to sleep. That was the routine for Y/N Beifong.

Having parents in politics meant you were constantly having to meet these insane expectations. You had to be perfect. There was no room to be a normal teenager. Not for me.

I sighed and got dressed before heading over to Toph’s room. She was usually a heavy sleeper and I had to wake her up.

“Toph! Sokka, Aang, and Katara are gonna be here any minute now,” I exclaimed as I turned the lights on in her room.

She grumbled slightly before sitting up. Her hair was everywhere and I giggled slightly.

“Come on. Get dressed so I can do your hair,” I told her before heading to the kitchen to make some food.

I put some fruit into the blender along with some ice and milk to make us both smoothies. I let it mix before pouring them into two cup and handing one to a sleepy Toph who shuffled into the kitchen.

“Rough night?” I asked as I began taming her hair.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied as she hastily drank her smoothie.

I pinned her hair into her usual style. As I was placing the last bobby pin in, I heard a honk from outside. Definitely Sokka.

Toph and I both grabbed our bags before running outside and jumping in the car. The rides to school were always my favorite. We could just laugh and be ourselves. It was incredibly refreshing.

When we pulled into the school parking lot, we all went out seperate ways to class. I was the oldest of the group, a whole grade above everyone else. Sokka and Katara were only one underneath me and then Aang and Toph were both freshman. How is that even possible you might be asking?

Well, both Aang and Katara skipped a grade. They’ve always been slightly smarter than their age group so it didn’t really surprise anyone. As for Toph, pretty much everyone was surprised to find out that she was practically a genius. She didn’t care about school in the slightest, but she was incredibly smart. She had to take special classes because of her blindness, but she was a part of the school nonetheless. Honestly, it worked out great for me. I had all of my friends in the same place, even if I didn’t have any classses with them.

I went about my day as usual, vigorously taking notes and listening to the different lectures. Everything was going by as normal until I was called to the principals office before lunch. My teacher handed me the note before continuing his lecture.

The walk there had been absolutely nerve wracking. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong and yet I still couldn’t calm down. Mostly out of fear for what my parents would do if they found out I was called there in the first place. I took a deep breath before opening the door to the principal’s office.

“Ah! Miss Y/N,” Principal Williams greeted with a welcoming smile, “Have a seat.”

“Good morning Mr. Williams,” I replied as I sat down.

I shifted nervously in my seat as I waited for him to tell me why I was here.

“Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” he prefaced, sending a wave of relief over me, “We’re just waiting on another student to arrive and then I’ll explain why you’re here.”

I cocked my head curiously, wondering what could possibly be happening. It wasn’t maybe a minute long before the door creaked open once more. Stepping inside was the last person I expected to see.

“Mr. Zuko! Late as always,” Principal Williams greeted, noticeably less friendly.

Standing in the doorway stood Zuko. He had a red cardigan with a button up underneath, black jeans, and a brown book bag slung over his shoulders. My eyes flicked to the scar that covered almost the entire left side of his face before looking over the rest of him. His brown hair fell lightly over his face and he shifted nervously in the doorway before sitting like he was told to.

“This is Ms. Y/N. I’m sure you’ve seen eachother around school before,” he said, pointing between the two of us.

Zuko nodded slightly before averting his gaze. I had indeed seen him around before. His father was also in politics and his sister, Azula, was one of the top students in the school and the two were never seen together at school. His scar was the spark of many gossip filled conversations you could hear while walking down the halls. Zuko himself was quiet. He kept to himself and didn’t have many friends.

“Zuko here is in need of a tutor. He’s barely passing any of his classes and his father is paying us to find him a student tutor. Seeing as you’re one of our top students and the same age, it only made sense to pick you,” he explained to me, barely even paying attention to Zuko at all.

“Oh,” was all I managed to say.

I had a million thoughts running through my head. I didn’t even know what to say.

“We’ll pay you for your efforts of course and the school will provide you with library space to work. All you need to do is tutor Zuko until his grades go up,” he continued, leaning back in his chair.

Zuko hadn’t said a word. You could see him blushing slightly out of the corner of your eye, presumably because he was embarrassed. You two had never spoken before and now he was getting bad mouthed right in front of me. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat sorry for him. Principal Williams did really put him in an uncomfortable position.

“When would I be tutoring him?” I asked, bringing my attention back to the situation at hand.

“Every day after school starting today until his grades improve. Then we can adjust the schedule as needed,” Principal Williams said before handing me a sheet of paper and adding, “That’s a list of all the subjects you’ll be covering.”

I nodded to conform I had heard him, but my head was elsewhere. This was a huge commitment I was being thrown into, but I couldn’t really say no. Besides, judging by the list of subjects I’d be teaching him, they were all ones I actually enjoyed. I would have to tell my parents and Toph about the new arrangement though and that wasn’t a conversation I was particularly looking forward too.

“Great. Why don’t you two exchange phone numbers so you can communicate and then you can be on your ways,” he said before ushering us out into the waiting room.

I stood awkwardly in front of him. He was only slightly taller than me, but it was enough to make me feel slightly intimidated. Despite his social awkwardness, he looked like someone you didn’t want to piss off. I shook my head and decided to introduce myself properly.

“So, I know that probably wasn’t the best way to get introduced. My name is Y/N,” I said, giving him a friendly smile.

“Zuko,” he said back.

This was the first time I had heard his voice. In all honesty, it sent a swarm of butterflies off in my stomach. It was quiet and held this almost gravelly tone that made my knees weak.

“It’s nice to meet you. Why don’t I give you my number so I can text you later,” I suggested, shoving the funny feeling in my stomach down.

He took his phone out and looked at me. His amber eyes met my (E/C) one’s expectantly. I repeated my number for him and then pulled out my own to get his. I was putting his contact name in when he spoke again.

“I’m sorry for getting you forced into tutoring me. My family was insistent on having a student tutor,” he apologized, a small blush dusting his cheeks as he did.

“That’s alright. I don’t mind. I’m actually really passionate about most of the stuff I’ll be teaching you anyways,” I assured him as I stuffed my phone back into my pocket.

He hummed to let me know he had heard me but he didn’t say anything else. I looked down awkwardly by my feet, unsure of what to do next. I was scrambling for what to say when the lunch bell rang.

“Well, I better get going. I don’t want to keep my friends waiting. I’ll text you after school,” I said before making my way to the lunch room.

I met my friends and we all got in line to grab lunch. I was grateful that our school provided actual food. Granted, this was a private school. It was incredibly prestigious. You had to either pay to attend or be here on a scholarship.

“So, I heard that you got pulled out of class to go to the principal’s office,” Toph taunted, poking me in the side with her elbow.

“Ms. Goody-two-shoes got sent to the office? No way,” Sokka said, grabbing his tray as we all began walking towards our table outside.

“What did you get called down for?” Aang asked out of curiosity.

We all sat down at the table and I began eating as I answered.

“I’m going to be a tutor for another student. I’m getting paid and everything,” I explained.

“Oh wow! Who is it?” Katara asked as she took a bite out of her sandwich.

“Zuko,” I answered casually.

Sokka choked on his drink and looked at me with wide eyes. Pretty much everybody at the table did besides Toph who just continued eating like nothing had happened.

“You’re going to be tutoring Zuko? Like the Zuko?” he asked in disbelief.

I rolled my eyes. Everybody at school acted like this. Sokka really needed to stop gossiping so much.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s just like the rest of us,” I argued, taking another bite of my food.

“You’re insane, Y/N. Zuko is the mysterious hottie that everybody wants to date. Do you know how many people would kill for the opportunity you were just handed?” he exclaimed, waving his hands out to gesture to the many students milling around.

“Don’t tell me you’re crushing on him or something. Are you jealous?” I teased, kicking his leg slightly under the table.

Everybody laughed as Sokka scowled.

“Haha. You know I’ve had my eyes on Suki since day one,” he sighed, looking off in the distance dreamily.

We spent the rest of the lunch period like usual, just discussing our days and making plans to hang out this weekend. I went through the rest of my classses more anxious than usual, though. Normally I would be completely focused, but I couldn’t get my mind of tutoring Zuko.

His awkward demeanor did nothing to hide his look. I hated to agree with the opinion of the student body, but he was undeniably good looking. I also couldn’t stop thinking about how I had to spend the next however many hours trying to tutor him. I was nervous to see if I would be any good at it. What if we didn’t get alone well?

I was brought back to reality by the final bell. My heartbeat began to accelerate slightly, but I forced myself to calm down. I texted the group chat I had with my friends to remind them of my tutoring session and then made my way into the library. It was completely empty save for Zuko. He was already sitting down at a table and was fidgeting nervously with his sleeve. He had headphones in and I made sure to walk in front of him so I didn’t startle him.

“Hey,” I said, sitting down in the chair next to him.

He plucked the earbuds out of his ears carefully and turned to look at me. He gave me a halfhearted smile before shoving his headphones into his bag.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“So, I feel like I should preface this by letting you know I’ve never been a tutor before. I’m not really sure how this is supposed to work,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

I pulled my textbooks out of my bag and set them down on the table. I thought for a moment before deciding on what to do.

“Why don’t we get to know eachother better?” I suggested.

His good eye widened a bit in shock before his expression changed to one of confusion.

“Aren’t you supposed to be tutoring me?” he questioned me.

“I will. I just think it would help if we actually knew a little bit about eachother. That way we aren’t just total strangers,” I explained, turning my chair to face him.

He shifted nervously before finally facing me. He was definitely incredibly awkward. Luckily for both of us, I found it endearing. Besides, growing up with Toph you kind of have to learn to adapt. She’s not exactly known for being the most social.

“Alright,” he agreed.

“Great. I guess I’ll start. Ask me anything you want to know,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

His brows furrowed in thought. I had to hold back at laugh at his determination. He was taking this very seriously it appeared.

“What uh.....what do you do for fun?” he asked finally.

“I actually love to read. That’s usually what I do after school if I’m not hanging out with my friends. I also love studying environmental science,” I answered honestly.

“Oh. I’m not very good at either of those,” he admitted sheepishly, his cheeks growing pink.

“What are you good at?” I asked.

“I guess I’m good at sports. I used to take martial arts when I was little. Now I mostly just um......” he trailed off before mumbling something under his breath, his embarrassment growing clearer and clearer.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear the last part,” I admitted.

“I uh......I really enjoy theatre,” he admitted quietly, averting his gaze from mine.

“Oh! I didn’t strike you as a theatre person. That’s cool! My sister and I used to sneak out and watch some local plays before we got caught,” I admitted, laughing at the memory.

Toph used to insist on going, even though she couldn’t see. She said it was a good chance for her to practice her version of seeing. At first, I thought it was ridiculous, but she surprised me like usual. As long as her feet were on the ground she could sense where everything was.

Zuko was surprised. He had expected you to make fun of him, but instead you seemed completely unfazed. Theatre, as his father said, was for girls.

“You don’t think that’s weird?” he questioned, testing the waters.

“Why would that be weird?” you asked, your head cocked to the side in confusion.

He seemed to be relaxed slightly by your answer and for the first time, a genuine smile graced his features. It was small, but even that sent a small flutter alight in your stomach. You smiled back and continued to get to know him. After a while, you finally began tutoring him. You spent almost 2 hours there before you two decided to call it a night.

Now, you were laying in bed. Normally you would be out like a light, but tonight you couldn’t get a certain someone out of your head. You guys had clicked almost instantly after Zuko relaxed. You guys had more in common than you would have expected.

You sighed and turned on your side to look at the stars. As you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t help but be excited to see him again.

#zuko x reader #zuko #prince zuko fanfic #prince zuko fanfiction #prince zuko fic #prince zuko #highschool au

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 142

Chapter Summary - Danielle's cousin Siobhan and her boyfriend come to London sparking Tom to realise he never knew something about Danielle.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

Copyright for the photo is the owners, not mine. All image rights belong to their owners

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe @wolfsmom1 @black-ninja-blade

In certain areas of Ireland, Irish is still the first spoken language, not English, including parts of Connemara, Kerry, Cork and Donegal, amongst others. Kids actually do not speak English in the home with their family, it is not their first tongue.

The amount of times I have physically grimaced in the face of Americans and British people who try to tell me how our names are pronounced and spelt because they have had someone in their family 5 generations go that was Irish, so of course, they know more than someone raised in Irish, is growing by the day.

Right, here is a fun fact. Irish is not a phonetic language. The names are Siobhan - Shiv-awn Dáithí - Dah-hee Caoilfhionn - Kee-lin Aoife - Ee-fa

'Guess who?’ A pair of hands came over Danielle’s eyes.

‘How many Irish people do you expect me to know in the one station at the time you are arriving in?’ She laughed as she turned around to hug her cousin. ‘How was your journey?’

‘Confusing, Heathrow is mad.’

‘You get used to it.’ She looked at the guy that was next to her cousin. ‘And you must be Dáithí.’ She smiled, leaning forward and giving him a hug. ‘I believe it’s your first time to these parts.’

‘Tis, alright.’

‘Ah, a Waterford man. Speak slowly for them here, if you don’t they’ll be easily confused.’ The pair laughed. So, this is where we need to go to get the Northern Line.’ She instructed, taking them to the correct area of the station to get to their destination. ‘Tom and I are taking you two out for dinner and we will drop you at your hotel afterwards, alright?’

‘What, no Danielle, don’t worry yourself.’

‘I am not worrying myself, I mean it, we want to do this for you. Nothing fancy, just lovely Indian we always use, and this is not your local takeaway place; if it says spicy, it fucking means it.’

‘How are you with a privately educated Brit, you are too normal.’

‘Tom is not averse to swearing, I assure you.’ Danielle laughed as they got to the platform. ‘Four minutes.’ She stated, looking at the time for the next train, a man close to them seeing the sign and swearing at it as he did. ‘One thing about these parts, four minutes may as well be five hours, the way some people act.’

‘They’d die in Ireland.’

‘Yes, so don’t get too bothered when they start huffing and puffing like they want to blow down a house of straw in a few minutes.’ Danielle stated as she watched the time to the next train come down. When they got to the correct station, she ordered them off and walked them to the right house.

‘Wait, you live here?’

‘Yes.’ Danielle laughed at her cousin. ‘What were you expecting?’

‘It’s just so you.’

‘Well, it’s Toms, actually, not mine, but yes. I love it.’ She put the key in the door just as she heard Siobhan fawning. ‘I hope you like dogs, Dáithí.’

‘We have three at my Mam’s.’

‘Grand so.’ She opened the door, the dogs immediately rushing over. ‘Bed.’ Mac looked as though he had been struck, disheartened, he trotted to his bed, groaning as he did, Bobby looking between his big brother and the new humans to sniff before finally sensing Danielle’s body language was stern and trotting there sadly.

‘You’re so mean.’ Siobhan commented. ‘He’s only a puppy.’

‘Yep, he is.’ Danielle nodded, saying nothing more.

‘You are going to be the Mom that every other child in the school fears, you know that, right?’

‘Probably.’ Danielle acknowledged. ‘But then, my kids wouldn’t be the little shits running around the shop making a mess and back answering teachers.’

‘Yeah, that’s true actually.’ Siobhan conceded. ‘Is Tom here?’

‘Yes, he is working on something in his office, he’ll be down when he realises we’re here. Put your bags over there and we’ll get tea. I have Barry’s.’

‘What does Tom think of it?’

‘Tom maintains it’s fine, nothing special about it….but seems to find himself going for the box of that over the box of PG Tips.’ Danielle smiled, causing the other two to laugh. A moment later, the dogs’ ears shot up. ‘Here he is.’ When the sound of footfalls on the stairs became apparent, Danielle made another cup of tea.

A moment later, Tom walked into the room, an empty cup in his hand. ‘Hello.’ He smiled, before putting down the cup and walking over to Siobhan. ‘Great to see you again, did you have a good flight?’ He gave her a hug.

‘Hello, yes, it was fine, it’s so short you are hardly in the air when you are coming down again.’ She joked. ‘Tom, this is Dáithí, Dáithí, this is clearly Tom, Danielle’s….what do you call it?’

‘Long-suffering fool.’ Danielle jested as both men shook hands; when they were done, she walked over to Tom. ‘I’ll trade.’ She held out the fresh cup of tea and took the coffee mug off him.

‘That’s a good trade.’ Tom grinned. ‘What have I missed?’

‘Just that Danielle is going to be that mother that if she says “Sit Down” in a restaurant, her kids, all other kids, four husbands and a waiter will obey out of sheer fear alone.’ Siobhan recapped. ‘Ooh, did I show you the pictures of Laura’s baby?’

‘No, show me now.’ Danielle rushed over. ‘Oh my God, she looks so like her and you.’

‘I know. She is the cutest thing. I steal her any time I see her.’ Siobhan moved through the pictures.

‘How did Bernie take it?’

‘Oh, she’s the doting grandmother now.’

‘Of course, she is.’ Danielle rolled her eyes, having known her aunt’s reaction to the pregnancy. ‘Oh, before I forget, stay here, I have two outfits I got for her that I want you to bring back.’ Danielle left the room and went up the stairs to retrieve the bag with the little outfits she had purchased on hearing of the safe arrival of her cousin’s daughter. When she went back into the kitchen, Tom looked utterly baffled. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Say Laura’s baby’s name.’ Siobhan laughed.

‘Why?’

‘Just say it.’ she encouraged.

‘Caoilfhionn Aoife McNamara.’ Danielle looked at them all.

‘See.’ Siobhan beamed.

‘What’s going on?’ Danielle asked.

‘Tom saw how Caoilfhionn is spelt.’ Dáithí explained.

‘Ah, right.’ Danielle, realising there was no actual problem, went over to Siobhan with the bag. ‘You had me worried.’

‘Worried...how the fuck is that word pronounced like that?’ Tom exclaimed.

‘Because it is.’ Danielle shrugged. ‘That’s Irish, it’s not even in the same branch of languages as English, it is very close to Scottish Gael though, your dad might have known speakers of that growing up.’

‘There’s an “f” in it.’

‘Yes, I know. I know how to spell it.’ Danielle stated.

‘You do know Danielle was raised in Connemara. Her parents didn’t speak to her in English all her life, right?’ Siobhan pointed out.

Tom stared at Danielle. ‘What?’

‘Connemara is a Gaeltacht, the first language in those regions is Irish, not English.’ She shrugged. ‘Everyone there speaks Irish as their first language.’

‘But your mother was not from there?’

‘No, she was from Beara in Cork, the Cork Gaeltacht.’ She explained. ‘I learnt English in school when I was five.’

‘Really?’

‘Did I not tell you this?’

‘No.’

‘Whoops.’ She gave the bag to Siobhan. ‘Look at the little yellow one.’

‘So...you only spoke English in school?’ Tom reiterated.

‘In English lessons, yes, the rest of the time, we were taught in as Gaeilge so unless I went to Galway for the day with my parents, I could go a couple of days without speaking or hearing a single word of English.’ She looked at his shocked face. ‘You saw how Aoife is spelt too, right?’ He shook his head. ‘How would you spell it.’

‘E.F.A.’ She shook her head. ‘E.E.F.A.?’

Again Danielle shook her head. ‘I’ll give you a hint. The “A” is at the start and the “E” is at the end.’

‘Fuck off. No, you’re just joking now.’

‘A.O.I.F.E.’ She spelt.

‘I…’ Tom sighed. ‘I give up.’

‘Siobhan has a “B”. And Dáithí has a “T”.’ She stated.

‘Why is it so complicated?’

‘Because it is older than English and we like to confuse you.’

‘So that incomprehensible mumbling you do when calculating things is not just gibberish?’

‘Moda means plus, Luda means minus and the rest is usually numbers, all in Irish, all force of habit.’ She explained with a smile.

*

The evening was pleasant, with Tom and Danielle bringing the younger pair to dinner. When that was done, Danielle drove them to the Travelodge that they were staying at, with a plan to meet them a day or two later to do some sightseeing with them before saying their farewells.

While tidying the house for the evening, Tom found himself looking at Danielle a lot.

‘Dare I ask?’

‘So in all respects, this is your second language, English?’

‘Are you still bothered by that?’ She asked curiously.

‘I just never thought…’

‘When the Plantations occurred, and the Cromwellian situation after, most of the Irish were hunted to Connacht, where the land was wet and as a result, the language never waned as it did in other areas, famine, war, none of it took the language there. Sure, look at the Welsh, their language all but died and was revived, now it is a popular language in some parts of there again.’

‘I know, I just...Do you think in Irish or in English?’

‘It varies from moment to moment.’ She smirked, using his line, causing him to smile. ‘When I am at home here, tidying and what not, more often, in Irish I suppose. I speak Irish to the dogs some days or listen to Radio na Gaeltachta online or something. I get worried I will lose it sometimes. I love my language.’

‘I never even considered it.’ He confessed. ‘How come I never hear it on?’

‘I rarely have the radio on when you are home.’

‘Well, from now on, if you want to listen and I am here, please do.’

‘You won’t understand three words.’

‘No, I won’t, but it matter to you, and so long as it is not secretly trying to plan some form of attack on my home, I don’t particularly mind.’ He put his arms around her.

‘Damn, you’re onto them.’ She smiled, leaning up and kissing him.

Tom chuckled for a moment. ‘So, if we decide to have kids, would you speak Irish to them?’

‘Definitely.’

‘I will have to learn it so.’ He kissed her again. ‘Elle?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Please never consider calling one a word I could never hope to spell.’

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic #i hate you i love you #chapter 142 #wolfpawn

[lordraveondagooseofdolallytap]

THE ROAD TO DOLALLY

 THE TRAIN TO DOLALLY

 I assert ownership of this work

David Kitchen

April 14TH 2020

 Doolally Tap

Origin and definition adapted from Collins English Dictionary

Slang:  Out of one’s mind

In full: Doolally Tap

Word origin: C19. Original military slang from Deolali or Devlali, a town near Mumbai, the location of a military sanatorium and the Hindustani word for fever, tap.

 A debt owed

Every fourth Sunday, more or less, for ten years. That’s how long it went on for. A four hundred mile round trip beginning after work on a Friday evening and completing back at home on Sunday around six. I was glad to do it. She had been the best of mothers and it was time to pay some of that care back but I am no angel and cannot say I was wholly selfless or always ungrudging…but it would have been unthinkable not to have made those journeys.

And that ten-year span took her from a badly rheumatic old lady, with much left of what had been a very good mind, all the way to a cot chair, carefully positioned pillows, a ghoulish expression and the ‘lostness’ which is the most shocking thing. You greave in stages when someone has dementia, and by the time it comes to an end in death you are relieved. Or at least I was. That decade had been an ever-growing aberration of what she was.

There were midway points, such as when at the care home some of her self could be retrieved by a Frank Sinatra song or a baby’s photograph, but once a month was not enough and careless carers could not be bothered to make the effort as evidenced by the dusty, cobwebbed corner where these things were kept for her. That time was not the before and after moment. It was earlier when she was still at home, in her own house. It was one specific weekend and I can remember it clearly. Everything changed after that.

Friday evening

I got there Friday evening at about half-past ten. All the lights in the house were on but mum was up in her bedroom. She shouted down “who’s that?”

I answered as always, “Just me mam”,

And she would come back again and say “who’s that?”

And this time I would say “Just me, Ryan”.

“Oh love I’m glad you’ve come. It’s a long drive for you, get something for yourself. There’s ham in the fridge”.  

Indeed I was hungry, I’d had a McDonalds on the road but that was like nothing ten minutes after finishing it. I opened the fridge, and all by itself on the middle rack was a little plastic pack of boiled ham. Nothing like the meat we got sliced from the bone years before when I’d lived at home. I reached over but then withdrew with revulsion at the sight of a green-silver coat growing on the meat. The pack only had a couple of slices left. She must have eaten some that day. I did not want to look at the bread or think about her eating it.

My elder brother had remarked one time that leaving her after a visit had felt like leaving a toddler in the middle of a busy road. She paid for carers to call in four times a day to give her meds, help with simple meals and to get her washed and dressed. That was the theory but some of these angels of mercy skimped and rushed in and out doing the least of what they could do. I had witnessed this when they did not know I was sat in the corner. It left me sickened and angry. The only regular caring face was that of my youngest daughter who did mums shopping on a weekend and gave her time and love.

This home-care charade was a sordid carry on and my mother was fading through neglect. There was no way it could go on but she was refusing to go into a care home and was furious anytime the subject was broached, accusing me of trying to get the house and steal her money.

I felt this state as a great inertia. I could not go one way and she would not move the other and in the middle was this nightmare being played out. I had a job which paid barely enough to fund my situation: getting both daughters through university and doling out a sizeable monthly amount to my ex-wife and her lawyer. Something was going to have to give. If I moved back up north I would not earn two-thirds of my present wage and everything would come crashing down.

A month previously the police had phoned and said they had found my mother in the shop-door-way of a Toys “R” Us shop in the city at almost midnight. Seems she had set out to buy presents for her grandchildren and was found braying on the shop doorway and screaming at the empty place to be let in. It had only been a few weeks earlier that he Tetley’s Tea man had sold her a bedroom full of Easter Eggs and commemorative mugs. It was all going to pieces and there were disgraceful scoundrels around who were happy to prey upon her.

The house was getting a tatty look and the brown mark on that cushion might be shit. It felt much like sleeping over in a house without an occupant, a place that did not belong to anybody. I would do a top to bottom clean through that weekend and fix the garden up to an acceptable standard but nobody was really living here. Mum was just occupying the rooms. I got a half-drunk bottle of brandy out of the boot of my car and poured a full measure into a faded yellow Tupperware plastic beaker which my father had once kept his teeth in. There was only one proper cup left and that would be upstairs at her bedside. She liked to sip water during the night when she woke with a thirst.

I let the spirit do its work. Relax me after the drive, give me a dose of wellbeing and prepare for sleep. I texted my girlfriend and told her I’d got here and things were as awful as always and wished her goodnight.  

I had to break this inertia and do something. It was like a free fall.

 Saturday morning

The thin, scratchy, woollen army surplus blankets were still there on my childhood bed. Their feel was my first conscious perception of the day.

Quick wash at the sink then I walked to the Mace store on the estate and bought some breakfast supplies in. Got back to the house and made a tray of toast, orange juice and breakfast cereal but by then she was up and she had it at the table. I knew her mental facilities were at their best in the morning so settled on having the conversation I’d been stewing on right away.

“Mam, we need to have a talk about what needs to happen next. You’re getting frail and it’s time to go into a care home”. I am one of those people who cannot dress up a difficult conversation and if I was then she might have missed the point somewhere amongst all the fluff.

“What are you saying Ryan that I’m so old and decrepit that I cannot live in my own house anymore?”

There was a temptation to temper but decided against it-

“I need to talk to you honestly now mum, this is getting dangerous. There will be a fire or something and that will be the end of you”

“And I’d bet you’d like that, that sod of a brother of yours and you can’t wait to get your hands on this house and my money. Your bastards, the pair of you. Taking from your own mother. You ought to be ashamed and trying to dress it up as helping me. Well, how is stealing off me helping? That’s wicked.”

“I have got to be honest mam, this is probably one of the last times that we will be able to have a proper conversation. I’m not after your money or your bloody house or anything. I am only saying these things because you need taking care of.”

“Why do I need taking care of? Who do you think you’re talking to? I am not a child you can order about. So what is this big thing that’s wrong with me? Tell me that.”

My mind spliced for a moment and one half of it was thinking how well she had kept her verbosity when dementia was stripping everything else away at pace. She had been an English teacher maybe that gave her some kind of buffer: an extra resilience against the fleeing away of words I’d seen before.

I was pretty brutal. “Mam, you have dementia, you have coped well on your own since dad died but now we are at the point where you need care. I've got to start being honest with you”.

“How dare you say things like that? You bastard. You bloody bastard. Get out of my house. Sling your hook and don’t come back. I can manage perfectly well without people like you”. She was on her feet now and screaming the words.

I tell folk, and I am open about it. No one gets as angry as the grown-up children of a parent with dementia. Even though you know it’s not the ‘real them’ talking and saying things that sting and the not understanding on their part is not some spiteful refusal to understand. The rage was building up in me and so I moved across into the lounge which was one room with the dining room except there were sliding doors between them which I kept open. I sat in the threadbare high-backed chair facing across to where she was at the table six yards away. The curtains behind me were still drawn and the light was off so I was in the half-dark and I knew I would be effectively invisible in a minute or two. The best way of calming her was to become invisible and give her mind a chance to settle on something else.  So I sat still and watched whilst she munched on her toast and looked straight ahead but not registering me.

We can never truly know where we will end up, and that was probably for the best. How would it be if we did see such an end approaching?  All that life lived and encoded in the brain, stripped away and lost. She had been an exceptional woman whose life had taken her across the most extreme mental terrains and peaked in wonderful achievements, being given degrees, met prime ministers, won an elevated place in the memories of many hundreds of children but she was now someone trying to munch her toast sans teeth (they were always being lost) and so in danger of choking.

I thought it wise to get out in the garden for the morning and be yet more invisible. By lunch, it would be safe to come back in again. The memory of what had happened at breakfast would only last a few moments but the emotional weather in her head would linger.

There was a drizzle and in a normal situation I would have put the garden work off for another day, but now was the only option as tomorrow I would be heading back home. It was early spring so I gave the grass its first cut of the year, cut back on some overgrowth in the bushes and pushed bulbs into the ground. By 11.30 I was sodden to the skin and caked in slimy clay mud. I sneaked in the house and got a bath, went down to the high street, did her shopping and then got us fish and chips for lunch. That would shift her mood.

When I’d got back she had retrieved the ham and bread out of the bin and was chomping away on a rancid sandwich. One could not stop all these things but still, I felt like a thoughtless shit. Why had I not got the stuff out of the house? She accepted a few chips though and with a neat sleight of hand, I removed the remains of the sandwich. House cleaning was on my schedule for the afternoon but decided Sunday morning would do fine enough.

I know what happened to old people when they went into care homes. The progression downwards would accelerate, previously home and familiarity had been an anchor, but when inserted into the strange ‘out of placeness’ of a care home…well, that would cut her lose from life.  Maybe in a year, she might be in one of those chairs with a swing across lap-table which incidentally restrain the occupant and stop them from wandering.Then sometime later there would be a cot like bed, pillows placed strategically around her, and there she would lay for months or years “in second childishness and mere oblivion.”

Saturday afternoon

She and I needed to get out somewhere nice for the afternoon. We settled on the choice of Ilkley Moor, just half an hour away in the car. I knew then and there, in all likelihood, this was the last time she would take pleasure in such ‘seeing of things’. Mum was happy at the prospect of an outing, the argument of the morning and its thundery mood all gone. We stopped at a tea hut in the car park of a spot known locally as The Cow and Calf, a great rock standing alone and splendid, yards from a towering rocky outcrop that had once reminded people of a cow with its calf, on the downside of an escarpment looking out over the town.

I helped my mother out of the car but her body had forgotten how to walk on sloping ground, so I brought the tea and cake to her in the car. She could not balance the paper plate on her knee or grip the plastic utensil so I passed the cake over on a plastic fork.

I took the car twenty yards forward so she could see out over the town and the Dales beyond. The drizzle had been pushed out by great swarms of windblown rain pellets coming in diagonally across the valley. The sun deflecting through every watery lens and making a wonderful show.

We stopped at a favourite baker under the old Temperance Hall on the way home and bought a few of her favourite things. Vanilla slices, ham off the bone, a small brown loaf and the special pork pies. Individual jellies and custard trifles. These had been our regular Friday treats, which it had been my task to pick up after walking from school over the Engine Fields.

Sat around the Formica topped table we were about to set about the Vanilla Slices when mum said. “Ryan, am I going Dolally Tap?”

I heard her but asked her to repeat it.

“I want to know off you Ryan if I’m going Dolally. Will you tell me”?

I thought about lying but just as quickly rejected it. There has to be a bloody good reason for not being truthful if someone asks you a question like that. “Yes, mum you have Dementia”, I hesitated and then decided to leave it at that.

Then she looked over and in her old way said “Oh bugger” and then carried on with her Vanilla slice.

I don’t know if it was the invigorating effect of going out or just the natural ebb and flow of her mental clarity, but I knew she understood what she was asking and what I said in reply. And it was back to what was typical of the old lass to accept my answer without fuss. I felt it very brave of her. Over the coming years, that moment stayed with me and became a kind of badge of what she was. By the next morning, it felt like the woman was already closing down. She either did not remember the conversation or chose not to speak about it.

Over the next weeks, I spoke to a Social Worker and arranged for my mum's admission to a dementia care home in Idle outside of Bradford, which in time let my mum down badly and all the things I expected happened even sooner than I imagined.

I’d got her there by saying we were going out for another ride but I think we both knew what I was doing. I won’t be hard on myself about that. I had to do what was necessary but I won’t dress it up as something it wasn’t.

More years went by till she reached the cot bed stage. A new care home took wonderful care of her and I cannot fault any of her time there. In all the fall into oblivion took ten years from first mistaking the radio for hearing voices in the wall to the last, very hurried but too late Friday evening drive up the A1.

The Road to Dolally

It’s always been my nature to quietly stew on things and then bring the stewing to a close with some gesture to myself. And then move onto the next thing. I don’t get to choose (at least consciously) what the full stop will consist of. It just sort of drops into my head then I feel released.

Two years after her death I woke up one morning and decided to go to Deolali in India and do ‘The Dolally Tap’. That needs two kinds of explaining.

Firstly, what is the Dolally Tap? When the British were in India they brought items of linguistic culture back home but did not spell them correctly. Deolali or Devlali was a permanent British Army of India camp about six (modern) train hours from Mumbai. It included a military hospital which treated soldiers evacuated in with dangerous fevers of one kind or another, which were as a group termed the Dolally Tap. Tap being Hindi for fever. Then the meaning of the words morphed with use by British army lads like my great-grandfather and came to be the words used to describe the act of going bonkers with the heat and boredom of the camp. The term evolved some more and became about mental illness, and by then the people who used it had no idea where it came from. Growing up in Yorkshire we learnt that there were two kinds of mental illness. Being balmy, equated to very odd and or even floridly eccentric behaviour, whilst Dolally Tap meant you were totally going off your head. It’s lovely how we used these words as commonly as we spoke about anything but never thought of whence they came.

So my mum, at the moment when she needed to ask about the fitness of her mind, opted for words she would have heard spoken, in childhood, by her grandfather. This was a woman who had gone all the way from mill hand, and cleaner to be an MSc in Education and a Head of English in a middle school, but when the time came she chose a homely word. I liked that a lot. It summed up the person she was. Some would have gone the full drama, or have hidden behind intellectualisation but she used the language of her home and where she started from. Her choice of words was a marriage of humour and dignity.

She liked to do things like that. Pass a binding rope between past and present, and the threatening and the funny. She did a lot of thinking about words and how they could best express something. At that breakfast table, she was asking if there was a cliff edge under her toes, and she would have certainly felt the fear of that potential fall but she chose a form which was so wonderfully brave.

So that’s why I went to Deolali/ Devlali. Of course, I added other experiences and visits to the trip: Delhi, New Year’s Eve midnight trains, Gandhi, Rajasthan, but at its core was the ride to, Deolali. I was making a statement of respect, remembrance and gratitude in my mind, and I hoped such actions would complete a necessary circuit and then I could go back home, and be content.

The odd pilgrimage started out from my little ramshackle hotel at 4 am. The man who manned the desk and all the other staff who worked in the small hotel were asleep across every surface in the reception area. The night clerk stirred himself and called a taxi that took me across town to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Railway Terminus. I walked the last few hundred yards from the drop off point but in the road as the pavement was carpeted with sleeping bodies including what looked like whole families with babies and small children.  

 India has ten types of first-class carriage but only one designated second class and the authorities take care to tell foreigners that the latter is not recommended. I took it anyway, in part because there was nothing else but also I could see orderly, comfortable trains at home. This was India and if one’s eyes are a school we have to look to learn.

 As expected it was standing only in Second Class and we were crammed like matches in an overfull box but at the same time, we were also an incrementally creeping mass that (irresistibly) pushed me toward the door of the traditional squat toilet where I spent most of the six-hour ride. I did have another view out between the legs of a hostile looking youth who had wedged himself tight within the four angles of the open door of the carriage. And indeed I videoed the parched, red dusty hills from that perspective as young women sang and somehow danced to the tinkling tune of their finger cymbals further down the carriage.

 I had once taken my mother on a rural bus journey in Swaziland, a small country in Southern Africa. We, the passengers, were similarly on top of each other for that journey. It was the intense, infringing, vivid, loud, brash and jarring unfamiliarity of our surroundings that was most upon her. I watched from sideways on as an old man with chickens and no teeth asked if she needed a husband and simultaneously a goat licked the space behind her knee and she shrieked a little and the lecherous suitor laughed well naturedly. She looked at me, grinned bravely and said she would never complain about the 55 Leeds bus again. That became our line about anything difficult from then onwards and I suspect it was the best bit of her slide presentation to her friends at the Wesleyan Methodist Ladies social. Her kidney stones had given her jip but she had conquered that bus journey and I suspect she would have done at least as well here on this train to Deolali.

 I stood at the open door to the toilet all the way, averting my eyes from the scene: men crouching over a hole set in a circular, inwardly sloping floor, whose contents spilt out and washing around the floor. Six hours of holding myself still and facing resolutely away left me with a tortured back and feeling like I could never move with ease again.

 It was a long train, and when we stopped my poor carriage was beyond where the platform finished. Most of my fellow passengers made off through the thick undergrowth towards a broken fence but I turned the other way and headed in the direction of the military checkpoint where a railway employee was checking the tickets and soldiers were watching out for likely terrorists. Nationally, tensions were up again about the dispute with Pakistan over Kashmir, and there had been some dreadful killings in recent weeks. As a military base, nearby Deolali, the camp had to be a target, and the security at the station serving it was understandable

 The soldiers waved me through. Eccentric Englishmen like me did not fit the profile of interest even if they were carrying an outsize rucksack on their back. Foolishly I had not considered the possibility of a military presence and it was not just on my platform. A machine gun was mounted within a nest of sandbags at the end of the next platform across and formed the third point of a triangle with a spot where I was standing.

 I had to find a clear station platform sign displaying the true name of the town, stand beside it and do a brief and discreet tap dance. It was plane though that such a thing might be mistaken, by the many soldiers, for a nervy suicide bomber about to detonate himself, so I risked being splattered by a machine gun or shot through by a lone pot shot of a soldier’s rifle. But not ‘doing the dance’, after all this effort, was unthinkable. Of course in more normal circumstances, when we are about to do something which might appear odd, we explain ourselves first. “Sorry, pardon me, I know this is going to look odd so am just quickly forewarning you that I am about to do a tap dance in honour of my dead mother. Please do not mistake this for a suicide bomber attack”.

 No that would not work. I walked to the very end of the platform hoping for inspiration. There was a trolley parked there stacked to waist height with brown, cardboard parcels. They would be sufficient to block the line of sight from the military checkpoint on my platform but would put me directly opposite the machine gun nest on Platform 2 which was just yards away across the first track. I needed something to block the view from there whilst I performed my dance beneath the sign next to the parcels. Then just like an apple might fall into your hand from out of a tree I heard the approach of a local train from my left. That was it, the timing would be crucial but it was probably a winner. Something which would legitimately block the view from platform 2 and allow me to perform my dance, if only from the waist down so the soldiers on my platform had no clue.

 And that’s what I did. I pretended to be a tourist filming the arrival of a typically overcrowded Indian train, and when the train draws level with me I pointed the camera downward and recorded a film of my feet doing a little tap dance for around ten seconds. The upper half of my body mostly but not entirely still. The men crowded at the windows of the train and hanging out the door and are watching me. They wave, and laugh and cheer and call things out I cannot understand.

 And that little dance in the shadow of a train in the station at Doelali closes my circuit. I can say “Bye Kath”, and now it’s all done and you are put to rest. 

The author is very tall and local people kept asking to pose for photos with him

#devlali #deolali #dolally #grief #creative writing #short story #dolally tap

[ravengrangergirl]

Coco Fanfiction Oneshot: Until You’re In My Arms Again

My first Coco fanfic! I’m planning on posting this on Archive and Fanfiction.net later. 

If there are cultural or language errors, please let me know so I can correct it! I’m using English punctuation overall, except for the accents. 

@calimori @allorana @quietdeerfan

Héctor

“Héctor,” Imelda scolded. “We need to get back, it’s almost sunrise!”

“Just a few more minutes, mi amor.” Héctor said, shouldering his guitar-offering, and heading towards Miguel’s room. He heard Imelda sigh behind him, but it was the sigh she gave when she was only pretending to be annoyed. He passed through Miguel’s bedroom door (Ay, he still wasn’t used to passing though things), Imelda and Coco following close behind. They all stood in the rather messy bedroom, the floor littered with scribbled out song lyrics, sheet music, and candy wrappers. Miguel’s guitar and his sombrero leaned against the bed, and the boy lay fast asleep. Imelda shook her head in exasperation at the mess, but her lips quirked up in a smile. Héctor looked fondly at Miguel. His little chamaco had grown a couple of inches in this last year. And his musical skills had developed wonderfully. Héctor chuckled to himself as he remembered the dying kitten noise that the boy had tried to pass for a grito. It was so good to see him again.

Miguel’s peaceful sleeping face suddenly changed, becoming more tense and worried. A little groan escaped him.

Héctor became worried. “Miguel?” He reached out and tried to touch his shoulder, but of course it passed right through him. Héctor scowled. He kept forgetting that the dead couldn’t touch the living. He had tried to hug Miguel at least twenty times that night, had tried to call out his name, only to be gently reminded by Imelda that Miguel couldn’t hear him.

Miguel tossed a bit from side to side, murmuring “No, no.” His murmurs became louder and a bit more distressed sounding.

A nightmare, then. Héctor groaned. Heaven knows that Miguel had enough cause for nightmares, after nearly being murdered at the hands of Ernesto last year.

Miguel

“MI PROUD CORAZON!!!” He sang, with the widest smile he ever had stretching across his face. The rest of his family clapped and even let out a few gritos. Socorro squealed with happiness from her mother’s arms. Miguel grinned at her. Socorro absolutely loved music. A lullaby could get her to stop crying, a fast mariachi song got her laughing, and “Remember Me” was used to put her to sleep at night. Miguel was planning to teach her how to play the guitar the second she was old enough.

“Miguel!”

That voice sounded familiar. Miguel turned around. “Héctor!” He cried out. The skeletal form of his great-great grandfather stood near the house that held the family ofrenda, leaning against the door.

“Hey, chamaco.” Héctor greeted him.

Miguel ran to grab his Papá Héctor in a hug…

And fell into a bridge of yellow flowers.

“Qué?” Miguel gasped. He struggled to push himself up, but his hands wouldn’t cooperate. He looked down, and almost shrieked when he found that they were bones.

Not again, not again…

He shrieked for real as his right arm fell off—an entirely skeletal arm lying amongst the marigold petals.

“Miguel!” Papa Héctor’s shout sounded farther away now.

“Héctor!” yelled Miguel. “Héctor! ¿Dónde estás?” He tried to pick up his arm with his other hand, but before he could, the arm on the ground suddenly changed into a guitar—one that was entirely made out of bones.

Miguel darted backwards, away from the guitar. What was happening? Where was Héctor? He managed to stand up.

“Miguel!”

Miguel whirled around to see Héctor standing behind him. “Héctor!”

Before Miguel could ask him what was going on, Héctor’s body began glowing. He fell into the petals, writhing in pain, the yellow light shining through his bones.

“No! Papa Héctor!”

Miguel bent down. Not again, no, he couldn’t lose him...But Héctor should be remembered now, shouldn’t he?

“We’re both out of time…” Héctor whispered.

“NO!” Miguel yelled.

Héctor’s legs began dissolving, but instead of changing into golden particles like the forgotten man had back in the Land of the Dead, the bones dissolved into a sort of gray dust that settled over the flowers. Héctor smiled. “Ashes to ashes…”

“NOOOOO!!!!” Miguel reached for Héctor, for some way to stop it, to stop his great-great grandfather from disintegrating before his eyes.

Before long, only Héctor’s head was left. Miguel could feel the tears sliding down his face.

“Lo siento, lo siento, Héctor.”

Héctor answered him, but his voice sounded gravellier, almost like a hiss. “Seize your moment…”

“Qué?” Miguel gasped.

He screamed again as Héctor’s face began morphing into the skeletal version of the face that he’d seen for years in his attic ofrenda. The man who had been his guitar teacher, who had inspired his great love for music, his idol.

The man who had murdered his great-great grandfather.

The man who had tried to murder him.

Ernesto de la Cruz’s head lay in a bed of marigold petals.

“Seize your moment…” Ernesto hissed again.

Then the head began to rise into the air as if the petals were pushing it up. The petals formed a humanoid shape under Ernesto, leaving him as a skeleton head with a body made of marigold petals. Ernesto made a grab for Miguel, easily lifting him up by his shirt collar.

Miguel kicked, trying desperately to get away. “Héctor! Imelda! Mamá! Papá! Ayúdame, ayúdame!!!”

Ernesto grinned. “I would move heaven and earth for you, Miguel…”

“NO!!!”

Ernesto walked to the edge of the bridge, carrying Miguel with him. “I hope you die very soon…” 

“Please, please.” Miguel sobbed.

“Adiós.” Ernesto said…

Then threw Miguel off the bridge.

Miguel fell.

He fell, twisting and turning and seeing nothing but emptiness and blackness beneath his feet, and then a stone floor rushing up to meet him…

He gasped, his eyes flying open. He sat bolt upright, then stared around him in confusion. He was in his bedroom…Miguel’s eyes flew down to his hands. He almost cried out in relief when he saw two hands, both covered in skin. He was alive.

His hands were shaking, however, and he felt something wet on his face. He angrily wiped the tears away. Just another nightmare…

He’d gotten a few nightmares over the year he’d been home from the Land of the Dead, but he hadn’t had one this bad in a while. He looked fearfully towards the door, but he didn’t hear any footsteps. Good. He hadn’t actually been screaming. But he couldn’t help feeling disappointed when no one came.

“You’re thirteen,” Miguel told himself angrily. “You’re too old to be running to Mamá and Papá for a nightmare.”

But when he thought about Héctor dissolving into ashes, and Ernesto…

Miguel curled up, trying to think of something, anything else to keep the terrible images away. 

Héctor

“M’ijo…” Héctor murmured brokenly. “M’ijo…”

Miguel was curled up on the bed, looking like he was trying not to sob.

Imelda and Coco gave Héctor anguished expressions, both feeling as trapped as he was. Their great-great grandson (or great-grandson, in Coco’s case) was in pain, was scared and sad, and they had no way to help him.

Héctor clenched his teeth. Ernesto, that dirty, filthy, terrible, murdering RAT . He had done this, had stripped away Miguel’s assurance of safety and innocence at the age of twelve, and it was only with Pepita’s help that Ernesto hadn’t actually managed to kill Miguel.

Miguel seemed to be losing the battle against tears. Héctor heard a sob.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. He walked through the bed (passing through it yet again, AY that was annoying) and reached out to Miguel. “Oh, chamaco…”

His arms, as predicted, passed right through Miguel, but Héctor didn’t let go. He held on to what felt like empty air, praying desperately for some way for Miguel to get some form of comfort from it.

He waited for Imelda to tell him how ridiculous he was being, that Miguel couldn’t actually feel him or see him. He started when a pair of skeletal arms was wrapped around himself and Miguel. He looked up to see Imelda holding on to him and the empty air that was Miguel. Then Coco’s arms joined theirs.

They hugged, trying to be there for their little boy, and gulped away the choking feeling of tears they could no longer shed. 

Miguel

Miguel shook with sobs, wishing desperately to go to someone but not allowing himself to do so. “Stop being dumb, stop being dumb…” 

A weird feeling tickled his arms and back. Miguel looked down, wondering if there was some sort of fly or mosquito that had landed on his arm. No.

The feeling got stronger and a bit warmer. It was strange, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was actually sort of…nice.

Although he couldn’t figure out why, Miguel found himself uncurling slightly, relaxing a bit.

The sobs began to slow down, and Miguel’s breathing became a bit more regular.

As he curled into the warm feeling, something tickled his mind as well. There was something familiar, a hint of a name that he couldn’t catch. His senses tingled slightly. 

He buried himself in the feeling, and the hint of something became an itch, so familiar…so familiar…

Snippets of scenes started to dance across his mind, all disconnected and jumbled.

Guitar…

Dancing on…a stage…

“Un Poco Loco!”

“Chamaco.”

Chamaco? Poco Loco?

“Papá…Héctor?” Miguel said, hesitantly, trying out the name as if it was a key he was sliding hesitantly into a lock. Apparently, it fit, because the warm feeling got even warmer as the tingling spread over his entire body, as if every side of him was been pricked with the pins and needles feeling that his feet sometimes got if he sat in one place for too long.

“Héctor…” Miguel breathed. Somehow, his Papa Héctor was here, in his room, so close to him it was like he was sitting right next to him. Or perhaps he was right next to him, and Miguel just couldn’t see him. More tears came to Miguel’s eyes, only this time they sprang from a different source than the fear.

“Papá Héctor, estás aquí!”

Other strands of memory tickled his mind, but these were not ones he shared with Papa Héctor. These ones carried a different sense about them. Héctor’s sense, or presence, had felt lighthearted, comical even, but strong and…determined. Sí. Just as he remembered his Papa Héctor being when he had met him in the Land of the Dead. This one felt harder, rather like his Abuelita. Strong down to the core, and…Miguel searched again for the word…and almost laughed as he came across it. Stubborn. Sí.

“I thought you hated music!”

“I loved it…”

“Llorona, llorona…” 

“Never forget how much your family loves you…”

“Mamá Imelda?” Miguel whispered. She was here too? That meant she was with Papá Héctor! They were together again!

Wait, did that mean…was…

More memories danced across Miguel’s mind, but these carried the sense of a will much gentler than Imelda’s, yet not as lighthearted as Héctor’s.

“Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar…”

An orange slice tucked into a wrinkled hand.

“Papá was a musician. When I was a little girl, he and Mamá would sing such beautiful songs…”

His own sweet Mamá Coco, passed away only a few months ago.

They were all here. Together.

“Papá Héctor! Mamá Imelda! Mamá Coco!”

Impulsively, Miguel threw his arms out wide, trying to surround the feeling with his arms, wishing so desperately that he could hug them, that he could see them, hear them, hold them. But they were here, they were with him, they were together, and he could feel them. Any fear or sadness left over from the nightmare seemed to fade away at that moment, forgotten.

Héctor

Héctor held his eyes closed as he and his wife and daughter hugged—or tried to hug—Miguel. He wished so badly he could hold his great-great-grandson, that he could comfort him…help him.

He heard Miguel’s breathing begin to even a little, and the sobs slow. That was good. Miguel was calming down.

He opened his eyes to see that Miguel had snuggled up closer to the group hug, as if he could feel…

Stop it, Héctor!

Miguel’s tearstained face was currently crinkled into confusion, as if he had been called on in class and was desperately trying to remember the answer for the teacher. Héctor had known the feeling well when he had gone to school, usually because he had been too busy scribbling song ideas or staring out the window.

“Papá…Héctor…”

Héctor jumped, having an old Living impulse to choke in surprise. “Miguel?” he asked. Could he actually, finally see—

No. Miguel wasn’t looking at him, and he had shown no reaction to Héctor saying his name. Perhaps Miguel was simply thinking about Héctor, and had just happened to say his name out loud. But perhaps he could…maybe he could sense…

Miguel’s face broke into a smile as his face turned to Héctor’s direction. Miguel looked past him, but he was still facing him. “Papa Héctor, estás aquí!”

Héctor let out a spontaneous grito as he heard Imelda and Coco gasp in surprise. Miguel could feel them!

“Sí, sí, Miguel, estoy aquí, estoy aquí, m’ijo!”

His arms still failed to catch any sense of holding a living being, but he squeezed anyway. His boy, his chamaco, his great-great grandson, knew he was there!

Miguel’s smile faded into another look of concentration, as if he was reaching for a word of the tip of his tongue. “Mamá Imelda…” he finally whispered.

Héctor didn’t look up, but he could see Imelda’s shocked face with her gasp of surprise. Ah, Miguel sensed her, as well!

“Papá Héctor! Mamá Imelda! Mamá Coco!”

Imelda and Coco matched twin cries of joy with Héctor’s own.

Somehow, despite being solidly in the Living world and Héctor and Imelda and Coco being little better than shadows tiptoeing from the Land of the Dead, Miguel could feel them being there for him, holding him, loving him for all they were worth.

Miguel threw his arms open, and now he was the one trying to embrace them, trying to bridge the gap between worlds. Miguel’s left arm passed through Héctor’s shoulder, and his right arm through Imelda’s side, but it was close enough.

All of them held on a group hug, the one they never got together in the Land of the Dead, the one that was forbidden in the Land of the Living. But they all knew that each other was there, they were together, and that was enough.

They hugged like that for a long time, no one speaking.

Then Imelda broke the hug.

When Héctor looked up in surprise, her face was twisted with regret. “It is too close to sunrise. We’ll have to run as it is. Lo siento, mi amor, but we have to go.”

Héctor sighed. She was right, of course. As always. But he hated to leave Miguel. He wished he could stay here, in the living world, holding his boy, his chamaco.

But as Coco stood with her mother, Héctor knew he had to go.

Slowly, regretfully, he drew away from Miguel, away from the bed, and towards his wife and daughter.

Miguel seemed to sense this, since his arms fell back to his sides. The smile on his face faded, growing serious.

“I know,” he said, his face turning slightly away from them, towards the door. “You have to go. It’s probably close to sunrise.”

Even though Héctor knew it was pointless, he nodded. “Sí, chamaco. We have to go.”

“I hoped you liked the offerings. And the music. And you hoped you guys met mi hermanita. Her name is Socorro, you know.”

Héctor knew. He had heard the name at the celebration earlier, and had thought it perfect.

“Say hola to Julio and everyone for me, por favor?”

“We will.” Imelda answered.

As if he had heard her, Miguel smiled again, although a few tears were sliding down his cheeks again. He wiped them away. “I’ll see—you’ll be here next year, then.”

“Absolutely,” said Coco, smiling fondly at her great-grandson.

“I love you.”

Coco bent down and kissed his forehead several times. “Te quiero, Miguel.’

“Te quiero,” Imelda and Héctor echoed, giving one last empty-air hug to their great-great-grandson.

Miguel gave a shuddering sigh, then fell back against the pillows.

“Te quiero,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering.

Imelda passed through the door, grasping hands with Coco in preparation of the dash back to the bridge.

“Te quiero,” Miguel whispered one last time, his closing eyes missing the glimpse of yellow light that flashed near the door as Héctor stepped through, joining his wife and daughter on their journey back to the Land of the Dead. 

#coco #coco fanfic #my fic #my writing #coco spoilers #miguel rivera #hector #imelda #mama coco #hector x imelda #ernesto de la cruz #nightmare scene #do skeletons cry? #HUGS #hugs are important #FAMILY HUG

[james-winston]

I hit this weeks ago and the intention was to finally man up and put the first chapter of the 5 Times fic on AO3 but then I got more and more dissatisfied with it so have this small snippet from the Key West chapter instead.

- - - “Would you trade it all in? Someone gives you the choice right now, they say you can have your mam or The Beatles, what would you pick?”

Paul sighed, rubbing a hand over his face: knew this was a test, what John meant was “me or your mam”, just like he’d meant, “me or your dad” all those years ago. To John, if he wasn’t your number one, he was nothing. All or nothing that was John, black or white, you’re in or you’re out, you’re right or you’re wrong. John was always setting up challenges, pitting himself against others in a bid to find someone he’ll lose to, to vindicate his paranoia.

He hadn’t faced that much competition for Paul yet, the biggest was Jim, and once he’d beaten him there was no one else. Even with Jane it was painfully obvious that she took second place to John, and Paul knows she knows it as well. When John calls him after midnight and demands a writing session and he gets out of their bed and drives the hour out to Kenwood to see him. When John wants to go out and Paul cancels plans just to meet him for a few hours. When Paul sees John seven days a week for months on end and still chooses a night in smoking weed over hobnobbing with London’s elite. She knows, and Paul wishes she didn’t, because he loves her, he really does, every time he writes a love song he’s thinking of Jane, but he’s not sure she knows it.

Paul’s broken out of his thoughts by John’s abrupt voice, “Oi, stop dodging.”

“Come on, like you wouldn’t choose your own mam in this situation,” he replied, pre-emptively taking the defensive because he knows what’s coming.

“Well I wouldn’t have to, would I? She wanted me to sing. You either get your mam and a teaching career, or this, rock'n'roll, for life, the biggest and the best.”

“Oh come on. I mean, not to give the fucking press the satisfaction, but the bubble really is going to burst any day now. We can’t keep it up, we won’t last forever.”

And it’s true, Paul and the rest of the band know they’re damn good at what they do, they’re not short of ego, but they won’t keep pace, they’ll be replaced in another year or two, maybe even sooner. Paul only wants to write and perform, that’s it, he’s had his little foray into the limelight, and it’s been enough. He’s not playing humble for the cameras, a life spent writing with John wouldn’t be a disappointing one, if anything he’s looking forward to it. Going for a night out without chaperones, maybe singing to an audience that’ll listen, being home more than two days a year, Paul can’t think of anything better right now.

“Paul, I swear to - ”

“You know I’d choose her,” he cuts John off, “I mean, this has been great, it is great, but it won’t last, at best we’ve got five years, I’ll be a small time recording artist and professional songwriter in ten.”

John nods and acquiesces, taking a swig before offering instead, “Well what if it was a lifetime of music, what if the choice was being a rock legend,” he emphasised, with accompanying drunken jazz hands, “or an English teacher at the Inny with a wife and five kids and mum and dad. Granny Mary, eh?”

Paul doesn’t know why John’s rubbing it in so much, to make sure that when he wins he’s won fairly?

“I can’t not choose my own mother, John.”

“Well, you can. I mean, you’re doing alright without her now aren’t you?”

Paul shrugged, how does he know if he’s doing okay? What does that even mean, really? Paul hopes the subject’s closed now because it hasn’t escaped either of them that he hasn’t exactly answered the question, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that.

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 87

Chapter Summary -  Danielle shows Tom her father's old practice, causing them to bump into Danielle's past who isn't long telling Tom their opinion of him, making Tom feel a tad jealous and worried.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

Sceal is the Irish for story.

TB is short for Tuberculosis, nasty disease that cattle are tested for quite often.

debs, the debutante occasion, just a dinner and party with expensive clothes and a chance to get crunk that happened after you graduate Secondary school.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @damalseer​ @hiddlesbitch1​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​ @salempoe​​ @wolfsmom1​​

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

"So, this is it." Danielle stood in front of the business premises.

"It still has his name." Tom pointed to the older sign on the window, the words Mattie Hughes in the background.

"Yeah, I think John was hoping that having that there would keep some of dad's clients."

"Has it?"

Danielle shrugged, "No idea. He did a few years with dad before he went off doing some work elsewhere, but when I was talking to him at dad's funeral, he made a comment about missing this part of the woods, so when I decided to have it sold, I called him and offered him it for a good price, he took it, obviously."

"Can I help you?" A woman in her mid-thirties walked around from the side of the premises.

"Is John around by any chance?" Danielle asked.

"No, he's on a call at the moment, is it urgent?"

"Fair enough, no it's fine, just passing through and wanting to see if he was here."

"Will I tell him you called?"

"Yeah, I…" Danielle stopped talking as a jeep beeped at them and pulled in, the window down. "Well, John."

"Danielle." He turned off the jeep and got out. "How are you?" He embraced her tightly before pulling back. "Jesus, sorry about the smell, I did a testing job out in McGrath's."

"As long as you don't give me TB we're good, how are things?"

"Great, sure, and yourself? Are you finally back from your stint over the water?"

"No, I am just home for a few days, sorting a few things, said I'd call by and see how the place is doing."

"Ticking away sure."

"Good stuff." Danielle smiled, noting how her father's old workmate looked curiously at Tom. "John, this is Tom, the poor bollix stuck putting up with me, Tom, this is John, the new owner of my dad's practice."

"Hello." Tom extended his hand politely.

John displayed his own slightly grubby one before extending it in forewarning to Tom. "Well, my condolences, she's a pure pain most of the time this one." John joked causing Tom to frown.

"Gee, thanks." Danielle scoffed. "You gave her a bit of a going over."

"I did yeah, got some new equipment in too, but overall, things are the same. I mean, your Mam, God rest her, had a great way of doing things, so we kept that, and your Dad thankfully was singing my praises after I left so I kept everyone, well not everyone, but the big ones, so it is brilliant really."

"I am delighted to hear that. No sceal with you?"

"Devil a bit, yourself?"

"Working hard yet hardly working."

"So no chance of you returning home to us?"

"Not really, no."

"To be honest, I never thought you'd stay over there, I mean, you never left home before, and when you were growing up, you seemed fairly happy here at the house."

"I am happy, I like it more in Britain, more opportunities there for someone like me."

"Yeah," John nodded, his face slightly disheartened, "You said you were never going to be the housewife of a vet like your Mam, I suppose."

"No, she loved it, but not for me." Danielle shrugged. "Listen, John, I couldn't use the bathroom, could I?"

"Off with you, the door should be open, you know where it is." John chuckled, leaving Tom and John outside alone. "So, you know Danielle long?"

"Since she moved over, she moved in next to my mum, so we met her when she arrived."

The other man laughed. "Of all the sorts of lads I thought Danielle would land, a proper English one was so far down on the list." Tom frowned slightly. "I mean, her dad, Mattie, a great man, he thought she'd do as he and her mother did, he left her all of this to try and see if she would keep it all, try and get herself some rural lad."

"A vet, someone like him?" Tom assumed.

"Well, yeah. It's normal, isn't it, parents wanting their kids to follow their paths?"

"I assume so, I think I broke my father's heart, he was a pharmaceuticals man, I am anything but."

"Let me guess, teacher?"

"Me?" John nodded. "No, actor."

Again, John laughed, though there was something of a scoff to it. "Actor? Jesus, it was a far cry from actors that Danielle Hughes was reared. I'd have paid money to see Mattie's face if she'd have brought you back."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Well, I mean, with all due respect, you are not what is the norm for a vet's daughter in the west of Ireland, you are so oddly matched."

"And a vet would be better suited, correct?" Tom growled.

"Well, she was reared in such a life."

Tom was about to answer when Danielle came out, she was smiling until she came close to Tom, then realised his darkened mood. "Where next love?" he smiled.

"I suppose we better get to that cottage I told you about, it will be closing in an hour," she stated unsurely. "It was great seeing you John, and great to see you have the place running well."

"Thank you, Danielle, please, whenever you're home, you should say hi." The vet smiled brightly again, giving Danielle a tight hug again. "We miss you around here."

"Get yourself a girlfriend and stop being so lonely then," Danielle suggested with a smile. "Many a rural girl will want a vet with his own practise and house, you should be beating them off with a length of Waven pipe."

John looked sadly at Danielle, "I suppose."

Danielle just waved at him. "Take care John," She smiled, Tom beside her giving only a small nod of his head to the other man, before turning towards the car too.

"I'll drive," Tom insisted. Danielle handed him the key, smiling up at him as she did so. "You navigate."

"I always do."

"There's no need for you navigate us to mums, I have been driving there longer than you have a licence."

"I still manage to get us there quicker, don't I?" She laughed getting into the car on the passenger side. Tom drove off briskly. "Tom?"

"So where are we going?"

"Tom, are you okay?"

Tom reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it while keeping his eyes on the road. "Yes, I am."

Danielle did not believe him. "You know John lived with us for a small while." Tom glanced over at her. "When he first came to Connemara, sure there are so few places to rent and we had a big house, so dad made it part of him working with him. Mam used to cook and clean, and Dad and John would do the animal work. He's your age actually." Tom said nothing. "I remember, for my debs, which I was less than impressed at having to go to, Dad suggested he go with me, thought him a good match for me." Tom's jaw clenched slightly, causing Danielle to have to hide her grin.

"I thought you said your father didn't want you to marry a vet."

"He did, but I think it wasn't an issue of a vet, but one in particular." Tom's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Tom?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you, by any chance getting a little…?"

"I am not jealous."

"I was going to say worried, but hey, you're the one going aggressive with the steering wheel." Danielle laughed. "I never liked John like that, I sort of didn't really like him much at all, he was an arrogant ass and thought I would just fall at his feet because he was five years older than me and had a job."

"Really?"

"Yes, I only offered him the practise because Dad's clients knew him, he mentioned he was thinking of coming back to Connemara and I wanted to sell it." Danielle dismissed. "What did he say to you to upset you like this?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter."

"Tom?" He did not respond. "Pull over."

"What?"

"I said pull over, please." Tom did as he was asked, looking at her worriedly as he did so. "Whatever John said, ignore it, my parents would have loved you, I know that better than anyone else in the world, he was always an ass and clearly never changed, also know that I love you." She stated firmly, "I want you."

Tom gave her a faint smile. "Would you ever have considered him?"

"No. I do not find him the least bit appealing, he's got a face like a slapped arse and a personality like it to boot, remember, I lived in the same house as him, I have seen him at his best and at his worst, and there is fuck all difference between them." She commented. "Now, for the record, this is supposed to be the other way around," Tom's brows furrowed. "I am supposed to be the insecure one, worrying about you and other girls, you are supposed to try and tell me random girls are not who you want, not this way around," she smiled, "Come on now, get it right."

Tom chuckled. "I am sorry. I just want you to be happy."

"You're human Tom, don't be sorry, but remember, I love you, no matter how flawed your sexy ass is."

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic #wolfpawn #I Hate You I Love You #chapter 87