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orsuliya · 3 years

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Since you do such detailed asks and give a well thought out answers, I want to know your opinion on the Ma brothers. Zilong, Zilu and Zitan. What do you think about them?

Ah, our three intrepid Ma princes... Wait a minute, why three? It's not like we're in a fairytale and while Zitan is certainly a fool, he's not nearly good-hearted enough to play the role of Ivan the Fool.

But seriously, it seems mightily suspicious of Daddy Emperor to sire three sons in quick succession and then, as far as we know, never ever procreate again. He's an Emperor and obviously fertile, so how come the imperial nursery remains so glaringly empty? Could it be that he has no concubines at all except for his beloved Xie Guifei?

Or... has the Empress been aborting babies left and right, and poisoning her way through swathes of women to boot? Not impossible, knowing her temperament, but it doesn't really make sense within the dynamic presented in the drama. Drama!Emperor hates, hates, hates the Wangs and especially his wife, so it's hard to believe he wouldn't have used this juicy tidbit to weaken their influence. In the book Wanru is allowed to run roughshod over Potato's concubines and feed them contraceptives willy-nilly, but that's because Potato doesn't really care. The Emperor, as we see him in the drama, would have found reason enough to care upon being given such an obvious opening to start a smear campaign against his favourite enemy. Stymying the imperial bloodline?! Why, I think it might be a crime and easily provable one at that!

This leaves the other option - perhaps there aren't any concubines in the palace or, if there are, they're not being, pardon my French, bred. It's not that multiple imperial concubines of lower rank aren't a thing in this universe - Potato gets at least two and possibly more after sitting on the throne for a relatively short time. It's a pity we don't know what's the policy on entering the palace. Is there a multi-stage selection process? There is certainly no indication of that! Xie Guifei might have been an attempt to balance out a Wang Empress, Seagull was Zitan's impromptu choice, Miss Screecher was meant to be chosen by Potato outside of any organized selection and the same could be true for Potato's other concubines. Our only outlier might be Zilu's Mom and even then it's rather doubtful she was ever processed properly as it would have required a lot of effort and luck to conceal an already existing pregnancy. No, Zilu's Mom was most probably a gift of 'peace' from one brother to another.

My guess as to what Daddy Emperor is thinking? If Zitan has been his preferred heir from the start and he very well might have been since it never had anything to do with Zitan's actual qualities, then it's possible that he simply didn't protest - or did so in a purely symbolic manner - when the Wangs started limiting his reproductive chances. Why breed competition? We already know he has no use for any sons lacking powerful backing of their maternal clans, see: his treatment of Zilu. And any son with such backing would be a direct threat to his favourite, not to mention a potential upset to the carefully maitained Wang-Ma-Xie balance.

...or it could be that Daddy Emperor really loved Xie Guifei and wanted no other. Seeing as he's strongly implied to spend his nights in her chambers twenty years after their only and last kid was born, this would make a staggering amount of sense. The same principle applies - he'd still not protest Wang tyranny over the inner courts, only he'd do it for Xie Guifei and not for Zitan. It does seem to fit with Daddy Emperor's general mindset. Let the others do open battle and exert all that effort, he'll just sit there, look sage and reap the benefits!

After this rather senseless and overly long prelude, let's finally get to answering your question. Mind you, those are not going to be organized, thoughtful opinions, just my subjective impressions on each and every Ma Prince.

His Imperial Spudness Ma Zilong

The not-so-little Potato that could not, but still tried! Let's start with the elephant in the room, namely his rapist tendencies or the lack thereof. See, I'm convinced that raping Awu wasn't actually in the cards, at least as far as Potato was concerned. Compromising her, sure, just lure her into an emptied palace and cry wolf. Outright raping her, no, if only because Potato is way, way too weak and soft to execute a plan this ruthless in its entirety. Besides, harming Awu to this extent would be risky as all hell and sure to provoke authentic wrath in both Daddy Emperor and Daddy Wang. The Empress is not stupid enough to give her husband the perfect excuse to do away with her son nor to alienate her main supporter in the same move. Even if she was able to force a marriage in the first place, Potato would be pretty much done for politically unless both Daddies suddenly dropped dead. The most she would be able to get would be a grandson in a privileged position, so she'd be back to square one, only with one more female to share power with. No, what Potato did and what Wanru suffered was mostly courtesy of Zilu's suspicious drugs. Not to say Potato isn't a rapist all the same, but I'd argue for diminished capacity.

As for Potato himself in his shining spuddy glory, I truly pity the man. From time to time we see glimpses of the ruler he could have become and whom he still tries to be, and it becomes clear that there was something there worth cultivating. The problem is that nobody could be bothered to even try. Daddy Emperor certainly didn't, leaving Potato pretty much to his own devices and believe me, it had nothing to do with his talents or the lack thereof. Do you remember that lovely family scene at the beginning of episode 1.? You know, the one where Awu, Zilu and Zitan lure Zilong into a trap and then leave him there to lie amidst icy rocks in the middle of winter? He could have easily hit his head and died right then and there. Or get pneumonia and die a little bit later. Does the Emperor care? No, not at all! Baby!Awu isn't that good of a liar, but even if she was, perhaps it would behoove him to actually investigate. Not from any kind of fatherly feeling, let's not expect miracles, but perhaps from political expediency? Yeah, no. And I doubt that was the only incident of this kind. Potato must have known even this early on that his father doesn't care for him, not even like an Emperor should for his eldest male scion. Moreover, there is no way Mommy Dearest wouldn't harp on about the Emperor's negligence in private, further affirming this awful truth in Potato's mind.

Mommy Dearest might care, but her care is no less toxic than Daddy Emperor's open negligence. Potato is her key to power, her only way to win the game of thrones and make all her sacrifices worthwhile... and this is exactly how she treats him. Oh, she loves him well enough as her son, clings to him in his role as Crown Prince and then Emperor, but she doesn't actually like him as a person. And oh boy, does it show! I get it, he's not this perfect shining prince that would justify her long years of suffering, but then I have this feeling she gave up on him the moment he showed himself to be perfectly average. Sure, she offers him (toxic) love and (conditional) support like nobody's business, but there's always this nasty undertone in their relationship. Mommy knows best, don't even try to think on your own, listen to me and only me. It's no wonder that Potato thinks he's perfectly useless and doesn't bother to try and better himself, if he knows that even his own mother sees him as a perfect nincompoop. Uncle Wang's open derision isn't helpful either!

And yet Potato is, deep down, a decent enough man. Better than the average Ma, I'd say. I mean, he has some scruples! They might be really, really tiny, but they're there, even as he's being subjected to a barrage of mental attacks from both his mother and his wife. Why, given proper support and a competent cabinet, he'd make a somewhat ineffective, but decent enough ruler, his handling of the flood crisis shows us this much. Potato's best quality is that he really tries. Oh, he fails, but he's no Zitan, content to sit in his room and mope while the country goes to hell. When it's important, he can make actual decisions! Which he may then go back on (or not), but it still counts. Also, he's not petty. Like, at all. He'd like nothing better than for everybody to get along and have lots and lots of plump babies. Even his decision to do away with Xiao Qi is not motivated by jealousy, no matter how hard Wanru and Mommy Dearest keep pressing on that particular button.

Is he childish? Yes. But then, he's never been given any real responsibility and for years and years languished under the care of a helicopter parent who never forced him to man up nor face actual reality, hence his disillusionment with Wanru, once she stops being this perfect smiling automaton. Is he selfish? Oh yes and it shows nowhere better than in his last will. But even so, such selfishness is pretty much par for the course when it comes to the Mas and at least Potato didn't wreck a country for the sake of personal spite, which puts him way ahead of his father, uncle Jianning and bro Zitan. And perhaps even cousin Zilu, who cared less for the country than for Huanmi.

At the end of the day, our humble root vegetable is a tragic figure. I can't help but pity him every time we see him bloom under somebody's attention. Give that man some respect and he'll pay you back with the same, weird comments about killing you nothwithstanding. And he did give us Miracle Baby, Our Lord and Saviour!

Our beloved Groomzilla, Ma Zilu

Daddy Emperor must have been stupid, high, blind or all of those in order to let Zilu and his beautiful brain slip through his fingers. He was right there, that defenseless, motherless boy and ripe for the taking too! If after years and years of being neglected and treated as an afterthought, after suffering an obvious slight of losing his love on Daddy Wang's say-so, after being allowed to supposedly run wild with no attempt at parental intervention... If after all this Zilu still craved his father's approval in whatever form he could get it, craved it so much that he allowed himself to be led into an obvious trap, then what kind of loyalty might he have offered, had somebody bothered to nurture him properly?

And it's not like his talents were easy to sweep under the rug. It's not until after he's an adult that Zilu takes up the pretense of being a never-do-well; during his adolescence he was still giving it his all, hoping in vain that his father might notice and offer him some sweet, sweet parental validation. Alas. The lack of powerful backing from his maternal family is an obstacle, but not if one actively tries to fight against consort kin clans and their influence. Or is it only the Wangs who are the enemy? Must be so, otherwise why the hell would one not see Zilu's relative independence as his greatest asset? You don't even have to make him Crown Prince to use him; just instill some sense of pride and validation, feed his need for attention and put him behind Zitan's throne. Okay, maybe don't do that last thing, deadly brotherly competition being a whole thing in palace environments, but still, use him! But no, Huanmi remained the only person to actually see and appreciate Zilu for what he was. Is it any wonder he was so absolutely loyal to her that even when it looked like she had attacked him with lethal intent, he still cared about her safety most of all?

And is it any wonder that he expedited his considerable will and brainpower solely for her benefit? I was absolutely floored when I realized that becoming an Emperor wasn't actually his ultimate goal - marrying Huanmi in the biggest, reddest wedding possible was! Even if he needed to drag the more august guests in at swordpoint. Not to say he didn't want to take the throne for his own sake; he absolutely did, but only as far as it served as a big fat fuck you to every person who kept dismissing him out of hand, so basically every person other than Huanmi. Taking the crown was a power fantasy, an idee-fixe of sorts, but for all that keeping a throne in one's basement can be seen as somewhat peculiar, there are very few - if any - signs of actual delusion in Zilu's actions. The throne is not a goal in itself, merely a way to achieve his primary goal, which is to marry the woman he loves, take revenge for Huanmi's sake as much as his own and build a life worthy of her. She's his Empress and by gods, she's going to be the real deal soon enough, no more cosplaying in private villas, however nice it might be!

Ma Zitan, the one and only Master of Mope

With every Ma Prince I become more and more convinced that there was something seriously wrong with Daddy Emperor's brain. Neglecting Potato makes some sense within the greater political picture, letting Zilu lie fallow is the height of foolishness, yet it's more a matter of criminal inaction than actively doing something wrong, but Zitan? Oh, there is no excuse for the way Daddy Emperor chose to deal with Zitan. If the Third Prince was truly his intended heir from the start and there is little reason to believe otherwise - if Wangs are to go then Potato is done for, Zilu was never even considered and Zitan remains the favourite long after showing his complete uselessness - why not try to prepare him for his future role? True, doing so openly might provoke the Wangs, but it's not like there aren't any ways to present such ruler lessons as something else, even a punishment. But no, let's just hope he turns out okay all by himself!

Now, logically reasoning, if Zitan was Daddy Emperor’s favourite and the prince he originally wanted as his heir, then Zitan should be given all possible help, right? So why wasn’t he taught any actual skills, whether in governance or in military matters? The thing is… they might have tried. In episode 61, when Zitan asks his faithful pair of retainers if he would be able to best Xiao Qi, their first answer is not that he’s the Emperor so it’s a given. Well, that too, but the first, immediate response? You studied the art of war. Which, okay, might be a reasonable guess when it comes to any prince, but those retainers are rather young and only recently-promoted. Before their soujourn at the Imperial Mausoleum they probably served somewhere within the wider imperial household, but not close enough to any great personage to be knowledgeable about what the princes might or might not have studied. Also, that answer, should Zitan’s lessons be limited to his early childhood, would make them look like idiots or bootlickers of the worst sort. But let’s say that Zitan actually studied the art of war and did so longer than his brothers. Or, alternatively, with more famous masters. That would naturally be a subject of some talk, if only within the imperial household itself. If so, then the female retainer, who seems rather astute in general, gave the best answer she could give.

Okay, so maybe somebody actually tried to help Zitan along. It still failed. Zitan at twenty or so is singularily useless and strangely unambitious, and no, calligraphy doesn't count as useful, not if one is an imperial prince and Emperor-to-be!

It's not Zitan's uselessness or even his refusal to feel any kind of reponsibility for his own people (as shown in the Huizhou arc) I have the most issue with. Although the latter is simply disgusting. And... really, really short-sighted. If Huizhou falls, as it surely must, Jianning and Co. get a clear way to the capital, leaving Xiao Qi to play deadly catch-up. Which means that Zitan's family is pretty much done for. Now, he might not care about Potato and Zilu, but surely he should feel something towards his father? Some filial piety, if not actual love? But no, screw the people of Huizhou and screw Daddy Emperor. Still, does he think that Jianning wouldn't pursue him to the ends of the earth in order to eradicate a potential claimant?

No, what really angers me is the way Zitan treats the women he claims to hold dear. And I'm not even speaking of Awu, although it's rather obvious that he cares little for her internality and rather more than is healthy for his idealized image of her. Xie Guifei dies for him, which is not his fault in the least... or is it? See, I'm pretty sure that Zitan's insistence on marrying Awu despite his mother's reservations was what provoked the Wangs to take certain... steps. Provoking a power struggle is all fine and good, if you're at least somewhat prepared for the consequences. Zitan is no fifteen year old well-bred young lady, he's an imperial prince right in the middle of a delicate balance of power, how the hell does he not know or care about possible ramifications? Naivety is theoretically not a crime, but that surely is criminal naivety. Which begs the question - how hard was that boy coddled by his mother? My guess is a lot. But Xie Guifei is but a trifle compared to the elephant in the room.

Xie Wanru. Xie Wanru, who supported Zitan as much as she could while being in a precarious situation herself. And whom he had no problems with asking for further support, going as far as to aim for the throne, disregarding her own and her children's potential interests. Xie Wanru, who didn't make the first move, even knowing Zitan to be a potential threat to her and hers. Xie Wanru, whose baby got a full portion of avuncular love in form of actual torture and was lucky to get away with his life. Xie Wanru, his sister, whose ghost must have screeched with fury upon hearing Zitan laud himself as this paragon of brotherly feelings in comparison to the well-intentioned Turnip.

Oh, and he just sat there like an offended child while the country kept sliding into chaos, simply because some evil old men didn't let him kill Cheng's entire army with his sheer incompetence. Those dastardly old bastards! Let them scramble around and let the people in the provinces keep dying; they all deserve this for not recognizing Zitan's awesomeness! I'm not saying he should have fixed everything. I'm saying he should have done the bare minimum. He killed a brother for that throne, now he should actually do something with it. Other than purposefully provoking the only guy who actually restored peace and stability simply because the man happens to be married to Zitan's first love.

I'm sorry, I cannot with Zitan. There's a lot more to be said about that twerp, much of which has already been said, but at this point refraining from plowing on it's a matter of mental hygiene.

#ask and answer #the rebel princess #no but seriously how come there are no other Ma scions in the main line #is Daddy Emperor overly careful after his own experiences with his brothers?#could be could be #Zitan oh so pretty and oh so useless #and that was the last ask in my inbox!#I can hardly believe it

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emachinescat · 4 years

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Way Back Wednesday #2

Welcome to Way Back Wednesday! Every Wednesday, I am delving into my past as a fanfic writer and reflecting on and sharing one of my stories... starting from the very beginning, 16 years ago, when I was a 14-year-old kid discovering her love for fandom. ❤️

Today’s story is...

Secrets Revealed

American Dragon: Jake Long

Summary: Jake is finally unmasked and Rose is faced with an impossible choice. Rating: G Chapters: 1 | Words: 1,268 Year Published: 2005 | My age: 14 Relationships: Jake Long/Rose | Huntsgirl | Characters: Jake Long, Rose | Huntsgirl, Luong Lao Shi “Gandpa”, Fu Dog, Huntsmaster, Trixie Carter, Arthur “Spud” Spudinski AO3 Tags: Humor, Romance, Identity Reveal

My reflections on and "review" of the story are after the break! :)

Travel with me, if you will, all the way back to the year 2005. I was a 14-year-old kid whose parents had just gone through a nasty divorce and whose life as she knew it was falling apart around her. I found myself clinging desperately onto the things that gave me joy and comfort: my shows, books, and movies. I wouldn’t know it then, but this is where my journey as a fangirl truly would begin.

For some reason, I was really into the Disney Channel original show American Dragon: Jake Long. Other than Harry Potter, it was my first hyper-fixation. I didn’t care that I was a teenager and that it probably wasn’t “cool” to enjoy this show as much as I did. It made me happy, so I devoured it. But I soon found myself frustrated with it, as all fans of media inevitably do. Why couldn’t Jake and Rose get together the way I wanted them to? Why wasn’t there more of the main character getting beat up and captured in the show? (Little did I know, I was already a whumper at a young age, even though I had no clue what whump was.)

And that’s how I discovered fan-fiction. Yeah, I’d had no idea it was even a thing, but I found a site (I can’t even remember what it was called, but I would be shocked if it was still around today) that allowed you to write and upload your own stories. I learned about fan-fiction from it. And I wrote this story, a very simple piece where Jake and Rose find out each other’s secrets. I posted it on whatever website I’d found, but then...

But then...

I found it. The Holy Grail of the mid-2000s fan culture. Fanfiction.net. I posted my story there, got my first positive review, and was hooked. And I’ve been writing fan-fic ever since, for a variety of fandoms.

Anyway, about this story in particular, I recently read it again, and I was surprised that it wasn’t too bad. I mean, my writing has improved since then (at least I hope it has, with an MA in creative writing!), but the story makes sense overall, even if it is quite simplistic in storytelling and plot. Grammatically, it’s fairly sound, and the characterizations are pretty accurate. The character’s voices, in particular, are often painfully on-point - I took it upon myself to mimic as best I could the street-slang vernacular of Trixie, the stoner-kid drawl of Spud, and the cocky “yo yo yo, I’m the Am-Drag baby!” voice of the titular character. It’s certainly not perfect, but it marks the beginning of a 16-year-and-counting journey for me, and so it holds a very special place in my heart.

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madpanda75 · 4 years

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“Taking Chances Part 7: All in the Family”

I’m back with the latest chapter where Rafael spends a Sunday with the Carisi family. So sorry it took me so long to get this out. Thank you so much for your patience and thanks for all of your sweet comments. Stay tuned for the next part ❤️

The clang of the bells of St. Thomas pierced through the Staten Island spring air, their melodic rings beckoning churchgoers for Mass. Rafael watched people dressed in their Sunday best walk through the red double doors of the stone cathedral as you drove the car into the church parking lot.

Turning off the ignition, you looked towards Rafael and gave him an expectant smile. “Ok, you ready?”

A sigh below past his lips. “Ready.”

“Are ya’ nervous?” you teased with a playful nudge to his shoulder.

“Me? Nervous?” Rafael scoffed. “Please, I do not get nervous,” he lied when in reality, he was a bundle of nerves. In his nearly twenty years as an ADA, Rafael had faced down cold-blooded murderers and rapists in the courtroom and yet he had never been more nervous than he was at that moment.

Ever since the unfortunate encounter in his office, he had been unable to shake Sonny’s voice from his head, a terrifying thought under any circumstance. What if your family shared his sentiments about the two of you dating? He could envision it now—a large Italian family shooting daggers at him as he walked arm in arm with you. It would be like re-enacting a scene from The Godfather.

You arched a brow at him, not falling for his cool facade. “Everything will be fine,” you reassured him. “Anyways, it's not my family you should be worried about. You should be more worried about bursting into flames when you step into the church.” You leaned towards him and whispered in his ear, “Especially after what we did last night.”

“How could I forget,” he purred. The image of you tied up and blindfolded to the bed, writhing in ecstasy as he licked whipped cream off your nipples was forever seared into his brain. He cupped your face and captured your lips with his, tracing the seam of your mouth with his tongue. You softly moaned and tilted your head, deepening the kiss when a tap on your driver side window caused you both to jump and split apart.

There was your older sister, Gina, standing outside your car with a smirk firmly planted on her face. “You might wanna watch where ya’ suck face, lil’ sis. Father Betino just walked past. See ya’ inside,” she said with a wink and headed towards the church.

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of the car with Rafael. “So which sister is that again?” he asked.

“That’s Gina. She just got engaged for the 11th time to a Wall Street broker. She claims this time it’s for real that he’s ‘the one’,” you explained, using air quotes before winding your arm around his as you walked up the stone steps. “Teresa, my other sister, strictly dates men who make six figures and above. I swear she considers Forbes to be her own personal dating ad. Ya’ already know Bella and Tommy, and of course there’s Sonny. Any questions?”

“Gina, Teresa, Bella, Tommy, and Sonny,” he softly repeated, trying to retain the information you had just thrown at him. “I think I got it.”

He opened the door, stepping inside after you to find your family waiting in the vestibule, their loud conversations echoing against the walls. Several children, who Rafael assumed to be your nieces and nephews, ran around the giant holy water font, laughing and squealing in delight. The door closed behind you with a deafening thud and the family chatter came to a halt, their attention now turned towards you and Rafael.

“Hi everyone.” You smiled and waved, being preoccupied with Rafael and work it had been ages since you had seen everyone. Your family swarmed you, sweeping you up in hugs and kisses. Spotting Rafael awkwardly standing off to the side, you reached out and grabbed his hand, leading him to your parents. “Ma, Pops, this is Rafael Barba.”

“Hi Mr. and Mrs. Carisi. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said and extended his hand to your mother.

“Please, call me, Julia,” your mom replied and shooed his hand away, pulling him into a tight hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Rafael. We’ve heard so much about you.”

You tapped her on the back.“Ok, Ma. Please do not crush my boyfriend to death,” you joked.

When she let go, Rafael noticed how much you looked like your mother—the same warm eyes, same brilliant smile, same delicate nose. He briefly imagined what you would look like when you grew older and his heart fluttered at the thought of standing by your side in the years to come, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

Unfortunately that thought was quickly dashed when he noticed your father. Dominick Carisi, Sr. stood with his arms crossed, tilting his head as he inspected Rafael with a slight frown. It was the same look that Sonny had whenever he was eyeing a potential suspect. A look Rafael recognized all too well. Standing his ground under your father’s steely stare, he held out his hand.

After a pregnant pause, your father finally shook his hand. “You can call me, Mr. Carisi.” He wrapped a protective arm around you. “So, you’re the one my little patatina has been dating.”

“Pops,” you said in a warning tone.

“Oh Dom, relax.” Your mom waved him off, turning her attention back to your boyfriend. “So are you Catholic, Rafael?

“Ma, please,” you whined and gave Rafael an apologetic look.

“It’s ok, Y/N.” Rafael smiled. He knew all too well what it was like to have a prying parent. “I was raised Catholic. I used to go to St. Rita’s with my mother in the Bronx.”

“How nice. Maybe she can join us sometime,” Julia said.

“Ok, Ma. Why don’t you and Pops go grab our pew before the Marchese clan steals it from us again.” You gently lead your parents into the church. “We’ll see you in there.”

Your sisters walked past you both, greeting Rafael on their way inside to join your parents. Teresa gave you a subtle thumbs up and mouthed, “He’s hot,” before she ran to catch up with Bella and Tommy.

You stayed in the vestibule with Rafael, knowing he would need a minute or two to recover after meeting your family. “See that wasn’t so bad.”

Rafael let out a long breath. It was only 10:15 and he felt as if he had just ran a marathon. “They’re great,” he replied. “Hey, what does patatina mean?”

“My little potato,” you mumbled, your cheeks turning bright pink. “Apparently, I resembled a lumpy spud at birth.”

He laughed and took your hand, leading you into the church when Sonny burst in. “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find a parkin’ spot,” he said a little out of breath. Giving you a big hug, he then turned and noticed Rafael. His face instantly fell as soon as he locked eyes with the ADA. “Barba.”

“Carisi.” Rafael gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.

Your eyes darted between the two men like you were witnessing a tennis match. “You know this may seem like a crazy idea, but while you’re out of work, why don’t you call each other by your first name?”

“Fine,” Sonny conceded and opened the door to the church as the choir began to sing. “After you, Rafael.

Rafael shook his head. “Oh no. After you, Sonny.”

Sonny feigned sincerity and placed his hand over his heart. “Oh no, I insist.”

“No, I insist,” Rafael retorted.

By this point, Mass would be over and Rafael and Sonny would still be arguing about who goes first. “Hey Abbott and Costello, how about I go first.” You walked between the two men and grabbed Rafael by the arm. “What am I gonna do with you two?” you whispered, leading him down the aisle to the front pew where your family was sitting.

*****

Rafael was a lapsed Catholic. He hadn’t stepped foot inside a church since the SVU squad arrested Monsignor Mulregan for an underage sex trafficking ring. The lack of humanity he had witnessed over the years combined with his turbulent childhood had made his relationship with faith complicated.

But on this particular morning with you by his side, all the cynicism and doubt he had towards a higher being seemed to wash away. Rafael focused on the words being spoken. The words forever etched into every Catholic’s memory; no matter how long it’s been since they attended Mass. The same words he would speak every Sunday as a child sitting next to his abuelita. Stealing a glance at you, he softly smiled and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, feeling completely at peace.

After the service, everyone caravanned over to the Carisi home for lunch. Hearing stories of your childhood and working with Sonny over the years had made Rafael curious about your parents’ home. As you parked in front of 193 Sycamore Avenue, he was pleasantly surprised to find a red brick Victorian home with a front porch and bay windows. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. There was even a white picket fence.

As you walked up the steps with Rafael, hand in hand, you overheard your sisters talking and kids screaming, creating a cacophony at a dangerously high decibel. “Ok. Easy part is over. Now we have to go to lunch.” You let out a long breath. “Brace yourself, Barba.”

Before you could pull your key out, Teresa beat you to the punch and flung open the door. “Come on in, baby sis and Mr. ADA.” She winked at Rafael and took his coat, placing it in the entryway closet. “Hey, uh...Mr. ADA?”

Rafael blushed. “You can call me Rafael.”

“Ok, Rafael.” Teresa furrowed her brow as she took in his state of dress. “I couldn’t help but notice your Tom Ford designer suit. Tell me how much does an ADA have to make in order to afford that type of fashion?”

You glared at your sister, stepping between her and Rafael, who was still stunned at the intrusive question. “Mind your own beeswax, Teresa Emilia Carisi.”

“Break it up, ladies. Don’t make me get the hose,” your mom warned, popping her head out from the kitchen before turning to Rafael. “Make yourself at home.”

“Do you need any help?” he asked, finally finding his voice.

“Absolutely not. You’re our guest.” She smiled and went back to work.

“Come on, Rafi. Let’s get out of here before Teresa asks for your pin number.” Teresa stuck her tongue out as you led him into the living room.

Your father came bounding down the stairs with a newspaper in hand. He observed how you giggled and wrapped your arms around Rafael. Just as he was about to step into the living room and tell the older man to watch where he put his paws on his angel of a daughter, Mrs. Carisi called him. “Dom, I need your help!”

“Coming, honey,” Dom grumbled and gave Rafael a stern look. “Behave yourself in here. Remember to leave room for the Holy Spirit.”

You rolled your eyes as soon as your father left. “I’m sorry about my family. I know they can be a little much.” Taking his hand, you traced a prominent vein, following its path up to his wrist. It’s not that you were ashamed of your family. It’s just that you knew how they could be. Overprotective. Nosy. Overbearing. There was a reason why you had only brought one other boyfriend home, apart from Rafael.

“It’s fine, hermosa,” he reassured you before wandering around the living room, taking in the fireplace, the cozy furniture, walls filled with family photos, and a large sign that read “La Dolce Vita.” There were also enough statues of saints and the Virgin Mary that Rafael was sure that Mr. and Mrs. Carisi could start their own church.

Rafael spied a picture of you as an enthusiastic twelve year old with braces and butterfly clips in your hair. “That was taken at a Backstreet Boys concert,” you said with a sheepish grin.

A smirk tugged at his lips, noticing a family photo hanging over the mantle. A large picture that appeared to have been taken at JCPenney during the height of Olan Mills. You were a happy chubby baby being held by your mom surrounded by your siblings and father. “Huh, you really did look like a potato when you were little.”

“Jerk.” You playfully smacked him on the shoulder. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure, what do you have?”

“Well we have water.” Winding your arms around his neck, you tugged him down for a slow tantalizing kiss. “Wine?” You kissed him once more. “An assortment of products made by the Coca Cola Company?” With a flirty giggle, you captured his lips again, fingering the hair on the nape of his neck.

He pulled away and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Water will be fine.”

“Coming right up.” You teasingly nipped his bottom lip and went into the kitchen.

Rafael sat on the floral printed couch and looked over at the picture of you at the Backstreet Boys concert perched on the end table. The longer he stared at that photo of you as a tween, the more apparent the age difference between you became. While you were fangirling over boy bands, he had already been working as a lawyer, making grown men cry on the witness stand.

He turned away from the photo only to find all of your nieces and nephews, some of which had suspicious sticky-like substances on their hands and faces, standing in the living room, staring at him like a pack of meerkats.

Rafael audibly gulped but tried to play it cool, remembering that children could smell fear.

A young boy, who looked about 8, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes spoke first. “Are you Aunt Y/N’s friend?”

“Uh, yes I am,” he replied.

One of your nieces giggled. “Are you her boyfriend?”

“What’s a boyfriend?” asked another little girl with pigtails, who couldn’t have been more than four.

“That’s when a boy is friends with a girl but they kiss a lot,” explained the sandy blonde haired boy. From there it was an interrogation that would’ve put the FBI to shame with each of the kids asking him question after question.

“Do you kiss Aunt Y/N?”

“Are you gonna marry Aunt Y/N?”

“Are you gonna have kids?”

“Can I be in the wedding?!”

“Me too! Me too!”

“I wanna be a flower girl!”

“No me first! I wanna be the flower girl!”

“I can talk to dogs!”

Rafael’s head was spinning. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise over the kids and that dog comment left him completely stunned. Thankfully you and your father came in right before Rafael was sure the children were about to re-enact a scene from Lord of the Flies.

“Woah, what’s going on here?” You gave Rafael a sympathetic smile and handed over his glass of water while balancing a drooling baby on your hip. “Hey kids, why don’t we give Auntie Y/N’s friend a break. Uncle Sonny’s in the backyard and he has chocolate!”

“Chocolate!” The kids screamed and ran out of the room to go maul their uncle.

Rafael looked at you as if you had just offered him a seat on the last lifeboat during the sinking of the Titanic. You were about to sit down when you made a face and sniffed the air. Hoisting the baby in your arms up, you took a whiff of his diaper. “Phew, little man. Your diapers smell worse than the bathroom after your Uncle Sonny uses it.” The baby laughed in response. “I’ll be right back, Rafi. Bella, I’m going to change your offspring,” you shouted, heading up the stairs.

Dom Sr. placed a crudités platter on the coffee table and sat down in his usual chair in the corner of the living room. “So, I understand you work with Sonny.”

“Yes, sir,” Rafael said, reaching for a carrot stick.

“You know, Sonny was a big fan of yours. That is until you started dating Y/N.” He crossed his arms and fixed Rafael with an icy blue stare.

Rafael returned his gaze, refusing to back down. “This isn’t just a fling, Mr. Carisi. Y/N is very special to me. She’s my world.”

The older man was slightly stunned by Rafael’s admission. Before he could come up with a response, Sonny stumbled into the living room with a squealing little girl clinging to his leg. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair was a mess. The man looked as if he was coming back from fighting a war and he was on the losing side.

“Ok, Y/N. You win,” Sonny said, completely out of breath. “Go play with Nonni for a little bit. Uncle Sonny needs a break.” He set his niece down and ruffled her hair as he left to go help his sisters set the table.

The little girl ran up to Rafael and gave him a bright smile, climbing up on the couch next to him. “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

“Your name is Y/N too?” Rafael asked.

She nodded her head enthusiastically causing her pigtails to bounce up and down. “Yep. Mommy named me after my favo-wite aunt! What’s your name?”

“I’m your aunt’s friend, Mr. Barba.”

“Mista Bawba.” Little Y/N tested the name on her tongue.

Rafael bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the precocious child. “You can call me Rafi if you like.”

“Ok, Wafi!” She hopped off the couch and ran out of the room, returning in a matter of seconds with a book that was almost as big as she was. “Can you wead?”

Rafael chuckled a bit. “I think I can manage.” Y/N climbed back on the couch and made herself comfortable on his lap, ready for him to start. Glancing up, he saw Dom Sr. with a pleasantly surprised look on his face. He gestured for Rafael to go ahead. Clearing his throat, Rafael cracked open the book and began to read the story.

You came bounding down the stairs with a freshly changed baby only to stop in your tracks when you came upon a sight that made your heart flutter, soar, and anything else that might require a trip to the cardiologist. There in the living room was your boyfriend with your little niece sitting on his lap, making her giggle as he did funny voices while reading her “The Day the Crayons Quit.” The book you had gotten her this past Christmas.

Sensing your presence, he stopped mid-sentence and caught you staring at him. “Don’t stop now. This is the good part.” You immediately plopped down on the couch next to him and little Y/N. His expression softened and he paused, committing this moment to memory: you sitting by his side with a baby nestled in your arms. Locking eyes, you simultaneously knew that this was what you both wanted—a family. It never felt right with anyone else. But having a family with Rafael, there was no other way to describe it other than perfect. And he felt the exact same way.

*****

“How cute is that?” Gina cooed.

Teresa set the placemats down on the dining room table and went over to her sister. “I know. I think my ovaries just exploded.”

Bella nodded as she laid out the silverware. “Ma needs to get a mop cause I’m a puddle right now.”

Sonny walked in from the kitchen with an armful of plates, furrowing his brow when he saw his three sisters practically drooling. “What’s goin’ on in here?”

“Oh nothin’. Just watching the sexy Cuban man in the living room entertaining our children,” Bella said.

Sonny followed his sister’s gaze to find you and Rafael, surrounded by all of your nieces and nephews playing Candy Land, even your father had joined the game. “Rafael? Please,” he scoffed. “If you find uptight tiny men with overly coiffed hair attractive.”

Gina made a face. “What’s with you?”

“Yeah,” Bella chimed in, taking the plates from her brother and placing them on the table. “I thought you worshipped the ground this guy walks on.”

Sonny snorted. “That was before I caught them on Nonna’s table.”

“Oh yeah, Y/N told me about how ya’ cock blocked her.” Gina smirked and nudged her brother. “Sounds like our lil’ sis is getting satisfied.”

“I wonder if he has a brother,” Teresa mused.

Sonny groaned and plopped down on the dining room chair. “Not you guys too. Anyways, don’t start planning Y/N’s bachelorette party just yet. After tonight, I predict this relationship will start to fizzle out pretty fast.” He stood up and finished setting the table.

“Sonny, what did ya’ do?” Teresa put her hands on her hips and gave her brother a warning glare.

“Why are ya’ pointin’ the finger at me. I’m just sayin’ don’t expect those two to work out. There may be someone else out there for Y/N.” Sonny shrugged and grabbed a piece of garlic bread, taking a bite. “Someone more appropriate. Someone who’s not about to enter their twilight years,” he muttered.

All three of his sisters swooped in and surrounded him. There was no place to escape. He was trapped. Teresa narrowed her eyes. Gina smacked the bread out his hand.

“You better not fuck this up for her. I mean it. She’s happy.” Bella punched him in the shoulder.

“What’s going on in here?” Julia arched her brow, setting a large platter of ragu tagliatelle on the table.

“Nothing,” all of the Carisi children simultaneously said with innocent smiles plastered on their faces.

Knowing her children, Mrs. Carisi was not buying their act. “Uh-huh. Last time you said ‘nothing’. I caught you all fingerpainting the living room walls with chocolate syrup. Whatever you’re doing, stop. It’s time to eat.”

*****

“More parmigiana, Rafael?” Julia asked with a warm smile as the ADA devoured his food.

“Yes, please.” Rafael happily accepted the platter and took his second serving. “Everything is delicious.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” she replied. Mrs. Carisi had outdone herself. The dining room table was laden with various pastas, lasagna, mussels in a simmering broth, and bread. With each bite, Rafael could feel his stomach expand and yet he couldn’t stop himself from eating. By the end of the night, he was sure one of his buttons would pop.

Taking a sip of his wine, he noticed a painting of what looked to be a street market in Italy on the wall. Vibrant colors depicted vendors selling fruits, vegetables, and various wares on a cobblestone alley. Rafael lost himself in the artwork for a moment. He could practically hear the Italian women barter and bicker over the best price for tomatoes. “That’s a beautiful painting.” He turned to you. “Let me guess. One of yours?”

“Actually that was painted by my grandmother. It’s a market in Naples. My great-grandfather used to sell fish there every week and Nonna Carisi would go with him. She would paint to pass the time,” you remarked.

“You never told me that before,” Rafael said with a smirk.

“Nonna Carisi was an amazing painter,” Julia added. “She used to babysit Y/N. I would come home from work and find them both painting their next masterpieces.”

“Guess it runs in the family then.” Rafael gave you a sly wink.

Mr. Carisi softly chuckled. “I remember when I came home from the hospital after having my heart attack and Y/N announced at dinner one night that she decided to quit the MBA program at NYU so that she can devote her life to art. I swear, I almost had another heart attack right here at this table.”

You sighed, having heard this story countless times before. “Life is short, Pops. I would rather spend my time doing what I love and pursuing my dreams than being bored and miserable reviewing portfolio investments and marketing strategies, slaving away for the almighty dollar. Besides, aren’t you always saying that all you want in life is for your patatina to be happy?”

Mr. Carisi nodded and softly smiled. “Yes, I did and I’m proud of you and what you’ve accomplished.”

“I think Y/N is an incredible artist,” Rafael said. “When we first met, it was her passion for art that really struck me. Her paintings are absolutely captivating. She’s one of the most talented people I know.” He took hold of your hand under the table, running his thumb across your knuckles. Your sisters gave each other a knowing look, wiggling their eyebrows while your brother rolled his eyes. You blushed at his compliment and took a sip of your wine, never letting go of his hand.

“So, when do you two plan on tying the knot?” Gina asked.

You whipped your head around. “Gina?!”

Your sister feigned innocence. “What? I was just askin’. And anyways, time’s a wastin’, lil sis.” She held up her hand and showed off her 3.5 carat pear shaped yellow diamond engagement ring. “Tick Tock.”

Your mom’s eyes lit up. “You know, Nonna Carisi’s wedding dress is in the attic. We can head up there after lunch and try it on.”

“Just as long as you have the wedding in the fall,” Bella said and rubbed her belly. “It’ll give me time to lose the rest of the baby weight.”

Teresa shook her head. “No way. She should have a summer wedding. I bet my firm can book the Plaza for August.” She immediately took out her phone and started to shoot off a text to her assistant.

As your sisters argued over your wedding date, your mom continued, “Of course, we’d have to alter the dress. Nonna Carisi was a little hippy. God bless her.”

You turned beet red. The last time you were this mortified was when you were 16 and got busted making out in the movie theater by your parents. “Can we please stop this crazy conversation and come back from whatever insane alternate reality you ladies are living in and just enjoy our meal. Not another word about the Plaza, wedding dresses, or anything about my or Rafael’s future for the rest of the evening. Thank you.”

Everyone around the table was quiet and focused on their food until Rafael cut through the silence. “Just as long as our kids don’t look like a sack of potatoes, I’m good.”

Rafael’s surprise joke caused you to choke on your wine. He patted your back as you coughed and sputtered. Surprisingly, your father snorted a laugh. As the day progressed, he began to grow fond of Rafael. The laughter became infectious and soon everyone joined in. Well, everyone except for Sonny.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Sonny shot right up with a smug smile on his face. “I’ll get it.”

Your mom and dad eyed each other curiously from across the table. “Were you expecting someone? Dom asked his wife. Julia shook her head no.

You dropped your fork with a clang, instantly recognizing the voice of the person Sonny was greeting at the door. “Hey everyone! Look who’s here!” Sonny announced as he led Theo into the dining room.

All the color drained from your face, you looked as if you had seen a ghost. The shock of seeing your ex quickly began to wear off and was replaced with rage. White hot, explosive rage. As your blood began to boil, you silently debated who to kill first—your brother or ex-fiance.

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ameryth74 · 5 years

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Louis **** Title Generator Tool

** **** it

LOL.... go!

Two letter words:

There are 107 acceptable 2-letter words listed in the Official Scrabble Players Dictionary, 6th Edition and the Official Tournament and Club Word List:

AA, AB, AD, AE, AG, AH, AI, AL, AM, AN, AR, AS, AT, AW, AX, AY, BA, BE, BI, BO, BY, DA, DE, DO, ED, EF, EH, EL, EM, EN, ER, ES, ET, EW, EX, FA, FE, GI, GO, HA, HE, HI, HO, ID, IF, IN, IS, IT, JO, JU, JY, JZ, KA, KI, KO, LA, LI, LO, MA, ME, MI, MM, MO, MU, MY, NA, NE, NO, NU, OD, OE, OF, OH, OI, OK, OM, ON, OP, OR, OS, OW, OX, PA, PE, PI, PO, QI, RE, SH, SI, SO, TA, TE, TI, TO, UH, UM, UN, UP, US, UT, WE, WO, XI, XU, YA, YE, YO, ZA

Two letter contractions: I’m, I’d

Four letter verbs:

abet, abut, abye/aby, ache, alit, ally, ante, arch, aver, avow (10).

baby, bach, back, bade, baff, bail, bait, bake, bald, bale, balk, ball, band, bang, bank, bant, barb, bard, bare, barf, bark, base, bash, bask, bate, bath, bauk, bawl, bead, beam, bean, bear, beat, beck, bede, beef, been, beep, bell, belt, bend, bent, bere, best, bias, bide(archaic usage), biff, bike, bilk, bill, bind, bird, birl, birr, bite, bitt, blab, blat, blaw, bled, blet, blew, blip, blob, blot, blow, blub, blue, blur, boak, boat, bode, body, boff(vulgar usage), boil, boke, bomb, bond, bone, bong, bonk, boob, book, boom, boot, bore, born, boss, boun, bowl, brad, brag, bray, bred, brew, brim, buck, buff, bulk, bull, bump, bung, bunk, bunt, buoy, burl, burn, burp, burr, bury, bush, busk, buss, bust, busy, butt, buzz (117).

ca-ca, cage, cake, calk, call, calm, came, camp, cane, cant, card, care, carp, cart, case, cash, cast, cave, cede, cere, chap, char, chat, chaw, chid, chin, chip, chop, chow, chug, chum, cite, clad, clam, clap, claw, clay, clew, clip, clog, clop, clot, cloy, club, clue, coal, coat, coax, cock, code, coif, coil, coin, coke, comb, come, comp, cone, conk, conn, cook, cool, coop, cope, copy, cord, core, cork, corn, cosh, cost, coup, cove, cowl, crab, cram, crap, crew, crib, crop, crow, cube, cuff, cull, curb, curd, cure, curl, curr, cuss (90).

dado, daff, damn, damp, dang, dare, dark, darn, dart, dash, date, daub, dawn, daze, deal, deck, deed, deem, defy, deke, dele, demo, dent, deny, dial, dice, died, diet, dike, dine, ding, ding, dint, dirk, disc, dish, disk, diss, dive, dock, doff, dole, dome, done, doom, dope, dose, doss, dote, dove, down, doze, drab, drag, draw, dray, dree, drew, drip, drop, drub, drug, drum, duck, duel, duet, dull, dumb, dump, dung, dunk, dupe, dusk, dust, dyke (75).

earn, ease, echo, eddy, edge, edit, emit, envy, espy, etch, even, exit (12).

face, fade, fail, fake, fall, fame, fard, fare, farm, fart, fash, fast, fate, fawn, faze, fear, feed, feel, fell, felt, fend, fess, fete, feud, file, fill, film, find, fine, fink, fire, firm, fish, fist, fizz, flag, flap, flat, flaw, flay, fled, flee, flew, flex, flip, flit, flog, flop, flow, flub, flux, foal, foam, foil, foin, fold, fond, fool, foot, ford, fork, form, foul, fowl, frag, frap, fray, free, fret, frig, frit, fuel, full, fume, fund, funk, furl, fuse, fuss, futz, fuze, fuzz (82).

gaff, gage, gain, gait, gall, game, gang, gaol, gape, garb, gash, gasp, gast(obsolete), gate, gaum(US), gave, gawk, gawp, gaze, gear, geld, gibe, gift, gild, gill, gimp, gird, girt, give, glad(archaic), glom, glow, glue, glug, glut, gnar, gnaw, go by, go on, goad, golf, gone, gong, goof, gore, gown, grab, gray, grew, grey, grid, grin, grip, grit, grow, grub, gulf, gull, gulp, gush, gust, gybe, gyre, gyve (64).

hack, haft, hail, hale, halo, halt, hand, hang, hare, hark, harm, harp, hash, hasp, hast, hate, hath(archaic), haul, have, hawk, haze, head, heal, heap, hear, heat, heed, heel, heft, held, helm, help, hent(obsolete), herd, hewn, hide, hike, hill, hint, hire, hiss, hive, hoax, hock, hoke(slang), hold, hole, home, hone, honk, hood, hoof, hook, hoop, hoot, hope, horn, hose, host, hove, howl, huff, hulk, hull, hump, hung, hunt, hurl, hurt, hush, husk, hymn, hype, hypo (74).

idle, inch, iris, iron, isle, itch (6).

jack, jade, jail, jape, jazz, jeep, jeer, jell, jerk, jest, jibe, jilt, jink, jinx, jive, join, joke, jolt, josh, juke, jump, junk (22).

kayo, keek(Scots), keel, keen, keep, kept, kern, kick, kill, kiln, kilt, kink, kiss, kite, knap, knew, knit, knot, know (19).

lace, lack, laid, lain, lair, lake, lamb, lame, land, lard, lark, lase, lash, last, lath, laud, lave, laze, lazy, lead, leaf, leak, lean, leap, lech, leer, left, lend, lens, lent, levy, lick, lift, like, lilt, limb, lime, limn, limp, line, link, lisp, list, live, load, loaf, loan, lock, loft, loll, long, look, loom, loop, loot, lope, lord, lose, lost, loup(Scots), lour, lout, love, lube, luck, luff, luge, lull, lump, lure, lurk, lust, lute, lyse (74).

mace, made, mail, maim, make, mall, malt, mark, marl, mart, mash, mask, mass, mast, mate, maul, maze, mean, meet, meld, mell, melt, mend, meow, mesh, mess, mete, mewl, miff, milk, mill, mime, mind, mine, mint, mire, miss, mist, moan, moat, mock, moil, mold, molt, moon, moor, moot, mope, moss, move, muck, muff, mull, mump, muse, mush, muss, must, mute (59).

nail, name, near, neck, need, nest, nick, nigh, nill(obsolete), nock, nose, nosh, note, nuke, null, numb (16).

obey, ogle, oink, okay, omen, omit, ooze, open, oust, over (10).

pace, pack, page, pain, pair, pale, pall, palm, pang, pant, pare, park, part, pash(Austral), pass, pave, pawn, peak, peal, peck, peek, peel, peen, peep, peer, pelt, pend, perk, perm, pick, pike, pile, pill, pimp, pine, ping, pink, pipe, piss(vulgar), pith, pity, plan, plat, play, plod, plop, plot, plow, plug, pock, poke, pole, poll, pond, pool, pore, port, pose, post, pour, pout, pray, pree, prep, prey, prim, prod, prog, prop, puff, puke, pule, pull, pulp, pump, punt, purl, purr, push, putt (80).

quad, quip, quit, quiz (4).

race, rack, raft, rage, raid, rail, rain, rake, ramp, rang, rank, rant, rape, rase, rasp, rate, rave, raze, razz, read, ream, reap, rear, reck, redd(dialect), rede(archaic), redo, reed, reef, reek, reel, rein, rely, rend, rent, rest, re-up, rice, rick, ride, riff, rift, rile, rill, rime(archaic)/rhyme, ring, riot, rise, risk, rive, roam, roar, robe, rock, rode, roil, rolf, roll, romp, roof, rook, room, root, rope, rose, rout, rove, ruck, ruff, ruin, rule, rush, rust (73).

sack, said, sail, sale, salt, sand, sass, sate, save, sawn, scab, scam, scan, scar, scat, scud, scum, seal, seam, sear, seat, seed, seek, seel, seem, seen, seep, sell, send, sent, sewn, shag, sham, shed, shim, shin, ship, shit, shoe, shog, shoo, shop, shot, show, shun, shut, sick, side, sift, sigh, sign, silk, silt, sing, sink, sire, site, size, skew, skid, skim, skin, skip, slab, slag, slam, slap, slat, slay, sled, slew, slid, slim, slip, slit, slog, slop, slot, slow, slub, slue, slug, slum, slur, smut, snag, snap, snip, snow, snub, snug, soak, soap, soar, sock, soil, sold, sole, solo, soot, sorb, sort, soup, sour, sown, spae(scottish), spam, span, spar, spat, spay, spec, sped, spew, spin, spit, spot, spud, spur, spurn, stab, stag, star, stay, stem, step, stet, stew, stir, stop, stow, stub, stud, stun, suck, suds, suit, sulk, sung, sunk, surf, swab, swag, swam, swan(brit), swap, swat, sway, swig, swim, swob, swop(brit)/swap, swot, swum, sync (155).

tabu, tack, tail, take, talc, talk, tame, tamp, tang, tank, tape, tare, task, taut, taxi, team, tear, teem, tell, tend, tent, term, test, text, thaw, thin, thud, tick, tide, tidy, tier, tiff, tile, till, tilt, time, tine, ting, tint, tire, toil, toke, told, tole, toll, tomb, tone, tong, took, tool, toot, tope, tore, torn, toss, tote, tour, tout, tram, trap, tree, trek, trim, trip, trod, trot, trow(archaic), true, tube, tuck, tuft, tune, turf, turn, tusk, twig(Brit), twin, twit, type (79).

undo, urge (2).

vade, vail(archaic), vamp, vary, veal, veer, veil, vein, vend, vent, vest, veto, vide, view, vine, visa, vise, void, vote (19).

wade, waft, wage, wail, wait, wake, wale, walk, wall, wane, want, ward, ware(archaic), warm, warn, warp, wash, waul, wave, wawl, wean, wear, weed, ween, weep, weet, weld, well, welt, wend, went, wept, were, wert(archaic), wham, whap, whet, whid(Scottish), whip, whir, whiz, whop, wick, wile, will, wilt, wind, wine, wing, wink, wipe, wire, wise, wish, wisp, wist, wite, wive, woke, wolf, wont, wood, woof, word, wore, work, worm, worn, wove, wrap, writ(archaic) (71).

x-ray (1).

yack, yank, yard, yarn, yaup, yawn, yawp, yean, yell, yelp, yerk, yeuk, yock, yoke, yowl, yo-yo(informal), yuck (17).

zero, zest, zinc, zing, zone, zonk, zoom (7).

IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT IT

(yes there are 28 ITs)

#louis tomlinson #song title #** **** it #lt1 #lol 😂#*** **

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martinmcg · 3 years

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KING ROOK

I grew up in a housing estate that was built on a gently-rising hillside. The top of the hill was ringed with trees, ancient sessile oaks, wych elm and horse chestnut. You wouldn’t call it a forest, it’s not that big, but it’s a bit more than a few random trees. We called it Hangman’s Woods because in the old days they didn’t bother building a scaffold in town, they just dragged people from the courthouse down the road, stuck a rope around their neck and pulled them by the neck over a branch of the biggest oak in the wood.

Justice. So they said.

The rooks were probably there then, watching and waiting for a feed. They still rule the place today.

These were big birds with heavy black beaks and bodies matt as coal dust but their hoods shone like satin and framed beaded eyes that saw everything.

Every evening the rooks welcomed the night with a great performance. The clamour, at first just one or two birds, grew quickly as groups returned from their day’s scavenging. Soon dozens and then hundreds and eventually maybe a thousand rooks swirled in one black cloud around the treetops. In the valley below the housemartins and swifts zipped and flitted between the rows of our houses, but we all lived in the shadow of the rooks.

Finally, at some unknowable signal, the gyring mass would all at once drop from the sky to their roosts in the trees. For a few minutes the branches swayed and rattled as the birds settled down. And when, at last, all went quiet, night had come.

Al McCourt was waiting for me when I got home from the last day of my Saturday job in Woolworths. He was leaning on the fence outside our house and annoying the dog, Nipper, who was lying on the concrete slabs of the short path between the gate and the house, ears flat, teeth bared, growling like an angry bear. It’d have been impressive if the mutt had been more than ten inches high.

“Shut up, Nipper!”

The growling stopped, but Nipper didn’t take his eyes off McCourt. He could hold a grudge that wee dog.

Al was a prick. He was thin-faced with a nose like the thick end of a hurley and a way of standing side-on so he was always looking at you out the corner of one eye. His voice was high and wheedling and it made the back of your neck crawl like metal scraping metal. He didn’t care that people hated him, he seemed to take pride in the way they shuddered at his approach. He mistook fear for respect. But Al was also my uncle Seamus’s man, and that meant that no one got to give him the kicking he obviously deserved. Except for the one night, a couple of years before, when the Brits had caught him out on his own.

They beat the shit out of him.

McCourt walked with a limp to this day. He wore it like a badge of honour and claimed a fortune off the DHSS for it. He was never out of the Citizens Advice place.

Economic warfare, Seamus called it. Taking the Brits for every penny.

Scrounging, my Da said.

Anyway, the day the Brits put Al McCourt in hospital was about as close as the two communities in Ardowen ever got to a moment of harmony. If we could have turned his beating into a spectator sport the whole Troubles might have ended there and then. We could have made a few bob too.

McCourt pulled himself up to his full height, flicking a pebble at the dog as he turned to me. I wasn’t tall but he barely came up to my chin. He scratched at his ear through a mass of greasy hair and grinned.

“Your uncle wants to see you,” he said. “Pronto, Tonto!”

I hated being called Tonto, a childhood nickname because my freckles made me a “redskin”.

“No can do, kemosabe,” I said, shaking my head. I wasn’t going to let the little shit know he’d annoyed me. “I’m away out the night.”

That wasn’t a lie. It was the last Saturday before we all left for university and I was going to a disco in Cookstown with Paddy and Aidan and the lads from school. We were going to get lashed and see how many girls we could persuade to let us stick our tongues down their throats. And maybe cop a feel. You never knew what we might get away with before we crossed the water. That was the plan for me and Paddy anyway. Aidan’d be out the back dry-humping his girl from Ballygawley and then trying to persuade us he’d really done it.

“Y’can get your end away later, wee Connolly,” McCourt seemed very pleased with himself, like he knew something I didn’t. “Your uncle says it’s urgent.”

“Can I at least get a wash and a change first?”

McCourt shrugged.

“The back bar–”

“-in O’Neill’s,” I cut him off. I knew where Seamus would be, it was where he always was.

“By seven, Tonto.” McCourt turned away, his bad leg dragging behind him like some doomed bird’s broken wing. “Don’t keep the big man waiting.”

“Yeah, and fuck you too,” I whispered softly as I opened the gate.

Nothing on the estate was safe from the rooks. Cats, small dogs, rabbits – any kind of unwary pet or careless wild thing was a potential target. A ruffling of feathers, a chorus of rough croaks and something vulnerable would squeal. Afterwards the rooks would stride casually across the road or on the little patch of scrubby grass that was our Croke Park, our Old Trafford, our playground, and they would dare us to challenge them, their beaks still glossed with blood.

I was the first baby born in our estate. It was newly built, still smelling of concrete dust and paint, the white stones of the pebbledash gleaming in the weak spring sunshine. The whole place had been a frantic response to a civil rights campaign that was rapidly turning into the bloody Troubles. It was a hopeless attempt to jam shut a box from which the nightmares had long since fled. Years later it would turn out that all the houses were slowly sliding down the hill into the bog in the valley below. You can take that for a metaphor of how rotten things were back then if you like but it was also the truth.

Whatever came later, my Ma was proud of her new home. They’d moved from a two-up-two-down built into the side of a railway cutting so steep you practically needed a ladder to climb the street outside. That house, she always said, had been so small you couldn’t peel a spud without opening the back door. The new house had three bedrooms, an inside toilet and a garden. She loved that house.

My parents moved in while the houses around them were still being built. I was born, she said, before the paint was dry. And before people learned what it was like to live with the rooks.

It was a bright spring morning and Ma left my pram in the garden – for all the violence on the television it was still a safe thing to do. She left me there and went back into the house to clean or cook or do whatever one of the thousand other things she did to make our lives that little bit better.

When she came back, just a few minutes later, a huge rook was sitting on the handle of my pram, staring in at me.

She screamed and rushed forward, waving frantic arms, trying to scare the bird away.

The rook just stared at her.

My Ma stopped.

Small, bottomless, eyes took her in and then turned down to me as I lay gurgling in the pram. There was a moment of stillness. Then the bird spread its wings and launched itself into the air and setting my pram rocking.

My Ma described the rook as a monster – vast as an eagle, darker than the night.

“The King Rook,” she’d called it and my dad had laughed his head off at her.

But I know the King Rook is real. It left me a gift, a pebble, smoothed and polished by running water until in shone like a jewel that my Ma kept for me. And he came back, again and again. Sometimes he took my things. He took my Action Man from the garden, my toy car from the playground, a schoolbook with my homework in it and a cassette of songs I’d taped off the Sunday afternoon chart show.

I knew it was the rook because, whenever he took something, he always left a gift behind.

A pyramid of snail shells, each one punched neatly open with a single round hole and emptied. The pale skull of a rat. A delicate blue egg, hollowed and cleaned. One morning, planted in the centre of our tiny front garden like a banner or a sign of ownership, I found a single black feather with a gloss so perfect that it reflected light like a mirror.

And there were other things. Bloody things.

They were magical signs. Signs that no matter how bad things got around me – and there were times when things got very bad – I was protected.

The King Rook was watching over me.

O’Neill’s bar was a fortress. The windows were protected by shutters made from thick-gauge wire that were kept permanently closed. The inside of the windows had been blocked up with breezeblocks and a string of bulbs, white Christmas tree lights, hung in the gap between the wall and the glass to make the place look a bit less grim from the outside. It didn’t work. The pub’s walls – rebuilt after a UVF bomb attack – were thick reinforced concrete skimmed over with rough plaster and painted a grimy brown and there were bright lights and cameras covering the car park and every approach.

I didn’t want to miss my bus to Cookstown so I’d rushed getting ready. It wasn’t, officially, opening time yet and, for form’s sake, the outside door was closed when I got to the pub – not that that meant anything. I pressed the bell and looked up into the camera. The buzzer went and I pushed my way in. Michael Molloy was sitting on a stool in the hall, a baseball bat leaning against the wall beside him, and he nodded me through as I turned left into the public bar.

When things get going, the front bar in O’Neill’s is a busy place, full of people enjoying a laugh and a drink. Later on there’d be a bit of singing and a lot of noise but it was early yet and quiet as the hardcore set about their beer and shorts with a steady desperation. The Sacred Heart lamps we called them, laughing behind their backs, because the drink had given them all red noses.

Even this early the smoke was hanging thick between the yellowed walls so that it obscured the big pictures of the local heroes, Thomas J Clarke – one of the Easter Rising crowd – and Martin Hurson – one of the hunger strikers – that took pride of place behind the bar. Between the pictures was an ornamental harp that Sean, the owner, had made in the woodwork lessons he got while he was interned in the Long Kesh. He’d painted tiocfaidh ár lá in white Gaelic lettering on the brown varnished wooden base.

Sean smiled at me as I walked through to the back bar.

“Pint?”

“I’m not staying,” I said.

“Smithwicks?”

I nodded, resigned.

“I’ll bring it through.”

The thick fug of cigarette smoke was about the only thing the back bar of O’Neill’s had in common with the front. The walls were painted a dark green that seemed to swallow the light and there was a damp and rotten stink from the drains of the toilets next door. It was grim.

My uncle Seamus sat in his usual place in a booth with his back to the wall, so he could see who was coming in. The only other way out was a long narrow corridor that lead to the toilets and ended with a door so heavily wrapped in metal armour that it took two people to drag it open. There was a peephole cut into the door and a monitor, showing a picture of the back car park, sat on a shelf above the lintel.

Half-a-dozen hard men sat nursing whiskeys and pints at other tables. They all wore black leather jackets and aggressively stone-washed jeans and a few sported impressive displays of what they, no doubt, imagined to be authentically Gaelic facial hair.

“What’s the score, wee Tonto?” Seamus said.

“Ach, the usual, you know me” I said, trying to keep it light. “How’s about you, Uncle Seamus,”

“Same old same old,” he said. “Come in. Sit down. You don’t want to be making me nervous now, do you?”

“No way,” I said, and laughed.

Seamus was a funny fella. When he was in a good mood, he had a great sense of humour and always had some story or a comeback. In a country where slagging off your neighbour was practically an Olympic sport, there weren’t many could beat my uncle. Of course there weren’t many that tried either. You didn’t want to be the one who went too far or said the wrong thing. It wasn’t a mistake you’d make twice.

Seamus didn’t look like much at all. He was a short, slightly stocky man with a shiny bald head and a neatly-trimmed, snowy beard. He dressed well, favouring slightly old-fashioned tweed suits and he devoted special attention his shoes – always the best Italian leather and always polished to a gleaming finish. You could have imagined him as a dapper off-duty Santa Claus – if Santa had turned out to spend his spare time moonlighting as a psychopath.

You never forgot the first time you saw Uncle Seamus lose his temper.

He was a man who moved in circles where a lack of regard for the well-being of others was an entry-level requirement, but even amongst that crowd Seamus stood out. He was fearsome as an individual, precisely and thoroughly vicious, but it was his talent for dreaming up acts of exquisite brutality and the enthusiasm with which his brigade of volunteers made those dreams real that had made his name.

The Cripple Feeney could tell you about what Seamus and his lads were capable of doing. Or rather, he’d write down what Seamus did to him, and then he’d make that sick sucking sound that he does instead of laughing when you went pale reading his words.

Sean came in and put the pint of Smithwicks in front of me.

“That’ll tighten you, Tonto,” he said, a bit too loud, and slapped me on the shoulder. He was nervous. I could smell the sweat on him even over the cigarette smoke. “Can I get you anything, Seamus?”

My uncle shook his head but said nothing. He stared at Sean, his face blank, his pale eyes fixing the barman. I looked between the two men and then looked down, determined not to get drawn into whatever was going on. I liked Sean, I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t want any bit of it.

“Dead on, so,” Sean said and let slip a peal of laughter that was pitched too high. “Well, if you need anything, you know where I am.”

“Oh I do, alright,” said Seamus and then said nothing else.

Sean turned to go, stopped, turned back as though to speak, and then shook his head and left.

The silence dragged. I picked up my pint and took a heavy gulp from the glass even though the head hadn’t quite settled out. My throat was dry. The beer was cold and sharp and I needed it.

One of the lads on my left – one of The Cripple Feeney’s brothers – mumbled something and another one, I didn’t know him, snorted and laughed.

My uncle turned his head and the silence snapped back into place.

I took another drink. The pint was two thirds gone.

“Right, Tonto,” Seamus said at last. “I’ve got a wee job for you.”

He nodded and the stranger who’d been doing the laughing came over and put something that was wrapped in a greasy cloth on the table between me and Seamus. He went back to his seat, my eyes stayed on the thing on the table. It was small but obviously heavy.

Seamus reached over and with fingertips, as though determined not to let the thing soil his hands, he pushed the lump of metal towards me.

I reached for my pint again and closed my eyes.

Fuck.

I spent my thirteenth birthday at the same place as I’d spent all my birthdays since I’d been old enough to go to school – at Colm Hagan’s birthday party.

Colm Hagan’s dad and uncle were lawyers. The richest Catholics in the county, everyone reckoned. When I was young they bought the hill and Hangman’s Wood and they chopped down a dozen big trees to make room to build two big, ugly, square-sided houses that looked down over our estate.

Colm Hagan joined my class and, it turned out, he had the same birthday as me. At first we both though that was cool and for a while we were friends. Then came our birthday and Colm Hagan invited the whole class to his fancy house and I found myself spending my birthday there because that’s where all my other friends had gone.

What could we offer? A slice of Battenberg cake, a fig roll, a glass of orange squash and a game of musical chairs – if they were lucky.

When Colm was nine he got two go-karts and his dad built him a track through the woods so he could have races. I’d have chosen his party over mine too.

We stopped being friends.

He probably never even thought about it.

I hated him.

But not so much that I was happy when I found his dead body, eyes pecked out, lying at the foot of a big oak in his own back garden on the day we both turned thirteen.

The party had been great. Everyone was having a brilliant time. We watched Colm play Elite and Chuckie Egg on his BBC Micro and then we rode around the woods on our bikes so Colm could show off his BMX and there was loads of food. By the time the cake came out I’d had enough of watching everyone else having a good time so I crammed a load of wee sausages and bread in my pockets and went out to feed the birds.

I’d emptied my pockets and was heading back to the house for more when I found Colm, lying face up on the ground next to his bike, with a big purple bruise on his forehead and his skin as pale and thin as paper.

On his chest, lying on the crest of his Man United football jersey, was another gift for me.

Feeling the bile burn in my throat, suddenly glad I hadn’t wanted any cake, I picked up the liquid sack of Connor Hagan’s eye and slipped it into my pocket, shoving the slick cord of the optic nerve in after it.

And then I started shouting for help.

“Ah you’re fucking joking!” I said, but no one was laughing. In fact everyone else in the room was suddenly very serious indeed – like birds waiting for the barely moving thing before them to sit still and become carrion.

“It’s just a wee parcel I’m asking you to help me deliver, Tonto,” Seamus said. “Would you not do this for me… and for the struggle?”

I bowed my head.

“Remember what the Brits did to my sister,” he said. “God rest her soul.”

“Don’t bring Ma into this!” My voice rose sharply and I looked up. Seamus met my gaze with a flat stare and dared me to hold it. I looked away, feeling the hot blood rush to my cheeks.

I was screwed. I could see from the look Seamus was giving me that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I was family, and that bought me some leeway, but Seamus couldn’t let anyone get away with anything that looked like defiance. He had a reputation to maintain. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be lying, blood-soaked and maimed, on the other side of that armoured door. Seamus wasn’t going to let a pup like me challenge him in front of the others, sister’s boy or not.

“The Brits’ll go through everything. You know what they’re like,” I whined. “They’re bound to find it.”

“Why would the Brits be interested in some fucking student?” Laughing-boy, the one I didn’t know, asked.

“Because I’m related to him,” I said, nodding at Seamus. “Fuckin’ twat!”

Laughing-boy stood up and took a step forward, his fists balled.

I pushed back my chair, rising to meet him.

“Stop,” Seamus barely whispered. We both froze.

“Sorry,” I said to Seamus. The other fella mumbled something and sat back down.

“Of course they’re going to check you, Tonto,” Seamus said. “Just stick the thing in one of your wee friends’ bags. What they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

“If they get caught–”

I started to protest but Seamus cut me short.

“They won’t,” he said. “And if they do, sure I’ll look after them. They’ll be grand.”

He pushed the heavy thing across the table to me.

“Now do as you’re told and piss off out of my sight.”

I didn’t get to Cookstown or the disco. I met the lads at the bus station and told them they’d have to go without me. Paddy moaned for bit about ending up on his own but I mentioned Seamus and Aidan told him to shut up.

I watched the blue and white Ulsterbus pull out of the station and cross the old railway bridge. Aidan and Paddy sat in the back seats and made wanker gestures at me until they were out of sight. Then I went home.

I have collection spread in front of me now. If I concentrate hard, I can still feel the sense of security it once promised. I can still feel like someone is watching over me, that I am protected. But it’s getting harder. My dad calls it rubbish, and sometimes I can see it with his eyes.

This will be my last day in this house. Tomorrow I will leave for university. Tomorrow night I will be sleeping in a different country and I will be surrounded by people I was always told were my enemy. I know I won’t be able to come back, not for long time. Some part of me already knew that this was never going to be my home again and part of me can’t wait to get away.

And part of me does not want to go.

It’s the end of September. The summer has been long and hot and, even though you can already feel the days shortening, today has been warm. The evening sky is bright and sharp with only the spreading contrails of jets looping north on their way to America dividing up the expanse of deepening blue.

I wrap each piece of my collection carefully in sheets from yesterday’s copy of the Daily Mirror and place them in a plastic tub that used to be my Da’s lunchbox. Then I put the tub carefully in the centre of my rucksack so it will be safe on the journey.

I drag Seamus’s package out from beneath my bed. I hold it for a minute between two fingers, staring at it from different angles. How can something so small feel so massive? Just picking it off the table in O’Neill’s back bar has ruined me, changed the track of my life, and yet it hasn’t even been used. What more damage will be done if I follow Seamus’s orders?

I hate it. I hate him.

I put the thing down on the bed. Pick it up again. Put it down. I put on my coat then take the rag-wrapped thing and jam it into my inside pocket.

I have made a decision and I am relieved to find that I have no doubts.

I go down stairs, kiss the picture of my Ma in the hall, like I always do, and wish she was still here, like I always do. My Da’s there too, at the bottom of the stairs with the paper, heading to the toilet. I give him a hug as I go past and tell him I love him. His surprise quickly turns to fear.

“What’s going on?” I hear him say, but I’m outside before he can drag me back.

The rooks are coming home to roost, the first few already circling high above the woods, and tonight I want to watch them for the last time.

Al McCourt is sitting outside our house in an Austin Maestro that’s the colour of stale piss. He leans out the window, his face twisted into a smile.

“Going somewhere, Tonto?”

“Just going for a walk up in the woods,” I say, nodding to the hill. “You coming?”

Al eyes the hill suspiciously. The light is starting to fade. The dead eyes of the Hagan’s houses, long abandoned their gardens slowly being reclaimed by the wood, stare down at us. The gyring mass of birds is thickening.

Al knows those birds, knows how they flock, how they prey upon the people of the estate. And, because he recognises them, he fears them.

“Don’t you be playing any funny games,” he says.

I smile at him and turn away.

Let Al choose his own fate.

I am going to climb the hill into Hangman’s Wood and go to the spot where I found Colm Hagan. I want to see the King Rook. I’m bringing him a final offering, but this time I want to choose what I get in return.

I want him to let me go.

“King Rook” was first published in the Irish science fiction magazine Albedo One #45

KING ROOK was originally published on Welcome To My World

#Ireland #Short story

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kindaangelic · 7 years

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BatFam Week Day 2: Shennanigans

Day 2 of BatFam week! Yippity skip! Prompt: Shennanigans ------------ Dick honestly did not know what he had done wrong. All he had done was to mention Wally taking him out to dinner, and Damian had chucked his mashed potatoes across the room and had ran out in tears. Bruce sat at the head of the table, stunned, with mashed potato dripping down his face, while Tim and Jason offered commentary and recorded the debacle. Dick had more pressing issues on his mind than his spud covered father figure, and rushed to see what had gotten Damian into such a tizzy. Dick opened the door to Damian's room to see the boy sobbing and stabbing at a messily drawn picture of what looked like the Flash on fire. "Damian, what's wrong?" Dick cooed. Damian continued to sob, but somehow managed to string together a coherent sentence. "You-you're going to g-go away with the Red Speed De-Demon and you'll forget about me!" Damian wailed. "Then Dr-Drake will take over the house, marry Father, and he'll ma-make me sweep and mop and he won't let me go t-to the ball!" Dick listened to the hysterical boy with growing dread and horror, and when he had finished, held him close, rocking him to and fro. "Hush, hush, now," he whispered. "There's been a huge misunderstanding here. Why don't you tell me what happened, from the beginning?" "I'd like to know that as well," Bruce grumbled, walking into the room smelling vaguely of seasoning. "As the main victim in this-" "Bruce, be quiet!" Dick hissed, silencing the vehement man. "Damian, you go on. Why'd you attack your father? And why is Tim going to marry Bruce?" "I didn't mean to," Damian said. "I just...Todd said he would!" Bruce gaped in horror, while Tim closed his eyes and waited for the sweet embrace of the void to take him. "Jason told you," Dick repeated. "Can you tell me what exactly he told you?" "Well, he said..." ___________ "Where's Dick?" "Grayson is with Flash," Damian answered with a sniff. "Titans business." "Hmm," Jason hummed, pondering. Damian looked blankly at him for a minute before sighing and walking away. Jason followed his small, retreating, figure with his eyes and just as Damian turned the corner, called him back. "Hey, Dami!" Damian flew towards Jason and socked him in the stomach. "Don't call me that!" "Dick calls you that all the time," Jason wheezed out. "Well...that's Grayson. Only he's allowed to call me that," Damian pouted back. Jason nursed his sore stomach and glared at the brat. Slowly, a plan began to form in his mind. "And what will you do once Dick's gone, huh? Who's going to call you Dami then? Who'll love you then?" "Where is Grayson going?" Damian asked curiously. Jason looked at his brother with his innocent expression and tilted head, and felt no mercy. "What, you think Dick's going to stay home forever? Nah, he's going to get married, move out, and have his own kids. That's why he's with Flash right now - they're dating, and soon, they'll get married." Damian's look of anger grew at every passing sentence. "You're lying!" He cried, lunging forward to strangle Jason, and missing. Jason circled easily around the distraught boy to catch him by the middle, and whispered in his ear. "And once Dickie's gone, who's going to be on your side here? Bruce? He's a dolt. Tim? He hates you. In fact, he'll be looking to make his claim on the house stronger with Dick out of the way." "H-huh?" "He's going for the classic scheme. Who's going to be next in line to inherit after Bruce? Not Dick, he's going to get married and leave, and live happily ever after." "Father would split things evenly between his children-" "Oh ho, but what if there was another? Say...a spouse?" Damian was shocked into silence, and Jason took full advantage of the moment. "Tim's going to be an adult soon, and why look around for a partner when the most eligible bachelor in Gotham is right under your nose?" "No-!" "Yes," Jason hissed, bending down to Damian's level, coming nose to nose with him. "Tim will wed Bruce, and he'll be your step-father!" "Aagh!" "Yes! Now you're getting it! He's planned the seduction, the wedding, the control, and once he's Mr. Wayne, he's going to do to you exactly what was done to Cin-" Jason choked off, stuffing his fist in his mouth. "Cinderella," he rasped out. "What? What is that?" Damian cried. Jason's shriveled heart danced a merry jig. This was unbelievable. The demon assassin baby didn't know about Cinderella. Talia couldn't have been big on reading her son bedtime stories; she would have probably put him to bed with A Handy List of Stabbing Techniques. It was what Jason was given when he was Talia's protégé. "Cinderella was a girl," Jason started sadly. "A girl whose step-mother forced her into servitude. She swept the chimney and sewed dresses all day long, when all she wanted to do was to go to the Prince's ball." "Was she...able to go?" Damian asked softly. "No," Jason said sadly. "Her step-mother wouldn't let her. Do you know what happened then?" Damian looked at him with wide eyes and shook his head. A better man may have stopped the prank then, but this was Jason. "She never got to go out again, and she never married her prince." Damian gasped. "I will never be able to wed Jon? No!" Jason smirked. Well, that was news. The baby bat wanted to get hitched to SuperBrat? Bruce wasn't going to be pleased, but Clark was going to be tickled pink. "Yup. No wedding, no ball, no Jon, and guess what?" Damian leaned in. "No Grayson." "AAAH!" Jason cackled as he watched Damian run away, and sat back to plot the next stage of his grand plan. ---------- "How was patrol?" "It was fine, B. I actually busted Fal-OH!" Tim squeaked as he fell forward into Bruce's outstretched arms. Tim's nose was squished into Bruce's chest, and Bruce's hands were gripping Tim's back tightly as he looked down at the smaller hero in his arms. They stayed locked in that position, Tim falling asleep in the safety of Bruce's arms and lack of caffeine, and Bruce taking advantage of getting to discreetly hug one of his children - the only way he would ever hug anyone. The moment was broken when Bruce heard a withering gasp by the corner, just in time to see a small, tri-coloured child run up the stairs. Bruce frowned, but settled for lugging Tim over to his bed, to put his clever, little, sleep deprived pup to sleep. He never did see the marbles that Tim had slipped on, or his second son snickering from inside the t-rex. ----------- Finally, there was a peaceful night in Gotham. No one was stirring, not even a minor gangster, and all the Arkham inmates were trussed up in their straitjackets, dreaming of breakouts and planning what to do once they escaped. In Wayne Manor, family movie night was in full swing, and Damian was content, cuddled up against Dick. He had previously snarled at Wally that he was not invited, and had successfully scared him off. Jason looked at Damian's contented face, and thought that he looked not unlike a very small Emperor Palpatine who had just enacted Order 66. Dick, of course, suspected nothing, because he was an oblivious, hug-loving, boob that was currently busy smothering Damian with his love. Jason spied Tim sitting next to Bruce and cackled, a plan already concocted in his mind. He hurried to the kitchen and whipped up a batch of hot chocolate, and added sleeping pills in Tim's mug. "Here," Jason said sweetly, handing the cups out to his family, who took them with due suspicion. "Why?" Tim asked cautiously. "Because I care about you," Jason replied innocently. Well, it was true in a way, he thought to himself as he watched Tim down the hot chocolate, the pills would help his sleep deprived little brother some. Jason patted himself on the back. He was such a good sibling. Within minutes, Tim had dozed off. Jason nudged his sleeping brother and sent him sprawling all over Bruce, who caught him and held him close, while continuing to watch Finding Nemo. Dick cooed and went to fetch a blanket, and busied himself with draping it over Bruce and Tim. Jason shot Damian a pointed look, and watched the boy's face take on an ungainly puce coloration. Just as Dick was about to sit back down next to Damian, Jason purposefully pulled Dick towards himself, leaving Damian all alone in the corner. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason watched Damian get upset, his rage shaking his tiny frame until fat, angry, tears started dripping down his cheeks. Jason silently mouthed the word "Cinderella", and looked over at Tim sprawling over Bruce. Damian immediately jumped up and ran to his room, with Dick watching concernedly. "What happened?" "He probably identified with Nemo," Jason supplied sagely. "Nemo left the ocean and found a new family in the aquarium, just like Damian left the League of Assassins and came here." "You're so smart, Jay," Dick said in awe. Jason chuckled and slung his arm around Dick's shoulders. "I've got hidden depths, Dickhead, hidden depths." ----------- "Hey, Flash." "Hey, Red Hood. Nice to be cornered by you," Wally replied guardedly, shrinking against the wall Jason had herded him towards. "The pleasure is mine," Jason said benignly. "Here's fifty bucks, go and take Dickie someplace nice." Wally looked at the money that Hood was waving in front of his face and took it. "Um...why?" Jason frowned. Why did everybody suspect him of being up to no good? Oh, yeah. He wasn't. "Dickie's been really stressed lately, what with sharing Batman, being Nightwing, and mothering his brothers. You could show him a good time, get to know him, grope him-" "Hood!" "Don't play coy, West, I know where your hands have been," Jason said, shrugging the interruption aside. Wally blushed, and Jason continued, "So go show my brother a good time. Take him someplace nice, buy him a little something." Wally nodded and took the money before zipping away, leaving Jason to practice his evil laugh alone, in the privacy of one of Gotham's sleazier alleyways. ----------- "That's a nice necklace, Dick," Bruce commented over after-patrol dinner. "Thanks, Wally gave it to me. He said to wear it when he takes me out to dinner tomorrow." "That's nice. Where is he taking you? Tim, pass the salt, please." "Here you go," Tim said, his fingers absentmindedly brushing Bruce's as he passed the shaker over. "Right, Dick, you were saying?" "He's-" "Father, you absolute FOOL!" Damian cried hysterically, and flung his plate aside and ran away. Everyone watched, horrified, as the mashed potatoes soared off of the plate, into the air, and landed with a wet plop on Bruce's head. Silence resonated in the dining hall until Alfred moved to carefully remove the spuds from Bruce's hair. "Tremendous execution by Damian Wayne, did you see that wrist motion, Timmy?" Jason commented, channeling a 1950's radio sports commentator. "I did, Jay, I did. The parabolic arc of the throw was perfect. A graphing calculator with an y = x2 formula would have been jealous." "Plus ten points for the sound," Jason added in his baseball commentator voice. "Didja hear that wet splat?" "It was superb - like a thousand slugs hitting the pavement, Jay. We've witnessed history today." "Too true, Timmers, too true." Bruce sat glued to his spot, horrified, while Dick ran out to check on an obviously distraught Damian. It took a good five minutes for Bruce to finally regain his senses and follow Dick, intent on grounding Damian until the next Crisis. ----------- "-and, and Father is too dull to realize, and Drake is going to enslave me! I won't be able to go to the Ball, or marry Jon, and I won't ever see you again because he'll chain me in the basement!" Dick was torn between horror and awe at Jason's sheer gall as he cradled a hysterically crying ten-year-old in his arms while Bruce recovered from being called foolish and dull. "Damian, I won't leave you-" "But Todd said-" "Jason was lying," Bruce said harshly. "Dick isn't getting married, Wally's too broke and classless to have a proper Wayne style wedding. I won't accept getting hitched at the registar, Dick, just do you know. Furthermore, Tim isn't seducing me, and I'm not going to marry him, he's my son." Tim puddled to the floor in disgust, and sought to become one with the carpet. "See? Tim is horrified!" "Tim is disgusted," Tim corrected him. "Tim is traumatized at the thought of wooing his adoptive father, who is old and has grey hairs, and the emotional quotient of a prune. Tim is also offended that Damian thought that I would imprison him and make himsweep the chimney." "That's right-" "Damian wouldn't be able to reach far enough to do a good enough job of cleaning-" "Not helping," Bruce gritted out as Tim's words evoked a fresh wave of wailing from Damian. "But the Cinderella Plan-" Bruce groaned. "Jason lied," he said, sitting down. "It's a fairy tale. Cinderella had a fairy godmother, went to the ball, got her prince, got married, and lived happily ever after." Damian sniffed morosely and swung his little feet in silence. "Promise?" He asked, finally. "Yes," Bruce breathed in relief. "I promise. I promise that Dick isn't going to have a slap-shod wedding, I promise that he's never going to leave, I promise that Tim isn't depraved enough to want his own father, and I promise that when I find Jason, I'm going to make him wash the batmobile with his own tears." "Bruce!" "Shut up, Dick," Bruce grumbled, getting up. "Take care of your brother. Tim, come with me, we're going to find Jason." "Yes, daddy," Tim breathed heavily. "TIM!" ------------- Later that night... "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," Dick seethed at Jason. "How could you manipulate your little brother like that?" "I feel nothing," Jason hissed as he wrung out his sponge and scrubbed the batmobile. "Also, you should be grateful. You got to cuddle Demon brat for a whole gen minutes because of his little meltdown. I also lent Wally that fifty bucks for your necklace!" "Aww, really?" "Dick, you are hopeless," Tim sighed. "Jason, keep scrubbing. Damian, keep whipping him." Damian grinned freaky and cracked his whip at Jason, catching his bottom and eliciting a cry from the older man. That would teach him to mess with Damian Wayne. ----------- Meanwhile, at the Watchtower... "...Batman, you're staring." "I'm aware, Superman." "Um, okay." Clark paused for a beat. "Why?" **Because I'm slowly dying inside contemplating the near future where our sons may force my lawful bonding to you through their marriage, and if I could kill you now, there could still be time for me to mould your son into someone that I could approve of Damian marrying.** "In preparation." "Of...?" Bruce swept out of the room in silence, leaving Superman with a cold feeling in his bones.

#batfamweek #batfamily #damian wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #bruce wayne #tim drake #mentioned Jon kent #clark kent #Jason stop it #crack #humor #fluff #dick and dami

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viaggiatricepigra · 6 years

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Opinione: Morto Che Cammina, di Irvine Welsh

Mark Renton ha fatto bingo: i deejay della sua agenzia fanno ballare i ragazzi sulle due sponde dell’oceano e un bel po’ di soldi entrano in cassa, ma non riesce a sentirsi davvero appagato di una vita passata fra sale d’attesa e stanze d’albergo. Seduto a bordo di un volo che lo riporta a casa, butta giù un tranquillante dopo l’altro per smaltire i postumi della serata precedente, quando all’improvviso incrocia un paio di occhi impossibili da dimenticare: quelli di Frank Begbie. L’ex psicopatico di Leith ora è un artista famoso e sembra non nutrire più alcun proposito di vendetta per quella brutta storia della truffa sulla vendita dell’eroina. Sono passati tanti anni, ma Renton non si fida, vorrebbe saldare il suo debito e teme che Begbie stia tramando qualcosa… Nel frattempo alle orecchie di Sick Boy e Spud, occupati in nuovi «progetti», giunge voce che i vecchi amici bazzicano di nuovo Edimburgo: prospettiva stuzzicante riunire i soci come ai bei tempi. Ma quando i due si avvicinano all’oscuro mondo del traffico di organi, le cose prendono rapidamente una brutta piega per tutto il gruppo. In balia ognuno delle proprie dipendenze, costretti alla resa dei conti con un passato che non può più aspettare, Renton, Begbie, Sick Boy e Spud saranno travolti da un fiume in piena di assurdi imprevisti. Uno di loro rischia di non vedere l’ultima pagina del romanzo: chi è il morto che cammina? ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° Appena chiuso e già sento la mancanza di tutti i vari personaggi. Una storia folle, incredibile e sconvolgente...come tutti i precedenti volumi della serie, d'altro canto. Welsh riesce ancora una volta lasciare senza parole lettore portandolo in una strada lunga, una storia di cui si pensa di indovinare il finale ma che ti coglie alla sorpresa, sempre, a continue riprese. Si parte dallo stesso punto in cui finisce L'Artista Dell Coltello e si continua facendo una panoramica piuttosto veloce sulle varie vite dei 4 protagonisti. Rent è ormai diventato un agente di dj e gira costantemente per il mondo, portando i suoi artisti ai vari palchi dove dovranno esibirsi e (sostanzialmente) facendogli da baby sitter, procurandogli droga, sesso o qualunque altra cosa che vogliano. Stremato per colpa di questa vita sempre in viaggio, è ripiombato nella droga giusto per sopravvivere ai vari jet lag che lo stanno consumando. Ma quando si trova faccia a faccia con Frank vede finalmente l'occasione per metter a posto i casini che ha combinato nel passato, restituendo i soldi rubati anni prima al vecchio (ex?) amico. Ha iniziato anni prima a contare i vari interessi e a metter da parte tutti i soldi necessari per chiudere col passato, pensando di riuscire così a sentirsi più in pace con se stesso. Peccato che è Frank non rivoglio indietro un centesimo... Francis lo abbiamo appurato per bene grazie al romanzo che lo vede protagonista: lo ritroviamo nella sua casa nuova in California, con la moglie e le due figlie, che si sta godendo questa vita meravigliosa si è ritrovato ad avere grazie alla sua arte. La sua vita però è minaccia di Harry (un ex sbirro) che continua a perseguitare la famiglia. Rivediamo anche Sick boy che ha messo su un'agenzia di escort che funziona piuttosto bene, anche se è sempre a caccia. Lo incontriamo prima di Natale, quando torna a casa della sorella, per stare con la famiglia, ma lui non riesce proprio a tenersi fuori dai guai e nemmeno ad evitare di coinvolgere gli altri nella sua m****. Infatti la sera della vigilia coinvolge il cognato in un giro di festeggiamenti, mettendogli dell'ecstasy nel bicchiere, portandolo a fare qualcosa per lui impensabile. Lo conosciamo ormai e nonostante lui si procuri tutti questi guai e si crei questi casini fa sempre il seccato della situazione, quello che viene tirato in mezzo senza motivo, quando è sempre e solo colpa sua in effettivo. È un egocentrico, egoista, come è sempre stato, anzi forse è peggiorato negli anni. E poi Spud che si ritrova a vivere come senzatetto a chiedere l'elemosina in giro, con come unico compagno un cane che ha adottato; sempre buono, strano e caccia di droga. Sarà l'incontro con un suo vecchio amico che gli darà una possibilità per fare qualche soldo, ovviamente in modo illegale. Ma conosciamo Spud e sembra tutto troppo bello per essere vero. Tutte queste storie avvengono circa più di 15 anni dopo la fine di Porno, infatti stando alle date citate nel romanzo Porno è ambientato nel 1998 mentre questa storia dal 2015. Sappiamo poco di questi lunghi anni, ci viene dato qualche piccolo frammento durante la narrazione ma più che altro vediamo il risultato, ovvero che le loro vite non sono cambiate così tanto: Spud è sempre un drogato in cerca di una dose che non riesce a rimettersi in piedi; sempre in crisi per aver rovinato ogni possibilità con l'amore della sua vita, Ali, e il non aver potuto dare di più al loro figlio. Simon, sempre a caccia di donne per fare la sua fortuna attraverso gli altri. Sempre pensando solo a se stesso in primis. E a mettere nella m**** agli altri, ovviamente. Per una risata, per un regolamento di conti o per semplice possibilità di farlo. Rent, ripiombato nella droga e intrappolato in questo lavoro che ama ed odia. Gira il mondo ma in effettivo è stanco di tutto questo vorrebbe solo fermarsi da qualche parte a mettere su casa, trovare una donna che lo ami con cui vivere e riprendere il figlio con sé, visto che dopo il matrimonio fallito è stato (quasi) abbandonato in un istituto perché autistico e lui non poteva dargli una vita stabile come meritava. E poi Francis che è diventato questo grande artista, l'unico che sembra davvero aver voltato pagina del tutto e aver trovato una vita stupenda, degna di questo nome, e ricca di rivalsa. Come intuiamo già, queste vite sono di nuovo destinate ad incontrarsi fra di loro e, naturalmente, non appena si incroceranno partirà il delirio. Nonostante il regolamento di conti che Rent vuole fare, ci saranno altre avventure in serbo per loro e tanti colpi di scena che continueranno a travolgere le loro vite. Ma poi, li conosciamo, alcuni non hanno dimenticato e non vedono l'ora di ridare con gli interessi tutto ciò che hanno passato. Il grande dubbio che permea tutto il romanzo è: chi è il morto che cammina? Infatti idea di lasciare uno di questi personaggi intristisce il lettore, ma insieme gli mette curiosità sul sapere chi, come, e per mano di chi possa lasciarci uno fra questi storici protagonisti. Soprattutto, vedendo la storia come procede, tra tutti questi alti e bassi, non si è mai sicuri di cosa succederà nel capitolo successivo o addirittura dopo un paio di pagine. Welsh ci tiene incollati, nonostante alcune teorie si inizino a formare nella mente del lettore.... Rispetto L'Artista Del Coltello (che ho appena chiuso) questo romanzo è un po' più difficile da leggere, perché l'alternarsi di tutte queste voci così diverse fra di loro lo rende meno scorrevole. Alla fine di tutto la storia è molto interessante, bella, ricca di colpi di scena, nonostante la difficoltà a volte nella lettura. È piacevole incontrare questi personaggi che hanno segnato così tanti fan durante gli anni; mette un po' tristezza vedere e rendersi conto di quanto siano invecchiati, però è la natura umana non si può rimanere giovani per sempre ed anche in questo Welsh riesce a creare una storia che merita di essere letta, perché fossero rimasti sempre gli stessi non ci sarebbe stato quel qualcosa in più che spinge a sapere di queste vite, ormai diverse, ma unite da un passato comune, un'amicizia o semplicemente dalla droga. Sono rimasta un pochino delusa nel finale perché lascia aperti molti interrogativi riguardo alla vita di alcuni personaggi. Viene lasciata molto aperta una possibilità di un seguito, perchè non c'è un punto alla storia. Non c'è una fine, fine! Se sapremo altro su di loro non ne possiamo avere la minima idea, non so nemmeno se sarebbe il caso di farli continuare...ma la curiosità resta alta, nonostante una possibile delusione resti dietro l'angolo. Per dirla breve: è stato davvero bello poter vivere altro insieme a questa stranissima combriccola, di vedere cosa è cambiato in tutto quel tempo e cosa invece non è cambiato. Nonostante le e mie difficoltà, per il cambio nel modo di scrivere quando parlano diversi personaggi, è sempre un piacere leggere queste loro storie. Come già detto più volte, devo trovare il tempo per rileggere tutta la saga dall'inizio, non solo perché leggerli in sequenza credo che sia molto più interessante, ma perchè credo che la mia opinione possa essere cambiata negli anni e sono curiosa di scoprire cosa potrei vedere in altro modo. Lo consiglio sicuramente molto ai fan della serie. Sì aveva paura che questo libro potesse essere una brutta copia del film uscito qualche anno fa (T2), per fortuna non lo è e riesce a creare una storia molto più ampia, dando molta caratterizzazione ai personaggi, nonostante lo stile piuttosto stretto e conciso in alcune parti. Abbiamo dovuto aspettare circa un annetto però n'è valsa la pena. Staremo a vedere quali prossimi romanzi ci riserverà Welsh e se qualcuno fra loro tornerà. from Blogger http://bit.ly/2X3SHtN via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Blogger #Opinione #Libro #Leggere #Viaggiatrice Pigra

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