#like not even a comment or nuttin brother

[thetoaddaddy]

when you only send me smut prompts then like them and never reply it kinda just feels like all im good for is free porn and not a good writer of any kind of substance

[hollerace]

Why I Write--Feb 19, 2021

Dear Curbsiders: Of course, I give my thanks for your eyes, hearts and comments. Many have asked about the veracity of my stories. Yes, I prefer just to scribble ‘em and toss ‘em up there. But this one, I can say, is pretty much true. I can’t say “Square Biz” because those words are still sacrosanct in my old ‘hood and denote 100% truth. Yes, I have changed names and non-pertinent details. But it happened just like this, in 1986. Why I Write “The Lounge!” said Wooie, and we all agreed. The boys from Park City had journeyed to New Haven that Sunday in one of our unplanned, unannounced dining experiences. Of course, a trek to the Elm City could mean only one foodstuff—ahbeets. The misshapen pies from Modern had satisfied and, looking for a nightcap, we headed back down 95 to where we belonged. Osric’s Lounge had been around for a couple of years. The joint had existed under several monikers over the years, and the West End address was far from posh. But a retired English prof from Campion U. had bought the place, and with some minor tidying and poorly wrought woodwork, he had himself a jernt. I was with Wooie, Pete The Pipe, Ricky Meat, Plumber and a couple of other guys. I made no reference to a Danish courtier, which would have gone unnoticed. “Hey, Racky’s onna stick,” said Pete The Pipe, which designated notes of adventure and raucous behavior. Racky Rakoczy had made a living tending bar at various spots around town. With a smile as big as the world, a contagious laugh and mitts big enough to handle several vessels, he would bring his own crowd wherever he worked. He had the way of making you believe that you were one of his long-lost best buds, every time he saw you. As he did that night. “ACE! THE CHAMP IS HERE!” Bouncing from behind the bar, he delivered a powerful, breath-robbing hug, Wooie said, “Oh, the Champ. Here we go.” Yes, I was still living this down. <><><> A little background. About a year before, through a series of events, I had appeared on a game show. And won. And won again. After eight shows, I had reached the final “plateau” and left the show, having won all their prizes. People were still making a big deal of this, especially after reruns thrust me again into the spotlight. My boys—rightly so—had already grown tired of this and busted on me whenever possible. I also managed to write my first published article. Vox Pop, a weekly entertainment paper, had recruited me to pen the TV story and ran it on the cover, to much hoo-ha. I was grateful to be in print and had already fielded some kudos for same. But that, as they say, is another story. <><><> The lighting at the Osric was far from generous, and I found a dim corner to sit and nurse my Rolling Rock. Racky kept announcing my presence, and several well-wishers stopped by to chat. I shied away from answering trivia questions—even when I knew the answers. At last call, Racky would get everyone a final drink and then go sit near the only access to the inner side of the bar, an opening by the never-used stage. Since no one was pouring, no one could order, and people got the hint and left. Most of my crew had already hit Spruce Street. I tried to wave good-bye to Racky, who had returned to the sinks to begin his closing routine when I heard the voice. “You Ace Holleran?” From behind, none too kindly. The tone made me freeze. I turned to answer. The guy was pretty close to my face. “DROP EVERYTHING!” The voice was gravel; it stung. I instinctively showed my empty hands, looking for my absent boys. Racky held his hands in a “calm down” pose. He said, “Relax, Bobby.” Bobby, the original speaker, looked nowhere near relaxed. A dark mane of bushy hair; rippling muscles on exposed guns; lots of prison ink. I was far from a hard guy, and a ripple of fear found its way up my back, traveling neckward. But then, he smiled. So did Racky. “Drop everything and write,” said Bobby. Racky laughed. Out loud. He said, “That's my brother, Bobby, Ace. Everything’s cool.” I felt far removed from cool. Bobby wasn’t done. “You should be doin’ nuttin’ but writin’. I read your piece in the Vox Pop. Two, tree times. An’ believe me, I doan’ read.”

“True dat, Ace. He doan’ read,” Racky added.

Bobby said, “I mean, I was away when you wuz onna show. I only seent it once, twice. But you done good. And the article, man, was better than the show. You like, invited us inna your life. I doan’ know from nuttin’, but you should be writin’, man.”

At that point, Ricky Meat came in to fetch me. A quick look around seemed to calm him. Bobby retreated; I left the bar without handshakes, feeling elated more than relieved.

Wooie asked me what had transpired; I decided to keep the incident private. Until now.

<><><>

I never returned to the Osric. The owner developed a penchant for the sport of kings. He loved his ponies, and they were his downfall. And he sold out; the bar became somewhat more edgy and decidedly leathery. We knew that we would not be welcomed in a place called The Man Hole.

I did see Racky a few years later. We were both guests at an upscale wedding at the Brookmere Hunt Club, a lily-white enclave for the bored and privileged. “C’mon, Ace, let’s get some champagne and small sandwiches. You know we won’t be sitting down for some manicott’.”

I had to ask him. “How’s Bobby?” I feared the answer.Racky looked away, toward the croquet pitch. “He’s away … again, Ace. But he still talks about you, about your writing.” We ate and drank, with no further mention of his “away” brother.

It was then I realized that some words, written or spoken, have lives of their own. When delivered so well, launched so experly, they become strong, vibrant touchstones. And they are easy to recall, bringing strength, love, whatever we need from them.

If you are lucky enough to receive such gifts, keep them close. Withdraw them every once in a while, and see if they don’t still shine as brightly as ever, imbuing you with a glow of their own.

That minute with Bobby occurred thirty-five years ago. Like it was yesterday.

[formidablepassion]

Liveblogging: I Saw Three Ships

Next fic is  I Saw Three Ships by @grey2510

Rating: Teen Archive Warning: None Word Count: 2100 Summary: Three stories, three relationships. Three different voices. When Coleman, Baby, and Mac have to deal with everyday life with the Winchesters it can be sweet, frustrating, and hilarious. 

Crowley still calls Dean squirrel when he is a demon, huh?

"Squirrel, please tell me we have grander plans for the evening than another round of karaoke."

Is this from Colmean's POV? I love it already.

Coleman doesn't particularly like Crowley, but he's gotta agree with the demon on this front, if Dean's off-key singing along to Baby's radio over the years has been any indication of his distinct lack of musical talent. Even a cooler knows better.

All of this was amazing. I need more Baby and Coleman bickering. 

"He's not that bad.

You only say that because it's Dean, Baby. Pretty sure your engine drowns out the worst of it.

Really? You're gonna claim that I don't know what's going on inside me? It's MY radio he uses.

You just think the sun shines out of Dean's ass.

At least I'm not sulking over the fact that Dean's hanging out with Crowley instead of your big angel crush.

Shut up. I do NOT—"

Crowley is always up for it. Especially when it comes to Dean. Amirite? sorrynotsorry

"The triplets?" Crowley asks, delight in his voice.

"Unless you're not up to it."

**snort** I love Dean. 

"C'mon, Sam, say it with me: Slay Ride."

"That's not funny, Dean."

"It's a little funny."

"Dean, three people are dead and—"

I adore the POV's you're using. And I want to always be able to have their damn POV's available to me now.

"Hey, Eileen."

Aw, I like her, Baby practically purrs as Sam bungles his way through some signs and Eileen corrects him or just giggles at his attempts.

Coleman agrees instantly, Right?

She does fit with them!!

But Eileen just seems like she fits with the boys, like she belongs on the team, riding around in Baby with all of them, going on hunts. And she makes Sam happy.

I love the relationship between Coleman and Baby. It is amazing.

"Uh, I'd rather not get punched in the face, but if you wanna try, I'm not stopping you."

Sam does have a point.

Do you think he knows WHY Dean'd punch him in the face yet?

Baby sighs. No. Don't get me wrong, I love Sam and all, but sometimes…

Super dense.

Yep.

Mac is a little like Sam in this regard.

All kinds! Sam tends to stick to porn with girls in it, but Dean's more adventurous. We went to sites I'd never seen before! And—

Yeah, ok, we get it, Baby cuts him off. And did he delete his browser history before Sam saw?

Yep! Mac pauses as though the pieces are all coming together. Ohhhh. Dean doesn't want Sam to know about those sites?

Exactly.

You should totally do that Mac. Baby needs a sexy merman.

Coleman relaxes as best as a cooler can into the leather seats as the brothers continue to banter. You know, it's too bad, Baby: your rearview mirror would look really good with a sexy merman hanging from it.

Oh fuck you.

I could order you one online, Baby!

NOT HELPING, MAC."

Hehehe... I love Crowley.

"Nuttin' for Christmas"? The hell?

Hey, it's your crush who chose the shitty music, not me. I just play it.

At least Crowley's not here…

Squirrel and nut jokes?

Yep. 

Hard same, Dean.

Dean listens for a moment. "Yeah, I guess this one's not bad. Kinda badass, for Christmas music. But it's October."

I'm pretty sure that they are they are the best things ever.

Don't get jealous, Coleman, but I'm pretty sure they're about to soul gaze.

Right back atcha. Don't worry, Baby: Dean still loves you. Maybe he'll give you, ya know, a lube job soon. What Coleman wouldn't give to be able to waggle his eyebrows. (Or to have eyebrows to waggle in the first place.)

See? You ARE the immature one.

You love me.

I'm stuck with you. There's a difference.

Yeah, but Cas probably wants to inform as many humans as he can of this fact.

"Did you know Jesus wasn't actually born in—"

"Oh my god, Cas," Dean whines. "Biography of your half-brother or whatever is not really what I'm looking for right now."

Yeah Dean. Make him another mix tape. You know, as a Christmas gift.

"Seriously? Seriously? Have I taught you nothing about music, Cas?"

"Thirteen Led Zeppelin songs was not much of an education."

"Whoa, whoa, what—?"

"Perhaps you should make me another tape."

I love the four of them. They are wonderful.

"It's 'Monster Holiday' and we're on a hunt. For monsters. Seems right."

"Naturally."

"You ever tell Sammy this happened—"

"Of course, Dean."

And the four of them sail on down the road.

This was wonderful and I love Coleman. So you should totally go read and give a ton of kudos and comments.