#please i’m begging you to read ashe’s stuff it’s like. insanely good

[squidthusiast]

Me when I end my shift & new LDR AU chapter gets out, like wow everything is worth it again

hi pearlina nation please rejoin me in my parlor

please read the whole series thank you

[kaleidescope-writes]

Winter Mistakes-- Chapter 1: The Setup

Biker!Bucky x Reader

Warning: PG-13, Language, mentions of sex, Rumlow being an asshole, bad break-up, could be triggering (read at your own risk)

Today was the day. You had been struggling with doubt since you first got the hint that something wasn’t right with your relationship. Today, your struggles--possibly along with your relationship--would come to an end. You knew what the outcome would be, but weren’t sure you were strong enough to actually face the music, even after you had seen it yourself. Even if you’d followed your boyfriend to the bar where he met up with some random chick and saw them exchange saliva more times in one night than he ever kissed you in a week. It was going to hurt, but today marked the end of it all. You just needed him to get to your apartment. You’d rehearsed what you would say to him a million times in the mirror, along with an additional thousand with Natasha. You were prepared for any excuse he’d try to give, yet there was a small hint of doubt creeping up in the back of your head.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. You shook your head, getting up from your spot on the kitchen counter and taking a few steps in the direction of the door. “Baby face, I’m home,” Brock called out to you. You walked over to the living room, arms crossed, attempting to keep a neutral expression and not break into a fit of rage. “Good,” you said simply, “You’re here. We need to have a little chat.” Brock looked you up and down, a smirk spreading across his lips, “Ah, I see. Does my little fawn want to act tough for her old man?” He began to remove his jacket, not breaking eye contact with you as he kept the same smirk on his lips. “That’s not what I want,” you scoffed, maintaining the same strong posture you started off with. Brock looked at you in confusion, not fully understanding that you didn’t want to get him laid. “Then what do you want?” He asked, as if there was nothing more you could ask of him. 

“How about you tell what it is you want,” you snarled. Once again looking at you in confusion, he takes a few steps closer to you, which you mimic away from him. “Sugar, what are you talking about?” he asked, feigning innocence. That alone made you want to rage. But you kept it in… For now. “What am I talking about?” you questioned almost accusingly, “I’m talking about your co-worker, your friend’s girl, the girl from your gym, the barista. I thought you wanted a serious relationship with me, but I guess I got it wrong because you keep dicking around with whatever air headed bimbo crosses your line of sight.” 

Brock took a step back, faking a surprised look, “Muffin, what are you talking about?” That was it. His denial was the thing that set you off. You released your arms, letting them fall to your sides with your hands curled into fists. “Oh, cut the bullshit,” you snapped, “I know you’ve been sleeping with any broad that opens her legs in your direction, I’m not stupid!”

“That’s insane, Y/N! I would never cheat on you!” Brock defended, “What did Nat say to make you doubt me?” You walked over to the small desk to your left, taking the file and opening it. “She helped me figure it out,” you hissed, “She showed me just how much of a piece of shit you are!” You took the pictures inside the file and threw them at his feet. The floor was littered with pictures of him with other girls. Making out with a blonde, arms wrapped around a brunette, dancing erotically with a redhead, a girl with black hair in his car only partly dressed. Every compromising position he could possibly be in was captured in those pictures. “You want to start explaining yourself, or are you going to keep playing dumb?” you asked in a harsh tone. 

He looked up at you with an expression that seemed like anger. Shrugging his shoulders, he took his hands out of his pockets and began to speak, “What do you want me to say?” You glared at him, “How about you start with explaining why you did it?” Brock scoffed, looking away from you for a moment before meeting your eyes again, “You want the truth? Fine, the sex was absolutely amazing. I didn’t want to stop because they did something you could never do. They got me off every single time. You never did once.” You were absolutely disgusted. The anger in your stomach grew as you began to contemplate the repercussions of letting yourself take it out on him physically. 

“Get out,” you whispered angrily. Brock was much bigger than you and he’d been known to not let gender stop him from hurting anyone. Especially if he was provoked. Brock shook his head, “Don’t you wanna beg for me to stay? Don’t you want to fix things? Don’t you want me to touch you the same way I touched them?” Your disgust increased with your anger. “Get! Out!” you screamed, pointing at the door behind him. Brock rolled his eyes, turning around to walk out. Opening the door, he stopped momentarily and turned to look at you again, “Call me when you’re in the mood to beg.” 

You grabbed a glass vase from the desk and threw it to him, shattering it on the door with a few pieces cutting his cheek. “You bitch!” he shouted before slamming the door as he left. You were left to stand there in your fury as your mind began to process what happened. It’s done, you’re free. Once you were sure he was far enough down the hall, you took your phone out of your pocket, dialing Natasha. As the line rang, you crouched down to pick up the pictures, putting them in the file to burn later, along with your own pictures that were already waiting in the fireplace. 

“Is it done?” Nat asked from the other end, not bothering to say hello. “It’s done,” you confirmed, walking over to the fireplace with the pictures and throwing them in. “Thank god,” she sighed, “I’m on my way over, we can go out and drink this asshole away. I know this bar we can go to that’s run by an old friend of mine, what do you think?” 

You turned on the gas as she spoke, lighting a match and throwing it in with the rest of the stuff. “Actually, I’m more in the mood to have a girl’s day in. Like we used to before he came into my life,” you said calmly, watching as the flames embraced everything in the fireplace. The pictures, like your feelings, turned to ash before your eyes. “Sounds good,” Nat replied, “I’ll need to go shopping for wine and snacks though. I’ll be there in thirty.” 

“See you then.” you hung up and walked over to the couch to sit. This was the beginning of your new life after three years of wasting your time with a worthless pile of human trash. So why did you feel so tired? You were tired of everything and you couldn’t explain why. Keeping your eyes fixed on the fire in front of you, you let your mind wander to anything but him. Here’s to a fresh start, you thought, no more Rumlow.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I know it’s kind of overused to make Brock Rumlow the asshole ex, but who else fits the role? First chapter done!! This one is just mainly for exposition, but I promise Bucky will be in the next chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! I will be posting the next chapter tomorrow and I promise it will be much longer. Let Me know if I missed anyone on the taglist as I’m still trying to get my shit together. I love you all, I hope all is well, and please stay safe!!

Taglist is OPEN:

 @vvinch3st3r, @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @amazonianbeauty @isomebodyhere @justlovelifeblog @dominodoll

Permanent Taglist: 

@myraiswack​ @falling4uke​ @accio-boys​ @ashcrimson-is-writing​ @just-trying-to-survive-marvel

[xadoheandterra]

@gdipalomo I really struggled on this because fuck I couldn’t think of anything worth it involving found family that wasn’t angsty as all shit (my depression is coloring shit) but I finally got something together although I’m still not too happy with it. Hope you enjoy this mess of a fic! (I was gonna draw, but I couldn’t find my pencils...so I had to write something instead) Also ngl I reference my favorite Christmas Movie in this. Santa Clause is the BOMB and I will fight any who say otherwise.

Eight Little Lights

Winter was not something easily discerned in Blood Gulch, but Church had an internal clock now that he could read the day and time from as simple as could be—except even now Church found himself distracted with the insanity of the Reds, and even of the Blues, enough that he didn’t realize the date and the time until it was the day of. To be fair Church had never been the best Jew when he’d been alive—to concerned with the science of the world, computers, attempting to be a good soldier and failing—and then failing at—at something he couldn’t remember.

(Charmaine)

(David)

(being a father)

(except that wasn’t him, really)

(even if he wanted it to be)

When it did strike him, the date, time, the significance, Church felt like a gut punch had torn through him. His father would’ve had his head as a kid for forgetting—his grandmother would’ve scolded him something fierce even more—and it made him miss them for the first time in forever because for the first time in forever Church was aware. He’d never been the best Jew, that was to be fair, but he’d not once ignored the Menorah when the time came. Except now there was no Menorah, no candles to light, nothing to say for himself despite the observed tradition for twenty strong years. It tasted like ash.

As the sun dipped beneath the canyon walls that night Church didn’t light a Menorah, didn’t recite the payers, and felt like a generally shitty person for the lack of any real observance something that had been normal before Blood Gulch. Instead Church stared up at the starry night sky and wondered how his life got to be this.

Tucker dragged Church out with the promise of little nuanced talk, shooting the shit, and trying to figure out what Grif and Simmons were saying upon Red Base. Church sat against one edge, Tucker laid flat even though both knew that neither Grif nor Simmons would ever shoot at them. Blood Gulch was a game they kept going because it was familiar and because it was expected but no one really intended to kill one another anymore. Not since Flowers died.

“I swear their flirting,” Tucker grumbled. “The two should just fuck already and get it over with.”

Church snorted. “Please. Those two will continue to dance around one another until they’ve got no other choice.”

“Should just get the both of them drunk and stuff them in a closet. Think that would work?” Tucker glanced up at Church who cracked a grin, helmet off.

“Nah, I say tell ‘em they’ve beathed in magic sex pollen or something like from one of your porno’s. And get them drink. Then stick them in a closet. It would do them a load of good, wouldn’t it?”

“Damn straight,” Tucker snickered, reached out, and fist bumped Church with a grin.

Later that night Church sat atop the base and once more watched the stars, didn’t light a Menorah, didn’t’ say his prayers, and tried not to think about how upset his grandmother would be over his failings to get something this simple right. He did see Tucker sneak off the base in the middle of the night, and it made him wonder, but then he saw Tucker heading to Red Base and decided he didn’t want to know.

The third night was actually Donut’s Wine and Cheese Hour so Church found himself for a little while just forgetting and relaxing and it was blissfully perfect. Sarge really knew how to put together a functioning robotic body and fuck he didn’t realize how much he missed things like sex until he had a physical means to do so.

Sneaking into one of the heads of the various Reds and Blues as they masturbated—mainly Tucker—really didn’t quite cut it as physically being capable of something like an erection and arousal and Church had no idea what it was about Donut or the Wine and Cheese Hour that tended to become sex. It was different when it was him and Tex because those things were a violent mess of regret. This shit with Donut was different and Church liked it. His happy little bisexual ass wanted to be pampered from time to time and Donut liked to do the pampering.

Church took what he could get, let himself feel a small sliver of happiness in a cesspit of grey and depression, and moved on with his life. He didn’t quite fall asleep—he couldn’t sleep these days, but he drifted in static afterward feeling like a warm puddle of computer goo and it was nice.

The fourth day had always meant something special during Hanukah for Church and he couldn’t identify why, but as the day dawned and then moved toward dusk despite having a happy, wonderful night the night before the melancholy bit itself back into his mind with a vengeance. Church stayed in his room all day on base and stared at a photo of Tex and wondered what it was he forgot. There was something about the image that was so wrong, that had been so wrong since Blood Gulch and maybe before that even, and it gnawed at him. What was he missing?

(Allison was dead)

(it’d been just him and Charmaine for years)

(so then where was she?)

(where were the kids?)

(where was his daughter?)

Caboose lingered out of his doorway like a bad smell and more than once Church tossed a pillow, a lamp, anything at the door to get the behemoth to leave him alone because that was what he wanted. To be left alone with memories that didn’t line up quite right, with a tradition that didn’t fit, and the realization that his family was incomplete. Church ground his teeth together and tried to ignore the way Caboose spoke to Tucker in a loud whisper.

“He’s angry right now.”

“Yeah I know man. Any idea what?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I get that dude. Maybe it’s something important about the date? Do you know what’s important about the date?”

“The santa man is coming soon. Could that be it?”

“…fuck, maybe?”

“FUCK OFF ASSHOLES!” Church screamed, threw the desk at the door, and buried himself in blankets into the silence.

Day five; still no Menorah, still feeling like an utter shitheel of a human being—dead or otherwise—and Grif shouldered open Churchs blocked off door. He was out of armor which when Grif came by the base for reasons not pertaining to ‘Red versus Blue’ he was typically sans armor—it was how they showed they meant things to be more casual than anything although usually one of the guys had something armored somewhere. Caboose was a disaster of a man and no one was safe except, for some reason, Grif. Still his arms were packed full of snack cakes and a few shitty holiday movies. Some were titles Church recognized.

“Bum over we’re having a movie day,” was all Grif said as he shoved Church to the side, piled the snacks onto the bed, and commandeered his computer.

“The fuck?” Church mumbled faintly to himself, too exhausted to really care that his space was being invaded right now. He found himself with handfuls of candy, the kind that had hidden gifts instead, Church noted, all were uniquely holiday themed although not all were necessarily Christmas themed but they were definitely holiday themed.

“I’m putting on a favorite, so deal with it,” Grif said and put in some old santa related movie that Church vaguely recognized.

“Is that…Tim fuckshisname?” Church cocked his head. He wasn’t too certain of some of the old actors that were well before his time, but he thought he recognized this one.

“Tim Allen,” Grif nodded, “and yeah.”

“…I think I remember this one.”

“Good. Then enjoy it, will you?”

Church let himself be manhandled until he found himself squashed next to Grif, the pile of candies littered in front of him, eyes glued to the computer screen as Tim Allen’s character got drawn into being Santa through magic and bullshit and bad luck. It was funny, and it was something Church didn’t realize he needed until he did and it was there.

Church’s gaze may or may not have lingered on the dreidel that very briefly entered the screen and then left, and he may have mumbled, “Used to have one of those,” half into candy that he couldn’t digest as he watched the movie with rapt attention. Grif didn’t say anything if he did.

Day six and seven of the week blurred together with restless energy that Church spent cleaning up after Grif left the following morning. He hated the way the base looked, so he cleaned. He reorganized. He reorganized again. He reorganized things a third time. Eventually an intervention was needed and it came in the form of Sarge who stormed up dressed completely in armor because it’s Sarge and Church was pretty sure the bastard slept in his red suit.

“Quit yer frenzied nonsense right this dangnabbit minute!” Sarge hollered, enough to stop Church just outside of the base who blinked and stared and wondered what he did to deserve this. “It’s a right eyesore and those two lugheads can’t stop jabberin’ about it. I can’t take it no more!”

“What?”

“Jes shoot at us or enact your damn dirty blue plot already you heathen and quit it with the cleanin’ torture!”

“What?”

Church stared, baffled at the man as he ranted and raved about the depravity of a Blue cleaning and couldn’t quite parse what he was hearing. This wasn’t typical Sarge behavior at all as usually when the man came over it was to berate Church for not taking care of himself, to beg him to come and surrender already and ‘rescue’ one of his ‘captured teammates’ or to make surrender himself for the ‘return’ of ‘one of his men’ that Church somehow captured and/or brainwashed. Church could never quite parse the insanity that tumbled out of Sarge’s mouth and blamed ninety percent of it on trauma left over from the man’s helljumper days.

Eventually Sarge took Church’s silent staring as compliance and left. Church didn’t go back to cleaning and instead wondered what alien came and replaced Sarge this time.

The last day was beautiful and Church didn’t want to get out of bed. By the time night would roll around he’d have spent eight days with no Menorah, no prayers, and feeling like an even shittier man that he felt going into the holidays. He didn’t want to leave his room—except it was Donut Wine and Cheese Hour day again and Church hated to miss those. Donut would come and physically drag him out of he missed one of those, whether they had sex or not.

Begrudgingly, as night began to fall, Church made his way over toward the cave system that he and Donut snuck off into for Wine and Cheese Hour even if he didn’t feel quite up to it. At first Church didn’t notice the lights, but then the bright red Christmas décor suddenly was in his face and he couldn’t ignore it. The cave looked as if someone set Caboose and a thrift store for Christmas and holiday paraphernalia at it and that just hurt Church’s eyes something fierce.

When he finally rounded the corner, resigned to going through this farce of whatever the guys had put together, it was to Caboose loudly proclaiming, “SURPRISE,” which echoed and caused everybody within earshot to groan and cry out.

Tucker snapped out, “Caboose! Use your fucking inside voice, man!” and Caboose shouted, “OOPS,” and then quieter, “oops,” as everyone groaned and yelled again.

Church eyed everyone—Sarge, Tucker, Caboose, Donut, Grif, Simmons—and the mess that surrounded them. There were piles of pretty wrapped papers, snow that Grif somehow brought into the canyon although who knew how long that would last, an actual Christmas Tree what the fuck?! It was like the guys went and just decided to dump every wintry holiday right in the middle of Donut’s Wine and Cheese Hour and Church didn’t know what to think of it.

“Here!” Donut thrust some prettily wrapped gift of weird shaped nonsense into Church’s hands. The paper tore and Church could see something metal glint inside and felt his nonexistent gut twist. “We all saw how down in the dumps you were, Church, and thought we’d better plough those holiday blues away! So we greased up and dove right in to that—”

“Donut!” Grif and Simmons both chimed in, each in scolding tone, as Tucker pulled Church just the slightest bit away.

“Open it, numbnuts,” Tucker shook his head and Church carefully tore at the wrapping paper. He was surprised to find a hand-crafted Menorah the result behind it, and even more surprised at the fact that he wanted to cry. “We all kinda saw what a little shit you were being and it took some google fu on my end to figure out what the fuck was up.”

“Next time man just tell us it’s a major fucking holiday or something,” Grif waved one hand negligently. “None of us even realized it was December until like five days ago!”

“I…” Church floundered for words. How did they even know?

“You made us put a Jewish star on you grave maker, remember?” Tucker grumbled and slung one arm over Church’s shoulders. “Once I figured out it was Hanukah Grif realized you were missing a Menorah and Simmons said something about that being important or some shit and, yeah. Here we are.”

“This way next year you’ll be able to light the candles and not feel all shitty about forgetting an important holiday tradition,” Simmons nodded.

Donut moved up around Church’s other side and leaned in. “I know it’s too late and all for this year, but we really didn’t know what was going on in that head of yours, Church. You should’ve said something!”

Church struggled to put into words what he felt, instead he hoarsely said, “You assfuckers,” with a choked off laugh a minute later when Caboose unveiled the large human sized dreidel and asked how to play.

It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but damn if it weren’t as close as—and damn if it didn’t mean the world to Church. These were his assholes, in his little box canyon, giving him holiday gifts on the last day of Hanukah and fuck if it didn’t mean the world to him. Him—the shittiest human being that ever existed.

“Fuck you all very much!”

“AND A FUCKING HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU TOO ASSHOLE!” Grif yelled, and they all burst out into laughter.

“A LITTLE TOO EARLY THERE FATASS!”

“Oh, are we not celebrating the birth of the baby managers son?”

Church laughed.

“It’s baby Jesus in a manger you idiot,” Tucker grumbled, “and no, we aren’t! Fuck,” and Church laughed.

Yeah, it wasn’t quite perfect, not yet, but it was as good as for this little box canyon in the middle of nowhere.

[chokememrstark]

A Dangerous Game

Chapter: 10/15

Words: 1593

Summary: Sam comes across a very interesting book that describes a ritual in which one can play a game with the Devil. His curiosity is sparked and even if he doesn’t think he will ever actually do it, Sam soon finds himself face to face with this very entity. Things take a very unpleasant turn, but despite that, Sam is going back, as if something pulls him towards Lucifer.

abuse, violence, bullying, black magic, no hunter!au, a lot of angst, a lot of hurt/little comfort

Note: Because I feel I need to add this: Dean is pretty much a complete asshole in this story, so if you’re uncomfortable with that you might want to reconsider reading it (or tell yourself he is completely ooc, fine with me too xD)

AO3 Link

Thanks to @sassysupernaturalsweetheart & @brieflymaximumprincess for their wonderful beta reading and keeping me company while writing this story ♥

Tagging: @spnyoucantkeepmedown @samlicker83  @wait-what5 (if you want to be tagged, just drop me an ask or contact me via IM)

As soon as Sam came back home, he took the little box out from under his bed and opened it. Inside laid the letter his mother had written for him when he had only been a few days old. His whole life he had treasured this piece of paper and anticipated the day he would finally be able to read it - and now he was about to burn the words she had directed at him, the only words he would ever have that were hers. He didn’t even know why, but he had accepted the dare…

“Don’t be mad at me mom,” Sam said and placed a kiss on the letter in his hands. “You said if I ever found what I am missing it would feel wrong and insane and that’s how this feels right now, so please forgive me. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

He put the letter back into the box, closed it and carried it outside. In the tiny garden behind the house they lived in, Sam dug a small hole, in which he placed the box. He opened it again, took the letter out one last time and got his lighter.

“Please, let this not be a mistake,” he said and lit the letter.

Within seconds the letter was completely on fire and Sam dropped it back into the box to not burn himself. At first, only the letter burned, until suddenly the flames took over the whole box, creating a huge darting flame. It was so bright, Sam had to shield his eyes from the intensity of the light and when he dared to look again, all that was left of the box and letter was a small, gleaming pile of ashes. With a heavy heart, Sam covered the hole with the dirt next to it.

It was done, he had fulfilled the dare Lucifer gave him. Maybe one day Lucifer would tell him why he had chosen this dare, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer to this. Right now, without any explanation, it felt like a kick in the guts.

Sam stood in the night for a few minutes, silently mourning the loss of something this precious. Eventually though, when he realized standing there wouldn’t change anything, he went back inside and crawled into his bed. He really wanted to try the summoning Lucifer told him about right this second, demanding an explanation, but he was too exhausted to even give it a try.

After a strangely dreamless night, Sam woke up rather refreshed. With a clear mind, he was really glad he didn’t summon Lucifer the night before. He had been way too emotional back then and he would have probably screwed it up anyways.

Sam wasn’t surprised that Dean and his dad were still asleep - they rarely got up before noon on the weekends - so he had his peace while preparing breakfast. The last week he didn’t have a proper breakfast, so it was very nice just sitting down with toasts, some scrambled eggs and a coffee, without being disturbed. Sam took his time reading the newspaper, enjoying his meal and actually hoped for a peaceful weekend for once.

Before anyone else was able to get up, Sam retreated back to his room to not get into another argument, which immediately broke out when both Dean and John were up. Sam rolled his eyes when he heard them bicker in the kitchen again. Since they stayed rather civil so far, Sam continued cleaning up his room and shifting stuff around. He wasn’t the most tidy person, but at the moment his room resembled a garbage can and he really wanted it clean for… well, for reasons. No, so far he didn’t allow himself to acknowledge why he wanted it clean, even if it was pretty obvious.

When everything was done and the two blockheads still argued, Sam groaned frustrated. One damn quiet weekend, did he ask for too much? Couldn’t they get a beer each and shut up for a few minutes, just for a change? Sam really tried to ignore them, he knew shit would hit the fan if he didn’t, but at one point he just lost his patience.

“Can you two shitheads just shut the fuck up for one day?” he yelled as loud and angry as he could, instantly shocked by his own reaction. “Shit…” he whispered.

It was dead silent outside, way too silent for this to turn out well. Sam quickly jumped off his bed and locked his door in case it was about to get real. He stayed at the door, waiting for something to happen, but for a while the same creepy silence stayed.

“This little…” he suddenly heard his brother hiss, followed by heavy steps into his direction, which caused him to quickly push away from the door.

“Dean, get a hold on yourself!” John said, but made no effort to hold his older son back.

“Come out of your room, you little coward!” Dean yelled through the door and began banging on it with his fist.

“Fuck off!” Sam spat back, as angry as before. He knew Dean wouldn’t manage to break down the door, even if he was shaking - both from anger and being scared shitless - he would not shut up this time.

“You think you can talk like that to me, you little shit?”

“Hell yes, I do! You’re an asshole, why don’t you piss off and find someone else to terrorize?”

“Oh, really? What are you going to do? Summon your imaginary friend to kick my ass?”

Sam huffed, now both angry and spiteful. How dare he… how dare he fucking say things like that?

“Yeah, maybe I’m gonna do that!” he eventually yelled back, hands balled to fists and ready to fight. “Someone finally needs to hand you your shitty ass on a plate!”

At this, Dean began kicking at the door, which finally caught their dad’s interest again and he interfered.

“Enough, you two!” he commanded with his army-voice. “Dean, get the hell outta here before I forget myself! And Sam, open the damn door, now!”

“No way! I won’t open the door until this asshole is gone!” Sam wouldn’t allow Dean to get in, no matter how much his dad thought he had him under control - he hadn’t.

John argued with Dean again, but this time their conversation was short and it only lasted a few minutes before Dean stormed off angrily and smashed the door out again.

“Now, open the door, kid, or I’ll make you!” John commanded again and Sam finally obeyed. His dad stepped into his room, arms crossed and an angry look on his face. “What did your brother talk about imaginary friends?”

“Oh come on!” Sam groaned. “He’s insane, don’t you see that? He’s annoying me all the time, it’s not funny anymore!”

“What was he talking about, Sam? I want an answer.”

“He found a book I had to read for school and mocks me for it, that’s all!” Sam lied blatantly. “He said I’m trying to make friends with the devil, I told you he’s going nuts!”

“And, are you?” John asked serious and Sam looked at him in complete disbelief.

“Are you kidding me, dad? What do you think I am, some kind of satanist?”

“Well, you certainly look like one,” John scoffed and eyed his son suspiciously. “I better not find any dead animals or shit in your room, or you’ll get the beating of your lifetime.”

“I’m not running around, killing animals and summoning the devil, geez!” Sam threw his hands in the air overly dramatic, sat down on his bed and crossed his arms. “I just want to be left alone, that’s all.”

“I’ll have an eye on you, Sam.”

“Yeah, whatever…”

His dad stayed for a moment longer, inspecting his son and the room, then left and shut the door behind him. Sam fell onto his back in a huge relief. Thank God he had cleaned up before! If not, his dad would have seen the book on his bed and the candle stumps in front of it, that would have ended in a catastrophe. Not that this topic was over now, but at least he wasn’t bleeding in a corner, begging for his life to end just now.

Summoning Lucifer now, with his dad being as suspicious as this, was not a good idea. Still, Sam needed to talk to someone and there was no one else he had. If Lucifer got angry, he could just ask him to end it, right? Maybe he would do it quickly, without torturing him too much. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, not really, but he would rather die on his own terms if he had to.

Sam knew he had to be very careful, but he wanted to speak to Lucifer as soon as possible. His perfect opportunity came three hours later, when his dad got a call. He came to Sam’s room, informed him that he had to work in the town a few miles away for a few days and would leave some money home, so the boys could get food. Sam nodded and tried to look as sad as he could, even asking what he should do if Dean decided to let his anger out on him. At this, John smiled and told him not to worry, his brother wouldn’t do anything. Sam really didn’t believe him, but still nodded dutifully and watched his dad leave.

[abigailabbyallen]

(sorry- i accidentally hit “publish!” on this post a bit prematurely earlier today, and failed to realize it, until now! how humiliating! whoopsie-daisies! awwPhooey. Blastitall. to hell with it.

anyhoodles! :) THIS post should be at least comparatively less-incoherent. It is also WAY longer. epically so.

so HOOrah! oh horay, how splendid.

gargh. sorry for the mishap, you silent in-cognito shadow people/friends, you…)

HERE GOES-IT. AGAIN. visit my sister’s blog please. link at the end. thanks!

The End.

ha! tricked ya! no it’s not “the end,” geezlouize,

…so gullible.

ahem! let us BEGIN….

Please, go over and ogle, with eyes agog, jaws agape, soul astirred, palm upon, a gasp inhaled inheld, halted to inhabit the espirit in-being before returning the fast-flitting spirit of my big sister’s brilliancy,

and i know- you could hardly forsee that seemingly rando twist coming, , but quickly catch-up cuz this wordsmithin’ ain’t pausin,’

the truth is my Sister my SiBling is Miss King of the Ling- she being linguistically quite limber and a short-Fiction Lit Writer who is Literally Lit-up like pure ether light as an quill-pen feather untethered she’s leaving earthbound bloggers beneath her, because Seriously,

Melanie Allen is my Kickarse sister, a burning solitary cinder a Wordsmith of incandescent imaginative capacity that’s the real incendiary envy of the whole smoked-screened-in Lit Fiction choked Biz,

Because Matherton’s Magic Vapor is the one Phoenix Rising from all that creatively choked burned up ash and smoke,

and longing for the light my big sib heads straight-up and out to incense and infuse and write to blaze a tale that burns a trail of literary synaptic sparks that recharge and invoke that spirit of creative tenacity.

ok i know, i am officially OUT of all possible puns, metaphors, rhymes, similies and adorable “sounds-like? sorta?.” half-formed ideas concerning the topic of light, being like light and bright and “Lit” like “Literally” and! genius i be, “Literary, i.e. Literary short creative fiction is my bigsib’s preferred written-word specialty.”

Also the whole luminously “incendiary sparkplug of synaptic short-circuitry” as a metaphor attempting to illustrate Mysib’s Creativity, admittedly, didn’t get the first necessary charge of passionate inertia, that extra lil’ “oomph” of “go-get-em-tiger!” that all epically charged Phoenix/Lightning/Synaptic-Fired-up Central Nervous System metaphors (which, now, retrospectively, is perhaps slightly intense on the neurological descriptive accuracy … but oh phooey)

regardless, without that extra spark of a true writer’s elemental  “oomph” of initial inertia or that “go get’em,” cheer that every sentence  needs to perpetually maintain that light-speed that is simply unfeasible for certain individuals who lack that particular knack for these very same word-smithery feats of linguistic magical wizardry of which i speak,

for i, abby, mere Lil’Sib underling to my meta-Esteemed Ethereal Ember of Amber Hued Sentient pulsating Light-Living Being, the Big, the Elder, the Sisterly Cinder of incensory like a sixth-sensory wordly “Wowza” that truly IS Melanie Allen i.e. my BigSibling’s wisdom and capacity to imagine, express, and capture in words by transcending their form to truly bring life and depth to her creative Intelligence.

BigSib (unlike moi, which begs the question, “why, then, does she not simply STOP this horror wordBlitzkrieg she insists on consciously inflicting upon us unsuspecting readers? WHY, lilsib, why.”

(Shrug), i honestly don’t know. and it confuses me too. i feel your pain, but like- really. i do. and i’m sorry for all of this glossolababbling that is an insult to the english language and to my sister too. let’s just try to wrap this catastrophe-up as quickly as humanely possible, shall we? ok. ok, just gotta keep-on keepin’ on…we’re almost done. i swear…

so Melanie. my sister. the one with the effortless grace in her grasp on language’s positive features, such-as its unique usage as a convenient tool for human-to-human communication of various feelings, thoughts, and other stuff.

for all that, i’ve managed to get by with the expressive use of shadow puppets.

…sometimes interpretive dance. Drawing pictures with a notepad i wear draped around my neck attached to a sharpie- this has sometimes proved useful, particularly in frantic, wildly desperate situations of a fiasco-like nature.

but the capacity to use words like my sister, is something that not only folks such as myself, (those who seem somewhat incapacitated and non-linguistically degenerate) should seriously admire if not visciously envy like some feral, wild nocturnal critter who gnaws on garbage all night whilst they plot increasingly batsh&t crazy-cray schemes to steal my sister’s god given and hardwon way with the written word and with her boundless imagination, in all its wildness, weightless light that seems held aloft on black winged shining that spreads to silently embrace and enrapture so much seemingly infinite capacity for wonder.

even the most communication wordy-abled don’t have that unknowable something thst somehow has this transformative necromancy over the essence and composition of words themselves. it is an alchemical “Hutzpah” that somehow infuses words with dynamic life and deeply invoked dimensions of innate truths and reverberations of all-too-human universal knowing, truly talented writer extra-enervating all that fire-fueled comparative imagery (despite being absolutely appropros and dead-on in describing my sister’s genuinely brilliant and inspired body of writing with total accuracy)

and i think, at longlast! i have blessedly, for the love of good-god finally. just. puttered-out….fffbbptz.

see?! yay:)

so anyhoodles Melanie allen, at her blog, athertons magic vapor, (see and CLICK below please) is seriously KILLing it like blitzkrieg–world-war-Lightning at this Blogging A-Z Challenge aforementioned. (note: it is tots apropos to be awestruck  gobsmacked mind boggled body-clobbered aghast agog aghape etcetera at the big sister’s luminous brilliance and magical way with words and telling riveting transformative tales that have a depth and meaning balanced with a seemingly ungraspable lightness brightness, humor and an effortless grace,

so not to get too worked-up but last of all! try to imagine standing on tiptoes, tethered to Stone and Ascending-to-Star…

that kind of longing, it exists inside all of us. somewhere, i’ll betcha…

bye:) and holy jeez, DO go see melanie’s words please.

Source: Archives – Atherton’s Magic Vapour

Atherton’s Magic Vapour! Stop Reading this insane incoherent gobbilgook of sounds that sometimes sound sorta-like-words, and GO READ actual words that not only make sense, but glow with the rare brightness of insight that is truly beauty illuminated, and quite honestly brilliant. (sorry- i accidentally hit "publish!" on this post a bit prematurely earlier today, and failed to realize it, until now!