ask sal

urbuddylance  asked:

You know how Vrepit Sal was like "I'll do anything to find Hunk again"? Because of that I'm pretty sure he's gonna show up sometime later with adoption papers already filled out for Hunk, But since Coran has already adopted him, they challenge each other for custody of Hunk. They end up falling in love. You seemed like a person that would enjoy this so here you go.

this is my otp honestly?? beautiful

The Wish Spell

Summary:  You use a spell to make a wish come true with unexpected results.

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam, Castiel, OFC Sal

Word Count: 5772

Warnings: smut, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, language, fluff, wee bit of angst, mention of past abuse

A/N:  This one is close to my heart.  I hope you like it and I’d love to hear your feedback.  MAJOR shout out to the wonderful, lovely and helpful @wheresthekillswitch for being my beta on this.  There’s no way I would have achieved what I wanted without your help.  And thank you to the fantastic @arryn-nyxx for the beautiful aesthetic!​ Thank you!


You didn’t mean for it to happen, not really.  You’d hoped sure, but that didn’t mean you were actually expecting it to work.  You’d been out with your friends celebrating the long weekend but the pit of loneliness grew to a crater the moment you were home.  Since you’d had a few too many beers you started researching wishes.  That led you to spells and then before you knew it you were rummaging through your house for a candle and printing out a picture.  You wrote your name, birthday and wish on the picture then you folded it three times.  You lit a candle and held the paper over it till it caught fire and burned out.  You were tired of being alone, but you were also terrified to make a connection.  After the flame went out you curled up into bed and you dreamt of him, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary; you dreamt of him often.

The next morning you wake up and as you stretch your arms out you bump into something.  You shoot up and look over and there he is sitting on your bed his green eyes looking back at you.  Dean Winchester.  He’s leaning back on his hands with his long legs out in front of him.  He’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans and he even has his boots on.  You sit staring at him unable to think or to speak.  He purses his full lips then smirks at you.

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thema-sal-shiral  asked:

DWC: “I can’t wait to get you on the floor, good-looking.” Solavellan!

Thank youuuu for the prompt!  Sorry I hoarded it for weeks! @dadrunkwriting

The tension in her shoulders is becoming nigh unbearable, and she’s fairly certain she hasn’t taken a proper breath in at least an hour.  Just when Josephine took time away from ushering her about, Leliana took over, and she’s not certain she’s ever felt more entirely out of her element. She needs a break.  She needs to find someone who will understand. Someone who will…

She almost misses Solas at first, which surprises her.  She’d rather imagined he’d stick out like a sore thumb—the way she’s certain she does. On the contrary, he’s looking positively relaxed, and the sight both eases and unnerves.  She’s long observed that there are two distinct sides to Solas, one reserved and almost awkward, another fierce and almost calculating, and to see the latter when she’d expected the former is decidedly disarming.

“You’re looking right at home, Solas,” she remarks as she approaches.

He inclines his head and offers her a sly smirk.  She almost stumbles over her own feet.  "The Fade is rife with echoes of such displays,“ he says quietly, but there’s something low and dark in his voice that she’s seldom heard before.  "It is something of a guilty pleasure, I confess. I cannot help but to find myself drawn in by the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex.”

Elonaya is fairly certain she is gawking, and does her best to rearrange her face into something like neutrality.  "Never a commonplace hobby for you,“ she says.  "Wandering the Fade to watch ancient drama.”

Solas winks at her.  It’s so unexpected, and so quick, that she’s almost certain she imagined it.

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Landslide - 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

A/N: As told from Sebastian’s point of view. On the way to the airport he finds out that he’s going to be Dad.

What’s wrong?“ Sal asked. His eyes gazing at me as I looked out of the tinted window into the breezy New York night.

I shook my head. “Nothing, I just hate leaving her like this, I know it can’t be easy with me always on the go.”

“She knows what she’s signed up for being with you.”

“Yeah, I know, we’ve had that talk many times.”

“This morning I was happily having breakfast with Crissie and now I’m here with you flying out to Ireland. I know it can be erratic at times.”

I furrowed my brows. “At times? Sal it’s always like this.”

“That’s because your a hot commodity, Sebastian. It’s the nature of the business you know that.”

“How is Cristine? After the old man’s…” I trailed off.

“She’s dealing like most, she doesn’t say it, but I know she misses him like crazy.”

“I’m sorry, Sal. I know this can’t be easy for you either”

He waved it off. “That’s life, we all have to leave at some point.”

We looked at each other and then I returned my gaze to the bridge we were currently crossing. I reached into my bag blindly trying to find my headphones when a shirt of some sort snagged on the cord.

Sal looks over, “what the fuck is that?”

I glanced at him then back at the tiny pink fabric with daddy’s girl embroided on the front with a baby duck. I pulled it out completely and another tiny fabric comes out this one blue with the embroidery of a brown teddy stitched in the front.

We were both silent me more from shock, staring at the shirts resting on my knee.

“Holy fuck, man. Congratulations.” Sal says breaking the silence.

“I can’t go to Ireland.” I managed to say as the adrenaline filled my veins.

I rushed into the bedroom the onesies clutched tightly in my palm.

“Sebastian.” She gasped. “W-what are you doing here? You’re going to miss your flight.”

I ignored her question, holding up the onesies. “I’m going to be a Dad?” She nodded her eyes filling with tears. “Twins, we are having twins?”

“What? Oh my God! No, yes, maybe, I don’t know. It could be a boy or girl.“

I kissed her deeply. “I’m going to be a Dad?”

“Yes, Sebs, yes you are.”

“The cold you had. It really wasn’t a cold?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Morning, afternoon, middle of the night sickness. It hasn’t been fun.”

“For how long?”

“Babe your flight.”

“Dollface, fuck my flight. When did you find out?”

I sensed her hesitation. “I found out a week before I saw you on location.”

I calculated the time in my head. “It’s been over a month. You kept this from me this entire time.”

“Please.“ She begged. "Don’t be upset. I didn’t know how to tell you, I was scared, I still am. I wasn’t sure if this is what you wanted at this stage in your career and I—“

“Stop.” I interrupted. “You weren’t sure if I wanted this?” I placed my palm under her shirt. “This, this is us, we have created something beautiful, how could I not want this?”

She shrugged. “We didn’t plan this. Was this how you imagined it would happen?”

“Doll life isn’t perfect and you’re right this wasn’t planned, but I’ll be damned if my child grows up to thinks he or she was an accident.”

She dashes into the bathroom and I followed after her. I found her head in the bowl retching. I stared at her with both awe and excitement.

She lifts her head and rests it on her arm. “I’m scared.”

I sit on the floor behind her and she rests her head on my shoulder, my palms on her belly. I kissed her hair then whispered in ear. “Don’t be. You are not alone in this and don’t you think for one second that I am putting my career before this family.”

“Sebastian.” She whispered as the tears streamed down her cheeks and hit my arm.

“I love you, Dollface and our baby, babies.”

She laughed.

keepmyserenity  asked:

Hi Mollz, can you please repost rainy days (in chateau d'if)?

sure! a throwback.

rainy days (in chateau d’if)

           Days between storms, the Ladies Association of Bright Colors holds parades. As they pass by the street outside they pop open their rainbow of parasols and shout curses at our house. They call us the Cat Thieves because of the way the neighborhood felines stage hostile takeovers of the apartment every time it rains. We’ve tried to explain that the pets aren’t invited and we’d prefer it if they stayed away, but once you get a reputation as a Cat Thief, there’s really no shedding it.

           The cats don’t like us, I’ve told the Ladies over and over, it’s the apartment they want. The apartment, with its tall, curved windows and deep-stained mahogany that you can hear moaning in the winter, soft and languid, smooth. The ratty, sea-green couch Sal inherited from his dead uncle, its insides all spilling out where the cats have ripped through the velvet; the ruined silver tea tray, cat hair embedded in all its cracks; the names of former tenants etched behind the loose paneling in the bathroom, letters harsh and curveless. I wouldn’t mind the cats so much if they didn’t use the dark wood of the walls and railings as scratching posts. Sal says the whole place looks like a prison, like all our ghosts have tried to claw their way out.

           My mother calls the apartment Chateau D'if. I’m not sure it can be a prison if all the occupants keep trying to get in, but Sal likes the name so much he made a sign for the door. APT 2D. CHATEAU D'IF FOR CATS.


           I like to watch the parades. The Ladies make their own dresses, layers of sewn silk that are dyed deep and resonant with blues and greens and reds and yellows, colors mixing in the fabric like liquid, whispering around the Ladies’ legs and making them as beautiful and precise as the careful stitching. They look best without the parasols, with the sun sticky against their pale skin, their dark skin, mixing flesh with fabric until its hard to tell what was born and what was made. That’s when I like them best, but when they pass by through the Chateau D'if they push open the shade of their umbrellas and hiss, “Thieves! Thieves!”

           "We’re not thieves,“ I remind Sal from the balcony. He is eating a tuna sandwich. There is a soft drop of mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. The Ladies Association of Bright Colors doesn’t bother Sal, except that they making driving impossible on sunny days. We always have to take the bus–an ungainly, purple, bovine thing that rumbles down too-small cobbled alleys like a child’s overloaded wagon, squealing and squawking every time the driver hits the breaks. The wheels have no tract whatsoever and we always slip when we hit puddles. It’s not so bad in the dry season, but once the cats start showing up with regularity I know to get a window seat and brace myself with my knees.

           "No,” he agrees.

           "We should just start closing the windows when it rains.“

           "Sure thing,” he says, and takes another bite.

           On sunny days like this, you would never guess about the cats. Sal is meticulous about vacuuming up the hair, about shoving the couch’s insides back where they belong. If it weren’t for the deep scars in the walls, even I might forget the way the cats wind around my ankles and barricade the door. When they come, they come in hordes, in legions; they don’t lie on the couch, they lay siege to it. We cannot cook because the cats are sleeping in our pots and curled up in the microwave. There are always at least three in the dryer, no less than two in our pillowcases. We find diced mice on the cutting board as if someone expects us to serve it.

           The purring might drive you crazy, if you didn’t become used to it, if you didn’t turn it into a lullaby. Sometimes I think that they are singing in harmony. Sometimes I think that they are whispering secrets to me, trapped safe in the place where languages meet and are incompatible. They watch us with their dark eyes, prowling in circles, shedding and coughing up hairballs, telling us all the things cats know, including that they know that we don’t understand them.

           "I think you’re overthinking this,“ says Sal around a mouthful of tuna. "Just watch the parade.”

           "I am watching the parade,“ I tell him, and the Ladies’ dresses fan out around them as they spin, whirring like pinwheels.


           There is no official credo of the Ladies’ Association of Bright Colors. I thought they might be animal activists, the way they go on about the cats, but Sal says he read somewhere that really what they’re protesting is the rain.

           "How can you protest the rain?” I ask as the sky darkens and the first hum of a cat folding itself into the space between the window and the frame slips into the living room.

           "Ask the cats,“ says Sal, and laughs. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so funny. It’s Sal that can’t stand the hair everywhere, Sal that wakes up with cat bodies pressing him into the mattress, pinning his wrists. I sleep in the bathroom during the rain. The cats won’t touch the porcelain tub, for reasons they’ll only tell us in their untranslatable, rough tongues.

           There are four or five cats now, slinking their way along the walls, circling. This is how it always goes: a spiral from the wall inward, until they have reached the center of the apartment. We tried placing furniture in that spot, but it doesn’t deter them. The old wicker lampstand that we finally settled on is frayed and cracked, its paint chipping. It is held together as much by cat hair as by its woven strands.

           The rain comes faster and so do the cats, knocking over bowls and wrapping their tails around the legs of the furniture. They pay Sal and I no mind.


           When the rainy season ends, the Ladies’ Association of Bright Colors hosts a parade that far outshines all the others. The street seems to light up beneath them, gathering their reflections. They say that black is made from colors mixing, and today that’s true. Today black isn’t even black, just the reflecting of silk in sun-drunk pavement.

           I call Sal from the bus station. We spent the morning locating the cats’ owners and returning them. Now he is using Drain-O to dissolve hairballs and vacuuming under the couch. I can hear him munching on chips, probably sour cream & onion flavored because that’s all he’ll eat. The phone will have slick, grainy fingerprints on it when I get home, and I won’t be able to scrub the oil off. We’ll have to wait for the next rainstorm to come, because the cats lick off the grease residue with their tough, no-nonsense tongues and make everything sparkle.

           "Chateau D'if for Cats,” says Sal, laughing around a mouthful of crushed starch. “Nothing but open windows and unlocked doors, and still, no one can get out, not a single soul.”

           I hear him shove the vacuum under the always-bleeding couch, choking on lint and fur that has gathered on the rug. There are no cats left in the apartment but there are always the ghosts of cats, always the deep scars left in the wood where they have sharpened their claws.

           "Next rainy season,“ he says easily, "let’s try closing the windows.”

“It’s about time,” I agree. “Next rainy season.”

           But that’s the thing, you know; that’s what makes Chateau D'if Chateau D'if: neither one of us will shut the window. I can’t explain it to you, if you don’t already understand. I am not a Cat Thief and I don’t claw at the walls. I want to see the Ladies Association of Bright Colors without their parasols. But I can’t close the windows when it rains.

           It is a cat’s house. We just live here.

bearlytolerable  asked:

1, 11, and 20 for writer asks please?

1. Describe yourself how you would describe a character you’re introducing

“Would you please check your phone?” He said as he came up the stairs.

Ket was on the couch wearing her bra, an open flannel, and her laptop. Her legs were lost in a pile of blankets of yarn. She’d opened all the windows again and a candle was burning, masking the smell of unwashed dishes with woodsy enchantment.

Tea forgotten on the table, she’d clearly meant to knit and had gotten distracted by the internet.

“Your mom ended up calling me.” He set the bag of groceries on the counter and unpacked them, laying out the ingredients and wishing the pots and pans he needed to cook in tonight were already washed. He opened the dishwasher; at least it was empty.

“Today at work -”

“I’m writing.”

He immediately silenced and reached into his pocket to place his earbuds in his ears, loading an episode of Critical Role on his phone. Her tone had been clipped; she sounded half-drowned, like admitting he was in the same room with her took an enormous effort of concentration for her to come back to this world. But she hadn’t sounded angry - not this time at least - so he guessed that he hadn’t made her lose her train of thought. The clacking of her keyboard (an irritating noise that he wished he could muffle) was set at a furious pace.

Not distracted by the internet, then; working.

He let one earbud dangle so he could hear if she needed anything.

11. Weirdest thing you’ve ever written/thought about writing/etc.?

Ah. >.>; This would probably be the parade of gross debauchery that is my NON-EXISTENT FOX coffeeshop AU. Essentially a thing that takes all the nice comforting elements of coffeeshop AUs and ruins them by letting my mind run riot over them in a sordid bacchanalia of lechery and filth. ^.^; Like a raunchy gross-out sex comedy, completely bland and honestly unforgivable. Will never happen. I don’t even want it. Sometimes paragraphs of it just invade my brain.

20. 4 sentences from your work that you’re proud of

~NSFW~ 4 sentences from ‘slipping into coats,’ one of my drabbles I legit love

And she eased him to the ground.

He realized he’d been drinking like the world was going to end.

And she knelt between his hips, and asked into his ear, “Yes?” and he nodded, feverish, yes, yes, like this was his last night, like the cold over the world was rising up to claim him, too. And she took him, warmed him, so obscenely engorged, into her mouth, and his head whipped back against the stone of the tavern walls, cracking there with a burst of mixed agony and ecstasy, and he groaned to be within her.