anonymous asked:

"Soulmates who can feel each other's (read: emotional) pain" for nurseydex? If you could make it more nursey-centric that'd be great, but if u don't that's still fine 👍

Thanks for the prompts! Hope you like


Dex was in the kitchen when it felt like the floor fell out from under him.

The bowl of batter in his hands clattered to the counter. “Holy – holy fuck,” he gasped. Everything in him ached. There was a pressure in his head. His chest felt like it was about to cave in. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed, and gripped the edge of the counter to keep from falling to the floor. He had no idea what had caused this pain, when moments before he’d been perfectly content. He hung his head and scrunched his face and now, along with the hurt, he was angry, angry that something, someone, had made Nursey feel this way. He had nowhere to direct the anger. It hurt so much. It ripped out of him in a wordless yell as he slammed a fist to the surface in front of him.

“S- sorry, Tango,” he gritted out, eyes still screwed shut.

Tango stood next to him. He held his hands in front of him, like he wanted to touch Dex but was afraid. He looked worried. “What’s wrong? Do you know what’s wrong?”

Dex picked his head up and turned to Tango. “No.” He wiped at his cheeks. They were wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying. “But I’ll find out.”

Dex really was sorry. He hadn’t meant to scare Tango. It was just – the pain was so much, too much for him to hide. He climbed the stairs to the attic, trying to muffle his sobs.

The attic door was closed. Dex knocked lightly. This pain was not his. Just because he felt it didn’t mean he could intrude where he wasn’t wanted.

He heard a muffled “come in,” and pushed the door open slowly. Nursey was on the bottom bunk, wrapped in blankets and curled on his side, facing the wall.

Dex projected his hurt outward. His breath rasped through him, and tears gushed down his face, and each exhale was a soft moan. Nursey’s pain was directed inward. He was still and silent, his breathing calm. Dex would have thought he was asleep.

Dex walked across the room, taking his shoes off as he went. He pulled back the covers and pressed himself to Nursey’s back. He clutched at his middle and shoved his face into his shoulder blade. He pressed his cries into the soft fabric of Nursey’s hoodie.

A few minutes passed, then Nursey turned over and nuzzled his face into Dex’s neck. The pain ebbed slightly. Tears continued to stream from Dex’s eyes, but he was silent. “What – what’s wrong? What happened?” he stuttered between uneven breaths. He stroked a hand through Nursey’s hair.

Nursey heaved a sigh. His breath tickled over Dex’s collar bone. “I’m gonna sound like an asshole.”

Another wave of pain. “Never,” Dex sobbed.

“And I’m even more of an asshole, because you have to deal with it too. This is shitty. You shouldn’t have to feel like shit just because I do.”

Nursey felt things strongly. That was something Dex loved about him.

He pushed at Nursey’s shoulders so he could look him in the eye. Dex could see the sadness there. “Nurse. There is no wrong reason to feel like this.” He wiped a palm over his eyes, the better to see his boyfriend, his soulmate. “This isn’t some, some inconvenience. You matter, and what you feel matters. And I want to do whatever I can to help.”

Nursey bit his lip, and his eyes turned glassy. “You were in the library today?”

“Of course.” Nursey knew he’d been in the library. They’d been studying together when Chowder had rushed up, bursting with excitement. He’d hauled Dex up out of his chair, jumping as he shouted about how he’d gotten into grad school, he’d applied to Berkeley, and they’d accepted him, and he was going to grad school. Dex was grinning, his smile splitting his face, when Chowder turned and did the same to Nursey. They all jumped and hugged and shouted until a librarian asked them to leave.

“Chowder – of course I’m happy for Chowder.” Nursey paused, struggling to figure out what he wanted to say. He took a deep breath, let it out. “I just – it’s scary. Everyone’s leaving. Jack, Shitty, Lardo, Rans and Holster, Bitty – they’re all gone. And now we’re gonna graduate. Chowder’s leaving. It might take you longer, but you’re gonna leave, too. And you’ll all forget about me.” He choked the last part out, his voice breaking. He ducked his head back into Dex’s neck. His neck felt wet, because now Nursey had started to cry.

They held each other as sadness ripped through them both. The sun went down, and the room was thrown into darkness. Eventually the sadness ran its course and left in its wake numbness and silence.

“I won’t leave,” Dex whispered.

“I know,” Nursey mumbled into Dex’s skin.

“Not just because we’re dating. Chowder won’t leave, and no one will forget you. We mean too much to each other.” He paused. He thought. “You mean too much to us,” Dex amended.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” Nursey sighed. “Sometimes I just forget.”

“That’s alright.” Dex kissed Nursey’s forehead. “I’ll remind you.”  

Sons of Lawrence #15

Summary:  Sons of Anarchy meets Supernatural. In this AU, the Winchesters run the most notorious biker gang in Lawrence. They traffic illegal drugs, weapons, and anything else that makes them money and keeps them on top.
Miss the beginning?
Characters in this chapter: Dean Winchester, John Winchester, Crowley, Jo Harvelle, Meg Masters, Patrick, Jodi Mills, Mary Winchester, James Novak, Sam Winchester
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,764
Warnings: Attempted murder, blood and injury, conspiracy, language, casual use of illegal drugs, angst, fluff, medical jargon. 
Author’s Note: This series isn’t going to be light and fluffy. It will include explicit language, explicit sexual content, casual use of illegal drugs, explicit canon typical violence.
GIF credit [x][x] Other GIF from Google.

Originally posted by crowleysloverr

Crowley knew from the moment Jo left his office that he was going to frame her for the murder of John Winchester. He just had to make sure to execute his plan perfectly. Since Jo had gotten her perky ass kicked out of COLT, Crowley didn’t want to act too soon. He wanted the Winchesters -and guest- to start to feel safe, as if all of their problems had disappeared with the death of Gadreel.

Only one other person knew the entirety of Crowley’s plan; Patrick. He was tall, dark, deathly handsome, and had a thick accent that made all the ladies -and a few of the men- swoon. Patrick flirted shamelessly with the petite blonde, told her about his rough childhood in Cyprus and the UK, even played the sympathy card by telling her how his parents died when he was a teenager. Jo was eating out of his hand and Crowley knew Patrick wouldn’t let him down.

Several days later, Crowley decided it was time. Patrick and Jo were going at it like rabbits and everyone except John had just pulled away on their bikes. He sat back for several long moments, making sure the sounds of the loud bikes had drifted away before Crowley pushed off the stolen bike that was sitting just out of view. Dark leather gloves were pulled on as he strode up the driveway, disappearing silently into the house just as a car drove past.

With a cup in his hand and his nose buried in the newspaper, John walked into the kitchen; only stopping because Crowley cleared his throat.

“Hello, John,” Crowley rasped, pulling a loosely-wrapped bundle from his pocket.

Keep reading

Happiness Comes in on Tiptoe by scagnetism

Length: 9k

There is a supermodel standing at Louis’ door. He suddenly feels extremely insecure about his unwashed hair and clothes that have seen better days. He’s sure his mouth has fallen open, but there is a supermodel standing on his doorstep.

Or, the AU where Louis is new to the neighborhood and Harry is the angel living next door.

Ao3, One-Shot

Fic: The Window Seat

Apparently I am being assailed by plot bunnies. This one hit me as I attempted to sleep last night.

Its just a short one though.


————————————————————————————————-


A cloud passed over the sun

He watched her. His wife, his Sassenach. Claire. She sat where she sat every morning, in the window seat of the kitchen. She loved that spot. She stretched herself like a cat in the sunlight and the comparison made him smile. She reminded him of a cat sometimes. At once languorous but with an air of suppressed ferocity. He’d seen her lose her temper.

It was a warm morning. The sun shone into the kitchen and a breeze danced through the room. It lifted her hair slightly and she raised her face towards it, eyes closed. He had known her for a decade. Lived with her, seen her everyday, but even so he could not help but to admire her. The strong line of her jaw, the paleness of her skin, so rich and creamy, that cloud of dark hair that he thought was brown but reflected light in a way that it shone red and gold and silver. He knew what her hair would smell like. It would smell of citrus, a soft tang. It would be soft and wild under his touch. His eyes closed as he remembered the feel of her hair on his body as they made love, the tickle of the curls against his face as they kissed, the softness of it in his hands as he held her close to him.

Sorcha. It was a wholly apt name. Not only Claire in the Gaelic, but light. With the sun shining in behind her she seemed illuminated. Like the angels he would see in the churches of his childhood. Earthly but not. Familiar, but hinting of something more, a promise as yet unrevealed.

Sorcha.

His eyes shut briefly as a tear escaped. He opened them. The window seat sat empty. The breeze ruffled the service booklets on the counter. He felt his brother in law’s hands on his shoulders.

It was time.

He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. The scent of her was still here. How long would it linger for? Would it gradually leave this place or would he wake one morning and find that all trace of her was gone?

The memory of that day. Her voice floating through the window from the street outside. Some mundane conversation with a neighbour. Then a squeal of brakes, a scream, the hideous sound of metal making contact with brick, with something softer..

The memory of her lying there. Her hand in his but growing cold as her listened to the sirens coming closer. As he in turns reassured and pleaded. Her hand sliding from his as she left. The feeling that his very core had been ripped from his body.

He stepped out into the garden. The sun was too bright. The cars were there. Black as the wound in his soul. She was there. She was leaving their home for the final time.

‘I will find you, Claire.’ He made the vow he had made a thousand times since that day.

A sob broke free from his throat.

A red haired little girl took his hand.

He looked down at her and stroked her hair, hair so much like his own.

They walked down the path.