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a 3x14 coda

The text had come through when she was draining the last of the coffee from her cup, after Mateo had finished his passionate treatise on the Shakespearean parallels of the first Thor movie and a comfortable silence had settled.

Come over when you’re done.

It wasn’t the first time TK had texted her since they parted ways at the firehouse, so he knew where she was. He also knew she probably had no desire to go home to an empty apartment with nothing but bad memories and ringing ears for company.

She can still see those lifeless eyes staring at her whenever she closes hers; can still hear the way Cap screamed her name, wondering if she would even answer back.

She clears her throat and allows Mateo to pick up the check, but only if she can get the next one, and the promise of a future cup is enough to put a spring in Mateo’s step as he heads for the counter.

They part ways with a hug that lingers, and Nancy finds herself halfway to the loft before she even recalls putting the keys in the ignition. She probably shouldn’t be driving, but she’s pulling up outside their building before she can tell herself to turn around.

Maybe she shouldn’t be driving, but she shouldn’t be alone either. It’s a fact she’s well aware of, and one she’s clearly powerless to argue.

She presses their intercom, and the door opens with a buzz. The elevator ride is quick, and she stretches out her tense neck and tries to pop her ears again, realizing a moment too late that the spot she keeps rubbing on her cheek is the one Cap had cleaned not that long ago.

Outside their door, she pauses, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. Mitchell had called Carlos from the scene before any of the 126 could even process what the hell had happened. And thank God, because if Carlos had heard that a gun was fired into their rig, well. Nancy has no desire to think about what would have come next.

She’s witnessed it firsthand enough.

She’s just about to knock when the door swings back and TK stands there, feet bare, pajamas loose, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

A knowing look on his face.

She tries to say, hey, but nothing comes out, her mouth opening and closing around words that will not come.

He nods, because he knows and opens his arms, cocooning her in the warmth of the blanket as he hugs her with the strength of the empathetic.

Pulling away just enough to close the door, he gets an arm around her back and leads her over to the living room where E.T. is cued up on the TV, a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants sit folded neatly on a cushion, and a spread of unopened takeaway boxes is lined up on the coffee table. And there, in the middle of the couch, is Carlos, left arm already held out, just waiting for her to sink into it.

So she does.

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she sighs as TK settles in on Carlos’ other side. It’s silent for a long moment, broken only by the steady sound of their breaths.

“Change first or eat first?” Carlos softly asks.

“Or gossip first?” TK teases before he yelps. Carlos must have pinched him. “What? I wanna hear how coffee went.”

“Later, baby,” Carlos mutters, and Nancy smiles.

Changing sounds great and food sounds even better, but right now, the cuddle she’s in the middle of sounds the best. Feels the best. Feels needed.

She closes her eyes and listens to the steady thump of Carlos’ heart beneath her ringing ear. She closes her eyes and, for the first time in hours, she doesn’t see the patient’s lifeless gaze staring back at her. She closes her eyes and feels… not calm, but safe maybe.

Secure, here, with her family.

“Pajamas, food, aliens,” she mumbles, already half asleep.

Carlos laughs against her hair. “Okay.”

“Okay,” TK echoes, and she sighs again, content.

“In a minute, though.”

#911 lone star

tailoredshirt

Tarlos + stuck-in-an-airport-meetcute AU??

Thank you, anon!!! I hope you like it. 700 words.

***

"Move to Texas, they said," TK muttered. "It'll be great, they said."

"Sorry?"

TK glanced up to see the guy next to him looking at him with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Uh, sorry," TK said, shifting in the uncomfortable plastic airport chair. He couldn't find a comfortable way to sit. "I didn't even realize I was talking out loud."

The guy nodded, and TK expected him to go back to his book, but they sat there for a moment in silence, clearly aware of one another.

"So you're new to Texas?" the guy said finally.

#tarlos #911 lone star

samstree

“You are staring,” Jaskier says, but those golden eyes do not shy away.

“Am not,” Geralt answers.

The hall of Kaer Morhen fills with candlelight and Coën’s cheerful song - it must be an old melody from the south. At some point, Ciri has forced Lambert into a dance with her. Yennefer is nursing a drink in her hand with Triss’s head on her shoulder.

Jaskier sips a cup of tea and lets the mint soothe his throat. He observes the happy bunch from the corner of the room, where he and Geralt each sits in an armchair. He tucks his legs under him comfortably.

When he looks at Geralt again, those golden eyes are still on him, unwavering and painted warm by the fire.

“You are still staring.” Jaskier feels like he should pout.

“Not staring.” Geralt’s lips soften into a quiet smile. “Just…looking at you.”

“That so?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “And why might you be looking at me? Something in my teeth? Tea spilled on my shirt?”

He checks his clothes but they are pristine as ever, and Geralt rumbles a laugh. When he finally answers, Jaskier almost chokes on the hot tea and actually spills it all over himself.

“Because I’m proud of you, Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, his eyes gleaming with sincerity.

“Oh.”

Jaskier blinks.

“It’s been a year.” Geralt takes a deep breath and reaches out. “You stopped a year ago. Do you remember?”

It’s been a year since he put down the wine bottle in the middle of the night. Ciri was sitting by herself, alone and fresh out of a nightmare. Jaskier wanted to go to her, to offer his easy comfort. Instead, he only scared her because he could barely walk in a straight line. Because he reeked of alcohol.

He put down the bottle that night, and never picked it up again.

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand in his and feels a familiar shakiness in his fingers. Do you remember? He’d laugh at the question.

Does he remember?

He has been counting the day, every day.

“I’m surprised you do,” Jaskier answers eventually.

“I do,” Geralt says, oddly serious.

Jaskier pulls Geralt closer. In the shadows, the two of them hide from the crowd, the world narrowing down to the softness in those honey eyes. He returns the smile teasingly.

“Well then, shouldn’t I get a prize? Suffering your nonsense sober is no easy feat, witcher.”

“Didn’t prepare anything.” Geralt leans in and kisses the smile on Jaskier’s lips. Both of them have to strain from their seats. “Will this do?”

“Depends.”

Jaskier puts the tea on a nearby table and brings Geralt in for a proper kiss. Only mint and honey fill the air between them, making him dizzy in the best way. The candlelight dances behind his eyelids, and he hums against Geralt’s lips.

Wine could never beat kisses anyway.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers when they part.

“What for?”

“For being strong.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. “I’m hardly strong.”

Geralt shakes his head.

“I know how difficult it has been for you, how you count the days. I was there, Jaskier. I will be there next year, and every year after. We’ll celebrate them together.”

It’s a wonder Geralt doesn’t realize that he is the source of all that is strong within Jaskier. “Promise?” he asks, already knowing the answer in his heart.

“I promise.”

Perhaps, it will be easier next year, or perhaps it won’t. But if they count the days together, maybe Jaskier won’t need to be so strong all the time.

#the Witcher #addiction

kueble

The Latest Fashion

This one is for @welcomemysentence. I hope you enjoy it! Inspired by these bad boys. This is just pure filth.

Explicit. Warnings: Trans Jaskier, semi-public sex, dirty talk. 1,800 words.

Geraskier

—

The crowd tonight is one of the horniest Jaskier has faced in ages. He can feel their eyes dragging over him as he moves around the tavern and has to dodge more than his fair share of wandering hands. Geralt is hidden in the shadows at the back of the room, but Jaskier can see his white-knuckled grip on his mug from here. He blows him a kiss before throwing his head back and belting out the chorus. The drunken villagers eat it up, their untrained voices joining with his to finish the randy lyrics.

He feels alive with it, like the sexual tension is so thick you could drown in it. But fuck, what a way to go. Jaskier has no doubt that every single person left in the bar is taking someone home tonight, and he’ll be damned if that doesn’t make him feel like a fucking king. He may not hold a position at court, but he can rile up the masses just fine, building up their desire and raking in coin while he does it.

Keep reading

#the witcher #geraskier #nsfw

sabrinachill

Hi Mattie! I loved your newest fic with the home Michael built for Alex! :) I was wondering...I kind of have this idea that Michael & Sanders are close. I think Michael really takes care of Sanders (maybe his wife died?) Would u be willing to write a fic of Alex sort've discovering that Michael pretty much is a son to Sanders & that he takes care of Sanders (mowing his yard, bringing him food, fixing stuff)? Something tells me Sanders was the only one who was kind to Michael for a few years.

A/N: Set in some unknown reality where these two are happy and in love, because it’s my story and I do what I want.

***

Michael hates secrets, so he’s not sure why he’s kept this one. Habit, maybe, or just the deeply ingrained impulse to hide any potential weakness or vulnerability, to keep his soft underbelly hidden and protected.

But every time a customer rolls into the junkyard looking for Sanders, there’s a lie ready and waiting at the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, he’s on a cruise to Cancun,” or “He’s gone to Kansas looking for parts,” or “He’s having hernia surgery/a root canal/a vasectomy/a facelift.”

The excuses don’t really matter. What matters is the routine that always comes next: a charming smile, a calculated tip of the hat, and the warm drawl of, “But I can take a look at it for you.”

And then Michael does the work smarter, better, cheaper, and faster than Sanders could have even back in his prime — so no one pushes the issue too much.

(Truthfully, no one ever really looks hard enough at Michael and his life to question any of it.)

…Until Alex comes back, anyway.

“You know, I’ve been spending quite a lot of time here lately,” he says one Saturday afternoon, stretched out in a lawn chair with a beer bottle dangling from between his fingers, watching a bead of sweat roll down Michael’s neck and drip onto the engine block he’s currently bent over. “And I still haven’t ever seen this elusive boss of yours.”

“He keeps busy,” Michael replies without thinking, the lie automatic and immediate—

—And completely unbidden, he realizes a moment too late. He has no desire to lie to Alex.

“Still though,” Alex continues. “I’ve woken up here so many mornings, and I would have thought he’d have been in at least once.”

Michael sets down the wrench and saunters to where Alex stands, a little extra cowboy swagger in his hips. He eases Alex’s beer from his grip (Michael’s fingers grazing lightly over the back of his hand in an utterly unnecessary gesture that makes Alex’s eyes glaze over a little) and wraps his lips around the bottle. He tips it back and takes a long pull, his eyes never leaving Alex’s.

“You’re right. You have spent a lot of nights here,” Michael says, handing the bottle back before bracing his hands on the armrests on either side of Alex, pinning him in. The metal groans a little beneath the weight; Alex wants to moan along with it. “And I would hope that I have always given you something better to think about than that old, wrinkled Mr. Sanders.”

He presses his lips to Alex’s neck; Alex tips his head back to grant him better access even as he says, “Michael.”

“Mhmm?” Michael hums against Alex’s throat, the sound vibrating across the sensitive skin.

“There is no Sanders, is there?”

Michael’s mouth stops its skilled movements. He sighs against Alex’s neck then pulls away, hanging his head.  “Of course there is.”

Alex narrows his eyes, fluent in the tricky language of Michael’s evasiveness. “But he doesn’t work here any more, does he?”

Michael bends over and grabs his own beer out of the cooler, flashing a wry grin. “He could if he wanted to. I’d be happy to give him a job.”

Alex’s brows furrow. “What?”

Michael flops down into the chair next to him, raking a hand back through his wind-ruffled hair. “The junkyard, the business — it’s all mine. Has been for years.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sanders has always been good to me. He gave me a chance when nobody else would — gave me a job and a deal on my truck and then on the Airstream. He’s a good man who saw a lost kid and wanted to help.”

Michael takes a long drink of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply against his stubbled throat as he swallows. “As he got older I started to pitch in a little more with the stuff that was too physical for him to handle… and then even more when the bookkeeping had his mind a little scrambled. For a while there I was running this place and working out on the ranch full time… it was a lot.”

Michael takes a deep breath and looks down at his good hand, flexing the fingers around the beer bottle, enjoying the deep ache that comes after a long day turning wrenches. “Eventually he decided it would be for the best if he retired, and he sold me this place for the little bit of cash I’d managed to save up. The job at the ranch fell through, so I came back here full time, and he felt like he was safe enough with me running things that he could take off. He’s gone RV-ing with his wife. They sent me a postcard from Boca just last week.”

He smiles a little, fond despite himself; then he squints against the sun, slumps further down in the chair, and takes another long drink.

Meanwhile, Alex is surveying the junkyard with fresh eyes.

All of this — the land, the tools, the scrap metal, the spare parts — it’s all Michael’s. He’s the one that built the good reputation in the community; he’s the one that keeps the lights on and the gears grinding.

Which means that the sign hanging over the drive should bear his name now. This isn’t Sanders anymore.

It should be Guerin’s.

But, somehow, Alex knows it never will be.

“Why wouldn’t you just tell people that?” Alex finally asks.

Michael shrugs, finishes off his beer, and carefully does not look at his boyfriend. “I don’t know. It doesn’t exactly fit the image of Bar-Brawling-Town-Drunk Michael Guerin, does it?”

Alex’s voice is soft when he replies, “You don’t exactly fit that image any more, either.”

Michael starts peeling the label from his empty bottle, the paper soggy from condensation. “Maybe I just don’t want anyone to have start having expectations of me.”

“Yeah, well, too late.” Alex eases down onto his knees between Michael’s sprawled thighs, takes the beer bottle away, and then weaves their hands together. “Because I expect you to keep being a good man who takes care of the people he loves.”

He tenderly presses a kiss to Michael’s gnarled knuckles.

“And I expect you to let me take care of you in return.”

He kisses the base of Michael’s throat, the sweaty skin salty on his lips.

“And I expect you to take pride in the life you’ve built for yourself.”

Alex’s mouth moves to the edge of Michael’s jaw, his lips soft against the sharp rasp of stubble.

“And I expect you to talk to me about what’s going on with you.”

He kisses the corner of Michael’s mouth, his eyes dancing.

“And, now that you’re a legitimate business owner, I expect you to buy an adult-sized bed. I’m tired of my ass hanging half off the one in your trailer.”

Michael laughs gently and turns his head just a fraction, just enough so his lips brush against Alex’s as he says, “As long as you keep sharing it with me, I’ll buy you any size bed you want.”

Alex smiles and murmurs, “Deal.”

Then he closes the last bit of distance between them and kisses Michael breathless

#roswell new mexico #malex #michael guerin #alex manes #sanders #oneshot #tumblr

seeaddywrite

i’d break my heart with weeping

written as a response to @roswellprompts post, but it veered a bit off track:

Isobel hovers over Michael’s bedside, her face drawn and pale even as she plasters on an obviously-fake smile and smooths his hair back from his feverish forehead. “You’re going to be fine,” she’s saying, in a tone that suggests she’s trying to convince herself as much as Michael. “Max and Liz are on their way back from Denver. They’re already on the plane. And Max can heal you as soon as he gets here. Everything’s going to be fine.”

It takes more effort than Michael wants to admit to keep his eyes open to look at her, and lifting his hand to squeeze hers is practically a herculean task, but he manages. If there’s one thing Michael Guerin hates, it’s seeing Isobel so close to tears – especially because of him. He’s spent the last decade of his life wrapping her in cotton wool and trying to keep her safe, emotionally and physically, and he hates that after all of that, he’s still making her cry.

And, realistically speaking, there’s a good chance it’s only going to get worse. Michael doesn’t think much of his chances of survival, at the moment. There’s a golf-ball sized hole in his gut from whatever weapon he’d accidentally triggered while working on the ship; it’s stopped bleeding and started to heal, but the dark lines of infection spreading upward into his body are hardly reassuring. Max had picked a hell of a weekend to go help Liz go and pack up the rest of her belongings in Denver – but Michael would never say so out loud, not when he knows damn well that some of the anxiety Isobel can’t contain is bleeding through from her connection to Max.

“Hey, I’m sitting in this disgusting trailer playing nurse. The least you can do is keep your eyes open while I’m talking to you.” Isobel’s attempt at bravado is thin, and Michael forces his eyes back open immediately and smiles tiredly.

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’d say you don’t have to stay, but I know better.”

“Damn right you know better,” Isobel snaps, though the glare she attempts to shoot him is way too soft to be effective. Her hand is still at his head, her fingers carding through his sweat-matted curls, and Michael lets himself enjoy the affection. It’s never been a loaded thing, with Isobel. She’s always been willing to hug him or hold his hand, and he’s never had to second-guess or overthink why she’s doing it. The easy, matter-of-course way she bestows her affections is one of the many reasons he loves his sister.

“Here. Drink some more of this.” An open bottle of acetone is pressed against his lips, and Michael lifts his head to sip from it. Normally, he would have insisted to hold it himself, but as it is, he’s just grateful Isobel’s hand is steady. As he sips gingerly, Isobel is still talking, obviously in need of something to fill the silence. “I cannot believe you’ve been rebuilding a damn spaceship in that bunker, Michael. Without telling me or Max? It’s a miracle something didn’t go wrong a long time ago! And what were you going to do if you finished it, huh? Take off without saying goodbye? Just disappear? Do you know what that would do to Max? He’d never forgive himself! And me? God, Michael! What am I supposed to do without you?”

Keep reading

#malex #michael guerin #isobel evans #alex manes #tumblr #oneshot

aliencowboys

For the anon who asked: IDK if you’re still doing Malex prompts but if you are , here’s one : “And to think, I’ve spent the last 10 years trying to protect you, convincing myself that if I stayed away and did what ever he said, you’d be safe from my father and he would leave you alone. When in actuality he was going after you this whole time! God dang, how could I be so stupid?!”

Sorry this took a while for me to get to!! I hope you like it, though.

—

Alex parked his Ford by the entrance to the junkyard and climbed out with a huff, a torrent of objections ready to spill off his tongue. It was late on a cool, still night, and Alex had come running the moment he received a desperate, needy text from Michael.

“Guerin, this had better be an actual emergency.” Alex called out as he walked through the dark toward Michael’s airstream. He could vaguely make out Michael’s figure standing nearby, fiddling with something in his hands.

Michael didn’t reply and Alex rolled his eyes. “If it’s not then I’m leaving.”

“No!” Michael exclaimed, voice frantic. “Just, stay.”

“Guerin, my dad’s back in town.” Alex sighed, “I can’t- I want to, but I can’t protect you if-“

“Alex, you’ve spent the last ten years trying to protect me.” Michael argued, though he didn’t move closer, and neither did Alex.

“Yeah and look where that got me,” Alex spoke heavily, “I convinced myself if I stayed away and did whatever my father said you’d be safe from him, and he’d leave you alone.” He shook his head, “but he’s actually been after you this whole time!”

“This isn’t about him.” Michael explained, finally putting down what he had been holding and walking toward Alex through the darkness.

“Then what, Guerin? Why did you call me out here knowing that any attention I draw to you will remind him how much he wants you dead.” Alex didn’t frame it like a question, simply a statement. It was a fact. His father wanted Michael dead, he always had. Now more than ever. It was only a matter of time before Jesse Manes lashed out, and Alex feared that rekindling his own involvement with Michael was only going to make his father act sooner. “I was stupid to think staying away was enough. It’s not. But being together is still dangerous. So why? What are you risking this for?”

Keep reading

#roswell nm #malex #michael guerin #alex manes #aliencowboys #tumblr

whimsywooo

grey hearts

Andy coming back was a whirlwind in and of itself, it was emotional and happy and yet at the same time, things were different.

He had to deal with the fact that his own son didn’t really connect with him, that his daughter was now an adult and although loved him, didn’t need him.

So yeah, it makes sense that he’s gravitating towards Seb. Maybe it’s his way of putting things right, stepping up and becoming a dad to a teenager considering Jack doesn’t really see him that way anymore.

It all makes perfect sense but at the same time, Robert doesn’t like it.

He has Ella on his lap, he’s combing through her hair and it’s just gone nine when Andy finally comes back with Seb. They’ve been fishing, Seb doesn’t even like fishing.

Robert knows that, because he knows his son thanks very much.

“Had a good time then?” Aaron says, he’s lounging about on the sofa and he looks up when he sees him.

“You stink off fish.” Jacob finally takes out his headphones for the first time all night and then turns his phone sidewards again to carry on playing his car game or whatever.

Seb flops a hand through his hair and then pulls a face. “Yeah well, that could be because we caught a massive fish so I don’t care.”

Robert twitches just slightly at that because he didn’t think he’d enjoy himself and he should be happy that he did but he can’t help but feel a little pushed out.

“You did?” The headphone is yanked out again and Jacob genuinely looks impressed which is saying something. He’s all Aaron basically, full on sark and everything. “Woah.” His eyes light up a little.

“Should take ya next time.” Andy says, his voice is a lot deeper nowadays, he’s got a full on thick black beard and all these stories that the kids love. He’s been on this epic journey all over the world and it’s clear that Jacob absolutely idolises him, Seb’s getting there too.

Robert stops plaiting Ella’s hair and she slides off his lap as he stands. “Or you could take Jack too? Sure he’d love to.”

Andy’s eyes flicker just slightly and Aaron casts him the smallest of looks before Annie shouts for them from upstairs and the tension in the room is broken down.

Robert instantly feels bad about it, especially when Andy makes his excuses and leaves. He feels bad because he’s had all the little chats with him in the pub about everything, he knows that all that time away has ruined Andy in a way he can’t possibly imagine.

He’s missed out on the world hasn’t he? He’s missed it all and sometimes he thinks Andy must see Sarah when he plays with Ella.

Aaron sees it too, he doesn’t mind in the slightest though. He thinks it’s going to do him good, so the look Aaron gives him when they climb into bed that night is definitely something.

“Don’t give me that.” Robert says, he still has toothpaste round his mouth and he rubs at it a little as Aaron rolls his eyes and strips down to his pants.

“He’s being nice.” Aaron says, punches a little at his pillow so it deflates and he rests his head against it before biting his lip. “He’s being their uncle, thought you’d be pleased he was back.” He can’t help but notice that there’s something brewing, he wants to stop it before the tide comes in and everything explodes.

Keep reading

#robron #emmerdale #seb white

tepre

I want an 8th year fic where Harry is a really bad kisser. like. REALLY bad. Like, no coordination, spit all over the place, no-idea-where-he’s-going-with-this bad. And it makes sense because he’s never quite had the emotional education that makes him super attuned to other people’s needs? anYWAY when he and ginny break up they have a bit of a row and she wants to throw something at him just to THROW SOMETHING AT HIM because it’s hard to accuse the actual puppy dog who saved the goddamn world of anything – ESPECIALLY WHEN HE’S SO WEEPY – and so she just says it. She just says it, You are a bad kisser, Harry. You are a very, very, very, very bad kisser.

AND at first of course Harry is like how dARE YOU, and no YOU are, but then it gets stuck in his head and he starts asking around. First of all, do people even like kissing? It is a thing people like? It’s always felt kind of off and gross to him and cut to Hermione talking a million miles an hour, confiscating an empty classroom to draw out a full chart on a blackboard about the benefits/social history/beauty of make outs – IF you want them. Harry nods furiously and is taking notes.

From there the research expands into a full-scale survey amongst the 7th and 8th years about the best snogger on Hogwarts grounds [on a scale from 0 to 10, 0 being ‘like being slapped about by the giant squid’ and 10 being ‘like a veela caressing the inside of your mouth but also you’re in fire’]. Entirely unexpectedly, WHAT A SURPRISE TO EVERYONE INVOLVED, Draco Ambrosius Giselda Anne Paulus Fucking Malfoy (named after all of his auntie’s favourite corgies) ends up the UNANIMOUS nr 1. Harry and Hermione, main conductors of said research, are appalled. Especially when subject #18 (Hannah Abbott) goes all glassy-eyed staring at the survey parchment and whispers “that mouth tho”, seemingly to herself.

Cut to Harry and Hermione holed up in the classroom with pictures of everyone from 7th & 8th year hanging on the walls with bits of red thread connecting them. Malfoy’s is in the middle, circled several times and surrounded by question marks. Harry looks frazzled, tie undone, and he’s reading through the case again. “It can’t be!” he says, incredulous, while Hermione laughs a little crazed and disbelieving. “It has to be,” she says, shaking her head. “By Jobe, it has to be.”

Keep reading

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy

selivakyle

platonic jason bruce for 30?

“Is that blood?”

There’s a stumble in the doorway and a scratching like someone’s fumbling with the key, and Jason is pushing Kyle off of his lap and reaching for the small handgun he keeps taped underneath the coffee table just as the door opens.

Seguir leyendo

#jason x kyle #Bruce & jason #jason todd #batfamily

laurasbailey

runaways ladies in season two → radio on

#runaways

capseycartwright

32.“Wait, you’re a superhero?” “How do you not know? My face is literally on the news on a weekly basis.” “I’m in grad school. I won’t have time to follow popular media until I finish my thesis. You’re lucky I’ve carved out some non-existent free time to date you.”

Dating had always been hard for Aaron. Surprisingly, being gay hadn’t even been the hardest part, not when he had this whole other life he had to hide from the person he was seeing. It was for their own safety, really, but it was also because he didn’t want to be treated differently simply because he was Manchester’s answer to Spiderman.

Being a superhero was hard.

It was more common, these days - people were inspired by people like Captain America, and now it was more and more normal for cities to have their very own superhero. Somehow, Aaron had accidentally become Manchester’s, swooping in to save the day whenever he was needed.

He liked it.

Aaron wouldn’t do it if he didn’t like it, if he didn’t feel a genuine call to help people - but in so many ways, his life had always been predetermined. Being born with powers usually meant you ended up working in law enforcement, or you became a superhero - and well, Aaron had more than a few problems with authority, so the special powers unit of the Manchester police really hadn’t been an option.

Still, he liked it.

He’d like it more if he didn’t get injured so constantly, and this new wanker who was terrorising the streets of Manchester had somehow developed a weapon that stopped Aaron’s healing powers in their tracks, so now he was tired, and bleeding, and stranded in Manchester.

There was only one place to go, really.

Robert’s.

Aaron had met Robert on a night out six months previously, the blond catching his attention as soon as he’d arrived in the bar. He was tall, and incredibly handsome, with a jawline that could cut granite. Usually Aaron didn’t go for blondes, but he’d been smitten with Robert from the moment he’d met him.

He was twenty seven, and doing a PhD in something related to computer science Aaron absolutely did not understand. Robert was funny, and kind, and great in bed, and a fantastic cook - it was the best relationship Aaron had ever been in, if he was being honest about it.

Now - well, now he was probably about to ruin it all, turning up on Robert’s doorstep, bleeding and dirty, wearing a stupid costume Moira had designed for him, an attempt at a disguise. He wasn’t exactly careful about flashing his face to the cameras, so the identity of the Raven was probably the worlds worst kept secret.

“Oh my god, what happened to go?” Robert opened the door to his flat, looking shocked at the state of Aaron. He was clearly working on something for university, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, Robert still wearing his joggers and an old t-shirt of Aaron’s.

“Hi,” Aaron said weakly. “I got in a bit of a situation.”

“A situation?! Aaron, you need to go to hospital!” Robert looked frazzled, rooting around his hall table for his car keys. “God, where are my keys?”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital, Robert.”

“You have been stabbed, Aaron!” Robert practically yelled, looking weirdly sexy as he stood, hands on hips, giving Aaron a proper dressing down on his doorstep.

Aaron looked down at himself, blood spilling from the knife wound in his stomach. “I have,” he agreed, feeling every cell in his body trying to heal the stab wound, to no avail. “But it’s fine.”

“It’s fine? It’s a stab wound, but its fine. Are you being serious right now?”

Wait - did Robert not know who he was?

“Robert,” Aaron said slowly. He was in full costume, Robert should have put two and two together by now. “Do you not know who I am?” he questioned.

“I know you’re an insane person!” Robert said shrilly. “You’ve been bloody stabbed, Aaron. Is the blood loss making you even more reckless than usual?”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Robert, I’m the Raven,” he said, waiting for the reaction. Ed hadn’t reacted well, when Aaron had told him, and that had been the beginning of the end for them.

Robert looked at him blankly. “Is that a stripper name?”

“A stripper? Jesus, Robert, no, I’m a superhero!” Aaron shook his head, gesturing wildly. “You know, fight the bad guys, protect the Earth, all that jazz?”

Not an ounce of recognition from his clueless boyfriend.

“Robert, do you not watch the news? I’m all over it right now,” Aaron said, pushing past Robert into his apartment, searching for the TV remote and turning on Sky News. Sure enough, there Aaron was, fighting some wanker calling himself the Destroyer outside Primark on Market Street.

Robert watched the screen, realisation finally dawning. “Wait, you’re a superhero?”

“How do you not know? My face is literally on the news on a weekly basis,” Aaron said, easing himself into one of Robert’s bar stools. “I left our date early to stop an alien invasion last week, Robert.”

“You said you had a bad stomach!” Robert said defensively. “Anyway, I’m in grad school, I don’t have time for popular media until I finish my thesis. You’re lucky I carved out some non-existent time to date you, you know.”

Aaron couldn’t help but laugh. This was why he liked Robert so much - his boyfriend was entirely unconcerned with what other people did, only focused on himself and the people immediately around him. It was nice, because even given his limited time, Robert always gave their relationship complete focus when they were together.

“Do you - are you not interested in me now that you know?” Aaron questioned, his insecurities bubbling to the surface.

Robert looked as if his jaw was about to hit the floor. “Aaron, are you serious? I have an entire bookshelf of superhero comics right over there - and now I’m apparently dating one? This is he best day of my entire life!” he declared, leaning in to embrace Aaron, eliciting a yelp from the other man.

“Still stabbed,” Aaron pointed out, the blood finally starting to clot on his stomach.

“How can I help?” Robert asked, an apologetic look on his face.

“Some chocolate would be good,” Aaron admitted. “Sugar helps with the healing process, it simulates my powers or summat.”“And here was I thinking you just had a serious sweet tooth,” Robert grinned, tossing him a Mars bar from the cupboard. “Wait - what powers do you have? Oh my god Aaron, tell me everything, were you born with them?”

Aaron couldn’t help the contented grin on his face as he listened to Robert prattle on.

Maybe being a superhero wasn’t all bad.

#robron #emmerdale

sapphicsugden

u know who and 15?

hello, something for you and @capseycartwright who both asked for the same thing ;);

stairway to disasteraaron/robert, meeting in the E.R/A&E au

“That looks nasty.”

Robert looks up from cradling his arm, raising his eyebrow at the guy sitting opposite him. He’s handsome, in a rugged sorta way, with the sort of hoodie-and-jeans combo that Robert’s never really been a fan of. Until now, that is. “Excuse me?”

The guy nods at Robert’s arm. “That looks nasty.”

It feels nasty, too. “Could be better.”

Snorting, the guy’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t say anything else. Robert’s not altogether sure of the motives behind it; if the guy’s not a talker, why strike up a conversation? Of course, he could just be terrible at chatting someone up. Which, Robert supposed, might not be happening, but his ego is definitely winning out here.

“Why are you here, then?” Robert asks, stretching out his legs. He hisses as his body shifts, pain jolting down his arm.

The guy gestures down at his ankle. “Done sommat to it at work. My best mate told me I should come get it checked out.”

“Didn’t wanna stick around for the waiting time though, eh?” Robert says, gesturing at the empty seats either side of the guy. He’s making assumptions, but he’s also sure he hasn’t seen anybody stand up in the last half an hour.

The guy shakes his head, looking amused. “Don’t really wanna be here myself.”

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capseycartwright

Thank you Lorna for sharing with us your amazing stories, they're always such a pleasure to read ❤️ I'm choosing prompt 7 please 🙂 Have the most amazing 2018!!!!

#7 “do you spell my name wrong on purpose?”

happy new year heidi!!

If you asked him, Robert would never admit to having a crush on the mechanic would always came in, 8.15am on the dot, for a coffee. He’d swear blind he wasn’t fussed about him, that he never even noticed that he came in.

Except he did.

Robert was in too deep, when it came to the scruffy haired man who always ordered a double shot vanilla latte (needing the caffeine hit, and the sugar rush, Robert presumed), wearing various shades of slouchy hoodies and dark trousers, work boots scuffing at the white floor of the coffee shop.

Robert saw a lot of people, working as a barista. He’d bought the coffee shop on a whim, with his divorce settlement, deciding he needed a new venture in life now he was a washed up, divorcee of twenty eight - and well, office types always wanted overpriced coffee, didn’t they?

Two years on, and his post-divorce, spur of the moment decision had turned out to the best thing he’d ever done. Robert had managed to turn his hand, to the hospitality industry, his little cafe always busy, his sister baking all sorts of sweet treats for him to sell along with the coffee.

Going into business with his baby sister had been unexpected, but when Victoria had lost her job at the restaurant she’d worked in for years, and he’d bought the cafe, well - the stars had aligned.

Fixing the sleeve of his white shirt, the one he’d carefully rolled to the elbow that morning, wanting to look his best for when the mechanic came in for his usual morning coffee.

“You look good,” Victoria teased, hair done up in intricate braids as she carefully loaded up a batch of freshly baked croissants, the smell filling the cafe absolutely divine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Robert said, sipping on the coffee he’d made himself, taking advantage of the quiet fifteen minute window they always had to start the day, right before the office rush began.

“You know, you could just ask him out,” Victoria said, standing, hands on hips, a dance so reminiscent of how their mother would stand in the old kitchen up at Emmerdale Farm, trying to usher them out from underneath her feet as she’d cook, or clean.

“Or you could mind your own,” Robert retorted, giving her a pointed look. “And leave me to do my job, while you do yours?”

“You’re no fun,” Victoria said, sticking her tongue out at Robert, but leaving him in peace all the same, her humming a familiar sort of background noise as she got to work getting ready for the day.

They’d branched into brunch, recently, and it kept Victoria even busier than usual.

Robert had just managed to get the special’s chalkboard finished, admiring his own neat handwriting declaring they were serving a smoked chicken and avocado sandwich special today, when the mechanic arrived.

“Morning,” Robert greeted, stepping back behind the counter. “The usual?” he inquired, already fishing for one of the medium sized takeaway cups.

The mechanic nodded, his blue eyes bright as he rooted in his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll have a croissant, too, please,” he said, nodding toward the freshly baked pastries on the counter.

“Chocolate or apricot?” Robert inquired, looking up from where he was making his coffee. Somewhere along the way, making coffee had become his therapy, something he enjoyed doing more than he’d ever imagined.

“Chocolate, please.”

Definitely a sweet tooth, then.

Giving the mechanic his change, Robert worked in silence, whatever indie instrumental album Victoria had stuck on filing the still thankfully quiet cafe. He enjoyed his few minutes alone with the gorgeous mechanic, okay?

“Enjoy your day,” Robert said with a bright smile, setting the coffee on the counter. “A double shot vanilla latte for Arran.”

The mechanic raised an eyebrow, picking up his coffee. “How do you always remember my order, but not my name?” he asked, a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. “Do you spell my name wrong on purpose?”

Robert returned the grin. “Maybe I need something more to remember it,” he said, enjoying the flush that rose in the mechanic’s cheeks. “Like your number.”

The mechanic grinned. “Nice try,” he said, heading for the door of the cafe, breakfast in hand.

“Not a winner, then?”

Aaron looked over his shoulder, smirking slightly. “Try again tomorrow.”

#robron #emmerdale

capseycartwright

28. `”i’m going to burn those mistletoe boxers.” Happy New Year Lorna! 🌟

happy new year charly! i hope its a good one for you!!

Robert hadn’t been able to resist buying the mistletoe boxers, when he’d seen them in Primark. They were tacky, sure, but the memory of the previous Christmas he’d worn them in his insane ghosts of Christmas past style dream had been enough to have him handing over eight pounds for the jokey underwear.

He’d woken up Aaron wearing them, on Christmas morning, his husband laughing until he cried as he realised what Robert was wearing, mistletoe artfully placed over his crotch.

Robert had gotten the blowjob of his life, thanks to those ridiculous boxers, closely followed by a fairly spectacular stag before Liv had decided enough was enough and they needed to open presents now.

He’d shoved the boxers to the back of a drawer, forgetting about them completely until the next Christmas. It became a bit of a running joke, over the years, for one of them to wear them Christmas morning (or over Christmas in general), the silly boxers usually resulting in some epic blowjobs, the two of them happy to take the mistletoe as literal, a particularly fond memory of the time Robert had refused to do anything but kiss the tip of Aaron’s dick, until Aaron threatened to murder him and divorce him at all once if he didn’t get a move on.

They’d been a good investment.

Until this year.

Robert wasn’t sure he’d ever been more embarrassed in his life, standing in Lisa Dingles kitchen, wearing a boat full of gravy on his trousers, Lisa holding out a spare pair of Cain’s trousers for him to borrow.

“It’s fine,” he managed to choke out, shaking his head. “It’ll dry in.”

“You’re sopping, love,” Lisa shook her head. “Come on, off with them, and I’ll throw them in the wash while we’re having dinner, they’ll be dry in no time.”

“Come on, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before,” Chas teased with a grin, bringing back horrifying memories of the time he and Aaron had literally been caught with their trousers down behind one of the tents for the summer fete by Charity and Chas, and half the village.

Robert shot Aaron a look he hoped his husband understood, unbuckling his belt, slowing stepping out of his stained trousers.

And then he heard the first laugh, a snort from Charity’s direction as they all took in the boxers Robert was wearing.

The mistletoe boxers.

Robert’s plan had been to seduce his husband under the Christmas tree, when they’d finally packed everyone off to bed, and he’d worn the mistletoe boxers in preparation, knowing Aaron would appreciate their inside joke, the joke having gone on long enough to be a tradition now, really.

“At least we know marriage hasn’t killed your sex life,” Charity said, through hysterical laughs, Chas giggling into her glass of wine.

Robert genuinely wanted the ground to swallow him whole, as he shoved his legs into the borrowed trousers, his cheeks flaming red. “I was hardly planning on stripping,” he grumbled, swiping the glass of wine nearest to him, downing it in one,

“Oh, I think that was part of the plan for later, alright love,” Faith teased, her fourth gin and tonic in hand, and her filter completely gone, his grandmother-in-law (“future wife, if you’d like” she still constantly teased) happy to wind him up as much as humanly possible.

Slumping in his seat next to Aaron, he caught his husbands eye, Aaron looking as though he was torn between being embarrassed himself, or just joining in with the laughter.

He wasn’t the one wearing the mistletoe boxers, after all.

“I’m going to burn those mistletoe boxers,” Robert hissed, gesturing vaguely at his crotch.

Aaron snorted into his beer. “Probably a good idea.”

#emmerdale #robron #christmas

capseycartwright

ok but would you actually write that fic where aaron is robert's instagram husband??

i can only apologise for this nonsense. enjoy!

Robert is good at what he does. He’d been working in fashion for a long time, from Topshop to actual fashion marketing, and somewhere along the way, he’d sort of become a blogger. Not an actual write three posts a week sort of blogger, but one of those guys who’d amassed a few hundred thousand followers on instagram, people interested in what he was wearing, what he was doing.

Amazing, really, what a few nice filters could do.

It was fun, really, it was. Robert mostly did freelance marketing for big fashion companies, but his newfound fame on instagram meant he could do some interesting collaborations with brands, get some free clothes - a holiday to the South of France just to wear a designer suit in two instagram posts. It was a good life, for the most part.

Aside from the insane interest people had in Robert’s life. He’d always been careful, curated his instagram account in a way that had never said too much about his personal life, but had said enough to keep people interested - thats how social media worked, when you were making money off it.

Except they’d noticed the wedding ring.

Robert hadn’t worn an engagement ring, when he’d been with Chrissie - it was hardly tradition, and they’d never quite made it to the wedding anyway, the whole sleeping with her sister the night of the engagement party thing not going down well with his future wife (Robert had never claimed to be a good person, okay?) and people had eventually lost interest when Robert had stopped posting photos of Chrissie, wine glass in hand, looking glamorous.

He hadn’t put a single thing about Aaron online. Aaron - Aaron was different, something that didn’t feel right to post between a sponsored post with Topshop, and a moody photoshoot he’d done with Ted Baker. No, Aaron was for Robert, and Robert alone, and he didn’t want to share him.

But of course they’d noticed the wedding ring. Well, engagement ring, but who were they to know, really?

Robert sighed, scrolling through the thousands of comments on his newest post (a rather good one with Nescafe, Aaron putting his photography skills to the test that morning, Robert having carefully arranged their breakfast to suit a miniature Sunday morning photoshoot), most of them asking what the simple band on his left hand meant.

“You obsessing?” Aaron asked, padding into the kitchen, tracksuit bottoms slung low on his hips. It was the definition of a lazy Sunday for the two of them, Aaron working the next morning, Robert in London for most of the week for work - they always tried to soak up these days together, to make up for the time apart.

Robert shook his head. “I know the photo looks good - thank you, by the way - it’s just every comment is about the ring.”

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capseycartwright

and all the pieces fall right into place

ao3 link

aaron meets robert (and emilia) on a tuesday, and a chance encounter in starbucks changes the course of his entire life. a single dad!au, for @dinglehorton, because they liked this idea and also i love mel and they deserves all the love and fic, really.

a warning for a brief, but not explicit mention of drug addiction.

Aaron meets Robert on a Tuesday. He’s having a coffee in a fairly nondescript Starbucks, waiting for a meeting with the bank, when a whirlwind with blonde curls and a bright pink bow in her hair runs right into his table, and promptly bursts into hysterical tears.

Aaron hasn’t had much experience with kids, really, but he’s not heartless, and when theres a little girl crying on the floor next to his table, he’s going to put his phone down and try and calm her down, isn’t he?

“Hey, it’s okay,” Aaron tried to hush in his softer voice, all too aware the scruffy beard didn’t exactly make him look motherly. “It’s okay. Where’s your mum, eh?”

“Emilia!” a concerned looking blond man was jogging across the Starbucks toward them. He was wearing a neat white button up, under a leather jacket, face flushed as he careered toward them, backpack and coffees in tow.

“Daddy!” the little girl (Emilia, Aaron assumed) looked at her father with tearful eyes, making grabby hands at him.

“I told you not to run off,” the man said, setting the coffees down, and scooping her up into his arms easily, his stern one betrayed by the soft look on his face, the way he was pressing featherlight kisses to Emilia’s forehead, soft in a way all the dad’s Aaron had ever known weren’t. “Did you say sorry to the man for knocking into his table? You spilled his coffee everywhere.”

Emilia looked at Aaron with tearful eyes. “‘M sorry,” she mumbled, still holding a tiny hand to her forehead.

“It’s okay,” Aaron shook his head, mopping at the spilled coffee he’d barely really even noticed, catching the worst of it before it could drip onto his suit.

“Let me buy you another coffee,” the man said, looking genuinely apologetic.

“No, it’s fine!” Aaron tried to protest, but his words were lost as the man scooped up Aaron’s now empty cup, heading for the counter. Aaron couldn’t take his eyes off the other man as he stood at the counter, his little girl bundled in his arms as he ordered Aaron another coffee.

He was gorgeous, all blond hair and blue eyes, and Aaron couldn’t help but be instantly attracted to him. Which was probably a bad idea, all things considered, seeing as he had a little girl in his arms and a wedding ring on his finger, if his past girlfriends had had any sense.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” Aaron protested weakly as the man returned with another coffee, the little girl still sniffling in his arms.

“No, I did,” he shook his head. “Emilia knows better than to go running around busy coffee shops, don’t you?”

Emilia gave her dad the most endearingly grumpy look, and Aaron couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you want to sit down? Theres not many other free tables,” he said, gesturing to the free seats next to him.

“Are you sure? We’ve probably intruded on your coffee enough.”

“I’m sure,” Aaron gave him a reassuring smile. He could do with the company, really - he was nervous enough about this meeting with the bank, and a distraction was more than welcome.

“Thank you,” the man eased himself into the chair opposite, Emilia refusing to let go of her dad, her face buried in the crook of her dad’s neck, tiny arms slung tightly around his neck. “I’m Robert, by the way.”

“Aaron,” Aaron replied, glad to put a name to the face. “Nice to meet you both.”

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