characters i'm writing x reader for: ryland grace, simon/the convict (iron lung), head engineer!mark (who killed markiplier), damien/the mayor (wkm), darkiplier (wkm), dave torres (the edge of sleep), the mighty nein (yes, all of them, take your pick), vox machina (same thing), robert robertson (dispatch).
please note that i write these all with the characters being separate entities from their actors :) especially for the nsfw bits.
Robert Robertson
SFW
this is going to take a while
in which the reader and robert lowkey hate each other but end up on a mission together, cornered with nowhere to go.
far enough to let me go, close enough to stay
in which robert and the reader are childhood best friends; they go to a gala together and, well. feelings ensue.
far enough to let me go (close enough to stay), chapter 3; robert robertson x reader
chapter notes: fluff! hurt/comfort, teasing, flirting, and yes they finally get together! a little bit of fluffy making out so this is tagged as mature :)
author's notes: final part!! hope you all enjoyed the ride. i originally planned this to be a one shot lol, more notes at the end. comment your thoughts, and i thank you for reading <33
not beta-read, we die like robert's father. for @whatsupstark
requests open :) shoot'em to me if you've got any.
masterlist
✩‧₊˚─────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────˚₊‧✩
The cool night air hits your face as soon as you step onto the balcony, and for a moment, the distant city lights seem almost peaceful. Little pin-pricks of light flooding the streets below you.
Robert leans against the railing, glancing at you from your peripheral, but you don't look at him. He doesn’t crowd you, nor does he push, and the silence stretches just long enough for you to collect your racing thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” He says finally. “I shouldn’t have pulled you along like that, or made you feel ignored. That wasn’t fair.”
You glance at him, at the slick-back of his hair undone by the wind, at his loosened suit collar, at the formalities of the night are finally slipping off him as you catch a glimmer of tiredness in his eyes.
For a moment, he looks like the boy you’d run around with—hiding in the spare rooms of those mansions while you giggled and waited to see how long it took for your parents to notice you were gone—trading your allowance for bets on who could stay quiet the longest when your parents came looking, and now, the man standing beside you, looking out at the city that had taken so much and given so little back.
None of that had vanished, you realize—he’s just grown into someone who lets himself be seen. Somewhere in the base of your gut, you feel a sense of pride.
“I’m sorry, too,” you say, quietly. “For blowing up. It’s your night. You should enjoy it." Still, your voice is firm. "But don’t make me regret coming, either. And don't be rude to other people just because you're not having fun. That's just..." You sigh, running a hand through your hair.
Robert shifts, eyes finding yours again. “I didn’t mean to ruin anything. I just… it’s strange, isn’t it? Seeing you dance with someone else. Makes my brain do stupid things.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous things?”
Color climbs his neck, but he doesn’t look away. “Yes,” he agrees simply. “Jealous things.”
It’s so blunt, so unadorned, that you blink.
“I just—I don’t want to lose you,” Robert continues, “that’s the truth of it. I've lost... I've... I was..." He trails off, dragging a hand through his hair as he tries to find the words to something neither of you could name. "I was scared. And I handled it like an idiot. I shouldn’t have let it come out sideways. I’m sorry.”
You think you know the answer, but you ask anyway. "Why are you telling me this?"
A lopsided smile tugs at Robert's lips.
“Because I love you.” He says, simply, like it's always been true, "I love you."
And when he looks at you—honest, and open, and reverent—like every memory he’s ever had has always led back to you, it hits you, all at once, all-consuming, that he’s never looked at anyone like this. Not at Blazer. Not at anyone.
For a heartbeat you can’t breathe.
Robert glances toward the ballroom, then back at you, and you understand what he isn’t saying. The rest of it—even if it’s not with me—hangs unspoken, and you feel it settle somewhere heavy in your chest, where love and loss blur into the same ache.
Your throat is dry, the anger long drained away.
“I just…” He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, the words catching somewhere between breath and confession. The moonlight softens him, turns the sharp edges of his face into something unguarded—tired, human, and heartbreakingly sincere.
When Robert looks at you again, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips, his gaze holds nothing but love.
“I just wanted you to know.” he says. “If you want me to go… I’ll go. I promise.”
I promise.
You stare at him—at this version of Robert that’s finally whole: the boy you once ran through empty hallways with, daring each other into trouble; the man who had lost everything and clawed his way back, scarred but unbroken; the man who fought to save others even when he nearly destroyed himself; the man who refused to give up on anything or anyone… and now, finally, the man who was finally letting himself be free.
I promise.
Robert has never broken a promise.
And just like that, you know.
Apparently, Robert misreads your silence. He studies you, unsure, eyes flicking for a hint of your feelings.
Finding none, his brows soften, his shoulders straighten, and a faint, careful smile returns—one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He clears his throat.
“Well, uh… I’ll—let’s go back to the party,” Robert mutters, voice tight, attempting to close the moment, to pretend everything’s normal.
But then, just as he starts to turn, something inside you snaps.
Your hand finds his tie, tugging him close, and before he can process it, your lips are on his—and it’s the softest thing you can imagine.
He freezes for a heartbeat, then melts into you, meeting your kiss with a quiet, searching intensity. His hands find your waist, grounding himself there and anchoring you both to reality. You catch his lower lip between your teeth, and he lets out a soft, breathless groan that makes your pulse stutter. You want to chase it—to draw it out—you pull him closer, fisting your hands into his rumpled jacket and tasting the shape of your name as he breathes it into your mouth.
More. You swallow the sound eagerly, chasing the feeling of his mouth on yours, his hands pulling you ever closer, and you realize, with a sudden, dizzying clarity, that you could spend forever drowning in him.
"God—" he mumbles, the sound rough and wrecked against your mouth as you push him back to the balcony, "—fuck, you don't even know what you do to me—"
Just before you make it there, Robert's foot catches on the edge of the rug, and the two of you stumble back, pressing against the railing and colliding in a tangle of limbs and half-suppressed laughter, his arms come up around you instinctively. You feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours as he exhales a laugh into your shoulder—quiet, and endlessly fond.
And as the moment settles, you feel the heat building again, that spark pulling you forward; you shift, ready to close the distance, to steal another kiss—but he’s faster.
Robert’s hands find your wrists, stopping you mid-move, a teasing smirk ghosting across his face.
“Someone’s eager?” He says, voice low and threaded with amusement.
It's unfair, really, how easily something as simple as his voice can make heat creep up your skin.
Robert pulls away with an easy laugh, leaning back against the balcony, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft city light. The wind teases its fingers through his hair, brushing it across his forehead. God, you love him.
Your fingers drift over his freckles, memorizing the little constellations that have always drawn you in.
“…What are you doing?” he murmurs, blinking in mild confusion, brows furrowing slightly as he tilts his head, watching your fingers trace across his face. back up, unreadable.
“Just checking,” you whisper, laughing softly.
Robert sighs, but makes no move to stop you. “I swear… you’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.”
"I do, yes." He raises an eyebrow. "you keep looking at me like that and I'm going to start getting ideas."
You grin, twirling a strand of his hair around your fingers as you lean in, close enough for your breath to stir against his jaw. Robert blinks, startled, and the smug curl of satisfaction rises in your chest.
“Oh?" You ask, "and what happens when we get home, then?”
His gaze flicks down to where your fingers toy with his hair, then back up, unreadable. For a heartbeat, you think you’ve got him, smirking as you step back, ready to get this damn party over with—
—but then his hand shoots out, catching your wrist firmly before you can move.
"Careful," he murmurs, eyes glinting dangerously, "don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
author's end notes: anddd that’s a wrap!
it's so interesting writing healed Robert with how little i know about him. i was analyzing his character in the context of this mini-fic and was thinking "if this is set in a world where, in the post-canon, everything goes well, he gets his suit back, and the team is dysfunctional but he's got it down—how would he be? and how would it look like from the reader's perspective?" considering how we're on the SECOND EPISODE of this game, i'm sure everything's going to go to shit eventually, but with what we have and imagining that everything goes well, how would it play out? and you get this baby :))
anyways, hope you all enjoyed, and thank you for sticking around for my first reader x character fic <33
far enough to let me go (close enough to stay), chapter 2; robert robertson x reader
chapter notes: a bit of insecurity, jealousy, ROYD APPRECIATION!!, robert being a little bit of a shit, dancing, arguments, angst & frustration
author's notes: hey cryptids :)) this is the longest chapter so far haha; last part out tomorrow. comment your thoughts, and i hope ya'll enjoy! <33
not beta-read, we die like robert's father. for @whatsupstark
requests open :) shoot'em to me if you've got any.
masterlist
✩‧₊˚─────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────˚₊‧✩
The gala is already in full swing by the time you arrive. Cameras flash, laughter cuts through the night, and the great glass atrium of the SDN tower glows like something out of a dream. You’ve been to these before, sure—but it’s never felt like this. Maybe because, this time, Robert isn’t just Robert. He’s Mecha Man. And everyone knows his name.
The moment you step inside, he’s swept up by a cluster of colleagues—SDN agents in sleek suits, reporters, executives you half-recognize from the Dispatch newsfeeds.
“Robert! You made it!”
“Glad to see you back in shape after that whole fiasco—how’s the shoulder?”
“Pose here for a photo?”
You stand beside him for a moment, smiling politely, but each passing second feels like sand trickling through an hourglass. Every time someone touches his arm, pulls him into another conversation, another picture—you fade a little more into the background.
Eventually, you stop trying to follow.
You find your seat at the assigned table—his nameplate next to yours, though his chair stays empty—and let the music fill the silence that grows between your heartbeat and the laughter around you.
He used to hate these things too, when it was your parents who had to deal with the pleasantries and responsibility of engaging with the guests.
You’d sneak out back, find the rooftop, and count the stars while pretending you weren’t rich kids born into everything. You’d complain about the taste of caviar and tell him his hair looked ridiculous, he’d make up scandalous rumors about the hosts, whispering “See that guy? Third affair this quarter” until you nearly spat out your drink.
Now he’s in the center of the crowd, laughing easily.
And Blonde Blazer—God, she looks stunning tonight—is standing next to him, champagne glass in hand, her bright hair a halo under the chandeliers.
You’d never noticed before just how golden she was. Not just her hair—though the soft waves catch the light like spun sunlight—but everything. Her skin, sun-warmed and glowing; her eyes, that light blue that always seems to be lit from within; even her smile, quick and confident and real.
She looks like she was made for this room, like she’s thriving in it—the embodiment of SDN success, a hero who’s fought her way to the top and now owns the spotlight like she’s never known what it’s like to live outside it.
Her suit fits perfectly—tailored, sharp, but softened by the shimmer of gold thread that runs down her lapels. Her gloves are off, tucked casually into her belt, and her forearms—strong and scarred—glint faintly under the lights, telling the stories of people she’s saved, of fights she’s survived. Every inch of her radiates capability. Strength. Power.
And Robert—
Robert looks… right beside her.
His dark suit, her golden one. His quiet gravity, her brilliant light. The way she leans in to say something and he actually laughs, head tipping back slightly, his hand brushing against hers in the small shared space between them—like the universe itself has decided that they match. The way he looks at her.
Something in your chest curls tight, heavy.
You sip your drink to give your hands something to do.
Maybe you should stop watching.
But you can’t.
You sip your drink instead, the bubbles biting your tongue.
She deserves him, your mind whispers before you can stop it. She’s been through hell and still looks like that, still stands like that. You’ve read the reports—what she had to do to get her license back after that mission went wrong. How she rebuilt herself from the ground up, trained harder, fought harder, refused to give up even when SDN practically turned its back on her. So did Robert. When Mecha Man fell, the deals he had to make—the things he had to sacrifice—he fought through hell just to make it through to SDN, and even then, he refused to give up on his team. Didn't give up on anything, really, despite the world chewing him up and spitting him back out like he was nothing.
And you—what were you?
A dispatcher with no superpowers. Someone who writes mission briefs and tracks coordinates from behind a desk. Someone who got here because of the family name, because of legacy, because the world handed you opportunities everyone else had to bleed for. That Blazer bled for. That Robert did too.
Of course Blazer’s the one he’s talking to.
Of course she’s the one who fits next to him in a photograph.
The hero and the heroine.
A perfect fucking fairytale.
You tug at the edge of your dress, trying to smooth the invisible wrinkles that aren’t really there. The room feels too hot, too bright, the laughter too loud. Your eyes sting, though you tell yourself it’s from the champagne.
They look perfect together.
And for a fleeting—traitorous second, you wish you were her.
A slow song starts up—violins, soft percussion, the kind of thing that demands a partner. You look up just in time to see Robert ask Blazer to dance. He’s smiling, bowing a little in a way that’s more teasing than formal, one hand behind his waist and another outstretched to her, looking up at her through his lashes and giving her a lopsided grin you thought was only reserved for you. She laughs—light, genuine—and takes it.
Something splinters quietly in your chest.
You don’t even realize your nails are digging into your palm until someone slides into the empty chair beside you, breaking your trance.
Royd.
He looks sharp tonight—the burgundy suit really suits him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing bits of the ink from his tattoos. His hair is pulled back, curls framing his face and making him seem more endearing than he already is. He smells faintly of whiskey and cologne—expensive, but understated—and he's smiling like the life of the party he is.
“By tha' look on your face, I'm guessin' you wanna dance with someone who's already got'a partner?” Royd teases, voice low and warm.
You sigh. “That obvious?”
He chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Only to someone who’s felt the same.” His gaze flicks to the dance floor. “You should be out there, you know. Might take your mind off things.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “With who?”
His brow arches, and a small, knowing smile plays on his lips. “Well, I’m technically free. And I’ve been told I clean up alright.”
Pointedly, you look at the gaggle of girls twirling their hair in Royd's direction. Royd just grins.
You hesitate, glancing once more toward the crowd—Robert’s hand steady at Blonde Blazer’s waist, her head tipped back in laughter, his mouth curved into that soft smile that used to be yours alone.
You take Royd’s hand, if only to stop looking.
He’s a good dancer. Of course he is. His movements are sure but unintrusive, the kind of calm that makes you feel like you can breathe again without worrying about whether or not you'd step on his toes. Gently, he leads you through the dance, careful to let you set the pace.
“You’re tense,” he says after a moment, his voice barely audible above the music.
“Sorry.” You force a smile. “I’m out of practice.”
He shakes his head, gaze kind. “Not your feet, sweetheart. Your heart.”
You almost laugh—almost. But the words hit closer than you expect, and you find yourself looking anywhere but at him. “That obvious too?”
Royd hums. “Only to someone who’s been there.” He glances past you, toward the center of the room. “You keep looking at him.”
Your pulse stutters and you almost trip on the train of someone's dress. “How did y—what?”
He shrugs, casually. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing. Just… maybe not the best thing for you right now.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Sure you weren’t.” His voice is light, but his eyes—dark brown, sharper than they look—hold yours. “Look, I get it. He’s… Robert. He’s hard not to look at.”
That pulls a breathy laugh from you despite yourself. “Yeah.”
Royd smiles faintly, guiding you through a slow turn. “Still. If he can’t see you, that’s his loss. Doesn’t mean you should stop shining.”
The words sting in a way that feels almost good—like disinfectant on an old wound.
When you dare to glance back, Robert’s no longer dancing. He’s standing at the edge of the floor, eyes locked on you. The look in them is sharp, unreadable—like the moment before thunder. And for a split-second, you catch Blazer standing behind him, giving... giving you a thumbs-up just before she's pulled away by another man.
You blink, startled, and when you look back at Robert he glances away—too quickly.
Maybe you’re imagining it.
Still, when Royd spins you, your gaze catches his again, and this time, there’s no mistaking it: the tick in his jaw, the stillness of his hands, the faint flicker of something like jealousy.
Your chest tightens, a flicker of anger igniting in your chest..
He has no right to feel that.
All night, he’s been nowhere near you. Practically ignoring you while he floats from one conversation to the next, champagne in hand, laughing and charming everyone else—but not you. Not a single genuine smile for you, not a single “you okay?” as he used to do.
And now—now that you’re actually forgetting about him, actually letting yourself have a little fun, actually dancing with someone who can see you—he suddenly notices?
Your hands tighten around Royd’s, your jaw clenching.
Robert’s acting like he owns the right to your attention, the right to be the only person who can make you laugh like this, like your heart is some fragile thing only for him to play with.
But you’re not laughing, are you?
The thought burns all the same.
The song fades out. Royd steps back—you'd almost forgotten he was there—his hand lingering just long enough to be kind, the ghost of warmth between your fingers. Then, before you can even process it, he leans in slightly, pressing a soft, polite kiss to the back of your hand.
“Thank you for the dance,” Royd says softly, a knowing grin stretching across his face, “And for what it’s worth—you deserve someone who actually looks at you like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, dazed.
His grin widens, but he doesn’t answer—just nods toward where Robert is already striding toward you, expression stormy and uncertain all at once.
Your heart trips as he slips his hand into yours and leads you off the dance floor, dodging the couples who’ve begun piling onto the dance floor. You’re pretty sure you spot Malevola pulling Invisgal in for a kiss.
Robert doesn’t look back at you—doesn’t stop even when you walk past your table, waving off a pretty brunette who looked like she was hesitantly about to ask you to dance.
That makes the flicker of anger grow into an inferno.
“What the hell?” You demand, pulling away from him, chest tightening, “What the hell, Robert?”
The sharpness in your voice cuts through the hum of music and laughter.
“You’ve been ignoring me all night—” You gesture behind you without even looking, frustration bleeding into your voice, “and now that someone was actually about to ask me to dance you just—what? Wave them off?" You shove him slightly, and he stumbles. "What is wrong with you, Robert? That’s not your choice and you know that!”
Robert flinches at your words, guilt flickering over his face. You weren’t done.
“I know you’re Mecha Man, and I know this is an incredible night for everyone—especially you—superheroes and all. And I know I’m no superhero, but I would appreciate it if you’d let me have my fun without blowing off people who actually want to dance with me—alright?”
You’re breathing hard through your nose, now, and Robert is—Robert is looking at you again, that irritatingly unreadable look in his eyes. The urge to punch him makes your fist clench.
“What?” You demand, “Spit it out, Robertson—you’ve been doing that all night, and I’d like to have at least three dances before this fucking party ends.”
After a moment of charged silence, the gala still in full swing around you, Robert swallows hard, then meets your gaze fully. It doesn’t bring you any comfort. If anything, it pisses you off even more.
“I—” He exhales, the sound more like surrender than speech. Anything he says right now will only make things worse, and you both know it.
“Do you want to step outside, for a bit?”
That makes you pause.
The words land softly, echoing from years ago—the same gentle request he used to make when the air in the room grew too thick, when the noise of people and expectation pressed too close. Back then, it had been a shared secret, a small escape. Maybe with a bit of teasing, a small smirk, and you would have said yes without hesitation.
Now, Robert's voice is low. Tired.
He drags a hand through his hair, a habit more out of nerves than vanity, and lets out a weary breath. Then his eyes find yours with that searching, uncertain softness that he hides from most people. The kind that says he already knows how this ends, even if he wishes he didn’t.
Please don’t make me say it, but please don’t go.
Still, you hesitate, heart hammering, anger still simmering hot in your veins.
You’ve wanted him to see you all night, but not like this.
Not when just looking at him makes you want to punch him across his stupidly perfect face—not when you can’t get the image of him spinning Blazer around and dipping her out of your mind.
But he’s here, your heart tells you, he’s here now, giving you a way out if you don’t want this confrontation. Hear him out.
Something in you softens, just slightly, and you give him a sharp nod. “Fine. Outside.”
sooo the idea is kind of him bringing reader to a SDN dinner party or corporate celebration with colleagues and friends, honestly up to you to decide the general context, and reader (who is a close friend, but think her feelings for robert are unrequited!) just keeps internally spiraling over the fact that robert is lowkey ignoring her and feels very insecure about the whole situation with blonde blazer (if she's dating phenomaman or not is also up to you) so... yeah! just very angsty and hurt but with a lot of comfort and fluff at the end, if you could mix bits of jealousy (maybe from both sides 👀?) or a kind of will-they-won't-they thing.
sorry if this was long or if i ran over any boundaries or something, i'm a first time asker desperate for robert content!! anyways, thank you 😊
hi bb! thank you for the request—and no, you're not overstepping!! i absolutely adore long requests, don't worry—especially with how much detail they have?? i eat it right up. and i'll have you know yours sent me on tangent that left me at least 3k words on my doc for this idea.
far enough to let me go (close enough to stay), chapter 1; robert robertson x reader
chapter notes: fluff, childhood(ish)-best-friends-to-(?), yearning, angst (my favourite thing to write), things left unsaid
author's notes: since we don't have much canon information yet, this is assuming all goes well, the villains are defeated, everyone survives, and robert goes back to being mecha man.
*i've split this into chapters because it got a bit too long. will post the next parts in the coming days. hope you all enjoy <33
not beta-read, we die like robert's father.
requests open :) shoot'em to me if you've got any.
masterlist
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PR events had never been your thing, but being the youngest heir of two of the most prominent business figures in the city meant that you were acclimated to the environment. The suffocating dress codes, the flashing cameras, the smell of expensive perfume that never fully masked body-odor, the small-talk and the cold food from the buffet—yes, you’d practically lived in galas and social events when you were younger.
That’s how you’d met Robert, actually; both of you barely out of high school and stuck in a gala that felt a size too big for your legs and a tone too grown-up for your brains. You were crammed into a back table for some mandatory icebreaker, trying not to knock over your water glass while your parents flitted around, nodding and laughing at conversations you couldn’t care less about.
He was there too, slouched in his chair like it was a throne only he could see through, picking idly at his plate and surveying the crowd like it was a TV show he’d already seen too many times, until his gaze landed on you.
“Come here often?” he’d asked, deadpan.
You’d snorted. “I wish I could say I didn’t.”
He’d grinned then, and it had been history from there.
Even after his parents had died and yours had moved to an entirely different country, even after he’d had to keep up Mecha Man despite the financial ruin, even when your aunt had stolen the business in all her corrupt glory—hell, even after you and your siblings had finally taken back your birthrights and Robert had gone back to being Mecha Man under the SDN—somehow, you’d still stuck together.
Through all those nasty apartments, the piles of medical bills, the shit SDN put you both through—you’d stuck it out until the worst was over, and you were finally free to live the lives that you wanted.
Well, mostly.
Because as you continued climbing the SDN’s dispatching ranks and Robert began prioritizing his Mecha-Manning under SDN’s supervision, that meant that neither of you would be escaping the biggest PR event of the year.
You’d manage to skirt around all the others: “I have a prior arrangement, sorry!” and “Family business. You know how it is.” but Blonde Blazer had told everyone that this was mandatory for all high-level dispatchers and superheroes—meaning they’d be taking attendance like you were school children.
The knocking at your door came again, and Robert’s muffled voice floated through the entrance hall.
“You ready?” He calls, “because if not, I’d uh—I'd really not like to freeze to death.”
You roll your eyes and clip your second earring on, shutting off all the lights as you make your way methodically through your living room, giving your cat one last pet before grabbing your purse from the side table. “Be out in a sec!”
Robert grumbles something you can’t make out, but he does stop knocking.
You make a beeline for the shoe rack and grab the lone pair of dark heels that managed to survive the years of disuse, wincing at how tight they squeeze your feet once you manage to slip them on—fuck, you think to yourself as you shut off the light to the entry hall, I need to get a new pair.
It wasn’t often that you wore heels, but you made it to the door without tripping or wrinkling your dress, so you count it as a win.
Pulling the door open, you sling your bag over your shoulder and find Robert there, fist poised as if to knock again.
He’s actually fixed his hair for once, slicked back, though a single strand falls stubbornly into his eye. His stubble—neatly trimmed after weeks of your teasing comments about how he ought to be careful, otherwise he’d end up looking like Flambae—highlights the sharp lines of his jaw, and, maybe it’s just the lighting, but his freckles seem more vivid than usual. They scatter across his cheeks and neck like constellations, as if the universe decided to grace him with its design.
You can’t help but trace them, your gaze lingering, searching for patterns you could map out if you only had the chance—if only he'd let you. Your fingers twitch with the urge to tilt his chin, just so, to study the way the light shifts across his skin and see if the stars there change, too.
But you don’t.
Roaming your eyes further down, you note his suit—pressed, fitted perfectly to him—a little chrysanthemum peeking out of his breast pocket.
His tie, though, for some unknown reason, was haphazardly done. It was uneven on one side, and the end of it was crooked as it fell across his chest.
You raise an eyebrow and step forward, lifting your hands to begin untying it—but you stop just before you touch the tie, looking up at Robert with a question in your eyes.
He’s… he’s staring at you, you realize, something strange in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. Admiration? No, you’ve seen that many times—something else. Something gentler. Curiosity? But you’ve seen that too.
Before you can place it—he glances away, rubbing the back of his neck as a flush climbs over his cheeks and he gives you an almost imperceptible nod.
You sigh as your fingers begin to fiddle with his tie, pulling it a bit closer to you and steadying the man as he follows along with the movement.
“Just what happened to your tie, Robertson?” You demand, “I thought this is how you gain rapport with the newbies?”
Robert’s flush darkens. “I was in a hurry," he mutters. “And don’t last-name me—if anything, I should be last-naming you.”
Pointedly, he glances at his watch, before dragging his gaze back to you and raising a brow.
“Half-past seven.” He deadpans. “Remind me what time we were supposed to be there?”
You roll your eyes, finishing his tie and stepping back, a hand on your waist. “There.”
A gentle breeze gently brushes the strand of hair out of his eyes, and for a heartbeat, you feel your hand move up to do the same—before aborting the movement and taking another step back.
Under the flickering streetlamp, Robert looks—
Well.
Handsome.
No other way to put it, really.
He looks like he could be yours, though, doesn't he? Your traitorous mind supplies, like he could show up like this on your doorstep every weekend, teasing you about being late? Like he could take you dancing or out to dinner and walk you home afterward? Like you could see him standing at the end of a long aisl—you banish the those thoughts instantly.
Robert wouldn’t want that. Couldn’t. Not when he had all these fans, when he had Blonde Blazer sneaking him glances across the room, or Water Boy stuttering and blushing with every word out of his mouth—that last one had increased exponentially after the kid had been promoted to an actual field team just months after training.
Not when Robert was Mecha Man and you were just somebody’s kid with a ton of privileges you didn’t feel like you deserved.
And besides. You’ve known each other far too long to entertain that last thought.
Robert’s staring again, that unreadably gentle look in his eyes—and you're not really sure if he's about to tell you that your outfit doesn't fit the dress code, that the event got cancelled, or something else entirely. You smooth down your dress self consciously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“What?” is the first thing out of your mouth, “do I not look alright?”
It’s silent for a damning moment, and you almost turn right back around, up your front steps, and back into your house never to be seen again—until Robert speaks.
“You look beautiful.” He says quietly.
You feel a flush begin to creep up your neck as your breath catches in your throat—along with your spit.
Oh fuck.
You jerk forward, coughing and spluttering and trying not to ruin your clothes.
“Shit—” Instantly, he's at your side, gentle hands rubbing circles onto your shoulders, steadying you as the coughs pass and guiding you back upright.
You stare at the asphalt and beg it to swallow you whole.
Still, Robert’s gaze finds yours, concern flickering in his warm, brown eyes. “You alright?” He asks, brows furrowing, an adorable crease forming between them that your fingers itch to smooth out. You clear your throat once more.
“Yep,” you smile, straighten up and give him a small shrug. “‘M not dead, am I? Let’s go.”
this is going to take a while; robert robertson x reader
fic notes: it's-complicated-to-it's-even-more-complicated, mixed signals, forced proximity, mission gone wrong, tension but nothing too crazy, more fluff & hurt/comfort than tension
author's notes: let's be honest, this was going to happen eventually.
*edited 10/26. sorry about the earlier, unedited version—posting at 3 am wasn’t my best move 😅. i’ve made some tweaks for the sake of flow and clarity :)
love ya'll <3
requests open :) shoot'em to me if you've got any.
masterlist
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The rough brick digs uncomfortably into your back, the sounds of the groaning, mechanical frankensteins shuffling around in the street outside an unwelcome addition to the shit-show put on by the self-proclaimed Necro-tech; an idiotic, middle-aged scientist who, apparently, had nothing better to do than stuff metal suits with corpses and have them 'do his bidding'. (His words, not yours.)
The frankensteins were too brainless to actually do any lasting damage, but with about twenty of them and only two... heroes who were decidedly power-less?
You were both well and truly fucked.
Honestly, the job was supposed to be done an hour ago, but no—the rest of the team just had to be coming from another mission all the way on the other side of the city.
So that left you and Robertson.
Sorry, Mecha Man.
The guy was good, you gave him that, but fighting mechs without his suit didn't really give him any advantages here. Not that you were one to talk—being a sharpshooter when your targets were covered in bullet-proof metal rendered you useless.
And now you were both out of energy, and significantly low on ammo.
So, when one of the fuckers had almost spotted you—you'd grabbed Mechaman's wrist and pulled him into the nearest alley, shoving his back against the cold brick and clamping a hand over his mouth before he could protest.
A few moments had passed—and, honestly, you'd expected the things to have lost your trail by now—but if the distant mechanical humming meant anything, it was that you weren't leaving this alley anytime soon.
Mecha Man looked relatively uncomfortable, gaze pinned to a spot above your head, body gone stiff with the urge to run—but one glance at the mouth of the alleyway told you both that running wasn't an option. Not unless you had a damn good plan and probably a shit-ton of bullets.
A half-assed apology sits on the tip of your tongue—for what, though, you didn't really know. Dragging him into this mess, maybe. You should've been able to handle this.
But before you can begin, the bastard opens his mouth.
"Couldn't have come up with a better plan?" Mecha Man asks, somehow still managing to sound bored despite having you pressed up against an alleyway.
Instantly, any semblance of your sympathy is gone.
"You're the dispatcher, aren't you?" You hiss, trying to fix your position so your back isn't digging into the brick, "you tell me."
Mecha Man sighs tiredly, one eyebrow lifting as he glances down at you. “I thought you wanted to call the shots.”
...and he's instantly demoted back to Robertson.
To hell with his damn superhero name.
The man isn't even in the proper suit.
You grit your teeth. "Well, Robertson, do you want to take our chances out there? Because we tried that already and you almost got lazered to death."
His gaze hardens, flicking back up to that oh-so-interesting brick positioned above your head. "When we're on the field, it's Mecha Man. Got it?"
A passing, intrusive instinct almost has you blurting out the fact that the poor imitation of a swimsuit he was currently wearing didn't exactly scream Mecha Man—but you bite your tongue, exhaling through your nose and closing your eyes as the adrenaline simmers down and the sounds of the world grow distant.
Almost immediately, you feel yourself begin to drift.
As the coldness of the night washes over you, you feel yourself drifting forward, slightly toward the sensation of warmth; it was like there was a furnace, somewhere, in the darkness in front of you—something warm, comforting, and utterly safe beckoning you to rest. Leaning forward and trying to get comfortable, you find yourself pressing your forehead into—the chuckle that reverberates through Robertson's chest has your eyes shooting right back open.
He's looking down at you again, head tilted and amusment glinting in his gaze.
"Tired?" Robertson asks gently.
You pull away like you've been burnt, gritting your teeth when the brick pushes itself painfully into your back, but it's a distant sensation compared to the mortification rushing white-hot through your veins.
What the fuck was that?
Robertson's eyebrows pull together in concern as he gives you a quick once-over. "Are you oka—"
You cut him off quickly, your tone final. "I'm fine."
A few, awkward seconds pass. You clear your throat, heart thumping wildly in your ears.
"Did they—did the team say when they'd get here?"
God, what am I doing?
Refusing to look at Robertson, you fix your gaze decidedly on a spot just under his arm.
Huh, you think to yourself, as the seconds tick by with no response, this brick is oddly shaped. I can't believe I didn't notice this before. A bit of it is chipped off on the upper right corner, a bit discolored near the bottom left corner. Fascinating. Truly fascinating.
What the fuck was that?
After a moment, the silence is broken. "Give or take, ten minutes." Robertson says, and your eyes flick back up to him just in time to see him turn his head in the direction of the alleyway's opening.
The sounds of Necro-tech's morbid creations could still be heard rumbling about.
"Ten minutes." He sighs, "then we'll be out of here."
You nod, but find yourself unable to say anything else, every muscle in your body tense. He was right. This was a terrible idea. Then again, this wasn't supposed to be your mission.
"Hey," Robertson says quietly, voice a low rumble as he dips his head to try and catch your gaze, "relax, but don't sleep. I can't have you zoning out on me, but I can't have you freezing either, yeah?"
You force yourself to look up at him—and almost startle at how close you are. His gaze is steady as it holds yours, reassuring in a way that you've never seen directed at you.
And suddenly, despite the masks, despite the fact that you were on a mission—despite all of the shit currently happening just a few feet away from you—you realize belatedly that if you held his gaze for long enough, you could count the number of eyelashes he had. You could count the number of freckles dotting the skin around his eyes. Hell, you'd be able to count every scratch on his face if he let you.
And then, the moment breaks.
Robertson turns away, shifting slightly and pulling back just enough to brace one forearm beside your head. He angles his body to shield you from the mouth of the alleyway, resting his head mere inches from your shoulder. The gentle breath on your neck makes goosebumps rise underneath your suit—but you grit your teeth and force yourself to be still.
After a few moments, Robertson lifts his gaze to meet yours again. His eyes flicker down for just a second before he speaks, his voice quiet.
"Do you—" He glances at the space between your shoulders and the wall, then slowly moves his hand toward your waist, hovering just above it. "—are you—"
Maybe it's a trick of the light, but you think you see his cheeks darken. You realize after a moment what he's offering to do.
"Sure," you mutter, shifting slightly toward him. Gently, Robertson slides an arm around your back, pulling you closer. His presence looms over you, almost like a shield, his form blocking the wall behind you.
At least this way, your back isn't pressing into the wall, but now—now you could feel the heat of his breath through the mask, the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours—distractions you refuse to acknowledge.
Still, a blush begins to bloom up traitorously from the base of your neck, creeping up to your cheeks and making them hot enough that even Flambae would be jealous.
You clench your fist by your side and take in a deep breath of your own.
