#coffee oneshot

[e-ntrywound]

flambae upon seeing robert's shown up to the office that day randomly wearing glasses: someone's gonna have to physically restrain me

[e-ntrywound]

ik everything abt robert screams boiling black coffee but i know in my SOUL he would absolutely fuck up a triple-shot frappuccino

[e-ntrywound]

as is the tradition on my blog, here is the comedic highlights-reel of part 1 of my (overall slightly depressing) flambert fic: quadruple-shot

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

[e-ntrywound]

i took . . another crack at starting quad-shot pt2, and while i like this little piece -- as incoherent and suspiciously-characterized as it is -- it's still & Definitely not what i'm looking for to slot into place inside that accursed fic . . . so here we go with False Start #3 (clocking in at 735 words, huzzah😭)

Kadir could remember maybe a single time where he came into direct, full-body contact with Robert Robertson, dispatcher extraordinaire. 

It’d been a random, unremarkable Friday evening, at whatever shady, forgettable bar-of-the-week the team had chosen to harass for the rest of that night. For whatever reason, Robert had chosen that day, and that place, to get absolutely wasted. 

The hero-for-hire had watched their dispatcher down shot after ill-advised shot; remembered thinking at times as he studied Robert’s lack of expression from further down the bartop, that it wasn’t really letting loose as much as it was running, and running, and running. 

But then the younger man would turn back to face the rest of them, arms laden with drinks for the team and all sarcastic quips and gentle smiles, leaving Kadir to doubt if he’d really seen anything at all. It’d reached a tipping point a few hours later, as it always did, notably with his normally-hypervigilant boss threatening to tip over where he sat in the corner of their booth.

To be fair, the rest of the team wasn’t faring much better. But where the drunker the others got, the louder and wilder they became, the more Robert had to drink, the more he folded into himself. Kadir had only really noticed because he was, as always, the soberest person at the function; being the designated driver, a walking fire-hazard, and an emotional drunk all combining into choosing to drink basically never. 

So the moment gravity overtook Robert Robertson, it was Kadir’s warm palm that he face-planted into, rather than the unforgiving plastic of the table. In his endless generosity, the flame-wielder had switched sides just a few moments before, sliding in beside Robert to catch his forehead before the drunken man broke his nose with a graceless thunk.

Less than amused, Kadir tipped his dispatcher’s head back onto the padded seat-back with a firm push, reaching across the table to grab his virgin mojito without a word, doubting Robert was up for any sort of intelligent conversation anyway. And for a few moments it was just that, Kadir sipping on his drink as the other man sluggishly blinked at him with bleary, exhausted eyes.

“Y’re warm,” Robert offered finally, and it was then Kadir finally registered the cool weight of a hand on his thigh, the subtle press of a knee against his own.

His mouth was dry, all of a sudden. Kadir took another fizzy sip, unable to tell if that made it better or worse. “Comes with the rest of the package.”

“What’s it like being warm all the time?” Robert asked, voice just barely softened by its slur, almost inaudible over the din of the bar. It was strange to see him like this, eyes as vacant and dissociated as they were watchful, the question as carefully posed as it was vapid and nonsensical.

“Well, what’s it like being freezing?” Kadir countered. It wasn’t that he was being difficult on purpose, more . . caught off-guard; stalling while trying to think of a coherent answer.

“It’s cold.” He replied shortly, and well-- that’s probably along the lines of what Kadir should’ve expected at this point in the night. 

“Yeah, Robbo?” He didn’t miss the way Robert took it as an invitation to inch closer.

“Really cold.” He confirmed solemnly. “Sometimes,” he brought his other hand above the table in a graceless movement that almost knocked over a nearby glass, “I can’t . . feel anything.” He lightly touched the tip of each of his fingers to the pad of his thumb in a row, like he was trying to prove to Kadir he could do it, “And it hurts.”

Slowly, he set down his drink. 

“Sometimes the heating doesn’t work in my . . . apartment,” Robert confessed.

“Sounds like a shitty apartment.” He was already tilted towards Robert, his hand was already free, the line of his thigh was already meeting another’s, so it was no big deal for him to shift his arm back to make space, to rest it across the other man’s shoulders, to allow him to press closer.

Robert slowly curled into him, resting his head carefully on Kadir’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around the flame-wielder’s back, bringing his knees up to lean against him as well. Even unbelievably drunk, it took him several long moments before he relaxed completely. “. . Yeah,” came his soft, weary response, “I think it is.”

[e-ntrywound]

[e-ntrywound]

i need flambae to breathe fire and i NEED his private emotional crashouts to look like azula's at the end of atla where he's spewing fire and screaming simultaneously

[e-ntrywound]

help me figure out flambae's coffee order, for science (for fanfic)

something fucking obscene w/ five different add-ons & like 50g sugar Minimum

he's one of those health snobs who refuse to drink anything other than tea

matcha as a medium ground between those

chai latte? idk do those even taste good

subsists purely on those horrible fucking seasonal drinks

other, or idfk

Voting ended onFeb 10

[e-ntrywound]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Dispatch (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Flambae | Chad/Robert Robertson | Mecha Man, Flambae | Chad & Prism | Alice (Dispatch) Characters: Flambae | Chad (Dispatch), Robert Robertson | Mecha Man, Robert Robertson's Rigid Moral Code, Prism | Alice (Dispatch) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coffee, Identity Reveal, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Enemies to Lovers, enemies to friends to enemies to lovers (all inside flambae's head), Best Friends Flambae | Chad & Prism | Alice (Dispatch), Soft Flambae | Chad (Dispatch), Hurt Flambae | Chad (Dispatch), Flambae | Chad-centric (Dispatch), Depressed Robert Robertson | Mecha Man, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Crack and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, comfort is gonna take a while tho lmfao, Pining, Pining Flambae | Chad (Dispatch), Flambae's Name is Not Chad (Dispatch), Robert Robertson | Mecha Man Needs a Hug, flambae tries to do one (1) nice thing and it backfires in every possible direction bc robert is paranoid and emotionally constipated Summary:

in which Flambae has a morbid fascination with the only man he knows that'd unironically enjoy drinking a Super-Sized Dulce de Leche extra-sweet, extra-whip, extra-crunch, quadruple-espresso-shot Latte. In one sitting.

. . . Kadir hadn't been lying when he’d said Robert Robertson the fucking Third wasnt his damn type. Not that he was put off by twinks --he’s had his fair few, but compared to the dispatcher he usually preferred his men prettier, more muscular, more pliant . . more eager. But, Rob-Bob, unfortunately . . . had this way about him, some strange sort of pull in the dip of his voice and tilt of his head and hood of his rounded doe’s-eyes when he talked to you with his full attention. Like it was some precious commodity. However oblivious he was or wasn’t, it made people circle around him, like he had his own gravity. It made them stupid.

And Kadir was being stupid. Honestly, straight up, not-even-Robert’s-fault stupid. Standing here, with a slow-melting iced-caffeine-monstrosity balanced on the palm of his hand, fingers making the least contact possible with the sides. . . .