alright I’m gonna cross-post my robert x gn!reader fic here! you can also find it on ao3 (and the eventual continuation) here
tags: robert robertson x gn!reader, flirting, sexual tension, banter, robert is depressed + drinking away his problems, robert has self-confidence issues, robert’s self-deprecating thoughts, reader comes to keep him company, takes place in episode 1
minor spoilers for episode 1-2 of dispatch (I haven’t watched further than episode 3 so no spoilers!!)
leave comments in the tags!! I’d love to hear your thoughts/what you enjoyed ___________________________________
Robert Robertson has once again found himself at a bar. Not a superhero bar, mind you—he already had a hell of a time with Dr. Don't Do Shit earlier. Hopefully the Tooth Fairy won't be too put out by having to tend to a grown man. No, this is a normal kind of skeevy dive bar. The type of shithole he frequently found himself at when he had more cash and hope in his pocket.
He supposes he should be grateful to be sat here in one piece. Or at least grateful he's not dead. But the fact that his father's mech-suit is currently trashed and his entire life's work has burned to nothing isn't exactly rousing a lot of optimism.
Robert flags down the bartender and orders another drink. Asks for it to be strong, because he needs something louder than the noise buzzing in his head.
That's when you slide in beside him. He spares you a cursory glance, before bringing the glass to his lips and drinking. The golden liquid warms his stomach as it pours down his throat.
"...had a long night?"
It takes several seconds for Robert to realize you're talking to him. He's too distracted by the jukebox playing the same song for the fourteenth time.
"Excuse me?"
You regard the half-drunk beer in his hand.
"I'm guessing you've had a long night? That looks like your third round in the last 20 minutes."
"What can I say? Weather's got me feelin' a little thirsty."
"It's 50 degrees out."
"Like I said," he continues, taking another swig, "a little thirsty."
Robert glances at you through his periphery.
Christ. You're gorgeous. Thick, full lashes, plush, soft lips, and the most gorgeous, warm eyes he's seen in a minute. What are you doing talking to him?
"A man like you shouldn't be spending his Friday night all alone.
Robert lets out a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head and holding up his drink. The liquid sloshes in the pint, threatening to spill out before settling back in place.
"Got all the company I need right here."
"That satisfies everything you need? I think you've got more of an appetite than that."
"You seem to know a lot about the type of man I am."
"I can tell enough to know that you deserve better than cheap, watered-down dishwater at a shithole like this. I'm excellent company." You lean in closer. "And a great listener. So lay it on me. What's on your mind?"
"Like you said: it's a Friday—plenty of reasons to be grateful. Just a little burnt out on the optimism. Life's falling apart. You know—the usual sob story bullshit you'd find a guy drowning his sorrows in."
Your face softens as you search his features. Robert feels naked. He hates it.
"Save the pity party." Robert preempts, setting his jaw. "I don't need another one."
"I'm not gonna throw you one. But I do think I'd like to take your mind off of the bullshit, if you'd let me."
Robert steals a glance at you, and he's surprised to see your expression is open and warm. Inviting, if he's reading it right.
"...I'll bite. Tell me about yourself. Give me a distraction worth ditching the beer."
You laugh, cheeks dimpling. It's clear you're pleased with his response. He doesn't know why he's pleased to see it. "What do you want to know?"
"What do you do?"
"Interviewing me? Not very romantic."
Robert rubs the back of his neck.
"Sorry. It's the kind of question everyone asks when they're figuring someone out. Old habits, huh? How about this?" He puts on a higher-pitched, airy voice as he continues. "'What lights you up'?" He inclines his head. "Better?"
"Do you want a cookie?" You smile, and Robert finds his lips twitching upward a little.
"You got one?"
You laugh. "I'm a dancer. And an actor. A writer. Lots of different things."
"A creative. I know your type."
"Do you?"
"Looks like it's my turn to make a few assumptions."
His gaze roves over you, taking in your features. He finds himself getting lost in those eyes of yours, so he lets himself swim as he assesses you.
"You're a perfectionist. Hate commitment. Love overthinking, and you're never satisfied with the final product, but that hunger keeps you coming back."
"Not bad. Looks like you can read me pretty well."
You study him—not with judgment, but curiosity. The longer your gaze lingers, the more he shifts in his chair.
"Have we met somewhere? Your face looks so familiar."
At that, Robert coughs.
He's just another white guy in Southland. How is he this recognizable?
"I just have one of those faces. You probably saw a model on a magazine or something and mixed us up."
"So you think you're model-level attractive?" You smile, leaning a bit closer. Robert can't help himself—with the way your eyes sparkle under these shitty lights, he finds himself a bit taken.
"What does it matter what I think? What do you think?"
"Smooth operator." The way you suck on your lower lip while you look him over answers his question. A low flame ignites in his belly. Something he hasn’t felt in years. The alcohol must be getting to him.
"Nah. Shitty flirt.”
"I'd say otherwise." Your plush lips curve upward. "Can I finally get a name for you, mystery man? Or is beer still the superior companion?"
"...You can call me Robert."
"[Name]."
"Pleasure to meet you." He toasts the pint towards you, your water glass clinking against his. A few more seconds of amiable silence follow until...
"Do you want to get out of here, Robert?" Your gaze lingers unabashedly to his lips, and he finds himself licking them before he can stop himself.
His eyes move to your mouth. He wants to taste it.
This is reckless. Irresponsible. He definitely should not be jumping down someone's pants so soon after his mech-suit has been destroyed. He's lost his entire life's purpose, for fuck's sake.
But one look in your seductive, eager eyes, and he's screwed. All common sense is out the door as he sets his drink down.
