• you get a trim. robert notices. because of course he does.
• tags - domestic fluff, slice of life, established relationship, robert being smitten, no physical descriptors for reader (let me know if i can improve on that)
wc - 1.3k
masterlist
my steam for writing is already dwindling and i am fighting tooth & nail to keep going. at the very least, there's a small spike in motivation after every finished work, so i'll use it to work on some others i've got cooking. this is much shorter than i thought, and i'm a little embarrassed that THIS took so long to get out, but take it nonetheless.
also, yes. this was spurred on by the fact i cut my own hair and needed a little reassurance. because i'm sickly over this man.
anyway, enough overexplaining. enjoy whatever this is.
“—I told him, ‘look, if things don’t change soon, I’ll be forced to make decisions I don’t want to make and neither of us will walk away happy.’–”
Robert narrates around a mouthful of food, waving his fork idly over his plate as he speaks.
“–and then he got all mad at me: the one person actually trying to keep him employed. Started yelling at me and then immediately tried to intimidate me when he got back to the office.”
You only reach for your wine glass with a single-note hum, fighting the smile that wants to perch on your lips as you watch his animated eyebrows ride out the waves of his emotions.
“Like, am I crazy? Am I the crazy one for making sure that he's able to clock in everyday?”
They scrunch as he shakes his head, free hand splayed in dismay.
“The only other option is to straight up fire him, and as much as I feel like he’s been more deserving of it as of late, he’s still incredibly valuable and a good asset to the team; if it’s a problem that can be fixed, I’d rather fix it, y’know? It feels like we’re backsliding on progress and I have no fucking clue why.”
You take a small sip before gently setting the glass back into its waiting spot, taking up your fork once more to twirl strands of fettuccine through the tines, tone pleasantly light but idle.
“Mm. He sounds… not-at-all stressful to work with.”
You grin a little when he mutters under his breath—yeah. So not stressful. Honestly? Even detoxing. It’s like I age backwards when I talk to him; maybe Chase should start handling his bullshit instead. Fuck.
Robert takes a moment of pause to hurriedly chew the rest of his food and chase it down with a sip of his own wine. He meets your amused gaze over the rim of his glass and exhales softly through his nose.
His tongue makes quick work of any leftover sticky red residue on his lip, then he’s sucking his teeth briefly before sighing a bit fuller this time.
Jaw softening, shoulders easing—his shift-gear clunking down a few notches.
“Sorry, I don’t–”
Another breath releases as he leans back in his chair a bit with his eyes dropped to his plate, hand scratching at the back of his head sheepishly.
“–I don’t mean to come home and immediately start complaining. Something draining happened at the office; fish meet water. I haven’t even asked—”
You raise your fork to your mouth, blowing gently before your lips part to take the bite. Your eyes had raised as well, moving from your plate & fork up to Robert’s face at the blaring sound of his sudden silence.
You find him staring at you.
You don’t mean to brag when you say, but Robert often stares at you. It doesn’t matter where you are in the room—or what you happen to be doing—you will always feel his gaze throughout the day.
Honey-gooey, candied sweet glances, often accompanied by a smitten smile that you’re pretty sure he means to be stealthy about.
You still don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.
What’s intriguing, though, is how he’s looking at you right now.
The curve of his lashes are widened just a fraction, eyebrows knitted like he’s reading something that doesn’t make a lick of sense and still trying to understand regardless. His lips are barely parted, a physical indicator of his normally sharp brain buffering.
You only get to admire the rich brown of his eyes, unable to get lost in them as you usually do because he’s not meeting your eyes. They’re angled just the slightest bit up.
Your forehead?
You start to raise your free hand, pause, and then continue to give a fleeting brush of fingertips to your hairline with a questioning sound.
“…what’s—?”
“You got a haircut.” Robert blurts, tone barely concealing enamored awe as he puts his fork down lightly—supposedly aiming for his plate and still almost missing. His focus is entirely elsewhere.
Your lids shutter like biological camera lenses, your own pasta wrapped utensil lowering a bit as you register his obvious deduction.
That smile from before bypasses your defenses easily, a bit tempered by a budding bashfulness under his gaze. One of your shoulders lift & falls in a quick shrug, and your gaze drops to your plate in sync.
“Ah. Astute observation. Yeah, no,” you mumble around your grin, mindlessly pushing about some noodles on your plate, “not a haircut. Just a trim. I shouldn’t be allowed around scissors. Got tired of the usual, y’know?”
More silence.
Another prompt to take a glance up.
Robert’s still staring but his own smile has doubled. His eyes are darting around your face and hair like he’s seeing you for the first time again—like he’s updating a mental catalogue with a reverently devoted quickness, as if any potential for outdated information is an outrage.
Unable to fight against the creeping warmth building in your chest, you turn your head toward the general direction of the living room just to try to escape yourself—Beef’s lost in his own world going to town on the new toy you had gotten him a couple days ago; there’s clutter on the coffee table that you’ll tidy up after dinner is cleaned up; the glass of the balcony door is partially covered by the curtains half drawn to let the last of the fleeting daylight in.
“I dunno how to cut hair, obviously,” you continue in a quietly nervous admission, “I know I should’ve probably booked an appointment somewhere, it’s just hard to trust others with scissors so close to my head, I guess.”
“It looks good!” he leans forward a bit, trying to catch your gaze again, “Great, even. Fantastic. I mean, even without it, but it definitely adds to. A really good bonus. Hell, maybe even a raise.”
“Goof,” you snort, shaking your head before taking up your fork again.
“I mean it,” he insists, before mumbling under his breath in astonishment, “shit, how did I not notice?”
“It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even take off more than an inch. It’s okay.”
“I literally look at you every single day—I want to look at you every single day. So I can catch changes like this. I want to see every version of you possible.”
cl-nk
Your fork finds rest on your plate now, food forgotten as you finally look at him again.
His expression is so earnestly sweet—so sickeningly soft and all for you. That warmth ramps up, skipping a few levels to fill your face now.
Your deflections are weaker and weaker.
“You.” you inhale slowly, “Are such a sap.”
“Sticky as charged.”
He laughs at the ankle assault he earns from under the table, absolutely in love with the way your nose wrinkles at him.
You reach from your wine glass again, grumbling into the rim before you sip. Magnetized, you find yourself meeting his eyes. Again.
His arm moves—elbow planted on the tabletop, chin nestled into his palm, spine slouching into the support as he sighs slowly. Whipped in his entirety.
“Hey,” his voice is quieter, private even in a space only you two inhabit, volume drifting lower and lower as he takes you in, “you look amazing, really. Frames your face nicely. Brings focus to your… eyes…”
“Eat. Your food.”
“Busy.” he grins.
“…thank you.”
You try to resume eating, food colder than before.
He makes no move to pick up his fork yet. If anything, the loving light in his eye brightens as he simply watches you eat.
You want to tell him, teasingly, that he needs to fix his staring problem.
You don’t.
You won’t.
You never want him to stop looking at you the way he does, ever.
• wanted more of robert being a little shit so i made more of robert being a little shit. 100% he would give the most ragebait answers ever but then turn around and have a backup plan for every possible outcome. hate him. i lied. i kind of like him.
• tags - domestic fluff, slice of life, established relationship, actual idiots in love, robert being smitten AGAIN, no physical descriptors for reader, this one is dialogue HEAVY sorry i was following my visions again, robert the yapperrrr
wc - 2.4k
masterlist
i sincerely hope you guys aren't sick of loverboy robert. i don't think i will ever tire of him, but i feel my angst muscles flexing just from memory. maybe soon idk who genuinely fucking knows lol also! made my wordcount goal!!! so close to 2.5k but if i add any more, it's just going to be more ramble-y than it is already. i hope it doesn't drag too much (fingers crossed)
enjoy whatever this is.
It’s cozy like this.
The main room light is turned off, a few of the several lamps scattered about the room help to create the warm, dim glow that has you yawning with drooping lids as you scroll on your phone while you laze on the couch.
A line of dog toys lay forgotten in a haphazard trail across the living room floor.
Beef’s slow & deep snores and softer exhales sound from where his bed is tucked by the entertainment table the TV is sat on—the same TV that now sat quiet after having been turned off.
The silence isn’t totally flat or dead, though.
It’s alive, a gentle thrumming of idle life keeping it full; accented by the low electrical hum of the refrigerator running in the kitchen, paced by the quiet clicks of the passage of time from clock hung up above the small bookshelf on the far end of the living room, and the almost muted babble of speech from your phone.
A clip of a song that’s popular this week – a sped-up version of said song overlaid atop an equally accelerated video of a dog on a skateboard – a solemn drop to a sweet & short ‘in tribute’ to a stranger with one of the kindest smiles you’ve ever seen – full circle to an overly edited meme of a cat.
An endless swiping loop.
One you didn’t have to think about.
“No, wait. Go back, go back.”
A loop so easily broken up by the man very comfortably plastered against you, head just barely tilted enough to peek at your phone from where his face is tucked under your chin.
“Huh?”
“Go back,” he repeats in a hush murmur, lifting the arm wrapped around your abdomen to sluggishly swipe at your screen with an aimless finger, “the cat one.”
Your amusement culminates in a wispy exhale through your nose, the arm you’ve thrown around him in turn squeezing him just a fraction tighter before you’re acquiescing without fight.
The feed blurs as it shifts down instead of the usual up and there it is—that cat again. A PNG of an atomic explosion with a shitty fade transition appears briefly and it’s enough to make him snort quietly.
Robert’s hand hasn’t fully dropped back down yet either.
Instead, it braces a few long fingers on the edges of your phone case to help support it. A quick glance down reveals his sleepy eyes are focused on the screen, the smallest of grins curling his lip.
“What song is that?” he mumbles, arm finally moving to anchor himself to you again as his head dips back into the collar of your sweatshirt.
That call of perpetual scrolling calls you again; you answer by thumbing up like it’s your hand’s version of backstroke.
“Dunno,” your slight shrug jostles him a bit, but there’s no outward complaint; just another tiny squeeze before he relaxes against you again.
That busy silence from before begins to build again.
Aided by the steady beat of Robert’s heart against your rib cage, another monstrous yawn drags from deep within your lungs.
He matches it with his own.
Swipe.
An up-and-coming artist plays a part of a song they’re to release soon, acoustic guitar painted with vibrant lilies on the body – you save the post for the date written in the bio.
He shifts a bit, further wedging himself between your side and the back of the couch, legs stretching out briefly before they're angling to slot comfortably with yours once more.
Like a dog, almost. You can’t help but compare with a small smile.
The hand you have resting around the small of his back massages his hip tenderly.
It rewards you with a rumbling hum that rattles up your collarbone and tickles the base of your teeth.
Swipe.
An image of a beautiful white sand beach with picturesque blue-green water, giant text overlaid atop: You’re deserted here. Who you bringing with you?
Normally, you don’t pay attention to posts like this.
It felt more like a bid for interaction in a shitty algorithm than an actual conversation starter; there are thousands upon thousands of posts just like it, if just slightly tweaked between variations.
And yet, your thumb halts.
You find yourself staring at the post longer than you intend to—thinking about it much more than you probably should.
It’s such a cliché scenario.
“Hey.” you prompt softly, tilting your head to brush a soft kiss to his temple with your eyes glued to your screen.
When he responds with another sleepy sound, you pause—is it even worth the trouble? He’s already on the verge of passing out. It doesn’t really seem fair to ask him a question that requires more thought than a yes or no.
“If you were deserted on an island—“
“You.”
“—what would you bring– What?”
The phone in your hand lowers as you try to look down at him, the angle a bit uncomfortable but your confusion overpowers the discomfort.
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
Robert only huffs—a laugh so thoroughly dried out by exhaustion, it borders breezy, “Yeah. Didn’t need to.”
Your nose scrunches.
“You should’ve, because I would’ve told you we were deserted together.”
“As we should be,” he mumbles mindlessly, before lifting his head a bit, “wait, why were we deserted on an island in the first place? Exile? Or, like, travel mishap?”
Your exasperated deadpan pulls a more solid chuckle from him when he finally looks at you.
“I’m just saying. Context matters for this stuff.”
With his hair pushed back from your constant finger-combing, his forehead begins to look like a prime, spacious target for a well-placed flick.
“What about if we were dropped in the middle of the woods?” You try again.
“You.”
Exasperated, you pinch his side and take smug joy in how he grunts & tries to move away from your hand despite how he’s literally glued to you, “What if we were dropped on the very top of a mountain?”
“Are you there?”
You sigh, eyes rolling shut despite the grin on your lips itching to grow.
“I said ‘we’, didn’t I?”
He shrugs, head collapsing back into your collarbone, “Then I’m all set. Bring whatever you want.”
“Robert.”
“Sunscreen seems like a good choice for an island.”
“Oh. My god. You’re actually ridiculous, y’know that?”
“Melanoma is no ridiculous matter. If we’re to rebuild & live prosperously on an isolated tropical paradise, we need UV protection.”
It’s your turn to huff.
“Can you give me an actual answer?”
With a dramatically heavy exhale, Robert pushes himself up on his elbow a bit, scratching at his eyebrow as he gazes down at you.
You actively watch that impish glint of jest shift to something more focused—purposeful.
His lips purse.
His brows lower a fraction.
His eyes flit about your face as if anything written there is the only truly deciding factor for his answer.
You wait patiently—curiously—and your arm around his waist can’t resist another gentle squeeze.
“I would…” he starts, gingerly brushing a few strands of hair from your forehead before resting his hand on the centre of your chest.
“You would…?”
His teeth work at the dry skin of his bottom lip, eyebrows knitting & jumping apart as he weighs out his options.
“…I’d bring a lighter.”
“A lighter?” You echo with amused incredulity, finally locking your phone and placing it face down on your stomach.
Robert makes a grandiose show of his eyes rolling, mirth unmistakable, “You asked me for an answer.”
“I did do that, you’re right.” You concede easily, beaming simper fully on display, “Just wasn’t expecting that to be your choice.”
A thick brow raises.
“Well, believe it or not, I was never a Scout as a kid. Unless you can fully set up & start a fire on your own, I’d say that’s a pretty fair answer. Plus, it’s like ingrained in our DNA to make sharp, pointy rocks, so cutting wood or food wouldn’t be an issue. What did you expect me to say?”
“Well, for starters, I expected you to be a giant smartass about it and say me again—”
“Can’t say I wasn’t tempted,” he admits shamelessly, fingers now idly caressing the apple of your cheek.
“—secondly, I dunno. You seem like the type of guy to say, like… a Swiss army knife or something.”
Robert pauses again.
There it goes; his brain reassessing the hypothetical and recalculating his response.
With the seriousness of a man desperate to change an outcome of a life or death situation that will most likely never befall him, Robert meets your eyes with an almost resolute frown.
“…can I change my answer?”
Your laugh is bright, no longer soaked in drowsiness at his sheer absurdity. You miss the way his face softens in a disgustingly endeared way.
“Okay, fine. Then what would you bring?” You hum, fully delighted that he’s appearing to actually be using that godforsaken brain of his the way it was intended.
His reply is almost instant.
“Swiss army knife.”
Robert’s cheeky grin deepens enough to crinkle his eyes when you turn your head to snort again, tone taking on a tint of lighthearted offense.
“What? That still not good enough of an answer for you? It’s a great multi-purpose tool. Who knows? We might find a bottle with a pirate’s letter in it, and you won’t be so judgmental when you need my corkscrew to get it out.”
”Stop being dumb and come here.”
Even as he flops on you boneless, he takes great care in not completely crushing you—or at least, until he resumes his previous position, head tucking sweetly under your chin as he goes dead-weight against you.
He even presses his own fleeting kiss to the underside of your jaw before he’s shifting & wiggling to get comfortable again.
Your hand moves to his back, swirling circles & serpentine curls into the valley of his shoulder blades. Like wax sat under concentrated sunlight, he melts into you easily with a low groan.
There’s a beat of pleasant quiet again, but you can almost hear him thinking still. You know it’s coming when his fingers fiddle with the collar of your shirt listlessly.
“…you bring the lighter?”
It’s your turn to think.
He’s placid in his waiting, fingers switching from fidgeting to lightly drumming against your clavicle—the smallest thuds that feel like tiny bass kicks.
Tap.
Ta-tap.
Tap.
“Magnifying glass.”
“Magnifying glass?” he mumbles cynically unconvinced—you feel his brows gently scratch against your neck as they furrow and you stifle another chuckle.
“Well, think about it. Yeah, lighters are good for getting fast results but how long would that last us? Where would we get more lighter fluid when it runs out?”
Robert’s following silence signals that he agrees but refuses to give up this stubborn act, grumbling through a crooked grin, "You can always disassemble it; I feel like the flint would be hard to find elsewhere."
You try to shrug with the shoulder not trapped beneath him, worming a hand between your sandwiched ribs to retrieve your phone again and he squirms.
“Sunlight is infinite—” his features scrunch and his lips part to interject, but you don't let him, “—okay, asshole, to an extent, I admit. But still. Plus, what if the writing on the pirate’s letter is too tiny to read? Bet you’d want a way to—oh, I dunno—magnify it, huh?”
His chortle vibrates your torso, rattling your lungs and tripping up the steady pace of your heart in a few clumsy skips.
“What do you think the odds are that the letter is an instruction manual on how to build a luxurious bungalow—foundation included?”
The blue light of the screen smears with the gold of the lamplight on his skin when you unlock your phone, another video already primed & ready to continue feeding you shot after shot of dopamine.
“Mm, you already have your trusty-dusty hydra knife amalgamation. Surely, you can figure it out.”
Swipe.
A skit, this time - a sped up shot of a guy talking rapidly, smash-cut to his friends dead-flat expression with the most obnoxiously bass-boosted boom sound effect—
“Actually. I’m changing my answer again.”
You glance down at him from your peripheral as best you can in this position, your gentle inquisitive sound encouraging him.
“I’d bring a boat.”
You immediately want to protest—that defeats the entire thought exercise; where’s the fun in that?
Your mouth opens to say as much but the words dig their heels in at the threshold of your teeth in begrudging agreement. They instead disintegrate on your tongue like dust, blown away with your heaving sigh.
“That… I mean, that would be the best way to survive that, I guess. Technically. Ugh, that’s such a lame answer, though.”
Tap-tap-tap.
Robert’s head raises again—the normally hard creases of stress cut into the muscles of his face are so completely smoothed out by the pure affection he wears as he admires you.
“Would you do me the biggest favor ever? In the entire history of favors? For the sake of the culture of the sacred I.O.U?”
Instinctively, the saccharine bid at innocence in his tone has you on edge—he only uses it when he’s gearing up to be a pain in the ass.
Again, the words line themselves up like an assembly line with an almost aggressive certainty; I’d cross space to retrieve any star you pointed at, no matter how far, no matter how small. Shit, I’d find a way to bring a supernova back, just for you.
Instead, what comes out is: “Depends on if it’s gonna make me want to smack you upside the head.”
“Would you bring a GPS? Pretty please? Can’t exactly use the boat to go home if… we don’t know where the fuck we are.”
He has you there.
Infuriatingly, once more, he is right. Still a lame answer, but still right.
Whatever.
Your phone drops to the carpet by the couch with a muted thud, screen still lit and audio still faintly leaking from the speakers. You pay no mind to it, though.
You’re busy wrapping your arms & legs around Robert and constricting the life out of him while he chokes out wheezy giggles and softer protest, barely attempting to escape your hold—if at all.
hiiiii I’m sorry if I missed a request page somewhere I looked around for one but couldn’t find one aaaaa but I was wondering if you did head canons and if so could you do some simple head canons about just dating Robert and what that would be like? Thankyou ❤️
haha that’s absolutely no fault of your own, don’t worry!!! i really need to buckle down and write that ;; just send in your ideas regardless for now!
i’ve been adding on and off to this, and a lot of it is just based off of my own headcanons i’ve already got written down so i hope that’s alright.
(edit: i’m realizing now that these aren’t super romantic, but i find the everyday aspects of somebody more intriguing & charming. idk maybe i’m being weird about human interaction again idk IDC i’m having fun. if you’d like more actual romance stuff, let me know!! :) )
no physical descriptors for reader / gn reader, not many tags to add, these are mostly just random thoughts cobbled together, can you tell i daydream about just texting this man a lot, loved doing these soooo if you have any requests hit my lineeeee ^_^
enjoy whatever these are!!!
✪ I know I touched on this a bit in my previous fics (or at least attempted; not sure how the execution was) but he is actually such a little pain in the ass.
For fun! Obviously, he doesn’t truly intend to actually irritate or upset you; he’s good at keeping a bit running but absolutely knows when to drop it. He just feels comfortable with you enough to be a bit more playful than usual; he doesn’t have a reason to play the ‘cool, straight man’ around you.
Because of that, you will find yourself wanting to wring his neck every once & a while and he fully knows & enjoys it. It just fuels him further.
✪ Robert is very observant (another thing I’ve tried to incorporate). It most likely originally stemmed from his time as Mecha Man in the beginning, having to be on constant guard and hyper-vigilant, lest he has his ass handed to him.
Now that he’s manning the desk, he has to find an outlet for that restless energy somehow. And what better way than to learn your habits, likes, dislikes, etc.? It seems the healthier choice, rather than constantly checking & counting exits and potential blind spots repeatedly.
Plus, getting to look at you all the time is a pretty good deal to him.
✪ Dating Robert makes you privileged to random photos of Beef at any hour of the day.
Sure, yeah, you get the usual cute ones—Beef given up in his bed while half tangled in a blanket and falling asleep; a higher view of him absolutely doing his best to weaponize his big brown eyes at his dad; a decent candid photo of him investigating a tumbling leaf during his potty time out in the SDN courtyard.
And you adore them. But you also really enjoy the ugly photos Robert does Beef SO dirty with.
An awful angle taken right after waking up, Beef sat heavily on Robert’s chest and his chin doubled as he stares down at the camera; so many 0.5 photos of Beef up close, wet nose smudging the camera lens and bright eyes unfocused; an entire collection of him caught mid-yawn, the motion blurring adding a sense of chaos in an otherwise cherubic dog.
These are usually sent at the latest hours of the night, when Robert can’t sleep. And you have a feeling that he’s almost delirious with giggles when he sends them.
Most of the god awful ones have become inside jokes, turned into reaction images. You find yourself getting an ugly Beef reaction to your question about if the eggs are still good. So, not very helpful but still funny.
✪ You may also get random audio messages sprinkled through his texts. Some have actual purpose.
“Hey. Hands are full right now; we still on for dinner tonight? I can have Chase take Beef.”—“Forgot to tell you before I left for work. Love youuuuu.”—“Heads up, traffic’s absolutely hell on Elgar Ave. Avoid at all costs, I repeat. Avoid at all costs.”
The others… well, sometimes the audio message button just gets in the way. And to be fair, all it takes is a small brush of a finger to activate it.
So, you have started saving all of them. All of them.
“… Oh, shit, it’s doing the thi—”
“–ake it outside. I’m serious. No, I don’t care. Don’t fucking fight in the office. (fabric shifting) Christ almighty. … Is this recor—”
“–so, not my first rodeo.” “Uh huh. …You fuckin’ simp. You textin’ ‘em during work hours?” “Okay, first off, nosy. Second, a few texts aren’t going to doom the whole of Torrance, Chase.” “Mhm.” “I miss them, okay. Sue me. This is, like, the only human interaction I get throughout the day that doesn’t drive me insane.” “We both know you ain’t got the fuckin’ money for court. And, uh… you know that thing’s going, right?” “… oh, fuck. Sorry. Sor—”
✪ Does. Not. Use. Chapstick.
Not for any ‘macho-man’ reason; we know Robert is secure enough in his masculinity to not give a fuck about that.
Be it a texture reason, sensory issues, whatever, he simply refuses to use any. And he needs to.
His lips get chapped from the slightest breeze. And he lets it get to the point that it has to hurt; his skin is cracking, bleeding, and he’s wincing whenever he smiles too wide. He’s also chewing off the dead skin.
And, to make it worse, when you asked him why he doesn’t use chapstick (y’know, like any sane person would), he simply shrugged and—100% serious—said, “I’ve got spit. I just have to lick them a bit and they’re good.”
Robert did find your appalled expression a bit funny, but overall didn’t get why it was such a big deal.
He figured it out quick when he realized it was the main reason he was being denied kisses. (Not out of disgust, mind you—okay, maybe a little, but mostly out of concern.)
Either gets a small tub of vaseline (read: had it chucked at his head by Chase when he was lamenting about his lack of kisses) or just a generic Carmex stick. Doesn’t really fuck with any specific flavors until you introduce him to your favorite.
Then he doesn’t have such a problem with chapstick.
consider: Robert who cries during sex sometimes, esp post crash and coma. it's not that he's upset or anything, he just gets a little overwhelmed (both physically and emotionally) and reader is endeared by it. 👀
oh do not even get me started (no wait do)
you know the drill. MDNI
tags - cw pretty nsfw, crying during sex, no physical descriptors for reader
wc - idk writing on the tumblr app. not very long?
It’s unfair.
You already feel envy over the thick lashes framing Robert’s tired doe eyes.
Already feel the curling green vines of jealousy whenever he’s below you, said lashes fluttering and pupils blown wide as he stares up at you in a daze.
So, it’s incredibly fucking rude of him to look so pretty with dewy tears clumping his lower lashes, fattening with each half-baked blink.
His furrowed brows deepen the sweet expression on his flushed face, bite-plump lips parting around each trembling exhale that leaves him.
It’s unfair how the copper of his irises almost glitter in their wetness, especially when his eyes roll and stutter shut when your hips give another slow grind against him.
“Fffuh–ck.” Robert chokes out, fists twisting in the sheets fitfully before they release the fabric to blindly fumble for purchase on your waist, “Sl–ow down.”
The envy continues curling in on itself until it reinvents, blooms into an almost aching adoration as you watch him. The hand you have braced on his chest skims his collarbone on its trajectory to his throat.
Your fingertips make contact with the sweat on his neck before they travel up, up, up to his jaw. They form a cradle against his heated cheek, his head easily tilting back further at your gentle direction.
“Look at me, Robert,” you murmur sweetly, thumb drifting over to press on his bottom lip with light pressure, a soft low sound puffing around it, “Open your eyes.”
He sucks in a stunted breath through his teeth before they peek open, just barely able to focus on your face above him before they’re rolling again when you reward him with another grind.
The resulting wheezing groan that punches from his chest vibrates from his jawbone to your fingertips, the tendons in his neck flexing as his head presses further against the pillow it rests on.
It’s almost sinful—how the tear that falls from his lashes adds so beautifully to his thoroughly debauched demeanor, how his eyes struggling to stay open send another wave of broiling heat to your stomach.
• i feel like we as a society have moved on from that number on robert's sdn profile way too quickly. at first, i thought i was reaching but then i thought, no. from what we've seen, if robert had paid any attention to it, he would've at least said something. ...right? i already wrote it so i'm lying in the bed i made for myself. edit - requests are still open as of now btw!
• tags - fluff (i guess?), gn reader, implied yearning on both sides (more obvious on reader's end), canon-typical hr violations, lots of boob jokes. we're talking about robert's id number so i mean.
wc - 1.6k
masterlist
on a roll!!! i hope i don't tumble down a hill into a ditch, never to be seen again!!! enjoy whatever this is
You weren't even sure how you caught it.
It was the briefest of flashes, his fingers pinching his lanyard and lazily shoving the laminated badge attached at the security sensors.
The smallest glimpse; so quick, so indeterminate, you certainly had to have imagined it.
Robert catches the door from shutting on you when he realizes you're not following him in.
His look back at you has the faintest hints of concern.
"You okay?"
"Is your fucking ID number 'boobies'?"
And yeah, maybe you had planned to ask that question a little more politely, but you blame your shock on the blunt force of your words.
He blinks at you, thick brows crowding together as he stands there, one hand gently splayed against the handle of the door.
"Is my what huh?"
You point at the offending card now hung limply around his neck.
"Your ID number," you repeat, almost in awe as your lips twitch into a grin, "it says 'boobies'."
You watch his facial features make the big migration of confusion, still blinking at you as if you had just lost your head and regrew it in quick succession.
"No, it doesn't?" The unsure curl of his tone makes it more of a question than a statement.
"Swear to god. I swear, I saw 'boobies' on your card." Your own voice raises—not a lot, just in the way that people do when they feel like their honesty isn't enough.
It turns a few heads in the lobby, the receptionist having already been staring daggers at the two of you still crowding the entrance to the building.
The white-hot wave of embarrassment that crashes through Robert's body prompts him to snatch your sleeve and drag you across the lobby floor with hurried and stumbling movements.
He can barely offer his usual morning smile and nod to the receptionist, wincing at the unimpressed stare he receives once you both pass the front desk.
His hand is still anchored on your sleeve in a vice grip even as you fall into step with him.
He notices his grip when you come to a stop at the elevator, releasing you immediately to jab the elevator's call button a bit rougher than necessary; 5 quick jabs like you were both being hunted down like animals.
Once he feels the heavy weight of shame from surrounding stares dissipate, he rubs at his brow bone with a low sigh, shoulders sagging, "Hey, so, maybe don't start yelling about seeing,"
Against his better judgement—like it usually is when he's with you—he still cracks a disbelieving smile, "'boobies' at work before we even fully clock in."
You only roll your eyes and wave your hand with a low 'bah!'
"I saw what I saw! Seriously! Can I at least verify I was right? Before you run your mouth?" You lament, shoving into his shoulder with your own lightly.
He makes an exaggerated roll of his arm that makes you lean away with a huff, fighting to give you a sidelong glance without breaking first, "Even if it did, why are you asking to see my 'boobies'? Again, we are at work and, again, not even clocked in."
You arm whips his shoulder this time, more instinct than thought. Mostly spurred on by how he had raised his tone as he said it, mortification quick to replace any banter.
You stare at him with a bewildered gaping mouth, mind already conjuring some form of exclamation about inside voices! God, what the hell is wrong with you?—
He watches—with thinly veiled amusement—the moment you hit a brick wall of realization.
You wilt as you shake your head lowly; now it's you rubbing at your face, to stave off the sudden aneurysm you almost had and to hide the growing smile on your face, "Okay. Point taken. Can you still just look, please?"
Robert finally allows the chuckle that had been building up in his chest, nodding with a simper, "Sure, yeah. I will look at my 'boobies' at work."
"Bo." You sigh, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes to the elevator floor display.
"Yes. Bo's 'boobies'."
His nose scrunches in rotten mischief at the shove that earns him, hand taking the laminate hung around his neck between his finger and thumb.
When he flips it over, he does his best to not physically cringe at his company head-shot. Maybe he should practice smiling in the mirror more often.
The SDN logo takes up most of the top of the badge, 'DISPATCHER' in slightly smaller font below it. Then that god awful picture of himself and his stupid, awkward weird smile he's doing—
Below... that. Is his employee number.
ID#: 5318008
"There. No 'boo—" he's mid-drop of the card when his brain decides no, hold the fuck on.
This time, the amusement is yours as you track those stages flash across his face at concerning speed, though the acceptance doesn't come without a deep exhale.
"...huh."
"What do you mean 'huh'? How the hell didn't you know this already?" You chortle, eyebrows raised, "Shouldn't that be something you need memorized?"
Robert continues to stare down at his ID almost blankly, nearly being thrown into another round of a mini-spiral when that denial wants to take root again, "I guess I never really thought to; figured I didn't need to if I had the badge."
There's a soft whir as the elevator doors open.
You give a polite smile to the couple other coworkers already inside, stepping toward the doors—
"I didn't know I had 'boobies'," Robert blurts, quite loudly, before actually looking up from his stunned stupor.
Your neck nearly cracks from how hard you turn your head to him, eyes wide in a silently horrified manner.
It's only then does he register that the elevator is there, open and ready and— oh, greaaaat. It's already occupied, too.
He can only stand there like a moron, a mirror of your expression at what he had just said. Not because he was embarrassed—actually, no, he was—but because this apparent habit of saying the most asinine shit out of context around people he doesn't know is getting out of hand.
His public image has to be in tatters, by now. If it wasn't before, surely this is what did it in.
The shuffle into the elevator is painfully quiet, Robert's head ducked down between his hunched shoulders as he shoves his hands into his pockets as deep as they allow. He tries to give a sheepish nod to the guy next to him, who only coughs and turns his head.
Awesome. This was utterly awesome. Absolutely one for the scrapbook.
His eyes shut in resignation, head tilting back a bit as if the light of the elevator's fluorescent bulbs were a means of washing away any trace of this uncomfortable encounter. His eyes peek open to give you a weak glare over his shoulder when he hears you snicker, clearing your throat after with a tiny 'excuse me'.
Admittedly... it was kind of funny.
He can't help himself from the quiet huff of a laugh that leaves him, shoulders easing from their high positions at his ears.
The rest of the ride is quiet, but not as painful as before.
With each coworker dropped off at a different floor, it's like the awkward tension lingering was aired out as the doors opened. Then there were two.
The moment the doors close after the polite woman who bid you both a good day with a terse nod, you slumped against the hand railing of the elevator with a choking laugh.
"C'mon..." Robert starts with another long suffering sigh, eyes rolling shut as he braces himself.
"That was so good," you wheeze, arm clutching around your abdomen as you try to right yourself, "holy fucking shit. Oh, my god. I wish I could go back and record that."
"Get it out of your system."
"I'm glad you've made some life-changing discoveries this early in the morning," you continue to chirp, prodding at his side with your finger lightly, "and that you felt brave enough to share with us."
He squirms away from you with another stifled grin, "Alright, knock it off."
Not until you give me what I want, you muse.
"I can't imagine knowing how scary the uncertainty of the state of your breasts had to have been," you coo sweetly, eyebrows pinched in sarcastic pity with a lip jutting out at him as if he were a stray dog wandering around a picnic area.
He finally cracks, snorting with that nose wrinkle again, eyes creased from the width of his smile, "Jesus, okay. I said 'boobies' in front of our coworkers. Big deal. Grow up."
You don't even hear his playful scolding, not even rising to the obvious bait of a very mature competition of who was more grown up despite it sitting itself pretty right in front of you.
No, you're distracted by his bright smile.
How it hangs crooked like he doesn't want to commit to flashing all of his teeth, as if it were capable of exposing parts of himself he was too wary of sharing.
How it—by just the smallest adjustment in angle of the quirk in his lip—can be smug, can be teasing, can be tender, and as you just witnessed moments prior; bashful.
So many different alternate versions of the same beautiful expression. Joy makes him look his age, not like he's only trudging along to get to his grave on time.
"We're really just brawling for who can be the most awkward human being in this building today, huh?"
You snap out of your (admiring) daze, looking up to find Robert halfway through the threshold of the elevator doors, that smile having shrank into one more carefree. Mirthful.
You only flip him off before trailing after him, his resulting chuckle making your nerves buzz pleasantly as you both make your way to the dispatch floor.
• written as a result from my obsessive thinking-abouts in trying to think of a nickname for him. his whole "wanted to be taken seriously" could've been a throw away line, but not to me. never to me <- insane.
• tags - fluff (i guess?), gn reader, implied yearning on both sides, robert being weird about nicknames, that's really it.
wc - no clue, i write on my notes app 1.5k. thank you aoiii
masterlist
another one released into the world! not bad progress. enjoy whatever this is
Robert didn't like nicknames.
Okay, it wasn't that he disliked them so much as he ... didn't appreciate them.
Be it from some form of his beaten down half-dead ego shrieking in vain, a demand to be seen & taken seriously or from simply not caring to be called a name that holds a different meaning to him—that have shoes much too big for his feet to fill—he just preferred... Robert.
Was that such a crime?
To want to be called the name (cruelly? He's still debating the ethics on multiple levels) given to him.
He's also sure he's heard it all.
Rob, Bob, fucking Bob-Bob, Bobert, and—honest to god—Bertie, though he was quick to shut that one down immediately.
He always played it off with a dry smile that felt more forced each time; wow, that's... very creative. You sure you don't want any more time to think that one over?
He's also given up on protesting at this point, the strength to reiterate his full name falling shorter with each exasperated sigh pulled deep from his chest.
It doesn't even bother him in the way it used to make his skin prickle uncomfortably anymore, just a spike of subtle annoyance and then begrudging acceptance.
A nickname never made him feel like this, though.
You'd said it so casually, as if this is always what you'd called him; like he was always okay with it.
"How many copies are you making?" You had asked after finding him already hunched over the copy machine, a few papers stacked in your hands.
"Not many," he replies, carefully adjusting the paper on the scanner before he gave you a fleeting look, "I can get those for you after I'm done. How many do you need?"
You denied his offer with a small smile that made it impossible to look at you without that godforsaken thumping to start in his chest.
"That's kind of you, but I got it, Bo. I can wait."
It was like someone had activated their time manipulation powers, his body halting in its movements even as the machine carried on in its noisy task.
Wide eyes stare bewildered at the bar light slowly crawling underneath the glass surface, watching it make its full pass before it pulls itself back to the start.
Robert finally looks up, but not at you.
He's turning his head about, eyebrows furrowed as his eyes scan the room. He... doesn't know anyone named Bo. Shit, he should really expand his social circle if he doesn't at least know names in passing at this point in his job.
Blinking, that pinched & incredulous look meets your amused grin.
"You good?"
"Yeah—" his voice cracks and he clears his throat with a brief grimace before trying again, "Yeah, I'm good. Who...?"
You let out a quiet chuckle, your own brows mirroring his, "...who was I talking to?"
At his nod, your amusement dampens with a nervous edge that accompanies the uncertainty of accidentally treading over an already over-trodden line.
"Oh. I, uh, was talking to. You."
It comes out painfully stilted, your head turning to look out on the bullpen like you weren't inwardly strangling yourself in your growing panic.
The sounds of the copy machine clunking and whirring takes over again. Long enough that, despite your nerves, you brave a quick glance at him.
He looks... pensive.
He usually looks pensive, when nobody's pestering him or harassing him, he gets this look on his face. Like he's back in the past again; like it's his refuge from the present.
Though, this time, it looks more contemplative than distant.
With a nervous sigh, you wave your measly stack of papers at him slightly, "The nickname thing. Right. Sorry, that—" you try not to wince at how honestly & pathetically insensitive you sound, "It slipped out. I wasn't even thinking. That's my bad, Robert."
Beautifully burnt brown flits up to you, eyebrows creasing further in subtle confusion before they smooth in understanding.
His lips are tugged into that little (infuriatingly cute) crooked side-grin he does as he waves his hand back at you casually, "No, don't sweat it. That one was... new."
Despite his reassurance, your stomach still knots, "Seriously, I'm sorry. I don't—"
"Bo..." his volume is quiet, mostly to himself, but it cut you off mid-word as if he had screamed it.
He's watching the light start its crawling journey again, watching it jerk to a stop at the other end of the machine before retreating back to its starting point.
That's... oh.
Something in your chest freaks the fuck out when you notice how soft the skin around his eyes are, not creased or wrinkled in distaste or discomfort.
Like he was discovering something surprisingly pleasant; trying food that didn't look as good as it smelled, trying on a jacket that fit perfectly despite how it looked hung up, a gift that was politely declined still showing up anyway.
It has you in a trance, staring at him with slightly widened eyes. Even under the harsh fluorescent of the office lights, he looks– He looks warm.
"Bo," you repeat dumbly, nodding like he had just stated the sky was blue and, whaddya know? Stars live there, too. Really? You had no clue.
That half-nailed on grin widens just a bit, almost resembling an actual smile as he looks back at you.
"I kinda like it," he murmurs, as if admitting it would unlock a tidal wave of other attempts he had no patience for.
You blink, still trying to re-tether your brain back down to your body from where it tries to float away. Attempting to keep the giddiness out of your voice, however, is a greater task.
"Really?" You beam, although your stammering backtracking is faster than the word that left your mouth, "I. Mean, awesome! That's... I'm glad you like it."
"Where'd you think up 'Bo'?"
This time, you shrug, fiddling with the papers still in your hands, "Well, I had to do some thinking and it took a bit,"
It doesn't get past him that you had apparently been chipping away at this for longer than a day, a realization that deepens his smile when you looked away.
"There's not many nicknames you can get from 'Robert'," you continue, "and the main hitters were already taken."
Ah. He knew which ones you were talking about immediately. Something sinks in his chest at your consideration; a consideration that apparently is too much for most people to actually take.
Robert opens his mouth but you're still going, now lost in your own world as you passively watch the office life around you.
"And I didn't want to... add to the list of less-than-stellar, y'know? I wanted something that still worked but was still..."
Special, you almost say. I wanted to be different and special and unique—
Instead, you shrug again, this time accompanied by a huffy exhale, "I dunno. I'm... really glad you like it, though."
When you turn your head back to Robert, you nearly jump when you find him already staring at you intently. His full attention usually made you nervous for a different reason, but the added element of that glint of... something you can't decipher makes your heart race.
This time, amidst the already quiet of another mini-staring contest, the machine falls silent in its work, a small beeping chime announcing that Robert's copies are complete. And yet, he doesn't move.
He stares at you for a few moments more, that gentle, unfamiliar gleam in his eye, that charming little dimple appearing next to his smile.
Like a smooth idiot, you nearly choke on the way your breath hitches, saving it with a harsh cough into your fist.
"Your, uh..." you gesture to the machine, unable to hold that simmering contact anymore, "...it's done."
This kicks Robert back into gear, his gaze coming back into focus with a few rapid blinks and a slow draw of air through his nose like he was just released from the clutches of dreamland, "Oh. Yeah, right."
You decide you can come back later, body far too warm to continue waiting directly next to the man currently whacking the butterflies free from whatever crevices in your stomach they had hidden themselves in.
You barely get to angle your foot to turn away before he speaks up again, almost rushed before slowing down when you pause.
"I meant it," this time, he keeps his head down as he collects his papers, "...I like it."
It makes you freeze, the sincerity with which he says it. Another confession hastily spat out.
Your own grin crawls back onto your face, though he can't see it with his back to you. It's gentle, just like the one he had given you moments ago.
"I'm glad. I'll see you around, Bo."
In your hasty retreat to your cubicle—you were about to slam your head into your desk a few times, just to recalibrate—you don't see how his shoulders hitch, how his ears grow a lovely shade of pink. He doesn't even remind you that you had your own things to copy; it completely slips his currently racing mind.
Robert remains hunched over the copy machine for far longer than he should, until the next person needed to use it.
ALERT: [Not everything written for this user will be listed due to insufficient length or incomplete thoughts. To find hidden files, search ‘r.robertson’]
➙ come here often? - FILE REMOVED.
➙ see-through - FILE REMOVED.
➙ what's my name? - in which, robert finally meets a nickname that he doesn't entirely hate. / gn reader, second person pov, mini-fic?, fluff, self-indulgent /shrug
➙ lucky number - in which, robert actually bothers to look at his security badge a little closer. / gn reader, second person pov, fluff, lotta boob jokes, reader and robert are idiots
➙ new frame of view - in which, robert notices a small change about you. / gn reader, second person pov, domestic fluff, slice of life, he's just head over heels for you
➙ hypothetically, - in which, robert seems to already have an answer locked in for every imaginary disaster scenario possible. / gn reader, second person pov, domestic fluff, slice of life, dialogue heavy
hi it's my dumb ass again YOU SEE MY VISIIIIOOONNN THANK YOU
I raise you this: Robert who is, in fact, deeply betrayed by reader leaving him, but does not push back for their sake because it's finally apparent to him how much his self destruction has also destroyed them in the process. :3
your brain is beautiful and so big and very full of wrinkles you are more than welcome to come back as much as you want are you kidding
i couldn’t help the angst aspect, that’s been a long time coming i’m afraid
god, this could branch in so many directions also.
like would he just accept it? almost anticlimacticly?
maybe reader had a whole speech about it, finally able to get him to listen to them for the first and last time. their concern, their fear for his life, “Robert, you’re killing yourself. You aren’t the mech. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this, you’re going to get hurt. And I can’t just sit idly by while you do it anymore. I can’t. I love you too much to.”
a simple, “…okay.” that’s it. he can’t even look at them when they pause, almost laughing in disbelief. “okay.” like the thought of even absorbing their words would allocate too much energy that could be used on tracking this toxic guy down.
no “you’re right.” no “i can be better.” no “please, i need you.”
no matter how much he wants to say it; knows he should say it.
he keeps those words burning like a live wire connected from his auditory cortex and his frontal lobe, burning white hot until it crisps itself. by that point, they’re long gone, having offered one last crumb of support that he won’t be seeing for a while.
“be careful.”
or could it be a bit more vitriolic?
instead of pushback, it’s straight up pushing.
the walls he’s learned to build from the early days of mecha man raise on instinct. his nervous system can’t tell the difference between a hulking giant villain trashing downtown and his partner gently asking him to slow down, to be careful.
to slow down is to lose track of his mission, to lose track of his mission is to run the risk of shroud getting away, shroud getting away is… not an option.
his brain sees this intervention as being cornered in a fight, and when he’s cornered in a fight, he’s learned to fight dirty.
and so he does.
he isn’t foaming at the mouth, but he’s cold. he’s already closed the reinforced hatch to his mental fortitude.
what hurts about what he says is that they’re fundamentally true, that they cut deep in a personal way only years of being together can be. and with each word, with all the forced indifference, he can see them try to remain above the cutting board.
so he keeps on. he keeps running his mouth until he knows he can’t come back from this. until they’re staring at him like every memory they’ve had with him were wiped from history’s playbook. selfishly, until he knows they are hurting without a doubt, just to bring them to his level.
the borderline horror in their eyes as they stand with a gaped mouth twists his stomach sharply, guilt and regret beginning a dizzying tango in his gut until he shuts that out too.
“you don’t want to get involved?” he asks rhetorically, knowing damn well that is not at all what they were trying to say, “fine. leave. don’t get involved. this has been a problem for me long before you become one.”
that was it. that was the last thing he said to them until they meet again after the explosion.
