That’s all you can think about when you look over at his cubicle and watch him work. His fingers glide over the keyboard like it’s second nature to him. You hear him bark out orders, telling his team where to go and what to do, like it’s natural. You’ve never seen any of the other new employees take to the job this quickly. And while you haven’t been here for forever, you’ve been here long enough to know that your thoughts count for something.
But he’s a huge downer. His tone is always flat. His expression is always sour. He walks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders (though considering the fact that he’s Z team’s dispatcher, you don’t exactly blame him). And one look at him tells you that he’s seen his fair share of monsters. It’s in his eyes. It’s in the way he peers around a room in silence. It’s in the heaviness of his steps. Hole in his ear. And all the other little scars you start to see peak out from his clothes whenever he stretches or shifts around too much.
Plus, he rarely eats. You don’t know how he goes through most of his shifts without shoveling something in his mouth to stave off the boring moments. But when he does, it’s nothing but highly processed garbage from the vending machines. No lunch from home. No sandwich from one of the many delis down the street. Nothing but junk.
And he’s not that social with you and your co-workers. Sure, he talks to you. Always has a dry joke to crack at you about his team or work or what’s happening on the news. And sure, he has been convinced to join you and a couple of other dispatchers out for drinks once or twice. But he doesn’t seek any of you out.
And talk about that name, too? Who names their kid Robert Robertson? And who lets that tradition continue two more times after the first time. If you had to live with a name like that, you would be depressed as hell, too.
Still, that doesn’t change anything. None of that changes anything. You don’t care that he’s got that cute, doe-eyed thing going for him when he’s not looking at you with a thousand-yard stare. You don’t feel any sort of way about his deep voice and how he always seems to know the right thing to do and say. And no, you don’t think his scares and his frame and his seriousness are attractive. At all. Not even a little bit. The new guy is fucking depressing. When he’s not making a stupid joke, he’s a downer in every sense of the word. And any week now? You know his desk is going to be cleared out and some new guy is going to be taking his place. Someone with big hopes and dreams and a discernible sense of joy, you’d bet. Which would be a real shame.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight…”
Because you like guys like that are fucking depressing. You like it when they're suddenly not too.
“Robert…” You whimper out your co-worker’s name. Eyes fluttering shut as your grip around his shoulders tightens. But at the moment, all you can do is hold onto the man as he fucks into you and fucks you stupid. Just letting him and his surprisingly long and pretty cock stuff your warm, wet insides, over and over again. “Fuck, you’re so…fuck!”
When he hears you curse and feels your fingernails dig into his skin through his shirt, he lets out a low, low groan. One that you feel right in your stomach as he keeps the grip he has on your waist strong and his pace steady. He’s been through a lot worse than a pretty girl scratching up his skin. He’ll survive this. He’ll survive whatever you decide to do to him next, too. Besides, you’d like to consider it payback. Payback for him taking so long to bring you back here and fuck you, of course.
Back here is a small conference room in one of the more unused sides of the office, about halfway through your thirty-minute breaks. You rarely see anyone come around here. So much so that the room is pristine to the point that you can’t help but wonder if it was ever used. But questions like that don’t matter at a time like this. All that matters is that Robert picked up your signal to follow you to this room while the two of you were taking your break. All that matters is that Robert knew exactly where to put his hands the second you shut the door and locked it behind him.
All that matters is that your pants are on the floor and his cock was out, and a condom was rolled on it with speed that you’d almost consider super. But you know what this really is: eagerness. Towards your body. Towards you. Toward the very idea of fucking you quick, hard, and dirty. And you know it because it’s exactly what you feel in this moment. And perhaps even every time you look at him. Not that you would ever tell him that, though. In fact, you’d rather do anything but.
Too bad he noticed, though. But then again, you wouldn’t be here if he were completely oblivious to your feelings, now would you?
“You’ve been eyeing me all afternoon,” Robert mumbles in between the sounds of your pants and gasps of pleasure as he continues fucking into your pussy at a speed that’s almost surprising for a guy like him. Currently, he’s got you seated on top of the conference table with your lower half dangling just on the edge and your legs wrapped around his torso, making sure that he can never get too far away from you. It took him long enough to get the hints you were dropping since his first shift. You’d be damned if you’d let him get away easily. “How long have you been sitting, soaked in your own mess, huh? Could’ve just asked me. How’d say no to a girl like you…?”
At his words, you huff at him, turning your head away to make a point about ignoring his little comment. You didn’t want to just ask. You wanted him to just know, as stupid as it sounds. You know he’s not a mind reader. But you know the guy has eyes that work. You’ve seen them on linger far too long on your ass when he thinks you can’t see him, and on your chest when you’re busy trying to explain something to him. It was only a matter of time before the two of you ended up here.
Too bad he took so long to read the room.
“Hey. I asked you a question.” He calls out, trying to get a proper response out of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you look at him- not wanting to give him the satisfaction. At this, he mumbles something about only working with brats, and you find that you don’t love all of these jokes of his. Even if they are true most of the time. Still, you can’t help but notice the fact that his expression looks serious. Focused, even. Though you can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s trying not to nut too early or if he’s actually a little pissed at you, minor bit of attitude.
Maybe it’s the former. Maybe it’s the latter. Maybe it’s a little bit of a mix of both. You don’t know. He did say he it’s been a while since he’s done anything like this. And you do know he’s already got enough bad listeners to manage. Doesn’t really matter that much at the moment, though. Because either way, he doesn’t let your silence go in peace.
At least, he doesn’t let you ignore him.
The second you turn your head to the side, he’s leaning up to attach his lips to the now exposed part of your neck. The side. Your jugular. Down low. Up high. Everywhere and anywhere he can reach, he’s there. Kissing and nipping at the skin. The second melt into his touch and let out a particularly breathless moan, his mood lifts. He smiles even. He seems proud of himself.
And while you certainly think he’s pushing it with you, you let him. Because right now, the way he peppers your neck with attention feels good. It feels great, actually. And not to mention, he’s only giving you the threat of a hickey without actually leaving one. Which is a good thing. A really, really, really good thing. For both him and you. Because you would have killed him if you did. At least, you would kill him if he left one anywhere that you couldn’t cover up in your uniform.
“Getting close yet?” He asks you suddenly, in between the kisses he keeps delivering to your neck. He seems to like doing that. You seem to like him doing that to you even more. “And how long do we have?”
For a second, you almost don’t hear his questions. The way his cock kisses your insides and the way his facial his hair tickles your skin hog your attention in a way that makes it hard for literally anything else to compete. But then he asks the question again, this time a little louder as he slows down his pace just a little bit. And it's enough to send you scrambling in a desperation you would rather have kept hidden.
But the sound of his chuckles tells you it's too late to hide your feelings anymore.
Just like the sound of your phone alarm going off to signal that you have two minutes to get back to your desks before you’re officially back on the clock, it tells you that it’s too late to have the happy ending that you were hoping for. So you start to push back. You start to pull away. Because rules are rules. Work is work. And Robert seems like he could be a stickler for law and order in the pettiest situations possible, sometimes.
At least, that’s what you would have thought if you didn’t know who Robert was at this point.
Because he’s more than just a cute face. He’s more than just your new co-worker. And he’s more than just huge, a downer, and downright depressing. Even on his best days. No, he’s more than all of that. He’s a man.
A good one. A kind one. A ridiculously attractive one, even when he’s not trying to be. And you’d be damned if you’d let one like this slip away. From work...
“...you’re not getting away from me that easy, pretty girl. Let’s make you cum first. Then I’ll get you back, okay?”
summary: robert's no stranger to mecha man fans. it's a little surprising, though, to find out you're one of them.
content / warnings: lighthearted, lightly suggestive (sexual jokes), reader is a dispatcher, invisigal is there and a nuisance (said lovingly)
word count: 1.3 k
a/n: based on this post of mine! thanks for enjoying it, hope you like a little extension ♡✧( •⌄• )
Robert Robertson is no stranger to fans.
Well, Mecha Man is no stranger to fans. One doesn't exactly become the protector of LA without attracting some attention, not to mention everyone still in love with the late Bobby and Robbie. Robert himself is unknown to the public, but at SDN, he hears the occasional mention of his name in conversation. To say people sing his praises is a little excessive, but they know Mecha Man’s a damn good superhero, and therefore have at least a grudging respect for him. So he’d say he’s pretty well-liked overall.
Put simply, he’s aware of the concept of a celebrity crush. No, he wouldn't say that he knows much, but he's become familiar with the pop culture articles and social media edits and the fanfiction, the latter of which presumes quite a great deal more about what he’s capable of than what he can actually do with his perpetually pained body. It doesn't take much to faze him, at this point.
Even still, the revelation that someone he actually knows is a fan of his surprises him more than he thought.
In his defense, he doesn’t initially intend to eavesdrop, but it happens during his scheduled break (and here’s another new aspect of office life that he’s getting used to — break time, that you get paid for). With Chase and Beef getting grandpa-dogson time, he’s making himself a cup of coffee and shotgunning it to chase away the rampant ache in his bones, when the end of a sentence cuts through the brain fog and pierces his eardrums.
‘…cha Man again? Really?’
He's alert upon hearing his name. You would too if you’ve heard it constantly for fifteen years, though it doesn’t sound like this is any sort of distress call. If anything, the way the person says it — incredulous and a little amused — makes him think they’re probably calling him washed up, which he’s heard plenty of in the past few weeks from his team.
The voice practically cackles, and this time it’s not hard to discern that it belongs to Invisigal before she trails off, listening to the other side of the conversation. Whatever answer is given is too quiet for him to hear, which means either you're trying to avoid Galen, which isn’t possible, since he hears everything, or you’re frantically trying to shush her, which is even less possible since she will not let a thing go.
He might as well try to see what’s going on. If you’re making fun of him, he needs to workshop new insults anyway. Taking his coffee in hand, he strolls leisurely to the source of the conversation.
It doesn’t take him long to find that it’s coming from your cubicle, a few rows down from his own, and he pauses to observe the scene from across the room. He's heard correctly — you’re not alone: Invisigal leans over the thin partition, a delighted expression on her face, and you're sitting in your office chair, a mortified expression on your own.
A magazine is clutched in your hands. As you attempt to prevent the Z-Teamer from getting a better look at it, the chair swivels so that the cover, the print thick and glossy, reveals itself to Robert.
Oh. That’s him on the cover. The photoshoot he’d done out of the Mecha Man suit a few years ago that had the hashtag #mechahot trending for three days. He’s got a box of them somewhere in his warehouse, still. What do you want with that? Target practice?
Oblivious to his presence, but very tuned into yours, Invisigal grins as she leans over and deftly plucks the magazine from your hands, whistling as she turns it over. ‘Who even needs lobby catalogs? What, did you steal this for jerk-off material or something?’
Blunt as always, Visi, Robert thinks amusedly, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Shut up,’ you hiss, bristling. ‘I didn’t steal it, okay? For your information, I was going to make a copy of it and then very respectfully put it back.’
‘What happened to the last one?’
‘I spilled water on it.’
‘Water. Uh-huh, yeah, sure.' She snorts. 'Listen, it’s fine. Lots of people want to fuck him. I would, and I'm not half the fan you are.'
You make a choked, indignant noise and put your head in your hands.
Oh.
Well. He didn’t see that coming.
And, see, he must have been blind, because he’s suddenly picking up on so much more about you that he hadn’t seen before. Your cubicle has a little Mecha Man bobblehead on it. Your water bottle has an M sticker plastered on the side, buffed and faded with age. And while your shirt is the same as every other dispatcher’s in the department, the little pin you’ve affixed to it is not…
Higher reasoning, as well as the other kind of HR, would dictate that this would be an excellent opportunity to leave now and pretend he didn’t see anything. But curiosity gets the better of Robert, and so he remains where he is. His grip on the mug grows slightly tighter.
‘That’s not the only reason I like him,' you mumble, face still obscured by your palms.
The woman eagerly fans herself with the magazine. ‘Oh? What else does he have going for him?’
'God, isn't it obvious?'
'You're the superfan. You tell me,' Invisigal says smugly, handing you back the magazine. You stare down at it petulantly, leaving Invisigal and Robert both with bated breath.
‘…I just think he’s nice, okay?’ you mutter, quieter than before, but loud enough that every word screams out at him clear as day. ‘Like, yeah, of course he looks nice, sure, and I’m into that. Obviously. So’s half the fucking city. But he’s also just — nice.'
Oh, Robert thinks for the third time now, and absently slurps much too loudly from the mug trying to get at the dregs, his teeth clinking on porcelain.
The sound might as well have been a gunshot. Silence descends upon the office.
Invisigal’s head snaps up, and the look on her face is first surprise, then pure mirth, a smile broadening on her face. You glance over, stiffen, and swivel in your chair, turning your back to him without a word.
‘Well,’ Invisigal chirps cheerfully — much too cheerfully — ‘keep at it, and I’m sure he’ll notice you eventually.’
‘Go the fuck away,’ you grumble, and, for once happy to comply, she walks towards Robert, giving him a gleeful expression — just try to fucking get out of this one — before sauntering off. Only after her footsteps have receded well into the corridor (and you've glanced around for equal measure, because you simply never know with her) do you gain the courage to straighten back up, your face burning.
Robert walks over, coming to a stop at your cubicle. He might as well, at this point. He’s been caught red-handed, or mug-handed, in this case.
He's about to say something when you look him directly in the eyes, and he's struck by your expression: your stare does not hold an ounce of regret, and you’re jutting your chin out a little shakily, ready to defend your favorite hero to the end. The magazine is clutched tightly to your chest.
‘What,’ you say flatly.
‘Nothing.’ He fights the urge to grin, schooling his face into nonchalance. ‘I think he’d appreciate that.’
Your eyes narrow at him, and then you swallow and turn back to your monitor, pausing just long enough to delicately place the magazine down before you resume work.
Robert's no stranger to fans — has never really gotten the appeal of fans. But he thinks that you might have just changed his mind.
(A mint edition of the magazine appears on your desk later that week. Signed.)
Dad!Robert please! We need Robert Robertson the IV. Any scenario/au you envision. I can't wait to see what you come up with!! 🫶
FIRST ROBERT FIC LET'S GOOOOOO!! You know me and my love for parent aus 🤭 I hope you like it bestie ❤️
Pairing: Robert Robertson III x fem! Reader/ Mechaman x fem! Reader
Word count: 3.6k
Synopsis: the Z-team finds out about your little secret.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, Parent AU, established relationship, dad! Robert, Mom! Reader, reader is also a hero, cw Coarse language, one suggestive joke, fluff!
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My requests are open!!
“Robert?” You peek around the bedroom door, eyes looking forlornly at him as he makes his morning coffee. The apartment smells of coffee and last night’s burnt popcorn that you forgot in the microwave. Beef eats his fill in the kitchen just beside his foot as you hear him loudly chewing happily.
“Yeah?” He replies, tapping a spoon against the rim of his novelty cup that the Z-team gifted him for his birthday. It’s a regular white cup with the letters ‘unt’ printed on it. It took a while for the others to get it, but the ones who laughed immediately were definitely the ones who chose it. “You okay?” Turning around to face you, he casually sips at the bitter drink while gazing at the sweetest thing he has ever laid eyes on— you.
“Yeah,” cheek laying atop the door, you inhale deeply as the morning sun drenches him in sunlight. “It’s just that… should we have asked for the gender? I mean yesterday at the doctor’s?”
Robert smacks his lips together before crossing the small distance over to you. “I don’t know, should we have?”
“It’s eight in the morning and my head is filled with raging hormones, don’t test me, Robert.”
Chuckling, his foot nudges the door away to look at you in all your glory. You’re in an old oversized shirt that reaches just above your knee. It’s so old that you don’t even remember where you got it in the first place with its print fading, and with the hem starting to lose some threads. But what has his smile softening is your growing belly under it, usually it’s the ones above it, but now, he can’t help it when his eyes dart to your stomach with fondness.
“Last time I tested you, we ended up with this.” He pokes your stomach gently, smiling and meeting with your eyes that smiles back at him, crinkling in the corners. “What is it? Are you already bored from maternity leave?”
“As much as I like taking nightmares from people’s dreams and sic it out on villains in the real world, I actually like staying at home with Beef.”
“Then what is it?” Robert instinctively reaches for your waist, bringing you closer against him, mindful of the coffee in his other hand. “C’mon tell me before the Z-team calls a search party for me.”
Your forehead thumps against his shoulder, a sound that Beef notices before he trots over to you, jumping on your leg as if he’s checking up on you. “I don’t know, just worried, I guess.” Leaning reluctantly away for Robert to grab Beef in his arms, the little fluff ball licks your arm on his way up, and you pet his fluffy head with a soft smile.
“I can stay home for today if you want.” He understands you completely even without you uttering another word. He’s a superhero too, and his dad, and his dad’s dad, they all had one thing in common, worried for their secret identities to be discovered, and for their partners and child to be in danger because of it. That fear doubles for you and Robert, with you being a hero just like him. “I’ll make Visi’s shitty nachos that you love for some reason.”
That gets a chuckle from you. “That sounds great,” he hears the ‘but’ coming from a mile away. “But they need you. And it’s just my hormones getting to me, I’m sure. I’m dreading the day when the weird cravings start for me.”
“I’ll get your pickles and spray cheese combo whenever you want.” His hand squeezes your side lovingly, coming closer, toe to toe as he pecks your cheek. “And if you really want, we can go to the doctor again to ask for Little Beef’s gender like you wanted before.”
“We are not naming him Little Beef.” Hands cupping his face, Robert kisses your palm as Beef lounges on his arm with his tongue lolling out, smiling up at the two of you.
“It’s just a place holder.” He says, sighing longingly even though you’re right in front of him in kiss range. “You’ll be the one pushing the baby out, you can name him whatever you want.”
“Funny that we both settled on a boy by default.” Grinning, your fingers play with the shell of his ear.
“I think it’s physically impossible for us Robertsons to have a daughter.” Joking, just the thought of having a mini version of you running around has him beaming at you. “Boy or girl, I’ll still love them.”
Tears form, eyes heating up as your vision swirls with watercolored lights as you gaze at him. “Really? Even if our baby can’t carry the mechaman legacy?”
So that’s what you’re worried about. His touch softens, eyes turning tender as he pulls you for an embrace, coffee forgotten, placed on the nearby table with one of his house warming lamps. He has found that a side effect of loving you is forgetting about his beloved caffeine. And he doesn’t mind it one bit, he’ll stop drinking coffee if it means having you in his arms forever.
Beef reads the room and jumps off of his arm, heading to the couch to leave you two be, something that the Z-team should take notes of.
“She could be a mechawoman, or maybe be called something else entirely. Technically I make the rules so...” he lets out a grunt as you hug him tighter, your fingers weave through his hair as you hide your face in the crook of his neck. “And that’s if they want to be a hero too. Whatever we get, sweetheart, they’re free to choose whatever they want to be.”
“Because we love them anyway.” Pulling away reluctantly, cheeks streaky with tears, you kiss his jaw, earning a satisfied hum from him.
“Damn right.” With a proper kiss, lips meeting yours, Robert ignores the ringing phone for a second to show his love for you. If the clock on the wall was any indication, the ringing phone was evidence that he’s absolutely late for work.
“Also,” you say even with his lips still on yours, fingers playing with his ear again. Robert leans away reluctantly, eyes glancing at your lips before looking into your eyes. “I think it’s time to tell the others, what do you think?”
“Really?” His face brightens up even more. The thought of his second family knowing about his baby makes him beam at your decision. “You sure? I thought you wanted to pull a prank on them with me suddenly bringing our baby to work, and gaslight them by saying that I’ve always had a baby.” The ringing stops, and he thanks that it did or else he would’ve thrown another phone out of the balcony.
Our baby wakes the butterflies in your stomach, it’s either that or Little Beef wants to have breakfast.
“Yeah, I had a change of heart, that was a bit mean of me to think of. It might give Chase a heart attack.”
He lets out a scoff, more akin to a chuckle. “Knowing the team, they’d probably think that the baby is a new team member and bring him to a call.”
“Oh dear god, I hope not.”
Chuckling, Robert leans closer to your lips hungry for some more. “You don’t want to announce it with me? I can wait for you to get ready.” His hands wander around your form, squeezing and roaming all over.
“I feel like a water balloon right now, besides you’re already late.” His pouted lips pauses mid lean as you continue. “And I really fucking wish that Malevola was here to watch the devil wears Prada with me. But I know she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself the moment someone mentions me. So it’s best that the news comes from either of us, might as well tell them now before I die of boredom here.”
“You want to tell everyone that we’re having a kid because you want your best friend to watch a movie you’ve watched a thousand times before with her?”
“Yep.”
“Alright,” he pecks your cheek, and you hum in content. “You sure you don’t want to tell everyone with me?”
“I don’t feel beautiful right now, Robbie.”
“As someone with eyes, that’s not true, sweetheart.”
“Charmer.” Grinning, hands on his chest, laying flat and feeling his muscles underneath his uniform, you lean closer, nose to nose as you breathe in the coffee lingering on his lips. Before you kiss him again, you get another thought. “Should I have taken the desk job instead?”
“Absolutely not, it’ll stress you out and our baby would come out all wrinkly with headphones on while yelling at Flambae.”
Giggling, you pat his chest lovingly as he matches your smile. “Okay, I’m done worrying, until I think of a new one anyway, so kiss me, Robert, before I do.” And he kisses you wholeheartedly, lips smiling against yours.
—
Robert gets to the SDN building normally, nothing too unusual, just passing by several heroes doing their thing, writing paper works, drinking coffee, gossiping near the watercooler, and the weird cat mascot that seems to see through his very soul. Still, nothing out of the ordinary, if the ordinary is Waterboy coughing out into a water bucket to mop the floors even when that’s not his job anymore. Robert is starting to think that he likes doing that.
“Where the fuck is Beef?” Chase greets him as he leans against the wall of his cubicle. “And you’re late by the way.”
“Good morning to you too, Chase.” He replies monotonously, dropping his bag down on the floor with a thump.
“Morning, fuckface, now where’s the little guy, I bought him a new toy that looks like your suit.”
“At home with my girl.” He simply says, plopping down on his chair as he boots up his computer.
“Oh, fuck off.” Chase rolls his eyes, flicking Robert’s ear as the man side eyes him. “She’s hogging Beef.”
“I just don’t like leaving her all alone. And Beef seems to be happy enough with her.”
“Fuck me, how long is her flu? Is she dying? Tell me she isn’t dying because she owes me ten bucks.”
“She’s not dying, Chase.” With a sigh, his hand reaches for the film in his pocket, feeling it for a moment before bringing it out. “And it’s not the flu.”
“Oh shit, did she get a dream flu or some shit?”
“A dream flu?” Robert pauses mid movement. “No, what even is that? And why does she owe you ten bucks?”
“A dream flu ‘cause she goes around people’s dreams and maybe she got some dream sickness in some asshole’s fuckass dream. That’s her whole schtick right?” Chase gestures wildly, mustache wrinkling atop his lip. “And the ten bucks was back when she was craving some greasy deli sandwich a few months ago.”
“No, that’s not her thing— never mind.” Sighing with a subtle smile, he places the grainy photo beside a picture frame of you with Beef cuddled in your arms. “It’s because of this.”
“Oh.” Chase’s usual demeanor fades, eyes widening as he takes a good look at the ultrasound picture. “Shit.” He’s shellshocked by the looks of things, as Robert stares at him with a smirk.
“Finally got you speechless.”
“Is that a picture of Golem?” Invisigal suddenly appears out of thin air, something that Robert was already anticipating but was still surprised nonetheless.
“No, that’s a picture of my baby.” He replies monotonously, gauging out her reaction, as she mirrors Chase, albeit more unsteady.
“It looks like one of those ink blobs that my psychiatrist has.” Flambae peeks over the cubicle, eyeing the picture before going around the table to get a better look.
“You go to therapy?” Arms crossed over her chest, Visi asks with a raised brow and a snort.
“Bitch, you should be in therapy too.” He jabs with his signature irked tone.
“Wait, hold on, you actually got Dreamcatcher pregnant?” The older man wakes up from his stupor, blinking as he takes the ultrasound picture gingerly as if he’s handling precious cargo. His eyes skim the photo, gaze darting from the picture to Robert’s face.
“And here I thought you wouldn’t last a month together, she’s way out of your league, Robert.” Malevola overheard all the commotion from the office pantry and saw the growing crowd around Robert’s cubicle. She sidles beside Chase, immediately beaming at the ultrasound picture. Despite the grainy black and white photograph, her eyes water at the sight. “Fuck, good for the both of you, Robert.” She says, clearing her throat.
“Why is this such a surprise?” Robert sighs as Chase raises a questioning brow. “And we’ve been together for three years, Mal.” Robert doesn’t mention her teary reaction in front of everyone, instead, he nods at her with a subtle smile.
“Shit, has it really been that long?” Sniffing, she not-so-subtly wipes her eyes.
“Well, congratulations, Robert, you actually know how to use your dick.” Chase places the picture back gently before clasping Robert’s shoulder with a thump.
“Thank you?” Robert’s gaze wanders around the people around him, people whom he has grown to care for. He wishes you were here with him to witness this, but he knows that you’re not having the greatest time with your morning sickness even though you try to play it off in front of him. Maybe he’ll get you something to help ease the queasiness on his way home.
“Yeah, good on you, dickwad.” Sonar appears from the side, arms thrown over a sniffling Malevola. “What’s happening by the way?”
“Robert is having a baby.” She answers, trying her best not to let out a single tear.
“Nice! What color? And how is that possible?”
“Jesus, that’s fucked up.” Robert grimaces. “And it’s possible because I had sex with my girlfriend whom I love very much.”
“Double nice!” Sonar gestures for a high five, which Robert hesitates for a moment before high fiving the man-bat. “You finally got some!”
“I know right?” Flambae snickers from the side.
“I need to gift her a fruit basket or something!” Malevola fans her face, taking the ultrasound picture with a wobbly smile. “Wait,” her face falls. “why didn’t she say anything to me? I’m her best friend!”
“She wanted to wait.”
“Just say that she wanted to pull a dick move on us by suddenly showing up with a baby.” Chase adds, looking at Robert over the rim of his coffee cup. “I know her, Robert.”
“That’s fucked up.” Flambae’s face lights up, the corner of his lips curling up with a smirk. “Just my type, is she single?”
“No,” he scoffs. “she’s literally having my baby.” Twisting around in his chair, Robert scrunches his nose at him, whilst shaking his head.
“But that doesn’t mean she wants to stay with you.”
“Why can’t you all be normal and just congratulate us?”
“I’ll believe it when I see the actual baby, or with her strutting in here with a watermelon in her belly.” Leaning against the cubicle wall, Visi glances around everyone, looking for someone to get on her teasing remark. Sonar takes the bait and nods along.
“Isn’t the ultrasound picture enough for you guys?”
“Nope, for all we know you got that off the internet.”
“Guys, guys, can’t you see that he’s got Robert’s nose!” With a roaring laughter, Flambae takes the picture from Malevola and points at it. The rest chuckles, except for Robert, who snatches the picture back from his grasp and straightens the creases gently.
“What if it’s a girl?” Malevola utters. “Man, I really want to be a girl aunt. Robert, don’t ruin my dreams of buying pretty dresses for my niece.”
“I literally don’t have control over that, Mal.” Placing the photo back where it belongs, Robert sighs. He really wishes that you were here right now to help wrangle the Z-team.
Chase then narrows his eyes at the picture. “I think it’s a boy.”
“You can tell that from an ink blob?” Sonar sounds like he’s convinced though.
“Yep, definitely a boy, I can see his peepee.” Based on Flambae’s grin, he intends to add more fuel to his teasing flames.
“Oh I think I see it too—”
“Would you stop looking at my unborn baby’s—”
“Whose baby?” Blond Blazer saunters towards the group, heels clicking against the linoleum.
“Mine,” Robert says with his whole chest, not wavering for a second. “We’re having a baby.” His tone is tender and affectionate, and the air around the group turns softer just from his demeanor alone. They all mirror each other’s smile— gentle and genuinely happy for their dispatcher.
“Congratulations!” Blazer grins and opens her arms for a hug, which Robert returns briefly. “Finally told them, huh?” Robert raises a questioning brow at her. “She filed for maternity leave, and I connected the dots. How far along is she?” She holds him at arm’s length, eyes smiling.
“Three months, almost four now. We wanted to be sure,” Swallowing thickly, Robert inhales deeply as he utters the next words forlornly. But his tone is much more steady, eyes swirling with emotions. “They’re both doing great.”
“Thank you for telling us, Robert.” She clasps his shoulder, mirroring his eyes. “All the years I’ve known you both, I know you’ll do a great job.”
“Thanks.” Despite his flat tone, Robert lets out a staggered sigh, as if he was waiting to hear those words coming from someone else other than from himself and you.
“I can already tell that he’ll be the most protected kid in the whole goddamn city.” Chase agrees, nodding at him with a proud smile.
“Thanks, Chase.” Surprisingly, Chase hugs him too, but before he could hug back, he’s already pulling away, patting his bicep with a well timed sniff.
“Yeah, congratulations or whatever.” Reaching for Robert with a fist bump, Flambae hides his smile better than the rest of the group as Robert bumps his knuckles against his.
“I’m really happy for you both. Really.” Visi nudges his arm with her own, beaming at him with shining eyes.
“Thanks, all of you.” Robert’s heart is full, and he can’t wait to go home just to tell you how everyone reacted.
“I call dibs on organizing the baby shower! Prism will love this!” Mal takes out her phone and starts typing. “I can tell the others right?”
“Go wild.” With Robert’s blessing, Malevola chuckles and leaves, followed by everyone else, leaving Robert and Chase alone.
“I hope he doesn’t name him Robert Robertson the fourth.” Invisigal whispers to Sonar but loud enough for Robert to hear as they both leave.
Once out of ear shot, Chase punches Robert’s shoulder gently. “I’m happy for you, kid. Try not to mess it up, hm?”
“I’ll try, Chase.”
“That’s better than not trying, kid.”
—
“I’m home.” Robert juggles the basket filled with vending machine food that the Z-team gathered at the last minute for you. Their excuse was that you must’ve been missing the food in the office pantry, and it’s definitely not because payday is still a week away. At least they were nice enough to leave a note that promises to give you proper presents for the baby shower. His other hand holds onto a beautiful bouquet of tulips, courtesy of Blond Blazer and Chase, whilst the ring of keys jingle around his fingers.
“Royd said that he’ll give me the security footage of their reactions to show you— sweetheart?” When you don’t immediately greet him with a hug and a peck to his lips, his senses are immediately on high alert.
The sound of the T.V. playing a random cooking show echoes around the house together with Beef’s snoring. Placing the basket in the kitchen together with the flowers, he crosses the small distance quietly. Going around the couch, he sees you fast asleep, all cuddled up beside Beef. Your hand rests atop your belly protectively as you seem to have found one of Robert’s old shirts that he used to wear whenever he fixes the suit. It has holes on the fabric, and remnants of oil and soot, and yet, you wear it not for looks but for the familiar scent that lingers on it.
Your chest rises up and down whilst Robert gently takes the blanket further up to cover both you and Beef, who kicks in his sleep. Once properly tucked in, he kneels down in front of you, a hand gently brushing away a strand of hair sticking to your cheek.
You snort in your sleep, making Robert chuckle to himself as you fall deeply in dreamland. Your eyes don’t dart around under your eyelids, a good indication that you’re truly fast asleep and not jumping from dream to dream to capture nightmares. He prefers you like this, as someone who still works when asleep. Just unabashedly resting without caring about anything else, getting some much needed rest just like you promised to him before he left for work.
Robert has a soft smile on his face, an ever prominent smile he has whenever his gaze lands on you. He knows that his attention will be divided when the baby comes, but he also knows that the same smile will stay, doubled even. As he reaches to touch your stomach, his warm palm laying atop the back of your hand, his whole chest lights up with warmth, not from stress or the overbearing anxiety, but from something more tender, happier. He could get used to this feeling that he wishes wouldn’t fade just as easy as the years come and go.
“Dad’s home, kid.” He whispers as the sunset bathes the whole living room in pink and orange hues. His hand squeezes you out of instinct, and you stir awake, eyes fluttering open, bringing more light into the space. “I’m home, sweetheart.”
summary: in which your mysterious neighbor borrows a screwdriver from you, gets cut, and you spend around three thousand words fixing him up and trying to figure out why he has literally nothing in his apartment.
content / warnings: lighthearted-ish, description and treatment of injury (large cut that needs stitches - medical treatment that should really be taken to the hospital), set pre-game, robert's horrible apartment, reader is pretty into robert in this fic, tension (bordering on sexual?)
word count: 4.3 k
a/n: i don't really know, i kind of wrote the first sentence of this and then just ran away with it to see where it took me. this is the longest fic i have ever written by a pretty good stretch! i'm not super sure about how i wrote robert / the plot here, but hey, first time for everything :))
(medical disclaimer: if you get a cut as big as robert's please go to urgent care)
Of the man who lives next door, you know three things: 1) his last name is Robertson, according to his mailbox; 2) he has a dog; and 3) he lives in what has to be the saddest apartment you have ever seen.
That’s it, really. Other than that, he’s functionally invisible — if it weren’t for the fact that you’ve seen him walking his dog around, it’s like you don’t have a neighbor at all.
His apartment, really, is what makes you think this. He leaves the curtains open, sometimes, and you occasionally catch glimpses of the interior of his apartment when you’re coming back from work. Ordinarily, you don’t care about other people’s living spaces, and if it were anything else you’d fully gloss over it — you're not going to judge someone for having an anime poster or two, or a little mess.
But what little is visible from what you can spy in Robertson's apartment is nothing but blank white walls and cabinets. It doesn’t even look like he even has any lamps, much less turns the lights on, as if he’s afraid of his power bill. You’re certainly not going to call your own place a haven, but at least you’ve filled it with the things you enjoy in life; aside from his dog, it doesn’t appear as if he has anything in his life worth living for.
So puzzled have you been by this that you’ve devoted a not-insignificant part of your spare time to speculation and to fantasy as to who the guy is whenever you see the apartment; you could stand having more excitement in your life, and projecting it onto a mystery neighbor is, you’ve found, a fun way to do it.
Is he a vampire? It’s not an unreasonable thought: given that demons exist in this universe, vampires surely must too. But he doesn’t appear to be able to fly around or have an aversion to the sun. He’s hardly ever around during the day, for that matter; you only hear him leave in the morning and come back at night, sometimes really late at night. Plus, it’s Los Angeles. Why in god’s name would any vampire want to live in this kind of climate?
Maybe he’s a villain in hiding. That’s also a plausible theory, although he couldn’t have picked a worse hideout: Mecha Man’s base is somewhere close to the apartment block. You know this from the telltale whirring sounds you hear every day, the propulsions of engines and a thousand interlocking parts rushing over your ceiling and knocking little bits of plaster off the walls; if Robertson is a villain, there’s no way he wouldn’t have been found by now (and, now, wouldn’t that be something — rescued personally by Mecha Man — although you’ll keep your fantasies to one man at a time, thank you.)
The third possibility you draw up is that he could be a superhero, but you’re not personally convinced. After all, if he were a superhero, shouldn’t he be living in a better place than this? A proper house, rather than a run-down apartment with peeling paint and horrible bus routes? Yeah, that can't be it.
(This third option is usually the point where you realize you’ve been staring in the direction of his balcony for much too long to be normal, and you hastily retreat to your own apartment. He’s never there when you’re doing it, though. Probably. It’s hard to tell since his apartment gets so dark. At the very least, he could stand to have a lamp somewhere.)
——
Knock knock knock.
Three short raps on the door jolt you out of your binge-watching-addled stupor. It must be the package you’ve been waiting for (thank god, took them long enough). After giving yourself a quick once-over to make sure you look presentable, you tiptoe over and peer through the peephole.
Annoyingly, it’s not the delivery man, but holy shit Robertson is standing outside of your door.
It’s nice to finally put a clear face to the name. Despite the fish-eyed lens of the peephole being awfully rude to his forehead, it takes no time at all for you to confirm to yourself that he’s attractive; auburn hair, dark, well-defined eyebrows, a faint trace of stubble on his chin. He does look tired — a little pale, and there are dark bags underneath his brown eyes, but, unfortunately, he is exactly your type, and this will not be helping to dissuade any of your fantasies in the slightest.
Why is he here, though? Why now?
Well, you’ve got to answer the door at some point. Robertson retracts his hand as you open the door, praying that your eye doesn’t bear any markings from where you’d shoved it against the glass.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hey,’ you reply, trying to mimic his posture — confident, casual. Is he here to kill you? Inwardly, you consider your vampire theory. Maybe it’s a Twilight situation. Any moment now he’s going to ask if he can come in, and next thing you know you’ll be bleeding out on the floor. (This thought does not detract from the fact that he’s hot.)
‘Do you have a screwdriver?’
The mundanity of his request has you temporarily stunned — that sounded nothing like Edward Cullen. ‘Yeah, I do.’
Robertson waits a few seconds, one eyebrow lifting in confusion when you don’t say anything else. ‘…Can I borrow it?’
You’re an idiot. ‘Oh! Yeah, sure, let me just — hold on, I’ll go get it.’
Rushing back into your apartment, you find the screwdriver from a toolkit you have lying around and bring it back out to him; he takes it from your hand and waves it at you in a lazy salute.
‘Thanks. I’ll give it back in an hour?’
‘Sure, yeah,’ you reply brilliantly. ‘Have at it.’
And then Robertson smiles, an infuriatingly gorgeous half-twitch of the mouth to the side that tells you everything and nothing about him at the same time, and he walks out of your line of sight, leaving you to stare out at the Los Angeles skyline as you stand there and let the afternoon sun burn your eyeballs to a crisp.
Yeah, he may be trying to kill you after all.
——
Approximately thirty-six minutes later — not that you’ve been counting — you hear the sound of something crashing to the floor and a muffled grunt of pain. Being a normal, concerned person that you are, you’re out of your apartment and at his in a flash, pounding once, then twice. You’re debating calling 911 when the door opens.
Robertson is leaning on the doorframe, wincing. There’s a cut on his right forearm several inches long, seeping a deep red; the sleeve of his hoodie is bunched higher on his arm, raggedy where it it’s been cut through. It’ll need stitches for sure. His dog is whimpering and running in little panicked circles across the floor behind him. He’s glaring up at you as if you've interrupted him.
You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth at the sight. ‘Oh, shit, that looks bad. Do you need… I can take you to the hospital, if you want.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he grits out. ‘It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse.’
So the man’s been injured before (and worse than this, really?) You file that away for later theories, your alarm for him overshadowing any other thoughts you have in the moment. ‘I really think that you should —‘
‘No hospital,’ he interrupts, tone harsh and decisive. ‘I have a first aid kit, I can fix myself up just fine.’
He’s white knuckling it, though, and the position is awkward enough — and bloody enough — that you immediately scoff. ‘Not with only one arm, you can’t. If you’re not going to let me drive you to the hospital, at least let me help you.’
‘It’s fine,’ he repeats, but you cross your arms, doing your best to appear immovable. You may have been struck dumb by him earlier, but you have common sense; this isn’t something he can just fix on his own.
‘My help or the hospital. Your choice.’
For a moment, it looks as if he’s about to argue with you further, but he shifts his arm slightly and winces, blood staining the tips of his fingers red. And then the fight is gone, and he steps aside, allowing you to cross the threshold and step into the apartment.
The bathroom is to the left of you as you come in, so you duck into it and find the first aid kit inside the cabinet underneath the sink (it’s not hard; it’s the only thing in there). You start to open it, pulling out the things you remember are needed for stitches, but then decide to just take the whole bag with you. Robertson is still standing in the doorway when you come back out, face tightened in pain, and you breeze into the main area of his apartment to find a place he can sit down, walking to the middle of the room.
It’s only then that it hits you: you’re in his apartment.
You take a quick look around, because of course you do, and it somehow manages to be worse than what you’d imagined: it’s sad, all right. Though you’ll give him points for it not being completely empty, it might as well be: empty boxes are littered along the walls, the objects that used to fill them missing. A hastily-thrown tarp is covering something in the corner, a few tools scattered next to it. No mattress to be found (oh my god, his back must hurt like hell), a pillow on the floor covered in dog hair. A lone plastic lawn chair is spotlighted in the middle, as if to fill out the space. You feel a tremendous boost of faith in your feng shui abilities.
‘What,’ Robertson says flatly from behind you.
You shake your head to focus. ‘Nothing.’ You motion him over to the chair; a light grunt escapes him as he sits down, slinging one arm over one of its armrests at your behest. 'Let's — let's get you fixed up.'
Quickly, you set yourself to work, washing your hands in the sink before coming back to kneel at his right side and reaching for the antiseptic solution, soaking a cotton pad in it. His dog comes and sits by you, looking between the two of you anxiously with large eyes. Robertson, for his part, is compliant, only occasionally interjecting with a slight hiss here and there as you begin to clean the excess blood from the cut; his pain tolerance is remarkable. You note to keep him talking to make sure he’s still conscious.
‘So, Robertson —‘ You cut yourself off. ‘Sorry, I only know your last name from the mailbox, I don’t know your first…?’
‘Robert,’ he says.
You pause, the cotton poised above his cut. ‘Your name is Robert Robertson?’
Robertson’s — or, you guess, Robert’s — eyes narrow. ‘Are you going to do a bad job of stitching me up if I say yes?’
‘Well —‘ you say, catching yourself, ‘— no, I mean — it’s not a bad name, I just didn’t expect it.’
‘I’m full of surprises.’
And injuries, apparently. ‘Okay, then, Robert — what did you need my screwdriver for that led to your arm getting this sliced up, anyway?’ you ask, dabbing the last bit of antiseptic around his cut.
Robert sighs. ‘Work stuff,’ he ends up saying, simply.
‘“Work stuff”?’ you repeat, incredulously staring down at the cut. ‘What, were you making a lightsaber or something?’
‘Close enough.’
Was that a joke? You can’t exactly tell. ‘That seems, uh, dangerous.’
‘Eh. Could have been worse. One second longer and it’d have cut off my fingers.’
‘Maybe figure out a new line of work, then, dude,’ you say. ‘It can’t be worth so much that you’re willing to risk your life for it.’
‘Well, work is basically my life right now,’ he mutters. A slight edge creeps into his voice — annoyance. At you? ‘I don’t have much else.’
Ouch. As sad as that statement is, you can sense you’ve hit a bit of a sore spot. At least he’s talking, which means the injury’s not as bad as all that. Carefully, you align the wound edges with each other — they’re close enough that there aren’t any gaps, which is good, but the muscles in his arm have tensed up, and it’ll hurt more if you just push it in like that. You would rather not piss off a man who builds lightsabers, thank you very much.
Think of another subject, quickly. Your eyes land on the dog, its wet black pupils staring back at you.
‘What’s your dog’s name?’
‘Beef,’ he answers, the change in subject and his affection for the dog immediately seeming to mollify him. Said Beef’s ears perk up at the sound of his name, and he begins happily wagging his tail. ‘He’s a chihuahua. I’ve had him for a couple years now.’
‘Really?’ You squint at the dog. ‘He looks more like a corgi to me.’
‘No, he’s a chihuahua. I do get the corgi thing a lot, though — he’s a bit rounder than they usually are, but that’s just because he’s a hungry little guy.’ Robert looks down at Beef. ‘Aren’t you, bud?’
Beef’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he pads over to the left side of the chair to rest his head in Robert’s other hand; the man scratches him under the chin, then gently pokes his tongue back in, a gesture clearly familiar to them both.
Beef’s tongue sticks immediately back out like a little candy in a PEZ dispenser, and Robert’s eyes soften as he looks at the dog with an abject look of fondness — it’s like a mask slips off of his face. As he does so, he visibly relaxes; the needle pushes into his arm easy, going in and out through the sides of the wound at the same depth. Gently, you pull the edges of the wound together, looping the thread and drawing it in a knot against the skin, then picking up the scissors to trim the excess.
For a few minutes, the room is silent, save for the whirring of the fan above, as you thread the needle again, pulling it through; it’s a repetitive enough movement that you can’t help but let yourself look more closely at Robert. Your earlier interaction had given you enough to think about already, but right now you have the time to see every detail of the man you’ve been wondering about for the past few months, the sun catching the light sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks and the lightly crooked bridge of his nose. A part of his right ear is missing, the flesh of it long since healed over; it matches a dozen smaller white nicks and cuts you can see against the skin.
It’s funny how your mind can run away with things if you let it spin for long enough. There’s nothing inherently romantic about the plastic lawn chair, but the angle in which you’re positioned lends an air of royalty to the moment — an acolyte in front of a god, you could say, if you were to be poetic with it. Your knees are aching on the hardwood floor — one part of wishes that you’d asked to borrow the dog bed so to save them from the discomfort — but, in all honesty, you admit to yourself you’d do it over again. In several different circumstances.
Beef lets out a little yip, and immediately, you feel guilty. Jesus, what is wrong with you? The man’s had an injury and let you into his apartment uninvited, and here you are, just staring at him instead of helping. At least you can be comforted by the fact that you haven’t said anything else too weird.
That is, until you just have to go and ruin the silence again with the stupid question you have burning in your mind, the only fact you know about him that hasn’t been expanded upon yet.
‘Why’s your apartment so empty?’
You half regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, snapping it shut as if that’ll do anything. Robert’s expression seems to harden again upon remembering you’re there, posture straightening in the chair.
‘Sorry,’ you say, already apologetic. ‘I was just — I’m just curious, is all.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ He lets the sentence hang in the air, waiting just long enough for you to bring the needle back to his arm, and then adds casually, ‘You have been staring at my apartment a lot, so I get it.’
The sudden deflection renders you so shocked you nearly drop the needle straight into the wound. ‘Oh, god.’
‘What?’ His tone is dry. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’
‘I swear I wasn’t trying to be creepy,’ you rush to say, face already heating up. ‘I was just — well, you’ve basically been a complete mystery to me since you moved in — and I was wondering about you, and —'
Robert is watching you flounder, his impression implacable. You’re digging yourself a hole all the way to the center of the Earth.
‘— and, well, you could at least have a plant, or something,’ you finish lamely. ‘It’s a shame to have a glorious 600-foot, lightly water-damaged space and not do anything with it. You know?’
There’s a few mortifying moments where his expression is still blank, and you wonder whether you’ve pulled the stitches so tight it’s restricted the bloodflow to his brain. But then his mouth is cracking wide open like a geode and he’s laughing, a quiet sound but one that that bounces off of the empty walls.
You’re stunned into a horrified, embarrassed silence as it continues. It would be a kinder mercy for him to take whatever he was working on and slice you to ribbons.
The laughter dwindles down to a faint chuckle, and he brings his left hand to his face, obscuring his facial features. When he pulls it away, he’s smiling, that lovely little dimpled twitch from earlier.
‘Sorry. That was… that was pretty funny.’
You blink. ‘I… what?’
‘The delivery of that. It’s been a while since I talked to anyone. I was wondering if I was the only person with no social skills.’
Oh, screw you, you think, but your lips are already lifting into a smile of your own. ‘Well, I’m happy that my social blunder’s funny to you.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ The laughter of his has seemed to ease him up a bit again, and his posture relaxes in the chair again — as embarrassing as that was for you, it seems to have won him over for the rest of the conversation. ‘I’m also extremely sleep deprived right now, if that makes you feel better.’
‘I think sleeping on the floor will do that to you.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s called minimalism. It’s an aesthetic.’
‘This isn’t about aesthetics, it’s about having furniture,’ you counter, eager to get him back on something. ‘You don’t have a bed.’
Another shrug. ‘The floor’s comfy.’
‘You and I both know that it’s not. The couple downstairs fights, like, every other day. I can hear it, and I’ve got 12 inches of wonderfully comfy memory foam underneath me.’
He waves it off, dismissive, but you can tell he’s infinitely more relaxed than before; social blunder or not, you’ve managed to be endearing enough to win him over for the remainder of the conversation, and that in turn makes you feel good enough to stitch the last few centimeters of the cut.
‘Maybe you should take time off for a bit to actually get some rest,' you suggest. 'For both your and Beef’s sake.’
Robert lets out a derisive snort. ‘With what money? I can’t exactly afford to take a break.’
You hum. ‘I don’t know. You could be a weather forecaster, maybe?’
‘Weather forecaster? Where did you get that from?'
‘I mean, why not? With all the recent alien activity, it’s been kind of unpredictable. They’re in a shortage. Plus, people would listen to you.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Why?’ You tie off the final knot. ‘You seem relatively unfazed with injuries, and you’re handsome. What more do you need?’
There’s a long pause. His head, slowly, tilts down to look at you, like a cat would with an especially dim-witted mouse.
‘Am I, now?’
Shit. You pick up the scissors, acutely aware of his eyes watching you. ‘Yeah. Yes. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.’
‘It’s been a while.’ His tone is light, but you catch the meaning behind his words well enough. ‘Could stand to hear it again.’
God, now you’re flirting with him, and unless you’ve gone mad, he’s doing it back. What is happening?
Raising your own chin to meet his line of sight, you raise the scissors over the exposed thread with slightly trembling hands, dimly aware of how these are sharp blades of their own that could easily undo the progress you’ve made. ‘I don’t know, I’d — have to think about it more first. Before I say anything else.’
Robert shifts, leaning towards you, the plastic of the chair creaking slightly with the movement. He’s putting more weight on his right side — it must be uncomfortable on his arm, but it doesn’t look like he minds. The space between you is shrunk to what feels like a hair’s width; despite the space surrounding you on all sides, you can’t help but feel confined. There’s the barest hint of his breath on your face as it fans over you. You don’t think you have much breath in you at all.
‘Sounds like you’ve been doing a lot of thinking already.’
With a sharp snip, the scissors sever the last link needed to connect your hand and his arm, and the two of you stare down at the completed set of stitches holding the cut together as the tension dissipates.
Reason returns to you like a dumped bucket of ice water, and you cough, suddenly all too self-conscious of what’s happened; immediately, you set the scissors down and scramble upwards to physically remove yourself from the space, wincing and shaking out your legs. Robert hides his expression well, but you catch it as he draws back, too — a slight parting of the lips, the faint hint of pink at the ears. Beef looks between the two of you, oblivious to what just happened.
‘Done,’ you say, your voice seeming foreign to you, outside of your body — a little too fast, a little too pathetic. ‘I — feels okay? Not too tight or anything?’
Robert lifts his arm off of the chair, observing the stitches as he turns it over. You’re no surgeon, but you’ve done the job well enough; the thread holds, and his face holds a pleased expression. ‘No, this is… great, actually.’
Gingerly, he outstretches, pushing it back and forth as if controlling a joystick of some kind. ‘I could’ve done it myself, but it’d be much sloppier.’
‘I’ll take that as a thank you.’
‘Ha, yeah.’ Giving his arm one last check, curling and uncurling his hand, he smiles at you again — you could get used to that. ‘Thanks. Seriously.’
Relieved at this outcome, you smile back at him. ‘No problem.’ This is it, then: this is where the cutscene ends, and you get to go back to your own, separate, well-furnished apartment. You’ll have to figure out what to make of it and all of the crazy tension between you, but you’re fine with it, honestly. ‘I can, uh, take my screwdriver back. If you don’t need it anymore.’
Strangely, Robert looks a little sheepish at that. ‘Not sure if you’ll be able to use it.’
Huh? ‘What? Why?’
He gestures over to the tarp you’d noticed earlier and to the tools lying beside it — among them is what was formerly known as your screwdriver, which has been sheared completely in half. ‘I, uh, tightened something too hard.’
‘Jesus,’ you breathe, bending over to pick up the useless pieces of metal. ‘How strong is that lightsaber?’
‘Pretty strong.’ You hear Robert pause again — a hesitation, this time — and then he suggests, in a curious tone of voice, ‘Why don’t I get you another kind of screwdriver to make up for it?’
‘Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,’ you protest, still staring down at the screwdriver (no more assembling IKEA cabinets for you, you suppose). ‘I’m not going to ask you to replace one part of a toolkit I barely use anyway.’
‘I mean the other kind of screwdriver.’ When you turn to look at him, confusion still evident on your face, he clarifies, ‘The drink.'
‘Oh.’ Your face, which had just started to cool down, starts heating up again, and your hands begin to play with the ends of the screwdriver out of a sheer necessity to express an internal glee. ‘Well. If you’re offering…’
‘It doesn’t have to be a screwdriver, specifically — could be beer, or even pure alcohol, if you’re into that. I just wanted to make the pun,’ he continues, ‘But I at least owe you something. As a thank you for not letting me bleed out on the floor.’
‘I’d like that,’ you start, adding after thinking for another second, ‘but only if you let me go with you to pick out a mattress. Or, if that’s still too much for your pride to accept, a better dog bed for Beef, at least — you need that pillow.’
Robert laughs again, an echo of earlier, and how he looks in that moment — still tired, probably sore, but amused — is better than any fantasy you could have invented. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
——
Of the man who lives next door, you know three things: 1) his name is Robert Robertson; 2) he has an especially cute chihuahua named Beef, and 3) his apartment may still be the saddest thing you’ve ever seen — but, you think, you might just learn a whole lot more from him soon.
a/n: he reminded me a little of robert pattinson face-wise, hence twilight lol. someone please get him furniture
also, i tried out something new with the header in this one! think it looks pretty neat :))
Maybe Robertson x reader, reader sees her Robert all tired and looking like hell (bro looks like a small stretch can cause every bone to crack very concerningly) reader decides to give him a whole self-care weekend like masks and massages that he’s just on cloud nine, weekends over that SDN just notices he looks alive and smells like cucumber that they are lowkey asking for readers help.
Yessss this was so adorable!! I hope you like it! ❤️
Pairing: Robert Robertson x fem! Reader/ Mechaman x fem! Reader
Word count: 2.3k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, cw suggestive language, cw food mentions, fluff!
Navigation
The soda on the table is dripping in condensation, and the popcorn beside it makes the whole apartment smell like a movie theatre. Your eyes fight to stay open, and you’ve been yawning too much. Your limbs ache from all the superhero-ing you had to do, from teaching kids first aid, to beating up a kaiju downtown, the whole week just piled on you, from one call to the next, you feel like your batteries are drained.
To add salt to your wound, you absolutely miss Robert.
Yawning for the umpteenth time, the crappy reality TV you put on doesn’t even help you stay awake anymore. You’d crawl in bed but you want to wait for Robert to get home when you feel like you haven’t seen him in ages. The only times that the two of you have crossed paths this week can be counted in one hand. Whenever you’d kiss him goodbye while he’s still half asleep, and when he’d greet you with a kiss when you’re already deep into slumber. Your schedules haven’t matched up as well as before with the amount of work the two of you had to do. If you’re not at home, he is, but when you’re home, he’s out there burning the midnight oil with the Z-team. Forget meeting up for lunch at work either when your breaks don’t match with his.
But now that it’s the weekend, you’re both free to see each other, hopefully more of each other.
Your hearing picks up the sound of keys outside and you immediately perk up with a smile. As if you were jolted with lightning, you’re vaulting over the couch and towards him in the speed that even Chase would be proud of.
The second the door opens, Robert is met with your smiling face, like a golden retriever, who’s excited to see him home.
“Hi.” Tilting his head, Robert smiles softly at you, feeling that you’re practically vibrating from the longing, waiting for his go signal. “C’mere.” He opens his arms and you’re immediately right on him like velcro. “Missed me?”
“Do you even have to ask?” You say whilst peppering his face with kisses. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Fuck,” his facade falls as he drops his bag and keys onto the floor, arms patting the back of your leg as he tells you to hop and wrap yourself around him. You do as you’re asked without a second thought as he kicks the front door closed. He can’t ignore the fact that he heard his knees creak when he carried you, but if you did hear it, you didn’t say a word. But you did hear it though. “I missed you.”
Your back meets with the wall, his hand tucked in between your head and the hard wall, acting like a cushion to shield you. “I missed you too— wait, where’s beef?”
Robert clings to your warmth and the cucumber scent of your soap as he inhales deeply atop your neck. “With Chase.” Voice muffled, he tilts your head up with a nudge of his nose on your throat as you comply happily and give him space. “I figured…” his lips peck you sweetly, teeth grazing your skin, tongue brushing along your pulse point. “That we need alone time.”
“And you’re absolutely right.” Sighing with longing, your fingers dig into his hair as you push him impossibly close against you. Pulling his hair back to kiss him, you meet with his glossy eyes, cheeks flushed, mouth agape as he heaves and waits for your next move. And yet, you find his tired eyes and blanched face worrisome. “Have you eaten anything yet?”
“Does half a granola bar and three cups of coffee count?” He jokes, but you don’t find the humour in it when he tries to lean into your lips only for you to tug at him back. Robert would let out a satisfied hum if not for the worried look in your eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m fine, it’s just been a busy day. Fuck, I just need you, please—”
“What you need is food.” Unwrapping your legs around him, you stand and peck his cheek with a promise. While he looks utterly disappointed, like you dangled a candy bar to his face only to yank it back. “And sleep.” Brows furrowed, you wince at the heavy dark bags under his eyes. “And moisturizer. Lots of it.”
“Am I that crusty?” He chortles, hands still on your hips, thumbs pushing aside the waistband cheekily, waiting for you to change your mind.
“No,” you shake your head with a gentle smile. Taking his wrists away and pecking his knuckles. “Just a bit, come on, I’ll warm your food.”
“I’m really fine—”
“It’s lasagna.”
He doesn’t even contemplate or protest some more as he gratefully follows after you in the kitchen.
—
His stomach is so full of pasta and cheese that he could barely stand up from his seat. You went somewhere else while he was unbuttoning his pants to give him some breathing room. Robert signs in content, a hand wrapped around a glass of wine, that he doesn’t even know he had in the apartment, as his nails click against the glass rhythmically.
Robert hears the faucet squeak, and the sound of running water, as he tilts his head to take a peek inside the bathroom. He swears that you already took a bath judging from your still damp hair and the scent of the cucumber and citrus soap on your skin when he got home.
You feel his eyes on your back whilst you pour bubble bath inside the tub. “This’ll only take a minute, babe.”
“Take all the time you need.” Ogling you unabashedly, Robert smiles as you twist your hand back to flip him the bird playfully as if you have eyes on the back of your head. “Those shorts look good on you.”
“They’re your boxers.” Your voice bounces off the tiles, grabbing a clean fluffy robe from the cabinets, the same one that is all pink and girly that Chase gifted to Robert as a gag gift for his birthday. It even has his name bedazzled on the back like he’s some Victoria’s secret model.
Robert usually loves seeing you use it, especially when it has his name right on your back. But he can’t lie when he occasionally uses it to feel how soft it is after a shower.
“Everything looks good on you, sweetheart.” He watches you with a fond smile, eyes glimmering with want as you saunter out of the bathroom with the bathrobe in tow.
“You’re not getting lucky tonight until you’re properly taken care of.” Opening the robe and showing him how fluffy it is, you smile over it, wiggling your brows. “Take your clothes off. After this I’m putting a face mask on you and lathering you up in my finest lotion.”
“Can I suggest one thing though?”
“Of course.”
“How about a massage too?” He asks innocently, but you just know from the glint in his eyes and the slight smirk on his lips that it’s not so innocent.
“If you don’t fall asleep before then, sure.” You lean against the doorframe casually, acting nonchalant from his proposition and hugging the towel. You’re not the best at massages, but you’ll try your best, or at least for a minute or so before he pulls you on his lap instead. Or fall asleep the moment you squeeze his aching muscles.
He’s already stripping his clothes off with excitement. Starting from unbuttoning his work shirt that has become associated with your boyfriend. The colour does suit him though, but you’d rather see him wear something else that doesn’t smell like day old coffee.
You don’t notice him walking closer and closer to you whilst you’re utterly fixated to his bare torso.
“Calm down, Robert, this is for relaxing—” you’re suddenly lifted off the ground, finding that Robert has you over his shoulder, smacking your behind as he takes you to the bathroom. For someone who has only eaten a granola bar and inhaled three cups of caffeine today, he’s stronger than he looks. Maybe this is what people say when it comes to adrenaline, this is his lifting the car moment. “Robert!”
“What? If I’m going to relax then so will you.” He says casually, entering the steaming bathroom as he kicks the door shut with his foot.
Your squeals echo around the tiled walls, as Robert’s amused laughter mingles with the sound of splashing water and the towel landing right over his face.
The bathroom is quickly flooded with bubbles and sweet scented soap, and you find yourself back in the bath once again with him joining you.
—
The hair dryer blows hot air right at his silky tresses, now free from oil and whatever Golem accidentally spilled on him during his lunch break. Robert sits in between your legs, back pressed against your front, and eyes closed as the hot air flutters his lashes. He looks utterly blissed out, smelling like a bed and body works. He’s absolutely content in your arms as you gently rake the comb through his hair.
He has a face mask on, “it’s aloe vera,” you said, he doesn’t care whatever it is but it’s doing wonders to him. It’s like having a slice of frozen ham slapped right on your face minus the smell but with twice the cooling effect.
Robert feels fucking amazing.
His palms cup around your knees, thumbs drawing small gentle circles all over your well moisturized skin. The two of you smell incredibly good, enough to eat, and he’d kiss every bit of your skin if he wasn’t so sleepy.
Robert could sleep right there and then, he would, if not for the loud whirr of the hair dryer and the hot air blowing right at his head.
“You okay?” You whisper to the shell of his ear, gooseflesh immediately rises on his arms as he hums a reply. The hair dryer shuts off, and he could feel sleep take him. “I guess you’re too tired for massages.”
His eyes suddenly open at the speed of light. “No, I’m not.”
“Really?” Your hands knead at his arms tenderly, like you’re massaging herbs and spices onto a slab of beef. You truly have no idea what you’re doing, but it seems that Robert loves it. “Let me take care of you this time, okay?”
He would be on his knees begging for it if he wasn’t already in bed. Eyes gazing up at you sweetly, Robert’s brows furrow, lips pouting slightly as he lets out a sound from the back of his throat that is akin to a whine. “Please.”
“Anything for my Robert.” With a smile, fingers grasping at his chin, you lean down to press a saccharine kiss on his forehead, one of many for tonight.
—
“So I said to him, go suck a fat— what the fuck is that?” Sonar looks perturbed, eyes wide and staring at something, or someone that just walked through the door.
Malevola follows his line of sight, gasping at the sight, almost stumbling over herself. “What happened to you?” She asks, almost disturbed by the sight.
Chase hears the commotion from the bullpen, he peeks over the breakroom doorway and sees Robert walk in normally. “What the fuck are you two gawking at?” He asks, walking closer to the pair as he holds onto his cup of coffee.
“That!” Mal takes his head and turns him to face Robert.
“Holy shit…” he utters, spluttering out his coffee all over Sonar’s suit, earning an intense bat screech from the man bat that is quickly ignored by the others, who are completely perplexed at the sight in front of them. “Alright, who died?”
Robert makes a face, nose scrunched as he places his things on his table. “No one? Why do you all look at me like I just killed someone right in front of you?”
“Yeah, you killed Robert Robertson.” Chase sidles beside him, leaning against his table with suspicion in his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” The dispatcher asks, lashes fluttering on the apples of his pinkish cheeks, looking healthy and glowing.
His lips shine with raspberry chapstick, and the dark circles underneath his eyes are almost non-existent, as if he made a deal with the devil to get rid of it and make him look ten years younger. The best part is the soft smile that is seemingly permanently etched on his face that remains even when he almost got a face full of Waterboy’s water splashed on him when he first walked inside the building.
“You look like how a skin walker would wear Robert’s skin.” Sonar says, leaning close to his face to examine him further. When he tries to poke him with his claw, Robert pushes him away with a grimace.
Robert rolls his eyes, he does feel rejuvenated, almost reborn from your pampering. Throughout the whole weekend, you took your pledge to heart, you did not let him lift a finger, and the two of you spent the whole weekend in bed together. Eating meals on it, catching up on your shows whilst cuddling underneath the covers while the blackout curtains are completely covering the light outside. Not to mention the ‘strenuous exercises’ that you two did together. It was absolute bliss, and Robert almost did not go to work today to extend the peace.
“You look good, buddy.” Malevola is the first to compliment him with a friendly clasp on his shoulder.
“Smells good too.” Sonar adds, taking a whiff of him. “Looking too good. Which way is the fountain of youth? Chase could use it.” He teases before chuckling at his own joke.
Chase punches him right in the gut, making him curl around himself with a sharp inhale through his nose. The others act like this is a normal occurrence in the office.
“Seriously though, what products did you use? I could use a good under eye mask.” Mal pulls down at her under eye for emphasis. “What’s your secret?”
Robert shrugs with a knowing smile. “Get the best girlfriend in the whole damn world.” The chorus of groans echo around the office that has him smiling in satisfaction.
Can I request Robert Robertson reacting to his female s/o giving him BTLA sandwiches for their lunches please?
She wanted to make something delicious & easy for him to eat but simple enough for her to make for him especially realising how terrible his eating habits are!
She also added more vegetables & light mayonnaise to make it healthier too!
ROBERT!!!!! Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️
Pairing: Robert Robertson III x fem! Reader/ Mechaman x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.6k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, a couple of suggestive jokes, cw food mentions, reader is also a dispatcher, fluff!
Navigation
You don’t have super sonic hearing, or shoot beams out of your eyes, or have a giant mech at your disposal, in truth, your power doesn’t give you some omnipotence or strike fear in the hearts of villains. You’re not like Blonde Blazer or Melevola, your power is much more subtle, quieter, more behind the scenes type of power. The power to get into people’s dreams isn't much, but it’s honest work for a dispatcher, especially when you’re not being called a creep nowadays just because they vaguely saw you in their dreams.
You were lurking in their unconscious, yes, but it’s not because you wanted to see what freaky things they do in their unconscious mind. It’s involuntary, something you can barely control that has you not sleeping well since your power showed up. It’s like breathing for you, but no one else knows of your struggles except for a certain dispatcher you know and love.
Despite your sleep deprived self, the bags under your eyes and the permanent zombiefied air you have around you, someone is faring worse than you, your favorite fellow dispatcher, Robert.
You’ve seen him eat twinkies for lunch, and that’s not the worst thing you’ve seen him consume as a sorry excuse for sustenance. It’s not that you’re stalking him, it’s just that your lunch coincides with his, and usually you’d have the pleasure of having him as your company. Sometimes though he doesn’t eat, he’d just brew himself a cup of coffee despite you offering him to have half of your packed lunch, and instead he’d give you a peck to the crown of your head, rushing off to clean up Sonar’s unfortunate mess downtown. You look at his lean form and wonder how the fuck is he still alive and kicking when you haven’t seen him eat something more filling than a twinkie?
Even during the dates you’ve been with him consisted of him eating candy at the theater and buying you a soft pretzel that he shared with you. All sweet memories of course, especially the nights shared after those said dates, but either way, you’re getting concerned about his diet. Even Chase and Blazer raise their eyebrows at him whenever he sits back down in his cubicle with a single protein bar for lunch.
So to remedy this, you woke up earlier than usual, shambling around your modest kitchen to make him something that wouldn’t have you worrying about him fainting from lack of nutrition. It has to be filling, and yet not too heavy in the stomach that would have him feeling sleepy at the middle of the shift. The last thing you want is the z-team’s dispatcher falling asleep on the job and possibly causing some sort of crisis because of it. And most of all, it has to be something delicious, because if it isn’t, well, you’d tell Waterboy to drown you in his mop bucket.
You stare at the ingredients you’ve laid out in front of you with a scrutinizing gaze, as if the lettuce and tomatoes owe you an insurmountable amount of money. As the bacon sizzles in the pan, you take a deep breath in, inhaling the savoury scent and start making your masterpiece.
There were some pauses in between, questioning whether or not you washed the veggies before cutting them, which you certainly have but your mind just tells you to do it again or else Robert will get food poisoning and you end up accidentally killing Mechaman. You even pulled up a video tutorial to watch as you evenly spread mayonnaise on the brioche bread, which made you feel like you’re watching a tutorial on how to breathe.
The moment you finished the sandwich, it looked like a work of art, ingredients stacked to perfection, and with optimum nutrition he needed for the day. You even snapped a quick picture of it before wrapping it up neatly with tinfoil before putting it inside a sandwich bag. And you only did it for two hours, deserving of a pat on the back. But alas, you’re already running late, so you quickly get ready and head outside. You double back to grab the sandwich and head out again.
—
You’ve been nervous the whole day, and Robert sees it as clear as day. Your cubicle is just adjacent to his, and he could see your bouncing leg, hell, he can feel it as it makes his table vibrate too. Peeking over the plastic partition, he raises a brow at how you bite your nail. It’s a slow day, so he could just see and feel every little squirm and nervous exhale you do. Taking off his headphones, he rhythmically taps at the partition to get your attention.
“They invented nail cutters for that.” He says jokingly, head tilted with endearment at how you almost jump from his sudden voice. “Did you get enough sleep last night?” Concern takes over as Robert sits back down, rolls his office chair around and over to your side in one quick motion.
His chair thumps softly against yours, elbow brushing along your own as you let out a breath. “Not really, it’s the usual.” A big lie on your part when you woke up early on your own volition.
Robert nods, nudging your shoulder lightly as his eyes soften. “Why don’t I stay the night, hm? You always said that you sleep better when I’m with you.”
Eyes crinkling in the corners, you resist the urge to grin wider as you smile at him. “How presumptuous.”
“It’s not presumptuous when it’s the truth, sweetheart.”
Your palm reaches for his cheek, feeling his scruff as your thumb runs along his jawline. “HR said that we have to tone the PDA down a notch.”
“We have an HR department?” Robert says it so convincingly that you thought that he really doesn’t know.
Rolling your eyes with a chuckle, you pinch his nose lovingly before placing your hand down, but he catches it, placing your palm back up on his cheek as he grasps onto it sweetly. He gazes at you with hearts in his eyes, sighing longingly as if you’re not sitting before him, mere inches away.
Your eyes get a glimpse of the clock on the wall, and you remember seeing him only having a single muffin that Blazer brought for the whole department. “You hungry?”
“Starving.” Based on the look in his eyes and how his gaze wanders down to your lips, he means a different kind of hunger.
Cheeks aflame, you bite your lip. “I made you something.” Standing up and tugging him along, Robert looks up at you with a faint smile. “Let’s have lunch before it gets busy.”
“You just jinxed it.” Robert follows you, hand grasping yours and squeezing you briefly. “What’d you make?”
“I hope something good.” Sighing, you go to the fridge and grab your lunch box, hoping that no one decided to ‘accidentally’ eat it.
Robert takes a peek over your shoulder as you heat it up in the toaster. “Is it a sandwich?”
You crane your neck to him with the roll of your eyes. “You ruined the surprise.”
“Well, I’m sorry that I’m too good at deducing a sandwich bag that may have a sandwich in it.” Hands on his hips, he smiles softly and follows your movements, from how you take out the sandwich from the toaster, to how you gently place it on a plate, he watches your slow and calculated movements as if the sandwich was a precious jewel. “It’s as big as my head.”
You chuckle as you present it to him with slight apprehension. “It’s a BLT, with some added vegetables and cheese. Plus the bread is brioche—” Robert grasps the plate but you hold it back. “Wait, you’re not allergic to anything right?”
“I don’t think so.” Seeing the fear in your expression has him stifling a laugh. “I guess we’ll see, sweetheart.” Taking the plate gently, he brings it to a nearby table.
“Hey, I made you the best sandwich— probably, and you tease me.” Despite your words, there’s a growing smile on your face.
“Part of the package.” Gesturing with his head, he asks you to sit down. “C’mon, I can’t eat this all by myself.”
“Hold on, I have to get something.” Before Robert could ask, you turn around and place a dollar into the vending machine. You punch in the numbers, and out comes a simple potato chip that you crouch down to take. “I’ve got an idea.”
Robert leans back, matching your smile. “Go for it, chef.”
Sitting down in front of him, you carefully take the bread on top, revealing the filling as you meticulously place every chip on it before closing it with the bread again.
“For the added crunch.” You simply say with a bashful shrug.
Chuckling, heart feeling full, Robert hooks his foot around the leg of your chair, pulling you closer to him until you’re fully beside him. You let out a giggle, a hand instinctively placed atop his thigh as he takes the sandwich and takes a generous bite.
“Fuck me.” He says, mouth full, mayo on the corner of his lips.
Sighing in relief, the weight on your shoulders subside as you watch him chew happily. “Maybe later. Is it that good?”
“Really fucking good.” His eyes meet yours, pressing a kiss right on your cheek, smudging mayo right on it before he takes his thumb and cleans the mess he made. Licking the pad of his finger, eyes never leaving yours. Maybe having him over tonight is the best idea.
Can I request Robert Robertson x ex villain reader? Like, they used to be that cocky confident silly kind of villain and is now just.. a nervous wreck. Kinda had the mentality of "well everyone hates me always I might as well be annoying for fun", and now doesn't have that to latch onto, so is a quiet and anxious mess.
(Feel free to ignore this bit if it's too hyper specific!!)
The type of nervousness is lots of social anxiety. Like, if someone looked at them for more than 5 seconds they nervously and quietly, ask for them to stop looking at them. Will freeze up if put on the spot
Have a nice day/night!
hi anon!! this was an interesting request and i liked writing the reader and robert's dynamic here - hope you enjoy this ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
trust admitted in a diner
pairing: robert robertson x gender neutral reader
summary: at a diner, robert notices how it's easier for you to speak to other people if you're looking at him.
content / warnings: fluff, reader has social anxiety, reader is a former villain, established relationship, kissing
word count: 986
a/n: why does robert have to look so handsome. who allowed adhoc to do this. i spent way more time on this header than actually needed just looking at his smirking face. i'm suing
‘They’re looking at me.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘They’re all looking at me, Robert,’ you insist, eyes darting over to the tables around you, ramrod-straight in your seat. ‘That woman to the right just gave me a withering stare, I swear.’
‘I think that she was trying to flag down a waiter.'
‘Well, she keeps staring.’ Your mouth presses into a flat line, your fingers tearing your napkin to tiny shreds as you glare down at the colorful menu laid out in front of you. 'I just don't like people staring like that.'
‘Hey. Hey. Relax, it’s okay,’ Robert commands, reaching out and interlacing a hand with yours, intending to be grounding. It works; your fingers curl around his, and he rubs a thumb over your knuckles. ‘No one's going to bother us. They don't know who you are, or who I am, and as far as anyone is concerned, we’re a normal couple on a date. Which we are.’
‘Hi, folks! Can I get you started with anything?’ a waiter chirps, sliding into view at the worst possible moment, notepad in hand. Your eyes shoot wide and you freeze, almost about to give possums playing dead a run for their money.
‘Maybe just two waters to start with, thanks,’ Robert interjects before you can do so, smiling up at them. ‘We’re still having a little trouble deciding.’
You let out a sigh as the waiter leaves, slumping forward onto the table. ‘How do you do that all the time? Just — talk to people?’
He shrugs. 'Well, I mainly just talk to people.'
You scowl at him. 'Helpful. Very helpful.'
‘You used to be fine in public,’ Robert says. ‘What about when you crashed the opera house a couple of years ago? Everyone was looking at you then.’
‘That was different,’ you retort.
‘How?’
‘Well, for one, it’s a lot easier to have people watching when you care more about being evil than what people think,’ you say, then admit as an afterthought: ‘Also, I had grenades.’
The waiter comes back with two glasses of ice water in their hands, setting them down, and Robert notices you clam up again, all the tension coming back in full force; your hand stiffens in his, holding him in a vice grip. Your eyes fasten themselves to the table.
‘And are you all set to order?’ the waiter asks, looking at you both.
‘Yeah,’ Robert answers, finding his item on the menu. ‘Could I get the, uh, Starlight Burger, with the curly fries? Or “flares”, I guess you call them. With ketchup.’
‘Of course!’ the waiter says, turning towards you and being just a little too attentive — Robert sees the way you shrink further into your seat. ‘And for you?’
‘Uh,’ you say. It comes out less as a word and more of a squeak, like a deflating balloon.
Robert squeezes your hand, intending to be reassuring; the action makes you glance back up at him. And a curious thing happens: something flickers over your expression, tongue darting out over your lip briefly before you take a deep breath.
‘…I’ll just have the same thing, please,’ you finally mumble, eyes not leaving his. 'And a Coke.'
‘Great,’ the waiter says, oblivious to what’s just happened and jotting the order down. ‘Coming right up!’
‘Did you see that?’ Robert asks as they leave.
‘See what,’ you groan, letting go of his hand to grab your water and gulp down a relieved mouthful. ‘How I totally copied off your order? That burger had better be good, by the way, because I didn’t look at anything else on the menu.’
‘But you did order,’ Robert says, brushing past your deflection. ‘Despite being put on the spot and stared at. The only difference is that you were staring at me.’
Your brow furrows. ‘So?’
‘So, why was it easier to talk to someone staring at you when you were staring at me?'
‘I don’t know!’ You trace little shapes in the condensation of your glass, avoiding his questioning look. ‘I guess it's because…’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Because?’
‘Well,’ you say haltingly, ’it’s because I trust you.’
The weight of the confession — the simplicity of it, the honesty — knocks the witty retort right out of Robert’s mouth, and it slowly blooms into a grin.
‘You trust me,' he says slowly.
You huff, face growing hot. ‘Shut up. We’re literally dating, of course I trust you. You're handsome too, is that what you wanted to hear?'
‘You’ve never said it out loud before.'
You swallow, shifting in your chair. ‘I can take it back —‘
Robert leans over the table and kisses you, cutting through all your panicked thoughts, and your eyes flutter shut as his lips brush against yours, all other sensation dulling for a moment. When they open again, he’s pulled back, just staring; his rich brown eyes are softened at the sight of you, unhurriedly taking you in, a faint blush making his freckles stand out on his cheeks.
‘I’m glad you trust me,’ he murmurs, low and utterly sincere in the way that you know means you have no choice but to believe him. ‘Thank you.'
Well, that's unfair. You can't come up with anything when he looks at you like that. It tugs the corners of your lips into a small smile. 'You’re welcome.’
‘If you don’t like people looking at you, just keep your eyes on me when you answer them, then,’ he says, and before you can say anything further, he adds smoothly, ‘Since I’m both trustworthy and handsome.’
And that has you rolling your eyes, ducking your head to try and suppress your own widening grin. ‘Dick.’
He hums, smirking at you. ‘Your dick.’
You dip your fingers into the icy water and flick them at him, trying (and failing) to stifle a squeal as he promptly does it right back, all social anxieties forgotten for the moment.
Urgh I cant stop thinking about robert robertson the 3rd...Can you do a x reader where reader is basically the same as him her parents where heroes too and they bond over it and become good friends, but Reader realizes that robert has admirers and is determined to be the one for him, can be smut👀👀 thank you!!!
That’s what you realized you guys were when you finally dropped the news about your parents being beloved heroes…only to find out that it was the same for Robert, too.
Sure, the two of you would talk to each other in the hallways at work and in the breakroom. And sure, you guys started chatting a lot more when the dispatch floor shuffling everyone around led to you being placed in the cubicle right beside him. And yeah, the two of you grab dinner and sometimes even drinks after particularly long shifts at work. And of course, he asked for your number long before you guys made that routine.
But for some reason, the word friend didn’t come to mind when you thought of him. After all, you had so many ways to describe him. The cute new guy, back when he was still new to the office. Or the funny guy from across the room, back when you guys were still sitting apart. And by the time the two of you were sitting side by side, he was just your coworker, Robert. Until he was your buddy, Robert, who was almost always down for dinner when the assholes on either of your teams messed up what should have been an easy day. But sometime after that, he became your drinking partner. And sometime after that, he became the guy who would insist you text to let him know he got home safe. And then somewhere along the way…sometime after too many beers at your place, he became something else.
A friend.
But it’s still a little strange to call him that. Sure, you finally felt like you could trust him enough to stop beating around the bush when talking about your parents' old job to clarify they weren’t the typical first responders you tend to lead most people into believing. And yeah, based on what you shared, you somehow inspired Robert to spill as well, despite the fact that he almost never ever talks about his family. Like ever. But it’s still strange to call him a friend. It doesn’t sit right on your tongue, and it doesn’t fit right in your head. And now more than ever, it feels almost hard to give him this new label. Despite the fact that you’ve given him so many before this. And yet…
You think it has something to do with what you know now.
Not just about his parents, but about him. Because by the way he talked about his parents- or more specifically, his father- it led you to correctly guess that he is Mechaman. The very Robert sitting on your couch, helping you drink all the bottles you had left after your last house party, is Mechaman. Or was. Was Mechaman. But still.
That means he’s a hero. One of the heroes you used to follow. One of the heroes you used to root for. One of the heroes you used to admire. And still do, to be honest.
So yeah, it’s weird. People don’t really get to meet their heroes all the time. And when they do, it’s usually because they don’t know it’s them, walking out and about on the street like they’re just some normal person. Having hero parents and working at SDN, of course, changed that for you. But this was different. This was the Mechaman. But it was also Robert. Your Robert. Your Robert, whom you couldn’t help but crush on when he started working with you. Your Robert, who you could always count on for some dry humor or a joke that definitely would have gotten him a visit from HR at your old office. Your Robert, who already knows where to find the cups and plates and pans in your cupboards because he’s been at your place so many times before this.
Your Robert was Mechaman. Your Robert has fought so, so many people and saved so, so many more. Your Robert is the only hero you managed to admire almost as much as your parents. Your Robert, who has tons and tons and tons of fans. Including you. Especially including you.
But he’s also your friend. Your friend. Even though you struggle to call him that.
Though, to be fair, you don’t typically call the guys you fall into bed with your friends. Because at that point, you can’t help but feel like they become something more.
Days later, you find that you’re still feeling that way. You try to be normal. You try to be cool. You try to talk to your friend at work because that’s a normal and cool thing to do for a coworker you’ve gotten close to. But it’s hard. It’s so hard because now that you know who he is, it’s hard to look at him in the SDN uniform and not imagine the flight suit he was wearing at the press conference where he announced his retirement.
But in the same way, it’s hard to look at him in the SDN uniform and not imagine how that same uniform was at one point on the floor of your bedroom.
Just like it’s hard not to imagine how those same hands he has typing away at his keyboard were once inside of your pussy, curling away at your warm, wet, insides as you squirmed on the bed for him. And how that same voice he’s currently using to bark orders to his team was once humming words of encouragement in your ear after he had you damn near sobbing in overstimulation. And how he…he…
Friend.
You remind yourself of that word when you realize that you’ve been staring at him for far too long instead of doing your own work. You’re supposed to be friends. You’re friends with your hero. You're friends with your coworker. You’re friends with the best lay of your life. You’re friends with Robert. That’s why it’s so important for you to get over these complex feelings and figure out what’s so important for you to figure out where he stands in your life and mind and heart. But before all that, you actually have to try to be normal about this. Which starts by turning back around in your seat and finally, finally, finally facing your computer so you can get back to all the work you’ve been neglecting today.
Until your new friend invites you to spend your break time in the supply closet once again, of course.
