TWO NIGHTS STANDING robert robertson & reader yours and your fuck buddy's romantic tension is never explored, until it is. | slight nsfw, feeling denial -> acceptance, fluff, robert folds easily.
In the mix of your exasperated breaths, the heavy winces as robert pulls himself out of you, and sparsely lit apartment bedroom at 2 a.m, you almost miss it.
The routine is always the same: clothes on the floor, chilled white comforter tugged at but never ruined, the warm city hum outside, and Robert turning his back—settled at the edge of the bed while he pulls on his boxers and catches his breath.
He’s always quiet after it’s over, and you know it’s only a matter of time before he snakes out of your room. Out of your grasp. But not tonight.
“Jesus,” you exhale. “This one’s bad.” You reach a cautious hand out to trace the darkest bruise of his patch. It’s enormous, the size of your fist, so your fingers are ever so gentle as they skim his mid-back. Your warmth mixes with the chill of his skin, and Robert searches for a response before he makes a mistake he can’t take back.
“Had a clumsy week.”
No laugh. No context. Just syrup-thick silence swallowing you both whole.
Per routine, this is the moment where you’d roll away and pretend to sleep while he slinks out. But tonight is already different. So instead of pulling back, you reach out—all the way to his arm.
“You don’t have to leave, you know.”
He stills. The gears in his head are practically audible. Then, his smooth voice replies:
“No, I didn’t know.” Beat. “You don’t usually ask me to stay.”
“Well, you’re always in such a hurry to leave.”
“Habit,” he tosses.
“Break it,” you throw back.
He turns halfway toward you. A gentle smirk tugs at his mouth as he observes your face from the corner of his eye. “You gonna miss me if I don’t?”
“Will you stay?”
Your voice is exhausted, needy, soft, but sure. Mindlessly, you spill words he’s waited to hear longer than you could ever know. After a blip of hesitation, he lifts the blanket and lies down next to you, his body heat replacing the cool air that once kissed your frame.
In a surge of confidence, you lift your head to look at him. “Can I? Um,”
His gaze drifts from your hands to your eyes, and you catch the smallest curl of a smile.
“Just getting comfortable?” A drop of ego slips into the addictive drink that is his tone.
“Exactly. Comfy,” you mutter with a smile he can’t see when one of his arms slides around your hip.
The sheets are cool. The city hums. Your minds race.
“Are you ever going to tell me how a desk job causes you to look like—this?” you tap on another bruise, then smooth it out in silent apology. Your voice is hopeful, but knowing. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“What’s wrong with the way I look?” he deflects. You know the bruises started long before working for SDN. He knows you’re suspicious. But he won’t tell you he’s Mecha Man. Not if it means risking your safety—your life. If he opened the flood gates and let you in, there’d be no turning back. The hero would never forgive himself for the virus of worry that would crawl under your skin if he returned home bloody and beaten; or the possibility that when you were finally his, shroud would steal you from his arms and crush you like a cherry.
So he keeps you at arms length, snaking into your silk sheets to get a taste of the life you’d live together if he wasn’t such a fucked up “hero”.
“Oh I don’t know rob rob,”
He grimaces at the tease, fingers tightening against the skin of your torso.
“The left side of your face is a little more perfect than the right. Total tragedy.” You roll your eyes. He grins, looking down at you.
“Well since we’re being honest, you looked very…medium pretty today.”
You lift your head at lightning speed. “That is the meanest shit anyone’s ever—“
He cuts you off with a hearty laugh, one that rings church bells in your ears and brushes butterflies against your ribs. Without thinking, his thumb and pointer finger cup your chin, guiding your gaze right back to him.
It always comes right back to him.
“You can never take a joke,” he claims through entertained eyes. “I didn’t think you needed me to remind you how beautiful you are.”
Bittersweet tension lingers. Robert doesn’t regret a word. It’s true, after all. But the look in your eyes transitions from tender to guarded, and before he knows it, you’re up and out of his grasp.
“Hey, hey,” he throws out with haste. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.” He scoots back against the headboard, guilty chocolate eyes following your movements as you violently tug a shirt over your head.
“God, Robert, you’ve been inside of me. I can handle you calling me pretty.” Your eyes dart around the room, searching for distraction from his stare.
He clears his throat at the reminder. “Okay. Then what is it?”
“You—“ you exhale. You look at him—really look—sending a tidal wave of shivers through his spine. He’ll never get your eyes out of his system. “You ever think we should stop pretending this doesn’t mean anything?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “Every time I walk out that door.”
Fragile silence lingers before you break it, crossing the room to grab ointment from the bathroom shelf.
“You’re bleeding from honesty,” you joke in a hushed voice, motioning to his chest where a small wound has reopened.
Robert couldn’t care less. About his scars, about his health, all that races through his mind is you. “Mm. You don’t have to—“
The rest dies in his throat when you straddle his lap. “I know I don’t.”
“Then why?” His voice softens mid question, like it no longer matters halfway through asking. His rough hands gently place themselves upon your hips on instinct, big eyes tracing your face with fond disbelief.
The lid pops open and you pool the icy ointment onto one of your manicured fingers. A shaky breath slips from his mouth when you trace his skin, smoothing stars around his scars.
“Because I care about you,” you admit in a murmur.
His eyes flicker up to yours.
“It’s so fucking terrifying to admit, Robert, because every time I think I’m close to understanding you, you just shut me out, and I know—I know…”
He cradles your cheek, his guilty face examining your exasperated one. Fuck. He did this to you. You’re the one good thing he has, and now you’re crying because of him.
“I know it’s stupid, but I’m tired of pretending.”
You caresses his bruised knuckles, your lips brushing over the inside of his palm.
He craves you. Your smile, your frowns, the way you call him out on his shit, your infectious joy that he can’t escape even on his worst days. You’re a sunny day, a cozy winter, and everything in between.
So, he opens his mouth to speak.
“—And don’t give me some speech about how you’re bad for me,” you sniffle, “bullshit.”
He huffs something between a laugh and a sigh, thumb brushing away the tear he caused. “You’re impossible.”
The air between you is heavy with honesty. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand, but promises. He’s never been good at expressing, but actions speak louder than words now more than ever.
His hand slips from your cheek to the back of your neck, steady but trembling. “If we do this,” he breathes, his forehead nearly resting against yours, “will anything change?”
You search his eyes with guilt, hope, and fear. “It will.”
A small, helpless smile ghosts across his face. “Good.”
Then, he kisses you, slow and certain of all that you could be.
It won’t fix all of your problems, won’t make him a nun of complete truth, won’t make you any less nosy, won’t define what you are yet. But it does ensure one thing: he’ll break habit and spend the night.
silknspice. 2025
can you tell I love his big brown chocolate eyes
