Chapter Text
Robert Robertson is a stupid name.
It’s a name that screams “My dad was named Robert and probably his dad before him, and every other man before him and I am a limp-dicked insecure little shit who is desperately trying to get out of my dad’s shadow.”
And right now I’m putting my foot in my mouth, except it’s not my foot it’s Robert’s fingers. His index and middle fingers are mapping out every inch of the surface of my tongue, held there by my teeth and my lips as the tip of his ring finger nudges against my chin like I’m that little dog (was it Beef? Boof? Beef sounded right) that’s always following him around. Like I’m his little bitch and he’s calling me a good little doggy.
His fingers… His astonishingly soft fingers. Years, more than a decade in that bulky-ass suit, gripping controls and frantically typing on a keyboard, and they’re still this soft… I’d tease him for having such soft hands, maybe something about him being girly or using too much lotion to jerk off, but my mouth is full of said fingers right now so I can’t.
Robert Robertson is a name. A far from attractive name, in my opinion. The man the name is attached to, however… Anyways, Robert itself doesn’t rank high in the rankings of names to moan while the man with that name is fucking you senseless.
It’s a good thing that nothing coherent is able to leave my lips at the moment. Just a series of embarrassingly high pitched grunts and panting, hitching, muffled breaths.
This was not how the night was supposed to go.
Yes, I made fun of him for sleeping on a plastic yard chair.
Yes, I offered to let him crash at my place because I just so happened to pick the theatre closest to it.
Yes, I “borrowed” some condoms from the corner store adjacent to said apartment.
Yes, he still paid for it, the fucking semi-or-pseudo-retired superhero he is.
What are we talking about again? Oh, yes.
This is not how the night was supposed to go.
Banter. It always begins with banter. Except with us it isn’t banter. It’s just us. It’s just how we speak to other people, and how we talk to each other. Measured, sarcastic, joking. Two damaged people who always leave that little bit of distance to avoid being real, to avoid being vulnerable.
…
No… No, that’s just me. Robert is different when he’s talking like that. He’s just like that, not a defense mechanism or a tool to appear likeable or witty. He is likeable. He is witty. He knows how to really talk to people; to get on their wavelength. He always knows what to say.
We were talking, teasing. He was letting me tease him, the man he was. Lured me right into his little trap by making me think that I was luring him into my little trap. Now he’s got me right where he wants me. He's here. He's with me, in this bed. My bed. Hell, he's all over me. Around me. Against me. For the moment behind me. He’s got me on my side and he's everywhere at once, and I'm like putty in his hands. But despite it all, despite everything he's doing to me right now, despite how good this feels, the only thing I can think about is how much I don't deserve this.
It started out how it was supposed to. How the dreams went. Hot, humid, alight with that crime-drama-esque sexiness. The eye contact, the finger biting. The sensual smirk as he goes down against you. Rutting like animals, chuckling huskily all the way.
After we came the first time, that went out the fucking window.
What is happening now is new. New and terrifying and very, very, VERY uncomfortable.
Because he’s still going. He’s still holding me. He’s moving against me slowly, sensually, far from the carnal rutting from earlier.
I had it my way, and now he’s having me his way.
And I hate how much I like being had his way.
He’s so fucking gentle with me. Holding me like I’m made of porcelain. Like I’ll shatter if he squeezes me too hard. His fingers are in my mouth but his other hand is elsewhere. One moment it’s tickling my clit and making my hips burn and twitch as he’s already rocking into me from behind. The next it’s pulling me closer by my thigh, feeling up the soft meat of the inside of it as he drags me back into position as I jerk around like a fish. The next moment it’s pressed against my belly, feeling up the hard lines of my stomach, his fingers feeling and pressing into the layer of soft, fatty tissue all girls have no matter how hard they work out, or hooking around my waist to drag me in again or just hold me like I’m something precious worth holding.
Now it’s resting against my tit. Not pinching. Not squeezing like all the other fucking idiots who think it’s cool or feels good. He’s just resting his palm against my breast, feeling it, shifting his fingers against it softly. Not like he wants to dominate me or hurt me. Like he just wants to hold me. Know me. To engrave the feel of me into that brilliant fucking mind of his. How much of me is stored back there?
This isn’t what I bargained for.
It’s too innocent.
Too intimate.
Too sensual.
There’s too much feelings.
There’s no danger. No fire. No sparks or drama or kinkiness.
It’s too good for me.
I’m not the kind of girl who gets fucked like this.
This isn’t even fucking,
He’s making love to me!
He’s trying too hard. He’s going at this the wrong way. I don’t whimper while being caressed, even though he is caressing me right now and I am whimpering like a needy kitten. I don’t get taken gently or take it gently!
This is so fucked…!
I’m Invisigal.
I’m not someone to blow off a woman like Blondie for.
I’m not someone who deserves the time of day.
I’m not someone who deserves to have movie dates. To snack on Sour Patch Kids on a movie night with a loveable, quippy, washed up hero with a far too enticing cologne and a fresh shave.
And yet he’s here.
I can feel his breaths against my shoulder. Calm, measured breathing despite the strain of our current physical activity. I’m internally begging him to break the tenderness. To bite down and make me squeal so this can get hot again, so that this sickening sweetness that I don’t deserve can end.
But he can’t read minds.
Chu.
…
…
…
This motherfucker…
Just kissed me on the shoulder…!
I tense up at that because it’s too much, because it’s been too much, and he pauses. Fuck, he pauses because he noticed me tense up. His fingers leave my lips and my jaw begins to quiver. I let out a low, hoarse breath as the sheer wave of anxiety slamming into my soul makes my asthma act up like a motherfucker and suddenly I’m fucking ruining everything like I always do, like I knew I would.
Robert Robertson decides it’s his turn to play the diligent doggy, leaning back and grabbing my inhaler with an urgency that makes my heart quiver despite how much I’m struggling to regain my breath. He hands me the inhaler, hovering next me as I take a hit from it and I fucking hate that we look like an elderly couple handing eachother our morning meds. I take a deep breath of medicated vapor, breathing in and out slowly as my airways slowly open up. His gaze is still on me, and I can tell he knows it’s more than the asthma based on my body language.
“What’s wrong?”
He asked in that calm, cool voice of his, hushed in the dark room we’re in with a generous helping of concern that makes my stomach tighten.
I open my mouth to respond. To lambast his sappy ass for treating me like a princess. But the moment my eyes meet his, the words die on my tongue. My jaw quivers as the insults get lodged in my throat.
Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?
Like I matter?
I close my jaw, gritting and clenching my teeth as I avert my gaze.
“Hey, talk to me…!”
His voice is taking on that authoritative sternness that always works on me, with a gentleness that is working even better.
“H-How f-fucking dare you…!?”
I was going for jaded and bitter. But that came out in a hoarse, gravelly whisper. Like I’m on the brink of tears.
…
Oh fuck, I’m on the brink of tears.
“Vis, what the hell are you talking about…?” Robert Robertson asks, all confused, like he has no idea what he’s done and is doing to me.
Vis, he said.
Not Visi.
Not Invisigal.
Not Invisibitch.
Vis.
A semi-formal, but endearing abbreviation.
It’s almost cute.
Fuck, it’s not almost cute, it’s fucking adorable. But only because it’s coming from him, and I fucking hate that.
I let out a sarcastic chuckle that sounds way too much like a bunch of choked sobs.
He’s getting closer now. He’s literally inches away, probably questioning himself on if we’re close enough for him to hold me like that. Newsflash, you shouldn’t have gotten this close to begin with.
“Why the fuck are you doing this to me…!?” I hiss out, my breath hoarse and pained.
“I’m not following… There is no way I was that bad at sex-”
He tries to break the tension, but it only makes me angrier.
“This!!! THIS, ROBERT!!! ALL OF THIS!!!” I wave my hands around like a madwoman, because I think I am legitimately losing my fucking mind here. “All this sappy, sweet fucking lovemaking! It’s not…! I don’t…!” My throat is closing up again, but it’s not the asthma.
“Talk to me… Please…” Robert asks, pleading, begging. He’s listening because he thinks he did something wrong, and wants to make things right. He doesn’t know that I’m what’s wrong with all of this. I’m what’s ruining this.
He’s so nice. Caring. Loving.
And that’s when I finally find what I need to say.
“...I don’t deserve this…!”
The words leave my lips as an ugly rasp.
“What the hell are you-”
“I don’t deserve this, Robert! All of this…! I… If you knew who I was, who I really was…! The shit that I’ve done to you, to other good, innocent people like you…!”
I am so close to blowing everything to shit and I don’t care because the only thing that hates me more than the world right now is myself.
“You have no idea who I really am…! Who the real me is…! If you knew, then you-”
I go rigid as I feel his hands on my shoulders. Strong hands, with soft fingers.
“Then I’d meet you there, and we would figure it out.”
…
This fucking guy…
He always knows what to say.
“Whatever this is… Whatever is going on between you and me… It is not a mistake.”
There he goes again. Sounding so sure. So strong. You have no idea what you’re doing, Robert. What you’re getting yourself into with me… What I’m dragging you into…
“I never had time to feel anything more than pain and bitterness in that suit. Outside that suit was the same.”
Don’t say it…
“But with you, Vis… I am the closest I have ever been to being content. To being happy….”
Stop, Robert…
“More than anything…”
Don’t do it… You have no idea…!
“I want you to feel that way too…”
…
It’s over.
Then and there.
It’s done.
I’m fully gone.
For the moment, the doubt, the self loathing, the self hatred and every other thought that was tearing through my skull.
It’s all gone.
Because I know, no matter what I do, no matter what happens next.
I will remember that.
I practically fall against him, resting my forehead against his collarbone. I feel his hand rest on top of my head, only for it to shift to the side to let him kiss my forehead. I begin to shudder, and I realize too soon that I’m crying. Choked, silent sobs that look fake and dumb to anyone who actually sees it but this feels very much real to me. And he sits there and lets my tears flow over his scars because he cares. He. Cares.
Fuck.
Fucking fuckity fuck.
This is fucked.
I am so fucked.
Because Robert Robertson has done the unimaginable.
Because Robert Robertson has done the unthinkable.
He’s gotten a cynical bitch like me to believe in things.
To believe in magic and rainbows.
To believe in innocence and fairy tail endings.
To believe someone like me can be happy.
I know more than he knows.
I know that I was supposed to fail like always, to drop out and disappear and return to the shadows with everything that I’d been told to gather.
But he pulled me up.
Put me back together.
Into something… into someone that I could dream of respecting.
I know too that now I’m something more worse for him than I was ever meant to be.
I’m bait.
And I can’t tell him because it will screw him, screw us, even sooner if I do.
But now, I believe in him.
I believe that he will find a way to save himself.
And maybe, just maybe…
Save me as well.
And for that…
How dare you, Robert Robertson?