robbiefletcher

[robbiefletcher]

[robbiefletcher]

[robbiefletcher]

All of these blazers are identical. Every time Meagan hands him something new to try on, Robbie feels like he’s being gaslit, because there’s no way she actually thinks these clothes are different from each other. Still, if letting her dress him up like a sloaney twat is what it takes to stay in her good books, he’ll do it, and have a good laugh about it later.

Shrugging out of the jacket he’s currently wearing, Robbie takes the one she’s holding out for him, slipping it on over the top of the crisp white shirt he’d been supplied with earlier that afternoon. “I dunno, Missus Finley, it’s a bit tight, innit?” He says, twisting to look at the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders. “How’re you s’posed to get anything done when you can’t lift your arms?”

@robbiefletcher​

It was her maternal instinct that told her that Robert must have been one of those unfortunate orphans. Just look at the poor boy! No mother alive would let her son go out in the world looking like that. She’d never allow Archie to degrade himself. It was only right that she took it upon herself to fix what was clearly broken.

“Now, try this,” she told him, handing him another blazer to try on. Dark gray plaid, lapel neatly folded back to make him into his most presentable version. “Doesn’t this feel so much better than that…”–she looked back over her shoulder at the jacket she made him toss off–“…trampwear?”

[robbiefletcher]

notquitedoctorhart​:

.

Mickey froze in place when he saw that Robbie took a step back in response to Mickey’s step forward. He had never expected Robbie to squeal with glee or lift Mickey off the ground in an embrace, but he also wasn’t expecting him to seem so disinterested in seeing him. It blew right past apathy and bordered distaste. It was another low blow that made Mickey feel sick to his stomach. 

This was Robbie. The Robbie. This was the kid that had taken Mickey under his wing at the group home, and all but officially stated that Mickey was under his protection. None of the other kids messed with him after that, and the two ended up being practically inseparable. Sure, Mickey looked back on that time and realized that he had probably been more dependent and clingy to Robbie than Robbie had been to him, but he had always been so sure that their friendship was genuine. That the two had both cared about the other. But Robbie seemed less than thrilled to see someone that should be considered an old friend. “Of course I remember you.” Mickey began, speaking slowly as he tried to choose his words carefully. It was clear that Robbie wasn’t impressed, and the last thing Mickey wanted was to give Robbie an excuse to blow him off completely. “Yeah. A lot different actually.” It had been over ten years, after all. “I mean, not in a bad way, obviously. I mean, you look good.” He cringed at himself, feeling his face heating up as his skin began blushing. This was a horrible start. And it only got worse when he heard Robbie namedrop Michael. A pit opened in Mickey’s stomach, threatening to swallow him whole. It probably meant nothing. It was just a name. Mickey’s actual name, even. But he couldn’t remember if Robbie had ever called him Michael before. Robbie had been the first one to call him Mickey, and Mickey had been going by that name ever since. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just at the library.“ Mickey hated this feeling. "And it’s uh- it’s Mickey.”

“Oh, piss off,” he says dismissively, quickly nipping that rambling attempt to save face in the bud. It’s not as if Robbie turned out ugly or anything, but his appearance is still a thousand miles away from that of the man in front of him. Mickey genuinely looks good - healthy, clean, well taken care of - and all Robbie can think about is how rough he must look in comparison. Usually he takes no small amount of satisfaction in how uncomfortable his presence can make others; he’s a tangible reminder of the poverty in this city, but now? Now he’s embarrassed, and embarrassment makes his tongue all the sharper.

“Yeah, but why this library? You ain’t from round here no more, clearly - I mean, what the fuck is that accent meant to be? Are you American now, or something?” He hadn’t realised that Mickey’s new parents meant to take him so far away - a whole ocean between his old, shitty life and his bright future with them. It makes sense, Robbie supposes. It’s as fresh a start as a person could get, and deep down, he knows Mickey deserved it. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to let him go, though.

Robbie shakes his head, letting out a scornful laugh. “Nah, I don’t think so. The Mickey I knew wouldn’t’ve been so quick to forget where it was he came from.” He has to force himself not to say ‘my Mickey’, though the bitter taste of it still lingers at the back of his throat. There’s no version of Mickey that ever was his - not the friend of his childhood, and certainly not the stranger standing in front of him now. What’s the point? They’re on different paths, and this conversation is a waste of his breath. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t need this grief,” Robbie says, making up his mind to leave, as he should have done in the first place. “Have a nice life, Michael.”

[robbiefletcher]

b4d14nd3r·:

Jude grins as Robbie picks up the conversation without skipping a beat, and similarly falls into line without looking up from the napalm-spicy ramen concoction sizzling in its pan on the stove. “It doesn’t have to be pink. I’m just sayin’, you oughta liven things up a little. Think of it like a challenge. A level-up. Petty theft, hard mode.” Jude stretches past Robbie to grab a mismatched bowl from the cupboard, one their friend could probably grab without straining. “Can you steal just as many wallets with highlighter-yellow hair? The world needs to know.” The world being, Jude.

“Hard mode,” Robbie repeats with a scoff, snagging a green bowl bearing the likeness of a cheerful frog from the top shelf and setting it down on the counter. “My life is already challengin’ enough without adding a semi-permanent neon sign goin’ ‘hey, look at me, I look like a felt tip, please remember this defining feature for the police line up later’, thank you very much.” Besides, he’s got to lay low for a bit, after his encounter with that copper on the train - not that he’s told Jude what happened, of course.

Leaning back to make room for his friend as they reach across the space where he’s standing, Robbie huffs a little laugh at how far Jude has to stretch to fetch down a bowl of their own. “Bloody hell, you don’t half make things complicated for yourself. I could’ve got that for you - or at least found you some sort of step to stand on so you could reach it.” That said, Robbie takes the opportunity to peer over the top of Jude’s head into the pan of simmering ramen, which smells so hot it feels like it’s singing his nostrils. “Can I have an egg on mine? I’m fuckin’ starving.”

[robbiefletcher]

“What?” Robbie asks distractedly, looking over the top of the woman’s head to see if the policeman that was following him has given up and pissed off yet. It’s bullshit, he wasn’t even doing anything this time.

Still, the crowd of tourists in the busy market thoroughfare seems to be serving its purpose, and he can’t see the distinctive yellow high-vis anymore. Safe, for now - and he actually does have an opinion about the mango. “Erm, there ain’t a proper season for mango in England,” he says, taking a moment to dig his hat out of his coat pocket and cover up his hair, just in case, “But you don’t want to buy it from these white people anyway. It’ll cost you a fucking fortune, and it still won’t be as good as anythin’ you could buy on Brick Lane for a fraction of the price.”

BOROUGH MARKET,     EARLY MORNING.     [ … ]    @ O P E N

‘Does this look ripe to you?’   The watery question stretched thin,    lifeless and without much conviction.  Love for others forming itself as a wound called sainthood,    the gutted feeling of grieving someone who is currently in the room.   The mango is held loosely in her hand,    she turns it once.   ‘I’m just unsure about the proper seasons here,    you know?’    Murmured out in a monotone,    like a high prophetess in the middle of a religious crisis   — godlessness dragging down her words like a prayer half-swallowed.   She always spoke as though she were torn between the waking world and the nocturnal one.   A flutter of lashes as she draws herself into the present,  focus entirely settling on the other person,  an apologetic smile lightening her expression.   ‘Sorry  […]    you look like you’re in a rush.’

[robbiefletcher]

headcanon 002. robbie anonymously runs an urbex tiktok, recording his exploits around the city of london. the account is called springhccled, and as of february 2023, it has 130K followers globally. since robbie never shows his face on camera, everyone has decided he must be secretly really hot. #springhccledfacereveal

[robbiefletcher]

jsyk if we’re hanging out and you die i WILL loot your body

[robbiefletcher]

vvrcths·:

It’s strange how one can find themselves in situations that they hadn’t even thought possible. Lucretia was the queen of the impossible, but even tonight she’d had no idea that wandering around as she had (on her way to the exhibit no less, to keep up appearances; though she had intended to pay) to find a young man now staring at and challenging her in his own way.

It was defensive, more than anything. She could tell that there was some small part of him that might have his pride pinged with the right application of words, but instead of going for the throat she spoke, far too concisely for what she was (more or less) being accused of, “I had planned to go around and buy a ticket, but…”

A tip of her head, shifting the chain of her purse along her shoulder, a few items rattling around inside its modest size and pulling her coat a bit tighter around her — a stylish gray peacoat that probably cost way more than it was worth — before she stepped in and through the door with the air of someone that belonged… and whom didn’t need permission, “But a little deviance will not hurt and I can claim you are with me if they ask, non?”

Sometimes, just sometimes, she slipped into something of a vaguely French accent, having spent some time there in the past and realizing that no one goes over as more posh than the French, “If you’d like, any way?”

"Why buy what you can 'ave for free?” Robbie asks with a shrug, stepping aside to allow the woman to pass him, and then pulling the door firmly shut behind them. It’s lucky that she decided to come with him - his gambit really could’ve gone either way, and he supposes there’s less chance she’ll dob him in if she’s technically an accomplice. That being said, she’s way more likely to get away with what they’re doing than Robbie himself, being older, a woman, and rich, if that bougie little jacket is anything to judge by.

He recognises her, he thinks, though he doesn’t expect that recognition to be mutual. Robbie is a ghost by design and by designation, blending into the grim streets of London like he was made for it. It’s only places like this that throw him suddenly into focus - an obvious blemish on an otherwise civilised evening.

“You reckon they’ll believe we’re together?” Robbie raises an eyebrow at the suggestion. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s found himself in the company of a woman in a league so far removed from his own - in fact, the last time it happened, the woman turned out to be the fucking Prime Minister’s wife - but it’s usually a con, which means he’s at least appropriately dressed for the occasion. Today, though, he’s in his dirty coat, the duffel bag carrying all his worldly goods hanging from his shoulder - this exhibit isn’t supposed to be a job. He’s here for himself. 

[robbiefletcher]

where: jude’s place when: evening with: @b4d14nd3r​

“I’ve told you, mate, I’m not lettin’ you put any of that pink shit on my hair,” Robbie says, stepping out of the bathroom and immediately heading into Jude’s kitchen to rummage through their cupboards. “Last thing you need is an evil twin cuttin’ about the city. Like, imagine if one of your cultists saw their favourite streamer doing half the shit I do - you’d get cancelled like that.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis.

[robbiefletcher]

jack-seo·:

The day had started off on a shitty note. Following a problem with his car that left the vehicle unusable and Jack with no other option than to brave public transport to get to work, by the time he’d managed to push through the throngs of early morning commuters and into the actual tube, his mood had hit rock bottom with a forecast of further downward spiral. Jack had spent what’d been left of his entire first year pay-check on the car in order to avoid the very situation he unwillingly found himself in now: cramped in a claustrophobic deathtrap on wheels, surrounded by assholes in suits, shitty teenagers, and the general stench of piss and filth.

Digging out his headphones while staring down the nearest offender in disdain, Jack paused his movements when the hand in his coat pocket failed to retrieve his phone. After casting his memory back to the shit-show of a morning, during which he’d definitely transferred the phone from the car seat to his coat, he took a moment to check the rest of his pockets with gradually increasing concern. Any potentially incriminating texts or pictures were stored on his private phone which was at all times kept locked in a safe in his garage — but losing his work phone, besides being a pain in the ass, would cause a whole other set of problems.

Having failed to find the device anywhere else Jack quickly checked the carriage floor before turning to eye up the people closest to him. The suit he’d stared down had pointedly turned his back in Jack’s direction and the woman to his right was too preoccupied with her haul of shopping, which left only the kid right across from him — a kid, who for some reason, seemed mighty interested in an overhead Specsavers advert, and whose hand was very much on the same height as Jack’s pocket.

Undercaffeinated and overtired, he didn’t bother pausing to consider other possibilities. Leaning forwards he wrapped his free hand around the kid’s bicep in a grip that left little room for negotiation, expression hard. “You have five seconds to give me back my phone or you’ll wish you’d never fucking been born, you little shit.”

In spite of the tension ripping through his body, Robbie is careful not to fidget, schooling his expression into something neutral as he stares blankly at the lame adverts above their heads. He’s old-hand at this by now, was stealing before he hit puberty, and this is hardly the first time he’s gotten himself into a sticky situation. It’s just a matter of getting out again.

He’s planning his escape when his mark starts patting himself down, and Robbie realises he’s rapidly running out of time. Fuck. It’s seconds until the train will arrive at the next platform and he finds himself counting them in his head, waiting for the announcement that’ll let him know he can get the fuck out of here. It doesn’t come quick enough. Just as the recorded voice rings through the carriage and the doors open, the man’s hand arrives on Robbie’s arm, fingers digging in through the material of his coat. “I dunno what the fuck you’re on about,” he hisses, trying to shake himself free, “Let go of me, man, what's wrong with you?”

[robbiefletcher]

i get mean when i’m nervous like a bad dog i get mean when i’m nervous like a bad dog

[robbiefletcher]

notquitedoctorhart·:

.

There was something notably angry about the man’s stance. Mickey got the distinct feeling that he had somehow pissed the man off. That did nothing to stop the sense of familiarity that Mickey felt right now. Most shockingly of all, Mickey had no desire to turn tail and run. Usually the slightest edge to someone’s voice was enough to spike Mickey’s blood pressure. A slightly undetectable tone made Mickey run for the hills. Mickey hated confrontation. This man sounded about as openly hostile as one could, but instead of freaking out Mickey felt only curiosity instead; cocking his head ever so slightly to further study the person down the aisle from him. 

The man’s comment felt like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t particularly friendly, no. But more than that it felt like an accusation. Like Mickey should know him. That feeling cut deep, and it was then that Mickey wished he could turn invisible and escape this conversation. 

Mickey didn’t know what to say. It resulted in a long moment of staring at the man, not knowing what to say as the knot in his stomach tightened with each passing second. But the more that Mickey studied him, the more the puzzle pieces slowly started fitting together. That dead stare, the hostile tone, the way the man immediately went on the defense. He knew a kid like that once, he practically worshiped him. But it had been the farthest guess from his mind. Mickey had just assumed that he would never see the boy again. “No way” finally spoke the thought aloud. He began taking steps forward, his first instinct being to open his arms and go in for a hug. But he wouldn’t have dared to do that even when the two were kids, he especially doubted the man standing in front of him would go for it. “Holy shit. I can’t believe it. Robbie?”

Mickey stares at him for what feels like an eternity, and Robbie’s thoughts quickly go back to turning around and leaving. It wouldn’t be running away, so much as it would be making the choice not to just stand here like a mug with the sting of knowing that their relationship obviously meant more to him than it did to Mickey. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Suddenly he speaks again, and there it is, the spark of honest recognition that Robbie had wanted. But it’s too late, now. Mickey steps forward and Robbie immediately steps back, forcing the space between them to remain exactly where it is. What does he think is going to happen? That they’re going to fling their arms around each other and cry, and things will be just like they were before? Or worse, that they’ll shake hands, exchange the polite cliff notes of their lives and then part ways, strangers again?

“Oh, so you do remember me then?” He says at last, his voice acid, uncharitable. “’Cause I weren’t sure. ‘Spose I look a bit different since the last time I saw you, yeah?” Since you left me. "What the fuck are you even doing here, Michael?"

[robbiefletcher]

where: van gogh: the immersive experience when: evening with: open!

It might be surprising to learn that Robbie has an interest in art. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, in spite of reading a number of books on the topic, but in his opinion, it isn’t necessary to ‘get’ art in order to enjoy it. He wouldn’t say so, because he isn’t wet, but he thinks the point of creating (and consuming the creations of others) is just to... feel something. With that in mind, what better artist is there to engage with than Van Gogh?

The interactive exhibit has been on Robbie’s list since it opened, but there’s no way he's going to pay £20 to stand in a room for an hour and a half, even if he did have the money (which he doesn’t). So here he is, taking advantage of the winter darkness to slip into the building through a service entrance which has stupidly been left ajar by whoever went through it last. He’s just about to shut the door behind him when he realises he’s being watched, and it’s too late to pretend to be doing anything other than sneaking in. He levels the other person with a pointed, unapologetic look, daring them to challenge his actions. “Well? Are you coming in, or minding your own business?”

[robbiefletcher]

𝐟𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧 

dressing according to your own personal style is a luxury not everyone can afford, and robbie counts himself among those who have to make do with whatever they can get their hands on. most of his clothes are things he’s acquired rather than purchased, taken from shops and the closets of friends and one night stands in equal measure - his only requirements are that he will definitely wear the item, and that it’ll fit in his bag whenever he isn’t wearing it.

his boots are, frankly, shitty. terry pratchett was onto something with that sam vimes theory - his shoes were cheaply made to begin with, and since he’s on his feet all day, he wears through them quickly, meaning they have to be replaced with yet another shitty pair of boots, and so the cycle continues.

most of the things he owns are neutral in colour, designed to keep eyes off him while he goes about his business. he favours hoodies and jackets made from thick, practical material, and took to wearing a beanie around after he shaved his head.

robbie is never seen without the thin silver chain he wears around his neck, and his right ear is pierced with a skinny silver hoop.

[robbiefletcher]

JACK O’CONNELL as JAMES COOK in SKINS (2007-2013)

[robbiefletcher]

notquitedoctorhart·:

Mickey never spent much time at the library. Too many people and far too easy to draw their attention. A single cough and all eyes would be on him. The thought alone made Mickey shudder. He was never able to focus and get any real studying done in public places like these, so his trips to the library usually consisted of his slinking in, grabbing a few books and immediately rushing out. 

Mickey was so focused on flipping through the book that he didn’t notice the new presence in the aisle immediately. He was looking for something specific, and as he skimmed through the glossary of the books stacked beside him he had slowly slid down the shelf and found a seated spot on the floor. He had no idea how long the figure was standing there before Mickey finally realized he wasn’t alone and glanced up at the person standing at the end of the aisle. Mickey had started to scramble to his feet, shutting the book he had been looking through and trying to gracefully stand up without knocking over the pile of books he had managed to gather around him.  “Oh sorry, didn’t mean to take up the whole aisle I can-”

He cut himself off immediately once he realized that the face was vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place it immediately, but from the twisting feeling in his gut he could tell immediately that it was someone important. Though it should have been obvious from the start, the truth seemed so impossible that his brain refused to connect the dots at first. “I uh- Sorry” Mickey’s throat caught as he tried to speak. “Do we uh- I know you, right?” Not exactly the most tactful or graceful question, but considering some of the more memorable conversational blunders he has had this seemed almost charismatic.

It’s too late for him to make a break for it, so Robbie changes tracks, standing his ground at the end of the aisle with his hackles raised. It’s surreal to watch this version of Mickey apologise and struggle to his feet, when he can so clearly picture his eleven year old self doing the exact same thing. He hasn’t changed a bit - sure, he might be older, and his accent is all fucked up, but he’s still got the same mop of brown hair, that shrinking violet demeanour, and eyes like a kicked puppy.

Apparently, Robbie himself has retained nothing of the boy he once was. Mickey doesn’t recognise him, not like he should - not like Robbie would’ve hoped, if he was soft enough to hope for such things. He hates that it hurts him as much as it does. He gets it - theirs was a friendship of circumstance, and then Mickey went off to his nice, new life and forgot all about him, and that’s fucking fine.

“Dunno, do you?” Robbie retorts, tone immediately hostile, overcompensating for the dull ache in the pit of his stomach. “’Cause I ain’t so sure.”