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sp0o0kylights · 1 year ago

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Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition.

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place.

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip.

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck.

The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital.

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten.

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled.

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but.

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.)

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen.

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair.

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants."

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him.

Would Harrington pitch a fit?

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did?

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper.

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life?

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it.

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--"

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out."

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying.

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness.

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone."

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box.

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home.

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope.

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet.

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand.

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list.

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that."

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face.

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him.

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

"You'll check up on Robin too, right?" He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?"

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years.

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here.

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder.

Several somethings, in fact.

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck.

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick.

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie.

An unfair advantage, really.

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly.

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie.

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting.

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie."

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

"What do you mean Si--Wayne."

"Nice catch.” Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.”

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much.

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither.

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat."

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked.

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?"

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret.

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt."

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle.

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end."

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink.

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?"

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be.

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless.

"Anybody else?" He asked.

"Nobody human." Steve replied.

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that.

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?"

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency, I'd be happy to."

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through.

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation.

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus. "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER."

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it.

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair."

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound.

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble.

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…"

"You take any today son?"

Steve his head.

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack.

Course he hadn't.

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in.

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once.

#hands on knees #this is gonna have more than three parts fffffff #FAIR WARNING I do jump between Wayne and Eddie’s pov in this.#Everything Ive written so far while in parts for tumblr would basically be chapter 1 on A03 #Eddies POV change would be chapter two #Ugh Im gonna have to put this on A03. Dammit brain.#also I updated this very fast for me #no one get excited Idk the brain is doing #steddie #beat to shit Steve Harrington #wayne pov #outsider pov #wayne as a BAMF #I tried to get to the part where Eddie shows up but it just got too long for a tumblr post #pre steddie #wayne and Hopper both as psuedo parents to Steve #tw injuries #0o0 fanfics #stranger things

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sharkenedfangs · 6 months ago

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— ☆ “IT SHOULD BE ME, YOU LOOK AT — NOT HIM.”

#. — synopsis. this, he has to admit — is entirely on his part, for foolishly falling for such baseless fantasies, for stupidly expecting an ever-changing person to stay the same as he had intently molded to his desired shape.

#. — content warning! jealousy and possessive behaviour, handjob, some clumsy thigh job, lots of ‘darling’ and ‘doll’ thrown around, best friend yandere robin that may or may not be out of character, pushover male reader and mentions of whitney who robin claims is undeserving of you.

#. — word count? 3.0k words.

#. — extra extra! ashes snippets. : “..yeah, normal stuff.”

This, he has to admit — is entirely on his part, for foolishly falling for such baseless fantasies, for stupidly expecting an ever-changing person to stay the same as he had intently molded to his desired shape.

Yes, Robin should’ve known better than to mistakenly assume that despite the difficult circumstances at hand, you would’ve remained the same old you as he has always intricately known. Wouldn’t have long grown past the distant, forgotten memories you’ve shared alongside him in that filthy town you both grew up in. That vivid moment of instant connection as he so happily recalls back on it, the eventual development of your childhood friendship that gradually took on a completely different meaning for him. Inevitably bloomed into.. as embarrassing as it is to bashfully admit, an innocent crush. Love, in the cheesiest of terms.

All of which he so deeply cherishes, blissfully reminiscences upon, only to be thoroughly ruined, savagely ripped to shreds by one person, and one person only.

Whitney. Your newly found friend, you’d say. That local bully famously known for terrorizing a variety of poor students reluctantly attending the school. Yes, whatever is his name as if he’d bother to properly memorize it, whether or not it’s rightfully articulated in his mind. Not that he gives two shits about who is who, just that, well, beneath his evidently awful influence, you’ve seemed to have taken on that same shitty behaviour in turn, too. As younger friends usually do, following forth in their admiring, older figure’s footsteps, right? The instinctual need to impress, to seek out sweet approval from others nearby, yeah?

But, you’ve gotta understand, you’re really heading off in the wrong direction, here.

That nauseating scent similar to that of used cigarettes, the swirling cloud of smoke that should’ve surely surrounded your curled frame when standing so closely — far too close, in fact — next to the blonde. Disgusting, makes him wanna vomit to visualize the mere thought of you two comfortably acting so intimately around each other. Fag snugly tucked between the delinquent’s accommodating lips, friendly arm casually thrown around your shoulder all the while sweetly whispering utter filth in the shell of your delicate ear. Is that why you’ve been crudely stinking of cigarettes lately? Been frequently remarked by several acquaintances and other friends that the fabric of your attire smells awfully familiar? Because you and Whitney, your little, new ‘friend’ by the way, are in constant close proximity at all times, are sneakily concealing a hidden, sinful relationship underneath that underlying facade of an amiable bond? Is that it?

Would’ve that been in part, used as a reason for your noticeable shift in the absence of your calls? Cmon, your best friend or so-called one, isn’t a moron and y’know better than to have him decisively fall for such tactless excuses hurriedly tumbling out of your lips on the other end of the line. Busy, you unnaturally stammered. Had to tirelessly study for an upcoming exam was the next on the list, which he has to mask the subtle smirk of disbelief briefly marking his lips since you’ve never been much the studious type, have you? Huffing out a sigh of disappointment as you expectantly decline to another one of his proposals, an occasional offer to possibly hang out further down the line of this weekend, maybe?

‘Course not, a family outing had already been planned long before, stubbornly blocking his initial intentions simmering deep within the back of his mind, no matter how twisted it is to fervently lust after his supposedly close friend. Contradicting the very words you had dutifully uttered out on the day you were faithfully bound to depart, move out of this cramped place— “Promise I’ll call you everyday.” Yeah, whatever happened to that shared commitment the both of you had enthusiastically agreed upon?

Liar, you had easily given up on the engagement, hadn’t you? Hence why the lack of calls-in he awaited to receive were gradually declining to none at all, accompanied by the already limited interactions between each other. It was becoming increasingly clear you weren’t going to return his persistent check-ups for another update.

To say, he expected better of you. After that beaming grin you happily shined him back with time and time again, the one he had grown used to seeing whenever he came out of that run-down orphanage, only to be greeted by the sight of your form patiently awaiting for his arrival. Hand in hand, habit having thickly settled in, walking forward to the nearby school all while the years steadily passed by. Meant nothing to you, did it?

And truthfully, under any other position, the sanest decision to be made would be to simply let it go, to move past this unfortunate situation and obliviously pretend like none of it had taken place to begin with. Not whatever he has done— Consequently arriving to your doorstep out of the blue, hastily pushing past your exclaimed questioning as to why or how he’s suddenly decided to show up here. Why? Is there any real reason for a best friend to happily visit his distant own? Ah, another coated lie to plainly convince himself that whatever he is doing at this moment isn’t wrong, isn’t downright immoral to be sullying a dreadful stain upon your precious friendship like this.

Still, isn’t this what he’s been due lately for having been such a good, willing and patient friend for you? The ushered praises he’d like to intimately exchange with you in turn, falling short due to his drooling mouth currently being occupied by the tender flesh of your neck. Always been so soft— so damn fragile within his well-intentioned grasp, how he’s been longing to finally be given a taste of you. And now, he has.

Whether to greedily relish in your hitched gasps or muttered series of words in utter bewilderment of what he’s currently doing is beyond Robin’s feeble mind. Too caught up in the fact that you’re comfortably sat upon his lap, well— not necessarily the most convenient of seats, but he can contentedly make up for such a trivial matter, can’t he? Solely focused on pleasuring you over here, like a good friend properly should when occasionally visiting them, no? Cmon, he’s just being fortunate with the fact that he gets to witness this firsthand, beneath his watchful guise and heated palm steadily jerking you off. So, so cute..

Really make the cutest of expressions when you’re being so cruelly stimulated like this, but not without some hint of affection sneakily laced in his careful movements! After all, despite having been such a filthy, ungrateful friend on your part, he’s still faithfully serving you as best as he can.

Slippery glides of his tight held fist rhythmically stroking up and down, thumb discreetly hovering above the leaking tip to rub along your dribbling slit and coax out more beads of pre. Look at you, stupidly losing your mind over a mere handjob like some virgin prude who’s never been generously given the addictive touch of another in his life. Familiar fingertips desperately clutching at his shoulders for proper stability, as if that might actually reel your hazy mind against his softened coos, lazily circling at your sensitive head all the while.

“Does it feel good?” Huskily muttering in the shell of your flushed ear, acutely aware of the dizzying effects he holds upon you right this moment, this instant and, god— It feels so right. As if faith itself had initially intended for this to play out precisely as he had originally anticipated. Endlessly thanking the divine deities from above, not that he truly believed in religion to begin with, with his bleak upbringing up till now, but today, perhaps he will for lovingly gracing him with the adorable sight of your fucked dumb face.

Scrunched up features, furrowed brows deepening in pure concentration with the sole intent to hungrily drink in every minor detail, commit them to memory. The quivering of your rosy, pouty lips, scarlet flush adorning your cheeks to prettily match with the faintest of tints along the nape of your neck. Sheer embarrassment rendering your form immobile beneath his cupped palm, writhing legs deftly locking themselves further around his slouched waist.

And, the sounds— fuck, the sounds are honestly the best part he gets to excitedly experience with every steady stroke of his tightening fist, breathlessly gawking in awe at the staining mess of sticky slick smearing across the softened pad of his thumb. Strangled whimpers involuntary exiting past your lips, your helpless blabbering unfortunately muffled in the crook of his neck, that laidback demeanour of yours he’s grown used to knowing, now stupidly reduced to a mumbling mess. “R-Robin— ah, fuuu— s-slow down—“ Pleas falling upon deaf ears, gets his cock all achy underneath the tightening confines of his pants, straining bulge undoubtedly twitching against your sat ass who isn’t helping matters here.

That’s fine, though. Not only does he get to selfishly jack you off, there’s also the downright desperate opportunity to tentatively roll his hips upwards, frantically grinding his hot, soaking tip between your widening thighs to his content leisure like a dumb mutt in heat. Fuckin’ feels so good just to mindlessly hump away against your plush ass— wonder if you’d even offer him a thigh job in return if he were to consequently ask, ah— shit, he’d like nothing more than to be enveloped by that soft, warm heat, sneakily slide his throbbing cock in between the slim gap of your cum coated thighs and relish in your muted moans.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? By the looks of it, eyes instinctively rolling to the back of his skull with a pouted huff since it isn’t fair, y’know? Not fair at all that you’ve been secretly hiding those pretty expressions of yours and adorable noises from him all along, selfishly depriving him of such a pretty picture he’s repeatedly visited in his perverted mind. Deceitful friend, aren’t you? It’s merely logical to reach for what was initially his from the start after all, besides what Whitney has flimsily offered you in the past.

Oh, but he can be so much better than that brute who savagely takes what he so pleases, gentler in his careful strokes to loyally get you off. Promise he’ll make you feel so, sooo good— hah, just give him a chance and that’s all it’ll ever take to decisively prove himself to you. Promise to provide you with nothing but utter pleasure as long as it means he gets to be only one to gaze upon you like this, witness your helpless ruin beneath his moving hands.

And, ah god— the things you do to him, no better than Whitney with how they collectively both leer at you in the same hungry manner. Impulsively shifting positions so at to hover above you, pin you further underneath his tight held grasp willingly refusing to loosen any more cuz’ no way is he letting you go from now on, ‘kay? Bitterly huffing over the crook of your neck, savagely panting like some dog in heat as he instead settles on spreading your legs apart for his viewing enjoyment and specially, with the intent of fucking himself between those soft, milky thighs and rub against that swaying cock. A whimpering boy, but you have the thighs of a girl— not that he’s necessarily complaining about that minor aspect.

“S-Sorry, I wanna— ah, make you feel so good. Make you feel so, so good for me.” Truth is, he isn’t sorry in the slightest nor does he feel any ounce of creeping remorse for his downright, desperate behaviour. Tumbling off in another direction entirely, a whiny mess just as much as you in his frantic thrusts accompanied by a shuddering gasp, clumsily fumbling with the hem of his jeans— stupid zipper, really — stripping himself bare before finally, plainly kicking his pants off to carelessly land amongst the messy heap of already spread clothes. There you are, darling. So good for patiently awaiting his next move, supple fingertips timidly curling in the softened fabric of his shirt. Needy baby needed Robin that bad?

He’d be nothing more than content to quell that quivering ache pooling in the pit of your tummy, leaking cock springing free, hefty weight resting against your own drooling dick to smear the melding globs of pre-cum together in a gasped moan. Effortlessly slipping his slicked length between the squish of your thighs, overly sensitive tip oozing pre and provokingly peeking out from the warm enveloping of your soft flesh tenderly wrapped around him. Just being neatly nestled in the welcoming heat of your thighs has him dizzy, hitching a held breath. What would it feel like to be fucking your hole instead? Ah, he’d cum on the spot simply from shoving it in, rendered dumb from the feel of those slippery walls tight around his throbbing girth.

“Push your thighs together for me, please— yeah, just like that. Good boy.” Wistfully whispering praises to you ever so sweetly, a tentative thrust of his and it’s all he truly needs to have him going. Quick, steady snap of his hips following suit with a shared whine spilling past each others parted lips, one hand securely placed around your hip to absentmindedly pinch at while the other rests atop your knee to easily guide himself deeper. “You really feel so good like this.. Ah, I should’ve done this sooner— hah, should’ve done it before he did.” Drooling mutt humping himself stupid between your shivering thighs, reflexively tightening in return from every sloppy buck of his hips against your backside, fat balls repetitively meeting yours in a sickeningly loud slap! to both audibly groan at.

If Whitney is the big, bad wolf deftly awaiting for your clumsy self to consequentially fall into his open maw, then Robin must be nothing more than a huffing puppy in a rut, practically mounting your heaving frame beneath his. Taking advantage of this cherished bond you’d dumbly call friendship when ultimately, a good friend probably shouldn’t be out here openly taking advantage of his own convenient status to slide himself between your legs. Crude, isn’t it? Yet, feels so fucking good— can you possibly blame him so for shamelessly moaning down the curve of your shoulders? Baring teeth instinctually seeking for the nearest source of relief which merely happens to be your sweat slicked flesh underneath his lolling tongue. Not wanting to be too rough either with your quivering figure, instead settling upon peppering warm kisses along the edge of your collarbone.

Plus, how could he so bitterly refute you when you hazily gaze upon his scarlet cheeks with glazed over eyes, glistening lips glossy with spit parted lightly just begging to be intimately kissed and pleasantly tended to. So very responsive in your every shivering twitch, cautious fingers carefully shifting up to cup your warming cheeks in his heated palm to have your pouty mouth eagerly accept his. Pink, wet tongue tentatively swiping along the puffy flesh of your bottom lip in a silent plea to further open up for him, mingling saliva pervertedly dripping into your wanting throat as you two share spit. The surprisingly soothing gesture of his thumb tenderly rubbing across your skin, sneakily coaxing you out of those crumbling walls you’ve narrowingly built around yourself, bit by agonizing bit.

Sometimes, one can’t help, but to eventually cave in when faced with ushered platitudes and cooed niceties wistfully uttered into his ear. Only human to break, isn’t it? Little doll. So— “Hah, shit— I think, I’m gonna—“ Helplessly sputtering off into a broken moan and maybe, it’s the way you breathlessly call for him in a meek ‘Robin’ like he’s all you could ever need — ah, what is he thinking? Evidently, he would be! — that has his hips stuttering, drawn further back where his sopping tip coyly rests at the edge of your plush thighs only to sloppily shove himself in one last time before sticky cum comes to coat at your tummy. Honestly, he didn’t mean to! It was an— ah.. accident that his cock automatically squirted out white strings of cum for you to pitifully whine at, intent on getting you off too as he deliberately reaches down to take ahold of your poor, neglected cock between his soft fingers. Just a bit more, a bit more.. Poor baby didn’t get to cum, huh? He can easily fix that, absently squeezing at the base of your cock, whining just as stupidly as you once he luckily catches sight of your contorted features, the wet squelch drawn forth from every clumsily made stroke of loosely tugging at the tip.

The things you do to him, shakily moaning in tandem with you from the sheer, puppy love his thudding chest occupies for you, bent over in a hasty need to finish you off and fuck, look so pretty when cummin’, darling— drawled out whine of a pathetic ‘wait!’, pulsing squirts of your cock shot out to add onto the already sticky mess staining your bare stomach, head dumbly thrown back in which he can’t help, but etch to his memory for later use. Isn’t this proof enough for you? Of his unrelenting devotion, sweetly planting a brief kiss upon each of your sticky with sweat fingertips in another display of his unwavering loyalty, need to throughly worship you for what you so prettily are.

“Only look at me from now on, okay?” And, if your wandering gaze does ever dare to stray too far away from his unmoving one, then, he could always forcibly direct it back to its rightful place, can’t he? You, in his loving embrace, supposedly where you truly belong in his wishful mind, deserving of every ounce of giddy affection he has to gleefully offer you with a tender kiss of his own. Cupped palm earnestly stroking along the length of your heated cheeks, so prettily pink for his selfish eyes to dote upon only. As it should be, little doll.

So, when he does boldly utter out an easy order for you, one meant to be readily followed and faithfully promised to— don’t break it this time, alright?

Because it’ll only offer him another, self-serving reason to continuously break you in return.

#summer comes along and struck me with robin fever #not fucking fair #what the fuck #you could’ve given me a warning #or something #dol #degrees of lewdity #robin the orphan #robin dol #dol robin #robin degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity robin #mentions of #whitney the bully #bottom male reader #male reader #x male reader #character x male reader #— ☆ burnt ashes.

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