#vee writes

Bro literally asks yuuken's permission to date you. Just because of how much respect he has for him after he helped riddle with his overblot. You're definitely his first girlfriend, I mean we all know how his mom is. There is no way he has dated anyone else before you.

The way he finds out about your strength is actually through an accident. Heartslabyul was getting ready for an unbirthday party, when the students had put one of the tables in the wrong area. He was gonna ask you to help lift it with some other students, when you just picked up the whole table by yourself.

MY ROSE!! Put down that table before you hurt yourself!!

Would not ask yuuken's permission to date you. While Leona grew up learning to respect women, he doesn't think it's important to ask your brother because you're your own person. You can make your own choices, you don't need yuuken to make it for you.

Leona I think is the least surprised at your strength. He literally talks about how strong the women are from Sunset Savanna. He first witnesses your strength in P.E. one, probably the only class he regularly attends. He sees you shove a Beastman twice your size to the side to make a score for the game you were playing.

"Herbivore, don't think you can go pushing me around now too."

Would ask for yuuken's permission to date you. Though the main reason is that he's mostly curious about how human traditions work and he's heard that usually the boyfriend asks permission to date the daughter. Since your father or parent figure isn't with you guys, he decides to ask yuuken.

To be honest he doesn't know if he should be nervous or attracted to your strength (it's definitely the latter.) He finds out your strength through when you volunteer to help out at the lounge. Floyd was messing around while serving some customers and hit an aquarium behind him, luckily you were walking past to head to the kitchen. Seeing it starting to tip over you managed to uplift it and put it back on the table, it had been on before.

Angelfish, are you okay?! What- you fixed it??

Would not ask, jamil sees you as your own person. Your brother doesn't own you, so why would he ask yuuken's permission to date you. Hates the idea of asking permission like someone does owns you. You know what you want, not anyone else.

Is a little shocked but proud?? He probably first saw it at one of kalim's parties. You were helping him bring out another round of food. Instead of carrying two or three trays of food like he was. You had managed to balance five to six on your own. He was a little panicked at first, thinking you might drop all the food he just made. Though you showed perfect strength and balance carrying all the trays.

You drop all the food and you're remaking it, habibti.

Hard 50/50, on one hand he respects that you're your own individual person. So you can choose who you wanna be with. On the other hand after everything yuuken has done, he kinda respects him enough to ask. In the end though I think he comes to the conclusion to not ask. You choose your own path, not your brother.

I think he's a little surprised but not too much. i think vil from just looking at someone can tell how strong they are. He's more surprised in how you choose to show off your strength. You guys were getting ready for the SDC, when moving around equipment. One of the speakers almost fell right over on top of one of the students, luckily you were near them and managed to push it up away from the student.

"Sweet potato, please be careful. You don't wanna strain yourself before the competition even begins."

Wouldn't ask, mostly out of fear. He would probably think yuuken doesn't think he's good enough for you. So he just doesn't ask yuuken permission. I mean he probably doesn't even ask you, you would have to ask him out. He decides you can decide if he's good enough for you or not.

Is probably one of the most surprised ones, he probably finds out when you offer to help him lift some of the machine parts for the new commission he is working on. He turns around to tell you no and you're already holding the largest piece of the project like it's nothing to you.

"Flame-e!? Since when do you have SSR tier strength!!"

Wouldn't ask, mostly because he didn't know it was a thing. Malleus still has a lot to learn about human culture and that includes the way humans date. So he didn't really know it was a thing for him to ask yuuken. I think if he did know it was a thing he would ask yuuken since yuuken is his best friend.

Wouldn't be surprised, mostly of the fact that lilla has probably told malleus and the others stories of his past all the time. So he knows humans can be capable of such strength. The way he finds out how strong you are is on one of your nightly walks. You and malleus were exploring a part of the old ruins nearby when you guys moving around caused a part of the building to become unstable. The building shakes around before a big part of the roof falls. Malleus is too busy talking about the ruins to notice it falling right above him. Pushing him out of the way, you manage to catch the piece of ceiling before tossing it on the ground.

"My flower, are you hurt at all? You didn't need to do that."

The heavy oak deadbolt slides into place with a metallic thud, locking the roaring chaos of the Midsummer Feast on the other side. In the echoing quiet of Legolas’ private chambers, the air is already thick with the humid steam of the sunken marble bath – drawn hours ago by the palace staff and kept scalding by the hearth hidden beneath the carved floor. 

You do not lose a second. You turn to the attendants adjusting the linen towels by the basin. 

“Leave us,” you command, your voice carrying the crisp  authority of a lieutenant. “The Prince requires no further assistance tonight. Clear the chambers by the rear stairwell.” 

The servants bow quickly, keeping their eyes lowered. They slip out through the side corridor before they could look too closely at the heir of their realm, who leans his shoulder heavily against a carved stone pillar, his eyes glassy and dark. 

Once the tapestry settles behind them, you stride to the edge of the steaming bath, grab a handful of dried, crushed mint and winter-bark from a silver vanity and toss it into the water. The water hisses, the sharp scent of the woods blooming in the air, cutting through the cloyingly sweet stench of Dorwinion grapes clinging to his skin.

A frustrated grunt echoes from the stone pillar. 

You look back. Legolas curses under his breath in fragmented Sindarin, his usually lithe fingers tugging blindly at the reinforced bracer on his left forearm. He succeeds in only tightening the knot, his jaw clenching in irritation at his own sluggish movements. He yanks at it again, his heavy riding boots dragging on the rug as he sways. He glares down at them, and kicks them off his feet, swaying backwards dangerously. 

“Legolas, stop,” you murmur, stepping away from the bath and crossing the stone floor into his space. “You are only making it worse. Let me.”

“The laces are… knotted,” he rasps. He does not yield the arm immediately, stubbornly trying to force the leather over his hand. “The eyelets will not align. The room keeps shifting.”

“The room is perfectly still,” you say, catching his wrists to force his fumbling hands away from the leather. “It is your head that is spinning. Stand straight.” 

The moment your fingers clamp onto his wrist, the radiating heat of his body hits you like a wall. Legolas stops fighting the leather. His hands go slack, and his dark, dilated gaze snaps down to focus on your face. 

You drop your eyes to his forearm, deliberately avoiding his stare. Your fingers work the stubborn leather laces of his bracers, untangling the knot with the practiced efficiency of seventy years of duty. 

“You drank half the private stores of Dorwinion,” you mutter, your voice hushed but frantic as you strip away the first leather guard, letting it fall to the floor. “If your father had looked to the right during the toast — if he had seen the way you were holding your chalice—”

“He was looking at the lords of Mithlond,” Legolas interrupts softly. He did not sound like a prince right now, but as someone dazed and dangerously unbothered. “He did not see me. No one saw me.”

“I saw you,” you snap, your fingers moving to the silver buckles of his doublet, your knuckles inadvertently brushing against the linen of his shirt underneath. “The entire vanguard line saw you. You were staring across the hall like a madman.”

“I was looking at my shadow,” he murmurs. 

Your fingers falter on the second buckle. You keep your eyes trained rigidly on his collar, your heart hitting a sudden and erratic thud against your ribs. “Do not talk nonsense, Commander. Undo your shoulder guards.”

“I cannot,” he whispers, and there is a strange trace of a laugh in his chest. He does not lift his arms to help. Instead, before you can step back, his large hands come down, his palms anchoring firmly onto the sides of your waist. “I told you. The floor is moving like river-boats. If I let go of you, I will fall.”

Your breath hitches, your spine freezing as his thumbs press through the stiff fabric of your uniform, holding you flush in his space. 

“Legolas, remove your hands,” you whisper, the strict military mask faltering, revealing the desperate panic underneath. “We are in your chambers, but I am still on duty. Let go.”

He leans down, his face dropping into the crook of your neck, his wine-sweet breath fanning across your collarbone as he lets out a heavy sigh. 

“The deadbolt is thick,” he slurs against your skin, his grip tightening on your waist until it is almost bruising. “The uniform is off…the court is gone. Let me hold you until the room stops spinning.”

The warmth of his breath against your neck sends a traitorous shiver straight down your spine. For a second, your hands hover uselessly over the remaining silver buckles of his doublet, your knuckles trembling against his chest. The scent of the mint and winter-bark steam envelops you both like a shroud, your skin tingling in the mist. You tug at the buckles once more, and the shoulder guards and doublet tumble onto the floor, forgotten. 

You have to get him in the water. You have to sober him up before your own resolve disintegrates entirely.

“Legolas, lean back. Walk with me,” you say, your voice clipped. You wrap your arms around his torso, trying to bear his dead weight as you force your feet to take slow, dragging steps backwards toward the edge of the sunken bath. “Three steps. Just three steps and you can sit.” 

“Too many steps,” he mutters against your skin, his voice a mere lazy vibration. He barely lifts his feet, simply letting you drag him, his fingers tightly hooked into the leather at your waist, entirely refusing to yield an inch of the proximity. “Why are we…why are we walking?”

“Because you are going to ruin us both if you collapse on the stone,” you breathe, your heel finally finding the smooth lip of the marble. “Sit down, Legolas. Let go of my waist and sit—”

He did not let go.

Instead of releasing you, his grip tightens. His boot catches on the raised trim of the marble basin, his already compromised balance giving way as his larger frame tilts forward into the steam. 

You don’t even have time to gasp. With his hands clasped firmly around your hips, he pulls you straight down with him. The world inverts in a deafening explosion of white foam and scalding water. 

The pool swallows you both whole. For a suffocating, disorienting moment, you are submerged in churning heat, the dark grape of the wine and sharp sting of the crushed mint flooding your senses. The heavy wool of your lieutenant’s uniform and thick leather of your boots instantly turn to lead, holding you down. 

A moment later, your head breaks the surface. You gasp for air, coughing as you push your soaked bangs out of your eyes. The silver steam of the bath rises in thick clouds from the disturbance. You jam your toe against your heel, aggressively kicking the heavy leather off your feet and letting the boots sink into the shadow of the basin. 

Legolas rises beside you, the water cascading off his broad shoulders in a torrential sheet. His intricate warrior braids completely unravel, the long blonde silk of his hair plastered against his chest and neck. He looks beautifully unhinged, water dripping from his jaw as he blinks through the fog, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. 

“What did you do?” you hiss, panic finally breaking through your defenses like a flash of ice water. You lunge forward, your soaked leather gloves slapping against his slick shoulders as you try to push away from him. “Legolas! Look at my gear. Look at what you’ve done!” 

“The uniform…” he slurs, a laugh bubbling in his chest as he sways in the water. He does not move back. “It is too stiff anyway. Always…always so stiff.”

“This is not a joke,” you rasp, your chest heaving as you fight the dragging weight of your wet tunic, eyes darting frantically towards the bolted door. You unbuckle your own shoulder guards and doublet, squirming against his grip. You toss the waterlogged leather out of the bath, peeling your gloves off along with it. The linen of your undershirt clings to your upper body like a second skin, and you don’t miss how his half-moon eyes wander down, pupils blown wide as he meets your gaze again. “If the guards heard that splash—if anyone comes through that door, it is my sword they will take. It is my name they will ruin. I will be stripped of my rank and exiled before the sun hits the gates.”

The word exile did not sober him. It seemed to strike his dizzy brain like a physical blow, turning his lazy drunken smile into a look of frantic terror. 

He shakes his head, his wet hair spraying droplets across your face. His grip on your waist tightens, with a force which surely leaves bruises blooming in its wake. His large palms drag you through the water until your chest slams against his. He stumbles and wades forward, his feet slipping on the marble before he pins your shoulder blades flat against the slick wall of the bath. 

“No,” he whispers, voice cracking, thick with wine and desperation. He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and rapid against your lips. “No, no. No one… no one can take you. I will not let them.” His lips are but a hair’s breadth away, flushed and stained with wine. “I will throw the swords into the river. I will lock the gates.” 

“Legolas, you are out of your mind,” you whisper, hands pressing flat against his chest to try and put some space between your faces. “You are entirely drunk. Look at me, you don’t even know what you are saying. Tomorrow you will—”

“I know what I am saying,” he interrupts, voice ragged. His hands slide up from your waist, fumbling blindly until they cup your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the back of your head. You hiss slightly from the tension at the roots. His breath is heavy, his eyes — once a reflective, royal blue — stare into yours, dark and dilated, with an intensity you do not recognise.

"I know your steps. Seventy winters... seventy winters I have been counting them." He lets out a low, miserable sound, half a laugh and half a sob, letting his head drop to rest in the crook of your neck. 

“Three paces,” he mumbles against your skin, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear a fog. “Every morning on the terrace. Every patrol. You walk behind me. Always…always behind me. Never beside me. I have spent a lifetime staring at the slant of your shoulder, wondering…absolute madness…wondering why I was not allowed to turn around.”

“Commander, please—”

“Do not,” he chokes out, his thumb dragging clumsily along your wet cheekbone, a burning trail left in its wake. He lifts his head to look at you again. “Do not call me that. Not here.” He swallows hard. “The water is… it is too hot. You are burning up. Or am I?”

He blinks heavily, his hands tremblings where they hold your face. The heat of the water and the swirling steam seems to blur his mind entirely. 

“It is like the cave,” he slurs, his voice softer and far away. "The northern pass... the ice cavern. We sat in the dark for three days. It was so cold, the air was turning to frost. My skin was freezing. But here... right here..." He drags his hand down from your face, grabbing your palm, pressing it against his chest. His heartbeat gallops; an erratic thud threatening to escape from his chest. Your own matches his. "I was on fire because your head was against my chest. I had to turn myself to stone. I had to freeze my own blood so I would not…not turn around and ruin us both in the dark." 

A droplet of water slides down his cheek, catching the dim candle glow of the room. He leans in closer, until his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, composure undone by the decades of silent pining. 

“Look at the water now,” he says, each word fueling a glowing, consuming heat in your bones. “We are not freezing anymore. Let me burn. Let me burn alive…just do not make me go back to the ice. Do not go three paces away from me again.”

His lips find yours, blazing and urgent, and the hand that cupped your jaw slides to the back of your neck, angling your face, breaking down every barrier you built up, every military protocol that you seared into your mind for decades. 

He pulls back, breathless and desperate, panting against your mouth. “I will not let them take you from me,” he says, voice husky and raw. 

Damn the military protocols. 

Damn the rules of the court. 

Damn the fabric that separates you. 

You pull him back in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and kiss him back, feverish and hungry. He groans against your lips as his arms wrap around you under the water, forearms locking around your back and pulling your chest flush with his. You melt into the kiss, the ghost of Dorwinion grapes dancing on your tongue, the heat of his body blazing against you in the water. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your jaw as a hand slides under your shirt and along your ribs, cupping your chest. You gasp as he continues down your neck, tongue languid and warm, kissing and nipping at the sensitive area above your collarbone, peppering marks that scatter across your skin like a constellation only he could bear witness to. 

“I need you closer,” he breathes into your neck, gossamer strands of his wet hair falling across your shoulder . 

The hot water made the fabric of your shirts entirely translucent, clinging to his broad chest and your skin like a futile attempt at modesty. His large hands hook onto the open collar of your wet shirt, his fingers clumsily tugging it up. You lift your arms to help him slide it off, baring your skin to the humid air. You reach for the hem of his sodden shirt, bundling the translucent linen and pulling it over his head, letting the wet cloth drift away into the dark water of the pool. 

When he straightens back up, you are both bare from the waist up, his torso radiating an unnatural, consuming heat that you wanted, needed, to feel against you. 

But the waterlogged wool of your trousers remains a frustrating barrier between your hips, blocking the very warmth you are starving for. Legolas feels it too; a low, frustrated groan leaves his lips as his hands dive beneath the churning surface, his thumbs dragging against your hip bones as he tries to pull the heavy fabric. His unsteady balance sways, his bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth floor of the pool. 

"Help me," he mumbles against your jaw, his grip uncoordinated but fiercely possessive as he clings to you. 

You catch his bare shoulders to steady him, guiding his warrior’s frame backward a half step as he sinks heavily onto the submerged marble bench behind him. Standing right between his knees, you lean down into the swirling mint-scented water, fingers finding his belt. There is no neat protocol to it — just a breathless urgency as you unbuckle the leather and peel the heavy wool down his muscular thighs. The water’s buoyancy carries the dead weight away effortlessly, and he kicks the trousers into the dark depths of the pool before his hands find your waist again. His touch is an impatient and demanding weight as you undo your own fastenings, sliding the last of the lieutenant’s uniform down your legs and letting it float away. 

When you slide back towards him, there is nothing left between you.

Legolas lets out a low sigh of relief, his bare thighs instantly locking around your hips beneath the surface, hauling you flush onto his lap. He is a furnace, his large hands cup the back of your thighs, anchoring you securely against him, pulling you impossibly closer. You run your hands up his smooth chest to his shoulders, rising and falling with heavy breaths. 

He does not move yet; he just holds you there, his chest heaving against yours, midnight-dark eyes blinking through the silver steam as if trying to memorize the feeling of your bare skin under the water. 

“Tell me I am not dreaming this,” he rasps, his voice wine-sweet against your lips. “Tell me I will not wake up on the terrace tomorrow with three paces between us.” He gazes up at you through thick lashes, droplets glistening on them as if on a silken web. The glow from the candles dances across his porcelain face, his cheeks flushed and lips swollen, and even now you think that he looks as if carved from pure starlight. 

“This is real,” you breathe, gently brushing his sharp jaw with your thumb. He shivers at your caress, eyes fluttering shut. “I am here, Legolas.” 

You lean down and his mouth finds yours again — no longer just a clumsy, drunken spill of words; it is a burning surrender to the fire you had both been running from for seventy years. Your hands slide up to lock behind his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp silk of his unraveled braids, as you sink onto his length, your mind going blank to all else but the feeling of him inside you. Legolas lets out a fractured groan, a sound that sends heat right to your core as it echoes off the damp tiled walls. 

The hot water laps at your chest as you move, the friction of your bare skin meeting under the water electrifying you, sending waves of pleasure coiling in your abdomen. You welcome the searing stretch as you take him, all of him; you welcome the burning of your thighs as you ride him in the churning water. 

Legolas shivers against you, moaning under his breath, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He slumps forward slightly, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his breathing goes ragged and fast. His lithe hands slide up from your thighs to your waist under the water, his thumbs pressing hard into your hipbones, fingernails leaving crescent imprints into your flushed skin. He anchors you to his lap so tightly that every frantic thud of his heart beats against your own ribs, every movement of his hips meets yours. 

“Mine,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your hot skin, sending a jolt of raging fire down your spine. He lets out a desperate groan, a broken mutter of hushed Sindarin, an unraveled confession he would never dare utter in the light. “My lieutenant, my shadow, my…you are mine. I will not let you go.”

"Yours," you promise him, tilting your head to give him better access, your own restraint completely melting into the steam. "Always yours." 

“They think I am a prince…” His grip tightens on your waist, the pace of his hips bruising and possessive, chasing his high. “But I am a beggar.” He bites your neck, teeth dragging along your skin, a moan escaping your mouth as you arch into him without thought. “I have been begging for…for a single glance from you for seventy winters. I have been starved of you.”

White hot pleasure rolls through your veins as you find your release, your arms going weak around his shoulders. His arms tighten around you, drawing you in flush against him, his own hips stuttering against yours as you feel his abdomen tighten. With a final groan you feel him tense against you, head buried in the crook of your neck, blonde hair draped over your shoulders like a gossamer curtain. 

After a long moment, Legolas tilts his head back against the marble rim of the pool, eyes fluttering shut. The frantic storm of his desperation has finally quieted, leaving only the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest against yours. Around you, the steam has begun to thin, and the amber glow of the candles on the vanity flicker out one by one, leaving the chamber bathed in the velvet dark of the moon and stars. 

The scalding water lost its edge long ago, turning soothing and cooling against your ribs, but Legolas does not budge beneath you. His hands are still hooked securely around your waist, his grip looser, softened by the deep pull of sleep, but no less unyielding. Every time you try to shift, to ease the weight on his thighs, his fingers tighten and pull you back flush against his sternum. 

“Legolas,” you whisper into the quiet room. “The fire in the hearth has died out. The water is getting cold. We have to get out.”

A hum reverberates deep in his chest. He does not open his eyes, but his head slides down to tuck over the crown of your head. 

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed and sweet. “The water does not matter. I am warm. I have you.”

He lets out a sigh, his thumb moving in slow, rhythmic circles against your hip underwater, a tactile promise that he is not letting the distance return. 

“No more three paces,” he whispers into the dark, his voice growing closer to the hazy edge of dreams. “Tomorrow…you walk beside me. I am so tired of looking for you behind me. Walk beside me.”

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft and sacred vow. In the silver dark of the chamber you close your eyes, resting your forehead against his collarbone and listening to the steady beat of his heart. No longer erratic, no longer cold, but entirely and forevermore yours. 

A = Aftercare (After sex treatment)

Robby is exceptionally caring and gentle after sex. It starts with a warm towel to clean you off, whispering sweet nothings to you as you lie and recover. Then he runs a hot shower or bath with a glass of your favourite wine or a hot beverage, depending on the mood. While you’re relaxing, he changes the sheets if needed. He rubs and massages your back, kissing any little marks he left during the heated passion - small bruises, hickeys and scratches, all consensually left. He tells you how perfect and beautiful you are and how much he loves you. 

B = Body Part (His favourite on you and himself)

Robby LOVES your mouth. He not only loves how you kiss so passionately, but he loves what you say to him, how you comfort him after a particularly gruelling shift, or the pillow talk during sex. He also loves how good your mouth feels up and down this cock or biting and licking his neck. Your mouth is a gift that never stops giving. 

On himself, it's his hands, he loves touch, to touch you, feel every inch of your body. He always has a hand on your thigh or on your hand. In public it's a hand around your waist. He just can’t help but touch you. His hands also do numbers on you. They wreck your holes, pull your hair, choke you, and spank. They hold your legs over your head, or your legs on his shoulders. 

C = Cum (His cum, your cum)

Robby loves cum. He loves when you cum. He loves when you beg to cum. When he cums. He’ll cum anywhere. He doesn’t have to try hard to make you cum, you’ll cum on his hands, from his mouth and of course on his cock. He knows his way around your body. Now for him, he’s got stamina but when he finally does cum, its like the heavens rain down. His favoriote way to cum is deep inside you. But he also loves to cum down your throat as you stare up at him. And my god isn’t he vocal, he moans obscenities and sweet nothings into the crook of your neck as he collapses on top of you in pleasure. 

D = Dirty Secret 

His dirty secret is that before you dated, he’d go home after a shift with you and he’d release all his tension out, thinking of you. You’re beauty is a borderline distraction for him every shift. He was drawn to every little move you made, how you’d bite your lip when you thought about a case or were writing notes. He’s lay in bed, or in the shower and releasing himself on his hands, with only you on his mind. 

E = Experience 

Robby has fucked. During his undergrad, medical school, during his residency and as an attending. Nothing crazy but the experience he does have makes him good. So so good. He is a doctor of making you cum. 

F = Favourite position

Robby loves to watch you, so naturally missionary is where its at. Not just a regular missionary though, he likes the missionary where your legs barely reach his broad shoulders as they’re folded back far as they can go. In this position he can get DEEP and pound into your holes. He can also stare you down as your eyes roll far back into your beautiful head and your mouth rests open, in such a haze you have lost the ability to form words. 

G = Goofy 

Robby is the kind of guy who can be laser focused one second and giggling the next.  He tries to keep it together in bed—serious, intense—but sometimes things just happen. Like when he accidentally knocks his head on the headboard or when you’re hair flies into his face. Sometimes, it just keeps slipping out, especially in those positions where his strokes are quick. You both start laughing and he teases “Guess your body just wanted a moment to recover from me huh baby”. The two of you have giggle in the middle of things, playful teasing, laughing through tangled and sweaty bodies. It never ruins the moment. If anything, it makes it better. Because with Robby, sex is hot and fun.

H = Hair

Robby has a bush. Nothing crazy but he has hair. He trims it but you can still run your fingers through it. When you’re on your knees in front of him and your nose is touching his tummy, his happy trail tickles your nose. His bush touches your cheeks. Your hands placed on his thighs, you can feel the hair on his legs. His hair is a suble sensory addition to sex. 

I = Intimacy

Robby is Mr Intimate. Even in kinkier sex, its all about connection to him. During foreplay and undressing you, he peppers kisses over your body, eye contact galore. When he enters you, he watches your reaction and then goes straight to kissing or nibbling on whatever he can each. Afterwards he’s sweet as pie and loves up on you. Always touching, cuddling, his head nuzzled into your neck. 

J = Jack off

Robby doesn’t need to jack off that often because your sex is regularm however when he does he completely surrenders. Regardless where he does it it involves his hand firmly stroking his aching cock up and down. One hand cups his balls, normally you’d do it but he has to suffice with his own hand. Sometimes if he’s feeling frisky and adventurous he used the silicone stroker that you got him for his birthday. It’s ribbed and feels amazing. It normally doesn’t take him to long to cum on his own, and when he does he releases a big load, toes clenched, head thrown back, eyes glued shut. 

K = Kink

Robby is a kinky man. Period. He is willing to try anything once, especially if it’s something you come up with. He likes any where he is in control. It’s communicated control that you willingly give up to him for pleasure. He has an affinity for tying you up. Hands together above your head, you can’t move or escape him. You both also dabble in CNC (consensual non consensual) which thoroughly discuss boundaries and expectations. Part of his job is consent and that translates into your sex life. In the moment it’s all about you taking it, being helpless and at his mercy, being used for his pleasure. A breathing sex toy, just a hole for him to use. 

L = Location (where he likes to fuck)

Robby if given the chance will fuck you anywhere. In the car after or before work because he can’t wait. Fogging up the windows, hand prints left on the windows. In the shower, the foreplay, washing each other’s hair. In the kitchen, you bent over the counter, or maybe it started with you sitting on the counter kissing each other, and it turns to a quickie. He is also a sucker for the good old fashion bed. 

M = Motivation (what turns him on) 

You drive Robby crazy, and you know it. The teasing gets to him like nothing else. It’s the way you act so casual when your hand brushes too low on his stomach, or when you press up against him just a little too close during a chart review. You’ll whisper something supposedly harmless, “you missed a spot”  while wiping his jaw with your thumb, and Robby’s already half-hard under his scrubs in the break room.

He loves it when you flirt and pretend you’re not. When you pretend you don’t notice the way he stares at your mouth while you talk. All the little touches, the innuendos. Anything that leaves him thinking of the last time he had you. 

You don’t even have to say anything explicit. Just a look, a touch, a breath near his neck, you know how to wind him up until he’s fidgeting in his seat, trying to stay cool. 

N = No

Robby will try everything once, but something he won’t do is hurt you. Sure, a bit of spanking here and there, some hair pulling. But he won’t hurt you simply for his pleasure. 

O = Oral (giving or receiving)

Robby is a munch! He loves to eat the kitty. He devours you like nothing else. His rule is you cum at least once before sex either on his hands or mouth, or both. He licks stripes up and down your cunt before focusing on your pulsing clit. 

Robby is responsive when you go down on him, hand braced on the back of your neck, jaw tight, breath hitching. Especially when you drag your nails up his thighs or pause to kiss his hip just to tease him. That’s when you feel it: the subtle twitch of his cock against your tongue, the way his hips roll ever so slightly. He can’t help himself. He’s vocal, gravelly moans, muttered curses, your name punched out like it’s been knocked from his lungs. “Fuck, baby… just like that,” he groans, his voice gone ragged when your tongue swirls or you take him a little deeper. Sometimes he’ll talk you through it, all praise and filth. Other times he’s gone quiet, lost in the glory of your mouth. And the way he grips the sheets or your shoulder when he’s getting close? Pure desperation. He’ll tell you to slow down, not because he wants to stop but because he wants to make it last. Robby edges himself even here, groaning, hips twitching, fingers clenching. But when he finally lets go, he lets go. It’s overwhelming. Messy. Beautiful. He’ll be breathless, dazed, and stupidly affectionate afterwards, petting your hair and dragging you up for a kiss even if your mouth is slick with him.

P = Pace

Robby’s pace is steady but relentless. He doesn’t rush, but he’s never slow either. It’s the perfect mix of control and urgency that keeps you screaming. His thrusts become sharper and faster in the heat of the moment, pounding with a rhythm that matches his growing need. He knows exactly when to pick up speed and when to slow down, teasing you and himself, the pleasure building until he can’t hold back anymore. It’s intense, powerful, and always perfectly timed to leave you falling apart.

Q = Quickie

Quickies with Robby are intense and urgent, no wasted time, just pure, heated need. He’s all about making every second count, grabbing you with rough hands and kissing you hard before finding the nearest wall or surface. It’s messy, fast, and electric. The hospital supply closet was cramped and dimly lit, which only made things hotter. Robby pressed you against the metal shelves, his breath heavy, hands roaming with desperate urgency. The beep of the machines outside faded as he kissed you roughly, pulling you closer. His pace was fast and hard, barely allowing you to catch your breath before he was moving again. There was no time for slow build-up here, only just raw, hungry need exploding between the boxes and sterile supplies. 

R = Risk

Robby’s into the thrill of risky moments when it comes to sex. He’s not afraid to push boundaries or sneak off when he shouldn’t, especially at work. That feeling of almost getting caught makes everything more intense. His touch gets sharper, his kisses more urgent. The tension between you, the adrenaline makes everything feel raw and real. He loves that rush, knowing someone could walk in at any second. It keeps things exciting and makes every time together feel unforgettable.

S = Stamina

Robby’s has good stamina, he knows how to pace himself so neither of you gets worn out too fast. He’s not just about quick bursts; he can go for the long haul, keeping the intensity steady. Even when he’s tired after a long shift, he still finds the energy to make every moment count. He listens to his body, making sure you both get exactly what you need, whether that’s a marathon session or something sweet and slow.

T = Toys

Robby has a stroker he uses when you’re not around — something he keeps tucked away for those moments when he needs to unwind. But when it comes to you, he’s all about the vibrator. He loves seeing the way it makes you react, those small gasps and quivers that tell him exactly how much you’re enjoying it. Sometimes, he’ll hold it himself, watching your face as the buzz hits the right spot. 

U = Unfair 

Robby is unbelievably good at teasing you. It’s like he knows exactly how to push your buttons without ever fully giving in, leaving you desperate and wanting more. The way his fingers or lips linger just long enough to make your skin burn but then pull away, making you ache with need. He loves watching you squirm, biting your lip or hitching your breath as he slows down just when you think you’ll explode. It’s almost unfair how expertly he can make you crave him, stretching out your pleasure until you’re completely undone.

V = Volume

Robby is definitely vocal. He doesn’t hold back from his moans, groans, whispered curses, and your name come out of him without effort. His voice is low and gravelly, other times it gets louder, almost desperate, especially when he’s about to cum. 

W = Wildcard

Robbys wildcard is when you are having soft and sensual sex, and in doggystyle, he rubs and gently massages your back. It brings you closer together, a sweet little gesture. 

X = X-Ray

Robby has a thick, veiny cock. His size is intimidating. When you are hanging out together on the lounge and you’ve been teasing him all night, his cock pushes against his boxers, aching to be released and when it does its a powerful spring thats ready for attention. 

Y = Yearning

Robby misses you before you’ve even left the room. It’s in the way his eyes linger a second too long when he glances at you, or how his hand stays at the small of your back just a beat after a goodbye kiss. He’s not the type to get clingy, but you can feel the quiet ache when you're apart, the way he looks at you like he’s already counting down the minutes until he can touch you again. When you’re gone, he thinks about the way your voice sounds when you're half-asleep, the shape of your smile when you're trying not to laugh. He’s not subtle about it, either. You’ll get a text that just says, wish you were here, or come home to find your favorite takeout already waiting, like he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to do something, anything, that brings you closer. It’s not just desire. It’s this steady, full-body pull toward you, like no matter what he’s doing, some part of him is always reaching. Yearning. 

Z = Zzzz