throbby-robby

[throbby-robby]

Nil! Ms. Robbyology! Bby!

I feel like you characterise Robby and Jack so well, so I am coming to you with my unhinged sexual questions lmao

Do you think either of them have any kinks or anything that they are shy, embarrassed, ashamed, or hate that they’re into?

Like I wanna make those old men do things to me that they’re ashamed about lmao

Ok ily girl 💕

HMMMM let me think.

Jack might not think of things himself, but he’s down for anything you might bring up to him. The man has come a little too close to dying on multiple occasions. He’s not about to get shy or weirded out by some kinks.

In no particular order:

Roleplay. Super into the whole fabricated meeting at a bar thing, acting like you don’t know each other, bringing a stranger home to do deplorable things to while knowing in the back of his mind that you trust him.

Public/semi-public sex. Likes to see how much he can get away with before people start getting suspicious. Something like fingering you at dinner under a table or cockwarming at a bar. It’s usually Robby who catches on first, looks at him like, “really?”

Overstimulation—receiving. Likes to see how far he can push himself, or really, how far you can push him before he breaks and begs and safewords out. The first orgasm is always great, but each one that may follow gets a little more painful, makes his muscles lock up, make tears spring up in his eyes, until he’s coming dry.

He also likes the way you take care of him afterward.

Robby has to start small. He figures out that he likes rope bondage a little—the fact that you’re willing to surrender yourself and trust him, and that revelation quickly leads to power play. Robby likes being in control, and while some people with that trait enjoy giving it up in the bedroom, Robby loves being able to keep it. He loves the predictability, knowing you’ll do anything and everything he says. It’s that stability. It’s finally having real control over something. No surprises.

Breathplay. Again, it’s that control. He’ll only do it while fingering you because the motion of thrusting is too risky. His hand could slip and accidentally press too hard against your larynx or his fingers may dig into your carotids too hard for too long. So, he’ll sit you between his legs, preferably in front of a mirror with the fingers of one hand diving into your cunt while his others are wrapped around your neck in a very specific way. He does it when you’re getting close, when you start to shake, applies that pressure and watches your eyes roll back, your chest start to seize, and as soon as he lets go, you come and you gasp and then usually cry simply because of the rush.

I don’t know if it counts as a kink, but cumplay. Really in any way. He likes seeing it drip from your face, likes leaving a sticky mess in your hair, likes the way it pools in your belly button, how pretty your pussy looks when your lips are painted in white streaks. He likes watching it drip out of you, adores pushing it back in, your walls all soft and gummy and malleable it almost feels like they’ll absorb his seed. He’ll make you run errands in panties he just came in, smirks at the way you cringe a little if it’s already cooled down. At some point he spilled inside of you and took you out in public with nothing to catch it. He got to watch you shake with the effort of trying to keep it all in, but eventually you had to relax your muscles and let it drip down your legs, right there for anyone to see if they looked close enough.

And, that is what led him down the path of bladder control. It brings everything together—the control, the power, the trust, and then the relief. He doesn’t do it often and tries to stay within reason, but every once in a while he can’t help but pump you full of drinks and deny you the need to use the bathroom, sometimes for hours. He does everything in his power to make it harder, purposely bumping into you and pressing on your tummy, and when that first tiny squirt comes out, enough to leave a wet spot on your panties, he goes a little feral.

I could go on and on, but I’ll stop here (:

[throbby-robby]

anyways.

[throbby-robby]

how easy you are to need - part 2

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

<< part 1 ||

Summary: You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.

wc: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, explicit sexual content, robby is a tiny bit unhinged, possessive tendencies, oral (f!receiving), implications of a scent kink, reader is honestly so lovesick and hot for him (it’s mutual), fingering, vibrators

A/N: i’ve gotta get this out of my drafts and out of my sight. breaking it up cause I think posting like 10k of pure smut might be over the top and boring tbh so here is the first 5k of filth. enjoy <3

The way to your apartment is spent with both of your hands on the wheel and one of Robby’s on your thigh. He could have driven, is used to driving, but he’ll let you think you have some semblance of control. For now. 

He makes small talk about work the entire time, pretends like nothing is out of the ordinary, but he knows you’re barely listening, too focused on the road and doing your best to ignore the thumb stroking at the inner seam of your pants—up high, but not high enough. You squirm and bite your lip, and in the short span it takes to pull into your lot, Robby’s managed to make you swear a total of three times. 

It’s fucking intoxicating. 

The way you respond to him, angry and eager, then, once safely inside your home, completely pliant when he pins you to your front door. 

“You’re terrible, god—are you trying to kill me?” you huff when Robby bullies his leg between yours like he did earlier that day, only this time, he holds you by the hips and does the work for you, shifts you back and forth with a tight grip, 

And, he wishes he could see your expression, knows it must be fucking gorgeous just like the sounds you’re making, but he keeps his face buried in your neck, breathing heavy and grunting anything and everything he thinks might drive you a little more crazy. 

“So fucking needy, and I haven’t even touched you yet—gonna let me do whatever I want, aren’t you?”

You keen, hips rolling back and forth, side to side, desperately seeking the friction you just can’t get through all these goddamn layers. 

Even if you’re coming apart, you’ve still got that mouth on you, manage out a, “don’t get—nn—don’t go getting a b-big head,” that’s probably meant to sound indignant but is really just kind of adorable. 

Robby chuckles, still buried in your neck but tilting his head to run his chin over your cheek bone, grazing the shell of your ear as he goes, and you reluctantly reward him with a full body shiver. 

“Okay, fine, I’ll stop teasing,” he sighs with no intention of doing so. 

You must have some inkling of this because when he pulls away, he finds you watching him through narrowed eyes. 

“I don’t believe you,” said with a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. 

Robby grins in a way he hasn’t in years—all sideways and cocky. Fuck, when has he had someone so hungry for him? Him? Never, he thinks, no one has ever looked at him the way you do, shuddered at his touch, whimpered at the loss. 

He shouldn’t enjoy it so much, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t sending him on a bit of a power trip, but it’s more than that. 

You may be falling apart in his hands, but he’s holding you so tight so you won’t see how badly he’s shaking, wants his face hidden so you don’t see how bright it is, how cloudy his eyes are at the idea of getting to fuck you. 

Too long, Robby has wanted this for too long. An inappropriately long time, and now he has it. He gets to mold his lips against yours and feel the way your thighs quiver around his. He gets to follow you deeper into your apartment, to keep his hands on you even when you get to the bathroom. 

Robby’s got his tongue in your mouth by the time you make it to the sink, grinds his hard cock against your ass when you bend to turn on your shower, is on his knees when you start stripping your clothes off. 

Who is he? What has fucking possessed him? He’s more desperate than he’s ever been in his life. Not even the horniest of his teenage years can compare to this. 

Teeth on your hipbone, Robby hooks his fingers into the waistband of your scrubs and slowly pulls them down, nibbles over your skin until he reaches your naval then drags his mouth back to the side. 

Your hands are in his hair, fingers curled tight then loosening over and over again. It’s when he rubs his chin against the sensitive curve of your hip that he realizes it’s his beard that’s making you squirm, and if you’re this twitchy now, you’re gonna be a fucking mess when you feel his face between your legs. 

Once you’ve stepped out of your pants, Robby grumbles a warning, “gonna touch this pussy now,” but doesn’t wait for a response before running his middle finger along your slit, pushing a little, “ah—ha, fuck,” from you. 

He’s delighted to see your stomach muscles contract in response, but that’s nowhere near as satisfying as the way your knees literally buckle when Robby slides his finger into your cunt. 

His shoulders catch you, weight making him grunt first then groan when you start to shake. 

“Let me—god, let me shower first,” you try, planting your palm against his forehead when he surges forward in his first attempt to taste you. 

Robby’s gaze wanders up your body, naked and perfect, and he focuses his eyes, big and brown, the ones that used to get him everything he wanted, on yours when he urges, “one lick?”

You squeak like you’re offended by the request, laugh a little incredulously while posing the question, “how the fuck can a man your age make such good puppy-dog eyes?”

Robby laughs through his nose, “years of practice,” and this time when he leans in, you don’t stop him. 

It isn’t just one lick, but Robby knew it wouldn’t be, never planned for it to be, and tonight he is all about plans. 

His knees are gonna hate him in the morning (and his back. And his shoulders. And his neck. And everything else), but as soon as the tip of his tongue slides between the very apex of your folds—already wet, already dripping for him—making direct contact with your swollen clit, you buck against his face, and Robby…

Robby loses it. 

Bottles and products and whatever fucking else go flying when he lifts you onto the counter—

“Fuck—Robby, Robby! Jesus Christ,” you’re squealing but he barely hears you. 

You taste so fucking good, grateful he was able to do this before you got in the shower, and Robby knows there’s a level of self-consciousness right now—he’ll let you rinse off, he will, but fuck, you have nothing to be worried about. He hasn’t even seen it aside from in that video, hasn’t appreciated it past tasting it, but Robby is obsessed with your pussy. Wants to live here, wants to drown. 

“Robby, please,” you moan, “don’t wanna—don’t want this t-to be how—fuck, don’t make me cum like this!”

Raising his gaze first to your heaving chest then to your beautiful face, Robby sits back on his heels but keeps both hands on your spread thighs, uses a thumb to rub circles over your slick clit in place of his tongue. 

“What is it?” he asks (croaks). 

“There’s just,” you make an incredibly pitiful noise and roll in time with his tiny strokes, breathless as you explain, “there’s shit, like, digging into my back and—and the mirror’s cold,” you blink down at him with wet eyelashes, and Robby actually feels kinda bad. “Just wanna really enjoy what I’ve wanted for so long, please.”

Yeah, that gets him back to his feet real fucking fast, and Robby pulls you from the countertop with a gentleness he hasn’t shown until now. 

Holding you close, he runs his palms from your shoulder blades to your waist, feels the different imprints from whatever had been behind you and massages the blood back into every crease while apologizing. 

“Got kind of… ” he laughs to himself, “carried away,” and, using one hand to rub the back of his neck, he’s trying so fucking hard to stay casual in the midst of his brain screaming at him. 

He can feel the rise and fall of your chest, your much smaller hands making their way under the hem of both of his shirts. 

Your cold skin makes him hiss quietly, and you grin up at him, “it’s what you get for making me stand here completely naked. Think it’s time for you to lose the clothes, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby shakes his head, which probably comes off as a gesture of amusement, but it’s not. 

Contrary to what you may be thinking, he has no desire to strip. Not yet, anyway. 

Standing on your tiptoes, you tug him down for another electrifying kiss, scratch lightly down his ribs, and Robby grunts at the sensation, then bites down on your lip. He keeps one hand on the back of your head while wiggling his other between the two of you, paying your tits some much deserved attention. 

Stepping back, Robby massages both of the soft mounds, has to do more than just stoop to get his mouth low enough to place a wet kiss on each of them, left then right. 

Without looking up from your chest Robby orders, “get in the shower,” voice like rolling thunder.

“Wha—mm,” you falter when he flicks his tongue over your hardening nipple, fingers closing over the other and pulling just enough to elicit another pretty moan. “But, you’re still… oh, s-still have clothes on.”

“Mhmm,” Robby nods, smiles when you try to push your tits closer to his face, “‘cause I’m not getting in with you.” 

He stops his little attack and straightens up. The way you're pouting at him shouldn’t make his cock hard, but goddammit, it does. 

“Why not?”

Your bottom lip pushes out, makes it easy for Robby to trap between two fingers. A hum of confusion lilts upward as you try to pull out of his grip, but Robby only pinches harder. 

“You wanted someone to watch you, right?” he drawls, and his tone is similar to the one he uses on the interns when they ask genuinely stupid questions. “It’s the only reason I can think of for sending your cute little pictures and videos to someone—” and he might squeeze the nipple he’s still rolling between his fingers just a little too hard. 

Thinking about it again, Robby feels a new sort of irritation flare to life inside of him. It’s not the heat that accompanies anger nor the sickness of jealousy. This is… Possessive. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced it before. Not like this. 

You sent someone else those pictures and that video. On purpose. You’d taken all of it for another man, and all because—

Robby catches the way his masseter works to slide his jaw forward, close to bearing his fucking teeth. He relieves some tension by rolling his shoulders, and when he stretches his neck from side to side, he hears the tell-tale crack of joints. 

He feels a little crazy. You’re driving him fucking wild just by standing here with your hands on his torso, mouth open, eyes wide, fuck—fuck. 

Coarse and corrupt, Robby tells you, “the only reason you’d send someone a video of you playing with your pussy is so they can watch you do it, so that’s what I’m doing,” lips brushing your forehead, “I’m watching.” One more slow, deep breath, then Robby exhales all once— “get in the fucking shower.”

To tell the truth, it might be a good idea for him to step away for a second, rein in his thoughts, stop acting like a fucking psycho, but how is he supposed to leave when you move away on wobbly legs, when you look so pretty standing under the spray? The dark outer curtain is still bunched up in the corner, leaving a clear plastic sheet as the only barrier between you and Robby. 

You’re slightly distorted, but if anything that makes it better. He can see the curves of your body, the motion of your arms when you lather your hair with shampoo. The scent fills your bathroom, and, suddenly lightheaded, Robby is glad he’s posted up against the wall across from you, legs crossed at the ankles, hands locked together over the top of his head. 

He barely even notices how hard he is, and when he does, he really doesn’t care. You are his top priority tonight. Taking you apart, making you cum over and over again. He wants to see shiny tears stream down your face so that he can kiss them away, wants to make your body quake just so he can hold you through it. He wants to leave a print of himself inside of you. He wants, wants, wants. 

It was always there, laying dormant at the back of his mind—this urge to touch you, feel you. Robby bookmarked every time he made you shiver, took too much satisfaction when you’d stare and smile like he’d hung the moon. He bathed himself in every interaction, got off to a few of them, but even then, even when he recognized his attraction to you, he didn’t think that he’d be like this when he finally got his hands on you. He didn’t think he’d lose the ability to think rationally. 

After checking a couple of cabinets Robby finds a stack of towels and pulls one out, has it ready when you step out of the shower. You gaze up at him with foggy eyes the entire time he dries your hair, and he holds that gaze, feeling his expression—his mind—soften. 

Once your hair is no longer dripping, Robby moves downward, towels off your shoulders, your neck, earns a flutter of eyelashes when he gets to your chest and purposely runs the terry-cloth over your perky nipples. Ribs, stomach, back, thighs, his lips brush over your pelvis, and your nails scratch at his scalp when he sucks a harsh bruise into the divot of your hip. 

The sounds you make are so… Fuck, he could get drunk off of them. Already is, actually, and Robby wants you to make more of them. 

“Time for clothes?” he prompts, smiling up at your slow, dazed nod from where he’s still squatted. 

Your hand slides from his head down to his cheek, and Robby turns into it, kisses your palm before getting back to his feet. 

“Followin’ you.”

He holds you by the shoulders lightly, letting you guide him down the hall and into your bedroom. 

It fits you, Robby thinks, with one corkboard full of smiling friends and family, another with notes and diagrams pinned all over. Your bed is halfway made, topped with too many pillows and a well-loved quilt. Robby sits down on the mattress and watches as you open a couple different dresser drawers. 

He’s barely made contact with the sheets when he sees a flash of lace, and then he’s standing all over again and striding up behind you. 

The panties are cute—of course they are. A light purple that probably looks beautiful stretched over your waist, but Robby isn’t interested in anything forced or uncomfortable. 

Able to see into the open drawer from over your shoulders, he reaches in and rifles through your underwear until he procures a classic bikini cut, printed with light pink flowers. His eyes land on the tiny bow at the front, and Robby almost comes on the spot. 

“These,” he huffs, nuzzles into your temple and surrounds himself with the scent of your shampoo. “No one to impress. I just want you to be yourself tonight.”

Robby should start taking notes of the things he says that prompt strong reactions, especially the ones that get you to pivot on your toes and pull his face down to yours. You kiss him hard, tongue lashing against his in his mouth, and Robby has to brace himself on the dresser behind you to keep himself upright. 

“You’re fucking killin’ me,” he pants, the hand on your back pulling you closer and closer until your hips are rolling against his cargo pants. 

You could make a mess all over him, Robby knows, and he entertains a brief fantasy of holding you on his lap at work, making you leak all over his thigh then wearing you for the rest of the day. 

He needs his dick inside of you, fucking Christ, he needs to feel your pussy clench and flutter—shit, fuck. 

Not yet. He remembers the way you had begged him to let you relax and get comfortable before making you come, and that still applies now. Robby wants to have you spread out on his bed, wants a clear view of your face and body when he wrings out everything you’re able to give him. 

His hand dances between your legs, fingertips teasing over you, and when he feels heat radiating from your core, Robby can’t help but groan and push a digit between your slick folds. He’s met with warm arousal and a tight hole, rewarded with a soft, wanton moan and your nails in his traps. 

Is he really patient enough to make it all the way to his house? Is he strong enough? 

He has to be. Plans—he has so fucking many, some just for tonight and some extending quite a bit farther. 

“Finish getting ready,” Robby mumbles against your lips, giving one small thrust of his finger before pulling back and away. “Pack a few things,” he sounds absentminded, examining the juice you left on his hand, crystalline and glistening, “then you can show me your collection.” 

Robby sucks your arousal from his finger, eyes on you the whole time, and you look like you want to kiss him again, your grip on his shoulders tensing and relaxing a few times before you exhale a shaky breath and move away from him to do exactly as instructed. 

Even if a little sassy, you’ve always listened to Robby—happy to learn, happy to help, happy to make him happy. 

Apparently, that applies outside of the hospital as well, taking his earlier words to heart and slipping into an old college T-shirt and a pair of stupid tiny drawstring shorts. Robby tracks your every movement as you pad over to your nightstand and bend at the waist, showing off the curve of your ass while retrieving the toys he wants to see so fucking badly. 

“Mkay, so this is old faithful,” you begin, tossing what Robby’s pretty sure is a clit sucker onto the bed, “I also have this wand, but it’s, like, too much most of the time.”

He grabs the vibrator as soon as you put it down. Too much? Robby powers it on to assess, hums at the tremor that shoots up his arm, masks his inward smirk with surprise that’s not entirely faked. This thing definitely hits heavy, could probably overstimulate to the point of desensitization. 

He’ll figure all that out later, though, when he gets you into his bed.

Moving on, you wave a familiar teal dildo and look at Robby with a lifted eyebrow, “I assume you want to see this?”

“Might be good to start with,” he shrugs because while the toy is an okay size, Robby himself has a good couple inches on it, not to mention a significantly larger girth. 

You stare at him for a moment, but he doesn’t elaborate, just tosses the vibrator back on the bed before nodding toward your drawer. Keep going. 

“Everything else in here’s really just failed experiments, I guess,” you tell him, scanning over various shapes and colors before you stand up straight. 

Robby cocks his head to the side in question, and somehow you’re able to read it. 

“Ya’ know,” you wave a dismissive hand and attempt to explain, “things that didn’t feel as good as I wanted them to or, like, just didn’t work for me.”

“Define ‘work’.”

Robby’s eyes are drawn to your collarbone when you shrug but quickly trail down to the perky little buds he can see through your thin t-shirt. 

You catch it, fight a shiver at the intensity, but can’t appreciate it too much when your mind is suddenly buzzing with apprehension. 

What doesn’t work for you? Why is it so hard for partners to get you off? You know the reason, but it’s hard to say out loud. 

Which is pretty stupid, actually, considering it’s a common problem among the female population. Fuck, it’s not even a problem; it’s just anatomy and sensitivity, and Robby will understand. He’s a doctor in his 50s, not some frat boy bitch. 

Still, you nibble on your lip, look away for a few seconds, and though he doesn’t speak, you can tell Robby is expectant, fists in his jacket pockets with his shoulders forward as he dips down to get a better look at your face. 

“It’s dumb—I’m being dumb,” you shake your head. Just say it. It’s not gonna send him running. “I can’t come from penetration alone.”

Robby’s eyebrows pull down and together, one slightly higher than the other. Not quite frowning, he pushes his lips out in a confused sort of pout, almost like he doesn’t know why you’re telling him. “Is this your way of giving me a heads up?”

“I guess? I usually don’t, but…” you do frown, deep set and wrinkling your forehead, and you try to explain yourself, “it’s like—I don’t really bring it up with partners, especially if it’s not a long-term thing, and that way I can, ya’ know, go into it with lowered expectations, or really no expectations, so when it’s all said and done, I’m only a little disappointed when—”

“Stop,” Robby shakes his head, “stop talking, just—you’re telling me whenever you have sex, you go into it with no fucking intention of getting off?”

You sigh, “it’s not always about the orgasm, Robby.”

“Okay, so one, fuck that.” He sounds like he’s about to lecture you, which is, in fact, exactly what he does. “I know it’s not always about finishing, and I know the statistics. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to fucking come, Jesus Christ.”

“I know that,” you grumble, “it’s just more trouble than it’s worth most of the time. And, if I tell them, ‘hey, I’m not gonna get off from your dick alone’, it’s like… like they wanna challenge it somehow? Like, their dick is gonna break some kind of curse. I don’t know—guys are fucking weird, and your egos are easy to bruise, so why?”

Head hanging back and looking at the ceiling, Robby lets out a frustrated breath. Closes his eyes. Shakes his head for the upteenth time. 

He’s trying to come up with the right response, you think, and you see him suck his teeth before he steps closer to your bed and sits down heavily. You let him pull you to him, guiding you to his lap. Straddling him like this, you’re reminded of how fucking big he is. You’re used to having to look up at him, and you recognize that he has a broad frame, but it’s usually a passive observation—something fleeting, not fully appreciated. 

Now, though, his shoulders seem endless where your forearms lay, and your legs are spread wide to accommodate his, and his hand spans the entire length of your face, heel of his palm against the side of your chin while his fingertips rest in your hair at the curve of your fucking skull good God almighty. 

“I need you to listen very fucking closely,” he starts, and oh, he’s doing that thing where he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head—the same way he does when he’s about to teach a valuable lesson or reassure a nervous resident, and it’s always made you melt. Always. 

But, now he’s right here, and he’s so warm, and you’re in his lap, and your thoughts are racing so fast that it takes extreme effort to focus on what he says. 

“Whatever you did or didn’t do or faked with previous partners,” his jaw ticks when he says this, “you will not fucking do tonight, got it?” You can only stare at him, which is apparently unacceptable because Robby presses his fingertips into the small of your back just a little harder, enough to make you arch away from them and further against him. 

God, he’s so hot like this. 

“O-okay, yeah, got it,” you agree with a whimper. 

When you rock your hips a tiny bit, Robby spreads his legs which, in turn, spreads yours, until there’s a wide enough gap between your thighs that leaves absolutely nothing to rub your pussy against. Diabolical. 

Robby chuckles when you whine pathetically, nuzzles into your neck and admonishes, “told you to listen to me, but you just wanna act like a bitch in heat.”

It shouldn’t turn you on, but the way his voice rumbles against you and vibrates in your ear has wetness pooling in your panties, and the way he’s got you splayed open, you’re probably dripping onto your bedspread. 

“m’listening, I’m listening, I promi—” you break off in a gasp when he pushes you backward in his lap just enough to work an arm between you, cupping your aching cunt with his hand. 

He sounds disbelieving as he mumbles, “how have you already managed to get these little shorts all wet?”

Your jaw falls open when he rubs you through them, and you can’t help the way you move, how you beg for more with your actions alone. 

“Still listening?” he teases, and you nod. After all, you are… on some background level. 

Humming, Robby adds pressure to one of his fingers, the length of it slipping between your folds, pushing your panties along with it so that you immediately soak the cotton. 

It feels a bit like he’s mocking you about how insanely worked up he’s gotten you, but even if he’s making fun, it’s still burning you up, stoking the fire in your gut. 

“I am gonna take such good fucking care of you tonight,” he picks back up, “hear me? You’re gonna forget about every,” his finger presses harder, “single,” a little more, “one of those motherfuckers,” and when he slides the tip of that first digit inside of you, cotton and all, you suck in a deep breath. 

“Mmm, please,” you whine, starting to twitch all over. 

Robby lets out a condescending little, “aw,” and pushes your loose shorts and underwear to the side, showing you mercy as he shoves two impossibly thick fingers into your sopping pussy. 

You ride them. You ride them like you would his cock, bucking and grinding and moaning his name into his mouth when he kisses you with a grin, “you should see yourself right now, how pretty you are fucking yourself like this—poor baby,” he croons, “told me you didn’t wanna come in the bathroom, but you seem more than ready now.”

“Goddammit, Robby,” you shudder, trying and trying and trying so hard, but you still need— “fuck, use—can you—your th-thumb or palm or something—”

You won’t get there unless he touches your clit, and the way his hand is curled does not allow that. His fingers feel amazing inside of you, up against your g-spot, making you drip, but no matter how hard and fast you rut, it’s useless. 

Robby looks positively devilish, brown eyes heavy-lidded with lust as his mouth pulls up on one side, a lazy sort of smirk you’ve never seen on him before. 

“Now why would I use my thumb when I can use this instead?”

You fall forward when he removes the hand from your back to grab the vibrator you’d cast aside. Your breath stutters, so many protests on the tip of your tongue, but Robby’s already got it turned on and is guiding it to your spread legs to cradle it in the palm of the hand halfway inside of you. 

You’re lucky for the thin layers of material between your clit and the toy—the whole reason you weren’t able to grind into his palm, but even with that barrier you quake. It’s still too much, too much sensation, too much desire, too much Robby. He spreads his fingers across your back again, holds you against his chest and keeps you there like he keeps the wand against where you’re most sensitive.  

You’re crying into his shoulder, his shirt growing damp with the spit you can’t suck back into your mouth, and you barely even realize your jaw is locked, teeth buried in the column of his throat, until Robby groans and swears and tilts his head to give you more skin to work with. 

And, you do, leaving bite marks and bruises and a trail of saliva as you tremble, bend, break. Then, with a broken cry that could get you evicted, you come so hard you might black out for a second. 

When you fall back into your body, it’s to feel Robby stroking your lower back, tender where he brushes over your spine. His cheek is pressed to your temple, and the way he’s shushing you, telling you to, “breathe,” is like the purr of a big cat, deep and a little dangerous even through the calm. 

[throbby-robby]

I hate when men know they’re cute get back in the cage

[throbby-robby]

If you had any balls at all, you would have told Baz the truth, but no, you just told me. Do you know why? Because you were worried he'd choose her. And that's your biggest fear. That Baz would leave you- Baz!

[throbby-robby]

season five pope skating is something that can actually be so personal to meeee

[throbby-robby]

Pope is protective when it comes to other people having to kill.

He warns J that it won’t feel like he thinks it will. His voice breaks saying it.

When Deran kills Colby, he recognizes it as his first. He understands the weight of it without Deran having to say anything. He talks him through the clean up. He puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. He checks up on him after. He takes it without a fight when Deran yells at him how they’re not the same. He lets Deran put himself into another category, not a freak and a killer like Pope. Even though they really are the same.

Pope is not emotionless about killing and I don’t know why none of them can see that. Smurf sees it and she exploits it. She feeds all the dangerous parts of him and starves the needy ones. She made him into a weapon and I’d argue he resents that more than anything else she’s done to him.

Smurf told him he was a killer and he believed it. He believed there wasn’t another way, that he couldn’t be a good person. She treated him like everyone would be better off without him and that became truth to him. To all of them.

He didn’t have to be this broken thing.

In the last episode, when he pulls J out of the pool, he says that Julia wanted him to be stronger than he was, to be normal. He thinks she was wrong but what if she was the only one who was right? She knew him better than anyone. She knew him before he was Pope. Before he was a killer. Before he lost hope that he could be anything but a monster. She saw him.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Andrew always was a very good boy.

Ps. Baz saw the good, emotional parts of Pope and tried to beat them out of him. How he was good to Lena. How he had a connection with Amy. With Cath even. With Julia. With Smurf. Baz played both sides every chance he could and I’m inclined to believe he only forgave Pope for killing Cath as a manipulation. Apparently I’m taking the hard stance that Pope is Good and Baz is Bad.

[throbby-robby]

PEDRO PASCAL Vanity Fair | July - August 2025

[throbby-robby]

the pitt + taylor swift songs mel king - "you're on your own, kid"

[throbby-robby]

I’m just gonna leave this here 😙

[throbby-robby]

Robby fingering you for so long his fingers get all pruney. Thny you suck on them and grind on his lap until he cums just from that and you’re both a mess.

😵‍💫😵‍💫

Robby’s fingers are so long you’d deep throat him while dry hump him until he comes in his pants and you come ON his pants and you’re both wrecked from basically doing nothing

[throbby-robby]

The Pitt 1.08 — “2:00 PM”

[throbby-robby]

[throbby-robby]

[throbby-robby]

Animal Kingdom 6x01: 1992

[throbby-robby]

Animal Kingdom 6x01: 1992

[throbby-robby]

robby + possessiveness

• f!reader, shorter than robby, angry robby, unprotected rough sex, possessive behaviors

wc: 1.3k

You don’t know how it started, and you don’t know how it ended, but it doesn’t matter. You just know that it did. Everything that happened between you and Robby. From the game of cat and mouse, to the falling into bed, to the screaming match when it all fell apart—it all happened.

And, you never got over it, over him, still saw him almost every shift, had to swallow tears and bile every time he looked at you in exasperation, sometimes even resentment. He hated you; at the end of it all, he had no problem dismissing you from his mind and from his life (as much as he could anyway).

Months later, you’re still broken over it. Skittish and meek around him, so unlike yourself. All you want is to be in his good graces again. You don’t—you don’t even need the relationship, if you could just get him to smile at you…

An impossible task, obviously. You’re so far off his radar, you don’t think Robby even notices you anymore, not even when he steps into the exam room you’re in, talking with a patient and building a rapport as you assess his swollen knee, poking and prodding, doing your best to make the man laugh inbetween the pained hisses.

“I can take over,” Robby states, voice gruff as he pulls on a pair of gloves.

“Oh,” you glance back at him and try your best to look a little less pathetic than you feel. “I’ve got it. We’re okay in here, right, James?” asked as you smile at the patient.

“Yeah, she’s doing a great job!”

Robby narrows his eyes. “I’m sure she is. Unfortunately, she’s needed somewhere else.”

You’re sent to the central hub where Dana looks at you over her glasses.

“He said to talk to me?” she questions, and you nod. The older woman glances at the room Robby is sitting in and rolls her eyes. “Fucking men. Okay, uhh, let’s see what I can find for you.”

What she can find for you? But, he said…

Were you doing something wrong? Why would he have stepped in? It had seemed like James was feeling fine aside from the pain in his knee. His vitals were fine. He wasn’t screaming. In fact, he was grinning, able to joke with you even when you made him wince.

Had you spent too long in there? Was Robby just trying to embarrass you? You have no idea, not until hours later as your shift comes to an end.

You’re about to grab your backpack when Robby steps into the locker room, uncaring of the other doctors who also occupy the space when he points directly at you, curling his finger in a ‘come here’ motion.

Heart dropping, mouth going dry, you abandon your bag and follow him all the way out of the EC to the elevators. The longer he’s silent, the closer you are to crying. He’s about to yell at you, you just know it. He’s being nice enough to do it out of earshot of your colleagues, but it looks like he might be gearing up to get loud as he holds his elbows and grits his teeth.

Third floor, a walk to a separate tower, and then you’re standing in front of an on call room.

The last time you were in here with Robby it was under vastly different circumstances.

“I, um… I don’t think it’s a good idea…”

“Just get in the fucking room—go.”

He already sounds so angry. Being in such a small space when he’s radiating this sort of stifling, oppressive heat does not sound like a great recipe for your general well-being.

You’ve never been able to say no to him, though. Except for the one time that you did, and it had led to the implosion that ended your relationship.

So, you step inside, shivering the way you do in the dead of winter. Robby shuts and locks the door, steps up behind you and tells you to, “look at me.”

When you do, it’s with glistening eyes and your bottom lip between your teeth.

Robby’s expression changes immediately, falling into something remorseful, and Jesus, when’s the last time he’s stared at you with anything other than disdain?

“Shit—no, no, don’t be—I didn’t mean to scare you, fuck,” he babbles, hushed and all at once as he wraps himself around you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He’s stroking your hair and hugging you close, and you’re sniffling into the space under his collarbone, trying to calm down so that you can actually appreciate the feeling of him like this. It’s been so fucking long, and you’ve missed him every second of every day since he’d stormed out of your apartment.

“Why are you,” you take in a sharp breath, try to blow it out in an even stream, “you look so mad. What did I do?”

Robby is still apologizing, fingers feather light where they brush your hairline at the nape of your neck.

“I’m sorry, I am. You—that patient, and you were laughing with him, and looking at him like…”

Your face is tilted up, held by his warm hands, and a spark of that fury returns to his eyes for a split second when he snaps, “you can’t fucking do that.”

“I wasn’t doing anything!” you defend yourself, try to move back even an inch, but Robby’s fingers are still curled around the back of your head, and he doesn’t let you.

It makes your blood go hot, makes you feel trapped.

Makes you feel wanted.

“You were jealous,” you utter when it dawns on you, “that’s why you pulled me out of there.”

Robby shuts his eyes but still doesn’t let you move. When he looks at you again, he confesses in a rumble, “I am jealous of every fucking person you talk to. Anyone you pay any attention to. You’re like a goddamn disease I can’t get rid of—”

He cuts himself off by crushing you in a bruising kiss, and you push yourself to your tiptoes to press back into it.

It’s hungry. It’s mean. The way his hands grip you tighter and he bites down on your lip, the way you dig your nails into his neck and scratch.

Swearing, Robby backs you up until you fall onto the small bed, strips off his jacket and shirts as you do the same. You reach for him, beg for him, until he’s on top of you again, grinding his cock over your pussy, and you’re already so wet, clenching for him.

You should both stop so he can get you ready, get you stretched enough to take him comfortably, but Robby doesn’t pause, and neither do you.

You want that burn. You want the air knocked out of you, you want to whine and quake and whimper. You want to feel him even if it hurts.

Robby lines himself up with your dripping hole, smears some of your slickness over his leaky tip before letting it catch right inside that ring of muscle.

“Say it,” he huffs, leaning over you close enough to see the desire pooling in your eyes. “Say you need me.”

You nod with a shudder, hands finding his shoulders, “I do, I do, I need you so bad.”

Robby’s smile looks relieved, his eyelids fluttering as he leans down for another kiss, the thick head of his cock slipping all the way past your entrance, and he inhales the quiet moan that you exhale into his mouth.

Skin to skin, tangled with each other for the first time in what feels like forever, Robby growls against your lips, “now, say it louder.”

He pushes every inch of himself inside of you all at once, splits you open the way a scalpel splits skin, and when you scream his name, Robby groans, starting a harsh, deep rhythm that has you choking on air and twitching all over.

“Just like that, sweetheart, just like that…” he pants into your neck, “you tell everyone in this fuckin’ hospital who you belong to.”