A/N: Hi everyone! Just as a point of reference, this story is set sometime around mid-season 5 (post Barney/Robin, pre-Don). Enjoy!
Robin Scherbatsky had always been in sync with her sexuality.
She was confident, smart, sexy, and she knew when she wanted—no, needed—sex. And when Robin Scherbatsky wantedneeded something the way she occasionally wantedneeded the feel of a strong, hot-blooded male between her thighs, well, Robin Scherbatsky got it. And she had no qualms about pursuing it, either. If a nice guy walked into the bar—tall, athletic, strong, handsome, exactly her type—and she was feeling in the mood, she would chase. Exude confidence, take her time, charm him with her pretty red lipstick and fingers running through soft hair and just a hint of cute little Canadian accent. She'd learned fairly early on in New York that plenty of American men had a thing her accent, and she used it to her advantage.
Robin Scherbatsky had never been a woman to pussyfoot around. She had never been one to deny—to others, sure, but most importantly to herself—the existence of her sexuality. Usually, she wanted romance. She liked flowers and date nights, a man's best behavior and maybe even a blue French horn. But occasionally, all she really wanted was a nice, hard fuck. Those times she liked a man who could scramble her brains, make her forget what she was and where she was and even her own fucking name. She did not tolerate mediocre sex. She liked the patch of skin under her right ear licked and her breasts were incredibly sensitive and any man who could not make her climax simply was not worth a second chance. It wasn't a very hard thing to do, really. She wasn't one of those women who couldn't relax, who couldn't just let herself go. And she didn't mind sweaty and sticky and dirty. In fact, she liked it.
She wasn't one for marriage and commitment, but when she found a man who could satisfy her she did prefer to date him exclusively. That way, she could have whatever she wanted—a close friend, someone to snuggle with, guaranteed orgasms on a regular basis, romance, fucking, whatever—right when she wanted it. But there were times when Robin wantedneeded to have her mind blown while she was single. Those times she wasn't above a one-night stand. One-night stands were risky, a gamble—not every man, regardless of degree of hotness, could handle her, but when she found one who could…oh, it was worth it. Totally. Worth. It.
And maybe that made her a little bit slutty. Whatever. She didn't care. It wasn't like she whored around MacLaren's 24/7. Only when she was having a dry spell, when it had been awhile since she'd had any sexual contact and she wantedneeded something to happen soon or the tension would kill her. And besides, she would much rather be herself than be one of those repressed, boring women. Women who just laid there in bed, who told themselves that it was okay that they never came during sex because they loved their partner. No. Robin Scherbatsky loved orgasms. She would settle for nothing less.
And she had always been this way. Always. Ever since she was, what, fourteen, maybe, and her hockey teammate Timothy Thornbeck had thought she was cute even though her father made her dress like a boy and cut her hair like a boy. He'd kissed her—the same boy her father had later caught her making out with—one night after practice in the locker room, and she remembered feeling something awaken deep down in her belly. It burned and it made her a little breathless, but she liked it. It was addictive. And at the end of the kiss, instead of being shy and embarrassed, she'd found herself wanting more.
Robin Sparkles had known exactly what she liked by the time she'd emerged. At first it had been the boys who seemed older and more experienced, and then, when she got tired of all the Simon-types offering her awkward, unsatisfying sex and then ditching her for girls like Louise Marsh, Robin Sparkles had moved on to men who were older and more experienced. Family friends, other Canadian celebrities, men in their twenties who at sixteen she was probably much too young for, but they'd tell her that she just didn't seem sixteen and they were probably right.
Robin Scherbatsky had always, always, been in sync with her sexuality. She liked her men big and hot and hard. She liked her sex slow, fast, gentle, rough, romantic, rushed, in bed, out of bed, in control, out of control, every which way and from every position imaginable. There was nothing she wouldn't try once, no toy she couldn't be persuaded into playing with. She didn't mind getting messy. She loved it dirty. She was not and would never be ashamed of her sexual appetite.
In fact, she was damn proud of it.
So naturally, by 2009, Robin Scherbatsky thought she knew what fantastic sex was. She thought she had flown as high as she could fly, screamed as loud as she could scream, burned as much as she could burn. She thought she knew what it was like to absolutely crave sex and to then have someone wholly satisfy her every need.
But then she began having an affair with one Barney Stinson. And he made every sexual encounter she'd ever had before him pale in comparison.
He did everything right. He would flick his tongue under her ear and tease her nipples with his fingers, press all the right buttons and touch all the right places until she was liquid in his arms. Sometimes they were soft and romantic, sometimes they were quick and rough. Sometimes they experimented—toys and positions she'd never heard of before, that she never could have even imagined would exist. He knew how to make her beg, to make her lose control. He liked it when she took control, when she forced him to beg and groan and say her name. They were always on the same page, neither of them ashamed to do anything in front of the other. He lit her entire body on fire, made her whimper, made her fingers spasm and her legs shake and that sweet, sweet spot between her legs ache and pulse deliciously.
And it was awesome.
She had thought she had been having fantastic sex before him, but even during the best of those encounters she had never, not once, come anywhere even remotely close to feeling what she felt with Barney Stinson. She didn't know why Barney was so different—or maybe she did, deep down, but they were Barney and Robin. He was a womanizer and she was…well, herself. Neither of them was very keen on commitment. And they both had daddy issues. So if she had any idea why Barney was so different, she kept it to herself, denied it, pushed it way down, even after all their friends found out they'd been screwing each others brains out all summer long and Lily forced them to accept girlfriend and boyfriend status.
Still, their breakup was hard on her, physically and emotionally. Harder than she'd care to admit to anyone. Harder than she'd ever expected, given that she'd gone into their relationship completely hip to the fact that they both sucked at commitment. She'd gone into their relationship with eyes wide open, reminding herself over and over again don't get caught up in him, don't fall in love with him, don't get used to sex like this on a regular basis. She had known the whole time that their relationship—like all the others—was sure to end.
And yet she couldn't stop herself from fucking falling.
Yes, their breakup hurt, and he didn't help matters by using that stupid playbook and fucking any woman that breathed mere days after they ended things, but emotions, she figured, she could eventually get over. It might take awhile, but it wasn't like she was in love with him or anything. She just…cared about him. A lot. But she could get over it, she could care about him as just a close friend. Emotionally, she knew she could move on.
However, from the very moment they'd called it quits—hell, from the very moment he'd grabbed her and kissed her at the hospital after Ted's goat incident—Robin Scherbatsky had the sinking feeling that she could look for a long time and never find a man who could do her as well as Barney Stinson could. She looked back on all the men she'd slept with before Barney and couldn't imagine herself sleeping with any of them again. If she let her eyes wander over a hot new guy at the bar she couldn't dream that sex with him would be anything but vanilla. She looked at Barney, and the simple truth was that she still wanted him, even as he paraded other girls in her face and boasted about the playbook and did things that plain and simple hurt her, she still wanted him. Her body had grown very accustomed to a certain standard of treatment, and her libido, as strong as it was, was going to be tough to break.
She just couldn't see herself getting over him physically, and she knew without a doubt, from the second they broke up, that that could only mean one thing.
She was fucked.
A/N: Hello HIMYM world! I'm pretty late to the game, but this is my first HIMYM fanfic! I'm pretty excited and a little nervous about it. Won't you leave me a review and let me know what you think? There may or may not be another chapter or two, depending on whether the good old muse strikes me!