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He can see it, every moment of it, every time he lays himself down to sleep. Every second is in high definition, the smoke and haze of memory unable to tarnish it for whatever reason. He rests against the pillow, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. Moments later, the image comes into focus, bright and hyper-real and he resigns himself to reliving it once more.
The first thing that comes back to him is the way her hands gripped his tie. He can’t remember just how they went from mocking the video to making out, but he does remember the way it felt to let her be in control, his own hands gentle and careful where hers were harder, rougher, and demanding. She pulled him to his feet by his tie, mouth never separating from his. She pushed his jacket off of his shoulders while he toed off his socks and shoes in one smooth motion, the clothes falling where they did. (It was the first time he recalled not caring about his suit.)
She was undoing his belt one-handed (his own were checking for cuff links) when suddenly the world’s axis shifted and they were lying on the edge of her bed.
She burst into laughter. “You were supposed to be watching out for me.”
“I don’t live here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“You’d have let me run into something?”
“Shut up, Scherbatsky.” With some measure of grace, he popped the button on her fly open and tugged the zipper down, careful to let his hands skim over the planes of her stomach. He felt her skin twitch as she shivered. His hands shifted from the waistband of her jeans to the outsides of her hips and down her thighs. Bunching his fingers in her jeans, he pulled down in two firm tugs. She braced herself on her elbows and raised her hips, the pants coming off smoothly. She kicked them off and pulled him up towards her.
Her kiss was aggressive and greedy; her lips pressed against his, bruising and dominant. Her hands reached up and undid button after button, then raked nails against his chest, fingers tangling in the fine dusting of chest hair and pulling on them roughly. His sharp cry of surprise was swallowed by her none-too-gently pressing her tongue into his mouth. She pushed the shirt off of his shoulders and tossed it into a corner of the room, fingers pressing into his shoulder blades and nails cutting little crescent moons into his skin.
He braced himself and then rolled them both over so that she straddled him, her weight pressing him into the mattress. His legs hung off of the edge of the bed at the knee, toes touching the ground. She broke the kiss and pushed the hair out of her eyes while his hands skimmed up the sides of her torso, making her shirt ride higher. Leaning forward, he kissed her stomach, openmouthed and wetly. It left glistening marks of moisture on her skin, and she pulled her shirt over her head and off. It joined his shirt on the floor. His hands slid to her back, then up to her bra clasp. In deft movements, he had unhooked her bra and pulled it off of her, tossing it, too, aside. His hands reached up to cup her breasts, thumbs gently running over the nipples. She arched her back and moaned, leaning forward into his touch. The soft noises she made, quiet gasps and the way she bit her lower lip, made the blood rush to his cock, and he sat up carefully, hands moving to once more slide along her body. He kissed his way up her torso, lips lingering on her stomach, tongue dipping into the valley of her breasts, teeth nipping at each rosy nipple in turn. Her hands ran through his hair, reflexive actions as she made those soft noises that he could not seem to resist eliciting from her. He moved upward, slowly placing an openmouthed kiss in the hollow of her throat, then moving to gently bite down on her pulsepoint. His own raced in his ears, and beads of sweat left his skin slick and salty. Her head lolled to one side as he sucked and bit in turn until the flesh was worried and red from his ministrations.
Meanwhile, her hands had alighted on his belt buckle, and she pulled and fumbled blindly until the clasp was undone and the zipper lowered. Lowering his hands to the bed, he levered himself up until she managed to pull the slacks off of him, allowing them to fall where they were. They moved backward on the bed so that his feet didn’t hang off of the edge anymore, kissing with each lateral shift until Barney was at the head of the bed and Robin was on top of him, and both of them were just in underwear.
“Robin,” he murmured against her mouth between her fierce kisses. “Robin, are you sure about this?”
“Do you always talk during sex?” she retorted, avoiding his question by rolling off of him and shimmying out of her panties. “This isn’t about you.”
“I know that,” he tossed back, moving on top of her and kissing the sensitive undersides of her breasts. “If you’re sure.” One finger gently rubbed against the slit of her lower lips; the simple, gentle action caused her whole body to spasm. “Sensitive much?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” he responded easily, and parted her legs. Leaning forward, he licked gently, experimentally. A few moments later, his tongue was tangling with her clit, and his breath was warm and wet against her thigh. Her own voice was lost in pleasured noises; if there was one thing Barney knew how to do, it was pleasure a woman.
“God, you’re wet,” he breathed against her skin, lips pressing against her inner thigh. One hand shifted from her hip to her sex, the knuckle of his thumb brushing against her clitoris as he pushed two fingers into her. She gasped in surprise and pleasure, a gasp that evolved into a moan when he flexed his hand. He drank in the sight of her: brown hair fanned out against the pillow, face half turned away from him and in shadow, naked and flushed with bliss. Her body shuddered when he pulled the two fingers out, only to make her muscles clench when he introduced a third finger and began to stretch her. The quiet noises she was making spiraled into a mantra of “oh my god” murmured breathily into the night as every time his fingers pushed in further, her body arched and spasmed.
Once they were in as far as they would go, he flexed his fingers and flicked her clit in the same motion. Her orgasm rushed over her, making her inner muscles clench around his fingers. He kept rubbing her clitoris as she came, making her orgasm endure even longer. When she was done, she sighed, large and heavy, and her body relaxed visibly. “Oh my God,” she managed, voice breathy.
“You’re done already? ‘Cause I’m just starting.” He felt the smirk spread across his face and saw her eyes flash. In a breath, he was on his back, hands splayed out beside him. Her fingers traced over his chest. He shivered and moved to reach for her. She smacked his hands away and glared at him. Obediently, he left his hands resting against the mattress, fingers flicking against the folds of the sheets.
She continued to run her hands over his torso, nails leaving red lines where she dug them into his flesh. He hissed when she pressed into sensitive spots, and glared when she grinned. Then, dipping her head down, she placed wet, openmouthed kisses across his chest, tongue swiping out over the angry red lines. She pulled back and blew a cool breath across his skin. He made a low, short sound and his fingers flexed and relaxed against the sheets.
She kept going, moving lower; her tongue dipped into his navel. His abdomen twitched at the sensation, and she smiled against his lower belly.
(Every time he sees her smile, now, his whole body turns warm and the place where he felt her lips turn upward burns hotter than fire. It’s almost as though she branded him in that action alone.)
Her hands braced against his hips, thumbs digging into the soft spots and making him jerk up and his hands clench. She laughed, breath warm against his skin, and her hand covered his crotch, a firm squeeze making him hiss a breath and pull on the sheets.
In short pulls, his shorts were gone and his cock stood at attention, hard and straight. She wrapped a hand around the shaft and pumped twice, three times. He head pushed back into the mattress, eyes closed and mouth open. All he knew was what she did to him by touch alone. He felt her hands move over his cock, then cup his balls. Her nails gently scratched over his sex, making it twitch. He heard her laugh, soft and low.
“Christ,” he muttered, trying to press his skull into the floor through the bed.
Then, he felt the mattress shift and then knees pressing against either side of his waist. The soft brush of her hair skittered against his chest, cool and light. The pressure of her mouth against his surprised him, and he opened his eyes. When she saw him seeing her, she grinned and shifted her hips, and then he was inside of her. Her eyes closed and she rolled her hips, mouth dropping open in pleasure. He grinned and shifted himself, earning a pleasured moan for his trouble. His hands came up to brace against her hips, fingers splayed and digging into her skin. Her own hands ran over and over his torso, rubbing looping patterns across the planes of his chest.
She moaned, going harder and faster. He grunted and matched her, stroke for stroke. Pushing himself up, he kissed her fiercely, swallowing her voice as her hips moved erratically and then her muscles clenched around him.
“Robin,” he murmured against her skin, over and over like a mantra. Her orgasm rippled through her, making every muscle in her body relax at once. He kept bucking into her, making it last, until he, too, came.
They collapsed against the mattress tangled up against one another for several gasps of breath. Then: “You’re done already? ‘Cause I’m just starting.”
He laughed low in his throat and rolled them over. “Give me a minute, would you?” He kissed her, slow and languidly, without the intensity of need that had colored it earlier. She hummed contentedly and responded, breasts brushing against his chest.
Back in his bed, he curls a hand around his cock, already hard and erect. In firm strokes, he pumps himself, the rest of the memory enough fodder. He strokes and strokes and strokes, firm but not insistent, and falls asleep needy and aching a release, fingers curled around his sex even as he drifts off.
In the morning, he will jerk off in the shower, load blown with hardly any effort; hot water streaming over his skin, he will wrap a hand around his erection once more and pump. His hands will be slick with soap, and he will desperately try not to be thinking of anything, of no one, really. He will come, hard and explosively, and he will lean against the wall of his shower briefly, gasping for air and fingers straining for purchase against cold, wet tile. Water will stream over his shoulders, in his eyes, and down his face, and he will thumb his flaccid penis distractedly.
Because. Because the image in his mind will be of her breasts bouncing above him as she rocks back and forth on his cock. Because the sound in his ears will be the way his heart pounded when she said his name as she came again and again and again. Because. Because he’s so desperately in love with her that he has to make do with what he has, and this - the intangible remnants of high-definition memory (in stereo) - is all he has to hold onto, and he’s never been very good at letting go.
He turns off the water and ignores the echo in his ears (in his mind) of the way she laughed, low and soft, and of the way his name sounded just like a prayer.