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First time they have sex, Robby comes after forty seconds (fifty-five thrusts and two position changes) and then he—

“Are you crying?” she asks, aghast.

“No, shut up.” And to her relief, his eyes do look dry when he looks at her again. “Did you – did you come?”

“Is that a joke?” She sits up and reaches for her bra. All that work into getting wet enough, and for what. God, she hopes it gets better than this.

Robby swings his legs over the side of the bed but doesn't reach for his own shirt. His shoulders curve down as he hunches a little, and he stares at his feet.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I can – I'll do better next time.”

“Was that your first time?” she asks, without much hope the answer will change the outlook going forward. “I mean, with LaRusso, didn't you ever....”

“What?” His eyes go wide. “No, god no.”

She narrows her eyes. “Weren't you literally living in her house? What's wrong with you?”

“It felt wrong. I mean, she seemed like such a nice person, and—”

“Oh my god,” she says, and she gets up and leaves.



The only reason they keep trying is that it just seemed wrong, okay, that all those nerds at Miyagi-do were probably getting laid left and right and no one, like absolutely nobody in Cobra Kai was having any sex, except maybe Sensei and his weird friend.

A cobra strikes first. A cobra shows no mercy. A cobra should probably be having lots and lots of orgasms.

Robby seems to agree with her reasoning, which is good, because she really doesn't want to have sex with Kyler. Like, she doesn't even particularly want to have sex with Robby, but Kyler would be – just, no.



“Why'd you cut your hair short?” she asks. She's above him and he's inside her, and she's taking the opportunity to grind against his lap; she doesn't think this is doing much for him, but he can wait his turn.

“What?” He fumbles for her waist. “Oh – I was trying to duck the cops.”

“Right, that makes sense.” She coasts along the wave of pleasure; not a breaker so much a long chill roller, the kind where you could sit on your board and let carry you into shore. “I think I liked it longer. It was pretty.”

“Okay?” He sounds confused. His hands have not moved to touch her chest, and the waste is kind of killing her; she knows her tits look amazing in this bra. She stole it special from Macy's because of how amazing they look.

After a few minutes, she swings her leg over and climbs off him and settles on her back and he asks her if she came, and seriously, if he keeps asking about it, she's going to get a complex.

“I just want it to be good for you,” he says, as if she can't hear the truth in his voice: he wants to be good at something.



“You never thought about it when you were sparring?” she asks. He's thrusting behind her, and she wants to think about something other than the Velvet Underground & Nico banana poster hanging on the wall a foot from her face.

“Thought about – oh. No, no, of course not.”

“Why of course not?” she demands, looking over her shoulder at him, annoyed. “I think about it all the time when I spar. I mean, you see how a person uses their body in fight, makes sense to think about it.”

His thrusting slows. “I wouldn't want to think about having sex with Sam while trying to hit her.”

“You apparently didn't want to think about having sex with Sam, period.”

His thrusting stops. She sighs and hangs her head.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

And she would totally buy a vibrator, but she's broke and it's hard to shoplift from a store you're not old enough to enter.



Another time, she rides him slowly and tries to explain.

“It's about how a person moves with you. If they can block a strike, if they can land a hit, then they'd probably be good at sex.” Like, probably. “Because they're paying attention to your body, and they're responding to it. So like, say you were sparring with LaRusso – she's pretty agile, and her stamina's decent, but she's also so fucking emotional, you know? I bet it's exhausting. You just know she probably likes being held and kissed a lot during, and—”

“Tory,” says Robby, grimacing slightly, and she stops, looking down. Realizing, after a couple seconds. “Sorry, I just – I need a moment, I'm so sorry, I don't know why it's not—”

She sighs. “Look, you want to try eating me out?”

He pales. “Uh.”



Once, at the beach, she sees from a distance how Miguel catches Sam's arm and uses it to reel her in across the sand, and they're both smiling huge smiles as the light winks out in the shrinking space between their bodies, and Sam isn't shy about moving him where she wants him, and she isn't shy about sweeping his leg either, or rolling on top of him once he's fallen to the sand, and her hair is a long curling chestnut curtain concealing their kiss from outside eyes, and Sam LaRusso probably gets to come like, all the fucking time and it's not fair.



“I don't think this is working,” says Robby, after he's come (a minute and a half; 103 thrusts and no position changes). “You and me, I mean.”

She hadn't bothered taking her shirt off, and pulling her underwear back up her legs takes no time at all.

“Tory? I'm sorry.”

She should probably go pee.

“It's not you, really. It's – it's me.”

It'd be just her luck to get a UTI from this.