Hiya so I've been lurking forever (you have written some of my all time favourite hotch fics) and I'm not sure if your event is still going on (congrats on the flat!! I think we're about the same age, and I just moved into my first one too, I hope it's all going well) but you mentioned hotch begging to fuck R in the ass until she agreed and pls pls elaborate bc this has lodged in my brain and I'm obsessed
Awwww sweetie!!! Thank you so much!!! Congrats on moving into your first flat!! It's going well so far, reno is a little slower than first expected cause the previous owner's daughter never took care of the apartment at all. But the bedroom is almost done and living room is almost there too.
It started one evening when you were tangled in his bed sheets, bodies slick with sweat after a particularly intense round of sex.
His hands slowly wandered across your back, tracing down the curve of your spine as he caught his breath. "You felt incredible, honey," he murmured against your neck, his voice rough from exertion.
Then, hesitantly, he added, "Have you ever... thought about trying something different from what we usually do?"
You slowly propped yourself up on your elbow, turning your attention to him fully, and looked at him curiously. "Like what?"
His eyes met yours. "Let me fuck your ass. I... I've always wanted to try it with you. Please, baby."
The words hung heavy in the air between you, and you weren’t sure how to respond. You felt a flush creep up your cheeks, mostly from surprise and a touch of discomfort, because you didn’t know if anal was something you wanted to try, to be honest. You'd never done it before, and the idea intimidated you. "Aaron, I love you, but... no. It scares me a little."
He nodded immediately, pulling you closer. "Okay, okay. I understand." You knew he was disappointed; you could see it in his eyes, but you also knew he wouldn’t pressure you into anything you weren’t 100% onboard with from the get-go.
But that didn’t stop him from asking again a couple of months later.
You were in the shower together, Hotch had just come home after a long case away. His arms were wrapped around you from behind as the water cascaded down your skin. His lips were latched to your shoulder, nipping gently, while his hand slid down your stomach and slipped between your thighs, fingers teasing your clit until you were moaning softly. "You're so perfect," he whispered, his cock pressing against your ass. "Imagine how tight you'd feel... please, let me try. I'll be gentle."
You tensed, turning in his arms to face him, the moment ruined. "Aaron, I said no. I'm not comfortable with it."
He sighed, resting his forehead against your shoulder. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't stop thinking about it. But if it's no, it's no."
His birthday rolled around, and it was a quiet affair. You'd planned a simple evening in: dinner at home—you’d cooked his favorite meal. His favorite brand of whiskey, and you curled in his lap, and a gift you'd been mulling over for weeks. But as you watched him unwind on the couch after work as you prepared the rest of dinner, his tie loosened, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, you felt a surge of something you couldn’t quite explain; all you knew was that it solidified the decision in your mind.
You'd done your research, thought about it endlessly since the last time he pushed the question at you. You trusted him completely; there was no doubt about it. He wouldn’t hurt you. So tonight, you'd give him what he'd wanted for so long.
After dinner, you led him to the bedroom. You kissed him, your hands working the buttons of his shirt as you pushed him gently onto the bed. "Happy birthday, baby," you whispered, straddling his lap. His hands gripped your hips, eyes darkening with desire.
"You’re spoiling me, honey," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.
You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. "Well, my ass has a gift for you tonight. If you still want to."
He froze, pulling back to search your face. To figure out if you were joking or not. "Are you serious? You don't have to—"
"I want to," you interrupted him, your voice completely steady despite the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach at the very moment. "I've thought about it for a long time. Just... be gentle, okay? Go slow."
His expression softened as a mix of awe and tenderness washed over him. He brushed the back of his hand across your cheek. "Of course. God, I love you." He kissed you.
Hotch helped undress you carefully, laying you back on the bed and trailing kisses down your neck, your breasts, your stomach. Down, down, down.
He took his time, making sure you were relaxed and aroused before even thinking about the main event.
"Turn over for me, sweetheart," he murmured, helping you onto your hands and knees. You felt exposed as you turned over. His fingers traced patterns on your back, smoothing down your spine; his touch was soothing.
Hotch reached for the nightstand as he spotted the lube you'd discreetly placed there earlier. He grabbed it and pulled back. "I'm going to prep you first, okay? Please, tell me if anything hurts, even a little. We stop whenever you say."
You nodded, burying your face in a pillow as you felt the cold feeling of the lube on his fingers. He started with one, circling your entrance gently before pressing in slowly.
The sensation was strange; you felt so full, it felt so intrusive, but not painful, not yet. He moved it in and out with an agonizingly slow pace, whispering praises the whole time. "You're doing so well... so beautiful like this."
When you relaxed around him, he added a second finger, scissoring them carefully to stretch you. A soft whimper escaped your lips, and he paused. "Too much?"
"No," you breathed. "Keep going. It feels... okay." You weren’t really sure how it was supposed to feel, but this was good, this was fine, as long as he kept going like this, you would be fine.
He kissed the small of your back, his free hand smoothing up your back, gently pressing your upper body further into the mattress, making you arch your back. "Good girl. You're so tight, baby. I can't wait to be inside you." His fingers kept working you open methodically, curling slightly to hit spots that made pleasure spark through the slight discomfort that was forming.
By the time he added a third, you were rocking back against him, your body starting to adjust, craving more of him.
"Ready?" he asked after what felt like an eternity, his voice strained with restraint, knowing he would have to keep himself in check for the duration.
"Yes," you whispered. "Please."
He withdrew his fingers with a pop, and you heard the squelch of the lube bottle being squeezed as he coated his cock until it was more slippery than an eel.
You felt the way his hand was fisteed around his cock as he pressed—almost forcefully—the blunt head against your anus. "Breathe for me," he said softly when he felt your body tense at the intrusion. He put his other hand on your lower back to steady you.
Hotch kept pushing in, slowly, so so slow. It was just the tip at first, and you gasped at the stretch as the head popped inside and your muscle closed around him. It burned, felt more intense than anything you’d ever felt before. But it was bearable for now, you just had to adjust.
"Shh, I've got you," Hotch soothed as you started trembling slightly. He slipped the hand holding his cock around your front, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in slow, firm circles, watching your body language until he determined that the pleasure had distracted you enough from the ache behind, for him to continue. "Tell me when."
"More," you managed during a moan. Hotch inched forward, pushing his cock inch by inch, until he stopped halfway in, letting you adjust once more.
The fullness was overwhelming, to say the least. You wanted to push, felt like you needed to. Instead, you ended up clenching around him. Hotch groaned, a groan so deep it migrated from his belly all the way to his throat, and the sound vibrated through you as he leaned forward, laying his weight down on your back.
"You're taking me so well," he praised, his breath was hot against your skin. "Almost there. God, you feel amazing, baby! You’re so tight, squeezing me so good." He moaned into your ear as he kept up the clit stimulation, building your arousal until the burn of him sheathing himself in further faded into a deep, throbbing need.
Finally, he bottomed out, his hips flush against the soft flesh of your ass. Hotch leaned back, taking in the way you were connected. He placed both of his hands on your cheeks and started massaging them. "How do you feel?" he asked.
"Full," you admitted with a shaky laugh. "But good. Move, please!"
“So impatient!” He gave you ass a smack before he started moving his cock with slow and shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as you relaxed under him.
Each slide in and out sent waves of sensation through you that you’d never expected this would feel like. It made your toes curl. His hands grabbed your hips gently, guiding his cock in and out with as little force as possible, while still fighting against your tight ring muscle.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned as he picked up his pace just a fraction. You whined at the sudden change of speed, feeling like you were going to rip in half. "Your ass is perfect. So tight around my cock." He kept peppering you with praises as he thrust into your ass, with the occasional check-ins: "Still okay? Does it hurt?"
"No," you panted as he bottomed out. You pushed back against him, trying to make him move. "Feels... intense. Good, intense."
Hotch went harder as your words encouraged him. The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, and your moans mixing with his grunts.
Sweat slicked your bodies, and he leaned over you once again, his chest to your back. Hotch kissed the spot between your shoulders as he drove his cock deeper. He moved his hand back to your clit, fingers moving faster than earlier as he teased your clit with his thumb, while he dipped two fingers into your cunt.
"I want to feel you clench around me," Hotch growled as he curled his fingers against your G-spot.
He could feel the outline of his cock on his fingers as he kept pounding your ass.
Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave washing over you. Your body convulsed, ass clenching, tightening even harder around him in rhythmic pulses.
"Yes, just like that... FUCK!" He groaned as he thrust a few more times before he pulled out his cock carefully and came across your back with a deep and satisfied moan. You could feel the way drops of his cum started running down your spine, while others slid down your crack and dripped onto your pussy.
He collapsed on the bed beside you and pulled you down into his arms immediately. "Are you alright?" he asked, eyes scanning your face, worried that he might’ve actually hurt you. "Did I hurt you?"
You smiled, snuggling into his chest. "No. It was... amazing."
He kissed your forehead, holding you tight for a moment. "Thank you! I love you more than you could ever imagine."
Nobody look @ me this is the filthiest thing I've ever written I need to go take a cold shower
Summary: With the demanding jobs you both work, you and Hotch see each other more often when one of you is asleep. An idea pops into your head.
Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only etc, somnophilia (if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to scroll bc it's the entirety of this fic lmao), angst if you squint, established relationship, consent/ground rules are established before anything happens, fingering, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex (don't be like them), mentions of phone sex, dirty talk, Hotch is just pussy-whipped as y'all say
WC: 3.8k bc I clearly have no self-control
It started as a joke. Mostly.
Both of your jobs are demanding — you and Hotch knew this from the start. It was first date material, after all. The usual, surface-level questions including So, what do you do for work?
He told you later that he thought about giving you a vague answer, so as to not scare you away. But you had opened up first, said that your job at the courthouse meant your hours were long and somewhat unpredictable, no matter how hard everyone tried to stick to the 8 to 5 routine. There were nights you wouldn’t leave your desk until nearly eight. Hotch’s chest had tightened at that, even on the first date, the idea of you overworking yourself, but he’s no better.
You told him some nights it was a miracle if you got home before ten; he joked with you and said it was a miracle he made it home some nights at all.
It was like everything opened up from there. There was no pressure. If one of you had to stay late, it didn’t really matter, because the other probably had to as well. If one of you had to cancel or postpone dinner plans, it was fine, because nine times out of ten, the other was already on their way to calling for the same reason.
It always makes the two of you laugh. The phone call the afternoon of the dinner plans, you laughing as you answer the phone to say, “Let me guess, raincheck?” His soft laughter, but apologetic all the same, “We just got called to New York.” And you expected it, so you said it was fine, right before your boss came knocking on your door, a frantic look in his eyes. “And I’m being summoned. Be safe in New York.” And Aaron’s ever-present gentlemanliness, “I’ll text you when I can. Go show them how it’s done.” You were grinning as you hung up, turning to your boss with an extra boost of confidence. “What do we have?”
As one can expect, this schedule, this careful dance the two of you have, means that nights together are rare, and the sex is, unfortunately, just as rare. Not that the two of you haven’t found other means— who knew Aaron’s dirty talk would somehow sound hotter through the phone when he’s timezones away, on a five minute break to call you and check in, and help you relax enough so you can sleep? But it’s not the same. It’s not the same as having him here.
And he is here, just not as often as you’d like, especially not when you’re awake. Ever since you started staying at his place — it’s closer to the courthouse, you tell yourself as an excuse, those five minutes make a big difference — you see him more often, but you mostly feel him. The dip of the mattress as he settles in to sleep beside you. The strong arm wrapping around your middle, pulling you toward him in his sleep, as if he needs to be certain you’re still there, even as he’s dreaming. The rustle of sheets as he scrambles to grab his phone to silence the incoming call, to get up and get dressed without waking you.
It’s just a fact. The two of you see each other more when you’re sleeping. Isn’t that crazy?
So, who can blame you, when one night, half-asleep, only woken by Aaron’s soft nuzzling into your neck, you say, “Keep going.”
He freezes, lips just barely hovering over your pulsepoint, the place he loves to suck on, nip at, because he loves all of the little sounds he can draw out of you.
When you’re awake.
“Honey,” he chuckles nervously, pulling back. “You’re asleep.”
“M’awake,” you protest, tossing your arms around him clumsily — as if that was going to prove your point.
He placates you with a soft kiss on your lips. “Sure, honey,” his laugh rumbles through his chest again as his hands smooth up your arms. “I believe you.”
“See?” you murmur, but your eyes are closed. There is no way you’ll remember this come morning. “You can keep going. Wanna feel you.”
He tenses. The idea is tempting, and that scares the shit out of him, which is exactly why his hands don’t move any lower than your arms. You’re practically asleep, for god’s sake. That’s taking advantage, and he will not be doing that.
“Maybe later,” he says gently, kissing your forehead this time. “I’m exhausted.”
You whine, but you bury your face in his chest, and your breathing slowly evens out.
He sighs, wrapping his arms around you, wondering what in the world he’s going to do with you.
+++
You do remember it. Aaron thought you wouldn’t, and for a couple days he was convinced that you didn’t, until a rare night when he returned home to find you already there.
“Half-day,” you explain with an easy smile, meeting him at the door for a kiss. “Well, kind of. I brought some work with me. You know how it is.”
You’re rambling and he knows it. You know it, too, but you can do nothing to stop it. He knows you need to talk to him about something, but you don’t want to admit it. He knows how you work.
Which infuriates you on a bad day. On a good day, it’s hot as hell.
Right now, it’s somehow a mix of both. All it takes is him sitting next to you on the couch, seemingly unbothered by your fidgeting, and one simple question.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Too many things,” you answer automatically, letting out a laugh and exhale at the same time. God, your chest feels so tight, and not in a good way. Since when are you this nervous to talk to Aaron? The man you’ve been seeing for well over a year now, the man who has been nothing but understanding with everything you’ve thrown his way, the man who is sitting right here with you, who knows exactly what your nervous rambling means and isn’t upset with you for it.
As if he can sense the anxiety rolling inside of you (and he can sense it), he reaches out to thread your fingers with his. “You can talk to me. Is it work?” You shake your head. “Is it us?”
“Kind of.”
“Is it the other night?”
Your eyes blow wide, giving you away entirely. Your eyes snap to his. “Seriously? Three questions? That’s how long it took you?”
He chuckles. “It would’ve only taken one, but I didn’t want to assume.”
“Cocky motherfucker,” you mutter, which only makes him laugh more. This is good. Lightening the mood is good. You don’t need to be so on edge about this, about what is most likely about to be Rejection City Central. “Okay. So. Yes. The other night.”
He nods, waiting patiently for you to get your words together.
“I feel like it was…too much.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Too much?” Nothing happened. Do you think something happened?
“I feel like I pushed too far, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, we don’t have to harp on it anymore than this, I just— I felt like I was pushing you into doing something you don’t want to do. And I don’t want you to feel pressured—”
“Honey,” he stops you gently. “Hey, look at me.”
Slowly, you do, but there’s worry swimming in your eyes.
“What do you remember?” he asks. He knows how it sounds, cryptic and probably a little scary, but he needs to fully see where your head is.
“Um,” you hesitate, your eyes darting away again. “I remember asking you to keep going and you saying no. Because I was asleep.”
He nods. “Okay.” He pauses, gathering his words. “Honey, we’ve never talked about that before, about doing anything when either of us is sleeping—”
“We don’t have to do it,” you immediately interrupt, clearly still with the wrong idea in your head. “It’s weird, I get it—”
“It’s not weird, not to me,” Aaron says, remembering the way desire flared in him. He had secretly hoped you would still be awake that night, not because he wants you to deprive yourself of sleep, but because he wanted to have you. “And it’s especially not weird if it’s something you want, too.”
You pause, staring at him wide-eyed. “Wait. You. You’d want to?”
“Absolutely,” he says, trying not to sound so unbelievably wrecked just by the thought. “But I want us to talk about it first. Set ground rules. Figure things out first.” He pauses, squeezing your hand. “Believe me, I wanted to.”
Your lips part just a little in disbelief. “You did?”
He nods seriously. “Of course I did. Do you have any idea how good you look sleeping in one of my old shirts and nothing else?”
You smirk, a wicked look brewing in your eyes. “I have an idea.”
He pulls you over into his lap for a bruising kiss, one hand cradling your jaw. It’s intoxicating, his tongue on yours, all gasps and moans as he rocks your body against his.
“Wait,” you gasp, his lips chasing yours as you pull back. “I want to talk about it.”
“We will,” he bites out, just before he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. “But I want to taste you first.”
+++
You do talk about it. You lay the ground rules, for both of you.
Aaron orders a new pair of panties just for the occasion, so that when you wear them, it’s a signal. He can do what he wants. For him, it’s slightly different, since he always sleeps in boxers, so if he’s not wearing anything, that’s his signal. He wants to be woken up; you’re happy to be mostly asleep, though you know your body will wake you up and want to stay awake to drink him in.
And, of course, if when either of you wake up, if it’s too much and it needs to stop immediately, you have your safe words, but a simple no, stop will work given the added complication of being asleep.
It’s exhilarating, thinking about it. Planning everything out. Your body practically buzzes with need.
But you have no idea when it will happen. That’s the whole point, of course, but it’s complicated with your work schedules. The strange hours and days you both work has never pissed you off so badly as it does now.
It’s as if your schedules are mocking you. Every time it feels like there might be a night where something could happen, something comes up. Aaron is called away, a case goes sideways and delays his return, or you get slammed at work and don’t make it home in time before he’s called away, or you get home in such a bad mood that if he even tried to touch you, you might lay into him.
It just never seems to line up properly, none of it. You start to think it was foolish to want it so badly, that you should’ve known better with your schedules.
Especially because now, it’s quickly approaching week two of Aaron being away on a case in Florida, and week two of you practically living at his place since going back to your own apartment feels too empty.
You miss him. It’s an aching feeling, one you don’t get often because you two make things work, and because you’re usually too busy to feel it, but it’s here now. This is the second-longest case he’s been away on. And because the universe is torturing you, work is calm for the moment, so you don’t even have that as a distraction.
All you have are Aaron’s old law school t-shirts, a bed that still, miraculously, smells like him after a week of his absence, and a pair of lace panties that seem laughable as you pull them on.
You curl up against Aaron’s pillows, sighing deeply. When you close your eyes, it’s almost like he’s next to you.
+++
Hotch is bone-tired. It’s been a long time since a case has been this wild, full of this many twists, and dragging on so long that it’s starting to piss him off. All he wanted to do was finish this case quickly and get home to his girl, but the unsub had to drag things out. For a week and a half.
It’s so late when they get back to Virginia that he doesn’t bother texting you, not wanting to risk the sound waking you from your no-doubt peaceful slumber. He smiles faintly as he drives toward his apartment, thinking of you sleeping so softly, probably twisted in the sheets from how restless you get on your own.
God, he misses you.
He’s quiet as he unlocks the door and quickly silences the alarm. The apartment is dark as he sets his briefcase down on the couch, shrugging off his suit jacket as he heads down the hall. The door to his room is cracked just barely, and soft snores are coming from a lump in the middle of the bed.
He chuckles to himself as he enters, stealing a glance at you as he walks to his closet. He quickly undresses, not bothering to hang anything up until morning. Right now, he just wants to be next to you.
With just his boxers on, he heads back to the bed, lifting the sheet and— He freezes.
You’re in your usual pajamas: his shirt and your underwear. Except this time, it’s a very specific pair of underwear. A specific pair of lace panties that he remembers ordering, probably spending too much money on, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to be special. And they are.
And you’re wearing them.
He stands there like he’s seen a ghost, his brain momentarily short circuiting as he tries to compose himself. He swallows.
He’s only human. It’s been so long since he’s seen you, even longer since he’s touched you, or even got to hear you touch yourself. The case was too hectic for even your usual phone sex, and he didn’t realize how wild it was driving him until now.
He tosses the sheet back gently, watching as you curl further into his pillow, your body registering the sudden chill.
Slowly, he crawls over you, settling himself at the end of the bed. He can only imagine how crazed he looks right now, the way his eyes can’t leave your legs. He wants to drink you. Devour you in every way possible.
His movements are gentle, not wanting to wake you, not yet. You said you wouldn’t mind being asleep the entire time, but he wants to rouse you, wants you to really feel it even if for a moment, but not yet.
Right now, he stretches your legs out, turning you on your back. You make no noise other than a content sigh. He smirks as he spreads your legs, lowering his mouth to his favorite place.
He plans to take his time. He has all the time in the world, after all. You’re sleeping soundly.
He mouths at your core over your panties, just barely silencing his own groan. That would be something, waking you up because he can’t keep himself in line. He can already hear the playful annoyance in your sleep-filled voice if that were to happen.
Returning to his task, he drinks you in as he likes, smothering your inner thighs in kisses, even leaving a love bite or two there. It’s a private, guilty pleasure you both have. He loves to leave marks, you love to have marks. But you’re both adults and you absolutely cannot be caught with a hickey at the courthouse.
So, he leaves them here. In a place where only the two of you can see. It wakes something primal in him, seeing the little reddened marks where he’s irritated the skin enough for a bruise to form later. He smooths his thumb over the spot, pressing. If you were awake, that would earn him a little squeak. Right now, all he hears are your even breaths.
He hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them to the side, nearly cursing aloud at how beautiful you are. He has to take a moment, just admiring, his thumb gently stroking you, and already glistening. He pops the digit into his mouth, eyes rolling at the taste. You’re addicting like nothing he has ever known.
He tests the waters some more, blowing onto your core, watching in awe as your body reacts instinctively, even in your sleep. It’s mesmerizing.
He can’t wait any longer, so he doesn’t try. He surges forward, finally tasting you, finally lifting your legs to rest over his shoulders. He relaxes into his favorite place, sucking gently on your clit before dipping his tongue inside you. You don’t even shift in your sleep.
He wonders, then, if he can make you cum like this. In your sleep.
Suddenly, and albeit selfishly, he wants to try.
He takes his time inserting a finger into you, watching as you take him in so easily. He adds a second right away, knowing how much you hate it when he teases you with just one. Your walls clench around him, but your heat envelops him, and he’s dizzy with it.
He circles your clit with his tongue as he thrusts his fingers, curling just slightly until you clench, your body telling him he’s found what he was searching for. And he doesn’t relent, only massages that spot inside as his mouth works outside. He adds a third finger, your body welcoming the stretch, pulling him in.
You shift, and he comes up for air, watching your face, but you don’t wake. You melt into the pillows as his fingers continue their pace.
Relieved in some twisted way, he returns to sucking your clit, doubling down, forcing you toward that edge. He almost thinks it won’t happen, that there’s no possible way you’ll climax and not wake up, until he feels those tell-tale spasms, and he knows you’re close.
He groans into you, knowing how that sends you over when you’re awake, and it works even now. Your walls clench around him, spasming through the shocks of your orgasm, and he doesn’t stop, milking out every last bit, wanting to drown in the way you taste, the way your body relents.
You’re a dream. He presses a loving kiss to your inner thigh, disbelief in his every breath. Gently, he removes his fingers, and tugs your panties down, tossing them to the floor.
When he crawls back up the bed, you’re still sleeping soundly, but that won’t do.
He presses his erection into your hip, presses a kiss to your jaw, whispering, “Honey, I need you.”
+++
You’re floating on pure bliss. Dreams are rare these days, and dreams of Aaron are even rarer — which just feels rude, honestly. But this one. This one is the best you’ve ever had.
Only, you realize you aren’t dreaming at all. The sensations are real. The hot breath in your ear, the slick want between your thighs, the hard press of Aaron’s cock as he rocks against your hip.
But you’re so tired. You can’t bring your eyes to open. You barely have enough energy to turn toward him, to wrap an arm around his neck, toss your leg over his, pressing your core right against him. The growl he lets out is delicious.
The next thing you know, the boxers are no longer separating you, and the head of his cock is parting your lips.
You sigh in content as he thrusts into you, hitting you so deep, staying there just to grind his hips into yours.
“Missed you,” you murmur, hands clumsily tugging on his hair to pull his lips to yours. He goes without protest, licking into your mouth and you gasp in surprise, tasting yourself. “Did you…?”
He smirks against your lips. “Did you know you can have an orgasm in your sleep?”
Your eyes fly open at that, vision adjusting in the dark, but it’s easy to see the smug look on Aaron’s face. And then he pulls his hips back, slamming into you again and causing your eyes to roll back.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the words so gentle and soothing, a stark comparison to how brutal his pace and depth of his thrusts are. “Breathtaking. My sleeping beauty. Can you give me another one? Need to feel you again.”
You’re awake, but nowhere near alert enough to have any wits about you when he talks like that. You nod dumbly, rocking your hips in time with his, but your movements are sloppy, the pleasure rising at a blinding pace.
“Come on, honey,” he murmurs, capturing your lips again, his tongue searching for yours. “Just one more, then you can go back to sleep.”
Something about that does it for you. He thrusts as deep as he can go, and your body crashes, writhing against him as he holds you in place, grinding into you.
“There you go, so beautiful, honey,” he guides you through it, soaking up all of your little breathy moans.
But like every time when you have an orgasm (or two) when you’re already on the verge of sleep, your eyes are struggling to stay open.
“Aaron…” you whine, clinging to him. “Keep going.”
“Oh, I will, honey,” he chuckles, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead before flipping you onto your back again, so he can hover over you. “You just sleep for me, okay?”
You nod, the action already taking too much of your energy as your eyelids slam closed and refuse to lift again. He moves inside you, slower now, just a gentle pace, lulling you back to sleep.
It doesn’t take long for him to spill inside of you, and you’re still somewhat conscious, given the happy little sigh he hears you let out when he cums inside you. You’ve always loved the feeling.
Feeling wrecked, he slowly peels himself off of you, heading into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. When he returns, you’re back on your side, hugging his pillow again. He shushes you with gentle praise while he cleans you up before tucking you back in.
After cleaning himself and slipping boxers back on, the exhaustion hits him in full force, and he sleeps soundly with you tucked into his chest, clinging to him like a koala.
Getting sick on your day off is comically unfair. Like tf do you mean that the one day a week I spend not hating my life I now have to spend sneezing and avoiding light
Rewatching Red Dwarf and something that always gets to me is Frankenstein. She was only in one episode and probably only on the ship for what, a week? And I can't help but think about how much she must have loved Lister.
Like he tells her about Fiji and his five year plan and obviously she's like yeah just give me your milk rations, but she's also very clearly listening.
The words may have been jumbled up over three million years but if Cat learned about Fuchal and Cloister in school, it means Frankenstein had to be listening to Lister in order to tell her children.
And look at the cats in TPL:
They've got cigarettes in their ears just like Lister used to do. Frankenstein noticed that about him. She loved him enough to remark on it to her children and grandchildren. She may have called him Lister the stupid, but she loved him.
i think the phrase i hate the most on twitter and other fandom spaces is "you're not looking at things with a nuanced perspective" whenever you bring up a character's flaws/sins because nine times out of ten, it's followed by the most hypocritical take you'll ever see.
there's a specific subset of the BTVS fandom on there that will fight tooth and nail for Faith's "nuance" while reducing Spuffy's arc in season 6-7 to Seeing Red, without actually engaging with it critically. and as much as i hate the scene itself, there are many layers to what comes before and after, contrary to popular belief.
for example, there's a common "nuanced" take about how s7 centers Spike – the perpetrator – in Buffy's story of healing from SA and i do agree with this. it wasn't handled perfectly.
but the writers do one thing right : they acknowledge it and name it. it's the bare minimum but it's more than what they've done for the other instances of SA... which are completely brushed off. the truth is that the show has a major problem: it consistently uses SA as a plot device for the abuser's arc. calling it out for one but yelling "NUANCE!!!!" for another is hypocritical at best.
in season 4, Faith violates Buffy's autonomy twice, by stealing her body AND sexually assaulting her (and her boyfriend). now, you can find metaphors in that all you want, for her self-loathing, her childhood trauma, etc. it won't change the core of the scene: it's rape.
it also won't change the fact that the Faith double episode on BTVS and Sanctuary entirely center Faith. ding ding ding, sounds familiar?
worse, Sanctuary adds Angel's "brooding guy helps the broken girl because she's his mirror" male savior gimmick to further his own development. he tells Buffy how she should feel and is basically asking her to just forgive and forget. it's all about THEIR arcs and redemptions, in which Buffy is entirely sidelined. she's even painted as irrational for wanting justice. she's physically assaulted by Angel himself to PROTECT her abuser.
Buffy, the victim, becomes the stepping stone for Faith's redemption arc but she's never given a voice besides the one time they bring it up to gaslight the audience into thinking she's cold and mean and has no empathy.
and you know what? that's also one of my gripes with season 7, in the way it DOES fall into the trap of centering Spike too much. it doesn't give us enough scenes where Buffy is allowed to talk about what being abused in that way meant to her, as a woman and a slayer. i do wish we had a few scenes like that and i don't think they would have changed how beautiful s7 Spuffy is. so yes, that arc does have flaws. it's a shame that they did the hardest part (naming it) and didn't explore it enough.
but the difference is that NOT once does post-SR BTVS act like Buffy was irrational or to blame in any way. out of all the SA the show depicts, this is the only time where it doesn't metaphor its way out of the situation. which is why i will never understand the "nuanced" take claiming that the soul was a cop-out.
was the storyline perfect? no, far from that. but it does present Buffy as the rightful victim and Spike as the perpetrator. and again, Buffy's character isn't sacrificed at the altar of Spike's redemption. Buffy treats soulful Spike the same way she did with Angel in s3. that's just how her moral compass works. the issue isn't that we see her accept and love Spike, it's the lack of balance: we don't see hear voice her pain and anger ENOUGH.
the storyline does another thing right. unlike Angel's curse or Faith's off-screen incarceration, there's no on/off switch. by definition, it can't be a cop-out if Spike never erases what he's done. he doesn't blame it on the demon. in fact, we see spike blame his humanity when he says "William is a bad man" in Help. he doesn't make excuses, he integrates. we don't skip steps in his redemption because the soul quest was only the start and not the finality.
Angel often hides behind his curse. Faith magically appears to be redeemed in s7 and we're just supposed to be okay with not seeing her do the work. Spike never separates himself from the man who hurt buffy, that's the whole point of his arc. you can say many things about Spike/Spuffy, but Seeing Red is never minimized. we just needed as much focus on Buffy's side of the story as his.
to me, it looks like "nuance" and "metaphor" are just buzzwords used to make a character you love more palatable despite their actions, which is human i guess (and Spike fans do it too, with the 'it was ooc' crowd). except you can't nuance your way into finding depth in a character but completely forget about the notion of nuance for other arcs.
personally, i hate the concept of Seeing Red and think it could have been literally anything else. i'm not gonna try to nuance the scene itself because there is none. it's a horrific scene, period. there's no metaphor in it and it's filmed with as much realism as it gets.
there's no supernatural component to the scene the same way there is in Faith assaulting Buffy or Willow using magic to manipulate Tara (therefore making it SA). Spike's lack of soul does come into play so his choice is still influenced by his supernatural nature, but the bathroom scene isn't made more palatable for the audience by hiding behind a magical plot (the switch, the spells, etc.). it's entirely human.
yes, there's a subtext in the body switch. i don't even like Faith but i can acknowledge that it's about her own identity crisis. yes, there's a subtext in Angel's reaction because he's projecting his own redemption onto her. yes, there's a subtext in Willow abusing Tara's trust and it's a story of addiction. but that's where it stops: the act itself is and will always be SA despite the lack of graphic scenes. it will always have the exact same flaw that Spuffy had in s7.
the show simply doesn't know HOW to write that kind of arc without centering the perpetrator, IF it doesn't completely erase the SA aspect of the scene. you can't nuance Angel or Faith's wrongdoings or try to downplay the way the show does center them in the narrative of their abuse towards Buffy and then cry wolf about Spike.
i just don't think that's nuance but late stage bad faith.
Seeing Red is the only SA in a show full of SA that the narrative recognizes and treats as SA. The only one that has lasting consequences in which the victim is not either told they're responding to SA wrong and/or expected to forgive and forget.
(Exception here would be Tara, though neither she nor the narrative identify that sleeping with Tara while her memories are altered makes Willow a rapist)
Anyway, this goes back to my posts about how I do not take anyone who distills Spike/Spuffy to Seeing Red as some sort of purity contest or to exert their moral superiority over Spuffy shippers. All that does is emphasize how violent, obvious, and upsetting SA has to be for these people to clock it as SA. All the other instances get handwaved, excuse, or otherwise justified, which shows me just how much certain people really care about survivors.
✿ your husband returns to you under the influence of a strange powder, and he needs you more than anything (or, a sex pollen oneshot with our favourite hedge knight)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7k
✿ cw: fem!reader + no y/n, reader isn’t physically described, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, outdoor sex, multiple orgasms (for both reader and dunk), praise!!, breeding!!, pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), slight overstimulation, slight painful sex in the beginning, needy + desperate dunk (he whinesss baby), fluff, strong language
Duncan lumbers through the crowded market streets, his large frame parting the tide of people who flow around him like water. He keeps one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other clutching a small pouch of sweets. Your favourite, he knows, coated in sugar with a treacle-sweet centre. He smiles to himself, imagining the look of joy that will pass over your face, seeing that your husband has brought you your favourite sweets, rather than the bread he claimed to have been craving.
Dunk ducks beneath a low-hanging awning as he winds his way between the stalls and through passageways between rickety buildings. The town reminds him a lot of Flea Bottom, and the shadows that dance through the walkways have a painful kind of nostalgia washing through him.
“Oi, watch it!”
Dunk startles, eyes shooting onwards where a market vendor, an angry vein bulging across his grime-coated forehead, points at an elderly woman wrapped in colourful shawls. Apples in reds and greens roll across the flagstones, a wooden box tipped on its side.
The vendor moves as though to strike the woman, but Dunk gets there first—somehow, he slips through the dispersing crowd and clamps a large hand around the vendor’s wrist. The vendor looks up, and up further, taking in the sheer size of Duncan, and the scowl on his face vanishes, melting back into the shadows.
“You will not lay your hand upon a woman,” Dunk growls, and then proceeds to shove the vendor away.
The vendor yelps, clutching at his bruising wrist—Dunk didn’t even realise he had grabbed the man that hard—while the hedge knight turns and squats, gathering the apples from the cobbles. When he returns them to the upturned box, he hefts it easily in one hand and peers down at the woman with a sympathetic smile.
“Are you alright?” He asks.
The woman smiles softly, reaching up to pat him gently on the forearm. “I am, my dear, thank you.”
Dunk nods to the box in his hand. “Does this belong to you?”
“I just purchased it,” the woman replies sheepishly. “But it seems my arms and hands do not work as well as they used to.”
“Well, my arms and hands work plenty fine,” Dunk says with a smile. “And my wife says I’m the best at carrying her things, so I shall carry the crate for you.”
The elderly woman smiles again, reaching up to pat Dunk’s cheek, before she turns, the pinks and greens and golds of her shawls swishing around her. She smells of powdery lavender incense and wax soap, and for the briefest of moments, Dunk is reminded of what little he recalls of his mother.
He follows her down the narrow lane after shooting one last threatening look at the vendor. She looks largely out of place amongst the common folk who traverse the market streets dressed in browns and greys, fraying cotton and stained linen. She is colourful, eccentric, her skin dark and clean of any age spots, the wrinkles shallow. She didn’t appear as old as Dunk first thought, but maybe he wasn’t paying close enough attention.
After a few minutes of walking, the woman leads Dunk through a small, dark alcove, and stops outside a wooden door painted a forest green, a brass knocker resembling a lion mounted to the front. She unlocks and pushes open the door, and Dunk is hit with a thick aroma of herbs and flowers.
“May I bother you to bring them inside?” The woman asks softly.
“Of course,” Dunk replies instantly, and he stoops low to avoid the overhang of the doorway, following the woman inside, where the hall opens up into a room full of things.
Shelves line every wall, bottles and jars of liquids and powders filling them. They shine in different colours, different consistencies, and the smell that accumulates at Dunk’s head-height makes him slightly dizzy. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling—which the giant man finds out when he is smacked in the face by a bundle of desiccated spices.
Dunk places the crate of apples onto a table in the middle of the room, the wood clinking against several empty and half-filled bottles across the surface. When he rights himself, the elderly woman places her hand on his forearm once more. Her fingers are almost completely obscured by stacks of gold rings, and the bangles around her wrists jingle like chimes as she pets him like a child would a cat.
“I thank you for your kindness,” she tells him. “You will make yourself a fine knight one day.”
Dunk doesn’t think twice about the fact the lady knew he was to be a knight, but the compliment makes him burst with pride regardless. He dips his head respectfully, hand pressing to his chest in a sign of good faith.
“It was no problem at all.”
“Here, allow me to give you something in return,” the woman says, and turns to the lines of shelves behind her, fingers flitting across jars.
Dunk shakes his head, clearing his throat as his hand, once again, comes to rest against the pommel of his sword. He’s trying to appear more noble, but when he stands up straight, he hits the crown of his head on a low wooden beam, making him grunt.
“There is no need,” Dunk says around a hiss, rubbing the top of his head. “I do not—”
The woman points to a jar on the very top shelf, one she cannot reach, interrupting Dunk smoothly. “May you retrieve that one for me?”
Dunk bites his tongue and does what he is told. His large fingers pinch around the small jar the woman wants, and through the tempered glass he can see a yellow powder that seems to sparkle as it catches the low light of suspended candles. He hands it to the woman, who thanks him and pops the cork with a flick of her thumb.
She turns to face him. “When was the last time you lay with your wife?”
“I—” Dunk chokes on his spit. “I beg your—”
“I suppose we have seen the face of the sun many times since you have?” The woman taps the rim of the jar against her outstretched palm, collecting some of the powder. Dunk notices the traces of pink amongst the yellow. “Nearly twelve nights gone? You poor thing.”
Dunk stammers, but can’t articulate words.
Okay, maybe it has been that long, but only initially because your moon blood had arrived. The two of you usually had no qualms with being intimate whilst you bled, but you were particularly tender, and no amount of stretch from your husband’s tongue and fingers seemed to eliminate the ache, so you both decided against it.
Then, even when your blood had passed, the two of you travelling tirelessly for several days straight had meant Dunk did not want you to exert too much energy, even when you did plead with him.
The fact this woman knows that has suspicion, not quite fear, passing through him like a phantom.
“Your wife longs for you, and yet here you are, resorting to obtaining sweets to ease her qualms,” the woman says, and now Dunk is slightly creeped out. The bag of sweets hangs against his hip, fastened to the rope belt around his waist. The woman chuckles softly. “And that is why I believe this will be as good a reward as any.”
She lifts her palm and proceeds to blow the yellowy-pink powder directly into Dunk’s face. He sucks in a startled breath and it fills his lungs like smoke, his mouth tasting the sweetness of ripened grapes and honeyed wine. Quickly, he screws his eyes shut, but the powder lingers already in his lashline, and when he blinks, his vision seems brighter.
“What the—?” Dunk lifts his hand and wipes it down his face, stumbling back slightly.
“It is harmless to your overall health, and the effects will fade when you…” She hesitates, and then pats him on the chest. “Are satisfied, although that may take some effort. Now, be gone with you, Ser Duncan. You have a wife to return too.”
The woman, with surprising strength, spins Dunk around and pushes him out the door. It slams closed behind him, and he stands there with his head spinning, wondering how on earth she even knew his name.
In the shadows of the alcove, he catches his breath, which comes in increasingly laboured pants as his entire body begins to light up with warmth. His clothes feel too sticky against his skin, the back of his neck prickling, his temples dampening. The rope around his hips is too tight, the sword hanging there too heavy.
“Gods above, what is happening to me?” Dunk whispers to himself, looking down at his body as something stirs low in the pit of his stomach.
He thinks of you, waiting so patiently back at the campsite. He groans softly, reaching a hand down to press flat against his groin, where his cock is slowly beginning to harden in his breeches. The thought of you sitting against a tree, maybe mending one of his cloaks, or sharpening one of his blades, has a dizzy sort of pleasure seizing his brain.
Dunk whimpers your name, and stumbles out into the streets. He needs to get to you.
—✿—
The sky above is alight with oranges and pinks as the sun slowly begins to sink below the distant horizon. You watch it calmly, the forest around you quiet and serene, the sound of the nearby river washing through you and instilling a sense of calm. Your hand moves where you clutch your bone-handled blade, slicing it, bit-by-bit, through a small chunk of wood. It now resembles a horse, for the most part. You have taken up carving as a means of passing time, and selling the little statues earns you a bit of coin.
Your serenity is interrupted by the snapping of twigs and approaching footsteps. Several yards away, your horses do not startle, but you grip your knife tightly anyway as the footsteps encroach louder, then louder still. But you can hear the heavy thuds and the wide gait, and a small smile splits across your face when you recognise your husband’s footsteps.
You place your carving and knife aside, dusting the wood shavings from your hands as you get to your feet. Dunk appears through the tree line and your smile grows when you see him.
“Dunk!” You greet him. “I’ve been waiting…”
You take a moment to look at your husband as he walks towards you. His chest rises and falls rapidly, a bright blush painting his cheeks. His eyes appear watery, and as he draws nearer, the hot skin of his face seems to shimmer with something iridescent.
He towers over you, and out of instinct, you reach up and cup your palms to his cheeks. His eyes fall closed and he groans, throaty and loud. He’s feverish, molten-hot. You smell overripe grapes, lavender and honeycakes as he shifts, ripping his cloak from his body and tossing it to the ground.
“What has happened to you?” You ask, concern overcoming you as your hands brace down his neck and chest now, feeling the rabbit-like thumping of his heart.
Dunk groans again, eyes opening to watch your hands work down his abdomen. A shudder racks through him when your hands stop at the waistband of his trousers, your eyes widening as you spot the straining imprint of his cock. Your eyes lift, sparkling in the evening light, and Dunk swears that look alone could have made him spill in his breeches.
“Have you taken something?” You question quietly, finding the knot of his rope belt. You unfasten and unravel it, hefting the sword too and placing it on the ground. Dunk watches with his hands balled into fists. He’ll tell you about the sweets later. You peer back up at him again. “Duncan?”
His name leaving your lips forces him to his knees. A whine rips from the back of his throat as he drops, and you gasp as his knees crackle through dried leaves. His hands reach out, encircling around your hips as he lines himself up with your abdomen, his mouth pressing to your stomach.
Your hands card through his hair, worried. “Dunk, my love?”
“A woman… she gave me something—blew a powder into my face,” Dunk gasps out, leaning his burning cheek against you, listening to your breathing. “Says I will… says it will feel better when I am sat–satisfied.”
You frown. “Satisfied?”
Dunk nods, nuzzling into you. His hips shift as well, and suddenly you feel the tent of his trousers pressing to your leg through your skirts. A soft gasp escapes you as you continue to card your fingers through his hair, tussling the longish brown locks.
You know what he means by satisfied, considering his cock seems to be burning hot through both the fabric of his breeches and trousers, and the material of your simple dress.
“It hurts,” Dunk mutters, mouthing at your dress now, lips pressing to the softness of your belly. The fabric wets with his saliva as his tongue darts out, dragging over the linen. You grimace and thread your fingers against his scalp, holding him firmly and dragging his head away. He whimpers loudly, eyes flying open as he whines out, “Hurts so bad, sweetheart.”
Your heart squeezes tightly in your chest, your stomach churning with worry. You don’t want your husband hurting, but what was really wrong with him? He had left to the market for bread or something of the sort, and returned, not only empty-handed, but flushed with desire with his trousers practically ripping at the seams.
“Duncan…” You continue to grip his hair so he can’t literally lick your dress. “What hurts? You need to tell me.”
Dunk groans as your other hand shifts back to his cheek, stroking the warmed flesh. He leans into the touch with drooping eyelids, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black in the fading light of dusk.
“My—” Dunk blows out a breath as if battling something in his brain. “My… oh gods, my love, I can’t say—I just can’t—”
You know what he wants to say. You know it when his hips twitch and he drags the imprint of his cock against your leg once more.
Something warm is blooming in your core now too. The sight of your husband on his knees before you, clutching you as if you were keeping him alive, feverish in his pleasure, has you starting to leak into the gusset of your smallclothes. Heat fills your tummy as you stroke his cheek, the tips of your fingers collecting a shimmering film of yellow and pink dust. It seems to be trapped in his pores, coating his freckles as he peers up at you.
You massage his scalp, which is damp with sweat. “Does your cock hurt, sweet boy?”
The words feel too alien coming from your mouth, much too crude for a lady, but the shock that passes over your husband’s face is euphoric to your slowly dampening core. His mouth drops open, his tongue practically lolling out like a tired hound, as a groan rumbles from his chest and he starts to nod. His cock presses to your thigh and he tries to grind himself against you, but you tug on his hair to get him to stop.
“Well, tell me what you need me to do,” you whisper down at him. “I can help you. You just need to be a good boy and tell me what you need, okay?”
Dunk groans. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can—I can be good. I just—I just need you, pl-please, my love, I need you.”
You coo at him. “Need me? I’m right here, Dunk.”
“No,” he whines out, leaning his forehead against your stomach. You let him. He groans again, this time more high-pitched, bordering on a whimper. “Need your…”
“Need my…?”
“Gods, my heart is going to implode,” Dunk huffs as an aside. “Please—”
“What do you need, Dunk?” You ask firmly, gripping his hair and forcing him away from your stomach. The broken sound that leaves him almost makes you feel bad, but you need him to make some kind of sense before you give him anything. You know exactly what he wants, but he needs to work for it.
Dunk licks his lips, looking you up and down, and the words that leave his mouth sound like nothing you’ve ever heard from him in the entire time you’ve known him. His tone is dark with need, but still light enough to know his words are edging around a whine. “Need your pussy. Need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart. Need to pump you so full that—”
He cuts himself off with a low moan as you push his head down, pinning him and muffling the rest of his rambling against the fabric covering your mound. His mouth laves over the linen straight away, and the heat that overtakes you threatens to burn you from the inside out.
“Come on then, my boy,” you whisper, rubbing his scalp gently, your other hand smoothing down the strong expanse of his shoulders. “Help me out of this dress and I can give you what you want.”
Dunk grunts in relief as he hurries to his feet and spins you around so fast you feel dizzy. He walks you back a few paces until you can brace your hands against the coarse bark of a tree as he pulls at the ties along the back of your dress. He rips the knots undone, large hands trembling as he makes quick work of unthreading the ribbons he himself had tied earlier that morning.
His movements are harsh. Gods, he’s trying to be gentle, but he just can’t help it.
“Duncan…” You grumble, jostled as he tugs and pulls.
“M’sorry,” he slurs as, giving up on the last few ribbons, he hooks his fingers beneath the silky strings and rips them. You gasp as he practically pulls your dress apart, the sound of material tearing filling the forest as your dress loosens around your shoulders and breasts. Dunk slurs again, “M’so sorry, sweet girl.”
He pulls you to him as he drags your dress from your body, leaving you in your smallclothes as you kick the mass of skirts away. The chemise follows—Dunk pulls it over your head and spins you around at the same time, and you yelp at the speed of it all. Your breasts spill out into the cool air of the forest and his head ducks immediately, mouth attaching to a hardening nipple as one of his large hands finds the other. He kneads it as he drops to his knees once more, sucking harshly whilst his other hand finds your smallclothes.
“Dunk,” you call for him through a whine as he tugs them down, and you barely have time to send them away from your ankles before he’s ripping your legs apart.
His mouth drops from your tits, skims briefly over the soft skin of your tummy, before his nose is dragging down your mound and burrowing between your legs.
You gasp. “Dunk, oh my—”
“Need this,” Dunk grumbles. “Gods, need this. Got to—y’gotta give it to me, sweetheart.”
He inhales deeply, and the sensation makes you squeal and squirm, your back arching against the tree. Your hands find his damp hair again, tugging. But it’s no deterrent—the giant inhales again, this time followed by a loud, unabashed moan that sends the birds above flying from their roosts. The forest seems to echo with it, and you can feel the heat of his face burning deeper as he buries himself against you. You feel his mouth split open, warm lips parting for his tongue to curl outwards. He licks through your folds as another groan spills, the vibrations buzzing through you like bees trapped in a jar.
Your hands shift from his head to his shoulders, and you tug at the fabric of his tunic.
“Dunk,” you say hurriedly. “Off.”
He removes himself from you with a grunt, letting you help him in flinging his tunic off. It lands somewhere in the distance. Dunk doesn’t care though, descending between your legs again and drawing your clit into his mouth with one harsh suck. It makes you yowl, fingernails biting crescents into the freckled skin of his shoulders. His skin is sticky with sweat and impossibly warm.
With another animalistic grunt, Dunk takes one of your legs and tosses it over his shoulder. The new angle allows him to drive his tongue into your drooling hole, and the abruptness makes you keen into him, hips twitching as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit. Blood pools low beneath the skin, simmering hot in your nerves as he ruts his tongue inside you, each movement eliciting a gravelly groan from the depths of his chest.
His other hand unties the knots of his trousers. He pushes the fabric away with fumbling fingers and pulls his aching cock out of his breeches, the material on the front wet with precum. When his fingers wrap around the length—hot iron wrapped in a sheath of velvet—and the sword callouses on his palm rub against a vein on the underside, his vision whites behind his eyelids. The pleasure is almost painful, the pressure pulling heavily at his cockhead, bruising a purplish-red. Precum leaks from the slit in a continuous rivulet that has his heart knocking against his sternum.
His balls are tight already, and as he tastes you, listening to the light whimpers that fall from your mouth, he realises he’s going to spill. He realises it as his precum wets his palm, his hand gliding without him even needing to spit on it. He realises it as his cock twitches heavily in his hand, again and again; that unmistakable pressure in his lower spine and belly building. He wants to let it happen—he rucks his hips, meeting the movements of his hand, fucking his fist. Grunts muffle in your wet pussy as he chases his high, your thigh warm on his ear.
The precipice of pleasure is right there, but he can’t reach it.
He strokes his cock, twists at the base, tastes the heady scent of you dripping down the back of his throat, but he can’t come.
“Dunk,” you call sweetly, tipsy on pleasure. “Oh, gods, Dunk, keep going.”
It feels like Dunk’s entire face is wet: the upper portion damp with sweat, the lower portion shining with your slick. His mouth moves against you like he’s kissing you, lips spreading and tongue curling. He breathes you in, moaning softly, head bobbing as he continues to fist his cock. It’s nearly trembling in his hand, and you can feel Dunk shivering as he chases a release that refuses to let go.
You can hear him fucking his fist over the wet slurps of his tongue against your pussy. As the forest darkens around you, your ears ring with it, your bare back scratching against the tree trunk as you rock your hips. His mouth is searing hot, forged from the very fires of Dragonstone.
Your thigh quivers over his shoulder as you speak. “Duncan, m’gonna come.”
Your only response is a deep grunt that vibrates your puffy clit, and that has your legs locking up even tighter. Pleasure takes deep root in the base of your spine, and it spreads as you take, take, take, until you topple into your orgasm. It rocks through you, and you hold him tightly, rocking your hips as you spasm around his tongue. Chants of his name roll easily over your lips, and he groans nicely against you as he fucks you through it.
Dunk pulls away after a couple of seconds. His breathing is ragged, lips wet, chest flushed red. He’s still fisting his cock, and you look down at him, meeting his round, watery eyes as he nuzzles against the thigh still draped over his shoulder.
“I…” He breathes in deeply. “I can’t—oh, fuck, I can’t—”
His hand is moving so fast. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, and you gingerly remove your thigh from his shoulder. Then, you tap his head.
“Stand up for me, Dunk,” you say gently, trailing a nail along the dip of his clavicle. “I’ll help you, I promise.”
Your husband springs to his feet before you even finish speaking, pushing his trousers and breeches all the way off.
He continues to grasp his cock. It leans forward under the weight of his pleasure, and you both groan when he rubs the head against the soft skin above your navel. Precum spreads across your skin, and when he pulls back, a sticky string connects you two for just a moment. You whimper his name when the string snaps, and he draws in a sharp, almost pained breath.
“Inside,” he whispers, more to himself than you. He drags the head of his cock down as he bends at the knee. “Need… yeah, need to be inside.”
The angle is slightly awkward—he’s just a bit too big—but he makes it work, stooping low as he angles your legs apart. The head of his cock finds the tight hole of your cunt, and he presses it there with surprising restraint.
“M’sorry,” Dunk breathes, leaning forward to mouth at your throat. You arch, and he purrs, pleased, as you willingly give yourself up to him. He kisses your jaw softly. “M’sorry, sweet girl, m’not gonna… I can’t wait. Jus’ need you, s-so jus’ be good, okay? I’ll try—I’ll try t’be gentle, my love. I’ll try for you.”
The head of his cock slips past the ring of your pussy, and you suck in a breath at the stretch. Wide, splitting, and no matter how wet you are, how long he took in stretching you open on his tongue or fingers, there was always a battle of bodies. Always a push to get him fully seated inside you, the tight walls of your cunt clutching around the thick intrusion.
You whimper his name again, nails needling into the tawny freckles along his shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Dunk chants, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel you tensing against him, but he doesn’t stop.
He’s overwhelmed: the heat of your pussy draws his cock in further, his mind going blank, the taste of grapes and lavender aromatic in the grooves of his molars, and leaking from his pores.
His cock slides in further, parting the wet walls of your pussy inch by inch. “Please take it, sweet girl. Please just—fuck, take it.”
It hurts. He’s too fucking big, and he knows it.
You writhe against the tree, standing on your tip-toes now as he drives slowly into you. You're thankful he’s at least easing in bit by bit. You’re not sure you would have survived if he simply took you in one fell thrust.
But at the same time, it feels incredible. The sting of the stretch is underlined by that usual, aching pleasure that festers deep in your pelvis. You feel it as the ridges of his cock run against your posterior wall, splitting you apart, rubbing you the right way. Your heartbeat thrums heavily in your clit, and your back arches against the tree, fingernails now scraping down his broad back.
“Dunk,” you whimper as he feeds his cock into you.
He groans against your throat, sucking harshly. The sound of his name on your mouth, so sweet, so beautiful, snaps whatever composure he had been holding onto. With another guttural groan, Dunk surges forward, jolting his hips inwards and stuffing the rest of his cock inside you.
You cry out, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. He’s rough, his pace coming in quick, brutal thrusts, and he’s panting against your dewy skin all the while. His body shakes against yours as he pulls his cock out, then shoves it back in. You yowl like an injured animal, and Dunk’s heart flutters in his chest.
“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’so sorry—” It rambles from him like a mantra but his hips don’t slow. He spreads you apart, girth still too thick, length still too long. He presses a wet kiss to your cheek. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know, but just… gods, just stay like that. Please, sweet girl, be good for me.”
Your back scrapes against the tree as his movements propel you. You’re practically bouncing against him, barely even touching the ground anymore as he takes what he needs. The slide of his cock does hurt, but your walls mould around him like clay. Made for him.
The heat and wetness of your pussy sends him over the edge, and you feel it. You feel him go rigid against you, muscles stiffening as his hips buck. His thrusts grow sloppy, seconds blurring together as his balls tighten and his cock twitches deep inside you. You feel it, feel it nudging up against the plug of your cervix as his hips roll. Then, with a rasping moan of your name, he spills inside you. Deep inside you. Warmth floods your lower belly, through the hollow of your womb as his hips jerk, his mouth biting and sucking at your neck.
And he keeps spilling. It fills you to the brim, and you can’t help but whimper as it drools out from around his cock. With a slightly disgruntled huff, Dunk pulls out, leaning back to look at where his cock hangs, still stiff, between his legs. Cum seeps from the slit, spider-web strings drooling from you too, and the sight almost has him coming again.
But he’s still hard.
“S’not…” Dunk’s brows furrow, and he slants his hips forward to drag his cock against your thigh. You squirm and whine as he wipes his cum across your skin, and then moan when the head prods back at your hole. Dunk whimpers. “S’not enough, need more.”
Then, he’s thrusting back in again. The forest’s shadows engulf you both as he slots himself inside of you, the glide quick and wet and audible as he drives home. You choke on a gasp, hands clutching his shoulders. Your legs are cramping, your back stinging, your pussy aching—but it all softens around the edges as Dunk ruts into you again and again.
“Dunk,” you whisper. “Dunk, please.”
Your husband lifts his head and finally kisses you. For the first time tonight, he slots his mouth against yours. The moan that leaves him has your cunt clenching tightly around the thick of his cock, and one of your hands finds the back of his neck as your tongues meet. It’s an intricate dance, but Dunk's movements are just too desperate to stick to the practised moves—his tongue is breaching, too thick and too strong, flattening against yours roughly. You swap spit, and he pants into the kiss as he chases your tongue and licks over the points of your teeth. It’s sloppy and messy and everything Dunk needs.
His hands are on your waist. Big, encompassing, fingers dimpling the flesh. His cock stretches you open, his heavy balls slapping against the curve of your arse as he ruts you against the tree. The wet sounds of you coming together echo softly through the forest, the sun sunk beyond the horizon now, shadows stretching far and flitting across your connected frames.
“Being so good,” Dunk mutters, licking over your parted lips. It makes you whimper, and your bottom teeth catch his lip. He groans when you release him after a playful nip. “Gods, always so good for me. Needed this so bad, sweetheart. Needed you so bad.”
“Dunk,” you mewl, scratches red along his big shoulders.
Your cunt squeezes tightly around him, another release building deep in your stomach: that same feeling as minutes before, a traction building along your spine as he fucks you. Dunk mouths along your jaw, panting into your ear as his thrusts start to stammer, and before you can react, he’s pulling you away from the tree and manhandling you to the ground. His hard cock slips out of you, the sensation forcing you to suck in a breath as his seed all but drools from your gaping cunt, the cool forest air a sudden stimuli as you’re spun around.
You let out a light grunt as he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, which find the wool of his discarded cloak. Leaves crinkle softly beneath your weight as your back arches and the warmth of Duncan appears behind you. Large, calloused hands trail up your sides, kneading your waist, before dragging back down and palming the curve of your arse.
Dunk gazes at you through the semi-darkness. “Prettiest girl in the realm, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”
He grunts, then grips the base of his cock. It shines with your slick, wet with his spend too, and he slaps the thick head against one of your arsecheeks. You huff, and he drags the tip down the split of your arse until it ghosts across your hole—just lightly enough to make you draw in an anticipatory breath—before it finds your pussy.
“This is mine,” Dunk utters, and you almost don’t hear him. Even in the relative silence of the forest, his words are so quiet you could have mistaken them for the nearby river. Dunk circles his tip through your soaking folds before notching it and pushing in again. The groan that leaves his mouth makes you shiver. “This—fuck—this fuckin’ pussy, s’all mine. Hey, sweet girl, isn’t that right? Yeah? Tell me this is all mine.”
He thrusts in and you shout, voice carrying through the forest.
“Huh?” Dunk thrusts again, hard and fast. The angle drives him deep against you, tip knocking against the plug of your cervix. He leans over you, sweat dripping from his forehead, hair messy, cheeks pink. His hands pull your arse back onto his pelvis, meeting you thrust for thrust. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Need—need you to tell me. Please.”
You don’t know what that woman gave him, but you can see what it’s done to him. You can hear what it’s done, and feel what it’s done.
His rutting is brutal, his cock driving deep towards your womb, your belly full of him. Your arms shake where you hold yourself up, sweat damp in the crook of your elbows as you fist his cloak. It smells like him, and that makes the whines trapped in your throat break free.
“It’s yours, Dunk,” you manage to say as he leans over you, his body hot and too fucking big pressed against your lower spine. You gasp when one of his hands wraps around your hip and heads south, a finger finding your swollen clit. “Oh, fuck, it’s yours.”
Dunk draws a tight circle over the bud, marvelling in the way your pussy immediately tightens around him. “Yeah it is. Gods, I’m the luckiest man in all the seven kingdoms.”
You don’t correct him.
Your body trembles beneath his, and it’s almost like you can feel his cock swelling inside you. He’s impossibly thick, the ridges and veins sliding against the velvet of your walls, the head nailing that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Dunk always knows how to make you feel good, can always get you to where you want to go, but this is something entirely different. There’s an intensity within him you’ve never seen before. A feverish need that’s overtaken him, that flows from his pores, that infects every fibre of his being.
It makes you keen, back arching, listening to the way he grunts with each of his movements, cock splitting you open, heavy balls slapping against your clit as his fingers work against it too. The meat of his muscles are warm against you, solid and sturdy, holding you in place. It all adds to the sensation.
Another orgasm is quickly pulled through your body, and Dunk praises you through it as it crests like a wave.
“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he coos as you come around him, mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Your spine dips, hips stuttering, and Dunk removes his fingers from your aching clit to place a hand in the middle of your back. He forces you into a deeper arch, the new angle punching a scream from your throat as he coos again. “I know, I know, don’t make a fuss, sweet girl. You can do it. You can take me.”
Dunk’s breathing is laboured, and his stamina starts to falter as his cock twitches. Your cunt feels like heaven—a warm, silken heaven—and he screws his eyes shut momentarily, visions of him spilling deep inside you, straight into your womb, vivid in his mind. Maybe you shouldn’t drink the moon tea he finds you brewing during rest stops. Maybe he won’t have to spill across your stomach or tits or arse ever again.
He opens his eyes and grunts around a clenched jaw. “Ah—s’about time I breed—fuck—breed you, sweetheart. Huh? What do you think? Come deep inside this—ah, gods—t-this pretty pussy and give you my child. You’d look so beautiful all fat with my babe, wouldn’t you? Keep you n-nice and bred.”
“Yes, Dunk, fuck,” you moan. “Please, I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls out, fingers a vice on your hips. “Let me feel you. One more time, c’mon, my sweet girl. Let go for me one more time.”
You don’t know if you can.
Your body feels wrung out, like a dress soaked and dried by the river. Your heart clatters against your chest as your breasts push against the material of his cloak. There’s an uncomfortable pressure building in your lower tummy, mostly overwhelmed by overstimulation, but you can feel the remains of pleasure there too.
And Dunk knows you have it in you.
“One more,” he says. “One more, sweetheart, you can do it.”
Body on fire, nerves flaming at their ends, you meet his sloppy thrusts as best as you can. Your limbs tremor like a fawn, and your moans have long run dry: only hoarse whimpers roll from your tongue tasting lightly of honeyed wine.
And then you do give him one more.
Your body reacts to the manic pushing of his cock inside you, reacts to the thick of his cock splitting you open, reacts to the way he whispers your name like the sweetest kind of prayer. You come around him, arms collapsing as your pussy flutters around his girth. You topple forward, moaning his name while the ground shifts to meet you, and your legs seize, verging on a cramp.
“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I want,” Dunk babbles, a large hand wrapping around the back of your neck now and pulling you onto your knees. You’re boneless, and he’s so strong, so you can’t do much but let him haul you back against his broad, sweaty chest. He presses a hot kiss to the skin just beside your tragus. “Such a good girl—you did it. Gods, my sweet girl, my perfect girl. You did it, an’ you did so good for me.”
Bulky arms encircle you, bouncing you back against his cock. He grunts into your ear, ragged and bearish, as his entire body pulses with heat. He’s feverish, ill with pleasure, and you’re his soothing balm: the perfect remedy.
With one last pathetic whimper of your name, Dunk shoves himself to the hilt, as deep as he can possibly go, as his orgasm flows through him. His teeth sink into the skin on your shoulder as his cock jerks, hot spurts flooding thick into your womb. You sigh softly into the cool early night air, reclining back against your husband as he empties himself inside you again, your pussy milking him for all it’s worth. Dunk groans into your shoulder, fever finally breaking, his cock giving one last jolt before it slowly starts to soften inside of you. The feeling nearly makes his eyes roll into the back of his head, relief filling him.
You stay like this for a little while. He presses silent, delicate kisses along your bare shoulder and onto your cheek, his hands rubbing over your breasts and belly, but not in a sexual way. His big, rough hands are calming as you both fizzle down from your highs.
Soon though, Dunk realises the forest around you has grown too dark. Wordlessly, he helps you to your feet, bundling you in his cloak before guiding you towards the fire. It is made, but unlit, but it’s roaring in mere minutes as Dunk—who has hurriedly thrown his breeches and trousers on—adds more fuel to the flickering orange flames.
Then, beneath the firelight, Dunk cleans you up. You sit on a stump before him as he dabs a wet cloth between your legs, wiping his seed from your core. He presses tender kisses to the inside of your knees, and soon you’re dressed, and the two of you snack on salt beef, cuddling beneath the stars.
“Maybe you should go back to that woman,” you say jokingly, turning your head to find Dunk already looking at you. His eyes reflect the fire. You smile. “I like it when you’re needy. I wonder if she has a long-lasting one?”
Dunk flushes, averting his eyes. “I don’t want to have to go through that again. As much as it felt great, my cock also felt about ready to break in half.”
You laugh, and Dunk resumes watching you carefully. After a moment, something lights up in his eyes, and he gets to his feet, still chewing a mouthful of salt beef, and retrieves his rope belt from where the horses graze nearby. When he returns, you lean your head against the pillowy muscle of his upper arm, peering at his big hands as he plucks a small pouch from the belt.
“I got you these,” your husband says shyly, handing you the bag.
You beam when you open it and see your favourite sweets. You incline your head and urge Dunk down to you, drawing his mouth into a sweet kiss.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you more.”
Then, you laugh. “Oh, you poor boy. You went to the market to purchase some sweets, and instead you got poisoned—” you say that part sarcastically, “—by a little old lady. My poor, poor boy.”
You reach up and stroke his hair, watching with awe as his eyes fall closed and a deep purr leaves his chest. His arm wraps tighter around you, pulling you closer into his side.
He never wants to let you go.
———
god he’s so hot
describing his muscles as ‘pillowy’ really got to me i need to lie down
robby's arc next season is already abundantly clear to me and I'll be shocked if it's anything other than this: the reason he hits the deepest depths of rock bottom will be when the realization fully, truly sets in that this emergency department does not need him. he can't run from it, can't make excuses. it'll be running like it always is, maybe better, Baran will be capable, level-headed.
and it'll ruin him. he's put all of his self worth into that hospital. he's barely a person without it. all the best things he's done in his life are in that hospital. what else does he have? a failed shot at family with Heather, with Janey, a line-up of meaningless hookups, a very small group of friends, most of which reside in the hospital. all his life he's wanted a family and all his life he's failed at it. this hospital is his family, but it's not healthy for anybody involved.
this isn't to say he's never benefited the department, hell, he got them through covid. the staff do generally like and respect him, as seen through interactions when he's not so turbulent + other little moments. he's an incredible doctor, talented, intelligent, quick-thinking. not the best mentor, but he's been a great teacher on several occasions.
but that doesn't matter. your job does not care about you. management does not give a fuck about you. the American healthcare system certainly doesn't. they don't need you. they don't want to replace you because they know they can abuse you, but either way, they can and they will. he's a workhorse to them. and he's let it drive him almost all the way to his grave.
this is something Robby will have to accept for his own good, and it will be incredibly difficult. he's simultaneously got the world's shittiest self esteem and a huge fucking ego because he's the epitome of "I don't deserve anything. I fail over and over. but this is the one thing I'm good at." and that is so fucking hard to let go when you've made it your identity.
who is Michael Robinavitch when he's not Doctor Robby? what does he enjoy doing? and no, motorcycle death trap doesn't really count. maybe if it was a genuine healthy hobby, maybe in the future, but right now it's not a good idea. what fulfills him, if not the Pitt? he's spent so long saving lives, how is he supposed to save his own?
my prediction is that we'll be in his head again. he's spent four months away, probably because once you stop, it is so. fucking hard. to find the will to start again. the longer away from the hospital the longer he probably dreads coming back. and he most likely won't be well-rested, cause this isn't the kind of tired that fixes itself with laying down or sleeping. this is bone-deep.
but he'll have a firm mask on. we'll see something similar to s1 Robby, or possibly a new, even steadier version of him. a fake one. we will be in his head again, following him into bathrooms as he gulps heaving, shaky breaths, straightens up with a hysterical laugh and goes right back out into the fray. he won't have magically learned the lesson of not bottling things up— he'll think he just needed to be better at it.
it's a cycle. depressive episodes can be a vicious, near impossible cycle to break from. bottling things up, keeping it quiet when you start to break, start to lose it, until you can't keep it quiet anymore, and then it snaps in ugly ways. spills out of you before you can screw the lid shut again. s3 will be back at the beginning of the cycle, lid screwed tight, and the question is, will he break it this time? how will he break it? will he ever get out?
when the overwhelming pressure he puts on his shoulders lightens, when he realizes he could walk away from all this— will that make him want to stay? choose to? instead of falling back down a void of self hatred, maybe this time, he breathes through it. maybe this time, he feels freer, feels like maybe he could enjoy medicine again. rejoice in saving lives, let himself process the deaths in healthier ways. he clearly loves to teach, guide his students through procedures.
Michael Robinavitch and Doctor Robby can coexist. and I hope we eventually get to see that.
The writers have been sprinkling in hints throughout the season that Langdon isn't fully accepting responsibility for the harm he caused. Him getting upset and accusing Robby of punishing him when he was put in triage after not working for 10 months. Lying to Mel about "It never affected my work", despite him stealing and diluting medication necessary for patient care. The way he was told multiple times by two separate people that trying to talk to Robby would just upset him. Santos making it obvious that she doesn't want to interact with him, but he kept trying to force his way back into a teaching role. His sarcastic and condescending remarks during the teaching case. And then the half-lie he gave Al-Hashimi about "Well I was kinda an asshole to her once :(", instead of "She caught me stealing drugs and I tried to get her fired".
The writers were never going to get us the sickly sweet moment where Langdon thanks Santos for saving him from addiction.
"whitaker's racism" "robby's misogyny" how about langdon's racism AND misogyny huh. how about that. the patient he stole drugs from was an indigent Black man. he can't be impressed by Princess speaking six languages without turning it into a dig at Collins. his response to Princess calling him an asshole in one of those six languages is a sarcastic "namaste." he makes financial and life decisions without consulting his wife and thinks her being a SAHM is less than him being a doctor. he can bro out with robby and whitaker and donnie, but dana is in the mommy zone and mel gets babied and every other female doctor is invisible at best or an enemy at worst, save for garcia who is the only person willing to stoop to his level.
And the Trinity and Frank thing is worse because he put all of this energy into trying to apologize and talk to Robby when the person at the top of his list should've been Trinity.
Yes her behavior is out of line but it's not like there's no reason for it and Frank knows that yet he continues to work with her like nothing happened. It's infuriating and I don't blame her for acting the way she does because she must feel like she's going insane. For some reason she's supposed to be the bigger person and for what? Things are not fine. I can't imagine having to work under someone who had a verbal freak out on me, humiliated me in front of my peers, committed a crime and faced what feels like no consequences for it. Then there's the fact that he hounded her when he thought she was telling on him and tried to get her removed from that ER behind her back.
I like Frank but this is so aggravating. Being a smartass with him is the only form of rebellion she has. She holds absolutely no power over him but somehow Frank is the one that needs defending. "Talk to him if you have beef" she shouldn't have to be the one to do that !!! She was wronged so why is she the one that has to make amends? Why does she have to approach him over a problem that he caused? Why is it always Trinity's fault?
Sorry unpopular opinion I guess but I do not think Robby was being overly harsh, unfair, or cruel on the roof with Langdon. Robby explicitly told Langdon he didn’t want to talk about what happened, multiple times over. Dana explicitly told Langdon to leave Robby alone. And so what does Langdon do? He takes the next opportunity he gets when Robby’s cornered to force a conversation on him that he’s not ready for. And even still, what Robby said wasn’t mean, it was honest. And it was clearly something Robby struggled with saying.
And moreover, Langdon’s approach to every single “apology” this season has been rife with selfishness. Before he treats Louie or offers him any kind of relief, he confesses to him. He admits he committed a crime but tells Louie “you can request another doctor” not “you can press charges.” The responsible thing to do would have been to get another doctor on the case from the jump, and only found Louie when he was stable, in less pain, and already being treated. Instead, he prioritizes his own relief. Then he tells Mel, someone he doesn’t really owe an apology to, that he’s sorry he let her down but the addiction never affected his work—a bald faced lie. He apologizes to Dana in the breakroom for being selfish, but the entire conversation perfectly mirrors the very conversation he claims to be apologizing for: Dana, struggling, and Langdon, once again, demanding emotional support from her—whether intentional or not.
Langdon is speed running the 12 steps. It is abundantly clear from his very first interaction with Robby that he is clinging to the idea that he can come back after ten months of rehab and go right back to normal. That he is entitled to go back to normal. He thinks that everything should be able to happen on his own terms, and while I certainly have empathy for his desperation to try and make things right with people he clearly cares a lot about, it is completely reflective of the fact that he hasn’t actually done the necessary work. At least not yet.
I don’t know when or what his apology to Santos will look like, but I hope she does not forgive him. Langdon screamed at her, berated her, gaslit her, and actively tried to sabotage her career. Langdon is not at fault for struggling with addiction, but he is responsible for his actions. The way he treated Santos was harassment, and it is unforgivable. And I really hope for once in her life she allowed that agency.
loved loved loved this episode and how sassy/punchy/impatient Robby was and how we see the ‘mask slipping’ incrementally
but one of the small moments I loved was how Robby was the only one who interrupted Santos charting who she didn’t blow up at. Like he sort of whispered “writing the great American novel” (such a dad joke) at her and she was like, ufff, rather than FUCK OFF
just an interesting note. Unexpectedly this season I love their relationship. Not something even predictable or present in the first season and utterly fascinating. Like two crusty people with high walls up who see each other.
I think Robby really likes people who are direct and honest and sharp-tongued and confident (people like him maybe)— he liked that in Langdon, Collins— and is impatient with those (like Samira) who were more contemplative, or indecisive. Just an interesting character detail, maybe something to do with his upbringing
