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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 17 days

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The Farmer's Daughter 15

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Walter sighs as he shuts the hood of the truck. He tuts and faces you, keeping his hand on the metal, his other going to his hip. He looks at you then the sky behind you. The rain has stirred the scent of mud and grass and left a glaze over everything.

“You’re lucky the thing didn’t blow up in your face,” he says. “Maybe the rain saved you.”

“Oh, I... didn’t know,” you utter nervously. “Timothy said it was fine--”

“Yeah, well, shows how much he knows,” Walter stands straight and pushes back his curls, “he’s not ready. He’s too young. I’ll make sure he learns. Be sad if he through away all your dad’s hard work, huh?”

“Y-yeah, I guess,” you swallow. His words remind you of the imbalance. You need him. That’s the reality that brought you all the way up here.

“Right, well, I’ll deal with it later. I got some chains I can use to get it up to the house but we should head into town then go see your mother. Make sure she isn’t worried sick,” he steps towards you and brings his hand up under your chin. You fight not to shy away, “what were you thinking? Putting yourself in danger like that?”

“I... I had to come see you--”

He smiles, “that’s sweet but I’d rather you wait and have you in one piece, sweetheart.”

You nod into his hand and wince as he leans in. His thumb rubs your chin as he tilts your head up and he presses his lips to yours. Your surprised by his gentleness, though his beard grazes your roughly. You let him kiss you as he swoops an arm around to wrap you up.

When he parts, your breathless and dizzy. His eyes gleam down at you, “wife,” he rasps out, “we’re almost there.”

The shift in his mood puts you off. It’s just like back in the kitchen, one moment he’s terse and short, almost disappointed, the next he’s almost delicate and content. He releases you and takes you by the hand. You follow him back up towards the house.

You wait outside as he runs in to get his keys. As he comes back out, you open the door of the truck and brace the interior. You put your foot on the small metal step to pull yourself up and gasp as you’re lifted from behind. Walter helps you into the seat and you wriggle free with a meek ‘thank you’.

He kisses your cheek before he shuts the door. You focus on buckling the belt as he rounds the front of the truck. He climbs into the driver’s side and turns the engine. He sets off, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the corner of your seat.

You sit quietly, watching the hills roll by. This is it. This is your life. You’re going to married and a wife and you’re going to be tied to this man and these lands forever. You never really thought it out, you just expected life to unfold before you.

He pulls up to the bank and turns into the lot. He steers into one of the angled spots and kills the engine. You tap your fingers on your legs before you regain your bearings. As he opens his door, you do the same. You get out, hopping down with a small oof. You catch yourself on the door.

Walt stomps around, “hey, hey, careful. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you smile, “really, I can manage.”

“I just don’t want you twisting your ankle,” he says.

“Um, okay, all good,” you show him your foot, “really.”

He stares at you. His cheek ticks. He takes your hand and shuts the passenger door. He tugs you away towards the front of the building. As you follow the sidewalk down to the entrance, you pass a few other curious pedestrians. You don’t miss there gazes and the low whispers between them.

You go inside and find the bank empty. Walter drags you to the counter and taps the bell on it. You stand on your toes to see over the high desk and see a head pop out of a back office. The woman looks unimpressed as she goes to bang on the door next to hers, “customers.”

She quickly retreats as you wait. The next door opens and another woman emerges. She’s taller than the other one, slimmer too. She struts over as she tugs straight the collar of her blouse. Her pretty pink lipstick clings to one lip as the other is faded to its natural hue.

“Hello, folks, how can I help you today.”

“I’d like to speak with an advisor about a mortgage,” Walter says as he lets go of your hand, instead hovering his large one along your lower back.

“That’s exciting,” she chimes, “you and... I didn’t know you married?”

“Not yet,” Walter exhales, “anyway, do you got someone available? I don’t really have time to sit around.”

“Sure, sure, Pete should be able to help you out. I’ll just take you to an office.”

The woman, Marska, comes around the desk and waves you down the hall. She takes you into an office and leaves you there. You and Walter lower yourself into the stiff chairs. He reaches between to offer his hand. You take it and nervously stare at the empty desk.

There’s a tap on the doorframe and a man enters. Pete. You’ve seen him before when you came to the bank with your mother.

“Morning,” he says as he swaggers around to sit behind the desk, “lovely to see you folks bright and early.” He offers his hand across the desk and Walter reluctantly lets go of yours to shake it. Pete looks at you and you hesitantly shake his hand. The man beside you shifts and huffs. “So, we’re looking into a mortgage, huh?”

The manager smiles as he leans back nonchalantly in his chair. He looks between you and Walter, “gone and snagged yourself a young one, huh, Marshall?”

Walter growls and crosses his arms, “I have a down payment.”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Pete rolls his chair closer to the desk, “just making some small chat. Big news, the two of you.”

“Is it?” Walter challenges.

“Marriage is a big deal, isn’t it?” Peter chuckles nervously.

“You would know,” Walter sneers as he sniffs, “you got something on your cheek.”

You only notice at the mention of it. Your eyes retreat from the window to Pete’s face, the smear of pink along his cheek. You look away, embarrassed for him. It must be true what they say about him and Marska.

“Uh, thanks,” Pete wipes his face with his sleeve, “let’s just jump in then.” He puts his hands over the keyboard and clears his throat. You can see a trickle of sweat along his hairline as Walter’s disapproval burns through the small office.

#walter marshall #dark walter marshall #dark!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #drabble #au #backwoods #series #the farmer's daughter #night hunter

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mothdruid · 3 months

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Sing the Body

pairing: robert ‘bob’ floyd x afab!reader

summary: the idea didn't seem that hard, him eating you out while you read him poetry. what you didn't realize was he meant I Sing the Body Electric by Walt Whitman. now your professor was between your legs as you tried to read nine long verses of the most intimate poetry.

wc: 3.9k

warnings: 18+, smut, mdni, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering, hand job, pet name (dove), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, bob fucks.

a/n: finally, more poetry professor bob.

“And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.”

The last word ended with a moan, the sound filling the space around you. It egged Bob on, pushed him to lick a stripe up your slit. Tongue tracing every part it could, swirling and flicking against your clit while keeping you tightly to him. Strong arms were wrapped around your thighs to hold you in place. His glasses were slightly askew as he watched you from below. He was currently on his knees worshiping you while you sat on the edge of his desk.

“Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?” Your mind was swimming, eyes struggling to figure out the words on the page.

The pleasure was so much, making it too hard to focus. But you had to, if not he wouldn’t let you come and send you away with the promise to not touch you for a week. That was your punishment, his as well. This little game of cat and mouse was becoming more exciting the longer it lasted. The cat had finally trapped the mouse, but he had always loved playing with his food before consuming it.

“And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?” You let the book rest against your chest. Shaky breaths passed your lips as you watched Bob give one earnest lick to your clit before pulling back to place a kiss on your thigh.

“So good for me, dove,” he whispered, then nipping at your skin lightly, “got through that verse with no problem.”

You nodded then picked the book back up when he motioned to it. He pressed a kiss to your thigh right before you started verse two. His tongue traced down the inside of your thigh back to your aching cunt, licking a big stripe from your entrance to your clit. A shiver ran through you as he started back up again, pleasure flaring up again.

“The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.” A gasp escaped your lips as Bob sucked harshly on your clit at the last word. Your abdomen clenched tightly, but you kept up with the words. “The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him.”

A shudder ran through you as he flicked fervently against your clit. Your hand that was planted on the desk to balance you moved to his hair. Your fingers threaded through his soft locks as your body curled forward. A tightness was forming along your shoulder blades. Your eyes were shut tight, your hand holding the book had a similarly tight grip on the book. When you finally opened your eyes and looked down you were stunned. Bob’s head was tilted back slightly, mouth open with his tongue hanging out and still working against you.

Silent noises were coming from you, your facial expressions being the only telling sign of them. Seeing Bob like that was mind numbing, making you wonder how you were going to get through the rest of the poem. Your abdomen already felt impossibly tight, how could you handle eight more verses. You let your fingers loosen from his hair, moving back to your original position but laying on your back this time. This was going to be the easiest way to focus, or at least the easiest to focus on the words you were supposed to be reading.

“The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,” a shock of pleasure ran up your spine, making it bow lightly, “You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.”

“The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,” Bob started sucking a little harshly. You felt one of his hands disappear from your thighs, only to reappear between your legs. He replaced his mouth with his fingers momentarily as you continued, “The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water.”

“The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle, Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,” Bob said the next two lines from memory, watching as you peaked down at him.

“God, you’re impeccable,” Bob whispered into where your inner thigh met your pubic bone. With that he was diving back into you, tongue licking slowly at your clit. This time his fingers wandered lower, one circling your entrance.

“The group, group of laborers,” you couldn’t help your sudden stutter as Bob sunk one finger inside of you, “seated at noon-time with, with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, The female soothing a child, the far-farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard, The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd.” You had to pause, you knew that if you kept going you were going to come. You had to take a minute to compose yourself.

Bob hadn’t said anything about entering you, fingers or cock. He had only said he wanted to eat you like a starved man. Someone who hadn’t felt a touch for years. A man who merely dreamt of the day he could worship you again. Provide all the pleasures of the world to you, letting you know he would never leave you again. Conveying that the yearning within him was real, and so much more than that.

“The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,” one of his fingers pressed into you, eliciting a moan from you in between lines. “The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes.”

During the last sentence Bob brought his free hand up to your side. A soft squeeze that reminded you that even though he was deep between your legs, enjoying every sound you had to give him, he was still here for you and all you had to do was say if it was too much. Even though you were starting to question if you could get through all nine verses of the poem, you were more than determined to give him what you wanted. That sweet, sweet man who has risked everything for you. The least you could give him was to comply with the idea of reading to him while he pleasured you.

“The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,” your breath hitched in your throat as his fingers worked you open, tongue working tirelessly against your clit. “The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert.”

The combination of his fingers pressing against the bundle of nerves inside of you and tongue working over that outer bundle of nerves was pushing you closer to the edge. The flame that was licking at the inside of your abdomen, causing everything to clench up, was hard to stave off. You felt like you’d be consumed by the flame at any moment, it bursting into a full blaze of flames.

“The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting,” you moved up onto your elbow, letting the book rest onto your chest once more. The urge to look at the way your professor was currently on his knees for you was too strong. It was demanding your attention, as if he himself was forcing you to watch. Your voice was weak and unbalanced when speaking once more. “Such, such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child.” Moans and sighs punctuated between the words, Bob’s fingers slowly moved inside of you, curling up and pressing against the bundle of nerves again.

“Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.” Bob finished for you, having noticed it was getting harder for you to continue. “You’re doing so well,” Bob whispered as his slick and spit-covered lips pressed onto your thigh.

“Thank you,” you said, watching his eyebrow quirk up. Fuck. “Thank you, Professor Floyd.”

A groan fell from his lips when he heard the title. It should not have made his dick twitch as much as it did, the intense throb driving him nearly mad. The only thing holding his sanity together was the sweet noises you were making, but it felt as if you were also pushing him further into his madness. He knew from the moment this arrangement happened he would be fucked. Literally and metaphorically. It was so wrong, but it felt so fucking good. Who knew that breaking the rules could feel this good?

“I’m not sure if I can finish,” you whimpered, “it’s getting to be too, too much.”

Bob inched up your body, pressing kisses up your clothed upper half. He had thought about begging to completely undress you, but he knew it could be too risky. Yes, it was a Friday night and nobody would be walking near his tucked away office, but the risk was still there. Hestood and leaned up over you, pressed his slick covered lips against yours, and elicited a moan from you. His own clothed chest was barely grazing the binding of the book resting on yours.

“You can, little dove, I know you can,” he pressed his forehead to yours then brought his free hand to your face. Knuckles softly ghosted over your cheek and jaw. He could tell from the way you were squeezing around his fingers that you were close, had been for awhile. It must have been hard to hold back for so long. He pressed his thumb to your sensitive clit, rubbing rhythmic circles against you.

“Help.” It was the only word you could get out. You hadn’t planned on asking for help when this started. Bob had offered it, but your pride had got the best of you. But now it seemed like the only way to complete all nine verses of the poem.

“Help?” The thumb on your clit stopped. Bob held back a deep groan, his cock twitching in his pants. You were asking him for help, the thing you had so vehemently denied at the beginning. Both of his hands cupped your face, slick covered fingers wet against your cheek.

“Please,” the whimper wasn’t intentional, but you knew it’d make him break.

“Of course,” he grabbed your jaw and tilted it up, forcing your lips to meet his. “Can I fill you up?”

A moan escaped you, his words fueling the bonfire deep within your abdomen. The thought of his cock filling you to the brim while reciting a poem so intimate. If someone had told you that this, your poetry professor asking to put his cock in you, would happen to you, you would have laughed. The very idea was something out of a book, but yet here you were, actually experiencing it.

“Yes,” you wrapped one arm around his shoulders to pull him closer.

Your lips smashed together once more, moaning at the taste of your slick on his tongue again. He removed the book from your chest, throwing it somewhere behind you on the desk. The warmth of his touch was then cascading down your sides, giving an occasional squeeze to your covered flesh. They ghosted over the skin of your uncovered hips, only to trail up your outer thighs, then down the backs of them. When the kiss broke, you looked down to watch his hands move from your thighs to his slacks. Bob’s eyes were trained to your face, watching you watch his hands. His fingers worked diligently to undo his slacks, pushing those and his boxers down just enough to reveal his cock.

You would never get tired of seeing his cock. It was gorgeous, pretty even. The way it felt inside of you, pulsing and stretching, always had you coming so quickly. You shifted your weight slightly, moving the arm holding you up down to grab his cock. A muffled groan graced your ears, which urged you to stroke his cock a little more.

“I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons,” Bob started the poem again, trying to not lose the objective of this rendezvous.

“This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person.” It was easier to recite now that you weren’t the one having your mind completely clouded with pleasure. “The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners.” Your strokes started to quicken, a part of you wanting to make him struggle the way you had earlier.

“These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also,” Bob’s hands gripped your hips as he pressed his forehead to yours. “He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome,” his voice was starting to waver slightly, taking more time for each section he recited.

“They and his daughters loved him,” you slowed your strokes and spoke precisely, “all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love,” you squeezed your hand lightly around the head of his cock, a gasp passing Bob’s lips. “He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face,” your gaze locked with Bob’s, his glasses still askew. “He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him.”

“When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish,” he slowly started to thrust into your hand, “you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang.”

“You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.”

With the last line you loosened your hand from his cock. A shuddering breath left him, giving you a surge of confidence. You pressed your lips to his neck, running your tongue along his salty skin. As you paid attention to his neck and ran your fingers up through his hair, he was adjusting you on his desk. His grip was firm on your hips, scooting you a tiny bit closer to the edge. It suddenly felt like your ass was hanging off of the desk, making you pull back in concern.

“I have you, don’t worry,” Bob whispered.

One of his hands left your hips, moving to grip the base of his cock. He adjusted between your legs, assuming a tall and stable stature. The head of his cock pushed through your folds and rubbed against your clit. Moans were lightly falling from your lips, whines accenting them every now and then.

“I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,” Bob was the one to start the next verse. “To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,” a groan escaped him briefly, “To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough.”

On the last word you felt him against your entrance, teasing you. Those sea blue eyes locked with yours, telling you everything that you needed to know.

“To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.”

The gaze never broke as he started to press into you. The stretch of his cock felt amazing, pushing almost all the air from your lungs. No matter how many times he had fucked you, you would never fully get used to his size, his girth.

“There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well.”

The words of the poem were becoming more and more real. It felt as if the poem was describing the two of you currently, encapsulating the essence of your sensations and pleasures. That flame that had been consuming you, engulfing the both of you. You went to continue, say the last line, but Bob was finishing it for you with a single deep thrust into you.

“All things please the soul, but these please the soul well.”

A shudder of pleasure rushed through you as he continued into the next verse.

“This is the female form,” one of his hands traced up your side, “A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction.” He refused to move within you, cock stuffed deep as he spoke. “I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,” he leaned forward, lips close to your ear now.

“Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth,” his voice was barely a whisper, “and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed.”

His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. Your body flexed around him, feeling the hard length filling you. Hot breath coated your ear, a soft groan flooded your hearing. His groan made you clench around him again, holding him like a vice. Bob’s left hand moved up your body, gripped your jaw, and turned your face to look at him. There was this feral look in his eyes, one you didn’t see that often from him. You could only recall two other times you had seen it. His lips parted, tongue darting over them.

“Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,” his eyes darted to your lips, only to flick back up to your eyes. His right hand started to move over your body, kneading at the flesh of your torso and thighs. “Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused.”

The words were being spoken into you, giving you a new meaning to life. A new meaning of intimacy. Fingertips were digging into the bare flesh of your thighs, pressing your leg tightly to his side. His hips were pressed just as tightly to yours. The opening of his pants were most likely going to leave an imprint on your ass, but you didn’t care. Almost even looked forward to it.

“Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,” he shifted his hips slightly, pressing harder against you. “Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love,” his hand left your thigh and moved to the apex of your legs, “white-blow and delirious juice,” his fingers moved to the spot where you two were joined.

A moan left you when you felt it, his fingers touching your stretched hole. You could feel his fingers gather some of your slick, using it to rub your clit. You clenched around him, the tightness in your abdomen returned quickly. All you could do was stare into his eyes, his gaze unwavering.

“Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,” he was drawing perfect circles on your clit, “Undulating into the willing and yielding day, Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.”

Fire was coursing through your veins, pleasure licking at all of your insides. The circling of his fingers and stretch of his cock was getting to be too much. It was all becoming too much, the way his words were mixing with his movements.

“Professor,” it came out as a whimper, “I can’t.”

“It’s okay, I know,” he reassured. He knew you were close, could feel it by the way your cunt was gripping his cock.

“But I we agreed tha-”

“Don’t worry, dove, I want to feel it, feel you let go.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, reassuring you that it was okay. Bob knew there was a chance that neither of you would be able to complete the task at hand. Even though he had placed a consequence in place, he knew deep in his heart he could never follow through with it. The way you were clawing at him, clutching onto every aspect of him, it was driving him mad like it always did. Ever since your first time together he knew he was a goner.

The tightness in your abdomen snapped quickly, a flame licking at all your organs while pleasure was coursing through you. You curled in on Bob while you came, clutching him as if your life depended on it. While you were coming Bob started moving, thrusting lightly into you to keep your orgasm moving through you. Both of his hands landed on your hips, gripping them tightly. The noises coming from you were spurring Bob on, wanting to keep your orgasm going. His thrusts were becoming stronger and harder. That’s when you felt it, again.

“Oh, fuck!”

It felt like another orgasm hit you, making your legs quake against Bob’s sides. Bob’s movements stilled, balls deep inside of you. A shudder passed through his body, one that felt almost like your own. A warmth filled you up, his cum covering your insides. Bob moved his head to your shoulder, trying to catch his breath as you both started to come down. You brought one of your hands up to the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing and playing with the outgrown ends of his hair.

There was a small guilty feeling starting to creep up inside of you. You had started this with a large ego, boasting about how easy it would have been. But now here you were slumped against him, out of breath with a blank mind. All you could do was touch his hair and try to get your breath synced with his. You thought about the punishment that was now to come.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his hair.

Bob pulled back from your shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your cheek before speaking.

“Don’t be, we can try again another time,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Excitement filled you. The thought of hearing all these words again, him reminding you of the way you made him feel. A smile pulled at your lips as you thought about it more. God, you were truly smitten for your professor.

#robert bob floyd #bob floyd #bob floyd smut #bob floyd imagine #bob fucks #bob floyd x you #bob floyd x reader #poetry professor!bob floyd #bob floyd fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #tgm fanfiction

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angrylesbianstereotype · 2 years

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With the way Walt wasted no time to start abusing Jesse as soon as they partnered up, and considering Walt treats Jesse like he's his son AND his wife... Do you think this means Walt had been bursting at the seams to abuse his real son and real wife this whole time, and only with Jesse did he have a chance to do so?

*Pushes glasses up on nose as though I am a respected scholar in a legitimate field of study* Ok so I hate to answer a compelling question with a kind of roundabout, not at all concrete answer but here goes: Walter wants to do whatever Walter wants to do, in the moment, without having to concern himself with that pesky, pedestrian little irritant known as ye olde consequences. He’s your basic old white fart who, because he grew up with the oxymoron of the white man as a vehicle for both exceptionalism and the Everyman, believes that consequences should not apply to him, and feels that he has been hard done by because, shocker, his stagnancy prior to the beginning of the series hasn’t resulted in everything he ever wanted falling into his lap! He does abuse both Skyler and Flynn over the course of the series, the assault on Skyler in season two being the most overtly violent of these instances, though it is heavily implied in season five that this isn’t even a one time occurrence; “I can’t even keep you out of my bed!” It’s also in season two that he peer pressures his teenage son into drinking to excess to gain the upper hand in his one-sided pissing contest with Hank, and this mirrors the ways in which he flexes his control over Jesse in front of Gus and Mike. Walter is dangerous precisely because he doesn’t view himself as an abuser, it’s not like he wistfully daydreams about slouching around the house in a wifebeater, terrorizing his wife and kids until they walk on eggshells around him. In fact, he’s shown throughout the series to act like a little pissbaby throwing a little pissbaby tantrum whenever he’s treated by his family like the monster he is. He wants to be able to act on his anger, to rape his wife and bully his son, without being subject to any of the organic repercussions these actions would inevitably induce. He doesn’t want to play the part of the mild-mannered family man anymore, or put in any of the work required to keep up that front, but he still wants to be seen as the provider and benevolent patriarch. He wants to have his fucking cake and eat it to.

That’s where Jesse comes in.

Walter loves Jesse, he does. The problem was never that he didn’t love Jesse, it was why he loved Jesse. Walter loves Jesse more than Flynn, that much was confirmed by Vince in a quote I can’t find anymore for the fucking life of me so you’ll just have to take my word for it ig. Walter might even love Jesse more than Skyler. But he doesn’t love Jesse as a person so much as a conduit, as an indispensable resource. It’s pretty vital, actually, that the person Walter projects all his shit onto isn’t a part of his immediate family, because then Jesse can be whatever he wants him to be. It’s great for Walter that Jesse’s a junkie, because then, according to societal norms, he doesn’t have to see Jesse as human when he’s taking out all of his anger on him. When Jesse isn’t being malleable enough for his liking, or even if Walt’s mad about something else entirely, then Jesse’s just a junkie, a nobody, an ungrateful, petulant fuck-up. When Walter is being rightfully shut out by his family or needs Jesse for some material task, then Jesse is practically family to him. They’re partners. It’s a terrible burden to put on an impressionable 24-year-old, a pretty fucking shitty thing to do to someone who trusts you, more than they should, and an impossible exception to live up to, to be someone’s everything.

So when Jesse inevitably fails at it, inevitably falls short of this perfectly imperfect idealization of himself, he is punished, horribly.

Walter never would have done the things he did to Jesse to Flynn, or to Skyler.

He doesn’t love them as much.

#i love being dramatic being dramatic is my jesse #i could literally go on but i just wrote a whole academic thesis so #breaking bad #brba #jesse pinkman #skyler white #flynn white #anti walter white #walter white hate blog #fun fact this is edited bc i mistakenly put jesse’s age as 23 not 24 #bc I’M 23 #i kin him so bad it makes me look stupid #tw sa mention

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slamminslamminmcgill · 1 year

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random thoughts... saul fingering you while hes on call with someone ... placing his hand tightly over your mouth to shut you up ... dhdjhejshrntg..f..g.. getting bent over that damn desk and him taking his tie off to choke you with it ...

>:333

combining w/ these

anatomical terms:

"We're sorry we missed you! Saul Goodman and Associates is out to lunch. Leave your name and phone number at the tone, and we will return your call before the end of the business day. Thank you!"

If anyone were to contact the office between 1-2PM, Monday-Friday, that's the message they would be greeted with. Guaranteed. That was when Saul took his lunch break. During that time, he'd eat out and get whatever he was craving: burgers, Mexican, Thai, you. That last one was his favorite.

You were laying down flat against his desk, legs dangling over the edge, with Saul nestled between them as he ate you out. Your hand grasped at strands of his thinning hair and guided his movements. He appreciated the help, but he didn't need it. He knew what he was doing, and what he was doing was a great job.

Hs firm hands and thin lips brought you up to the precipice of an orgasm. You begged for release in the soundproof office. "Saul... Saul, please... so... so close... God, fuck, please... Please!"

Surprisingly, the next thing you heard was not your own voice shrieking in ecstasy, but that of a telephone screeching for attention. You both froze in place, your climax shot down and reduced to rubble.

Saul pulled off of you and groaned, his mouth quite literally dripping wet. "Son of a bitch..." He stood up, brushed himself off, and leaned over you to hit the intercom button. "Francesca! What time is it?"

A flat, no-nonsense voice came through the other side. "2:04" was all it had to say.

"Oops! Sorry, lost track of time there. Thanks HT!"

"Don't call me tha-"

Click.

Saul silenced her dissent by releasing the button. He sat back in his chair and grabbed the ringing phone, one of many piled up in his drawer. Holding the cell in one hand, he beckoned you over and slapped his thigh with the other. A silent cue for you to take your seat.

You slid off the desk and propped yourself on his lap. He flipped the phone open and finagled it between his shoulder and his ear to keep both of his hands free. "Thank you for calling Saul Goodman! What can I do for ya?" He answered with perfect poise and nonchalance as he wrapped his arms around you and groped your chest.

The voice on the other end was frantic, low, and gravelly. You didn't hear specific words, just tone. Saul rolled his eyes as it spoke, lazily dragging one of his hands lower and lower, until it rested between your legs. "I see... That sounds very troubling." He answered with mock sympathy as he pressed his fingers inside you again.

You threw your head back and moaned, probably for a fraction of a second before Saul slapped his hand over your mouth. "Quiet. You just sit back, relax, and let me handle this, okay? I don't need your input."

The party on the other line must have heard something, because Saul's response was more anxious. "Oh! Nothing, nothing, don't worry. Now, let me check my schedule and I'll see where I can fit you in." He twisted and turned his fingers inside you, stretching you out, probably making sure you could fit him in. "Hm... looks like it's gonna be a tight squeeze..." He emphasized those words by pushing up into your g-spot and making your legs tremble, "...buuut I can get you in tomorrow at 4. Would that work for you, Walt?"

His voice stopped for a moment to let "Walt" speak; his fingers didn't do the same. Regardless of who "Walt" was and what he needed, it wasn't as important as this. At least, to you two it wasn't. "Walt" was shouting into the phone like he might burst a blood vessel.

Saul replied incredulously at the mysterious figure's behavior. "What?! Absolutely not! I have a waiting room packed full of clients who need to see me just as much as you do! I'm not your little callboy!" He leaned in close to whisper in your ear. "You on the other hand..."

He turned his attention back to the petulant voice shouting in his ear. "Y'know what? I'm done talking about this. Mr. White, I'll see you at 4PM tomorrow and not a moment sooner." He took his hand off your mouth to snap the flip phone shut.

"Sorry about that, sweetheart, now..." He pumped his fingers even faster, priming you for another release. "Let's get back to the task at hand."

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