#* gsfring .
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' i had my suspicions, but until now i wasn't sure. ' ↪ @gsfring : jesse.
jesse has met many a character in his time : from birth, the highbrow way of his parents, in school and forever more the condemnation of authority. cops and their wisecracks, the volatility of addicts. the innocence of children. the immaturity of those who never grew up, modern day peter pans minus the glorification. gus is a man he has never been able to pin, immune to the venn diagrams otherwise drawn in his mind of what people are like. fring is inhuman. and now, cryptic as ever and taunting him with the beginning of a thought, jesse can only plea for answers.
❛ suspicions about what, exactly ? there's nothing more to say. you know how it all started out. ❜ the relationship between the two cooks is anything but clear - cut to the naked eye, teacher and student turned unlikely lab partners. jesse would like to believe ( and, to his superficial consciousness, does ) that's all there is to it, but like a fish that doesn't know it's on a hook, he bites. ❛ he's looked out for me, like, a million times. mr. white's not some evil genius. 's just an old guy in too deep. ❜ a tense pause : he resists the urge to say no offense.
#gsfring#obviously maybe a Late Seasons vibe#jesse being manipulated: i am not being manipulated#gus: sure jan#( * jesse pinkman / writings. )#( * the traumatised are unpredictable. they know they can survive. / j. pinkman. )
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ㅤDENIAL IS THE FIRST STEP TO ACCEPTANCE. that's what they say , right? that's what they always fucking say when you're grieving , when your entire world feels as though it's shattering around you and you're left to try and salvage the broken pieces , bloodied fingers nicked and cut on glass - sharp edges as you scoop them up and hold them close , hoping they may somehow mend and mercifully leave you even a fraction of who you once were.
ㅤa split second later and my phone's careening towards the wall at breakneck speed , its frame and screen splintering upon impact. i'll have to buy a new one , but i don't care. in this moment , i don't care about anything , thoughts violently swirling , tangled like branches in a flood. my heart is racing , beating wildly against the uppermost rungs of the cage i call my ribs , as anger - fueled adrenaline rushes through me and i swivel to next displace my rage on a nearby table — upright one second and upended the next.
ㅤthe next minute is a blur of emotion i can later barely recall. broken lamps , furniture askew. if one didn't witness the rampage i'd been on , they'd have reason to believe the place had been ransacked. i scream and cry and every outburst tears at my throat until it feels as though it's stripped raw and bleeding , cries of anger eventually giving way to sobs that i refuse to let surface. not now. not in front of him. privately , later , i know i'll weep until there are no tears left , until there is nothing left of me. WHAT MORE CAN YOU TAKE FROM A MAN WITH NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE?
ㅤ❛ don't . . . don't talk to me. ❜ all the yelling has left me hoarse , and i sink helplessly to my knees as the last of my energy reserves run dry , leaves me like a fume with one shaky exhale. ❛ you don't know a goddamn thing. ❜
@gsfring / ❛ there’s nothing you could have done. ❜ (equally manipulatively)
#mmm thinkin about a verse where his daughter dies...#( read: is killed in retaliation. )#and how utterly broken and unstable he'd be as a result.#hmmmm... delicious.#gsfring#𝒊. writing. — live or die while the fuse is lit.#𝒊. inbox. — you can clean me up but i'm still not the same.#𝒗. brba. — the kind of bad that makes you feel good.
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❛ hunger . hey rustin hope you like fried chicken
rust wasn't sure if he ought to blame the synesthesia or if he had indeed stepped through the universe's back door , but as he sat there in that brightly coloured restaurant , he could feel something bitter sticking to the roof of his mouth . the distinct stench of chemicals overpowered the fried chicken . grease painted smiles did nothing to distract him from the deeper layer of reality he was being pulled into ; 𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙼𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 , 𝚂𝚈𝙽𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲 , 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙲 ── a particular brand of intoxication detective cohle had become familiar with what felt like a lifetime ago .
he shouldn't be there.
his visit to los pollos hermanos had been based on a hunch ; he wouldn't tell the boys back at the station about this , rustin had been warned plenty of times about following his gut or sharing exactly what was on his mind ( just stop saying odd shit ) . omission wasn't lying ... but he'd consider catholic guilt once he was back at his apartment ; just for the sake of it .
it's the man of the hour coming to his table , tray in hand accompanied by a polite smile , that motivates cohle to keep pushing through all the bureaucratic bullshit ahead of him . heavily-lidded eyes are immediately stuck on gus the moment he steps into his peripheral and the man does not look the part . not one bit . rustin's mouth suddenly feels like it has been drenched in nail polish . he places an order before the detective who doesn't bother glancing down at his chicken . rust remains hunched over his little table , inviting gustavo fring into his gravitational pull , away from all the sounds of satisfied costumers and into the terrible stillness rust always seems to carry with him . " gus fring ? " he asked , already knowing the answer . a moment passes . " just wanted to have a look at you . " cohle drawled even though he shouldn't .
cavernous blue eyes sunk their hooks into gus . and the more rustin stared , the more something similar to a smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth . despite the softness of the restaurant entrepreneur's features , cohle thought he saw something there . the potential for sharpness ; 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙾𝙼 . he took a pack of camel lights from his breast pocket and , as he got up , placed a cigarette between his lips . " thanks for the chicken . "
he'd never touch his meal .
@gsfring
#* answered .#* gsfring .#* ch. writings : rustin cohle .#* verse : to be added#i'm sorry this took 100 years#also rust paying for food that he's not gonna eat#is a level of pettiness i did not expect from him
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AS FAR AS VICTOR IS CONCERNED, THEY LEFT SAFETY BEHIND, back home in new york waiting for them. amos is getting his people mixed up in something far bigger than them, all for the sake of money———and of course, victor can’t say no; how could he ? this place, these people intimidate him, maybe even more than amos himself does, if even possible. gustavo fring is at the head of it all and somehow, victor thinks if he and amos went head to head, amos wouldn't be the one coming out of it in one piece. he has half a mind to find the idea funny, the unstoppable shadow getting taken down a peg. but what it is, actually, is distracting.
@gsfring 's voice knocks at the door of his thoughts, and victor realizes he hasn't been paying attention the entire time; ❛ do you understand what that means ? ❜
there's a right and wrong answer here, and all victor knows is that he wasn't listening closely enough to pick up on any hints. weight shifts from one leg to another, warmth coloring his face with an anxious bout of embarrassment. maybe its like it is with amos. just nod and be agreeable, and you'll come out of it alright.
so he nods, as though every bit of this exchange has been turned around thoughtfully in his head. ❛❛ aye, we're crystal. ❜❜ nice word choice. ❛❛ ———crystal clear, i mean, like, i've got you. i'm just here to help with the job, do what i'm told, and keep out of the way, yeah ? ❜❜
#» ic. / brba.#hi!!! :D#everyone loves a good vague meme response to build upon KDSJLFK#*beckons u to plot with me so i can build vic a proper brba verse...*#gus: first jesse now i have to deal with this clown
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the question's rhetoric provides exactly what one might suppose it intends : food for thought. jesse is a starving man, one parched with thirst presented with an oasis. anyone would do the same. this is what he tells himself before the plunge. before each hit of the next drug, before each cede to subservience. he'll justify himself ( to himself ) until the end. just like a fish doesn't know land, he doesn't know what satisfaction truly is. has never been truly acquainted with it : micro - dosed, yes, fed with a pipette just enough to be deemed useful. enough to crave it. but he can't with good conscience declare walt an innocent bystander in their undoing. his mentor is closer to culprit than spectator. and wouldn't have it any other way.
he neglects to answer, quite deliberately : the silence is deafening regardless, his feet shuffling in an awkward and fumbling dance of admission. hands retreat to his pockets, the closest avenue to escape. he's eager to deflect, has never liked the limelight. this is why he attracts them, narcissists flocking to him in droves just to get the bigger piece of the pie from someone who will gladly yield, roll over, play dead. he never stood a chance.
❛ don't see why you care. ❜ it's a mumble, begrudging and uttered to the ground. he doesn't project his voice, instead withdraws into himself and becomes close to petulant, a child never grown. curiosity kills the cat. ❛ what's in it for you ? ❜ a beat passes before he braves the glance upward : he will glean nothing without eye contact, the powers of intuition stronger than any superhero he's ever fabricated in those years - old sketchbooks. ❛ huh ? what's it matter, so long as the blue stuff lands hot 'n' ready when it's due ? ❜
he likes to think he sees things in people. he steers their successes with a dexterous touch, a genial nod, a substructure of well-tailored incentives. upholding their trust in his vision. slotting them into the scaffolding of his crusade. jesse pinkman, track-marked and obstinate, isn't as malleable as most members of gustavo's personnel — his bark betrays an inability to listen, to heed a stop sign before barreling forth — but, in the defiant angle of his jaw, he sees exactly what he could cultivate.
gustavo notes his unrest, reads the telltale indications of his discomfort. embarks upon the line of least resistance. “ he's looked out for you. ” he repeats, each vowel a tourniquet. each consonant a salve. prophylactic treatment, positive reinforcement: a far cry from the tactics he has set aside for the man still wrangling pinkman’s leash, skulking uselessly about his territory. tactics he is prepared to implement, once pinkman comes to his senses and pledges vassalship to a finer force. “ how did it benefit you, his supervision? were you satisfied? ” ( or were you lulled by the white-picket-fence paternalism of an old guy in too deep? a sketch of a bygone teacher, ordering you to apply yourself? ) “ i understand that you hold him in high regard. i only wonder if it isn't misplaced. ”
#gsfring#gsfring01.#GODDDDDD#the pure chess game that is every interaction in brba it feels like#( * jesse pinkman / writings. )#( * the traumatised are unpredictable. they know they can survive. / j. pinkman. )
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ㅤHOW DID I GET HERE? the words linger only as long as i allow , before they're banished to the deepest recesses of my mind. you think too hard , or for too long , and suddenly that determination , that drive you've worked up , slips away in an instant. despite what my old reputation might lead you to believe , i've never killed anyone before. not personally. not directly. way back when , i'd left people to their fates at the hands of our morally biased , fucked up justice system , with so many post - mortem names nothing more than another identical manilla folder tucked away and forgotten , save for a hollowed - out cavity in my mind.
ㅤit's the same memories , the knowledge that these people ( guilty or not ) decided their lives were better forfeit than spent wasting away in some granite cell , that push me to act now. i spent so long thinking justice was an omnipotent force , an almighty concept that governed our everyday lives , ultimately punishing those who harm others and vindicating those it deems righteous. how narrow - minded and naive i'd been.
ㅤif justice does exist in this world , if such an objectively skewed means of judgment can tip the proverbial scales and dole out what it deems fair , then it falls on my shoulders , rests solely in my hands. looking back , my own justice is all i should've ever believed in.
ㅤ❛ yeah. ❜ the word passes my lips like raw skin raking over gravel , rough and sour in my throat , compels me to stare at the dashboard as my fingers close around the handle of the pistol seated lazily in my lap , spine stiffening as my chest aches with a too - deep inhale. it's now or never , and i climb out the driver's side door without affording gus so much as a glance , already knowing the ice - cold gaze that would await , boring into my skull like a drill and letting every doubt , every hesitant thought , seep out like smoke signals for him to decipher and meticulously pick apart with surgical precision. tucking the pistol into the back of my jeans , i close the car door a little more forcefully than i mean to , steeling myself for what's to come. ❛ i know. ❜
@gsfring / ❛ you already know how this will end. ❜ (manipulatively)
#wow i did.. not mean to write this much.#i am simply very excited to write with your gus lmao.#anyway i know we haven't finished plotting yet but uh.#embittered enforcer / muscle wick?? yes please.#gsfring#𝒊. writing. — live or die while the fuse is lit.#𝒊. inbox. — you can clean me up but i'm still not the same.
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AMOS' SHADOWED FIGURE IS DISTANT IN VICTOR'S PERIPHERAL VISION , a form never moving from his eyeline , and this is much the way victor prefers it to be; always in each other's sight , never straying too far———aware of one another , whatever may come. ( is this the way he prefers it , or did amos convince him so ? its hard to tell. it always is. ) victor's eyes flicker to land on him directly , and as if reading one another's minds , amos turns to look at him too , a certain glint in his eyes that tells victor he's being talked about in some way. it'll be a matter of moments before they're running off to a job somewhere , he expects.
quiet footsteps pull his attention to where the empty space beside him fills with a body , and victor tilts his head sideways in a sort of acknowledgement , keeping his gaze where its comfortable, where he feels safe———or familiar, at the very least. familiarity is the closest thing to safety, in a place so new and different.
he has to wonder if @gsfring can hear the distant conversation, somehow; ❛ just remember , you don’t have to do everything he asks . ❜
as always, he can't tell if this is a statement, a test, or a threat. eyes come to a narrow and victor turns properly to set his attention on gustavo, confusion and curiosity filling his gaze as he tilts his head, attempts to glean anything from other; his face, eyes, the way he's standing, anything.
he can't find the answer , and there's no familiarity here to make him that much safer. so he snickers , looks to the ground to kick the toe of his boot into the dirt. ❛❛ i do , though , don't i ? he's my boss. i'm here with him. ❜❜ up returns his eyes to gustavo's face , and he shuffles uncomfortably , trying to make himself look friendly and at-ease , which comes across more like a lone wolf offering its submission. ❛❛ i mean———obviously , you're the big one in charge here , and the both of us listen to you , but ... i dunno , can't very well trust someone who doesn't follow his own boss' instruction , aye ? i do what he says 'cause i trust he knows what he's doin'. and its my job anyways , so. all works out in the end , it does. 'long as he doesn't ask me to take a runnin' start over a cliff———he's not gonna , is he ? ❜❜
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