#victim to like endless tortures loll

[milfjessepinkman]

Ok guys let’s not get crazy pls. Jesse Pinkman is definitely homophobic lol. For like at least the entire 1st season. It’s my personal hc that meeting Jane and falling in love w her actually chilled him out like she seems ok w the gays lol. But Jesse is not this perfect guy w perfect opinions I feel like he’s actually sort of the opposite? Especially at the start he’s often painted as kind of unreasonable to contrast w Walter being the reasonable one, as per our expectations? (Which then get subverted later in the show as Jesse is shown more and more to be reasonable and Walter to be a crazy manipulative dick.) Anyways yeah it’s clear he has a shitty relationship w his parents that he is at least partially at fault for and he literally cooks meth for a living before Walter even came along which is totally awesome for him but I mean let’s not pretend it’s good. Let’s not pretend he’s a good guy from the start. That’s what makes him compelling!! His character development!!! He‘a a complex character and I feel like it honestly does kind of a disservice to him to like. Woobify him?

[gutfukc]

it could be a recent job or one from the past, but heres a little something about dante having been sent to take care of one of the vaticans lower members to send a message to them.. this particular target has participated in violence/abuse/murder targeted against lost souls in seek of solace so d was more than happy to take the contract honestly 

Footsteps fall to contrast the weightlessness of the feather to the foreboding thud of the executioner’s step as he makes his way to the gallows. Perhaps the exact summation of him -- the executioner, the lover, the martyr, the saint. Smiles to rival the honey-golden gleams of sunlight splaying over fields of flowers in the early morning, teeth to match the points of any blade. Such is D. Lighthearted, vicious.

There are so few signs of D here, though, and yet the very atmosphere simply breathes his name the way an old lover would for the first time in years.

He crosses the room from where his target hangs off the wall - arms bound at the wrist to each end of the massive crucifix with thick stakes shoved through, ankles tied together at the foot of the cross. Stands at the window overlooking the city, overlooking those twenty, thirty stories below hurrying along the sidewalks and across the streets, fortunately unaware of the travesty taking place high above.

Palms rest at the windowsill, fingers curling into palms as his head tilts in some pseudo-contemplative thought. There is nothing to think about here. Bind, torture, kill. (Isn’t that how it goes? Something of the sort. He has no real taste for killers, despite everything.) Lips part for a deep inhale, keep still with a shorter exhale, and he’s turning on heel to face the man.

“God has a plan for everyone on this Earth. Even me.” Arms stretch out as if to present something - present himself, a lazy grin spreading corners of lips up, yet never reaching Valentine-pink eyes.

“Some would think I was chosen for this. I’m his fallen angel of sorts, made this way to purge this plane of bastards like you.” A pause. A dip in voice, airy to dense, threatening. “And you just keep coming back with a different face.”

Talking to himself obviously. Said man has no way to speak with lips stretched wide over the barrel of a glock.

            Keep it there, or you’ll swallow the bullet, he’d said. Something cruel.

Regardless, he bellows a mocking and cruel laugh to Christ above that ends in a rough growl vibrating at the back of his throat.

“Fucking joke.”

         Am i GOD? I, who has for eons decided peace or chaos, mercy or punishment, life or death. I AM THE AUDIENCE OF THE GLADIATORS, CHEERING FOR DEATH ‘TIL BLOOD SOAKS AND STAINS THE DIRT AND GRAVEL. I AM THE BLADE OF THE SWORD WHICH CUTS HIS LIFE FREE FROM ITS PHYSICAL FORM. I AM THE GLADIATOR, THE VICTOR HIMSELF.

No matter. It’s all a game. Kicking a ball hard enough to the wall will send it rolling back, always. An endless and repetitive match without the second player to claim victory and end it. (he has always been alone in these games.)

“All jokes aside! You can pray to me tonight, mio dolce,” comes the sickly-sweet purr of his voice rivaled by a soft and plump-lipped smile. “My name is Dante. Yes, I’ve been through Hell and back, before you ask.”

From his case, Dante procures a crown, carefully constructed from rusty nails and broken edges of glass wedged wherever they would fit.

“I’m sure you recognize this! If you think yourself so high and mighty that you can do as you please on holy ground, then it’s your turn to wear it.”

He reaches up, going as far as to stand on tiptoes, and places it upon the head of the false Christ, expression void of anything but the sheer satisfaction of bestowing upon a killer the same pain he’d caused his victims. A slow death for him, much like theirs.

But slow isn’t good enough, no. And without so much as a second thought to the suffering he so rightly deserves, Dante curls his fingers tight around the grip of the gun--

“Riposa all'inferno, bastardo.” rest in hell, bastard. “Ci vediamo lì un giorno.” i’ll see you there someday.

-- and pulls the trigger.

Blood spills around the barrel, pooling between metal warmed by frantic breath and now-motionless lips. He withdraws the gun, tosses it into the case with little regard to the mess, and raises himself once more. The man’s head lolls forward like that of a puppet with someone at its strings, and Dante opens his lips to where the lining of jaw meets chin to catch and swallow down the dark red that weeps out of gaping mouth.

THEY wanted a message sent to the clergy, and the messenger delivered.