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☇ @biblicle 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍.
𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝. He is hunched, elbows on the table and shoulders propped to his ears as he leans toward her. What makes it is that he can hardly keep his eyes open. ❝ Hm? Right, yeah. I heard everything you just said. Especially the part about the thing with the dude. Yeah. Riveting. ❞
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❝ look , real food costs real money . *&. unless you’ve got the cash lined up in your pockets , zip it . i don’t need this shit today . ❞ / @biblicle ♡
@biblicle
It took A LOT for Jesse to get nervous making house calls. He’d been selling drugs since, like, SOPHOMORE year of high school, so it’s not like he wasn’t EXPERIENCED. It really wasn’t as dangerous as everyone liked to make it seem. Still, though -- something about this place just didn’t SIT right with him. Something was OFF. He’d been sitting in the driver’s seat of his shitty, beat-up old Toyota Tercel for the better part of thirty minutes, chain smoking, contemplating his next move. WHY was he so nervous? His intuition was usually pretty spot on. Maybe something in there really was a threat to him.
On the other hand, his life meant pretty much nothing to him at this point, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle himself. He had a gun. He was quick on his feet. Jesse heaved a SIGH, snubbing out his cigarette in the car’s ashtray and opening the squeaky front door. He rounded the car and made his way up to the house’s entryway, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Now or NEVER, asshole. Knock on the door. Don’t be a PUSSY.
Jesse reached out and rapped on the painted wood with his knuckles, bracing himself for whatever the FUCK he was so afraid of.
the waiting is the part that bothers seth , sitting in the open waiting for the heat to die down enough so they can get to their next checkpoint on the road to money and glory . ❛ you know how to play poker , yeah ? ❜ cards are withdrawn from suit jacket pocket . foot kicking back the chair as a bottle of beer is set in front of the empty seat for her . ❛ c’mon katie it’ll pass time . ❜
@biblicle / wanted a starter for seth gecko.
@biblicle
IN SOME WAYS, most ways, he is happy for the companionship. There are days that pass, too often, where he remains in solitude, IMMUNE to outside forces, nothing to bleed into his mind save his own thoughts ( and those are dark, dark things he STRUGGLES to keep at bay ). But, these days, he is content with the company she presents. ❝ Tell me something GOOD. ❞
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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❛ it’s just a wooden toy , dork . ❜ nestling her chin atop your soft auburn locks , a flowery , daisy - fresh scent invades her nostrils , a pout on sullen red lips / sly digits prob against the bare skin of your shoulders , adroit touch keen on coaching an agreeable response . ❛ c’mom ... don’t be a pussy . ‘sides , i’m here to protect you , katie . ❜
* / @biblicle –– 🔪
@biblicle wants to get in david’s head !
he stands there like she’s the first thing he’s seeing since waking up , which , actually , might be true , cause he can’t remember if he’s just been in a dream or if this is ... reality . again , this affliction’s gonna kill him one day , and he knows it , and amy’s doing everything she can not to let that happen . but here he is , sitting up against a wall a few BLOCKS from poole’s office , he thinks for the first time in two hours after a good , hard knockout , with nothing to show for it . he smoothes a hand through his hair , blinking twice . then again . ❝ hi … what … ? ❞
he’s seen her before. the spine-tingling feeling of déjà vu chases the goosebumps that erupt across his skin despite the heat. dead. dying. blood that won’t stop and pours up out of her eyes. tomas blinks back the vision, breath a shaky thing in his lungs as it rattles up through his nose.
“kate?” he says it before realizing it’s his mouth that opened, it’s his voice he heard. dream, reality, dream. what’s real -- ? this is real. furrowing his brow, tomas clears his throat. “i’m sorry, i ... have we met?”
it’s a question she should be asking ( a ragged priest, with eyes too bright and shoulders too slumped, calling her name like he knows her ), but the feeling of dread strips decorum away from him. // @biblicle ( sc. )
