Scream and/or bleed and/or literally whatever u feelin boo
drabble meme ( accepting mutuals only )
Bleed: My character will injure your character. Scream: My character has caused yours to scream out for some reason.
there are certain things that can give a man perspective. being faced with death is certainly one of them, but actually, physically dying for a time is something else entirely. it’s where we find kilgrave, currently playing out the theory of execution in every sense imaginable.
i think, deep down, he knows he’s not going to kill zebediah. as much of a self-masochist as he very much is, i don’t think he could sever one of his ties quite like that. zeb was a phantom limb that had gone numb for so long, only to find its way back and reattach itself except for the fact that it’s not a matter of appendage. kilgrave has a bond with his brother on a cellular level, as complacent as cancer is benign. so much of him is a disease already it just seems pointless to try and fight with it any longer…but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to agitate it. he is, after all, a self-masochist. and a regular masochist. a sadist. hedonist. voyeurist.
zeb is backed into a corner like an animal, which is actually rather fitting. the picture of class and overall well-to-do and as much an animal as the rest of them. a time ago and he would’ve had a problem with that, but he’s actually sort of…come around ( and yes, he’s done that too ). class and stature are probably more synonymous with animosity than anything else, with the exception of willful ignorance whenever the subject is broached. typically unspoken, always just out of sight so as to avoid things like guilt, which, if we’re being really honest here, a measure of class is nothing if not a lack of guilt. for example, kilgrave has done a lot of things to prompt some sort of guilt, but not once has he ever actually felt guilty for it.
for example, the knife in zebediah’s hand.
it remains a matter of perspective, as do all things. a matter of class. societal hierarchy that permits him to do whatever the fuck he wants, although he’s finally stopped being such a pussy about it. always toeing the line in the finest of leathers and silks and satins, really only afraid of getting his hands dirty. not guilt, per say, but anxiety over being placated for things he didn’t feel applied to him. rapist. villain. terrible, terrible things so very far from what he was. petty slander of his good name and even better character. a gentleman would never do those horrible things.
no, a gentleman puts a knife in a man’s hand and realizes that he’s totally allowed to do it because he’s a gentleman and he can do whatever, and kilgrave has always been so much more than just a gentleman. the same rule of thumb does more or less applies to godhood, and he doesn’t doubt it like he used to. he has evolved himself past a lot of the insecurities that kept him back, a lot of them seemingly personified into dark-haired bitches named jessica and little virgin fuck boys named kevin. one of them died when he did. the other still hasn’t gotten the message.
the proverbial and literal other is still in the corner, his mouth agape and clutching a hand that won’t be feeling anything up anytime soon. scampering like a pesky little roach– god, did he used to be that pathetic? those couple of weeks when he was still getting over his own pathetic countenance, the spine he certainly didn’t have what with suffering all that bitching and moaning, bitching and moaning, bitching and moaning. they had toyed with each other, even then, but even in that bleary-eyed state kilgrave likes to think now that he knew, he KNEW who really had the bollocks. likes to think that he came ( ha ha ) to this conclusion after suffering the insufferable. he doesn’t feel guilt about what he’s just done, but rather a sympathetic pain, an empathy of the blood.
kilgrave had followed him, then. the scampering little roach better known as kevin than anything else. calm and collected, something utterly foreign to him and yet as though he’d been practising all his life. he was so much like zebediah on the other side of the threshold, but he wasn’t on that side of the threshold anymore. perhaps it would take killing him to fully realize a shared sense of self anymore, but a roach can only manage about a week without its head. nothing so medieval a practise on such a pretty face to begin with, dear god ( when has He ever listened anyhow ), but there’s no telling as to whether or not zebediah would even last THAT long.
he’s right up close to him, now. almost like he’s willing him further into the corner.
’ did you really think that just cos we share a bit of blood that you were exempt from my wrath, zeb? ’ his voice is soft and yet devoid of any real caring or sympathy. just the familiar pulse that’s the only real shared empathy between them at the moment. a phantasm.
’ i could’ve taken that hand. i just as easily could’ve taken that hand and another for insolence. i don’t know if mum and dad cared enough to send you to school but ultimately that means you’d have zero hands left, hmm? do you know why people take hands as punishment, zeb? in some countries it’s for insolence. servants, slaves, women. punishment. some countries they just consider it a warning– i don’t think you want to know what the punishment is in some of those countries, zeb. ’ he contemplates a hand to cup zeb’s cheek but he knows himself well enough to know that he doesn’t always know how he’s gonna react, so he refrains from touching him for the moment.
’ now if i was going to leave, i would’ve probably taken out some form of punishment and just left, hm? i didn’t, therefore i don’t have any intention of leaving. in fact i’d go so far as to say you’ve a hard time ahead of you if you think you can get rid of me in fact…break one of your fingers if you’ve ever thought about me leaving you for whatever obscure and ridiculous reason. ’
