#writ.

[topshelfperverts]

@eladead continued from here ↳ 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘚𝘌𝘘𝘜𝘌𝘕𝘊𝘌𝘚, 𝘔𝘠 𝘏𝘌𝘈𝘙𝘛. 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙎𝙀𝙌𝙐𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙀𝙎.

I was enraged. I was enthralled. Lestat had condemned me to a Hell of his own making. A gilded cage that inspired wonder and intrigue, but remained a cage nonetheless. And, like a fool, I had entrusted him with the key and assumed he would be responsible with it.

"Oh so you wanna blame all your messes on me like it's my fault all of a sudden!?"

[radiomade]

@kosiax continued from here

Vincent has always been more of a spitter, swallowing the taste of his own bile with a noticeable distaste for his own gallantry. Far be it from him to tell a demon how things are done, should be done, but far be it from her to tell him that HIS brutality is anything less than efficient and has been for decades. Nevermind the ratings, let alone the bodies—this is a goddamn affront. An unholier-than-thou bitch thinking she has the right to tell him what he's doing is...what, clerical?

"Obviously," Vincent stops just shy of snapping, a quick jerk of his neck to crack the bone and relieve the tension currently pooling in the nearest synovial fluid. "Next time, don't sound so fucking surprised. This isn't fucking amateur hour."

[thriev]

@skidr0w: how i am isn't really that interesting.

caroline almost laughs. no one's ever tried arguing her on trying to be polite before. “maybe not to you.” she turns away to survey the rest of the shop, noting how unchanged everything looks. she wonders if he'd take offence if she mentioned how one of the tiles on the floor was beginning to chip. “but what if i think it's interesting? i never know what's going with you. you've got this new weird, mysterious thing going on, don't think i haven't noticed!”

[er1cas]

she won't be able to let him go again. she knows this much, when she sees him. she can barely remember what had kept her from him in the first place (maybe they've moved on, maybe she's been forgotten, maybe she's been replaced—) everything seems inconsequential in the face of that familiar scent, those eyes, the rhythm of a heartbeat she's committed to memory.

@lahiey: "thank you for not dying."

she fights a smile, tries to hold herself back, manages to keep it to just a quirking of her mouth. ❝ well, i knew you'd miss me, so... ❞ her arms are crossed over her chest as she fights with herself some more, digging her nails into her arms so she doesn't do anything reckless like tackle him. ❝ you did miss me, right? ❞ she hopes the grin is masking it, the way her heart jumps, the importance of this question that she's been too scared to ask herself.

[topshelfperverts]

@sscarecrow -> CONTINUED

"This idea—" House says as he turns to page 36 of 薬屋のひとりごとVolume 2 (in the original language, of course) "—that we as humans have that there's some kind of predestined sense of belonging was invented to sell two things: bibles and Hallmark cards. The only places we belong are in jail or in a coffin."

He turns to page 37 and chuckles at Lihaku's hair catching on fire. Idiot.

"Or here, if you're a poor, unlucky bastard like yourself."

[topshelfperverts]

@stagborne continued from here

Everybody wants to be a victim.

They want, so very, very badly, to take up the cross of their own victimhood and trudge it down the city street like Jesus Christ himself, they're so goddamn ignoble. So much so that they see themselves as something they're not—pitiable. They insist on it, in fact, trying to make a case for themself that they're anything other than a wolf in sheep's clothing. A ratty, flea-bitten wolf, perhaps, but a wolf nonetheless. A rabid dog, after all, is still rabid, and no amount of good boys and chin scratches will be enough to save it from its nature.

Will Graham might just be the exception to that little rule.

"Why? You got someplace to be?"

[topshelfperverts]

@vitalphenomena -> PLOTTED STARTER.

As it turns out, running a criminal organization is a lot of fucking work.

Like any respectable business owner, however, he hires other people to do the job for him. That's not to say he isn't involved, mind you. A grassroots criminal organization requires a lot of networking, and Kilgrave is nothing if not persuasive. Alliances start to feel almost trivial after awhile. Can you imagine how Wilson Fisk must feel right now? All that muscle and he chose to be mayor. What a fucking loony. He's not complaining too much, though. When opportunity knocks and all that.

The problem with being a boss, however, is that it requires you to actually...you know, be a boss, something that still manages to surprise him to this day, despite being several months in already, and it's when responsibility comes knocking at his door that Kilgrave groans, perpetually annoyed at a monster of his own making as he trudges down the stairs into a meeting room of sorts that he uses to conduct some of his...let's call it business. The business in question? Someone who asked for him by name.

His real name.

"Quite the nosy little fucker, aren't you?" Kilgrave says, taking a seat at the table. "I suggest getting to the point. Quickly. Before I lose interest."