#writ.

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.

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?

@lahiey: "thank you for not dying."

"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.

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.

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.