#don't touch the manager

[bluerosefox]

Phantomish Rogues

Team Phantom get ripped from their home universe into the DCverse. With no money or real ID's in this world. Now thats a problem.

Another big problem is that Danny is badly injured and his core kinda put him into a deep cryo sleep. He needs to rest and gather ectoplasm.

Bigger problem Team Phantom have no clue how to get home because they don't know how to decode the Fenton Portal blue-prints, not even Jazz who at the time didn't pay attention to her parents portal work anymore by the time they finished it. The only one who does have an idea is Danny!

Biggest problem, they landed in a place called Gotham that seems to be overrun with actual villains and heroes? (vigilantes). And for some odd reason many of them seem to find them no matter where the Team goes to hide.

Until they can get their hands on a safe space, tech, and money, Team Phantom might have to go a bit Rogue/Villainous if they wanna keep Danny safe until he wakes up.

[seiwas]

sellllllll it's meeeeee. hehehehehehehehehhehe

so for ur writing exercises.... deku + light? please? pretty please?

:3c

heheh heheh hehe niku. this will be the death of me. me writing izuku for the first time 🥲 i will only do this for you </3

contains: established relationship, spoilers for the end of the manga, aged up deku but sometime in between the final outcome (he doesn't get the h*** s*** from bakugo yet), mentions of sex and scars

deku + light

izuku only sleeps with the lights off.

it isn't uncommon; many people you know can't sleep with even just a sliver of light turned on somewhere in the room. but the difference with izuku, you learn, is not that he's unable to stand the light―it's that he refuses to.

you quickly pick up on it the first few times he sleeps over.

he fidgets in bed, pretty badly, actually. the nightlight you sleep with glows a warm yellow, illuminating the side of your face and coating him in its afterglow. you chalk it up to nerves, how he pulls at his sleeves and adjusts his position constantly; he is, after all, one of the most anxious people you know.

and this relationship―it's new. heck, even you feel a little jittery with his arm wrapped around you.

the rhythmic tapping on your hip only increases pace. you don't think he realizes it, so your hand gently reaches for his, intertwining your fingers as you turn around in his arms.

he's close, nearly touching you nose-to-nose; the proximity leaves you fuzzy, a little ticklish, so you giggle, a soft "oops," as the freckles dusting his face almost glisten under the warm light.

"hi," you whisper, meeting his eyes; they stare back at you wide in surprise, "can't sleep?"

he looks almost guilty at your question, as if you’ve caught him with the one thing he's been trying to keep from you.

"just—" his voice comes out louder than intended, prompting him to chuckle nervously as he readjusts his volume, "just winding down, sorry."

you inch closer, nuzzling his nose lightly, "it's okay."

"did i wake you?" he asks, cheeks flushing pink as his eyebrows furrow in immediate concern. his expression is something caught between stifling a grin and feeling sorry.

you shake your head against the pillow you share, strands of your hair tangling with his. "just winding down," you tease, watching as his gaze turns softer, eyelids drooping heavier.

sometimes, you think, izuku holds the world in his eyes―a deep, dark green, the color of life. most times, they look at you with wonderment, bright and alive; photos from inko tell you they're the eyes of his inner child.

on nights like this one, however, they hide a depth in them weighted by what you can only assume is time, and all that has happened to him in such a short span of it.

you try your best to understand what lies beneath them, knowing full well he'll never tell you outright what truly bothers him.

"is it the light?" you bring up, some time after laying in silence.

"hm?" he clarifies.

"do you have a hard time sleeping with the nightlight?"

his eyes widen briefly once more, as if shocked that you've caught him again. these split second reactions are ones you've learned to be attentive to when it comes to izuku.

"no," he tries to lie, but you know better as you turn to your nightstand and reach for its switch, "you don't–"

"it was hurting my eyes," you quickly make up an excuse, tucking yourself closer under his chin as you cut off his attempt to deny it again.

finding out that the light was the problem was the easy part—

you'd begun to notice much earlier on that izuku was barely rested on the nights he'd spend at your place. it was only when your old nightlight broke that you began to notice him waking up much later than you did, groggily rousing from a deep sleep.

—what was hard, was figuring out why.

at first, you suspected it was his scars.

"s-sorry, it's not—" he'd warned you, right as your hands gripped the hem of his shirt the first time you were about to have sex, "—it's not nice."

you didn't care though; you still don't care, and you've made that abundantly clear to him since. you love izuku and all his parts―all the nicks and jaggedy pieces of skin that make up who he is.

when you eventually ask him about it, with a request that he be honest with you for once, he tells you that it is and it isn't―the reason why he exclusively sleeps with the lights off, that is.

it's an odd, comforting relationship he has with his body—that he is simultaneously grateful and sorry for how its become a canvas, both painted and marred to symbolize japan’s historic last stand.

you find out the real reason when you catch him staring at his hands.

he does it often, when he thinks you aren't looking—his fists bunched up in the same way he used to watch the power of one for all course through his fingertips; the same way he used to prepare them in battle.

there’s a faraway look in his eyes that lingers, you notice—a little wistful if anything.

“do you miss it?” you finally ask. he gives you the same shocked look he does every time, as if he’s been caught with a secret he’s been trying to hide.

he’s learned a fair bit about you now, too, though—lying to you is futile when you’ve perfected reading his truth. he stares at his fists again as you take a seat beside him, moving to give you space. you rest your head on his shoulder gently, waiting.

“sometimes,” he admits, but you know it’s an understatement.

“i think about the vestiges a lot. i miss them the most, i think,” he continues, clenching his fists tightly, “i always try to reach out to them, but i guess it doesn’t work that way.”

“i… i try to replicate the right conditions every night, but…” then he lets go, stretching his fingers out wide. the scars on the surface ripple through his skin, telling its own story.

you hum, acknowledging what he means. silence sits with the two of you as you take his hand in yours, slowly unfurling his fingers until his palm reveals itself to you. it’s rough to the touch, seasoned with hard work and all that he’s been through.

“is that why you prefer the dark?” you ask softly, after some time.

it's not often that you stay up later than izuku does. when you do though, you catch him shifting in bed, moving from side-to-side. you pretend you aren't awake, but you hear him mumble their names, dwindling in volume as he dozes off to sleep.

he stares at his palm for a moment before he admits quietly, "yeah." his brows furrow as if contemplating whether to say more, but he shakes his head, dark green strands swaying to the beat of his embarrassed chuckle, "nevermind, it's silly."

"it's not."

you intertwine your fingers, sandwiching his hand between yours. a slight sheen glosses over his eyes as he tilts his head up to look at you. he draws in a breath, before it spills over.

"it's..." he finds the words, and you squeeze his hand in comfort, "it's easier to believe it was all real when the lights are out, and that maybe it can happen again."

[madphantom]

Had a divine experience this week when a very pretty man who has previously said he'd probably lose a fight against me randomly picked me up like I weighed literally nothing

[insteading]

As someone who’s done bereavement care for almost 20 years, I’ve observed again and again and again that it is not staying with grief that cuts us off from other people, it’s suffocating grief and suppressing grief. It’s impossible to repress grief without also repressing all sorts of other things like joy and memory. Actually, expressing grief naturally connects us empathetically to other people. It is not an accident that right now when there is such a profound suppression of global grief, we’re also finding ourselves in a moment of such isolation.

Rabbi Elliot Kukla, in them magazine

I sought out this piece because Rabbi Kukla was quoted in today's sermon in reference to the ongoing genocide in Gaza ("It is lifesaving to mourn our humanity in inhumane times").

But this paragraph about grief hit me so hard I wanted to single it out to share. It is relevant to corporate grief of the sort we might experience when a state is doing harm in our name (police brutality, displacement, execution). It is also relevant to individual griefs.

In the bereavement calls I do for hospice, I have noticed, this is precisely what gets people stuck in grief: the feeling that there is no safe space and time to express grief. Companies tend to give very little accommodation for bereavement, if they give any at all. Culturally we're expected to get over losses in a matter of days. But grief rewires us, and some losses-- particularly losses like war, displacement, and police brutality where a state or institution does the same kind of harm repeatedly-- are complex and ongoing.

Grief impacts sleeping, eating, executive function. (I don't ask people in bereavement calls, "How are you doing?" I ask, "How are you sleeping?" "How's your appetite?" Maybe "Are there moments from your caregiving, or from your [loved one's] dying, that keep coming up for you?" Because of course you're not fine! You just lost someone essential to you. What I want to know is, is your body getting a chance to repair itself as your mind and heart process what you've experienced?)

People have talked to me after a loss about feeling exhausted and overwhelmed by daily life. It's not unlike recovering from a major injury and having a sizable portion of your bandwidth given over at all times to the tasks of bone, muscle, and nerve repair that are not under your conscious control. When tasks you're used to thinking of as having one part suddenly make it clear how complex they are? Cooking a meal takes more out of you. Doing a load of laundry takes more out of you. If you're already an introvert, the cost of social engagement goes up, at a time when social engagement might actually be very helpful.

Doing some of our grief work with other trusted people shares the load. It recovers some bandwidth. But many folks learn early in the grieving process that they have fewer trusted people than they thought. Or that it feels like the wrong time to deepen an acquaintanceship they'd hoped might become a friendship. Or that they aren't as comfortable asking loved ones for help as they thought they would be.

And the bereavement model I'm trained in assumes that a grieving person has experienced one recent loss. We know that a recent loss might poke us in the tender spots left by earlier losses. But that's still different from the experience of a tragedy that affects a whole community at once (as in an entire region's population losing multiple loved ones in a very short time and being forced to flee).

I don't really have a conclusion here, but I'm finding the activism that feels most healing and hope-filled to me has lament built into it: a chance to name the people who've died in our county's jail, while advocating for better communication with families of people inside. A chance to call out the names of people lost to covid while advocating for policies that will mitigate risk to vulnerable people.

Maybe it takes days to name all the people impacted by ongoing genocides in Congo, Palestine, Yemen, while urging our government to end its role in those genocides. Maybe our systems and structures, which aren't even good at honoring our grief for members of the nuclear family we're taught is our primary world, are disinclined to give us that time. Maybe we ought to take it anyway.

[kyluxtrashpit]

Every time I try to write lately, I just can't get anywhere with it :/ I can string words together but they feel empty. Events happen, but what story are they even telling? There's no emotion, no depth, so substance at all. I just can't make anything that's about or says anything at all and idk why :/

[fitzselfships]

I doodled this real quick since I somehow managed to burn my stomach while putting pasta in a strainer. I'm inflicting this onto my self insert now >:] (Zooble is helping them take care of it <3)

Proshippers/adjacent dni. 100000 shark attack 🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈🦈 also Zooble self ship doubles dni

[emeraldgreaves]

45 or 55 for moira red 👀👀? both seem sort of,,,thematically consistent with them LMAO

have 500 words of moirared to break the word curse.

55. tracing the lines on the other’s hand

They’re in the library cramming, as one always finds themselves doing during finals week; him for Planar Theory, her for Anatomy and Mending. And she knows she’s going to fail it, keeps dreaming that she opens the test booklet and discovers the whole thing is in Magid, or it’s the wrong unit, or the paper turns into a swarm of bats and flies right into her face.

And Red is a little bit of a flirt—this is well-established, mostly with people who find her an adequate shoulder to cry on after the fact, though she hasn’t joined their ranks quite yet—but even with how casual and unassuming he is about it, he’s never done so with her.

He asks what she’s studying, and she tells him it’s the parts of the hand, though at this point it’s reduced to flipping through her endless stacks of index cards and wishing for a proper diagram. And he says well, you could just show me, and holds out one of his hands.

She takes it, and it’s still unmarked, tan skin not yet scarred and callused from a decade’s worth of discovery, though someday it will be. She points to each segment in turn—distal, medial, and proximal phalanges, and anatomy doesn’t sound too far from an incantation as she lists them out, flipping over to his palm. And yet they’re not wholly blank. Here is the silvery-white slash of a scar across the spiderwebbed creases of his palm. Here is the mottled ghost of a burn from the time he snatched up a spell scroll and discovered the protection the hard way. Here is the stray freckled nestled in the curve of his wrist. Here are the formerly scraped knuckles and shadowed arteries running alongside taut tendon lines, the entire history of his exploration all in one place.

“If you want my opinion,” he says afterward, fingers still resting in hers, “I think you’re going to ace it.”

And she hadn’t expected him to pay attention—medical terminology is hard enough for Healers to memorize, let alone those studying an entirely different discipline that only happen to be in the same space —but seven years later they’re out for lunch again in the café. He’s through one and a half sandwiches, and she’s barely managed two sips of tea, but the conversation has always been the point of it, and she doesn't mind letting things settle. Somehow they’re on the topic of exams, the way they were half-killing themselves over knowledge but somehow in love with it all the same.

“I remember plenty,” he insists, the third variation on this particular theme.

“I’m not claiming you were completely oblivious,” she says. “Simply that you had plenty of your own projects to consider.”

And she always knows when something has caught his interest; a little light flares up in his eyes, and he leans forward, suddenly regarding you like you’re the most engaging thing in the world. “Really,” he says lightly. “Try me.”

He holds out a hand. After a moment she extends hers across the table. He takes it, turns it over carefully like she’s one of his precious artifacts, then bows his head and recites distal, medial, proximal--

“All right,” she says afterward, “maybe you do remember.” And he’d smiled at her over the rim of his teacup in a way that was familiar, and yet strangely not at all.

[ssaraexposs]

I can't see him like this

[caliburn-the-sword]

emma made me viscerally uncomfortable from season 3-6 and the reason is because it was like watching a barbarian multiclass as a cleric. like girl stop with the magical energy blasts!! just hit him with your sword!!! punch him in the face!!!!

[juniperjelly]

incredible how youtube successfully integrated a tiktok-style format that endlessly feeds users algorithmic slop to farm engagement with the website, and then managed to absolutely ruin it by putting ads in it. how fucking stupid do you have to be to put interruptions that make people stop scrolling in the users-scroll-forever media format

[fluentisonus]

guy who's never once cut himself on scissors in a lifetime of sewing manages to cut a whole slice into his finger within two days of acquiring a sewing job he promised he was qualified for

[fooltofancy]

maybe this is the weekend i sit down and figure out ilya's stupid shoulder freckles.

[bedlamsbard]

feels like the tap water here shouldn't taste salty but what do I know

[meirimerens]

thinking about how mishandled the herb brides are because like. The Text tells us they're not sexual beings (P1 mentions them being virgins, engaged to the Earth, and not to be touched even by their husbands, almost, for a lack of a better word and to conjure an image more than anything, priestess-types) and that their dances are nonsexual and sacred (all all true and correct) WHILE. giving them detailed / 3D modeled nipples. topless. clothes very conveniently torn [in ways that would be unrealistic for actual dancing like in the fucking moshpit]. all pretty thin hairless white-passing blemishless 20-something women. being already sexualized as white-passing asian women, but if they looked more like other NPC models/members of the Kin like the Kayura models (which to me would make more sense because they are never mentioned to be mixed in the way Artemy, an indigenous man who's blonde blue eyes due to being mixed, is [while still very much being indigenous and it being a central part of his story]), it would be even more obvious and would steer even more into Very Blatant fetishization of asian women. and then one asks, are they white-passing because they're sexualized? are they sexualized because they're white-passing? was it an admission of guilt to not make them look like Kayura model, because it would be too obvious then? or is it an admission of lust for women more white-passing? is it about beauty in the eye of the beholder?

then there's bewildering and dehumanizing lore of members of the Kin being non-humans, through the existence of the Worms (literally half-soil), them being a (more or less literal) hivemind, and that being "less human"/closer to the earth (nice_dichotomy_what_lies_outside_of_it png but also... the game touches on that...) immunizes them to the Earth's disease... and yet the Brides look like women... pretty thin hairless white-passing blemishless 20-something women who someone found wise to give 3d modeled nipples to, still good for the ritual cutting... do you hear how i'm going mad yet...

edit to add because while i was so mad and it WAS in my mind i just didn't have the strength to add it when i first wrote:

and they're bought and traded between the odonghs they pair with (again, closer to cattle or things) ... ladies there's so much. there's too much.

[artsandstoriesandstuff]

If you don't mind answering, where will you be posting the Piper James pilot when (and if, dw there's no pressure) you complete it?

Peace and love 🫀

I don't mind answering!

While I don't plan on animating the full thing given my limited resources and time (and the trouble I've had animating on Krita before), I plan on posting the storyboard here in chunks once I finish the whole thing!

I can't do it all at once given it'll be 30+ images.

I would also like to put it on Webtoon or Tapas (or something similar) but I doubt either allows storyboards.

[beevean]

This scene was supremely uncomfortable to write.

~

A certain vampire hunter named Belmont had stepped foot into Wallachia. Hector had never heard of such a clan, but Lord Dracula hissed the name with hefty wariness, and every creature in the room knew that he was no trifling meat to mince: this Belmont could be a genuine danger to the castle. Isaac had noticed him, apparently, and eagerly reported the news to their Lord like a dog bringing a stick and expecting a treat in return.

In that moment, Hector knew. He had to prove himself.

It was not hard for him to enter back in Lord Dracula’s good graces. A few apologies that meant nothing, a couple of languid smiles that cracked his lips, and it was as if their last “conversation” had never happened. He kept his promise. Hector had always been special to his Lord, after all.

As his chewed, dried out remains laid there, cast away as he had fulfilled his purpose, the one thing that pushed him on his feet and dragged him through the vast hallways was the mirage of the forest stretched for miles.

He wanted to die so much.

No. One step further. He had to live for a little longer. Death would not take his soul so long as Lord Dracula held his leash; Hector would not allow it. After he had broken his leash, anything could happen to him. He would die soon, that much was certain; at his Lord’s hands, under the jaws of his loyal hound, or because eventually his body would give up on him. But as long as his grave could be a shallow hole in the forest, far from the enormous castle that used to be his home, he could take another step.

(I’m yours, he had sworn. He did not feel guilty for lying to his Lord, for leaving the kiss of Judah on his blood-caked hand. I can handle the Belmont myself, he had promised. He did not feel guilty for going behind Isaac’s back and taking away the one chance for him to prove himself. He was the lowest kind of sinner: it was what he was born for. He, too, could devour them to the bone. They would both be proud of him.)

« Don’t you look at me like that, » seethed Isaac. Hector started: when did he get back to his room? He didn’t notice himself applying healing oil on his neck. « I asked you a question. »

Hector wasn’t even looking at him, really. He just happened to be in the way of his gaze.

« I wasn’t listening, » he mumbled, hoping that Isaac would leave him alone and knowing he wouldn’t. And right as expected, everything fell into place: Isaac’s cutting glare, the tensing of his shoulders, the smell of a storm approaching. Hector had played the script one too many times.

« Of course you weren’t. Why would you? »

« Don’t start, Isaac. »

« Or what? Are you going to cry to Lord Dracula that I upset you? »

« I’m not being the child here. »

« Excuse me? » Isaac bristled. « Who gave you the right to speak to me this way? »

« According to your logic, Lord Dracula. »

At that, Isaac lunged at him; Hector flinched, body ready to receive a slap, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that Isaac had stopped in an awkward position, with his arm half-raised and teeth bared in a snarl.

Hector was less than grateful for Lord Dracula’s distant protection on his body. He wanted that slap, now. Not to make Isaac happy in his misery, but because it would break one of the many walls between them.

The man’s attention was caught by the fresh bites on Hector’s throat; he had a knack for spotting them, unless Hector buttoned his collar so tight that it clasped on his neck. Now, slick with ointment, they were in full display, the ghost of Lord Dracula hovering between the two of them.

Perhaps, the more he bit them, the more part of himself he infused in their bloodstream. Perhaps that was the reason Isaac passed a thumb on Hector’s scars, with an ugly mixture of scorn and fascination.

(What did that make of Hector?)

« I’m surprised you haven’t dropped dead yet, with how often our Lord feeds from you, » Isaac commented with the impression of aloofness.

« Why do you care? » One last chance.

« What does your blood have that mine doesn’t? »

Hector pursed his lips.

Interpreting his silence the Lord knew how, Isaac replied to it by jamming a long nail in a particularly sore bruise; Hector hissed, and his hand slapped Isaac’s away before he could think of doing so.

And the fuse went off.

« Stop looking at me like that! » Isaac’s face went as red as his hair. « Like I’m not worth a damn! Just because you’re the Lord’s favorite it doesn’t make me inferior to you! »

Hector had planned to leave quietly, without rousing suspicion. He was ready to leave Isaac behind without thinking twice about what he had planned to do; he couldn’t delve too deeply into the consequences. He could still walk past Isaac and ignore him, slam the door shut, leave him out.

The words rose from his throat before he could recognize them for what they were.

« Then perhaps you should do more to be worth something. »

« What…? »

« What are you doing, Isaac? Slacking behind and stubbornly beating your head over the wall instead of listening to me. Crying that Lord Dracula won’t praise you and taking it out on me. Pushing me aside except when you need a warm body. Why should I feel sorry for you, when you treat me like dirt under your heel? »

Hector’s own voice sounded distorted to his own ears, jagged and unpleasant. As unpleasant was the visceral pleasure that seized him at vomiting the thoughts he had buried deep for far too long, at the sight of Isaac’s eyes growing wide and him stepping backwards, away from him.

He should apologize. He would never apologize. Isaac deserved to hear that.

But his surprise lasted for far too little, and he counterattacked:

« You… You would be food for the zombies were it not for me! You threw me away the moment I was no longer useful to you! The only reason Lord Dracula is even sparing a glance towards you is because I felt sorry for you first! I was ecstatic when you came here to study the dark arts with me, I thought you’d be… » A crack where weakness should have been. « How could have I imagined that you would have ruined everything? You are standing on my shoulders and basking in all the glory, and have the gall to pity me! That’s all you care for, selfish bastard! »

Oh, if Isaac thought Hector would fold like he would have in the past, he had no idea of how utterly sick of it all he was.

« I don’t want the glory! I don’t want any of this! » How could ever be happy to be a toy, to be coated in his Lord’s sick touch and sicker lies and expected to be grateful for it?

« Our Lord adores you more than anyone here, more than His own son. What more could you possibly want? What else does the universe owe Saint Hector, for him to finally be happy? »

Why couldn’t he have asked sincerely? Why couldn’t Hector trust whom he thought was his closest companion? He did want, and he wanted too much for him to burden alone: he wanted more of that sorry excuse of an existence, he wanted to cleanse himself, he wanted to live, he wanted out!

He wanted a friend.

« I’m tired, Isaac, and you never noticed, because all you can think about is Lord Dracula. » He would not wipe any tear. Not in front of that man who would devour him at the first sign of fragility. « If I spoke, would you listen to me? Have I ever mattered to you? »

« What you want doesn’t matter. You don’t matter more than Lord Dracula. Don’t you even insinuate that. »

The lack of an answer burdened in Hector’s chest. He wished he could be furious at it.

« I would never. Your world begins and ends with Lord Dracula. »

« And that is how it should be! For being Lord Dracula’s favorite General, you are obnoxiously dense! » Isaac spread his arms like a proselyte. « We were born and made to be His tools to wield. I am honored to be used by Him! I do not need a reward, unlike you: it’s about loyalty! It is the bare minimum of gratitude I can show towards the only person who has ever cared about me. »

Hector took the jab in silence. He would not try to defend himself.

« Do you think he does? »

Isaac stammered. « More than you! »

Is that so.

« You are the worst kind of liar and hypocrite. » Hector dug his nails into his palms, and willed his arms to stop shaking, even though he wanted to hit Isaac so hard. « You say that you’re loyal, but are you really? Because if you were, you’d stop crying and accept how things are! You would accept that Lord Dracula doesn’t give a shit about you! »

« Shut your mouth! How dare you speak in contempt of our Lord?! »

« I don’t care! I am talking about you! » Hector yelled with more force than intended. « If you were a weapon like you claim, you would not be here with tears in your eyes because I’m trying to make you reason. Why do you refuse to see reality? »

« Oh, do you now? Are you speakings from the heavens now? » In the light of the candle, Isaac’s tired eyes flashed a sickly yellow; with his gritted teeth and bulging veins in his neck, he looked less and less human the more he spoke, unrecognizable.

« You make me puke, Hector. Look at you, with that disgusting veneer of superiority, even placing yourself above Lord Dracula… You dare talking about reality? Well, the reality is that you are nothing more than a selfish little boy with an inflated ego, spitting in the plate he’s been eating, expecting to be worshipped because you gift us with the air you breathe on us. » He jabbed a finger on his chest as if to bore it: his hand, too, was trembling. « Never forget that when we met, you wouldn’t even talk, you were that afraid of me. You are here, looking down on me like I am your damn scullery boy, because Lord Dracula tasked me with making something worthwhile out of you. And right now, I am so close to breaking your nose to teach you the lesson you deserve, and then we’ll see how perfect you are. »

Hector let Isaac talk without interrupting.

He should have been offended, he knew it. He should have sworn that he never thought Isaac was inferior to him, he did it all by himself. Somehow, Isaac’s words reached him like a vision through a foggy glass: he had a vague inkling of what they could be, but they didn’t leave an impact.

He, on the other hand, yearned to leave an impact, for once.

« But you won’t do it. Because you are terrified of Lord Dracula not loving you. »

Why wasn’t he furious? He wished he could shout like Isaac, have his heart hammering in his chest, be completely engulfed by rage like flames devour a house. The man in front of him no longer stirred his heart.

What grew louder inside him, instead, were the echoes of his demon friends, always within him as they had never abandoned him – no, he had allowed himself to become them, and just like back then, just like when his mother dared to hurt him… Isaac deserved a lesson.

« I used to be afraid of the world around me, yes. But you are, right now. You are so, so scared of ending up alone and unwanted that you do everything in your power to make sure no one wants you and loves you first! You will drag everyone down in your misery, because it’s easier than clawing your way out! Forget about me – why do you think Lord Dracula would ever love a thing like you? »

And Hector kept talking, and talking, his words a river in flood; he couldn’t stop, he wouldn’t stop, his voice spilled out of him like it was edging at the rim and it couldn’t wait to get out:

« You are a doll to Lord Dracula. You’re a cute toy to play with before putting it on its shelf, once he gets bored of you. You will never be anything more than a thing! And it’s all because of you. You chose to be a thing to be used and thrown away, because, because… because you truly believe you don’t deserve better, I suppose, and when I tried to convince you that it was not the case, you rejected me, because it scared you. You broke yourself into pieces for him, and it was for nothing, and now you’re angry, and you don’t want to admit it, so you thought you could break me with you. »

Isaac recoiled at every word like they were physical blows, and the more he acted like that, the more Hector felt the desire to twist the knife even further, because Isaac only roused desire in him when his eyes shone with bitter tears: he looked like the human he refused to be.

« You are nothing more than a pathetic, miserable thing, and you could have been so much more! I had always admired your passion, your wit, your knowledge! I thought myself so lucky to call you my friend! But there’s none of that in you anymore. You call yourself a weapon, but no, you’re a puppet. Who loves a puppet? Lord Dracula doesn’t need it. I don’t need it. »

And who cared if Hector no longer believed in that axiom, that the both of them had to earn their Lord’s love somehow? Hector had grown past that, but Isaac didn’t, still a child clinging onto the breeches of his father, and Hector felt vile and so satiated in plunging his fangs in Isaac’s heart to tear it to pieces, he would see how it felt, to be weak and powerless and despised! If he wanted to experience Lord Dracula’s love, then by all means, Hector would be all too happy to oblige!

« S-shut up… »

« Don’t you believe me? Why do you think that Lord Dracula refuses to give you all the love that you crave, but he’s forcing it on me? Whose fault is that, Isaac? What did I do, other than exist? »

« Exactly that, » Isaac snarled, and the sobs did not soften the spikes in his words. « Do me a favor, and go die in the next mission. Filth like you should have never been born in the first place! »

The air froze.

No one spoke. Isaac was panting, but Hector could not understand what he was thinking, he could not recognize his face. His head hurt as if Isaac struck a blow and his vision wobbled. It was not a moment too soon that Isaac spun on his heels and fled, and Hector let that stranger march out of his room.

The same mouth he had used to rip Isaac to shreds was covered in ashes. With numb fingers, he touched Lord Dracula’s marks on his throat, where he had ruined him. He decided it was time to go to bed. No map could have taken his mind off the flames dancing behind his eyes.

That night, Isaac left Hector alone, as he wanted.

He tossed and turned around in a freezing bed until the crows cawed and all of his focus had to go on the most important mission of his life.

There was no turning back.