mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
( i've made mistakes )
( lord struck me down )
( lord struck me down )
Last edited:
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
Realistic or Modern // malks & tragictrees
- Thread starter mother of sorrows
- Start date
-
- Tags
- lgbtq m/m super powers supernatural
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
Last edited:
elytra
a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
PANTONE
14-2311
Prism Pink
®
14-2311
Prism Pink
Myles Caito had lost his sight when he was 20.
Well, technically, at least. Technically, if you took him and placed him in front of a eye exam poster with no aid, he wouldn't be able to read any of the lines. In fact, he wouldn't even be able to see the poster, nor the room around him, and likely would end up slipping on an obvious object and landing on his ass if he attempted to leave. His other senses worked just fine, to his knowledge- he didn't have much scope of what 'just fine' was considered in terms of the functionality of sense, but if he had to guess, he would probably say his were maybe even above average. His sight, however, landed right at 'just awful', nearing 'nonexistent'.
If you took the 'technically' out of it, though, he probably wouldn't have been considered blind. Truth was, he was stubborn. He'd often been told it was one of his worst traits, in fact, that he refused to give up on things even when they were impossible, improbable, and likely just bad ideas. Of course, just being stubborn alone didn't fix being blind; that wasn't how it worked. Sure, there had been miracle stories about people regaining sight after accidents had caused them to be blind, but miracles weren't really his area. He was just too unlucky for them. What it meant, though, was that he hated the idea of adjusting to any new condition bestowed upon him, even if it was considered 'permanent' and 'unable to be avoided' and 'easier to just adapt to, Myles, stop fighting it'.
Sure, people were blind. People lived with being blind, he knew that. They lived just fine, and if he tried it was likely he could move on with his life. Differently, of course, and maybe not at easily at first, but he could've got used to it. Point was that he didn't want to. He was stubborn and spiteful and angry, and he hated losing, especially to someone who didn't deserve to win. So, he refused to be blind. He refused to give that satisfaction to Damien, the catalyst of everything wrong in the world.
It took some work, granted, but he wasn't stupid, and he sure as hell wasn't unskillful. He couldn't do real magic, the sort the rest of his family could do; he couldn't shoot fire from his hands or make portals or cast any other sort of spell. More accurately, he refused to, on the basis of his bad luck tending to make things just....happen in the exact wrong ways. He was, however, particularly talented in the art of enchantment and potions. It was a bit trickier to get right for most, but seeing as it was the only thing he could handle without causing a nearby object to implode, he made do.
Most of his grand plans had failed. At first, he had actually attempted to enchant his eyes, but was forced to shift course when he realized messing that plan up with end in a worse situation than he already had. After that, he had turned to contacts, and then had realized that getting contacts in was difficult when you had no eyesight and bad coordination. His final attempt had been on a pair of glasses, despite hating the idea of them being able to fall off his face so easily.
It had ended up working, albeit with some downsides that he hadn't foreseen. Apparently, asking his younger sister to get him a pair of glasses to enchant had been a horrible idea, as she had returned with a pair that were tinted pink- light enough of a tint that onlookers would be able to make out his eyes clearly through, but pink all the same -and shaped like hearts, and somehow the first quality had managed to weasel its way into his work without him expecting it. He only noticed when it was all said and done.
It was considerably better than being completely in the dark, but seeing every-fucking-thing tinted pink was a hassle he hadn't anticipated.
Maisy still made fun of him, of course, despite being the person who had fucked up his grand plans of being able to see normally again. She claimed that it hadn't been on purpose, but he had real, severe doubts that she was being honest, based on that fact she would not stop mentioning it and it had already been years at that point. Like at that moment, for example, when she set two potions in front of him on the counter of the bakery he ran, Queen of Tarts (He had thought the name was fun, being a pun and all, even if it was simply a cover for the less public business he ran).
Many people who had only interacted with Maisy in passing described her as quiet and pretty, which made sense. She was a short thing, shorter than he was, and she had long wavy black hair, pulled into two side braids. She wore floral, flow-y shirts and light-colored jeans, and sometimes she would wear a big-brimmed hat, like one of those newfangled instagram stars that took selfies in daffodil fields that they likely were trespassing on. She rarely spoke to strangers, instead more comfortable staying off to the side and just listening in.
If you spent more than a day near her, of course, you would know better. She was a frightening girl. Myles knew for a fact she had a knife somewhere on her person at all times. She didn't like many people, and most times when she was quiet she was just observing. She had said such to him over tea at one point; apparently she liked to try and figure people out without saying a single word to them. Despite being his younger sister, he usually felt no need to be overly protective of her, seeing as she was more likely to shank someone than they were to shank her. It was actually rather entertaining to watch unwitting victims interact with her.
Except, of course, for when the victim happened to be him.
"Guess." She said vaguely, taking a step back and making a grand gesture at the two bottles. They were likely ones he had made, but the labels had been torn off, so he couldn't have been sure. He waited a moment, just to see if she would elaborate, before seeing that she clearly didn't intend to.
"While I'm very talented," He began, gently rearranging the things she had unceremoniously knocked out of the way in favor of whatever trick she was playing, trying to keep some semblance of organization on the counter for any customers that would happen to come in "You'll have to expand on what you mean. Mind reading isn't one of my skills, Maze."
"The colors. Guess them."
It wasn't much better, but he at least knew what she wanted now, and it wasn't all that big of a surprise. He rolled his eyes, leaning one forearm on the counter as he leaned closer to get a better look at the bottles. After putting on a show of examining them for a moment or two, he pointed to the first, which was oblong with smooth glass.
"This, of course," He picked it up, reaching over the counter swishing it around a bit in front of her face "Is pink, and the other is obviously a darker pink. I'll go one further and say that you are many shades of pink, much like everything else surrounding me. Satisfied?"
She snatched the bottle from his hand, which he took as a no. In a more careful manner, she picked up the other bottle, which was much more stout and less rounded, and held both up in front of him. "This one," She shook the oblong bottle, "Is light blue. The other is red. Which means they are not pink, and you're wrong."
"Thank you for taking the time to point that out to me, I will most certainly keep it in mind. Now, do you mind being a dear and placing them back where you got them from before they spontaneously combust?" It wasn't all that unlikely. Things tended to explode around him all the time, if they were given the chance.
She did as asked, but continued to bother him anyway as she ducked behind the counter and opened up the cabinet where they belonged, fishing out the tags that had belonged to each and carefully reattaching them. “You really are shit at guessing things, you know.”
“You’ve pointed that out.”
“Really, I think being wrong is one of the only talents you possess, seeing as you have not gotten potion colors right a single time I’ve done that.” She stood up, jabbing him in the chest with a finger “It’s important if you mislabel something. Potion colors are important. The blue one helps with colds, and the other one is poison, which means they have very different effects. What happens if you mislabel, hm? Kill some random person?”
He was about to scoff and tell her that he certainly did not do that, but it only took him a second to remember that his luck was supernaturally bad, meaning that not only was it possible, it was likely. He shut his mouth as quickly as he had opened it, taking a deep breath and then letting it out in an aggravated sigh as he tried to think up a good response.
One didn’t come to mind, so he ended up shrugging and brushing by her to hang up his apron. “Well! I guess if someone dies, they die! I’m no necromancer. Really their fault for not double checking I gave them the right thing, if you think about it, and I do still get their money.” He turned on his heels to face her where she stood with her arms crossed, his dimples showing as he grinned “In fact, if the poison kills them early enough, I can even get their entire wallet, probably, and that’s profit! You could even say I’d make a killing with that sort of mess up.”
He threw in a wink at the end, and she ended up being the one scoffing, giving him a scowl that he was sure any other person would consider murderous. “You can’t just--”
“And would you look at the clock, it’s 5! That marks the end of my time here. It’s been a ball, really, I mean it, but as much as I’d love to stay so you can berate me about not being able to see anything but one color, I really ought to get home. I have so much to do.” He had absolutely nothing to do other than deliver an order and bother his cat, but while Maisy knew that, he wouldn’t give her the chance to call him out on it. He hopped over the counter, nearly tripping over himself as he grabbed his coat from the hook near the door and slipping it on.
“Remember to lock up, don’t talk to weird strangers, and if you do need to kill someone, I prefer you do it out back than in the shop, blood adds a weird smell to the place and it’s a bit unsanitary. Oh, and if there’s left over of whatever, feel free to take it home and all that. Bye!” It was all said within almost one breath, before he darted out the door, managing to narrowly avoid a reply.
He ended dashing down the sidewalk until making it to a crowd and ducking into it, not wanting to risk being pulled into a longer conversation about something he couldn’t fix. Then, when he was sure she wasn’t about to pop out of nowhere and bother him again, he made his way towards an alley with the intent to cut through and make his delivery so he could get home.
Personally, he had every intent to do just that. He had no desire to go on any wild adventure or stay out any longer than he needed to; he had plans and those plans included a microwavable dinner, his cat, and a nature documentary. But, as was his luck, he wasn’t allowed to have nice things, evident by the fact that he was knocked out by some freak who ran at him as soon as he entered the alley.
It tracked, if he was honest. He really should’ve expected something like that.
When he did come to, everything hurt and he was handcuffed, but on the bright side, his glasses were still on and intact, so he really, truly counted it as a win. It was moments like those that he was glad to have enchanted them a little further in order to avoid them falling off whenever he stumbled; it wasn’t impossible to get them off his face, but it wasn’t absurdly easy, either. The chair and handcuffs weren’t ideal, and the room was bland if he were completely honest, but at least he could see that the room looked like shit, as well as see the man who had ambushed him approach him and start speaking.
He really didn’t listen at first. He wasn’t at all interested in the words, and his ears had taken to ringing faintly, so he didn’t put forth the effort. The statements were disregarded until he was kicked, and ow, that was just rude. The pieces only slotted together when he saw the knife and heard the name ‘Damien’...as well as a mention of pudding cups, but that was more a hint that the man was completely batshit, not anything else.
At first, he was quiet. Then, he burst out laughing, and sure it hurt his lungs, but this was a lot, and he had a tendency to laugh during any scenarios. Amused? Laughter. Anxious? Laughter. Absolutely fucking pissed off? He’d have himself a bit of a chuckle, for sure, and right now he was livid, at the man in front of him but especially at his dumbass twin for continuing to do shit that got him in trouble.
Frankly, Myles didn’t care what Damien did, but that was only if it didn’t get him involved. That was rarely the case. The whole twin thing had really fucked up quite a lot of things, including how they looked almost identical; yes, Myles mournfully would admit he had a few grey hairs at his young age that Damien had avoided, but he would’ve gladly had a full head of grey if it meant that people would stop mistaking him for his twin.
It’s why they ran in different circles. Damien had chosen to be a criminal, to run a gang and rob banks and whatever he felt like doing (Myles really didn’t keep tabs on it), and Myles had chosen to do anything BUT that in order to never, ever run into him, because if they did run into one another, Myles might end up losing his mind and trying to tear out his twins trachea with his bare hands. This apparently didn’t work out, though, seeing as it felt like he was mistaken for the bastard every other week. The situation he was currently a new low, since he’d never been kidnapped, but honestly it probably had been just a matter of time.
“Aren’t you just incredibly cheerful? And so thoughtful, to boot!” He said after taking a few controlled breaths, ignoring the fact that his ribs felt like they had been slammed with a sledgehammer “See, well, small problem with this whole situation; not that you haven’t been a terribly lovely host, really, absolutely a doll, but there seems to have been a small misunderstanding.”
He paused, readjusting himself to lean back from the knife, which looked like it was closer to something used to pick teeth than a weapon, but seeing as he was handcuffed in a chair he wasn’t sure he had a right to complain. Then, he continued “First of all, I actually hate pudding. I think it’s disgusting, if I’m being honest. Second of all, I’m afraid you’ve absolutely shattered my ribs for nothing, seeing as my name isn’t Damien.” He flashed a strained smile, but it quickly fell from his face when he felt a sharp pain from his head. He likely would have to get that checked out.
“It’s Myles, actually. Myles Caito. But, don’t go blaming yourself, it's a common mistake, we look awfully similar and all that, happens all the time. I mean, it's to be expected, seeing as we’re twins. See, here’s the thing though, I’m a little less of a complete fucking asshole, so we have our differences!” He tried to keep his tone cheerful, even if he felt like he was five seconds from vomiting. “I’d appreciate it if you could quit all the threatening big-man talk and undo these things, seeing as I’m not the person you want to murder over….pudding cups? I mean, it sounds a little batshit, but you do you. I will take any excuse you have if it motivates you to kill Damien. I mean, really! Cheers! Go team! I love the passion, I do. I also feel like I’m about to puke, though, so if you could really just get to letting me go now that this is all said and done, I would adore that.”
Well, technically, at least. Technically, if you took him and placed him in front of a eye exam poster with no aid, he wouldn't be able to read any of the lines. In fact, he wouldn't even be able to see the poster, nor the room around him, and likely would end up slipping on an obvious object and landing on his ass if he attempted to leave. His other senses worked just fine, to his knowledge- he didn't have much scope of what 'just fine' was considered in terms of the functionality of sense, but if he had to guess, he would probably say his were maybe even above average. His sight, however, landed right at 'just awful', nearing 'nonexistent'.
If you took the 'technically' out of it, though, he probably wouldn't have been considered blind. Truth was, he was stubborn. He'd often been told it was one of his worst traits, in fact, that he refused to give up on things even when they were impossible, improbable, and likely just bad ideas. Of course, just being stubborn alone didn't fix being blind; that wasn't how it worked. Sure, there had been miracle stories about people regaining sight after accidents had caused them to be blind, but miracles weren't really his area. He was just too unlucky for them. What it meant, though, was that he hated the idea of adjusting to any new condition bestowed upon him, even if it was considered 'permanent' and 'unable to be avoided' and 'easier to just adapt to, Myles, stop fighting it'.
Sure, people were blind. People lived with being blind, he knew that. They lived just fine, and if he tried it was likely he could move on with his life. Differently, of course, and maybe not at easily at first, but he could've got used to it. Point was that he didn't want to. He was stubborn and spiteful and angry, and he hated losing, especially to someone who didn't deserve to win. So, he refused to be blind. He refused to give that satisfaction to Damien, the catalyst of everything wrong in the world.
It took some work, granted, but he wasn't stupid, and he sure as hell wasn't unskillful. He couldn't do real magic, the sort the rest of his family could do; he couldn't shoot fire from his hands or make portals or cast any other sort of spell. More accurately, he refused to, on the basis of his bad luck tending to make things just....happen in the exact wrong ways. He was, however, particularly talented in the art of enchantment and potions. It was a bit trickier to get right for most, but seeing as it was the only thing he could handle without causing a nearby object to implode, he made do.
Most of his grand plans had failed. At first, he had actually attempted to enchant his eyes, but was forced to shift course when he realized messing that plan up with end in a worse situation than he already had. After that, he had turned to contacts, and then had realized that getting contacts in was difficult when you had no eyesight and bad coordination. His final attempt had been on a pair of glasses, despite hating the idea of them being able to fall off his face so easily.
It had ended up working, albeit with some downsides that he hadn't foreseen. Apparently, asking his younger sister to get him a pair of glasses to enchant had been a horrible idea, as she had returned with a pair that were tinted pink- light enough of a tint that onlookers would be able to make out his eyes clearly through, but pink all the same -and shaped like hearts, and somehow the first quality had managed to weasel its way into his work without him expecting it. He only noticed when it was all said and done.
It was considerably better than being completely in the dark, but seeing every-fucking-thing tinted pink was a hassle he hadn't anticipated.
Maisy still made fun of him, of course, despite being the person who had fucked up his grand plans of being able to see normally again. She claimed that it hadn't been on purpose, but he had real, severe doubts that she was being honest, based on that fact she would not stop mentioning it and it had already been years at that point. Like at that moment, for example, when she set two potions in front of him on the counter of the bakery he ran, Queen of Tarts (He had thought the name was fun, being a pun and all, even if it was simply a cover for the less public business he ran).
Many people who had only interacted with Maisy in passing described her as quiet and pretty, which made sense. She was a short thing, shorter than he was, and she had long wavy black hair, pulled into two side braids. She wore floral, flow-y shirts and light-colored jeans, and sometimes she would wear a big-brimmed hat, like one of those newfangled instagram stars that took selfies in daffodil fields that they likely were trespassing on. She rarely spoke to strangers, instead more comfortable staying off to the side and just listening in.
If you spent more than a day near her, of course, you would know better. She was a frightening girl. Myles knew for a fact she had a knife somewhere on her person at all times. She didn't like many people, and most times when she was quiet she was just observing. She had said such to him over tea at one point; apparently she liked to try and figure people out without saying a single word to them. Despite being his younger sister, he usually felt no need to be overly protective of her, seeing as she was more likely to shank someone than they were to shank her. It was actually rather entertaining to watch unwitting victims interact with her.
Except, of course, for when the victim happened to be him.
"Guess." She said vaguely, taking a step back and making a grand gesture at the two bottles. They were likely ones he had made, but the labels had been torn off, so he couldn't have been sure. He waited a moment, just to see if she would elaborate, before seeing that she clearly didn't intend to.
"While I'm very talented," He began, gently rearranging the things she had unceremoniously knocked out of the way in favor of whatever trick she was playing, trying to keep some semblance of organization on the counter for any customers that would happen to come in "You'll have to expand on what you mean. Mind reading isn't one of my skills, Maze."
"The colors. Guess them."
It wasn't much better, but he at least knew what she wanted now, and it wasn't all that big of a surprise. He rolled his eyes, leaning one forearm on the counter as he leaned closer to get a better look at the bottles. After putting on a show of examining them for a moment or two, he pointed to the first, which was oblong with smooth glass.
"This, of course," He picked it up, reaching over the counter swishing it around a bit in front of her face "Is pink, and the other is obviously a darker pink. I'll go one further and say that you are many shades of pink, much like everything else surrounding me. Satisfied?"
She snatched the bottle from his hand, which he took as a no. In a more careful manner, she picked up the other bottle, which was much more stout and less rounded, and held both up in front of him. "This one," She shook the oblong bottle, "Is light blue. The other is red. Which means they are not pink, and you're wrong."
"Thank you for taking the time to point that out to me, I will most certainly keep it in mind. Now, do you mind being a dear and placing them back where you got them from before they spontaneously combust?" It wasn't all that unlikely. Things tended to explode around him all the time, if they were given the chance.
She did as asked, but continued to bother him anyway as she ducked behind the counter and opened up the cabinet where they belonged, fishing out the tags that had belonged to each and carefully reattaching them. “You really are shit at guessing things, you know.”
“You’ve pointed that out.”
“Really, I think being wrong is one of the only talents you possess, seeing as you have not gotten potion colors right a single time I’ve done that.” She stood up, jabbing him in the chest with a finger “It’s important if you mislabel something. Potion colors are important. The blue one helps with colds, and the other one is poison, which means they have very different effects. What happens if you mislabel, hm? Kill some random person?”
He was about to scoff and tell her that he certainly did not do that, but it only took him a second to remember that his luck was supernaturally bad, meaning that not only was it possible, it was likely. He shut his mouth as quickly as he had opened it, taking a deep breath and then letting it out in an aggravated sigh as he tried to think up a good response.
One didn’t come to mind, so he ended up shrugging and brushing by her to hang up his apron. “Well! I guess if someone dies, they die! I’m no necromancer. Really their fault for not double checking I gave them the right thing, if you think about it, and I do still get their money.” He turned on his heels to face her where she stood with her arms crossed, his dimples showing as he grinned “In fact, if the poison kills them early enough, I can even get their entire wallet, probably, and that’s profit! You could even say I’d make a killing with that sort of mess up.”
He threw in a wink at the end, and she ended up being the one scoffing, giving him a scowl that he was sure any other person would consider murderous. “You can’t just--”
“And would you look at the clock, it’s 5! That marks the end of my time here. It’s been a ball, really, I mean it, but as much as I’d love to stay so you can berate me about not being able to see anything but one color, I really ought to get home. I have so much to do.” He had absolutely nothing to do other than deliver an order and bother his cat, but while Maisy knew that, he wouldn’t give her the chance to call him out on it. He hopped over the counter, nearly tripping over himself as he grabbed his coat from the hook near the door and slipping it on.
“Remember to lock up, don’t talk to weird strangers, and if you do need to kill someone, I prefer you do it out back than in the shop, blood adds a weird smell to the place and it’s a bit unsanitary. Oh, and if there’s left over of whatever, feel free to take it home and all that. Bye!” It was all said within almost one breath, before he darted out the door, managing to narrowly avoid a reply.
He ended dashing down the sidewalk until making it to a crowd and ducking into it, not wanting to risk being pulled into a longer conversation about something he couldn’t fix. Then, when he was sure she wasn’t about to pop out of nowhere and bother him again, he made his way towards an alley with the intent to cut through and make his delivery so he could get home.
Personally, he had every intent to do just that. He had no desire to go on any wild adventure or stay out any longer than he needed to; he had plans and those plans included a microwavable dinner, his cat, and a nature documentary. But, as was his luck, he wasn’t allowed to have nice things, evident by the fact that he was knocked out by some freak who ran at him as soon as he entered the alley.
It tracked, if he was honest. He really should’ve expected something like that.
When he did come to, everything hurt and he was handcuffed, but on the bright side, his glasses were still on and intact, so he really, truly counted it as a win. It was moments like those that he was glad to have enchanted them a little further in order to avoid them falling off whenever he stumbled; it wasn’t impossible to get them off his face, but it wasn’t absurdly easy, either. The chair and handcuffs weren’t ideal, and the room was bland if he were completely honest, but at least he could see that the room looked like shit, as well as see the man who had ambushed him approach him and start speaking.
He really didn’t listen at first. He wasn’t at all interested in the words, and his ears had taken to ringing faintly, so he didn’t put forth the effort. The statements were disregarded until he was kicked, and ow, that was just rude. The pieces only slotted together when he saw the knife and heard the name ‘Damien’...as well as a mention of pudding cups, but that was more a hint that the man was completely batshit, not anything else.
At first, he was quiet. Then, he burst out laughing, and sure it hurt his lungs, but this was a lot, and he had a tendency to laugh during any scenarios. Amused? Laughter. Anxious? Laughter. Absolutely fucking pissed off? He’d have himself a bit of a chuckle, for sure, and right now he was livid, at the man in front of him but especially at his dumbass twin for continuing to do shit that got him in trouble.
Frankly, Myles didn’t care what Damien did, but that was only if it didn’t get him involved. That was rarely the case. The whole twin thing had really fucked up quite a lot of things, including how they looked almost identical; yes, Myles mournfully would admit he had a few grey hairs at his young age that Damien had avoided, but he would’ve gladly had a full head of grey if it meant that people would stop mistaking him for his twin.
It’s why they ran in different circles. Damien had chosen to be a criminal, to run a gang and rob banks and whatever he felt like doing (Myles really didn’t keep tabs on it), and Myles had chosen to do anything BUT that in order to never, ever run into him, because if they did run into one another, Myles might end up losing his mind and trying to tear out his twins trachea with his bare hands. This apparently didn’t work out, though, seeing as it felt like he was mistaken for the bastard every other week. The situation he was currently a new low, since he’d never been kidnapped, but honestly it probably had been just a matter of time.
“Aren’t you just incredibly cheerful? And so thoughtful, to boot!” He said after taking a few controlled breaths, ignoring the fact that his ribs felt like they had been slammed with a sledgehammer “See, well, small problem with this whole situation; not that you haven’t been a terribly lovely host, really, absolutely a doll, but there seems to have been a small misunderstanding.”
He paused, readjusting himself to lean back from the knife, which looked like it was closer to something used to pick teeth than a weapon, but seeing as he was handcuffed in a chair he wasn’t sure he had a right to complain. Then, he continued “First of all, I actually hate pudding. I think it’s disgusting, if I’m being honest. Second of all, I’m afraid you’ve absolutely shattered my ribs for nothing, seeing as my name isn’t Damien.” He flashed a strained smile, but it quickly fell from his face when he felt a sharp pain from his head. He likely would have to get that checked out.
“It’s Myles, actually. Myles Caito. But, don’t go blaming yourself, it's a common mistake, we look awfully similar and all that, happens all the time. I mean, it's to be expected, seeing as we’re twins. See, here’s the thing though, I’m a little less of a complete fucking asshole, so we have our differences!” He tried to keep his tone cheerful, even if he felt like he was five seconds from vomiting. “I’d appreciate it if you could quit all the threatening big-man talk and undo these things, seeing as I’m not the person you want to murder over….pudding cups? I mean, it sounds a little batshit, but you do you. I will take any excuse you have if it motivates you to kill Damien. I mean, really! Cheers! Go team! I love the passion, I do. I also feel like I’m about to puke, though, so if you could really just get to letting me go now that this is all said and done, I would adore that.”
Last edited:
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
Last edited:
elytra
a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
PANTONE
14-2311
Prism Pink
®
14-2311
Prism Pink
‘Crime shit’, he said. Myles was really getting tired of ‘crime shit’.
Seriously. He sold things to people who commited crime, sure, but he didn’t get involved. He gave the means. He didn’t help. There was a reason for that, and it was that he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Despite that, he still was bothered by ‘crime shit’, which was getting tedious.
Every second he sat in the chair was a second closer he was to snapping. This guy- whoever he was -acted like he was the one who was being put upon right now. Like Myles wasn’t going about his day before being kidnapped. Like he hadn’t had plans, no matter how mundane those plans happened to be.
Because it wasn’t like he wanted to be mistaken for Damien, you know? The opposite, actually. Maybe there had been a point where he’d wanted to be him, just for a bit. Really was to be expected, seeing as Damien had always been considered the ‘better’ twin by most, including their parents. The prodigy child, that was what he was. And….well, Myles wasn’t, to put it simply.
To elaborate- because he liked to elaborate, because he liked to talk, because if there was ever a moment of empty air he felt himself get anxious -his parents didn’t like him. His grandparents didn’t like him. His aunts and uncles didn’t like him, and maybe he had thought Damien liked him, way back when they were younger, but that had turned out to be false. None of them, his twin excluded, tried to hide it. His mother loved to talk to people about how he seemed to have gotten ‘all the bad traits’ out of the two of them, especially when he was present in the room.
He laughed at it along with everyone else, even if he didn’t see how it was funny, because he knew that staying silent would just be worse for him. It was easier to be what people expected him to be than try to be anything else. So, he was the stupid, reckless, untalented one, which made him definetely not Damien.
It took him a bit, but he did find that he prefered being Damien’s opposite. At the very least he wasn’t as much of a colossal douchebag.
Yet he still got all the consequences for the other’s mistakes, like in the current moment. Cuffed to a chair by some guy who, like so many others, was out for blood. It was disgusting to think that the fact they were twins made people think they were somehow in cahoots, or that Myles knew everything he happened to be up to.
Feeling worse, his cheerful demeanor dropped, though he at least tried to keep his expression neutral. If he didn’t get out of the chair soon, though, he was going to start screaming. He could only stay so amicable for so long.
“Look,” He started, tone tired due to the sheer amount of times he had already had this talk with the many people who had been out to get Damien and had gotten him instead “I don’t know where Damien is. I don’t even keep up to date with whatever crimes he’s deciding to take part in nowadays.”
Which, apparently, included pudding. He wasn’t sure if that was even a crime, taking pudding from the store. Actually, Myles was pretty sure that it was the most not-crime thing he’d heard that Damien had done, which was impressive considering he was under the assumption that his twin spent every waking moment finding new ways to terrorize people. Don’t get him wrong, Myles wasn’t exactly a people-person; he was just fine doing his own thing and looking out for himself. However, he didn’t go out of his way to inconvenience or harm people. That was a lot of work and he reserved what little energy he had for things he actually cared about.
But apparently pudding man wasn’t a fan of being told that his grievance with Damien mattered very little in the grand scheme of things.
“If I did know where he was and what he was doing, trust me, I’d be first in line to remove all his vital organs and sell them for money. But I don’t, so I can’t tell you anything.” He shrugged his shoulders as much as his aching body would allow “I can get you in contact with about 20 other people who are also keen on killing him if you want, because they’ve done the exact same fucking thing you have. Now, do you mind undoing my bonds? Because I am about 5 seconds from projectile vomiting on you. Sincerely, you letting me go is of benefit to both of us.”
Seriously. He sold things to people who commited crime, sure, but he didn’t get involved. He gave the means. He didn’t help. There was a reason for that, and it was that he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Despite that, he still was bothered by ‘crime shit’, which was getting tedious.
Every second he sat in the chair was a second closer he was to snapping. This guy- whoever he was -acted like he was the one who was being put upon right now. Like Myles wasn’t going about his day before being kidnapped. Like he hadn’t had plans, no matter how mundane those plans happened to be.
Because it wasn’t like he wanted to be mistaken for Damien, you know? The opposite, actually. Maybe there had been a point where he’d wanted to be him, just for a bit. Really was to be expected, seeing as Damien had always been considered the ‘better’ twin by most, including their parents. The prodigy child, that was what he was. And….well, Myles wasn’t, to put it simply.
To elaborate- because he liked to elaborate, because he liked to talk, because if there was ever a moment of empty air he felt himself get anxious -his parents didn’t like him. His grandparents didn’t like him. His aunts and uncles didn’t like him, and maybe he had thought Damien liked him, way back when they were younger, but that had turned out to be false. None of them, his twin excluded, tried to hide it. His mother loved to talk to people about how he seemed to have gotten ‘all the bad traits’ out of the two of them, especially when he was present in the room.
He laughed at it along with everyone else, even if he didn’t see how it was funny, because he knew that staying silent would just be worse for him. It was easier to be what people expected him to be than try to be anything else. So, he was the stupid, reckless, untalented one, which made him definetely not Damien.
It took him a bit, but he did find that he prefered being Damien’s opposite. At the very least he wasn’t as much of a colossal douchebag.
Yet he still got all the consequences for the other’s mistakes, like in the current moment. Cuffed to a chair by some guy who, like so many others, was out for blood. It was disgusting to think that the fact they were twins made people think they were somehow in cahoots, or that Myles knew everything he happened to be up to.
Feeling worse, his cheerful demeanor dropped, though he at least tried to keep his expression neutral. If he didn’t get out of the chair soon, though, he was going to start screaming. He could only stay so amicable for so long.
“Look,” He started, tone tired due to the sheer amount of times he had already had this talk with the many people who had been out to get Damien and had gotten him instead “I don’t know where Damien is. I don’t even keep up to date with whatever crimes he’s deciding to take part in nowadays.”
Which, apparently, included pudding. He wasn’t sure if that was even a crime, taking pudding from the store. Actually, Myles was pretty sure that it was the most not-crime thing he’d heard that Damien had done, which was impressive considering he was under the assumption that his twin spent every waking moment finding new ways to terrorize people. Don’t get him wrong, Myles wasn’t exactly a people-person; he was just fine doing his own thing and looking out for himself. However, he didn’t go out of his way to inconvenience or harm people. That was a lot of work and he reserved what little energy he had for things he actually cared about.
But apparently pudding man wasn’t a fan of being told that his grievance with Damien mattered very little in the grand scheme of things.
“If I did know where he was and what he was doing, trust me, I’d be first in line to remove all his vital organs and sell them for money. But I don’t, so I can’t tell you anything.” He shrugged his shoulders as much as his aching body would allow “I can get you in contact with about 20 other people who are also keen on killing him if you want, because they’ve done the exact same fucking thing you have. Now, do you mind undoing my bonds? Because I am about 5 seconds from projectile vomiting on you. Sincerely, you letting me go is of benefit to both of us.”
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
Last edited:
elytra
a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
PANTONE
14-2311
Prism Pink
®
14-2311
Prism Pink
Hah! Was it really so surprising that he wanted Damien dead just as bad as the next person?
It wasn’t hard to hate Damien. It wasn’t difficult to be charmed by him, if he decided to hide the fact he was a piece of shit from you, but when you spent time around the actual person he was, it was an endurance event to hold yourself back from jumping the table and strangling him in the middle of whatever public place you happened to be in. Myles knew this from the countless family outings he had been forced to sit through, even when he had moved his life elsewhere. His parents hadn’t taken the hint and apparently being the disappointment of the family hadn’t been enough to spare him the pain of having to act like a normal, polite person instead of hitting someone over the head with a folding chair and making a run for it.
Which was a shame. It’d take him a lot of hands to count the number of family members he’d like to hit with a chair.
Point was, his life would be monumentally easier if he was the only twin left on the mortal plane, and he had no problem admitting that. Maybe if Damien was dead, he’d be paid or something as a reward. Even better, they likely would stop assuming he was Damien and god, wasn’t that just the dream. Tempting enough that he had considered murdering the guy himself, but he had too much respect for the senses he had left to do that. He rather liked being able to hear things and was sure that was a less easy fix than what he did for his sight.
“Abel didn’t want Cain dead in return, and trust me, the feeling is very much mutual.” Damien had told him as much, and Myles was pretty sure the only thing stopping him was stupid superstition that his bad luck would transfer over as soon as he was dead. For such a wanted criminal, his twin really was a moron.
Once he was freed, he stood up, wobbling a moment before getting a handle on his balance. His hands instantly went to his glasses, pushing them up so they were properly positioned with little chance of falling off. Then, he moved on to straightening the rest of himself out, dusting himself off. His ribs hurt, but he was getting used to the ache. The head pain was a different story. He had half a mind to at least slap the other or something, but decided against it.
“Not many people do, and that’s the way I like it.” He said, rubbing his wrists idly “Of course, hasn’t helped much, seeing as people keep on attacking me. Kidnapping is new, though, so I admire your tenacity. Can’t say a good portion of my brothers almost-killers have gotten the jump on me, but then again, most of them have been idiots. Congratulations on being the cream of the crop.”
It wasn’t really a compliment, but he wasn’t going to add that on, even if he was feeling a little sour after being dragged into a basement. He took a look around him, then sighed. God, he was going to sleep forever after this. Maybe when he woke up, he magically wouldn’t have to be pestered by strangers about problems that weren’t his any longer.
“I’ll take the ride.” He decided, because fuck it, he was at least owed that. He left it at that a moment, before tacking on “A word of advice, if you want: rats are easier to kill with traps than with a wiffle ball bat. Damien is the same, expect rats have more dignity. Trying to catch up to him is probably going to be a wild goose chase. He’s a prick, but he’s a prick with supernaturally good luck.” Which he really didn’t deserve, but that was a topic for another time and person. “And if you decide you want to try chasing him still, I’d really suggest talking to our parents about his location. God knows my family still likes him enough to keep tabs on him. They’re all tools, so honestly I wouldn’t feel bad if you gave them a concussion.”
Might as well give the guy something, Myles figured. He had gone through all the trouble for nothing, and he seemed passionate. He wouldn’t mind seeing the other succeed in killing his brother; it would save him a lot of trouble.
It wasn’t hard to hate Damien. It wasn’t difficult to be charmed by him, if he decided to hide the fact he was a piece of shit from you, but when you spent time around the actual person he was, it was an endurance event to hold yourself back from jumping the table and strangling him in the middle of whatever public place you happened to be in. Myles knew this from the countless family outings he had been forced to sit through, even when he had moved his life elsewhere. His parents hadn’t taken the hint and apparently being the disappointment of the family hadn’t been enough to spare him the pain of having to act like a normal, polite person instead of hitting someone over the head with a folding chair and making a run for it.
Which was a shame. It’d take him a lot of hands to count the number of family members he’d like to hit with a chair.
Point was, his life would be monumentally easier if he was the only twin left on the mortal plane, and he had no problem admitting that. Maybe if Damien was dead, he’d be paid or something as a reward. Even better, they likely would stop assuming he was Damien and god, wasn’t that just the dream. Tempting enough that he had considered murdering the guy himself, but he had too much respect for the senses he had left to do that. He rather liked being able to hear things and was sure that was a less easy fix than what he did for his sight.
“Abel didn’t want Cain dead in return, and trust me, the feeling is very much mutual.” Damien had told him as much, and Myles was pretty sure the only thing stopping him was stupid superstition that his bad luck would transfer over as soon as he was dead. For such a wanted criminal, his twin really was a moron.
Once he was freed, he stood up, wobbling a moment before getting a handle on his balance. His hands instantly went to his glasses, pushing them up so they were properly positioned with little chance of falling off. Then, he moved on to straightening the rest of himself out, dusting himself off. His ribs hurt, but he was getting used to the ache. The head pain was a different story. He had half a mind to at least slap the other or something, but decided against it.
“Not many people do, and that’s the way I like it.” He said, rubbing his wrists idly “Of course, hasn’t helped much, seeing as people keep on attacking me. Kidnapping is new, though, so I admire your tenacity. Can’t say a good portion of my brothers almost-killers have gotten the jump on me, but then again, most of them have been idiots. Congratulations on being the cream of the crop.”
It wasn’t really a compliment, but he wasn’t going to add that on, even if he was feeling a little sour after being dragged into a basement. He took a look around him, then sighed. God, he was going to sleep forever after this. Maybe when he woke up, he magically wouldn’t have to be pestered by strangers about problems that weren’t his any longer.
“I’ll take the ride.” He decided, because fuck it, he was at least owed that. He left it at that a moment, before tacking on “A word of advice, if you want: rats are easier to kill with traps than with a wiffle ball bat. Damien is the same, expect rats have more dignity. Trying to catch up to him is probably going to be a wild goose chase. He’s a prick, but he’s a prick with supernaturally good luck.” Which he really didn’t deserve, but that was a topic for another time and person. “And if you decide you want to try chasing him still, I’d really suggest talking to our parents about his location. God knows my family still likes him enough to keep tabs on him. They’re all tools, so honestly I wouldn’t feel bad if you gave them a concussion.”
Might as well give the guy something, Myles figured. He had gone through all the trouble for nothing, and he seemed passionate. He wouldn’t mind seeing the other succeed in killing his brother; it would save him a lot of trouble.
Last edited:
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
Last edited:
elytra
a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
PANTONE
14-2311
Prism Pink
®
14-2311
Prism Pink
Oh, he certainly wasn’t taking the luck thing well.
That was fair, though. All that work to learn that you were never going to succeed really was the sort of thing that killed optimism. Myles had gotten used to it, seeing as he had to grow up with the guy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t empathize a little. Not that he made a habit of empathizing with people, mind you, but when it came to wanting to kill Damien he could afford to understand the frustration of coming to the realization that you just weren’t able to.
He was like a cockroach. He could probably survive nuclear warfare, if he was around to see it, and would be able to continue his stupid little cockroach life the same as before. Meanwhile, Myles was stuck getting kicked in the shins repeatedly by God; just last week, he had almost had a piano fall on him, which was a ridiculous situation. It was the sort of thing that happened to cartoon characters, not real people.
He was a little sour over it. But he didn’t think anyone would be able to blame him. If they did, he would gladly hit them with any item that was close to him at the time.
When Paris asked what sort of crack his family was on, Myles rolled his eyes, deciding to not dignify it with an answer as he followed the other up the staircase. The explanation, simply, was ‘rich family bullshit on steroids’. Every single member of his immediate family- Maisy and himself excluded -was on a constant powertrip, it seemed like. Damien, of course, had his luck and his magic, while his parents seemed to be unable to shut up about their fortune and achievements, even if they tried to be subtle about it.
And there had always been the need to have an unblemished public image, at least within the magic community. It was all about appearances, really. His parents clung to their image with talons and hissed at anyone who tried to take it away from them. In most cases, it was him- apparently having a bad luck magnet for a child wasn’t good for publicity. He wasn’t unskilled in the art of pretending to be polite, but that meant nothing when he could end up ruining a whole event by just sitting there.
In short, he was the bane of the family’s image. They knew it and, further, made sure he knew it as well.
Which was why he would not complain if they were kidnapped next. In fact, he would probably find it extremely funny. It would be good to see them knocked down a few notches, and to make matters better, it was being done in order to kill Damien. Two birds, one stone. It was efficient.
He eyed the house as they went through it, noting how bare it seemed to be. Definitely not where the man lived usually, unless he was some sort of extreme minimalist. It made sense; he wasn’t one to kidnap people, but if he happened to take up the occupation, he wouldn’t want to bring them back to where he lived. Separate work from personal life and all that.
When they reached the car, Myles leaned on top of it, raising both eyebrows as he was asked where his parents lived. Oh. Right. That was information that not everyone had. And oh, that reminded him that it also wasn’t as easily as just going in the house and trying to bag them, and even if he had been kidnapped himself, he knew that he was an easier target.
“Well, I can tell you right now you’re not getting into the house.” He began, scratching his chin thoughtfully with one hand “It’s warded to hell and back. I’d offer to try and take them down, but frankly that’s more effort than it’s worth, seeing as they’d notice right away. Ah, and they wouldn’t invite you in under any circumstances.” He paused a moment, eyeing Paris and his attire and imagining how quickly his parents would slam the door “No offense. Or, some offense, maybe.”
He fell silent, adjusting his glasses. There was one option, but he wasn’t sure how willing he would be to offer it. On one hand, he would be tickled pink (not that he had experience with any other colors now) if Paris was able to kill Damien after getting to their parents. On the other hand...well, he had limits. Those limits mostly included talking to his family in person himself.
In the end, Damien dying won out.
He sighed, slipping into the front passenger side of the car. “There is one option. They have these hellish parties every month or so, and I always get an invitation. Enchanted, obviously, because nothing can be simple.” He said, explaining as he buckled himself in “I’ve stopped going, but they keep sending them anyway, and I do have the option for a plus one. So, if you’re comfortable with dressing nicely and sweet-talking a room full of hostil witches, I can get you into that.” He fished his phone out of his pocket, thanking god that it wasn’t shattered as he unlocked it “You could probably find a way to ‘talk’ to them at that. But that’s the extent of my help.”
That was fair, though. All that work to learn that you were never going to succeed really was the sort of thing that killed optimism. Myles had gotten used to it, seeing as he had to grow up with the guy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t empathize a little. Not that he made a habit of empathizing with people, mind you, but when it came to wanting to kill Damien he could afford to understand the frustration of coming to the realization that you just weren’t able to.
He was like a cockroach. He could probably survive nuclear warfare, if he was around to see it, and would be able to continue his stupid little cockroach life the same as before. Meanwhile, Myles was stuck getting kicked in the shins repeatedly by God; just last week, he had almost had a piano fall on him, which was a ridiculous situation. It was the sort of thing that happened to cartoon characters, not real people.
He was a little sour over it. But he didn’t think anyone would be able to blame him. If they did, he would gladly hit them with any item that was close to him at the time.
When Paris asked what sort of crack his family was on, Myles rolled his eyes, deciding to not dignify it with an answer as he followed the other up the staircase. The explanation, simply, was ‘rich family bullshit on steroids’. Every single member of his immediate family- Maisy and himself excluded -was on a constant powertrip, it seemed like. Damien, of course, had his luck and his magic, while his parents seemed to be unable to shut up about their fortune and achievements, even if they tried to be subtle about it.
And there had always been the need to have an unblemished public image, at least within the magic community. It was all about appearances, really. His parents clung to their image with talons and hissed at anyone who tried to take it away from them. In most cases, it was him- apparently having a bad luck magnet for a child wasn’t good for publicity. He wasn’t unskilled in the art of pretending to be polite, but that meant nothing when he could end up ruining a whole event by just sitting there.
In short, he was the bane of the family’s image. They knew it and, further, made sure he knew it as well.
Which was why he would not complain if they were kidnapped next. In fact, he would probably find it extremely funny. It would be good to see them knocked down a few notches, and to make matters better, it was being done in order to kill Damien. Two birds, one stone. It was efficient.
He eyed the house as they went through it, noting how bare it seemed to be. Definitely not where the man lived usually, unless he was some sort of extreme minimalist. It made sense; he wasn’t one to kidnap people, but if he happened to take up the occupation, he wouldn’t want to bring them back to where he lived. Separate work from personal life and all that.
When they reached the car, Myles leaned on top of it, raising both eyebrows as he was asked where his parents lived. Oh. Right. That was information that not everyone had. And oh, that reminded him that it also wasn’t as easily as just going in the house and trying to bag them, and even if he had been kidnapped himself, he knew that he was an easier target.
“Well, I can tell you right now you’re not getting into the house.” He began, scratching his chin thoughtfully with one hand “It’s warded to hell and back. I’d offer to try and take them down, but frankly that’s more effort than it’s worth, seeing as they’d notice right away. Ah, and they wouldn’t invite you in under any circumstances.” He paused a moment, eyeing Paris and his attire and imagining how quickly his parents would slam the door “No offense. Or, some offense, maybe.”
He fell silent, adjusting his glasses. There was one option, but he wasn’t sure how willing he would be to offer it. On one hand, he would be tickled pink (not that he had experience with any other colors now) if Paris was able to kill Damien after getting to their parents. On the other hand...well, he had limits. Those limits mostly included talking to his family in person himself.
In the end, Damien dying won out.
He sighed, slipping into the front passenger side of the car. “There is one option. They have these hellish parties every month or so, and I always get an invitation. Enchanted, obviously, because nothing can be simple.” He said, explaining as he buckled himself in “I’ve stopped going, but they keep sending them anyway, and I do have the option for a plus one. So, if you’re comfortable with dressing nicely and sweet-talking a room full of hostil witches, I can get you into that.” He fished his phone out of his pocket, thanking god that it wasn’t shattered as he unlocked it “You could probably find a way to ‘talk’ to them at that. But that’s the extent of my help.”
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
You know, he's starting to have a suspicion this whole business might not as easy as originally thought. What a surprise. What? Things not working out in his favour? Completely unheard of.
God, he really needed a drink after this.
The more Myles talked, the more Paris' face shifted into a pinched expression of a man that's just got kicked in the nads. So the house is warded - great. Who knows what other types of magical protection they've got going on? He reluctantly crossed out 'breaking in' as a strategy, running his hand through his hair with a sigh. If Myles can't take them down without the whole family getting alerted, then he knew his own chances were even slimmer. He's good, but not that good. He hardly has the delicacy for careful work like taking down magic without anybody noticing. If force was out of the question, then that leaves -
'Ah, and they wouldn't invite you under any circumstances.' Myles interrupted before he could finish his thought, giving him a glance that made Paris' nose turn down in affront. 'No offense. Or some offense, maybe.'
''Has anybody ever told you you're a real charmer?'' His voice dripped with sarcasm, giving an annoyed sniff. Really, he'd be more surprised if a relative of Damien wasn't at least a little bit of an asshat, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. So, force is out, Paris wouldn't get an invite under any circumstance as Myles so elegantly put it (not his fault a bunch of crusty, dusty witches wouldn't be able to tell he's hot as shit). Then what the hell is he left with? Maybe he could play the long game and start dating one of Damien's relatives so he can get close. It might work...if the thought wasn't so repulsive it made Paris abandon it a second after. Listen, he's done some low shit, but that? Nah. Not that his morals were particularily virtuous, but he still has some pride to worry about here.
Myles seemed to have an idea on his mind; though, from the way his tired features shifted it looked like he'd rather say anything but it. Finally, the other man sighed once they entered the car, like the very thought was enough to bring distress. 'They have these hellish parties every month or so, and I always get an invitation.' The man explained, not lacking in distaste. Paris leaned back into his seat thoughtfully as he listened, his mouth curling into a sneer on instinct - he quickly stomped it down, though he didn't think it was discreet.
Going to a party. A fancy-shmancy party, filled with Damien's relatives. A fancy party where not only he has to tolerate a bunch of hostile witches, but also has to try and figure out where the hell to find Damien and he can't even punch anybody. The idea was wholly unpleasant, to the point it made him groan in annoyance. He didn't enjoy social interaction as it is, but having to deal with a bunch of uptight assholes...? At least the assholes down at the Club were on the same wave-length as him, even if most of them had half a brain. His lips thinned in thought, thinking of any other way they could possibly do this when realisation struck him.
Wait. A party means free food.
The comprehension made Paris' back straighten in a second, eyes wide in the face of his own genius. The idea suddenly seemed much more appealing than it did a moment before. Still, would appetizers be worth the hassle? Paris licked his lips in thought, eyebrows furrowing. He looked at Myles, then outside, at Myles again, on the pavement, his own pants before finally settling on the dashboard. There was a war going on inside of him - and after a few heartbeats, the winner was obvious. ''You know what? I'm in. The food better be good, though.'' He gripped the steering wheel, keys jingling as the engine purred to life. ''Just how hard would it be to play nice for an hour or so, anyways?''
If bad comes to worst, then he can just stand in a corner and glare at everybody coming close. But really, Paris was confident he can handle it. What's the worst that could happen?
Paris smirked to himself, an arrogant and smug thing. ''Don't worry. It'll be easy. I'm incredibly charming, you know.''
* * *
''Oh my God, do you ever shut up?! I can feel my brain cells dying just by listening to you! See, this is why your husband is cheating on you, you old hag -''
Paris only barely avoided the slipper aimed for his face. It landed next to his car with a sad thump. He looked up at the woman half-leaning over the railing, yelling curses at him. How Melissa hasn't yet given up on the old slipper attack, he doesn't know - this scene has played out time and time again and she never manages to hit Paris with it. You'd think that for somebody that insists on always screaming about something in the dark hours of the night, that she would at least have a good aim to hit those telling her to shut up for the love of everything holy.
One of these days she might hit him, he thinks. That didn't stop him from pushing his luck.
''Wow, nice try, Melissa! Now if only you put that energy into maintaining your relationsh-'' Paris' mocking was cut short by Melissa stomping back into her apartment, causing him to break into a run. Knowing his upstairs neighbor, the next thing to fly towards his face is going to be a knife or something that's going to turn him into a frog. The one time he turned into a bird for half an hour was enough to last him a lifetime.
Another commotion rised up above the railing when Paris reached his apartment - Melissa was calling the woman living next door a nosy cow and to mind her business, if he heard that right. Two voices rose in argument, growing more and more agitated until a glass bottle hit the cement below. A scuffle broke out beyond sight.
The neon sign spelling out 'Pleasant Hill Apartments' only flickered sadly in response.
Paris let out a groan he didn't know he was holding, unlocking his door. It protested under the pressure before finally giving in when he leaned on it with his shoulder. The inside of his apartment was dark. He touched around for the light switch, mind elsewhere - artificial light flooded the hallway after a moment, blinking to life. What a sight for sore eyes. He's never been happier to be back than now.
It wasn't much; the Pleasant Hill apartments weren't exactly trashy, but they've definitively seen better days in the far off past. The building itself was set up almost like a motel, with a gound level and a railing-lined upstairs. He's not sure when it was built, but the age eating into the walls said 'a while ago'. It's pasty yellow outside hardly made for an impressive sight. But it was home and Paris liked it well enough. He could do without the loud neighbors, but they were preferable to his aunts' place. At least here he doesn't have any curious family members constantly intruding on his business.
Well. Only sometimes. His mom wouldn't know what privacy is if it hit her in the face and Demetria thinks it's just dandy to stroll in and out of his place whenever she feels like it. But really, he can handle that; when he still lived with his aunt, he could hardly go an hour without somebody bothering him. Paris knows it's mostly well-meaning. Now, most people wouldn't believe this when looking at his broad shoulders, tattoos, and almost permanent sneer - but Paris is actually the baby of the family. It's just that everybody seemed to forget he's a grown man perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Or maybe they're purposefully ignoring that fact.
The exhaustion building up hit him like a freight train, causing him to let out a deflated breath. He pressed a hand to his temples as the door slid shut, resting his back on it. He closed his eyes. The humming darkness behind his eyelids does little to help stave off the assaulting headache, but he doesn't move anyway.
So. Basically. He accidentally kidnapped his rival's twin. Not only that, but said twin wants Damien dead, too. And now they're... going to a party. To find out where Damien is.
He didn't trust Myles, not really. Especially not after that awkward car ride. Paris really didn't know what the hell to say after all that - the ride back to where he attacked Myles was quiet, save for the music pouring out of the radio. They did end up exchanging contact information, but hell, he'd rather not do that again. It was worse than that one time when he went out with friends and one of them almost got shot in the head. They drove back home with wide-eyed stares, the silence stiffening (it was really traumatising if you ignore the fact that they went out again a few days later).
Well, shit. Damien is certainly keeping things interesting, isn't he?
His eyes flickered open, landing on a bright piece of paper he stuck to the door. 'DON'T FORGET ABOUT THE PUDDING!' It screamed in bold, angry lettering. A frowny face was scribbled next to it.
''Don't worry,'' Paris mumbled seriously, face darkening. ''He'll get his due.''
* * *
Here's the business about families; all of them have a thing.
It can be a small, insignificant thing, like always eating pizza for lunch on Fridays - or it can be something as big as everybody in the family being a healthcare professional. Something, be it a habit or ritual or inside joke, that sets another family apart from the rest. A thing you can tell others about in embarrassment or fondness or nostalgia or anything inbetween.
For the Leblancs, it's always been obsession.
They've been stricken with it, even in days past that nobody alive remembers. Every Leblanc touches upon it, sooner or later. It can start when they're only just beginning to walk, or much later when they're already in the autumn of their lives, but it always comes. There will be something - a subject, person, object, whatever - and they'll be drawn to it like a moth to a flame, burning alive. The obsession can shift from a grip you're unable to resist to a dull whisper at the back of your head, but it never leaves.
Paris practically grew up on stories of mad aunts and grim uncles; he had a grand-aunt, dead long before he was born, that was obsessed with grudges. She simply couldn't let any grievance go - they gnawed on her mind like rats, sending her in angry, resentful circles. Whenever somebody offended her, she would think and think and think about that one insult for months until she blew up. And one day, when suddenly remembering a slight that happened years ago, she fell into such a rage that she bought both her and her husband to their doom in a kayaking accident gone wrong. They both drowned in its cold depths, all because her husband said green really wasn't her color. The story left a deep mark on little Paris when he first heard it. He always gave her frowning portrait a wary glance whenever he passed it by, holding some childish fear she might smite him if he offends her picture.
Eliza, on the other hand, is obsessed with plants; more specifically, the way they live and die. There are times when she holes up in the greenhouse, walking from plant to plant and scribbling endless notes that fill an entire cabinet. She had an entire section dedicated to only now emerging plants and another just for plants not long from drying out. She watches them push out of the dark, black earth and she watches them grow, and then she watches them die, observing and writing as their leaves fall down one by one. And then she takes their seeds to start the process all over again - Paris had no care for it, but he knew better than to call her up when she's absorbed in another plant's death.
His dad... is obsessed with justice. Or last thereof. So much so that nothing else takes priority - not the many hearts he's broken or the kids left in the wake of his relationships. He's a great, maybe even amazing journalist because of that obession, but...
Yeah, he's not thinking about it, thanks.
Even his mother, who was not a Leblanc or human to begin with, was disposed to it. He remembers her waking up in the middle of the night when he was a kid and watching her write on the wall with anything on hand. Pens, crayons, pencils, it didn't matter. On the walls she drew mathematical equations and calculations that made Paris' eyes water when he glanced over them, still half-asleep. Math is everything for her. She swears you can find the answer for everything in numbers - magic, life, even the very universe. But she always said that even if she found the answer to said everything that the human mind simply wouldn't be able to comprehend it. That even if Paris didn't have dyscalculia and math didn't make him want to throw himself out the nearest window, he'd still be too human to truly crack it.
And if Paris didn't know any better, he'd think Demetria's obsession was finding new ways to annoy him.
''What the hell are you wearing?'' She asked ever so elegantly, giving him an eyebrow-raised look like he's the one out of place. Paris simply stared back, wondering just how she had the time to make herself (his!!) popcorn while he was changing.
It shouldn't even be a surprise anymore, really. His older sister always somehow found a way to get where she wanted - including Paris' beaten couch to eat his food. ''What the hell are you doing in my house?'' Paris returned her flabbergasted look, though his was more genuine. He really needs to put up some wards soon. He's sick to death of always having his food stolen by bored relatives.
''This is an apartment, not a house.'' Demetria stated, eyes still widened. ''And you didn't answer my question. Since when do you dress nice?''
Paris looked down at himself before giving her an unamused glare. He opted for a light colored suit for today, seeing as the party he's going to seems to be on the fancier end - he had to drag this suit from the depths of his closet, but he thinks it works well. The material was nice and it was made by some foreign brand Paris struggled to pronounce. He can't remember how he got it, but knowing him, he probably stole it from somewhere. Not only that, but he actually managed to control his blond curls for once, which was nothing to scoff at. He looks hotter than a parked car in the summertime and everybody else can shove it. Not that Demetria should be able to judge - though that didn't stop her.
Demetria dressed like a depressed hippie most of the time; she insisted on grim clothing and her trademark thin, dark sunglasses. When she was feeling fancy, she threw in a beret to spice it up, which made her look like a French baker that has lost all the will to live. Well, he supposed it fit her in a way - she naturally just fit a darker theme with long, black hair that pooled around her waist when she sits and sharp features. But yet she always managed to dig into Paris' fashion sense. He thinks she's just mad that he's taller than her now, which Paris is endlessly smug about. It's only fair, considering all the shit she lied to him about as a kid (especially that one time she told him she blew up Fairytopia and made him cry for an entire week).
''I'm going to a party.'' He sniffed, shoving his phone into the suit jacket. ''A fancy one. To debate about the economy and eat horse divorces, while you're going to be... doing whatever it is you're doing here. Being a loser.'' Paris gave his sister a smug upturn of his nose, jumping at the opportunity to rub it in her face - though his self-approval was quickly cut short by Demetria almost choking on her popcorn.
''Horse divorces.'' She gave him a open-mouthed stare, as if she didn't hear him correctly. ''Horse divo- I, what?''
''Horse divorces, hello? Appetizers?'' Paris rolled his eyes dramatically, searching for the rest of his stuff. His gun was already tucked in it's holder, hidden from sight, but he still needed to find - ah, there they are. He picked up his car keys, satisfied.
''Do you mean hors d'oeuvres, you dumbass?'' Her cutting features shifted from bafflement to outright disgust, as if Paris personally offended her. The woman stretched over the humble sofa like it belonged to her, which she probably thought it did. Demetria gave a disappointed shake of her head, turning on the TV. ''Wow. Wooow. The bar is below the ground and yet you still always find a way to lower it.''
The man spluttered for a comeback, trying to think of something witty - only to send her a death glare when he got nothing. Demetria pointedly ignored it in favor of watching the beginning of some stupid show, though Paris didn't miss that she seemed more smug than before. Asshat. Why does she even come over here if all she's going to do it bully him? Paris shook the thought from his head, silently swearing vengeance before stepping out into the hallway. ''Whatever. Just don't eat all my stuff!'' He called out, unlocking the door.
The replying laughter was all he needed to hear to know there's not a chance of his snacks surviving the day.
* * *
The city bustled around him as Paris stepped out of his car, it's door creaking in protest when he slammed it closed. The man glanced around, gaze sliding off the unfamiliar faces before he took out his phone. He and Myles planned to meet around here beforehand, so the guy should probably be here soon - though, he sounded less than thrilled when they worked out the details. Paris supposed he could hardly blame him. He wasn't looking forward to dealing with a bunch of people he doesn't even know. But hey, if things work out, maybe he'll be able to punch somebody sooner than he expected! And listen, it's worth it if he can find out where the fuck Damien is.
Speaking of Damien, it's...still really fucking weird to be kind of cooperating with his twin. You know, the one Paris didn't even know Damien has? But if Myles is as eager to kill Damien as he said when Paris dragged him into a basement, then he think they'll get along just fine. If nothing else, they can bond over their shared hatred and what's better in uniting people than hating the same person? Nothing. Exactly.
God, he really needed a drink after this.
The more Myles talked, the more Paris' face shifted into a pinched expression of a man that's just got kicked in the nads. So the house is warded - great. Who knows what other types of magical protection they've got going on? He reluctantly crossed out 'breaking in' as a strategy, running his hand through his hair with a sigh. If Myles can't take them down without the whole family getting alerted, then he knew his own chances were even slimmer. He's good, but not that good. He hardly has the delicacy for careful work like taking down magic without anybody noticing. If force was out of the question, then that leaves -
'Ah, and they wouldn't invite you under any circumstances.' Myles interrupted before he could finish his thought, giving him a glance that made Paris' nose turn down in affront. 'No offense. Or some offense, maybe.'
''Has anybody ever told you you're a real charmer?'' His voice dripped with sarcasm, giving an annoyed sniff. Really, he'd be more surprised if a relative of Damien wasn't at least a little bit of an asshat, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. So, force is out, Paris wouldn't get an invite under any circumstance as Myles so elegantly put it (not his fault a bunch of crusty, dusty witches wouldn't be able to tell he's hot as shit). Then what the hell is he left with? Maybe he could play the long game and start dating one of Damien's relatives so he can get close. It might work...if the thought wasn't so repulsive it made Paris abandon it a second after. Listen, he's done some low shit, but that? Nah. Not that his morals were particularily virtuous, but he still has some pride to worry about here.
Myles seemed to have an idea on his mind; though, from the way his tired features shifted it looked like he'd rather say anything but it. Finally, the other man sighed once they entered the car, like the very thought was enough to bring distress. 'They have these hellish parties every month or so, and I always get an invitation.' The man explained, not lacking in distaste. Paris leaned back into his seat thoughtfully as he listened, his mouth curling into a sneer on instinct - he quickly stomped it down, though he didn't think it was discreet.
Going to a party. A fancy-shmancy party, filled with Damien's relatives. A fancy party where not only he has to tolerate a bunch of hostile witches, but also has to try and figure out where the hell to find Damien and he can't even punch anybody. The idea was wholly unpleasant, to the point it made him groan in annoyance. He didn't enjoy social interaction as it is, but having to deal with a bunch of uptight assholes...? At least the assholes down at the Club were on the same wave-length as him, even if most of them had half a brain. His lips thinned in thought, thinking of any other way they could possibly do this when realisation struck him.
Wait. A party means free food.
The comprehension made Paris' back straighten in a second, eyes wide in the face of his own genius. The idea suddenly seemed much more appealing than it did a moment before. Still, would appetizers be worth the hassle? Paris licked his lips in thought, eyebrows furrowing. He looked at Myles, then outside, at Myles again, on the pavement, his own pants before finally settling on the dashboard. There was a war going on inside of him - and after a few heartbeats, the winner was obvious. ''You know what? I'm in. The food better be good, though.'' He gripped the steering wheel, keys jingling as the engine purred to life. ''Just how hard would it be to play nice for an hour or so, anyways?''
If bad comes to worst, then he can just stand in a corner and glare at everybody coming close. But really, Paris was confident he can handle it. What's the worst that could happen?
Paris smirked to himself, an arrogant and smug thing. ''Don't worry. It'll be easy. I'm incredibly charming, you know.''
* * *
''Oh my God, do you ever shut up?! I can feel my brain cells dying just by listening to you! See, this is why your husband is cheating on you, you old hag -''
Paris only barely avoided the slipper aimed for his face. It landed next to his car with a sad thump. He looked up at the woman half-leaning over the railing, yelling curses at him. How Melissa hasn't yet given up on the old slipper attack, he doesn't know - this scene has played out time and time again and she never manages to hit Paris with it. You'd think that for somebody that insists on always screaming about something in the dark hours of the night, that she would at least have a good aim to hit those telling her to shut up for the love of everything holy.
One of these days she might hit him, he thinks. That didn't stop him from pushing his luck.
''Wow, nice try, Melissa! Now if only you put that energy into maintaining your relationsh-'' Paris' mocking was cut short by Melissa stomping back into her apartment, causing him to break into a run. Knowing his upstairs neighbor, the next thing to fly towards his face is going to be a knife or something that's going to turn him into a frog. The one time he turned into a bird for half an hour was enough to last him a lifetime.
Another commotion rised up above the railing when Paris reached his apartment - Melissa was calling the woman living next door a nosy cow and to mind her business, if he heard that right. Two voices rose in argument, growing more and more agitated until a glass bottle hit the cement below. A scuffle broke out beyond sight.
The neon sign spelling out 'Pleasant Hill Apartments' only flickered sadly in response.
Paris let out a groan he didn't know he was holding, unlocking his door. It protested under the pressure before finally giving in when he leaned on it with his shoulder. The inside of his apartment was dark. He touched around for the light switch, mind elsewhere - artificial light flooded the hallway after a moment, blinking to life. What a sight for sore eyes. He's never been happier to be back than now.
It wasn't much; the Pleasant Hill apartments weren't exactly trashy, but they've definitively seen better days in the far off past. The building itself was set up almost like a motel, with a gound level and a railing-lined upstairs. He's not sure when it was built, but the age eating into the walls said 'a while ago'. It's pasty yellow outside hardly made for an impressive sight. But it was home and Paris liked it well enough. He could do without the loud neighbors, but they were preferable to his aunts' place. At least here he doesn't have any curious family members constantly intruding on his business.
Well. Only sometimes. His mom wouldn't know what privacy is if it hit her in the face and Demetria thinks it's just dandy to stroll in and out of his place whenever she feels like it. But really, he can handle that; when he still lived with his aunt, he could hardly go an hour without somebody bothering him. Paris knows it's mostly well-meaning. Now, most people wouldn't believe this when looking at his broad shoulders, tattoos, and almost permanent sneer - but Paris is actually the baby of the family. It's just that everybody seemed to forget he's a grown man perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Or maybe they're purposefully ignoring that fact.
The exhaustion building up hit him like a freight train, causing him to let out a deflated breath. He pressed a hand to his temples as the door slid shut, resting his back on it. He closed his eyes. The humming darkness behind his eyelids does little to help stave off the assaulting headache, but he doesn't move anyway.
So. Basically. He accidentally kidnapped his rival's twin. Not only that, but said twin wants Damien dead, too. And now they're... going to a party. To find out where Damien is.
He didn't trust Myles, not really. Especially not after that awkward car ride. Paris really didn't know what the hell to say after all that - the ride back to where he attacked Myles was quiet, save for the music pouring out of the radio. They did end up exchanging contact information, but hell, he'd rather not do that again. It was worse than that one time when he went out with friends and one of them almost got shot in the head. They drove back home with wide-eyed stares, the silence stiffening (it was really traumatising if you ignore the fact that they went out again a few days later).
Well, shit. Damien is certainly keeping things interesting, isn't he?
His eyes flickered open, landing on a bright piece of paper he stuck to the door. 'DON'T FORGET ABOUT THE PUDDING!' It screamed in bold, angry lettering. A frowny face was scribbled next to it.
''Don't worry,'' Paris mumbled seriously, face darkening. ''He'll get his due.''
* * *
Here's the business about families; all of them have a thing.
It can be a small, insignificant thing, like always eating pizza for lunch on Fridays - or it can be something as big as everybody in the family being a healthcare professional. Something, be it a habit or ritual or inside joke, that sets another family apart from the rest. A thing you can tell others about in embarrassment or fondness or nostalgia or anything inbetween.
For the Leblancs, it's always been obsession.
They've been stricken with it, even in days past that nobody alive remembers. Every Leblanc touches upon it, sooner or later. It can start when they're only just beginning to walk, or much later when they're already in the autumn of their lives, but it always comes. There will be something - a subject, person, object, whatever - and they'll be drawn to it like a moth to a flame, burning alive. The obsession can shift from a grip you're unable to resist to a dull whisper at the back of your head, but it never leaves.
Paris practically grew up on stories of mad aunts and grim uncles; he had a grand-aunt, dead long before he was born, that was obsessed with grudges. She simply couldn't let any grievance go - they gnawed on her mind like rats, sending her in angry, resentful circles. Whenever somebody offended her, she would think and think and think about that one insult for months until she blew up. And one day, when suddenly remembering a slight that happened years ago, she fell into such a rage that she bought both her and her husband to their doom in a kayaking accident gone wrong. They both drowned in its cold depths, all because her husband said green really wasn't her color. The story left a deep mark on little Paris when he first heard it. He always gave her frowning portrait a wary glance whenever he passed it by, holding some childish fear she might smite him if he offends her picture.
Eliza, on the other hand, is obsessed with plants; more specifically, the way they live and die. There are times when she holes up in the greenhouse, walking from plant to plant and scribbling endless notes that fill an entire cabinet. She had an entire section dedicated to only now emerging plants and another just for plants not long from drying out. She watches them push out of the dark, black earth and she watches them grow, and then she watches them die, observing and writing as their leaves fall down one by one. And then she takes their seeds to start the process all over again - Paris had no care for it, but he knew better than to call her up when she's absorbed in another plant's death.
His dad... is obsessed with justice. Or last thereof. So much so that nothing else takes priority - not the many hearts he's broken or the kids left in the wake of his relationships. He's a great, maybe even amazing journalist because of that obession, but...
Yeah, he's not thinking about it, thanks.
Even his mother, who was not a Leblanc or human to begin with, was disposed to it. He remembers her waking up in the middle of the night when he was a kid and watching her write on the wall with anything on hand. Pens, crayons, pencils, it didn't matter. On the walls she drew mathematical equations and calculations that made Paris' eyes water when he glanced over them, still half-asleep. Math is everything for her. She swears you can find the answer for everything in numbers - magic, life, even the very universe. But she always said that even if she found the answer to said everything that the human mind simply wouldn't be able to comprehend it. That even if Paris didn't have dyscalculia and math didn't make him want to throw himself out the nearest window, he'd still be too human to truly crack it.
And if Paris didn't know any better, he'd think Demetria's obsession was finding new ways to annoy him.
''What the hell are you wearing?'' She asked ever so elegantly, giving him an eyebrow-raised look like he's the one out of place. Paris simply stared back, wondering just how she had the time to make herself (his!!) popcorn while he was changing.
It shouldn't even be a surprise anymore, really. His older sister always somehow found a way to get where she wanted - including Paris' beaten couch to eat his food. ''What the hell are you doing in my house?'' Paris returned her flabbergasted look, though his was more genuine. He really needs to put up some wards soon. He's sick to death of always having his food stolen by bored relatives.
''This is an apartment, not a house.'' Demetria stated, eyes still widened. ''And you didn't answer my question. Since when do you dress nice?''
Paris looked down at himself before giving her an unamused glare. He opted for a light colored suit for today, seeing as the party he's going to seems to be on the fancier end - he had to drag this suit from the depths of his closet, but he thinks it works well. The material was nice and it was made by some foreign brand Paris struggled to pronounce. He can't remember how he got it, but knowing him, he probably stole it from somewhere. Not only that, but he actually managed to control his blond curls for once, which was nothing to scoff at. He looks hotter than a parked car in the summertime and everybody else can shove it. Not that Demetria should be able to judge - though that didn't stop her.
Demetria dressed like a depressed hippie most of the time; she insisted on grim clothing and her trademark thin, dark sunglasses. When she was feeling fancy, she threw in a beret to spice it up, which made her look like a French baker that has lost all the will to live. Well, he supposed it fit her in a way - she naturally just fit a darker theme with long, black hair that pooled around her waist when she sits and sharp features. But yet she always managed to dig into Paris' fashion sense. He thinks she's just mad that he's taller than her now, which Paris is endlessly smug about. It's only fair, considering all the shit she lied to him about as a kid (especially that one time she told him she blew up Fairytopia and made him cry for an entire week).
''I'm going to a party.'' He sniffed, shoving his phone into the suit jacket. ''A fancy one. To debate about the economy and eat horse divorces, while you're going to be... doing whatever it is you're doing here. Being a loser.'' Paris gave his sister a smug upturn of his nose, jumping at the opportunity to rub it in her face - though his self-approval was quickly cut short by Demetria almost choking on her popcorn.
''Horse divorces.'' She gave him a open-mouthed stare, as if she didn't hear him correctly. ''Horse divo- I, what?''
''Horse divorces, hello? Appetizers?'' Paris rolled his eyes dramatically, searching for the rest of his stuff. His gun was already tucked in it's holder, hidden from sight, but he still needed to find - ah, there they are. He picked up his car keys, satisfied.
''Do you mean hors d'oeuvres, you dumbass?'' Her cutting features shifted from bafflement to outright disgust, as if Paris personally offended her. The woman stretched over the humble sofa like it belonged to her, which she probably thought it did. Demetria gave a disappointed shake of her head, turning on the TV. ''Wow. Wooow. The bar is below the ground and yet you still always find a way to lower it.''
The man spluttered for a comeback, trying to think of something witty - only to send her a death glare when he got nothing. Demetria pointedly ignored it in favor of watching the beginning of some stupid show, though Paris didn't miss that she seemed more smug than before. Asshat. Why does she even come over here if all she's going to do it bully him? Paris shook the thought from his head, silently swearing vengeance before stepping out into the hallway. ''Whatever. Just don't eat all my stuff!'' He called out, unlocking the door.
The replying laughter was all he needed to hear to know there's not a chance of his snacks surviving the day.
* * *
The city bustled around him as Paris stepped out of his car, it's door creaking in protest when he slammed it closed. The man glanced around, gaze sliding off the unfamiliar faces before he took out his phone. He and Myles planned to meet around here beforehand, so the guy should probably be here soon - though, he sounded less than thrilled when they worked out the details. Paris supposed he could hardly blame him. He wasn't looking forward to dealing with a bunch of people he doesn't even know. But hey, if things work out, maybe he'll be able to punch somebody sooner than he expected! And listen, it's worth it if he can find out where the fuck Damien is.
Speaking of Damien, it's...still really fucking weird to be kind of cooperating with his twin. You know, the one Paris didn't even know Damien has? But if Myles is as eager to kill Damien as he said when Paris dragged him into a basement, then he think they'll get along just fine. If nothing else, they can bond over their shared hatred and what's better in uniting people than hating the same person? Nothing. Exactly.
Last edited:
elytra
a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
"You're going to what?"
Myles really had to ward his house better. He was sure that he would have fewer problems if he just put up some sort of spell that set people aflame if they so much as stepped through the threshold; then again, the reason he'd have fewer problems is probably because he'd end up setting himself on fire, and dead people don't tend to find many issues. He wasn't keen on being dead, if he were honest. It seemed like it would be sort of a drag, so fire was out of the question. But maybe he could find something less deadly, something easy-to-set up, something that would keep Maisy out of his goddamn apartment. That would be the dream.
"The monthly family reunion. You know, the one you go to?" He replied, trying desperately to straighten out his tie, though giving up rather quickly in favor of bending down and picking up his cat, Bean "In that stupid hall our parents give a donation to yearly? The one that folds the napkins into little birds? You know, that one. That's what I'm going to. I'm planning to mingle a bit, maybe talk to our aunts and uncles a little..."
Maisy scoffed and rolled her eyes, arms crossed firmly. She was already all dressed for the event, wearing a 50s-styled dress that fitted her rather nicely though was certainly not the sort of expensive quality that everyone else at the event would have. It was one of the few reasons Myles appreciated her above the rest of their family; she didn't go out of her way to get the most hideous outfits imaginable so long as they cost excessive amounts of money. "Oh, right. Our dear aunts and uncles." She said, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she practically stomped over, removing Bean from his arms; he almost felt betrayed by how the calico didn't even try to remain with him. "The aunts and uncles you said last week that you would probably shank if it came down to it? That you've purposefully baited into arguing at previous events?"
"I don't really need to bait them. They do most of the work."
"Myles." She hissed at him, causing him to wince at her tone "The reunion is....its delicate and you know it! Now, I don't like being there in the slightest-"
"Really? You don't enjoy being surrounded by pompous assholes?"
"-but I'm obligated to." She barreled on, walking to the couch and setting Bean down, who happily bounded over to the cat tree sitting in the corner of the room. "And you aren't! You have the option to sit out. You like sitting out, so why are you going now? Whats changed?"
He could tell her that he was feeling hopeful for once. That he was cautiously optimistic that maybe, just maybe, he could actually manage to kill Damien. He could tell her all those things....but decided that it wasn't a conversation he wanted to get into. He needed all of his energy for the party. So, instead, he blurted out "Well, obviously I'm going to the event to steal their plates, Maisy. Have you seen the state of my kitchen?"
The silence was deafening, and the stare she was giving him was deadly, so he meekly tacked on "....Also, I have a date and I'm bringing him, so there's that?" which wasn't entirely true, but would explain why he had someone else actually tagging along as his plus-one. Besides, he figured that seeing him actually using the plus-one option would annoy the hell out of everyone, so it was perfect.
"You have a date." She repeated flatly, a single eyebrow arched in silent question.
"Yes. And I need to get ready, so if you don't mind--"
"Nothing you're wearing matches." She pointed out abruptly, eyeing him with obvious distaste "So...I guess I'll help you get ready for this 'date' of yours."
---
Maisy's 'help' turned out to be a complete overhaul of everything he was wearing, other than his glasses. She had rummaged through his closet- without his permission -and grabbed various clothing, listing off the colors of each item as she went (though each and every one just looked like the same old pink, so he didn't bother committing any of it to memory). At the end of it, he looked exactly the same in his eyes, but was sure that to other people he looked a little less colorblind. After forcibly tidying him up, she had taken her leave, telling him that she would see him there.
He fully intended to avoid her during the party in order to keep his plans a secret, but couldn't say that to her face.
With all the hassle of making him look presentable, he ended up being a minute or so late to meeting up with Paris. Once he actually reached the meeting place, he half-jogged up to him, running a hand through his hair and giving the other man a once-over. He looked fancy enough, and it would have to do in the moment.
"Good. You don't look like I plucked you off the street. That's fantastic." He said, actually rather honest, before pushing on to more important things "Alright, look. You're going to have to be as polite as possible if you want information. After you get what you're looking for, frankly I don't care what you do; god knows I'll be stealing some silverware on my way out. But I also don't want anyone setting you on fire right out of the gate." Later on, though, the fire might be funny. "And before we get going....if you have any questions, ask now, because I swear the hags who frequent this events can smell confusion and fear, and I really don't want to deal with them."
Myles really had to ward his house better. He was sure that he would have fewer problems if he just put up some sort of spell that set people aflame if they so much as stepped through the threshold; then again, the reason he'd have fewer problems is probably because he'd end up setting himself on fire, and dead people don't tend to find many issues. He wasn't keen on being dead, if he were honest. It seemed like it would be sort of a drag, so fire was out of the question. But maybe he could find something less deadly, something easy-to-set up, something that would keep Maisy out of his goddamn apartment. That would be the dream.
"The monthly family reunion. You know, the one you go to?" He replied, trying desperately to straighten out his tie, though giving up rather quickly in favor of bending down and picking up his cat, Bean "In that stupid hall our parents give a donation to yearly? The one that folds the napkins into little birds? You know, that one. That's what I'm going to. I'm planning to mingle a bit, maybe talk to our aunts and uncles a little..."
Maisy scoffed and rolled her eyes, arms crossed firmly. She was already all dressed for the event, wearing a 50s-styled dress that fitted her rather nicely though was certainly not the sort of expensive quality that everyone else at the event would have. It was one of the few reasons Myles appreciated her above the rest of their family; she didn't go out of her way to get the most hideous outfits imaginable so long as they cost excessive amounts of money. "Oh, right. Our dear aunts and uncles." She said, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she practically stomped over, removing Bean from his arms; he almost felt betrayed by how the calico didn't even try to remain with him. "The aunts and uncles you said last week that you would probably shank if it came down to it? That you've purposefully baited into arguing at previous events?"
"I don't really need to bait them. They do most of the work."
"Myles." She hissed at him, causing him to wince at her tone "The reunion is....its delicate and you know it! Now, I don't like being there in the slightest-"
"Really? You don't enjoy being surrounded by pompous assholes?"
"-but I'm obligated to." She barreled on, walking to the couch and setting Bean down, who happily bounded over to the cat tree sitting in the corner of the room. "And you aren't! You have the option to sit out. You like sitting out, so why are you going now? Whats changed?"
He could tell her that he was feeling hopeful for once. That he was cautiously optimistic that maybe, just maybe, he could actually manage to kill Damien. He could tell her all those things....but decided that it wasn't a conversation he wanted to get into. He needed all of his energy for the party. So, instead, he blurted out "Well, obviously I'm going to the event to steal their plates, Maisy. Have you seen the state of my kitchen?"
The silence was deafening, and the stare she was giving him was deadly, so he meekly tacked on "....Also, I have a date and I'm bringing him, so there's that?" which wasn't entirely true, but would explain why he had someone else actually tagging along as his plus-one. Besides, he figured that seeing him actually using the plus-one option would annoy the hell out of everyone, so it was perfect.
"You have a date." She repeated flatly, a single eyebrow arched in silent question.
"Yes. And I need to get ready, so if you don't mind--"
"Nothing you're wearing matches." She pointed out abruptly, eyeing him with obvious distaste "So...I guess I'll help you get ready for this 'date' of yours."
---
Maisy's 'help' turned out to be a complete overhaul of everything he was wearing, other than his glasses. She had rummaged through his closet- without his permission -and grabbed various clothing, listing off the colors of each item as she went (though each and every one just looked like the same old pink, so he didn't bother committing any of it to memory). At the end of it, he looked exactly the same in his eyes, but was sure that to other people he looked a little less colorblind. After forcibly tidying him up, she had taken her leave, telling him that she would see him there.
He fully intended to avoid her during the party in order to keep his plans a secret, but couldn't say that to her face.
With all the hassle of making him look presentable, he ended up being a minute or so late to meeting up with Paris. Once he actually reached the meeting place, he half-jogged up to him, running a hand through his hair and giving the other man a once-over. He looked fancy enough, and it would have to do in the moment.
"Good. You don't look like I plucked you off the street. That's fantastic." He said, actually rather honest, before pushing on to more important things "Alright, look. You're going to have to be as polite as possible if you want information. After you get what you're looking for, frankly I don't care what you do; god knows I'll be stealing some silverware on my way out. But I also don't want anyone setting you on fire right out of the gate." Later on, though, the fire might be funny. "And before we get going....if you have any questions, ask now, because I swear the hags who frequent this events can smell confusion and fear, and I really don't want to deal with them."
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
One of the truths of life is that things always sound better at night.
Paris isn't quite sure what kind of mysterious power night has to make inconvenient, bad and sometimes downright idiotic plans seem perfectly fine when during daylight hours they wouldn't even cross your mind; but whatever it was, he's more susceptible to it than others. It's a flaw he's more than aware of, unfortunately. Is it a flaw Paris is willing to work on? Absolutely not, but at least he's not going to deny it.
Exhibit A: eating anything his aunt cooks is one of those ideas.
Look, don't get him wrong - he does sincerely care for his aunt, considering she pretty much raised him and Demi and she really is a sweet woman. It's just... well, he's surprised the government hasn't classed her food as a weapon of mass destruction yet. He remembers the accident that cemented that fact clearly, no matter how many years have passed. It was one of his distant cousin's birthday when Paris was maybe 11 or so and his entire family crammed into one tiny rented hall to celebrate. He still remembers how confetti strings and balloons swayed from the ceiling as relatives crowded around him, yelling over the booming music that made Paris' teeth vibrate. He and the other kids ran up and down the hall in a way only kids that had double their weight in sugar can, weaving through tall legs, screaming and laughing and probably ruining the hall in ways that would make the underpaid cleaners sob the next day.
And then his aunt brought out the cake.
It was snow-white, sparkly and pretty, much like the decorations, and Paris was awfully drawn to it like by magic. Now, he knew very well whatever his aunt brings out of the kitchen is considered dangerous - but he was hyper and sugar-rushed and, despite his better judgment, decided that one slice couldn't hurt.
He was wrong in a way he'd regret for a long, long while.
Whatever was in that cake made Paris puke for three days straight and gave him a phobia of sweet food for longer than he'd like to admit. And he thing is, he's sure he wouldn't have eaten it if it were during the day - he would have considered it for a moment or two before the more reasonable part of him won out. But at night it seems like all of his higher reasoning functions give away for pure instinct, which honestly explains most of the things have gone wrong in his life. Like that one time he accidentally faked his own death and didn't think to call anybody because it was night and he thought 'well, I'm sure nobody noticed'. That's a story in itself, but it was one of the reasons why Paris ended up getting hit by his ex's car, which he's pretty sure he would have been able to avoid if Michael tried running him over at 11:30 instead of 1:30.
How is this at all relevant to his situation right now? Well, because now that he thinks of it, this plan sounded better a few nights ago, too.
This neighbourhood is nice. Really nice. Like, 'I only shop at Whole Foods and don't know what taxes are' nice. Pristine, tastefully decorated facades lined the streets and smartly dressed couples pranced up and down the street, dressed head to toe like the models in those glossy fashion magazines. Gold sparkled off throats and wrists in a way that made Paris' eyes shine, hands itching for his gun. He was almost worried his poor car is going to get towed just for daring to park here. The thought made bitter annoyance rise all too easily inside his chest.
There was no trash pouring out of over-filled cans, no cracks in the cement, no junkies sleeping in alleys. Not at all like the place Paris grew up in and he suddenly felt distinctly out of place, like everybody walking past could tell he's not from here despite his clothes.
Honestly, he has no idea why this plan seemed so easy when he talked it out with Myles that night - he was so arrogant, so sure and now he couldn't help the sweat forming on his neck. He stifled the uncertainty down as best as he could, hid it behind a stoic glare, but it wiggled in his mind nonetheless. Maybe, maybe he'll be able to fool them if only he keeps his mouth shut (that was harder than he thought at times). If he just keeps his words vague, gets with the plan and finds out where Damien is, he can fool them that he's like them. That he was raised in a plushy lap, ever content to waste his parent's money without ever worrying about how to pay for the next bills. Honestly, after he finds out where Damien is hiding he couldn't care less if they know what person he truly is - but for the sake of the plan, he can't just be kicked out after five minutes.
Paris thinks he'd be ways more comfortable if he was doing this with somebody he knew well. As it is, he's doing this with Damien's brother.
Yeah, that's a relevation he's still not quite over with. He didn't know if he could trust Myles, not when he knew pretty much nothing about him, but his hate of Damien seemed somewhat legit. He supposed Myles wouldn't drag him all the way to a family gathering if he was just planning on fucking with him, but Paris was going to keep his wits about him nonetheless. They apparently share the same goal, but Paris wasn't going to count on that keeping this shaky type alliance of alliance alive even for a day.
Not that he had time to think of the nervousness further when a voice spoke up next to him.
'Good. You don't look like I plucked you off the street. That's fantastic.'
Paris had to use up every muscle in his body not to startle, turning around on his heel - to meet a painfully familiar face that immediately awakened his instinct to punch it. It took Paris more moments than was strictly unnoticeable to realize the face staring back wasn't set in a shit-eating smile or mocking sneer, but in an expression of actual normalcy. Obnoxiously pink glasses observed him instead. It was Myles alright, in a fancy set to match his own. The blonde coughed awkwardly to hide his embarrassment at being caught off guard, glaring mask back in place.
''Holy shit, dude. Don't just appear like that, fuck's sake. I almost socked you over the head.'' He grumbled, sticking his hands in the dpeths of his suit jacket to keep them from writhing. Myles apparently didn't give a shit - and honestly, Paris is starting to think he and Damien might be the slightest bit similar - because the guy just kept on talking.
'Alright, look. You're going to have to be as polite as possible if you want information. After you get what you're looking for, frankly I don't care what you do; god knows I'll be stealing some silverware on my way out. But I also don't want anyone setting you on fire right out of the gate.'
Well, that's... about what he expected. As solid a plan as plans go when you want to catch somebody with supernaturally good luck (fuck that, by the way). Paris' raised at the silverware comment though, unsure if he should be somewhat impressed or concerned. Look, he appreciates a go-getter, but again - what the fuck is this family on about? Paris' family is built up of criminals, liars and gangsters and yet they don't steal each other's silverware. Probably because his aunt would order a hit on whoever did it.
"Right. Yeah. I'm cool about it."
He was, in fact, not cool but damn it if he's going to admit that. He could barely admit his own nervousness in the privacy of his own head. Paris gave a half-hearted sniff, trying his hardest to seem arrogant and not at all anxious.
'And before we get going....if you have any questions, ask now, because I swear the hags who frequent this events can smell confusion and fear, and I really don't want to deal with them.'
"I - are your relatives bears?" Paris gave Myles a wide eyed look, shaking his head. Great. Just what he needed to hear. This helps so much. Now he's going to have old ass witches coming for him like sharks after blood. His stomach did an unpleasant little flip at that, but he stubbornly ignored it. He waved his hand dismissively like he couldn't care less about old hags sniffing out his fear - because it wasn't there at all. Of course. "Look, don't worry. I can improvise just fine and really, this shouldn't be too hard. We go in there, eat the food, find out where Damien is, leave. Easy as that."
Yeah. It will be easy. Paris has found himself in worse situations and he always survived. This is nothing compared to a shot out with dozens of people who want you dead.
Paris straightened himself up, nodding down the road with the question clear on his face. 'Should we go?' It's probably going to take only a few minutes of walking to reach the place - he has a vague idea of the area from what the looked up online, though he's still going to have to rely on Myles' judgement to get them where they need to be. He didn't wait long for an answer before slowly starting to make his way down the street.
And now comes the awkward silence.
Look, he doesn't know this guy - all he knows is his name and his relation to Damien, but that's about it. Should he say something? Should he stay quiet? Paris didn't know what to say and so he just walked, expression faux careless.
Except. Except that bright pink blotch next to him kept catching his attention. It was like trying to walk with a flower on legs.
Paris considered for a second or two of mentioning it was the best course of action - but the more he tried to ignore it, the more his eyes fell on the sunglasses.
Aw, fuck politeness. That shit is insane and Myles needs to know.
"Okay, listen." He started, turning his head to give Myles a look like the other was hurting his eyes just by existing. "I know you don't know me and I know I hit you over the head, but... I gotta ask." Paris gave the glasses a judgemental stare, wondering how those things even came into creation. Ought to ask his mom in which part of hell they make accessories like that. "What the fuck is it with the glasses?"
Paris isn't quite sure what kind of mysterious power night has to make inconvenient, bad and sometimes downright idiotic plans seem perfectly fine when during daylight hours they wouldn't even cross your mind; but whatever it was, he's more susceptible to it than others. It's a flaw he's more than aware of, unfortunately. Is it a flaw Paris is willing to work on? Absolutely not, but at least he's not going to deny it.
Exhibit A: eating anything his aunt cooks is one of those ideas.
Look, don't get him wrong - he does sincerely care for his aunt, considering she pretty much raised him and Demi and she really is a sweet woman. It's just... well, he's surprised the government hasn't classed her food as a weapon of mass destruction yet. He remembers the accident that cemented that fact clearly, no matter how many years have passed. It was one of his distant cousin's birthday when Paris was maybe 11 or so and his entire family crammed into one tiny rented hall to celebrate. He still remembers how confetti strings and balloons swayed from the ceiling as relatives crowded around him, yelling over the booming music that made Paris' teeth vibrate. He and the other kids ran up and down the hall in a way only kids that had double their weight in sugar can, weaving through tall legs, screaming and laughing and probably ruining the hall in ways that would make the underpaid cleaners sob the next day.
And then his aunt brought out the cake.
It was snow-white, sparkly and pretty, much like the decorations, and Paris was awfully drawn to it like by magic. Now, he knew very well whatever his aunt brings out of the kitchen is considered dangerous - but he was hyper and sugar-rushed and, despite his better judgment, decided that one slice couldn't hurt.
He was wrong in a way he'd regret for a long, long while.
Whatever was in that cake made Paris puke for three days straight and gave him a phobia of sweet food for longer than he'd like to admit. And he thing is, he's sure he wouldn't have eaten it if it were during the day - he would have considered it for a moment or two before the more reasonable part of him won out. But at night it seems like all of his higher reasoning functions give away for pure instinct, which honestly explains most of the things have gone wrong in his life. Like that one time he accidentally faked his own death and didn't think to call anybody because it was night and he thought 'well, I'm sure nobody noticed'. That's a story in itself, but it was one of the reasons why Paris ended up getting hit by his ex's car, which he's pretty sure he would have been able to avoid if Michael tried running him over at 11:30 instead of 1:30.
How is this at all relevant to his situation right now? Well, because now that he thinks of it, this plan sounded better a few nights ago, too.
This neighbourhood is nice. Really nice. Like, 'I only shop at Whole Foods and don't know what taxes are' nice. Pristine, tastefully decorated facades lined the streets and smartly dressed couples pranced up and down the street, dressed head to toe like the models in those glossy fashion magazines. Gold sparkled off throats and wrists in a way that made Paris' eyes shine, hands itching for his gun. He was almost worried his poor car is going to get towed just for daring to park here. The thought made bitter annoyance rise all too easily inside his chest.
There was no trash pouring out of over-filled cans, no cracks in the cement, no junkies sleeping in alleys. Not at all like the place Paris grew up in and he suddenly felt distinctly out of place, like everybody walking past could tell he's not from here despite his clothes.
Honestly, he has no idea why this plan seemed so easy when he talked it out with Myles that night - he was so arrogant, so sure and now he couldn't help the sweat forming on his neck. He stifled the uncertainty down as best as he could, hid it behind a stoic glare, but it wiggled in his mind nonetheless. Maybe, maybe he'll be able to fool them if only he keeps his mouth shut (that was harder than he thought at times). If he just keeps his words vague, gets with the plan and finds out where Damien is, he can fool them that he's like them. That he was raised in a plushy lap, ever content to waste his parent's money without ever worrying about how to pay for the next bills. Honestly, after he finds out where Damien is hiding he couldn't care less if they know what person he truly is - but for the sake of the plan, he can't just be kicked out after five minutes.
Paris thinks he'd be ways more comfortable if he was doing this with somebody he knew well. As it is, he's doing this with Damien's brother.
Yeah, that's a relevation he's still not quite over with. He didn't know if he could trust Myles, not when he knew pretty much nothing about him, but his hate of Damien seemed somewhat legit. He supposed Myles wouldn't drag him all the way to a family gathering if he was just planning on fucking with him, but Paris was going to keep his wits about him nonetheless. They apparently share the same goal, but Paris wasn't going to count on that keeping this shaky type alliance of alliance alive even for a day.
Not that he had time to think of the nervousness further when a voice spoke up next to him.
'Good. You don't look like I plucked you off the street. That's fantastic.'
Paris had to use up every muscle in his body not to startle, turning around on his heel - to meet a painfully familiar face that immediately awakened his instinct to punch it. It took Paris more moments than was strictly unnoticeable to realize the face staring back wasn't set in a shit-eating smile or mocking sneer, but in an expression of actual normalcy. Obnoxiously pink glasses observed him instead. It was Myles alright, in a fancy set to match his own. The blonde coughed awkwardly to hide his embarrassment at being caught off guard, glaring mask back in place.
''Holy shit, dude. Don't just appear like that, fuck's sake. I almost socked you over the head.'' He grumbled, sticking his hands in the dpeths of his suit jacket to keep them from writhing. Myles apparently didn't give a shit - and honestly, Paris is starting to think he and Damien might be the slightest bit similar - because the guy just kept on talking.
'Alright, look. You're going to have to be as polite as possible if you want information. After you get what you're looking for, frankly I don't care what you do; god knows I'll be stealing some silverware on my way out. But I also don't want anyone setting you on fire right out of the gate.'
Well, that's... about what he expected. As solid a plan as plans go when you want to catch somebody with supernaturally good luck (fuck that, by the way). Paris' raised at the silverware comment though, unsure if he should be somewhat impressed or concerned. Look, he appreciates a go-getter, but again - what the fuck is this family on about? Paris' family is built up of criminals, liars and gangsters and yet they don't steal each other's silverware. Probably because his aunt would order a hit on whoever did it.
"Right. Yeah. I'm cool about it."
He was, in fact, not cool but damn it if he's going to admit that. He could barely admit his own nervousness in the privacy of his own head. Paris gave a half-hearted sniff, trying his hardest to seem arrogant and not at all anxious.
'And before we get going....if you have any questions, ask now, because I swear the hags who frequent this events can smell confusion and fear, and I really don't want to deal with them.'
"I - are your relatives bears?" Paris gave Myles a wide eyed look, shaking his head. Great. Just what he needed to hear. This helps so much. Now he's going to have old ass witches coming for him like sharks after blood. His stomach did an unpleasant little flip at that, but he stubbornly ignored it. He waved his hand dismissively like he couldn't care less about old hags sniffing out his fear - because it wasn't there at all. Of course. "Look, don't worry. I can improvise just fine and really, this shouldn't be too hard. We go in there, eat the food, find out where Damien is, leave. Easy as that."
Yeah. It will be easy. Paris has found himself in worse situations and he always survived. This is nothing compared to a shot out with dozens of people who want you dead.
Paris straightened himself up, nodding down the road with the question clear on his face. 'Should we go?' It's probably going to take only a few minutes of walking to reach the place - he has a vague idea of the area from what the looked up online, though he's still going to have to rely on Myles' judgement to get them where they need to be. He didn't wait long for an answer before slowly starting to make his way down the street.
And now comes the awkward silence.
Look, he doesn't know this guy - all he knows is his name and his relation to Damien, but that's about it. Should he say something? Should he stay quiet? Paris didn't know what to say and so he just walked, expression faux careless.
Except. Except that bright pink blotch next to him kept catching his attention. It was like trying to walk with a flower on legs.
Paris considered for a second or two of mentioning it was the best course of action - but the more he tried to ignore it, the more his eyes fell on the sunglasses.
Aw, fuck politeness. That shit is insane and Myles needs to know.
"Okay, listen." He started, turning his head to give Myles a look like the other was hurting his eyes just by existing. "I know you don't know me and I know I hit you over the head, but... I gotta ask." Paris gave the glasses a judgemental stare, wondering how those things even came into creation. Ought to ask his mom in which part of hell they make accessories like that. "What the fuck is it with the glasses?"
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
Last edited:
elytra
a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
pantone
®
#d0bcbb
Myles Caito
Myles Caito
coded by weldherwings.
Myles admittedly had to hold back a laugh at the comparison of his relatives to bears. He managed it barely, but he couldn't hide a small smile. Honestly, insulting his relatives was the easiest way to please him; though, then again, he sort of liked bears. It might've been a bit unfair to them.
And, okay, to be entirely honest his relatives weren't all bad....in a way. They were usually perfectly civil to each other outwardly because of years of practice. Sure, there were fights here and there, and maybe someone walked away with singed hair now and again, but they didn't exactly maul each other. Lots of gossip, of course, because just because they were polite didn't mean they liked one another, yet no one left in a casket. Even Damien acted like a real, human person around the rest of the family, if only to keep up appearances. They weren't bad to each other (in public, at least), but he despised their obsession with public image.
There was also the fact that they all openly hated him.
Which had been mentioned before, but was worth mentioning again. There was a point he had sort of accepted it. Actually, he had thought there was maybe a way to get on everyone's good side. He'd thought that maybe if he learned enchantment well enough, they would be proud of him, or at the very least tolerate him. But then Damien had been.....Damien, Myles had gone blind, and poetically had had his eyes metaphorically opened to the fact that his family was full of assholes who would never, at any point, no matter what he did, find him worthwhile.
So he was a teensy bit spiteful. He didn't think he could be blamed. It wasn't as if it was his fault. He was just getting his due diligence after years of neglectful attitudes and straight-out insults.
"That is the plan. Glad you think you can handle it." He replied, keeping it simply at that, because in all honesty he wasn't too worried. Worst case scenario, he figured, he just.....burned the place down or something. Would it maybe be a bit of an over-reaction? Sure. Would it likely make his family sneer at him even more? Of course. But it sounded like a fun solution. Go big or go home, he figured. In this case, go big and go home, actually.
He didn't bother to start more of a conversation as they started walking. He wasn't looking to be buddy-buddy with the person who kidnapped him. His head had hurt for a while after that, so sue him, he was still a bit sore over the situation. He appreciated the eagerness to murder Damien, but it got tiring. He wished people would be a bit better with their research and actually manage to get the right person. It couldn't have been that hard; he knew he had shitty luck and all, but he would've thought that the difference between them was horribly obvious.
Point was, he was content with silence. And then he was asked about the glasses.
Which, okay, that was fair. He knew he looked fucking stupid. It wasn't like he was particularly happy about it. He wasn't really into that sort of fashion; he looked like either someone drunk on valentines day or a wannabe instagram model. Neither was the sort of look he was going for. He did appreciate that the reason for his look wasn't obvious, though; at the very least the pink lenses made him look a little less messed up than he was. If nothing else, they were good for that.
"Ah, yes. My glasses. I got them from my great grandmother; they're a family heirloom. Her high school sweetheart gave them to her before going off to war. Quite tragic, really. I wear them in honor of his memory." He said, keeping his face straight and tone flat. After a minute or so, though, he cracked a grin. "Joking! I wouldn't touch anything my great grandmother touched. No, okay, I do know they're....a lot. And pink. And heart-shaped. Not really my choice, though." He paused his walking, taking a moment to remove the glasses. The world went dark almost instantly, something that he never really got used to, and he looked in the general direction of where he assumed Paris was. Maisy had told him his eyes were murky white and the skin around them scarred when he'd asked her, so he was sure it would get the point across. He pointed to his face. "Courtesy of my brother, if you want to know one reason why I hate him. The glasses help me see. Albeit, everything is in pink, but it's better than nothing, so I'm afraid I can't exactly not wear them, unless you want to lead me around."
He slipped them back on and everything came back, dizzying. It was an uncomfortable experience, but there wasn't much to be done about that. Being blind, he figured, was worse.
And, okay, to be entirely honest his relatives weren't all bad....in a way. They were usually perfectly civil to each other outwardly because of years of practice. Sure, there were fights here and there, and maybe someone walked away with singed hair now and again, but they didn't exactly maul each other. Lots of gossip, of course, because just because they were polite didn't mean they liked one another, yet no one left in a casket. Even Damien acted like a real, human person around the rest of the family, if only to keep up appearances. They weren't bad to each other (in public, at least), but he despised their obsession with public image.
There was also the fact that they all openly hated him.
Which had been mentioned before, but was worth mentioning again. There was a point he had sort of accepted it. Actually, he had thought there was maybe a way to get on everyone's good side. He'd thought that maybe if he learned enchantment well enough, they would be proud of him, or at the very least tolerate him. But then Damien had been.....Damien, Myles had gone blind, and poetically had had his eyes metaphorically opened to the fact that his family was full of assholes who would never, at any point, no matter what he did, find him worthwhile.
So he was a teensy bit spiteful. He didn't think he could be blamed. It wasn't as if it was his fault. He was just getting his due diligence after years of neglectful attitudes and straight-out insults.
"That is the plan. Glad you think you can handle it." He replied, keeping it simply at that, because in all honesty he wasn't too worried. Worst case scenario, he figured, he just.....burned the place down or something. Would it maybe be a bit of an over-reaction? Sure. Would it likely make his family sneer at him even more? Of course. But it sounded like a fun solution. Go big or go home, he figured. In this case, go big and go home, actually.
He didn't bother to start more of a conversation as they started walking. He wasn't looking to be buddy-buddy with the person who kidnapped him. His head had hurt for a while after that, so sue him, he was still a bit sore over the situation. He appreciated the eagerness to murder Damien, but it got tiring. He wished people would be a bit better with their research and actually manage to get the right person. It couldn't have been that hard; he knew he had shitty luck and all, but he would've thought that the difference between them was horribly obvious.
Point was, he was content with silence. And then he was asked about the glasses.
Which, okay, that was fair. He knew he looked fucking stupid. It wasn't like he was particularly happy about it. He wasn't really into that sort of fashion; he looked like either someone drunk on valentines day or a wannabe instagram model. Neither was the sort of look he was going for. He did appreciate that the reason for his look wasn't obvious, though; at the very least the pink lenses made him look a little less messed up than he was. If nothing else, they were good for that.
"Ah, yes. My glasses. I got them from my great grandmother; they're a family heirloom. Her high school sweetheart gave them to her before going off to war. Quite tragic, really. I wear them in honor of his memory." He said, keeping his face straight and tone flat. After a minute or so, though, he cracked a grin. "Joking! I wouldn't touch anything my great grandmother touched. No, okay, I do know they're....a lot. And pink. And heart-shaped. Not really my choice, though." He paused his walking, taking a moment to remove the glasses. The world went dark almost instantly, something that he never really got used to, and he looked in the general direction of where he assumed Paris was. Maisy had told him his eyes were murky white and the skin around them scarred when he'd asked her, so he was sure it would get the point across. He pointed to his face. "Courtesy of my brother, if you want to know one reason why I hate him. The glasses help me see. Albeit, everything is in pink, but it's better than nothing, so I'm afraid I can't exactly not wear them, unless you want to lead me around."
He slipped them back on and everything came back, dizzying. It was an uncomfortable experience, but there wasn't much to be done about that. Being blind, he figured, was worse.
mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
'Ah, yes. My glasses. I got them from my great grandmother; they're a family heirloom. Her high school sweetheart gave them to her before going off to war. Quite tragic, really. I wear them in honor of his memory.'
Paris paused for a second at that, shooting Myles an incredulous look; it sounded like bullshit, but the other man's flat stare made him reconsider. He tilted his head and squinted his eyes at the offending glasses, trying to figure out just what value one might find in them. If you ask him, those things should be destroyed or put somewhere nobody will ever wear them again. His expression pinched together, ready to voice his thoughts before his mind could catch up.
''He went to war and all he gave her was a pair of ugly glasses?''
Oh. Oh. That's bad. Paris didn't quite blanch, but it was a near thing; he resisted the urge to smack his hand to his mouth, cursing mentally. He knew it wasn't smart to insult the heirloom of a person that gave him the opportunity to find Damien, but it was out there now. Why is it that he always has to say shit that would get him in trouble? Paris half-expected Myles to be offended, or at least give him an outraged glare - but it was only a moment or so later that Myles grinned, saying it was just a joke. The blonde man's shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit, though he didn't really find it amusing. He decided not to complain about 'people wasting time for no reason', as he tended to when somebody makes a joke in his general vicinity (unless that person is him, of course. His own jokes are always welcome and also hilarious.) He only have a small eyeroll, the gesture speaking for itself.
What did Myles mean by 'not really his choice', though?
Was he cursed to never be able to attain any dignity when wearing eye accessories? Could that even be a thing? He's not sure; as strange and impossible magic is at times, his own is dictated by rules that are not easy to break. Well, that was a bit of a stretch - anything will break if you press on it long enough. It's just that Paris certainly isn't on that level yet where he can make blood magic do what it doesn't feel like doing. The last time he tried he got singled eyebrows for his troubles. He thinks that would be a pretty crappy curse to have, in any case. There's being cursed to never be able to fell love, and there's being cursed to have terrible fashion sense. Definitively not in the same ballpark.
As it turns out, maybe it would have been better if that were the case here.
Paris watched in half-curiosity, half-confusion as Myles took off his glasses, not sure where the other man was going with this - and when Myles did turn to face him, he wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. Milk-white eyes stared back, scarring surrounding them like vines. There was no pink to obscure the details, and yet for a heartbeat, all Paris could do was gape. His mind was already catching up, shifting the puzzle pieces around and putting them together, but his thoughts were yet frozen. His throat was blank, no words coming through.
Until, just like a freight train, realisation hit him. Paris' eyebrows shot up and his eyes rounded like saucers, stupefied.
''You're blind.'' He half-mumbled, voice quiet.
He wondered, now, how he didn't notice before; the glasses did an admirable job of hiding the stark whiteness and it's not like he particularily cared about Myles' eyes, but he thinks he should have suspected something anyways. Now, Paris isn't bad at talking - despite his family's protests that his sour attitude would drive anybody away - or else he would have never gained friends or gotten into a relationship. It isn't often that he decides to do so, but Paris can lead a conversation just as well as others. But right now, he didn't know what to say, or even really think. Pity wouldn't be the right approach, even if he had any of that to give. It's not like his limited view of what he knows about Myles has suddenly been drastically changed. It's more like... Well. Very unexpected? If that's the right word? And here he was thinking it was a curse, or just a poor choice; those glasses must be enchanted or something along those lines, considering Myles apparently hasn't yet ran into the nearest streetlight with them on.
''Shit. No wonder you want him dead.'' Paris startled, realising he probably stared like a fucking idiot; his features quickly settled into something more neutral. He couldn't quite beat away the furrow in his brow, though. He almost wanted to say 'I'd hate him too if he made me wear pink glasses', but decided in the last second that that might not be best thing to voice.
Listen, he did feel a bit sheepish about wondering just why Myles wanted Damien dead; yes, he knows families often kill each other on a theoretical level, but some part of him was stuck on his own siblings. Even if he has considered throttling Demetria and Mercurio more than a few times (especially when Mercurio somehow managed to break all hundred of Paris' expensive crayons by sitting on them - they were maybe six years old, but Paris truly did see him as his nemesis for a few months after), he still wouldn't want to see them hurt, much less by his hand. But his pride was not so great that he couldn't admit that he probably judged to early in this case. Damien was a gigantic asshole and that's coming from somebody not related to him - God knows what it's like being his brother.
Paris scratched the back of his neck, the tiniest bit sheepish. ''Well, now I feel dumb. All he did was get me banned from a grocery store and... I guess I wanted him dead ever since.'' Not that that was the least of Damien's sins, excuse you. Paris wouldn't be able to shut up if you asked him to tell all the ways Damien has inconvenienced him. That was just the original one - all the times he kicked, smacked or punched Paris were bad enough to warrant murder on their own. ''He always managed to get in the way of my job, the fucker. Dunno why of all the criminals in this city, I'm always somehow the one to run into him.'' He grumbled wearily, more to himself than anything. It was injustice, pure and simple.
Paris promtly shut up afetr that - anything more than saying that would have felt like they were boy scouts huddling by the fire, sharing stories of what a massive shithead Damien is. Still, he thinks it's a bit unfair Myles kind of revealed a reason he hates Damien and Paris keeps quiet. He wants to make it clear he isn't a maniac killing people over chocolate pudding (even if that was one of the reasons.)
Not that there was enough time for there to become awkward silence; it was maybe a few moments later he stopped in front of a large hall, egg-white and tastefully decorated. It was obviously on the higher end, if this whole area wasn't obvious enough. It reminded Paris oddly of a white persian cat, lazily observing the passer-bys from a silken pillow. Even the pink roses lining the wallway radiated snobbishness - he didn't know plants could grow snobbishly, but these flowers somehow managed the impossible. A few cars were already settled in the manicured parking space and a few figures walked up and down the entrance.
''This is the place, right?'' It was an identical copy of the pictures he saw online, but he didn't just want to stroll away without making sure. Look, he's never been here before. Sue him if he wants to be a bit cautious.
paris leblanc.
love nipping at your heels, but you're too cold.
coded by incandescent
Last edited:
Users who are viewing this thread
Similar threads
