Obscene Symphony

Of Blood and Magic

Count Benjamin’s compliment did not go unnoticed, but bound as he was waiting for leave from Eris, Aaron was unable to acknowledge it. Eris was certainly taking his time, too; if Aaron didn’t know any better, he’d think the answer to his question was written on his chest in Mandarin and Eris needed a moment to translate.

While the actor deliberated, Aaron did his best to keep tabs on what was going on in the living room. Conversation down the hall had definitely picked up—talking about the clock that materialized from a hole in space, no doubt—but with conversation in the parlour matching suit, it was hard to make out anything usable. He’d lost track of the sound of the clock ticking, too, but that wasn’t as much of a concern. Time marched on at its cruel and gruelling pace the same as ever; Aaron didn’t need a clock to feel that.

Distracted as he was, though, Aaron didn’t notice Eris reaching for him until he snaked his hand down his arm. He caught Eris’ look just long enough to see that he was planning something bad before he was yanked off his feet, the world a blur until he landed unceremoniously in Eris’ lap.

Lucky for him, there was no time to cry out in surprise. His reflexes took care of what was most important, avoiding shattering five crystal glasses by sheer force of luck and preventing the neutral bottle from flying across the room by grabbing its neck and all but driving it into his tray. It certainly wasn’t the most elegant recovery, but the glasses were intact, and he didn’t spill a drop. It took a second to get the air back into his lungs after his life flashed before his eyes, and another to free up one hand to fix his hair, and by that time Eris was batting his eyelashes and declaring that no, he wouldn’t let Aaron go just yet.

Aaron’s stomach turned at the statement, and it took all he had to resist checking his watch yet again for how many minutes remained to him before Varis put a stake through his heart. Immediately his mind started racing, searching desperately for a way out of this. If he let Eris do as he pleased, he’d be here all night with an eccentric actor running his fingers through his hair—sun and stars, it was hard enough to stop him doing that on a regular night on campus—Malek’s alarm would sound, and the night would have to end early so Varis could have ample time to plan out his mage’s untimely demise. If he rebuffed Eris’ advances, he’d get an earful about anticipating guests’ needs and being charming and accommodating and whatever other adjectives Varis could dig out of his pocket. Aaron considered some lame, middle-of-the road excuse about not wanting to make Eris uncomfortable, but that wouldn’t work either; a vampire could comfortably cradle a hatchback in their lap, there was no way one 175lb man would give him any trouble.

Ugh. Eris was doing this on purpose and he knew it—Aaron would think Varis put him up to it as a test if it wasn’t for the fact that this was far from the first lecherous look the actor had shot his way.

“I’m honoured by your attention, Mr. Samael. Any other night I’d be happy to oblige,” he finally began, opting to start with the safest bet while he worked out the rest. He took a second to re-balance his tray, the motion both grounding him and drawing the eye to the glitter of his focus ring. “But regrettably, as tonight’s only attendant, I must prioritize my duties.”

Moderately confident he was on the right track, Aaron carefully untangled himself from Eris, standing and moving smoothly into a bow. He wanted nothing more than to end his excuse there, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough for Varis. This was a dry run of his future duties as a show mage, the guests stand-ins for serious political bigwigs that needed to be wooed and impressed; unfortunately for him, there was no room for half-assing anything.

Swallowing what little scrap was left of his dignity, he let his look darken just a touch, still polite but notably more suggestive. “Of course, should your interest persist and my Master agree to it,” he added, just barely quieter than before, “I’d be more than happy to arrange some time for you once the night’s events have concluded.”

Eris watched the blond with much interest, leaning back as he watched Aaron for a second. There was nothing but pure amusement on his face, a wry smile on his face as he contemplated his words. “That sounds good to me,” The actor happily agreed, and for a second, there was an odd, hungry look in his eye. “I’ll very much look forward to that.”

Ugh. As happy as he should have been that Eris agreed to release him, Aaron was all but paralyzed by that look, the same shiver snaking up his spine as he’d gotten when he first met the actor, on his knees after Treaty Law on the first night of classes. There was nothing good in that look: it was the look people gave a statue they were considering buying, or a particularly expensive cut of meat.

Still, twisted up as he was, Aaron did well not to show it. He thanked Eris calmly and rose easily from his bow, turning on his heel toward the kitchen with bottle and glasses in tow. The brief glance he caught of Varis on his way made it clear he’d been watching that little test intently, appraising his response. Unfortunately, it was impossible to tell yet if he’d passed or failed.

Aaron all but collapsed in the kitchen, managing to safely deposit his tray before having to grip the edge of the countertop to stabilize himself. He felt like he’d been holding his breath for five solid minutes, horrible images of shattered crystal still swam in his head, and every sordid story he’d heard about those little after-party excursions twisted his stomach in knots. But he made it out, no broken glasses, no spurned guests, and with a few minutes to spare. For the moment, that would have to do.

Aaron allowed himself only a few seconds in the kitchen to compose himself before straightening up and striding back into the living room, face clear and attentive as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, where he expected to find a gaggle of confused mages and a ticking clock, he found only a gaggle of confused mages and a pile of debris on the coffee table.

The shock broke through even his carefully composed expression, eyes wide and face unreadable as he approached, glancing around at each mage. “What happened here?”

_{@Hero @Achronum and the mages}

Obscene's Filing Cabinet

This piece was a study in characterization as well as a fun little project for some friends of mine to enjoy.

Better Left Unsaid | Nov. 2020

“And just what the hell are you doing?”

Mira just about jumped out of her skin, almost dropping her duster as she whirled around to the source of the yelling. When her vision cleared, she was greeted with the unnerving sight of a tall blonde man looming over her, sharp blue eyes slicing into her like blades.

“I-Uh, dusting, Mr. Starag!” she hurried out, clutching her duster in front of her as evidence. When the Majordomo didn’t reply, she shifted nervously on her feet, adding, “I mean, Nathan assigned me to straighten up the rooms in the east wing, so I’m--”

She was cut off by a weary sigh, the Majordomo closing his eyes and rubbing his temple with two white-gloved fingers.

“And did he by any chance assign you to scrub out the chimney before this?” he asked, clearly exasperated.

“Um, no, sir..?”

“Then what on earth am I looking at?” Aaron snapped, gathering up a fistful of Mira’s apron. She had the instinct to pull away, but fear kept her rooted in place; even in her short time here, she’d already seen what happened to mages who resisted their superiors.

Aaron lifted the apron up in front of Mira’s eyes, almost too close to focus, though she could still clearly see the black and brown smears marring the otherwise pristine fabric.

“I-- well, I did lend a hand to Horace in the garden for a few minutes earlier…”

Just like that the apron fell away, revealing a hard-eyed Mr. Starag behind it, glaring daggers into Mira. She wasn’t sure what exactly made the Majordomo so intimidating, be it his authority or his height or that sharp tone he could take when he was angry, but Mira had always been most chilled by those eyes. They were often weary and trimmed by dark circles, as if the man survived on the barest amount of sleep, but despite the fatigue they were always sharp and clear and focused, like a hawk or some large cat. She’d never quite given breath to it, but the idea that anyone could stay so severe under such stress and exhaustion was downright scary.

But, like a cloud drifting over the moon, the tension of the moment left again, Aaron shaking his head with a disapproving tsk. “Ridiculous,” he scolded her, “You’ve been here nearly a week and you still can’t seem to wrap your head around the simplest things. It’s been a long time since this household had to contend with help as thick as you.”

Crestfallen, Mira let her head fall, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She’d hardly worked under this man a week, and yet his disapproval twisted her heart like she’d betrayed her own father. Was this how he kept everyone in check, then? “I’m sorry, Mr. Starag, I’ll try--”

“Don’t bother,” Aaron cut her off, looking to the door. “Dawson!”

A wiry, flaxen-haired man who happened to be walking past the doorway stopped in his tracks, looking shocked to have even been noticed, let alone addressed. “Yes, sir?”

“Get this one cleaned up,” Aaron ordered, gesturing for Mira to step forward. When she haltingly obeyed, he took her arm and nudged her forward, the sudden speed making her stumble. “And make sure she’s reassigned somewhere out of sight until she learns how to compose herself.”

Dawson rushed forward to catch Mira before she fell, the maid burying her face into his chest in shame. Dawson, on the other hand, simply nodded to Aaron, dipping his head. “Right away, Mr. Starag.”

“Indeed,” Aaron drawled boredly, casting a last serrated gaze over the pair of them before sweeping down the corridor. Mira was too ashamed to lift her head, but Dawson’s gaze followed the Majordomo until he was out of sight, brow knitted in confusion.

When he finally looked back down to Mira, he took her by the shoulders and stood her steady, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?”

Mira couldn’t bear to look at him, dabbing at tears and running mascara with her apron. “Y-yes, sorry, I-I’m fine,” she insisted, pushing past Dawson to the door. “Let’s just go, okay?”

---

Dawson tugged absently at one of his suspender straps while he waited, leaning against the door of the servants’ bathhouse with his free arm crossed patiently over his waist. He wasn’t sure why they called it a ‘bathhouse’, given it was more like one of those big communal shower rooms at sports stadiums and incorporated deep into the basement level of the servants’ wing, but no one really questioned things on estate grounds. He supposed one difference was that they weren’t segregated by gender, but Mira wasn’t used to that yet, hence his leaning. His job was to stand guard and make sure no other men tried to get in before she got dressed.

He sighed, head lolling back. So particular, this one. He knew she’d been a transfer from another House or somewhere - moon only knew why, she certainly couldn’t have been a gift with all her bumbling and the Lord wasn’t in the habit of purchasing ground-level staff - but the profundity of her ignorance of Sinnenodel ways was astounding. Dawson might not have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it himself. No surprise then that she got into hot water with Aaron - the older servants often compared him to an icier version of Malek, if such a thing were possible.

Still, something wasn’t adding up. Dawson squinted at the floor, going over what he’d witnessed in the study for the tenth time since he’d been sent down here. Mr. Starag was not known for his leniency by any means, but he wasn’t cruel either. Dawson had never seen or even heard of him laying a hand on an underling before; usually the cold weight of his glare was more than enough to send even the most stubborn of servants on their way, and his presence commanded respect even from the mages’ children. There’d been no shortage of problems - big ones - in the estate during Dawson’s time there, and no matter how egregious the offence or devastating the incident, Mr. Starag always had things under control. Above all, Lord Varis didn’t approve of violence; Aaron didn’t even manhandle people when they were being sent off to the Dancer. So what on earth could Mira have done to earn a shove from the Majordomo himself?

The door swung inward, and Dawson was met with a high-pitched yelp of surprise as he pitched backward, wheeling his arms to regain his balance. He wasn’t quick enough, bumping into Mira where she’d been standing to open the door, but luckily for her, she managed to get out of the way before Dawson dragged them both to the ground.

“Ah! I’m sorry!” Mira squeaked, scuttling back a few steps like a frightened animal.

Dawson winced as he stood, waving the girl off. “No worries, that’s what happens when you lean on a door,” he insisted, though he still rubbed the sore spot on his bottom where he’d landed on the tile. “You ready?”

“Um, yes, I think so…” Mira nodded in a small voice, clutching a bundle of fabric to her chest. Her damp hair spilled over her forehead and shoulders, still managing its wild curls despite the weight of the water. She’d changed into a blouse and a plain skirt, probably from the shelf of spares given the awkward fit, but it would probably do well enough.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” Dawson agreed, giving her another appraising look before curiously prying the bundle out of Mira’s hands. It was her previous outfit, dirt and all. Dawson quirked an eyebrow, jutting his thumb to their left. “Laundry chute is over there, remember?”

Mira’s cheeks reddened, and she scrambled to get the clothes back with clumsy fingers. “Yes, right, I’m sorry, I…” she hurried to deposit the clothes into the chute, but didn’t return, stubbornly facing the wall the chute protruded from.

Dawson peered over expectantly, hands in his pockets. Great Anastasia, this girl was weird. “You… coming?”

Mira’s curls shook with frantic nodding, but she didn’t turn. “Yes, yes, just…” Her voice shook. “You go on, I’m right behind you!”

Dawson debated taking her word for it and leaving, but after weighing the pros and cons and remarking that Mira was a terrible liar, he sighed, sauntering up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Mira.”

Mira turned reluctantly, eyes getting puffier by the second. She met Dawson’s eye only for an instant before squeezing her eyes shut, pushing fresh tears down her cheeks. “I’m sorry…”

Dawson resisted the urge to drop his head and groan. Anastasia’s tits, was there any end to this? She wasn’t much younger than him, probably a year or two out of Awakening, but he felt like he was babysitting here. “You’re fine, relax,” he pressed, a tone of warning in his voice. When that failed to calm the girl, he softened a bit, stooping to meet her eye. “Hey, calm down. We’ll get you figured out. No harm done.”

Mira didn’t seem to believe him, but she eventually nodded, wiping her tears with the handkerchief Dawson offered her and following him quietly back up the hall.

---

“Psst. Hey, wake up.”

Mira went stiff, like a jolt just before falling asleep, but resisted the urge to whirl around. “Go away, I’m trying to sleep,” she whined, doing her best to make her voice sound groggy.

“No you’re not,” the voice behind her drawled in a whisper, unconvinced. It sounded like... Dawson? “C’mon.”

Mira turned over to see Dawson’s muddy hazel eyes peering over her pillow, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Then why’d you say ‘wake up’?” Mira questioned irritably.

“Shhhh.” Dawson rolled his eyes, apparently unfazed by her tone apart from its volume. “Professional courtesy?” he hissed, shrugging. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Half the people in here only pretend to be asleep, either crying or shitting their pants or thinking up new and creative ways to fuck with each other.” Even his whispers sounded impatient, the footman bouncing on his legs like a big pair of springs. “Now get up, you’re coming with me.”

Mira debated turning over and ignoring him, but after all the help he’d been that night, she couldn’t very well refuse him. Besides, he was right; sleep wasn’t coming to her anytime soon. “Alright.”

Not to say she wasn’t tired. The muscles in her arms and shoulders complained as she hauled herself up out of bed, a remnant from all the potatoes she’d hauled, peeled, mashed, and scooped once Dawson managed to find her a task she couldn’t screw up. She fumbled blindly for the cotton dressing gown draped over a post of her bed - servants of the Sinnenodel estate were expected to look presentable even in their nightclothes - and searched the floor with her feet for her standard-issue slippers as she fiddled with the tie. “Where are we going?”

Dawson popped up off the floor like a jack-in-the-box, not waiting for Mira to finish tying her gown before half-leading, half-dragging her to the corridor. “For a walk,” he answered simply, not looking back. “Mind the step.”

Mira’s steps were clumsy until they got out into the soft glow of the gaslit corridor, Dawson closing the door to the servants’ dormitory carefully behind them. She was grateful for the light, but still a little uneasy being out of bed after curfew, even with someone experienced like Dawson. “You got me out of bed for a walk?” she questioned, reflecting one of Dawson’s trademarked eyebrow-raises back at him.

He didn’t seem convinced. “You weren’t sleeping,” he reiterated, setting off with his long legs down the hall. Despite her discomfort, Mira hurried after, more comfortable at his side than alone. He was still in his working clothes, a pair of black slacks held up over a white dress shirt by a pair of stylish leather suspenders, absent only the jacket he usually kept slung over his shoulder. Did he just get off?

“What time is it?” Mira asked, squinting down the seemingly endless corridor.

“About ten,” Dawson replied, voice muffled as he clutched his cigarette in his teeth. He slowed a moment, hunching to light it, but the acrid scent Mira expected never came; instead, after a long drag, the smoke curled neatly into passing air ducts, moving like an organized line of ants rather than the messy clouds she remembered from her grandfather. Right, Dawson was an air mage; this was probably how he got away with smoking inside the manor. Moon only knew the Majordomo would probably have his head for that, if not the Lord himself.

But that was one of the many things that fascinated her about Dawson. He grew up in a den of snakes, but didn’t seem afraid of getting bitten.

“And you just got off?” Mira asked, a little freaked out at the prospect of working… oh, it must have been a sixteen hour night by now!

“Nah,” Dawson replied, leaving his cigarette in the care of his teeth and hooking his hands into his pockets. “I got off just before sunrise, but nobody goes to bed that early.”

Maybe, but when your night started at four before sunset, you didn’t tend to stay up this well into the day either. “Where are we going?” She asked again, getting less and less comfortable with slinking around the manor after curfew in her nightgown. Great Anastasia, if they crossed paths with someone important…

“Shhhh!” Dawson repeated, punctuating his order with a turn and a glare. “You want someone to hear you?”

Mira’s face twisted into a pout, and she threw her hands up, turning on her heel. “I’m going back to bed.”

She barely got a step before Dawson stopped her, clamping a large hand around her arm and rooting her in place. “Oh no you don’t,” he told her, sounding awfully casual for a man dragging a woman on some ill-advised little adventure. “I need your help.”

“What?” Mira softened a bit in surprise, and that was all the give Dawson needed to resume pulling her along down the hallway. He took a sharp turn and then another, then brought the two of them up a flight of stairs and down another, much more richly decorated corridor.

Mira was a little too caught up in wondering what on earth Dawson could need from an obviously hopeless maid like her to realize it at first, but it soon dawned on her that the corridor looked uncomfortably familiar.

“Where are we going?” she hissed, yanking her arm from Dawson’s grip and standing her ground. “What do you need me for?”

Dawson looked back at her incredulously, no doubt wondering what happened to the shrinking violet he’d rescued earlier that might. Mira herself wasn’t sure; she just knew something about all this felt very very wrong.

“Not much,” Dawson insisted, gesturing for her to follow. “And I’m doing this for you, so quit your whining and keep up.”

For her? Mira rushed along to follow, fears momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean?”

“Good lord, you ask a lot of questions,” Dawson groaned, stopping suddenly at a heavy wooden door. “Why couldn’t do you that with Nathan? Maybe then you’d finally find your way around a duster.”

The comment was just cutting enough to shut Mira’s mouth for the moment, even if Dawson didn’t seem like he was actually trying to hurt her. Instead, he knocked sharply, and Mira turned her attention to the door, stepping back from the threshold.

A few seconds passed with no answer. Dawson seemed to think that was a good thing, looking excited as he reached for the knob. Mira wasn’t sure what could have him so interested; It was the same as every other door in the corridor, solid, dark wood carved with stately lines, but Dawson curled his hand around the silver handle like he thought it might bite him.

As Mira looked on, Dawson turned the knob slowly, painfully slowly, angling the rest of his body away as if the very door might explode any second. Mira shrunk behind him, the pair’s tension as thick as the smoke from Dawson’s cigarette as they waited.

But the latch simply clicked, and the door cracked open obediently.

Dawson took a deep breath through his nose, and glanced back to Mira with a sort of awed excitement she might expect from someone who’d just cracked a safe full of treasure. “Nice,” he seemed to congratulate himself, leaning into the doorway as he gently swung the door inward.

“What was tha--” Mira’s voice died in her throat as she followed Dawson’s gaze. Inside appeared to be an office, the walls lined with shelves filled with identical books and folders labeled by hand; estate records, probably. There was a small cart along one wall holding a crystal carafe filled with golden liquid and a few upturned crystal glasses on its top shelf, an untouched plate of dinner resting on the shelf below - Mira recognized the potatoes she’d mashed. Along another wall was a small table and two antique chairs, but dominating the room was a frighteningly familiar, massive walnut desk, trimmed in silver.

This was Mr. Starag’s office.

“You--” Dawson whirled around before she could yell at him, clamping his hand over her mouth and twirling her around so her back was pressed snugly to his chest. Not unlike a kidnapper, she thought bitterly.

“Shhhhh!” he repeated once more, stinging her ear with his hissing. “Would you relax for once in your life?”

Relax?! Despite whatever sketchy methods Dawson used to keep his cool, there was no “relaxing” on Sinnenodel property; even her scant week at the manor had taught Mira that much. And there was especially no relaxing when they were breaking into the Majordomo’s office!

“Do you want him to kill us?!” She hissed back when Dawson finally elected to let go of her. “You saw him tonight! What do you think he’ll do if he finds us sneaking around his office?!”

“That’s the thing!” Dawson whisper-yelled, stooped over like an animal about to pounce. His usual expression of apathy was long gone, replaced with a wide-eyed anticipation Mira would say bordered on deranged.

He seemed to realize how crazy he was making himself look, taking a moment to school his face into something more serious before continuing. “What happened today was totally out of character for him,” he explained, voice barely louder than a breath. “I’ve never seen him lay a finger on anyone before, and certainly not for something so trivial. On top of that,” his eyes flicked dangerously over to the desk, “I saw him in here three times after I dropped you off, and every time he was reading the same letter.”

It took a concerted effort on Mira’s part not to bolt down the hall and back to the dormitory, anxiety written all over her face. “So?!”

Dawson straightened and pitched his head back, doing an exasperated little circle as if pleading with some heavenly body. “So,” he went on slowly, as if talking to a child, “Mr. Starag doesn’t do that. He reads letters once, deals with them, and gets rid of them. I’ve only heard of him reading a letter twice when Lord Varis was working out some huge important deal, and he read this one three times.”

Mira struggled to understand what any of this had to do with her. “Your point being?”

“Whatever’s in that letter, I guarantee you that’s why he’s acting so strangely,” Dawson concluded, crossing over to the desk. There was a worrying glint in his eye. “And I want to know what it is.”

“Dawson, wait!” Mira pleaded, reaching for him only to be met with one of his fingers, like a disapproving tutor.

“You won’t stop me,” he informed her, stalking behind the desk like he thought Mira would jump him if he turned his back to her. The desk was painfully organized, neatly arranged papers, pens and envelopes illuminated in the soft yellow glow of a glass kerosene lamp. The manor was full of things like that, a mishmash of furnishings from cutting-edge to antique, and Mira couldn’t help but notice the contrast seemed reflected in the Majordomo himself. What didn’t add up, though, was the single item on the desk not neatly put in its place: an envelope addressed to Aaron Starag with its top torn open and one corner of the otherwise pristine paper wrinkled, like it had been repeatedly crumpled and carefully smoothed out again.

Mira backed up a step, like an animal withdrawing from a fire. “Dawson, I really don’t like this.”

“That’s fine,” Dawson didn’t even look up, gingerly emptying the envelope of its contents. It was a single rectangle of thick, off-white cardstock, and Mira could see from the reverse that it must have been embossed with a crest she couldn’t make out. “Just stand watch by the door and start coughing up a lung if you see anyone coming.”

Brow knit with worry, Mira reluctantly did as she was told, backing slowly to the door before turning her back on Dawson. She could hear him rustling around, and heard the distinct sound of cardstock being turned over and over, until finally Dawson let out a huff. “This doesn’t make any sense!”

Curiosity getting the better of her, Mira turned back around, peering over at the card. “What is it?”

“Look,” Dawson crossed the room and held the card out for her to see.

To Family and Friends,

His Excellency Lord Benjamin Eve cordially invites you to the handfasting of

Lilie Lyra Dionne
&
Noah George Luscin

To be held at Pierce Manor on December 3rd, 20--.

Your presence on this joyous night will be most celebrated.

Mira squinted down at the card, puzzled. The whole thing was written very precisely, most likely printed en masse, but at the bottom was a clearly handwritten addition in hasty, uneven script.

Please attend. We’d really like to have you there.
- Ben

“A wedding invitation?” Mira wondered aloud, handing the card back to Dawson. “Ben… wait, no, surely not Lord Be--”

She was cut off when all colour drained from Dawson’s face.

“And what business do the two of you have here?”

Mira whirled around like a Lycan was on her tail, but the sight of a tall blond man in the doorway was far more terrifying than any ancient beast. His usually cold, blue eyes were glassed over with glowing gold, just bright enough to illuminate the red trimming his eyes.

Mirabelle Arden was going to die.

“Was that all?” Mr. Starag looked up from his desk expectantly, though the weariness of his expression and the way he cradled his chin in his hand made him look like he was just waiting for the two of them to go away. It was kind of weird to see; the Majordomo often looked like he hadn’t slept, but he rarely looked tired.

“Oh, um…” Mira fiddled with the hem of her sleeve as she wracked her brain, suddenly a little confused. It must have been the late hour jumbling up her thoughts; she’d forgotten how late it was, but this was business that couldn’t wait till nightfall. Even if she found herself struggling to remember just which business that was.

“Yes, that's all Mr. Starag,” Dawson covered for her in his confident way, though despite his tone he looked like he’d gotten up to fetch something from another room, only to forget what he was looking for when he got there. Mira felt the same way.

“Then it's settled,” Aaron concluded, scrawling his signature on a form and stuffing it in an envelope. “Mirabelle, you'll apprentice with Dawson until you've gained your footing here. Dawson, I'll adjust your duties so you have time for tutoring.” He handed the envelope to Dawson. “Give that to Nathan, it details the changes I've made to your schedules.”

“Yes sir,” Dawson replied, putting the envelope in his pocket.

Aaron nodded, seemingly satisfied, and spared the two just one more glance before looking back down to the papers on his desk. Before they left, though, he caught Dawson with a sharp look, almost as an afterthought. “And Dawson, the next time I catch you with a cigarette in this manor, I'm going to take a few teeth out with it. Understood?”

Dawson looked a little wan, but nodded stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Aaron nodded, waving them out. “Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Starag,” the two answered in unison, bowing and curtsying in turn before turning back out into the safety of the corridor and closing the office door behind them.

“Well that's settled, I guess,” Dawson muttered through a stretch, sounding a little worse for wear.

“Yeah…” Mira muttered, eyes unfocused. For some reason her head felt so foggy. Had mashing potatoes all night really done such a number on her?

Dawson looked a little out of it too, staring off somewhere down the hall and fiddling with a cigarette half-out of the pack, but soon stuffed it in his pocket, looking to Mira with fresh, slightly irritated confusion.

“...What are you doing up? I told you I could handle this. You work early tomorrow,” He reminded her, jerking his chin down the hall. “Get going before someone catches you up past curfew.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Mira replied haltingly, putting her thoughts in order. Yes, right, she had to be up early. “Good day, then.”

“Good day,” Dawson replied, offering a lazy wave as he turned. “See you bright and early.”

Lest you think I had a stroke, keep in mind that the Aaron in this piece is proficient in mind magic.

Obscene's Filing Cabinet

Fair warning: This one gets a little dark.

Veterans | Feb. 2019

Aaron groaned as he stretched, pulling his jacket back on in the mirror. The colours had started to grow on him; tonight’s outfit was a blue satin blazer, black shirt and slacks, just enough to stand out without being garish. It brought out his eyes, but clashed a little with the red spots on his neck.

Well, it was all part of the job.

He’d call this one a success. Poor girl had a great time for how short their encounter had been, but had to run shortly after. Aaron was fine with that; he’d gotten everything he needed. He’d more or less come to terms with the nature of his work, but that little bit of guilt over what would happen the next evening always started eating at him when they insisted on staying. Sometimes it still got to him, though; it was nights like those, nights like tonight, that he was grateful to have a network.

He checked the mirror a final time to make sure he didn’t look like he’d just rolled out of bed (or out of the shower, or off of the floor) before setting out down the lavish corridor, catching the elevator on the express route down. He didn’t even have to look for the “Lounge” button anymore; it had become muscle memory. He spent the short ride down eyeing himself in the button panel, wondering if he should pop his collar to hide the hickeys that were forming, or if that would make him look too ridiculous. He decided against it. Where he was going, he wasn’t about to get judged for it anyway.

The doors slid open with a soft ding to a dim room with staggered levels and low ceilings, assortments of fine, comfortable furniture arranged in little groups. It was fairly empty, only a few people here and there sleepily riding out the last of the morning, with the exception of one group near the back. Their sitting area was a step above the rest, a small ring of couches and armchairs around a circular coffee table, all behind a polished railing and a sign that read “Reserved.”

Aaron made his way over, passing by the hostess with little more than a glance and a smile. Even he had to admit, being part of the House had its perks; the whole place was owned by one of the Sinnenodel holding companies, and all any of the staff needed was a glance at Aaron’s earring to accommodate him. He made a beeline to the sitting area, where two other men and a woman were seated comfortably, all with drinks and one with a cigar, quietly talking and laughing.

He grinned at the group when he plopped into his favourite chair, immediately sinking back into it with an exaggerated groan.

“Rough night?” Asked the woman, smirking over the brim of her martini glass.

Aaron let out a sigh, leaning his temple on his fingers. “No more than any other,” he replied nonchalantly, looking to the rest of the group. “And you guys?”

“Easy,” the woman replied, crossing her legs. “Spilled immediately. Good lord, I almost felt sorry for the man.”

“Oh now, that’s nonsense,” the brown-haired man next to her drawled, nudging her arm gently. “Surely that was the best day he’s had in… nights.” The woman feigned offense and slapped the man on the knee, succeeding only in making him laugh harder.

“How about Derek?” The man continued, gesturing with his cigar to the black-haired, blue-eyed man to Aaron’s right, who responded with an exaggerated eye roll. The brunette seemed pleased with himself. “Tell Aaron how your night went, Derek.”

Derek groaned, leveling an exasperated look on Aaron. “It started almost two nights ago, that’s how it went.”

The woman smiled wickedly, gesturing with her martini hand. “August fifth, 5am…” she teased in a sing-song voice.

Aaron grimaced, though he had to chuckle, before letting out a low whistle. “What’s that…” he paused to count in his head, “Twenty-nine straight hours?” He quirked a brow at the lowball glass in the man’s hand, no food in sight. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Nooo,” Derek replied immediately, tossing back his drink and staring wide-eyed ahead at the woman, who only giggled more. “No, I am not.”

“How about you, Aaron?” the brunette across the table pressed, “You look tired, have fun?”

Aaron shrugged, looking around for a waitress and holding up two fingers. It took less than a minute for her to come back with a lowball glass and his two fingers of bourbon. “Short, but… efficient. She left just now, her car is probably just picking her up.”

The woman laughed. “What, did you not even shower before you came down here, you filthy whore?”

Aaron pointed a finger at her with mock indignation, but couldn’t help but laugh. “I am a perfectly clean whore, thank you very much.”

“Oh really?”

Aaron shrugged, gesturing innocently. “She was in a rush,” he reasoned, “We had to multitask.”

The woman rolled her eyes, a smirk curling her lips. “Well, aren't you accommodating.”

“I live to please.”

The woman blew a kiss, taking another sip of her martini. “Don’t we all.”

The group talked for a little while, chatting and laughing, though Derek stayed mostly quiet, getting another drink and looking a little shell-shocked. Finally, Aaron couldn't help himself.

“Okay, Derek, seriously. I have to ask,” he said, nudging the man’s shoulder. “Twenty-nine hours?”

Derek’s eyes went wide as he gestured helplessly. “He must have been on something!”

“What were you on?”

Derek shifted in his seat to dig in the pocket of his blazer, tossing something to Aaron. It was a small, empty vial, with a black-and-gold label that read Ero Felicia.

“Wow,” Aaron almost groaned, letting his head fall back onto the chair and rolling the vial between his fingers. “No kidding.”

Derek held up three fingers, looking both exhausted and astounded. “Three vials. Three.”

“Good lord,” Aaron grimaced, tossing the vial back. “How are you still even conscious?”

“No idea.”

Aaron gave him a sympathetic look before shrugging, trying as he usually did to look at the bright side. “Well, maybe Duchess Lydia will give you a night off for your valiant efforts.”

Derek didn't look so sure. “I got everything I needed, so I’m sure Mistress will be pleased, but…” He trailed off, staring at a spot somewhere on the coffee table.

Aaron nodded in understanding, holding up his glass. “I know the feeling.” Neither Lydia nor Varis were in the business of rewarding for simply doing one’s job.

The two clinked their glasses together and threw back the rest of their drinks in solidarity, before turning their attention to the raunchy story that Marcus and Victoria had launched into. At some point there was mention of something tangentially related to horses, and it reminded Aaron of something, the man snapping his fingers at Victoria.

“Did you catch the race tonight?” he asked, waking up a little.

Victoria’s face fell into a pout before settling neutral again as she looked away, re-crossing her legs. “No,” she replied, as casually as she could muster.

“Liar,” Aaron accused her, laughing. “Who won?”

Victoria gave him a sidelong look, trying to look innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t make me crawl into your head to find out,” Aaron mock-threatened, leaning on his elbows, “You know I will.”

Victoria tossed back her wavy black hair with an annoyed groan, defeated. “Fine,” she conceded sharply, pulling a wad of bills out of her bra and tossing it on the table for Aaron to eagerly snatch up. “Fucker didn’t even show.”

Aaron simply laughed, flipping through the stack and slapping it triumphantly on his leg before tucking it into his pocket. “What did I say? Derek what did I say.”

“He said the jockey was trash,” Derek assented.

“I said the jockey was trash,” Aaron reiterated, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He put his arms out helplessly, looking to the rest of the group. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

Victoria rolled her eyes dramatically, tossing her head. Aaron simply grinned cheekily at her, before looking to the rest of the group. “Next round’s on me, then.”

Victoria laughed, a musical sound. “Please, you know we don’t pay here.”

“Yeah, but that’s what they say in movies,” Aaron shrugged.

Victoria eyed him up and down. “Careful Aaron, you’re bleeding blue again.”

Aaron sat back, waving the accusation away. “Blue’s my colour anyway.”

“You sure it’s not red?” Victoria retorted, poking at the hickeys on his neck.

That elicited a chuckle from the group and conversation picked up again, Marcus and Victoria seeming like they could go all day while Aaron and Derek relaxed, the latter occasionally dozing off.

“Just go to bed,” Aaron murmured to him, leaning closer as the other two chattered. “Moon only knows, you need it.”

“Can’t yet,” Derek mumbled, heaving a long sigh and shifting in his seat. “Maintenance is probably going to be in the room all damn day. Fucking psychopath.”

Aaron’s face fell. “That bad, huh?”

“Mhm,” Derek hummed, signaling for another drink.

Aaron frowned, downing the rest of his own drink and gesturing with his head towards the elevator, lowering his voice. “Just come up to my room then, you’re exhausted.”

Derek sighed again, waiting the thirty or so seconds it took for the waitress to bring him his drink before downing the whole thing in one go. “Alright,” he said, standing and swaying a little.

Aaron stood as well, catching Derek’s elbow so he wouldn’t fall. They bid their goodbyes, Aaron leading an increasingly wobbly Derek to the elevator and ultimately into his room. Housekeeping had been in already - the staff were always prompt for the likes of them - and Derek all but collapsed face-first onto the bed the minute he was near enough, not even kicking out of his shoes.

Aaron sighed, arms crossed, half-amused and half-pitying the poor man. He’d been in that position more than once, and the group of them, they were all familiar.

“Come on now, can’t sleep yet,” Aaron reasoned, pulling Derek’s jacket off before turning him onto his back and working on his shirt buttons. He was pretty sure he had an extra t-shirt somewhere that would fit. The shirt looked like it had been put back on a little uneven; the buttons near the bottom weren't lined up properly.

Derek was compliant at first, but all of a sudden he screwed up his face and grabbed Aaron’s arms, trying weakly to push him away. Something like a whimper escaped his throat, and he weakly begged, “Please stop, no more, I can’t…”

Aaron removed his hands, giving Derek a moment to calm down. Man, the poor guy was more drunk than he’d initially thought. He thought back through the morning, trying to count how many drinks Derek had ordered. Dammit, he should have kept closer track. They all knew how Derek could get when he drank. He was still fairly new to all this, after all.

Once Derek seemed to have calmed down, Aaron anchored his knee on the edge of the bed, pulling Derek upright by his hands. “Hey, it's okay,” he whispered, trying to catch the man’s eye.

Derek hung his head, burying his face in his hands. From this angle, Aaron could see the angry red marks snaking around his wrists. After a moment, Derek sniffed, wiping at his eyes almost angrily with his sleeve. He seemed to be trying to compose himself, but he was having trouble, and eventually leaned into Aaron, burying his face in his abdomen.

“Shhh,” Aaron hushed him as his body started to shake, moving to sit next to him on the bed and putting an arm around his shoulders. Derek buried his face in Aaron’s shoulder, grasping at his jacket. Aaron let him have his moment, gently rocking the man; he’d been in his shoes before. They all had. They had a certain understanding. “You’re okay, you’re done now. You did great.”

After a few minutes Derek seemed to have calmed down, allowing Aaron to help him out of his shirt and pants and into Aaron’s spare t-shirt. Soon after he collapsed back onto the bed, the full force of the alcohol and twenty-nine hours of whatever he’d been through hitting him all at once. Aaron was content to arrange him more or less on the pillows, tossing the sheets over him.

With that done, Aaron got out of his own clothes, pulling on a pair of pajama pants. His friends always teased him for sending pajamas up to his room, but he didn’t care. If he got the opportunity to sleep alone, he was damn well going to be comfortable when he did it.

He went into the bathroom and went through his morning routine like normal; rough night and drunk friend or not, his looks were a big part of his job and skin care halted for no man. Just as he was taking his earring off for the night, he was reminded of something, and went back to the bed where Derek had dozed off on his stomach.

Carefully, Aaron reached behind his neck, undoing the clasp of his choker. It was a black satin ribbon, about an inch wide, with a cameo charm at the front, a coiled adder carved into it in relief. Derek stirred as Aaron pulled it out from under him, squinting up with a furrowed brow.

“Am I in your way?” he mumbled, not entirely awake.

Aaron shook his head. “Nope, you’re fine. Just getting this off you.”

Derek nodded into the pillow. “Are you joining me?”

“Nah,” Aaron smiled. “I think you earned a bed to yourself today.”

Derek smiled, a little crooked but certainly sincere, and closed his eyes again, shifting a bit and spreading out. “Yay.”

Aaron sighed, putting the choker on the dresser alongside his earring and turning the lights off. His eyes and ring began to glow, allowing him to see again before he returned to the bathroom, grabbing a spare blanket from the closet and several towels on the way. He tossed the towels into the bathtub, making a little improvised bed, and climbed in, pulling the blanket over him. Sleeping in the bathtub really wasn’t that bad; it was large enough that he didn’t have to completely fold himself up, and the towels made it softer. He probably would have been more happy to just share the bed with Derek - wouldn’t be the first time - but the poor guy was so shaken up, Aaron figured he’d appreciate the space. After all, Derek would have done the same for him. They all would have.

Every now and then, in quiet moments like these, Aaron realized just how strange it all might be to an outsider. If he told Lilie or even Max how he behaved around his House friends, they’d probably look at him like he was crazy. Hell, his second-year self, when he’d first started all this, would have done the same. But the four of them, this group, they had something in common Aaron didn’t have with anyone else he knew. They were all Sinnenodels. And nights like tonight… well, they came with the territory.

It was funny, in a twisted sort of way; they’d all slept with each other at least once, for varying reasons. Aaron recalled a particularly annoying instance that had become more funny with time, when he and Victoria had been sent after each other as a wager between Varis and her Count. After that, she’d introduced him to their little band of veterans. Sometimes they came and went; Sveta had left when it was time for her to breed, and Derek had joined them shortly after. But he was grateful for them. Their House, their work… it all had the potential to turn everyone into a turncoat, an enemy. But they’d managed to find a sort of camaraderie in it, able to relate to each other in a way they couldn’t with anyone else. He’d even dare say they’d bonded over it, though he’d never actually say it out loud. They’d become a small support network, in a way, despite the way they harshly teased one another. It was tenuous at times, as their House tended to be, but they stuck with it nonetheless. Often, at the end of the night, they were all any of them had. The only ones who could really understand.

Aaron was pulled from his thoughts by a slurred yell from the bedroom, Derek having apparently stirred and in his drunken state felt the need to call, “Goodnight, Aaron.”

He chuckled, adjusting his own position in the bathtub and finally closing his eyes. “Goodnight, Derek.”

Obscene's Filing Cabinet

Useless | Jan. 2019

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP--

Aaron groaned as his alarm stirred him from sleep, eyes feeling like they were full of sand as he slowly pried them open. And, as he had every single evening since the incident, he wondered why he bothered; he was staring into darkness. There was nothing to see. Still, he blinked as he sat up, looking around like he always had for his phone. But the movement was nothing more than habit now, it wouldn’t help him. Useless.

Reaching over to his right, he felt around the nightstand for his phone, alarm yelling at him all the time. Every additional beep as he searched only served to annoy him further, and by the time he finally found the damn thing he was significantly pissed off. Pressing the button on the side to silence it, he exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. This was no way to start the night.

When he put his phone back, he frowned, feeling a slight warmth on his hand. He felt around and found the base of the lamp; as he slid his fingers upward it grew warmer. Dammit, how long had that been on? A few nights at least. There were no freaking doors on his room, why didn’t Varis tell him he had a light on?

He moved his hand up into the lampshade, searching for the switch to turn it off. But as he felt around, he must have touched the bulb, because his fingers seared suddenly and he instinctively jerked his hand away. But his hand got caught in the lampshade, and he heard a crash when he pulled the lamp with him and it toppled to the floor.

“Fuck!”

Growling to himself, Aaron fell back onto the bed, sucking on his burnt finger and clapping his other hand over his eyes. Shit, he had definitely heard the bulb break. Now there were probably shards of glass on his floor, and he didn’t know how far they’d spread. Fuck!

Taking another few deep breaths, Aaron needed a lot of willpower to calm himself down. He had slippers he could wear to at least protect his feet for now, but without knowing how far the glass had spread, he wasn’t sure he could clean it all up on his own. He groaned again. He’d have to ask someone to help him. Because he couldn’t do it on his own. A grown man, but he couldn’t sweep up a little glass. Useless.

Rolling over to the other side of the bed, he reached down to the floor, and by the grace of some force somewhere his slippers were over there. One positive thing. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped them on, finally standing. He trailed the bed with one hand as he slowly crossed the room, reaching out in front of him when he could no longer follow it. He could hear glass crunching under his feet as he carefully made his way to the bathroom, feeling his way along the wall until he found the doorway.

Once inside, he could find his way around more easily, with most of the furniture within arm’s reach. He went to the shower first, making sure the lid of the toilet was down this time before he put his pants on it, taking particular care to be mindful of where he set the shower knob and where he put his towel and slippers. He didn’t want to trip over them again, as he had in the past.

The shower went more or less okay, him having figured out where to set the knob and having arranged his products in such a way that he could remember which was which. Shampoo on the left, conditioner on the right, body wash on the lower shelf. There, at least he could retain the dignity of being able to wash himself.

He very nearly tripped on his slippers when he stepped out but managed to remember, found his towel with little difficulty and got himself dried off before wrapping it around his waist. Feeling along the edge of the counter, he centred himself in front of the sink, staring blankly forward where he knew the mirror was out of habit.

Sighing, he brushed his hands over his face, mood souring when he got to his jaw. His stubble was approaching beard status at this point, and it made him feel dirty and unkempt. But he had yet to work up the courage to try shaving blind, and tonight was not that night.

Feeling for the sink knobs, he adjusted them to a good temperature and went about washing his face, expecting his products to be where he left them. But when he reached for his face wash, his hand collided with a few other bottles, and he heard at least three things clatter to the floor.

“Fuck!”

Growing heated, he used the towel around his waist to dry his face before he stooped to collect whatever fell. He had heard three bottles hit the floor, but to his considerable frustration, he could only find two. Motherfucker! Varis must have been going through his things again, and didn’t have the courtesy to put them back where he found them. And now Aaron had no idea what he did and didn’t have available to him.

Growling to himself again, he hurried through the rest of his routine, brushing his teeth and combing his hair to the best of his ability. It was almost funny that he still tilted his head this way and that as he combed, muscle memory from looking in a mirror for 23 years. Luckily he could pretty much tell if his hair was in order by touching it, and after a moment he decided to stop messing with it.

Unfortunately, dressing was more of a challenge. Hearing glass crunching again, Aaron slowly made his way to his closet, taking a roundabout path by finding the bed and following it to the wall, and then following the wall to the closet. “Siri, what time is it?” he asked, his annoyance probably lost on the AI he was talking to.

“The time is seven thirty-three PM,” Siri reported.

Aaron suppressed another groan, stepping into the closet. Seven thirty-fucking-three. Half an hour, it took him! Just to get through washing! He used to be able to do everything in twenty minutes, start to finish. He knew it wasn't reasonable to be so angry with himself, but he couldn't help it. He hated all this inefficiency.

Running his hands over the things hanging in his closet, Aaron was grateful that his wardrobe was rather plain. He could tell more or less by the fabric which pants were which colour, being that the suit pants were all either black or grey and the khakis were all, well, khaki. He selected a pair of suit pants he hoped were black and a belt that he hoped was the same, before turning to the other side of the closet where the shirts were. When Lilie had come and helped him organize his clothes after the incident, she had set it up so that the shirts got darker from left to right, starting with white and ending with black. It had been extremely helpful at first, but as time went on he found the flaw in the system: once the shirts had all been washed, he couldn't tell which was which when he went to put them back.

Hedging his bets, he went with the one furthest left and plucked a tie from another hanger, not caring what colour it was. If his other clothes were what he thought they were, it wouldn't matter, though from the texture of the silk it seemed to have a pattern. Whatever.

On his careful way out he pulled some underwear and some socks that didn't feel argyle from a drawer in his dresser, luckily a task that hadn't gotten all that much harder after he'd lost his vision. As he shuffled back to his bed he tried to collect most of the glass in one place with his foot, though of course he had no idea if he was making any progress. He gave up after only a moment, having to feel around to make sure he actually found his bed.

The act of dressing wasn't too bad. He had figured out a way to do his buttons without looking long before he lost his sight, and tying the tie was almost second nature. He could tell that everything was straight and properly creased by how it felt on his body, so at the very least he knew he had himself mostly in order. Now he just hoped he didn't pick clashing colours and look like a fool.

“Siri, any notifications?” He asked as he put his slippers back on and went about making his bed.

“You have two text messages. Would you like me to read them?”

“Yes.”

“First text message, from; Lovely: ‘Evening! Are you coming to class today?’ colon, close parenthesis.”

Aaron sighed as he listened, sitting on his bed in the middle of making it. She had sent him a smiley face, but Siri apparently couldn't understand it. Aaron was almost surprised by the lump that grew so painfully in his throat, though it wasn't a new occurrence. He hated the way his phone read Lilie’s texts. It had that classic “AI” sound, passable but still awkward at times. But even if Siri’s cadence were perfect, Aaron still would have hated it. It was one of many things he missed; he could no longer read her texts in her voice. Another little encouragement, torn away. And now, they couldn't even send private messages, because every damn text had to be read to him out loud!

He fell backwards onto his bed, feeling like he could cry. In fact, he did feel the sting in his eyes of new tears as he listened to the next message, though he blinked them furiously away.

“Second text message, from; Alderman: ‘I’ll be by at nine, but I'm not waiting.’”

Max’s gruff wording helped Aaron calm himself a little, the man sighing and sitting back up. Eris had been sending Max by every night to help guide him to class, and even though Aaron had turned him away multiple times in favour of wallowing in self pity, he still came. Eris probably wouldn’t let him stop.

Gathering his breath and his energy, Aaron forced himself to his feet, ignoring the crunch of glass as he grabbed his phone and shuffled out of his room. He almost tripped over the lamp, but luckily he’d been going slowly enough that he could correct his footing. Slowly, carefully, he made his way into the living room, leaning over to feel for furniture before he bumped into it. Moving so slowly and gingerly pissed him off - he was used to walking with purpose, never one to meander - but there was no other way. He’d been told he would eventually memorize the layout, but he was still a long way off. Besides, he wouldn’t put it past Varis to rearrange the furniture without telling him.

Arriving at the far wall, he went about feeling along the windows, making sure the heavy drapes were sufficiently drawn. “Siri, what time is sunset tonight?”

“Sunset time tonight was seven fifty-two PM.”

“What is the time?”

“The time is eight oh-three PM.”

As if on cue, there was a sharp knock on the door. Breakfast. At a maddeningly slow pace Aaron went to the door, following the walls and stepping carefully. There shouldn’t be anything on the floor to trip him, but not seeing what he was stepping on still freaked him out enough to keep him walking slowly.

When he opened the door he was greeted by a sharp, freezing wind and the gruff voice of the delivery woman, telling him to sign a clipboard. He scrawled his signature on it somewhere and held out his arms, where the delivery woman knew by now to arrange his packages as sturdy as possible.

“Do I look like a fool today?” Aaron asked her as she gave him his package.

“You’re fine, honey,” The woman replied, tapping him on the bottom of his chin. Aaron jumped at the unexpected contact. “With a face like yours, no outfit could make you look foolish.”

“Wha--” Aaron’s concerned reply was met with the sound of the door slamming as the delivery woman made her leave, and he was left to wonder why she’d said that. Did he look like a fool? Was he wearing a purple shirt and yellow tie or something? Was his tie tied inside-out? What the hell kind of encouragement was that for a blind man?

Left to drown in his own doubt, Aaron made his way to the kitchen, walking along the wall and dragging his bicep across it to find his way. He had to bump over both his and Varis’ doorways on the way, then the wall lead to the edge of the counter.

He placed his packages on the counter and ran his hand along it to find the coffee machine. Luckily it was a simple one, all he had to do was fill the grounds and hit the only button, and he went about it by muscle memory, setting it bubbling away in relatively little time. But as he waited, eating, he took note of the smell, or lack thereof; normally the kitchen was awash with the smell of coffee as it brewed, but there was nothing. But he could hear the coffee machine running, so what was going on?

He was suspicious as he ate, and got up immediately when he heard the machine beep. He very, very carefully brushed his fingers along the counter, searching for the machine (he had burned himself more than once just reaching for the damn thing) but on his way, his fingers found a little pile of granules.

“Fucking damn it!”

He almost swept the coffee grounds across the kitchen in anger, but had to remind himself to stay calm as he slowly made a fist. He'd missed the damn grounds tray when he was filling it, and had just been pouring coffee directly onto the counter. Good lord, he couldn’t even manage to make coffee! He was a grown man, he used to do this on autopilot, and now he could barely manage to feed himself.

“What the hell is this?”

Aaron jumped at the sudden sound, whirling around to where he thought it came from. He heard Varis tsk irritably, and imagined that he was probably gesturing flamboyantly in his annoyance. “Again, boy?”

“Again, Varis,” Aaron replied, equally irritated.

“Watch that tone with me boy,” Varis retorted, probably looking smug and skulky. Aaron heard faint tink-ing and figured Varis was pulling out a bottle and a glass. “What was all that racket earlier?”

“A couple of things,” Aaron’s voice was painfully bland. “Knocked some things over in the bathroom, broke a lamp.”

“Did you clean it up?”

“I don't know where all the glass went. I'm going to call facilities to come take care of it.”

Varis tsked again, and Aaron could hear him starting to walk away, muttering, “Useless.”

Aaron followed the sound, scowling. “By the way, you're going to have to find a way to get over that attitude,” Varis added, now a little further away, “You only have two nights left to mope, and I'm growing tired of drinking from bottles.”

Aaron hung his head, fists forming at his sides as he heard what must have been the study door slam shut. More than a little bit angry, he finished his breakfast quickly and put his plate in the sink. “Siri, call facilities.”

“Calling: Facilities.”

Aaron did his best to wash his plate as the phone rang, turning off the water so he could tell the operator what he needed.

“You said glass?” The operator asked.

“Yes, in the first bedroom, but I’m not sure how far it spread,” Aaron admitted, carefully putting his plate away. “I think there’s a mess in the kitchen too, but…” He sighed. “I’m not sure where.”

He heard keys clicking on the other end of the line. “Alright, we’ll have a custodian out to you in about an hour.”

“Thank you.”

“Mail, boy!” Varis shouted from the study, voice a little muffled.

Aaron rolled his eyes as the operator hung up the phone. “Yes, Varis, I didn’t forget.”

Making that long, slow trip down the hallway again, Aaron probed along the walls near the door, feeling for his coat. He had started leaving it with one arm inside-out to find it more easily after having accidentally put on one of Varis’ one evening. Finding it, he put it on fairly easily, feeling to make sure he’d gotten every button before searching for his boots. Marking them had been more of a challenge, but so far storing them with the outsides together rather than the insides had been helping. Laces were a bit of a pain, but so was everything, and finally he turned back to the hook for his cane.

This was, in his opinion, the worst part of the evening. He snapped the cane open as he opened the door, tapping it on the sides of the doorway and the porch and listening for the change in pitch on the different materials. He stepped cautiously, careful not to trip on the door frame, and reached further forward with the cane until he felt the slight drop when it found the stairs.

He approached the stairs as frustratingly slowly as everything else, feeling around for the railing. Only when he found it could he descend, counting the three steps before his foot found the stone of the walkway. Sweeping his cane in front of him, he listened for the stone; it was the only reason he could walk any semblance of a straight line. Still, he despised the cane; it was harder to operate than one would think, having a penchant for getting caught on uneven ground, and worst of all, it publicly broadcast the fact that he was blind. He might as well have been wearing a sign on his back that read, “Hey look! A Light mage who can’t see! Isn’t that hilarious?”

He counted fifteen steps before he started swinging the cane wider, looking for the edges of the gate. Still, he was surprised when the cane hit something; for some reason it always shocked him, and his first thought was always that he was going to walk into a pole or something. But it was just the gate, and he walked even slower until he could touch it with his hands, following the freezing stones to the mailbox. He could feel that the indicator was up, and turned it down before opening it, pulling out a few letters and reaching inside to make sure there was nothing left. Satisfied that he’d gotten everything, he closed the mailbox and turned to make his slow way back into the house.

The wind was starting to pick up, and Aaron used his mail hand to turn his collar up against it. But no sooner had he done so than his feet went out from under him, and before he knew what was happening he was on the ground, tailbone and elbow throbbing.

“Fuck!”

His cane was tied around his wrist, so he still had that, but he’d lost his grip of the mail in the fall and he thought he heard his phone clatter off somewhere. Growling, Aaron turned over onto his hands and knees, tailbone and elbow loudly complaining as he felt around the ground for the letters he’d dropped. Fuck, he hadn’t counted them either! And now he was on his hands and knees in the yard, making a fool of himself, where the whole neighbourhood could see. He almost whimpered, he was so embarrassed; apparently, losing his sight also meant losing his dignity.

“Aaron?” A female voice called to him some distance away, and Aaron heard the clopping of footsteps approach him quickly. “Are you alright?”

Aaron whipped around to where he thought he’d heard the voice, ears burning as the footsteps grew closer. “Countess Marivaldi?” He asked, looking around despite the fact that his eyes couldn’t help him.

“Yes,” she told him, much closer now. He flinched when she put a hand on his shoulder, and she withdrew, apparently realizing she’d startled him. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Aaron’s stomach twisted, humiliated. “I’m fine, Countess,” he assured her, though his voice wobbled a bit as he tried to get to his feet. “I just slipped, I think.”

“Here, let me help you,” The Countess insisted, placing her hand on him again. This time it didn’t surprise him as much, and though he would have preferred to get himself up, he knew he needed the help, as he didn’t know where he could safely put his feet. He felt only further humiliated as he clung to the woman’s arm, feeling her pull him up more than he should have needed.

The Countess held his shoulders for a moment, gently guiding him a step back. “Stay there for a second, you have mail all over the place,” she told him. He heard footsteps all around him as she apparently collected the letters that had fallen.

“Thank you Countess, but that’s really not--” his protest was interrupted when the Countess pressed a bundle of letters into his free hand, along with his phone. Exhaling slowly, he dropped his head, tapping the mail against his leg. “Thank you, Countess.” He repeated, defeated.

“No problem,” she told him, patting his arm. “Do you need help getting back inside?”

Aaron shook his head, more out of principle than anything. “I think I’ll be alright, thank you, Countess.”

She seemed to consider it a moment before taking her hand away, and he heard her take a step. “Well, have a good night then,” she seemed to concede, “Be careful of the ice.”

Aaron nodded, offering a wave in what he hoped was her direction. “You too, Countess. I’ll do my best.”

When he made it back inside, he nearly slammed the door behind him, propping his cane up carefully in the corner before heading to the study. Feeling along the wall, he stopped at the second door and knocked, waiting politely until Varis beckoned him in. Staring ahead (probably) he carefully took three steps into the room, bowing once holding out the mail.

Varis snatched it from his grip, and Aaron heard him shuffle through the letters before pressing one back into his hand. “That one is for you,” the Count informed him, sounding thoroughly inconvenienced.

Aaron bowed again and turned, feeling for the doorway and closing the door behind him before going back to the foyer. Siri told him it was almost nine, so he elected to put his boots back on and sit on the bench in the hall to wait for Max. Not like there was anything else he could do.

As he waited, he put his face in his hands, breathing heavily and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Normally it took a concerted effort on Varis’ part to humiliate him as much as he had been just now. Sprawled out in the yard, with a Countess helping him to his feet, collecting the things he’d dropped. Was he really so helpless? So damn useless that he couldn’t get to his feet on his own, that vampires of high standing felt so moved by their pity that they stooped to aid him? What the hell kind of attendant was he?

He was pulled from his self-berating by a sharp knock at the door, which he opened without even standing up. “Who’s there?”

“Who do you think?” Max was just as friendly as ever, it seemed. “Come on, it’s freezing.”

Aaron gave him a deadpan look (well, a deadpan expression) as he stood, grabbing his cane from where he left it in the corner in his left hand and holding out his right. Max took it and guided it to his arm before leading them both down the stairs, Aaron holding onto his arm and following a step behind.

“Walkway’s icy,” Max informed him.

Aaron glared in Max’s general direction, his tailbone and elbow throbbing in response. “Thanks, I know.”

Aaron imagined that Max rolled his eyes as they turned out onto the sidewalk, Max leading them at a brisker pace than Aaron could accomplish on his own. Of course, Aaron couldn’t find his way to class on his own anyway, so he supposed it didn’t matter. He was just happy to be able to move with some urgency.

“You look like shit,” Max said after a moment.

Aaron groaned. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Max replied, turning them slightly, “You’re obviously tired, not to mention pissed, you’ve got sort of a homeless beard going on, and of course there’s the eyes…”

Aaron rolled his useless eyes at Max, scoffing. “Do my clothes and hair at least look okay?”

Max paused a moment. Aaron assumed he was looking him up and down. “Yeah, they’re fine.”

“What colour are my pants?”

“Grey.”

“Damn,” Aaron huffed, “Thought they were going to be black.”

“Close enough,” Max replied, and Aaron felt his arm rise a little with what was probably a shrug.

Aaron pulled up his coat sleeve to reveal his shirt. “And the shirt?”

“White,” Max reported.

Aaron pulled down his coat collar. “Tie?”

“Red.”

Aaron thought for a moment. “With the diamond pattern?”

“Mhm.”

Aaron thought again, putting the outfit together in his head. After a moment, he nodded to himself, looking down. “I guess that’s fine,” he admitted.

Max led him dutifully to Cerulean Hall, where they arrived slightly earlier than the other students in their Affinity Mastery class. Aaron had spoken to school administration about his concerns, but they had told him he was still required to attend the class, his protests about literally being unable to manipulate light without vision having gone ignored. Apparently they still saw value in his attendance, even if he didn’t.

Max guided him to a set of bleachers he knew were to the side of the observation balcony, where all the vampires up top could get a good view of the crippled, useless mage sitting out the session. Once seated, Aaron folded up his cane and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He stayed like that for a long time, listening as other students made their way in and the class began. He could hear and sometimes feel the magic flying around, taking particular note of the metallic sounds of Max practicing.

All the while, Aaron fumed. All he could think about was how jealous he was, how he missed the rush of magic, tricking the eye and messing with what could be seen. Flying illusions around the room, creating illusory voids of nothing, ghosting around, invisible to the world. Seeing through a proxy’s eyes. Now he couldn’t even see through his own eyes, and his magic, which affected only the very sense he had lost, had effectively been torn away from him. It was like losing a part of himself, and it hurt even more than the loss of his sight.

As if to add insult to injury, Aaron heard the professor call, “Mr. Starag, why are you sitting out?”

Aaron gave the most incredulous look he could muster in the direction of the noise, snapping his cane to its full length for emphasis. “I’m blind.”

“So? You still have magic, don't you?” The professor asked, voice closer now. Aaron guessed that he was standing in front of him. “Come on, you're falling behind the rest of the class. Get up and come practice.”

Aaron stood, but he continued to be skeptical, bordering on angry. “I’m a light mage. Who is blind. I'm only going to make a fool of myself.”

The professor muttered something and Aaron felt himself being pushed from behind. He had no choice but to follow, hearing the room go eerily quiet.

“Do you have your focus?” The professor asked.

Aaron held up his left hand, thumb spinning his ring. “Yes, but--”

“Good, then make me a beam of sunlight please.”

Aaron was not amused. “Professor, even if I can accomplish that, I have no way of knowing where it's aimed.”

“So?”

“So?!” He hadn't meant to reply so contentiously, but that knowledge did nothing to abate his anger. “So, don't you think a mage capable of throwing sunlight around with no way of knowing where he's throwing it might be deemed unsafe?” He was raising his voice, though he had no idea if he was even shouting in the right direction. The professor tried to reply, but Aaron cut him off. “Don’t you think there's a risk of such a mage having his power sealed permanently, and having what little magic he has left taken away?!”

The room was silent for a moment, Aaron breathing heavily. “That’s what I thought,” he spat, clicking his cane around him. But he didn't know where in the room he was; for all he knew, he might as well have been stranded in the middle of nowhere. Growing only more heated, be took off in some direction, arriving by some stroke of luck at the door and throwing it open, storming out. “Fucking useless!”

Obscene's Filing Cabinet

Here I'll be posting completed pieces of mine that aren't intended to be posted in existing RPs. Many of these will feature the same characters; however, they will likely not reliably follow the same canon, and therefore may not be consistent with each other. That's no problem for me, but do keep that in mind if you happen to be perusing. As well, some characters involved may belong to other people; in these cases I've done my very best to represent their characters as faithfully and use them as minimally as possible, and I make no claim of them as my own.

If you're interested in any of the characters mentioned, there's a good chance they've been taken or adapted from RPs I'm currently in, which can be found in my profile bio. Should your interest be piqued further, please don't post here; I'd be happy to answer any questions in PMs.

Some of these are study pieces, but all were made as surprises for my RP friends.

I hope you enjoy ^_^

Of Blood and Magic

Listening passively was one of the many things expected of him, but nonetheless Aaron wasn’t particularly interested in the conversation at hand. In fact, the only thing that stirred him was the oddity that all the attention in the room seemed focused on Countess Marivaldi, strange considering Count Benjamin was supposed to be the guest of honour. The tension in the room was palpable, and he vaguely recalled the tail end of some argument as he approached the parlor, but Varis seemed to have put an end to that. Nothing particularly concerning there, either. Parties like these were made for arguments; if no one disagreed, then someone was lying.

And since everyone was always lying, making it obvious was just dull.

Satisfied that things were going to plan, Aaron focused on his primary task: keeping his posture proper yet relaxed, making sure no glass clinked or jittered on his tray, careful not to interrupt the line of sight between the guests. He’d offer an interested smile if anyone looked, maybe linger a half second longer for the Countess to notice the glint of gold on his ear, but overall he stayed out of the way. If he did his job right, it would be as if he was never there; at most just another statement piece to decorate the room.

The mention of Morgan le Fey was enough to capture Aaron’s fleeting attention, but only superficially. An upcoming film including her could certainly pique his interest, but seeing as Varis introduced the topic as a means of beating a hasty subject change, he figured it was nothing too dearly important. More compelling was the flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, where Eris was gingerly sipping at his glass—and displeased with it, apparently. Were this any other event he’d have promptly offered to replace the glass with something more to his liking, but given the nature of a blood tasting, some level of displeasure was to be expected. Besides, it was more an insult to Countess Amaris than anyone, and hence not Aaron’s problem.

Though, as if sensing Aaron’s attention, Eris suddenly looked to him. "That'll be you in a few years' time, eh, Sunny?" Eris grinned, raising his eyebrows. "Unable to go anywhere without getting recognized."

Going from invisible to the focus of attention was jarring, but Aaron didn’t lose his footing, pausing only the instant required by etiquette before sinking into an easy bow. “You flatter me too much, Mr. Samael,” he replied, voice honeyed and smooth.

When he straightened, he put his hair back in place with a flick of the wrist that mirrored Eris’, albeit with a touch less finesse; it wouldn’t do to outshine a guest, of course. “If I’m to be recognized, I’m sure it’ll be only by virtue of my Master’s reputation. Or, perhaps my affiliation with you.”

Aaron was in the middle of letting his eyes linger just a calculated touch too long on Eris’ when he suddenly froze. It was subtle, nearly imperceptible, but the slightest wave of tension rippled through the dorm, winding tightly around his chest and stopping his heart in its tracks. He knew that feeling well; it kept him up in the day, lying awake dreading its arrival and going crazy if it didn’t come, and he knew exactly what was next.

A faint ticking echoed from the hall.

Now?! Aaron thought indignantly, hoping his face wasn’t turning white. Expression carefully careless, he moved the neutral bottle a smidge to pretend he’d stopped to settle his tray. That bastard, I thought we had an understanding!

He forced himself to focus, damming the floodgates of panic for the time being in order to think. Malek was an asshole, but he wasn’t an idiot; he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Varis’ party. That meant he thought Aaron could deal with this without drawing suspicion. He was testing how he’d cope under scrutiny, and disengaging from a serving engagement required time. Surely he would be fair for the sake of Varis’ dignity.

Straining his ears, he listened carefully for the ticking, hoping to pinpoint a general location amidst the buzz of conversation in the parlour. Whether the ticking he heard was real or a figment of his imagination was up for debate, but it was all he had to go by, so it would have to do. It was too faint to be in the parlour, thank goodness, and definitely down the hall; the kitchen, perhaps? With any luck it would be in plain sight, or at least easy to find; it would be unbecoming for Aaron to start digging through the bookshelves and cabinets with company over, and thereby reflecting poorly on Varis, which Malek surely knew.

“...Why is that alarm set for ten minutes from now?”

Aaron almost started at the voice, so focused on the tiniest of noises that even the quiet echo of conversation from the other room was booming in comparison. Still, his racing heart was quelled soon after with a flood of relief. The living room! With ten minutes to spare! Bold for Malek to put his little gift somewhere populated, but he either didn’t know it was full of mages or didn’t care; they weren’t the real guests anyway. It was the time Aaron was more concerned with. Compared to their usual "game", ten minutes was generous.

He stole a glance at his watch with a stately flick of the wrist. 5:45.

Fears assuaged for the moment, Aaron finally remembered to breathe, his easy demeanour returning. Bowing once more to Eris, he moved to take his leave; he had time, sure, but problems were best dealt with as soon as possible.

“If you would excuse me, sir,” he resumed in his prior tone, maintaining his bow. As was customary, he angled his body subtly to leave, but wouldn’t move without a formal dismissal from Eris. Count Julian would have had his head on a spike if he left a conversion with a guest without permission, and Varis was no different.

_@Hero

Post a random fact about yourself.

@Skwint Yeah, I hear phobias are irrational like that xD

I've slid on ice a lot, but only crashed from it once. Everything must have slowed down because I thought I traveled a fair distance before losing control, but a trip back to the site the next day made it clear I must have lost control almost immediately after I started slipping. I crashed off the side of the highway just inches between a boulder and a cliff - lucky!

It was a damn good attempt tho. If I'd remembered to take my foot off the gas I totally could have recovered xD

Post a random fact about yourself.

I have a phobia of needles, but only if they're injected perpendicular to the skin. I can get a blood test perfectly fine, but fly into a panic at the idea of something like a flu shot.

What character archetypes/characteristics do you gravitate towards?

I try to change things up anytime I see a rut forming, so I'm not sure I could really put my finger on any one pattern or archetype I like to follow. Branching out of my comfort zone tends to do well for me - in fact, a character I made two years ago trying to branch out into things I don't play much (in this case a muscular male swordsman with a heart of gold, pretty much the opposite of what I usually played before him) became my favourite and most well-developed character to date.

On a more general scale I do like to explore themes from less common points of view, ex. someone from a lesser caste actually looking favourably on a caste system rather than resentfully. I also like to explore themes of faith and obligation and how they're challenged, as well as trying to bend the rules of a given universe or taking unconventional approaches to things like magic or superpowers. Characters who don't get happy endings have also been an interest of mine lately.

But then, even these are mostly things I started doing because I was falling into a rut xD

Of Blood and Magic

On any other night Aaron would have rolled his eyes at Max’s textbook indolence, but tonight he valiantly refrained, though he did break character for a smirk and a raise of the brow at being called, well, Aaron. The lack of effort for even so much as a tried and true “Fido” meant Max was either very angry or barely conscious, though on this sort of special occasion Aaron supposed it could be both at once.

He spun his ring behind his back, a look of vague amusement on his face. He was well aware this party was nothing but a chore for half the mages present, and if not for the fact that Max was Eris’ mage and any offhand comment he made about the evening would be piped directly to Varis, he might have even encouraged him to kick back with his earbuds in and pretend to look engaged if anyone came down the hall. Unfortunately, tonight was as much a show for the guests as it was for host and help (albeit a dull and disinteresting one), so Max would just have to grin and bear it like the rest of them. Or whatever his equivalent to grinning was; Aaron had only ever seen the sneaky kind.

“Oh dear, Eris didn’t get you into one of his soaps, did he?” he teased, shaking his head with a grin of his own. “Better not. If he comes down the hall and sees you watching one, you’ll never hear the end of it.” Channeling Eris, Aaron tossed Max a cheeky wink. “I don’t have any alcohol to serve you, but if I can get you something else to take the edge off, let me know.”

Neutral expression returning, Aaron melted back into his decorous demeanour as if nothing had happened, flicking his wrist absently to check his watch. There, Max could chew on that for a while. After all, angry with a story that would make Eris giggle must have been better than boredom, or else Max shouldn’t have been complaining in the first place. In the meantime, it would soon be time to serve the next bottle to the sitting room. At least disengaging from the conversation wouldn’t be difficult; Salem, clearly nursing his injured pride if that sullen look out the window was any indication, was content to leave him out of the newest discussion on arcane majors, and with a knowing glance to Maddie, Aaron was all too happy to hold his peace on that.

Still, he wasn’t completely frozen out, and Lilie seemed a little left behind in the conversation too. “The rumour mill’s been blissfully quiet on my end as well,” he offered, leaning a hand on the back of the couch where Lilie was sitting. Lips curving into a wry smirk, he quirked his head and added, “Although, do you remember that TA I told you about who hated me? I learned something pretty interesting about him a few weeks ago.”

Chuckling, he straightened, crossing his arms in lingering disbelief. “Turns out Ralph and I are distant cousins. I ran into him after the practical and shared my discovery, but I don’t think he was as thrilled about the news as I was.” The very memory was almost too much, his shoulders quaking with silenced laughter as he replayed the sight of Ralph storming out of the post office in his head. He still couldn’t believe he did it; seeking out chances to piss people off was so out of character for him, and yet despite the plummeting temperatures and outright hostility he’d been getting in Affinity Mastery ever since, his only regret was that he only had one chance per week to torment Ralph with the curse of sharing a drop of Starag blood.

_{@Scribe of Thoth @Hero}