Vixenscratch

Short stories and serials by Alexandra Herakai

Posts Tagged ‘Roxeen’

Battle Scars

The blond lay, face-down, on the bed, chin pillowed on his lower arms. His hair, worn longer than that of most people he knew, was white, silky, and lying in a careless sprawl across the sheets and his pale, scar-lined back, and his eyes were half-lidded. The mattress dipped slightly as his partner lay down next to him, ruby-red fur brushing softly against bare skin.

Slowly, the part-raev, part-wyvern ran his fingers up along the human’s spine, his muzzle pressing against the side of the younger man’s neck. “When are you going to talk to me, Roxeen?” His voice was soft, holding as little edge as he could manage.  Sometimes there was no telling what the blond would take as an attack, and he didn’t want to drive him off again.

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Freedom

Free.

He’d been there for two days, now, and it was finally starting to truly sink in. He was free. His every action wasn’t going to get back to his mother; his stepfather’s iron hand was not going to come down on him if he cast a glance in the wrong direction; he didn’t have to constantly stay on his guard to not slip up. He was, really, free. Free to look and, more importantly, free to do.

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Sexual Healing

The atmosphere at The Rabbit Hole was different. The music was playing, but for its own sake; no mostly-naked dancer was occupying either of the stages. Danil was a fixture behind the bar, as always, the blonde werewolf mixing drinks with a friendly grin, but tonight he took the time to down a bottle of beer of his own every so often, crushing the neck of the glass bottle between his teeth and spitting the shards into the trash can in lieu of using a bottle opener. But the most obvious clue was still probably the dress of the employees and the lack of customers.

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The Gift of Rosiel: Wings of Ash and Acid Tongue

<<< Go back to In the Devil’s Home

Roxeen must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke up feeling stiff and miserable on the cold floor, to say nothing of the pain in his injured hand. He could remember the events of the previous night all too clearly, and he could remember Raol and Cress leaving at some point during the night. Some time after that he had apparently gathered enough energy to pull his pants back on right and curl up in a corner.

His spine felt kinked enough to rival lamb’s fur, probably a combination of the position he’d slept in and the cold, drafty room he was in. But at least he seemed to be alone, which was endlessly better than having Raol there with him. The Gods only knew how long he would have that kind of peace.

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The Gift of Rosiel: In the Devil’s Home

<<< Go back to All’s Not Well in Avelyon

When Roxeen became aware again, he felt more than anything like a passenger in his own body. He was sitting, though he’d slumped over to the side, and the chair he was on was vibrating roughly in time with the rumble of an engine. He couldn’t see his surroundings; his eyes were closed and his eyelids didn’t seem to want to obey regardless of how much he tried to open them. Something smelled like lemon, in that vaguely synthetic way that air fresheners and dish soap had in common.

And nobody spoke a word.

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The Gift of Rosiel: All’s Not Well in Avelyon

The employees-only hallway connecting the door used for deliveries to the main room of The Rabbit Hole was by no stretch silent, but the noise from the club was muffled enough by the sturdy wooden door to facilitate conversation. Out there, especially this late at night, it frequently got loud enough that exchanging confidences, at least, was right out. At least if you wanted the other party to hear you.

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For Old Times’ Sake

Dinner had been slightly uncomfortable; even if she knew about his difficulties with food Naiomi still remembered him the way he’d been when he still lived in Sihainne. And that Roxeen had been able to wolf down Islandic cuisine with the best of them. He had felt guilty when he’d picked at her cooking, which admittedly was far from the domestic disasters she’d mostly been capable of as a young teen. She had assured him that it was okay, that it had mostly been her own fault for not keeping the things he’d told her firmly enough in mind.

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A Rainy Day

 It was not a good night. It was by no stretch of imagination a good night. The rains had apparently decided to start weeks earlier than what had been expected, he hadn’t bothered to bring a coat, his cell phone battery had unexpectedly gone flat, and now this. Roxeen glared, at once disbelieving and angry, at the mess of wires hanging out of the wall at the entrance to his upscale apartment complex where a key pad should have been. Just a fine night for vandals to strike.

His hair lay plastered against his body, already soaked by the lukewarm rain. Not that the temperature made it any more pleasant — it was still cold enough that he was shivering. All he could hope for was that someone with later habits than his own would be leaving the complex soon, not that it was likely.

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