Vixenscratch

Things were no different than any other night, not perceptibly. Judas, as always, could use money or a free meal. The club, as always, had more than enough potential sources of either, if he wasn’t too picky about how he’d come by it. The same way as always; it was a calculated risk every time he went looking to expand his client base. A risk of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, a risk of being asked for a license he didn’t have and couldn’t afford.

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Judas closed the textbook he’d been poring over when his phone rang, with barely a glance at the display – he wouldn’t recognize the number anyway – before pressing the button to take the call and lifting it to his ear. He was acutely aware of Ian bent over a sheaf of sheet music a little further over in their shared dorm room, and wasn’t entirely comfortable with the bear’s presence. Not during a call like this. But it wasn’t the first time and if it became the last his time at the university would soon be over, anyway, so he only took care to make sure his side of the conversation was as innocuous as humanly possible.

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Virtue was named for a quality the Inner Circle deemed her mother to be lacking in, and Faith raised her to live up to that name.

As a child, the filly learned that she was part of the nobility, and that the silver horn on her forehead entitled her to respect and reverence from the common people. Those commoners employed by the Circle proved her lessons correct, bowing their heads as they helped her into her jewel-toned silk gowns and braided gems into her mane. She treated them with respect in turn, the respect the served show the servants.

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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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Judas was well camoflaged. There was no other word for it; he was very nearly as out of place as could be, but he’d managed to hide it. Not just that the club wasn’t really his kind of scene, though that certainly was part of it. Judging by the fact that the woman next to him, a blue tiger with quite captivating amber eyes, was offering to buy him a second drink, he was pretty sure it wasn’t just his discomfort with the environment that he’d managed to cover up.

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The polecat adjusted his desk chair, pulled over to Ian’s desk for the occassion, then reached up and tilted the camera perched on top of the monitor a little more. The preview on the screen didn’t show his face, but from collarbones to mid-thighs, the image seemed clearly enough in focus. Enough so that he could make out a hint of ribs through his fur if he brought the preview up larger.

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Judas cracked his eyes open and glanced over in the direction of the glowing screen in the other end of the room. His roommate was still sitting there, studio earphones covering the bear’s ears, and he appeared to be nodding in time with the music, ocassionally humming along. Now and then he paused, cocking his head a fraction, and typed a few words’ worth or clicked the mouse; probably adjusting something about the piece he was working on.

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Judas picked the farthest stall, hanging his towel on the peg across from it and slinking, tail low, behind the partition. His heart was beating against his ribcage as he fumbled with the taps, biting back a cry as ice-cold water rushed down over him. At least it didn’t take long to heat up, and once the water soaking into his fur wasn’t freezing, it wasn’t long until he stopped shivering. With a sigh, he planted his palms on the wall, tile on one side of him and the plastic-or-whatever-it-was partition on the other, and leaned.

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<<< Back to End of One Journey

Darren was woken up the next morning by the smell of oven-fresh bread and hot chocolate. With a yawn, he sat up, rubbing the last traces of sleep out of his eyes with the back of his right hand. Heather was crouching in front of him, holding a covered wicker basket, which had to be the source of that smell. Tiger and Fluffy sat on either side of her, the Aerodactyl already starting to get too large to be carried around like it had been when newly hatched.

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People don’t know me, they assume I’m some don’t-give-a-damn punk. It’s the hair, the piercings, and maybe a little bit the clothes. I don’t dress in ripped band shirts and jeans full of safety pins, but it is enough I have to change when I get to school. I don’t really mind; in high school it kept people off my back. Certainly wasn’t my impressive physique; I’m a scrawny son-of-a-bitch and daylight isn’t too kind on rat fur at the best of times. 

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