Short stories and serials by Alexandra Herakai

Archive for the ‘Avelyon High’ Category

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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Kiss and Make Up

Raek’s day had been good so far. Not just good, but great. Being able to get close to his boyfriend was still new enough, novel enough, to give him an almost heady sense of empowerment, and then having the opportunity to tell his therapist about it certainly didn’t diminish his accomplishment. Having taken this step, normalcry, something more resembling who he had been before Jake, might actually be in reach. And once he was back to something closer to his old self, maybe his life could be turned right-side-up as well.

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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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Physical Therapy

“Ready to go home, Jeevi?”

The dark blue fox rose from where he had been curled up under a desk when he heard his name, stretching and yawning toothily before sticking his muzzle through the strap of a bag that had been leaned against the leg of that same desk and shrugging it down his neck where it came to rest securely against his chest. :Very, thank you, Pailine.:

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Sister Mine

“So how was your day, short stuff?”

Ravaethinne Griffon lay on her stomach on her much younger stepsister’s bed, watching the three-quarters wyvern girl’s tails sway lazily where she sat by her computer. She’d stopped by to return a book she’d borrowed, and when Becky had turned out to be home alone had stayed to keep her company. Not that it seemed to be neccesary.

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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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