#look me in the eye and tell me that man doesn’t have a concave ribcage

[hualianff]

Take Us Back (To Where We Hoped) 《ao3》

Samidare – Yasuharu Takanashi

They lay sprawled on the hood of the dirtied, run-down truck; backs pressed up to the scratched surface of the windshield and hands settled close enough for their pinkies to touch. The sun hung low in the sky, saturating the smog-muddled atmosphere a blazing blood-orange. A slight breeze tickled Hua Cheng’s cheeks and caressed his shoulders.

In different circumstances, the sunset would be considered beautiful. Sublime. Romantic, even. But the sky reminded Hua Cheng of cataclysmic explosions and rampant fires, unstoppable in their destruction. Rotting buildings and heaps of crumbled debris in the distance also took much of the charm away. As far as the horizon floated–an unreachable painting reserved for vibrant, passionate souls–no other human being lingered in sight.

No one else to enjoy the tranquil summer evening.

No one else but them.

“I wish I had a camera,” Xie Lian suddenly said after minutes of silence. His eyes trained on the scenery in front of them, shining with a heavenly glow. Hua Cheng turned his head to fully look at his boyfriend, listening intently. “This view is too pretty not to take a photo.”

“I can go in and ask if anyone has found one since the last stock run,” Hua Cheng offered immediately, shifting from his sitting position. He prepared to slide off the hood the moment Xie Lian nodded his assent. After all, Xie Lian only has to voice his needs and Hua Cheng will do everything in his power to ensure they are met.

However, Xie Lian shook his head, a small smile forming on his lips. He moved his hand to the right, sneaking it under Hua Cheng’s palm to intertwine their fingers.

“That won’t be necessary, San Lang,” Xie Lian said. “I was merely thinking out loud.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t be any longer than one minute,” Hua Cheng assured, enjoying the pressure of Xie Lian’s palm glued to his own. Their skin was a bit dry. Heavily calloused. Pale. But the skin-to-skin contact spread warmth up Hua Cheng’s arm and through the rest of his body.

His heart fiercely pounded against his ribcage.

“I’m sure. I’d rather just sit with you and watch the sun go down.”

Hua Cheng hummed in acknowledgment.

“Very well. But only until we can barely see-”

“-the peak of the tallest tower. Yes, I knowww,” Xie Lian pouted, scooting in closer to the younger man. “But this is our alone time, when I get San Lang all to myself.”

Hua Cheng’s visible eye lowered with understanding. It was true. As of two years ago, this was their temporary utopia from the unfathomable horrors of reality. The government downplayed the severity of the outbreak for as long as it could until the disease spiraled out of control. A new wave of monsters with different builds and appetites rose to the top of the food chain; humans became their designated vessels.

Or food.

The survivor group’s general rule was that everyone must be indoors as soon as the tallest structure faded into the shadows. Come nightfall is when the deadliest creatures roam the dilapidated Earth–their hunting grounds. For the most part, it’s an effective tell-tale sign they have learned along the way. Survival of the craziest indeed.

The life Hua Cheng lived before everything turned to Hell-fucking-shit was nothing but a distant past. The orphanage, the street hustle, the university he somehow managed to graduate from. Yet, a few people from this distant past remained in Hua Cheng’s life now.

He Xuan, the fucker he defended from a gang of lowlifes back in his teen years who has since then stuck to Hua Cheng’s side like a pesky magnet. (They still repel each other, somehow…)

Yin Yu, the classmate Hua Cheng was paired up with for a two-semester course, then later became his co-worker at the campus library.

And lastly, his boyfriend, Xie Lian, who he met in his final year of university, in the exact library Hua Cheng spent as many hours working as Xie Lian spent studying. Aimless business major with a poor upbringing meets promising graduate student with a tendency to put others first.

Naturally, they were drawn to each other.

“San Lang, can you please hold me?” Xie Lian asked, hope evident in his tone.

Pulled out of his reverie, Hua Cheng smiled down softly at the older man. He pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple before rearranging their position until Xie Lian was settled with his back cushioned against Hua Cheng’s chest. Hua Cheng looped his arms around Xie Lian’s waist, their worn-out clothes further wrinkling as two bodies mold together.

Xie Lian sighed in content. He wiggled in Hua Cheng’s hold for a few seconds–his little happy dance. Gazing back at the stretch of barren land, Xie Lian quietly spoke up, voice a little strained.

“San Lang, can I ask you something?”

Hua Cheng channeled all his energy to hearing Xie Lian’s words and feeling his solid form weigh comfortingly upon his heart.

“Gege can ask me anything.”

If it were physically possible, Hua Cheng would never let him go.

***

Hua Cheng feels himself being shoved out of the way before he hears the piercing, nonhuman screech of an infected. He barely catches himself on his hands and knees, blood pumping through his veins like shards of ice.

“Shit!” Mu Qing curses up ahead, having turned around where he was leading the two other men. He whips his gun out and aims to shoot the creature, but Hua Cheng is quicker.

Hua Cheng leaps up from the ground and sprints to where Xie Lian wrestles with a two-headed, green-skinned mutant, foaming at both mouths as it pins Xie Lian down. Xie Lian grunts as he repeatedly stabs the infected in the chest, neck, and face, but the monster doesn't show any signs of backing off.

Using the momentum from his powerful steps, Hua Cheng draws his dominant leg back. Xie Lian freezes, sensing the impending attack. Hua Cheng puts all his strength into that one goodman kick, sending one of the heads flying a couple of meters away. He then shoves the creature off of Xie Lian, smashing his foot down on its skull.

Stomp! Stomp! STOMP!

Black liquid gushes out of the creature’s ears, nose and mouth. For every attempt it tries to fight back, Hua Cheng delivers another blow, this time to its deformed body that is a result of the Hellish disease. The sounds of bones cracking and flesh squishing do not deter him. Neither do the cries of pain. If anything, it infuriates Hua Cheng even more.

He does not hear the faint shout of “San Lang!” from his worried lover.

STOMP! POW! CRACK!

When the second head separates from the body, Hua Cheng merely grits his teeth, hands closing into rock-hard fists. The concave head wobbles pitifully in the dirt. Satisfaction burns in Hua Cheng’s gut.

Until he spots splotches of scarlet where the monster’s mouth had fallen open.

Fuck.

Hua Cheng spins on his heel to run to Xie Lian’s side. However, Mu Qing has already helped Xie Lian up, now supporting the other man as they enter an abandoned convenience store a street away.

Hua Cheng follows after, running the fastest he’s ever run in his life.

His heart threatens to burst open his numb, worthless chest.

***

“No.”

Xie Lian noticeably tensed in between Hua Cheng’s legs. Hua Cheng never told him no unless it was something that jeopardized his safety. But this wasn’t a potentially risky plan Xie Lian brought up.

It was the worst-case scenario.

“We are not discussing this right now,” Hua Cheng growled out.

“If not now, then when?” Xie Lian questioned, a bit exasperated but not surprised by the reaction. Behind him, Hua Cheng doesn’t say anything, but his nose brushed along Xie Lian’s hair as he shook head in objection.

“San Lang, please, just listen-” Xie Lian insisted, grabbing onto Hua Cheng’s wrist. The bold, red lines of his tattoo of Xie Lian’s name scream at him to stop. “We should be prepared for this-”

“Gege-”

“-because there’s no guarantee that it won’t happen.”

“Like Hell I would even let it happen,” Hua Cheng snarled with a certain nastiness Xie Lian didn’t hear often. While it was not entirely directed at him, Xie Lian couldn’t help but be upset that he had dampened the mood and worked his boyfriend up regardless.

Xie Lian frowned as he looked over his shoulder. Though he hated the possibility, he seriously needed Hua Cheng’s confirmation on this matter. Said man wouldn’t meet his eye, choosing to bury his face into the older man’s neck instead.

“San Lang…”

“Xie Lian…”

Xie Lian abruptly exhaled a hot breath of air, not wanting to drag this out any longer. With a lump the size of a golf ball lodged in his throat, Xie Lian resolutely repeated his request.

“Please, San Lang. Promise me this.”

Hua Cheng hugged Xie Lian tighter.

“If I get bitten, I want you to kill me. Kill me before I turn.”

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

hunger - chapter 1

Hunger master post here. 

The wolf is too thin, his belly shrunken and concave, no fat between his thin skin and his brittle bones. He has forgotten how to hunt. He is hunted instead, by the spectre of death. He knows. He doesn’t care. Instead of sticking to the woods where instinct tells the wolf he would be safer—shelter, water, prey—the wolf winds closer and closer into the streets of the human town, and picks through dumpsters and gutters for food.

Here tires screech on asphalt. Cars backfire. The street is hard underneath the pads of the wolf’s paws. Everything is loud and harsh and too, too bright.

The wolf limps down the alleyways, death silently following.

Winter is here. The wolf knows he will not see another one.

The wolf follows his nose. He picks up heady scents above the stink of exhaust fumes and oil and rancid things. The wolf rattles around the trashcans at the back of a cheap diner, and fills his belly with the sick-slickness of greasy burgers. Warmth fills the wolf, and his old friend death steps back for just a moment.

Nose in the air, the wolf continues to explore the alleyway. His claws dig into a pile of damp cardboard as he sidesteps the icy-cold puddle of rain, oil-slicked, in the gutter.

“Hey!” someone says, and the cardboard shifts.

The wolf skitters back, and then remembers that he is a predator. He stops, and turns, and growls.

A boy’s face appears from underneath a layer of the cardboard. It is pale. His eyes are bloodshot and his lips are blue. He has a spray of moles across his face like an unfamiliar constellation. The boy freezes when he sees the wolf. “Holy shit.”

The wolf and death stare back at the boy.

The wolf has forgotten how to mark time.

He has no idea how long it is he stands there.

***

The boy’s bones are as brittle as the wolf’s, his skin as thin. When he curls his fingers through the wolf’s ruff, they are like icicles. His breath though, is hot. It tickles the wolf’s fur when he buries his face against it. His tears taste like salt.

Death circles them, in the little den the boy has made behind the cardboard in an alleyway in the cold, cold town.

The wolf tugs himself from the boy’s grip, and slinks back down the alley to the trashcans. His boy is too cold, too weak to crawl this far, so the wolf picks up a discarded burger in his jaws and carries it back to him.

The boy eats it, crying.

The wolf curls around him when they sleep.

Death steps closer, its black mouth open in hunger.

The wolf growls at it, the sound rumbling through his thin ribcage.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Maybe not this winter at all.

The wolf has a den now, and a heartbeat to share it with.

When the boy is strong again they will go into the woods and build a shelter there, and the wolf will remember his instincts, and the boy will learn his, and they will be packmates there, where the ground is soft underneath their feet and the stars are visible at night.

***

The boy is sick for days, and shivers and cries into the wolf’s fur. The wolf curls around him to keep him warm, and licks his tears away.

Death loosens its grip on them both.

Two nights pass before the boy clambers to his feet again, legs shaking like a baby deer’s. He leans against the wall of the alley for a long time, his breath puffing mist into the cold morning air.

Then, when he’s finally caught his breath, he turns his head and looks at the wolf and says, “Holy shit.”

The wolf tilts his head and stares back at the boy, ears pricking.

Perhaps that’s the only thing his boy can say?

***

The wolf’s boy is smart. His eyes are the color of tree sap that has hardened into resin. They flash almost beta gold if the lights from the passing cars hits them just right. The boy makes short trips from the alleyway to the diner. He sometimes pays a dollar for a scalding cup of cheap coffee, just to use their restroom and soak up a few minutes of warmth inside before the staff chases him out again. Then he will sit down with the wolf again, and they will both watch the trashcans to see when the kitchen hands dump the newest bag. Sometimes it is a race between the boy and the wolf and the rats. The boy grimaces when the wolf catches the rats and eats them, and he doesn’t take the rats the wolf leaves for him.

In the woods, he will have to learn to eat fresh prey. Squirrels, the wolf thinks, might be more palatable to him although they taste much the same.

The boy doesn’t like to leave the alleyway during the day. His heartbeat quickens and he tugs the strings of his threadbare red hoodie anxiously.

“Stay,” he tells the wolf. “Stay.”

The wolf watches from the cover of the alley.

The boy has a nervous smile when he asks people for money. He’s lost his wallet. He needs some bus fare to get home, or some quarters to make a call to his parents, and oh, wow, thanks, thank you, you’re a lifesaver, really.

He has an awkward, clumsy charm that vanishes the moment he turns away again.

The boy has nightmares at night. He twitches and jerks and digs his thin fingers into the wolf’s pelt. The wolf licks his tears away and whines when the boy cries out. Sometimes the boy’s heart beats so rabbit-fast the wolf thinks it might explode in his chest. Those are the nights the boy wakes gasping, eyes rolling in his skull, crying out a name.

Dad.

And, sometimes, Daddy.

In his dreams, the wolf thinks, he is a much younger boy.

And the wolf whines and lays his heavy head on the boy’s shoulder, and tries to tell him without words that they are pack now. They are pack.

They are pack, and they are a step ahead of death now.

***

The wolf’s boy does not appear to see death, but death sees the boy. Death, the wolf thinks, has already marked him. He needs to get his boy out of the town, out of the alley, and into the woods. But something is binding the boy here. There’s a look in his amber eyes, a stubborn way he sets his jaw. The boy has a butterfly knife. He keeps it in the back pocket of his thin jeans. He takes it out and flips it open sometimes, his dexterous fingers manipulating it with practiced ease. The boy carries something dark in his heart, and the wolf can see it clearly when the boy’s gaze is fixed on the blade of the knife. His gaze is a predator’s gaze in these moments, and the wolf curls his lip to show his teeth, and scrapes his claws on the concrete.

The wolf is a predator too.

He can’t be sure what prey his boy is seeking, but the wolf will help him hunt it. Then they will go into the woods, and never come back here again.

***

The diner is open all day and all night. At night, there are drunks around. They come from the club a few blocks away, to eat greasy burgers and then be sick in the street. Sometimes the boy approaches some of the patrons as they enter or leave the diner, before the staff chases him away. At night he needs no cover story.

“Homeless,” he says, and holds out his hand. “Can you help me?”

The drunks either tell him to fuck off, or they are generous with their spare change.

At night, the cops come to the diner as well. The deputies eat at odd hours, their cars parked in the lot out the front.

The boy doesn’t approach them. He stays in the shadows, and stares narrow-eyed at the entrance of the diner. One night he takes his butterfly knife and slips into the parking lot. The wolf shadows him as he scours the blade of the knife through the paint job on the side of the cruiser, through the shield and the words: BEACON COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. The scrape of the blade on metal makes the wolf flatten his ears back against his skull.

“Fuckers,” the boy says and spits on the ground. The wolf can taste his anger, his hatred. “Fuckers.”

The wolf and his boy watch from the shadows when the bewildered deputy finishes his meal and finds the damage. He is young, with a boyish face. He calls it in to dispatch, his radio crackling.

“Parrish to dispatch,” he says and then, when waiting for them to answer, shakes his head and sighs. “Goddamn.”

That night the wolf’s boy has more nightmares.

***

The wolf doesn’t like the town. He doesn’t like the way death watches them. He wants to take the boy away. He wants to make them a den in the woods. He wants to show his boy how to hunt for fresh prey, and how sweet the cold water tastes straight from the streams he knows. He wants to sleep without the wail of sirens or the screech of brakes. He wants to lift his nose and smell the spring when it comes.

But mostly he doesn’t like the town because he knows that whatever it is the boy wants from this place, it will hurt him. It will let death breathe him in.

Whatever it is, the boy is so fixated on it that he is insensible to other dangers.

“We need money,” the boy says, flipping his butterfly knife open and closed again. “I need to buy a gun.”

The wolf flickers his ears back in disapproval.

Death steps a little closer.

The wolf closes his jaws around the boy’s thin wrist, and the boy tugs it free again.

“We need money,” he says, and crawls out of their cardboard shelter and climbs to his feet.

The night is cold and dark.

There is no moon.

***

The man is narrow-eyed when the boy lures him into the alley.

“Fifty bucks, right?” he asks. “You’ll blow me for fifty bucks?”

“Yeah,” the boy says, and one hand slides around to the back pocket of his jeans where he keeps his knife.

The wolf watches from the cardboard shelter, a silent growl vibrating through him. His boy is not smart tonight. Not smart at all.

But he is desperate.

And he is weak and clumsy too. When the man tries to push the boy to his knees, the boy produces the knife. The man catches his wrists, and spins the boy face-first into the wall of the alley. The boy is winded, and the knife clatters to the street. The man holds him against the wall.

“You trying to rob me, you little prick?”

The boy shakes his head, and sobs.

The wolf steps forward then, his growl audible this time. He bares his fangs at the man.

“What the fuck is that?” the man exclaims. He releases the boy, and pushes him to the ground in front of the wolf as though he expects the wolf to tear the boy to shreds to buy himself some time.

Thrown to the wolves, death laughs.

The wolf steps over his boy.

The man runs.

The wolf chases.

Yes.

He is a predator.

Yes.

He will kill the man who tried to hurt his boy.

Yes.

He is alive.

Tires screech on asphalt and the wolf is blinded by the headlights a moment before impact. He is flung into the air, and then he is in the gutter, and the boy is crouching over him, and he is crying, and the wolf licks at his cold, thin fingers and whines.

“No,” his boy whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t die.”

There is a corona of light behind his boy’s head. A dirty halo from a street light. It throws a soft golden glow onto the face of death when she steps forward too. The wolf growls because death is standing too close to his boy. His growl fades when he realizes death is reaching for him, and not his boy.

“Oh, Derek,” death says.

The wolf closes his eyes.

It always hurt the most that death has Laura’s face.

[agoodflyting]

Take Me To Church - Southern Gothic Kylux

How lucky, how blessed, how fucking fortunate he is now to have a Messiah who answers every prayer directly. Especially the ones that go 'more', or 'god just like that, don’t stop-' or, ‘please, lord, fuck oh please-'

Part of my Southern Gothic AU. Hux is the leader of a backwater cult and Kylo is their prophet. This one-shot deals with Kylo and Hux, their backstory, and their relationship.

Kylo’s hands smell like camphor and antiseptic when he slides them against Hux’s bare skin, crawling into bed behind him. It’s an astringent, sickbed smell, from the creams he uses to keep his master comfortable. It calls to mind the hiss of a respirator and the steady beep beep beep of a heart monitor. It’s the smell of illness and decay.

When Hux turns over in the dark those hands nearly span the whole of his ribcage. Like if he spread his fingers wide enough Kylo could almost wrap them all the way around his body, cup Hux in his palms, cradled and safe and cozy. He loves Kylo’s hands. They’re a healer’s hands- big and rough, but not clumsy, with ragged cuticles and the clinging remnants of week-old, drug store nail polish. Sometimes when they’re alone Kylo presses them palm-to-palm against Hux’s own, and Hux delights at the contrast with his own soft, manicured digits.

Hux takes good care of his hands, he remembers from watching his stepmother at the kitchen table with her little buffer and file when he was a kid, just like he does his clothes and his hair and his teeth and his car, because that’s how he was raised. Press your shirt. Polish your shoes. What his father used to call ‘putting a shine on’ and what Kylo calls ‘a pile of vain bullshit.’

Kylo thought shampoo was a waste of money when you had dish soap, and would be perfectly content to wear the same three band t-shirts for concerts he had never been to, musicians he’d never heard, (the ascetic life didn’t allow for a lot of indulgence), until they fell apart. That was why he and his master needed Hux.

Shine is what draws people in. The smiling preacher with his brand new SUV. Shine is what people remember, and if you’re good enough at it nobody looks close enough to realize that it’s only spit.

Hux knew all about shine. Pastor Hux’s little boy had been working his father’s congregation, echoing promises of fire and brimstone with his hair slicked back and his shoes polished, from the time he was fourteen.

It is dark outside and the world is heavy and still as it languishes in that interminable stretch between very late and very early. The cicadas are out in force, warring with the crickets to be the noisiest damn things in the blackness outside. It’s proper country darkness, all the way out here at the end of the gravel road where Kylo and his master dwelled. The kind that swallows you up, makes you think you must have been struck blind.

Buzzing and chirping and warm, sticky air drifts in where they’ve opened the window to offset the lack of A/C in the derelict old mansion. The master didn’t indulge in pointless luxuries- not for himself or his chosen son. Hux was sweating a little, even sleeping under nothing but a thin cotton sheet.

Kylo’s clever hands trace the shape of Hux under the sheet, rubbing idly up and down his pale chest and vulnerable belly like a man trying to re-familiarize himself with something that’s been lost. He gets like that sometimes when he is with the master too much- lost in his own mind. In the dark bedroom, Kylo sighs through his nose, tired, hair making an inky black halo on the pale cotton of the pillowcase. Kylo is beautiful, in his strange, uneven way, and Hux wouldn’t trade him for the world.

“Stay,” Hux mutters, voice gravel-rough from sleep. He knows, even as he says it what the answer will be, but he tries anyway. “Rest. You’re tired.”

“I can’t.”

The apologetic skim of knuckles over his bare ribs makes Hux suck in a tight little breath, but he lays still and allows himself to be caressed. Another hour and Kylo will have to leave again. Every hour, on the hour. Like clockwork through the night. Hux doesn’t understand how he ever gets any sleep.

But the master needs tending and Kylo, with his healer’s hands and his sleep-ringed eyes, is the only one who can do it.

There are so many things that only Kylo can do.

Bring Hux from the depths of sleep to sighing, stretching, aching wakefulness with just his hands is only one of them.

“You smell good,” Kylo mutters, low, rubbing his prominent nose against Hux’s hair. Hux knows he stinks like summer sweat and restless sleep from tossing under the sheets but his mouth pulls into a tight smile at the flattery anyway. It’s a distraction Kylo wants now, not rest. Precious boy. The words, mixed with the feel of those hands pressing, warm and insistent, at the small of his back make him shiver. A callus scratches at the soft skin over his hipbone as Kylo’s hands venture into new territory, and Hux doesn’t bother to bite back a moan.

When he was a little boy, Pastor Hux’s son used to pray to Jesus every night.

Help me be good enough, please just this once, make me strong enough, help me be smart, punish those who hurt me, make these feelings stop-

By the time he was eleven he’d realized that nobody was listening. He’d still knelt at the end of his bed every night and said his now I lay me down to sleeps, pressed his hands together and furrowed his brow sitting in the pew on Sunday, because, like daddy said, you put a good shine on it and nobody can tell the difference. But God had gone away and left the answering machine on, but he sure as shit wasn’t checking his messages.

How lucky, how blessed, how fucking fortunate he is now to have a Messiah who answers every prayer directly. Especially the ones that go 'more', or 'god just like that, don’t stop-' or, ‘please, lord, fuck oh please-' When he arcs his neck, that silent plea is answered with sharp teeth and wicked tongue right where he’s been aching for them. Kylo growls, low and dangerous, right under his ear, just the way he knows makes Hux’s legs fall open. If it’s his body, his acquiescence, that’s needed, well, Hux is humbled to serve the lord. How many men can say they’ve seen firsthand the power of their savior? That they’ve touched it, felt it on their tongue and in their veins. He can feel it right now. The air in the room tenses, building tight with Kylo’s arousal. It reminds him of the electricity in the air just before a summer storm; all that power waiting to be unleashed. It’s intoxicating. Where he leans over Hux, his hair smells like ozone and, faintly, like Ajax. One of those healer’s hands finds Hux’s where it is twisted up in the front of Kylo’s wash-worn black t-shirt. Long, deft fingers encircle his wrist and pin it to the pillow. There’s a gleam in Kylo’s dark eyes, something wicked. He’s seen those hands start fires with a gesture before, and half believes Kylo’s doing it to him now. The pale skin under Kylo’s palms seems to be burning up from the inside. “What do you say?” “Please,” Hux breathes. Still, Kylo takes his time, whiling away the scant minutes they have together. His palm is warm on Hux’s sternum, flat over where his heart is beating rabbit-quick there, underneath bone and wiry flesh. “Please, Kylo, please-“  

A callused hand moves over his pectoral and then skims down the concave little hollow of his belly, fingertips tripping over his naval. He can still faintly smell the camphor on Kylo’s skin.

“So soft… You know what I want to hear.” Hux resists, spinning it out, giving Kylo his sorely-needed distraction, until that hand slides down and begins taking him apart with quick, tight strokes, and then he is babbling, panting, twisting against Kylo’s iron grip on his wrist, “Oh fuck, oh jesus, fuck, just- that, like that, oh lord, oh Christ please-“ Kylo was a funny little thing. He would shrink up on himself, broad shoulders inching up towards his childishly overlarge ears, when Hux spoke of him as their prophet, but here in the quiet darkness of the little bedroom Hux has claimed for himself in their master’s home, he lapped up the platitudes and prayers like any earnest savior. Or maybe he just liked to hear Hux blaspheme while he came, the awful man. When he drifts back down from his orgasm, Hux finds Kylo sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to him, still fully dressed. He won’t touch himself. He never did. The ascetic life doesn’t allow for indulgences.   Kylo got something else entirely out of their encounters. There’s a soft sound and then Hux can sense light flickering around the edges of Kylo’s bent form. When he sits up to get a better look, there is a perfect ball of flame cupped in Kylo’s palms. It’s bigger, brighter, than last time Hux saw this particular trick. Kylo stares at it, entranced, his hair hanging in lank tendrils around his shadowed face. “It barely hurts now.” When Kylo parts his cupped hands the flame splits into two. He twirls one hand idly and the fire moves with him, hovering just above the skin. A miracle fit for kings in Hux’s a shabby little guest bedroom. “You’re getting better at that.” Hux leans forward to kiss his shoulder. He remembers when just controlling the fire would leave Kylo's knees shaking. “It isn’t mine. It’s yours- ours. I can only do it like this when you’re here.” “Well, it’s beautiful.” When Hux reaches out, he can feel the heat radiating off the nearest one before he gets within inches of it. A part of him aches to stick his well-manicured fingers into the fire anyway- to see if they would blacken and burn. It’s a miracle, in every sense, that Kylo’s hands aren’t blistering. Kylo closes his fists, first one then the other, extinguishing the twin balls of flame. “How much longer do you have?” Hux asks, leaning around him in the darkness to grab tissues from the antique nightstand. It was a dusty old thing, covered in layers of flaking paint. “I have to go.” “Sleep a little when you get done this time. Promise me you will. I need you conscious at the meeting tomorrow. We have new converts coming.” Kylo grunts his assent in lieu of a promise, but he takes the tissue Hux presses into his hand and dabs at his bleeding nose with it instead of wiping the blood on his sleeve. It’s barely a few drops this time. He was getting stronger. The old bed creaks and groans when he lifts his weight off of it, and then Hux is alone in the sticky summer warmth of the bedroom, listening to Kylo’s heavy footsteps as they receded down the hall to the plantation’s grand bedroom, where the master lay dreaming, surrounded by tubes and wires and things that hissed with every breath the shriveled figure took. It wouldn't be forever. Kylo's power was growing. He'd be strong enough to restore his master soon. And then... The Lord works in mysterious ways. That’s what his father taught him to say when a parishioner came to him in tears because things hadn’t worked out. The Lord never failed to answer prayers, oh no- he just worked in mysterious ways. Just like he helped those who helped themselves. Like any neglectful father, God had worked out a way to take all the credit without having to do jack shit. And, just like poor old Pastor Hux, he would die on fire when Kylo was through with him.

Hux hums a little to himself, in time with the cicadas, as he drifts back asleep. For I was blind, but now I see…

[tfaotb]

6. Oh how I knew thee

I payed my tab, and left the tavern. Tears were trying to well up in my eyes, I simply wiped them away as they came. I proceeded to the docks, as the publican had described.

When I arrived at the docks, I peered over at the waters edge. Low tide. I looked for a way down below the docks, I noticed a stone staircase that went into the rocky dirt, the floor of the low tide. The dirt was not dry, but it was not soaked, the tide had to be coming back in a day or so.

I hurried down the steps, only to be greeted by a terrible sight. Dozens of people were living under this dock, some of them were awake, some were still asleep, at least I hope they’re just asleep.

I walked through them, searching for Minerva, but having no apparent luck. None of them seemed to pay any mind at my presence. As I searched, I spotted a laying figure, with a dark red garment over their upper body and head, that has to be her!

I rushed over to her, turning her over from her side. It was her, she was much more pale than last night. Dried blood stained her lips and the side of her cheek. I leaned my ear down over her head, she still drew breath. I looked around, searching for another set of stairs, seeing nothing. I heard her start to mutter.

“A..ava…” she sputtered, little drops of blood spraying from her mouth. “Ava….Avadini…” she finally mustered the whole name.

Not knowing what else to do, I picked her up in my arms. She was lightweight for a Ydsing, but my strength might not be enough to carry her the entire way. I was simply assuming this Avadini was a person who could help her. I ran back to the stone steps, tears, once again congregating in the corners of my eyes. I made it back into the street.

I looked down at Minerva, her eyes still closed. Her breathing become more and more shallow. I looked around, people walked by, they would see me, take a look at Minerva and keep walking, as if they had seen nothing. I ran up to an armored man holding a spear.

“Excuse me! Can you tell me where Avadini is?” I begged, he turned around to face me. He looked concerned, until he laid eyes on Minerva.

“Oh, picked up a stray, have you?” He said, with no feeling. “I know exactly where she needs to go.” He slowly pointed to the docks. “Throw her into the ocean, where the rest of the city’s trash goes.” He laughed at his own remark, and carried on with his business. I felt Minerva’s hand grip my tunic tighter as I heard her groan, and cough.

“Please…” she choked out. I hurried down the street. No one would help us. I began to simply shout Avadini, tears were clouding my vision, my voice beginning to break as she began to slowly die in my arms. After making a complete circle in the streets, I figured out I was lost.

I fell to my knees. The tears weren’t inhibited anymore. I looked down at her. “I’m sorry.” I kept whispering. It was all I could say.

As I was about to break down, I saw a figure walk up to us. I looked up, but I couldn’t see past the tears. As I wiped them away, a middle aged woman was standing before me.

My heart jumped, without hesitation, I asked where I could find Avadini. She simply looked around, and said, “Follow me.”

She took me into a house, candles dimly lit the interior. It was a simple wooden house with one window.

“Lay her down.” Despite her apparent age, her voice sounded young. I laid her down, gently. She shivered and twitched a bit as she laid on the cold wooden table.

I began to notice that the older woman was wearing a hood, as well. Though her hood was beige, like a grain sack. I watched her remove her hood and top. Underneath, she wore, what I can accurate describe as rags, sown together. It looked as if she had worn them for some time. Blood stained all of her garments. Her shoulder was worse than I thought.

Her collarbone was concaved. Her shoulder had dislocated, after all. Along her collarbone, was a deep split in her skin, which was black and dark red, various spots on the gash were infected.

“My god…” the woman said, covering her mouth in disbelief. She noticed more blood, down by her lower ribcage. As she pulled her clothing back from her waist, a massive black and red bruise covered her stomach, from one side to another. It looked like the edge of my wooden sword.

The woman quickly walked off to a cabinet, opening it and pulling out little glass vials and bottles. She walked back to Minerva, who was on the verge of death. She opened a particular bottle, it was small, and thin. It was filled with a sparkling liquid, colored like a red gem.

She dripped a single drop onto her open wound, on her shoulder. It instantly began to produce steam, which covered the wound. I watched in awe.

Minerva didn’t react to the substance, or its reaction. The woman was about to open another bottle, when she looked at me and stopped. “You’re not going to tell anyone about what you’re seeing, right?” I simply looked at her and shook my head. She then continued to open the bottle, pouring it into Minerva’s mouth. She let the liquid pour down her throat with no assistance.

Within minutes, her breathing began to increase, her shallow, dying breaths transformed to deep, normal breathing. Her wound had been wrapped by the woman. It was still producing steam, through the cloth. A sudden realization hit me. If she woke up and saw me, she might try to attack me, since I did this to her. I slowly got up from my seat to leave.

“Stay.” The woman ordered. I stopped, about to explain to her my situation, when she cut my sentence off. “Look, usually if someone brings her here, they had to have known firsthand something happened to her.” She looked me up and down. “I know you’re not part of her ‘crew’, so you must have done this to her in the first place.” I slowly sat back down.

“Are you Avadini?” I asked her, she simply laughed.

“I’m not surprised she would call out for her mother in her time of need.” She said. She removed her hood, revealing her pointed ears. “She’s going to be fine.” She stated. I felt completely reassured.

I relaxed a bit in my chair, not so on edge anymore. Avadini sat down as well. “So, you’re a friend of my daughter?” She asked me. I looked at the ground.

“Well, not really. It’s kind of a long story.” I explained. She was unfazed, still awaiting an answer. I gathered my courage and told her the entire story of me being hired to protect Mister Aster, and her attempting to kill him. I also described what was happening to me while I attacked her.

“Well, it’s simple, really.” She replied, she walked to a small bookcase, retrieving a book and sitting back down. “You’re what’s known as a Jewel-eyed Cyaqi.” I was confused, I had heard the term but never understood what it meant, other than my overly bright eyes.

After expressing my ignorance of the subject to her, she explained. “When either a mother or father is jewel-eyed, their offspring usually carry that trait, if they were augmented by crystals, sometimes the child holds some of that augmentation as well, but that goes for all of us.” She continued. “As for you jewel-eyes, you all have a trait which causes you to go berserk, while hunting and killing humans.” She pointed at Minerva’s shoulder, “Causing you to perform great feats of strength.”

I felt as if I understood a little more. I still had many questions, however. “You mentioned ‘augmentation’. What does that even mean, I’ve never heard of it.” As she attempted to explain, Minerva began to cough, and thrash a bit. Avadini shot up and held her down, trying not to hurt her. She calmed down, while her mother produced a bottle and held it up to her nose.

Minerva sneezed instantly, her eyes wide open, breathing heavily. Avadini lay her back down gently. “Shh, calm down child.” She said soothingly. Minerva looked up at her, and smiled.

“Mother, you found me.” She said, with relief. Avadini looked up at me.

“Not I, child. ’'Twas her who brought you here.” I wanted to hide my face, but her gaze was already set upon me. Confusion was painted across her expression.

“W-why?” Is all she could say. Anger wasn’t in her voice, to my surprise. I still didn’t know how to explain myself.

“She was on her knees, with you in her arms, just bawling her eyes out. You can’t tell me this girl doesn’t care about you at least some.” Her mother said to her.

“I don’t know what happened to me, last night. But I didn’t want to hurt you like I did, I couldn’t control it.” I explained, a part of me didn’t want her to hate me, the other part was convinced she did.

And why should she not hate me? I nearly killed her…

Minerva looked at her shoulder, and then back at me. “Y'know, I’ve been struck by a Norl wielding a metal club, who did less damage than this.” She said, with a slight chuckle in her voice. I looked up at her, surprised she wasn’t threatening to kill me.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you.” I said, solemnly. She laughed a bit.

“I’ve had worse, by closer friends.” She continued to chortle. “I just wish I could have snagged those fucking crystals.” She remarked woefully.

“Now Minerva, you’re lucky he didn’t hire Cleaver, or any of his men. A few yellow crystals isn’t worth dying for.” Avadini lectured.

“But I’m just a few yellow crystals away, if I can get a few more, I can outrun a horse in full gallop!” She complained, I was thoroughly confused at this point. Avadini placed her hand on Minerva’s non injured shoulder.

“There’s more to life than stealing money.” Minerva rolled her eyes.

“Excuse me?” I interjected, my mind racing. “What crystals are you talking about?”

Minerva looked at me. “Demon crystals.” She explained. “If you find a demon crystal, melt it, and allow it to cool, it stays as a liquid.” She stood up slowly from the table. She limped to her mother’s cabinet, retrieved something, and walked up to me.

She held a red, opaque crystal, no larger than her small palm. “Once the liquid cools, you can drink it.” She put the crystal on the table. “Different colored crystals augment certain aspects of the consumer. Yellow crystals allow you to run faster, and farther.”

I scratched my head. I had never heard of this, ever. It was almost like she made it up. “How come I’ve never heard of this?” I asked.

She shrugged. She sat back on the table, yawning. “Go back to sleep dear, it’ll do you some good.” Her mother told her. She got up, walking towards a room with no door. Inside the room was a bed. “Why don’t you stay here for tonight, dear.” She told me. I didn’t want to impose, but she insisted.

That night, I sat across the bedroom in a chair. I still felt horrible for injuring her. I soon dozed off.

I was awakened, for no reason. The darkness of the house made visibility very hard to achieve, but it was enough for me to witness someone standing over Minerva’s bed, right as they plunged a dagger in the middle of her chest.