#m!oc

Hudson was still mildly reeling from how he got into this situation.

His mother? Dead from aan overdose. His father? Dead from something (probably a gang taking revenge).

His little brother Jason had somehow gotten a billionaire CEO to adopt them-- and get this. It was *Bruce Wayne* of all fucking people.

Bruce Wayne. The millio-billio-somethingillio--nare schmuck that was known for partying and sleeping around. Sure he donated a lot to charities and also had like what? 10,000 in Gotham? (There were 59 currently active Wayne Foundation charities that operated only in Gotham. He knew)

That didn't mean Hudson automatically trusted the man. He was.. Quieter than he expected.

He wasn't loud. He was kind, at first glance.

Hudson thought he adopted them just to have bed warmers on-call.

--

(Hudson straddled the man on the library couch, taking off his shirt and quietly begged him to not touch Jason. Bruce stared at him horrified and confused. He only hugged Hudson and tearfully promised that he never intended for them to think that he was some pedo who wanted to sleep with them--)

--

Okay so maybe he wasn't a pedo but that doesn't mean he was someone Hudson trusted to take care of him and his little brother--

--

Well. Whatever.

("Bruce!" Jason gasped, turning over the Christmas gift in his hand-- a collector edition of Frankenstein. Hudson quietly tucked away his gift for Jason-- stationary supplies. Bruce had showered Jason in the better version of the gifts Hudson had gotten him anyway. He ignored the large boulder settling in his stomach. He'd just have to make himself irreplaceable. )

--

His little brother who tried to get Hudson to quit the illegal boxing ring. Stupid child. The money he won put good food on the table. The next tournament had a prize big enough to put Jason through college. Hudson just had to fight men more than half his age and size. He'd done it before! And won!

He'd just stick to Jason's side at all times to keep him safe. After all, who else would he trust with his little brother? His little brother who tried to sell his body in place of Hudson--

--

(Hudson stared at his bruised fists, then down at his little brother, face bruised and swelling, baby teeth missing from his mouth, marks around his neck. What a stupid child, trying to take over Hudson's contract. This should teach him. He's just like his father)

--

That was the night Jason tried to steal a Bat's tires. Jason didn't trust the bat but knew he'd take down the ring and save his brother.

--

Batman had somehow gotten wind of the tournament.. Hudson fled home before the bat got to him. Who knows what he might have done?

--

Ignoring or retorting Elander’s words hadn’t produced any results, so Sicarius found it downright hysterical that simply belittling him had done the trick after the baseline had so thoroughly gotten under his skin. Theatrically humming and nodding and rephrasing his words for an entire meeting would have been dull if he hadn’t gotten to watch the ambassador’s face turn red, a fitting consequence for how Sicarius felt whilst babysitting him; being unable to be rid of such a thorn in one’s side. 

“Of all the childish—“ Forcing a breath through his nose, Elander flexed his fingers in a squeezing motion, as if his pathetically small and soft hands could ever hope to strangle the Knight Champion of Macragge. “You know what? No lunch, go take a shower, meet me in my quarters at 1100.”

No lunch? Sicarius’s expression rapidly soured and he leaned forward to tower imposingly over the dignitary. He hadn’t even eaten breakfast before beginning talks early that morning. “You don’t have the rank to give me orders.”

“It’s not an order.” Elander crossed his arms, his own expression cooling into something Sicarius knew— and absolutely loathed. The bastard must think he’s being clever. “Think of this as an exchange. You have no reason to listen to me; I’ll be giving you one. It’s your choice whether or not to make this more tolerable for both of us.”

“What could you possibly offer me?” The marine scoffed, however his thoughts began to race— without his permission— to things he imagined the ambassador could offer that had been pervading his mind since some little drop of poison had slipped in weeks ago. 

-

Kiran Elander had been an inescapable presence since swearing fealty to Roboute Guilliman and subsequently joining the fold of the Ultramarines, when he should have been indistinguishable from every other serf scurrying underfoot. 

The scribes had plenty of reason to be in and out of his Primarch’s office, unobtrusively running papers and scribbling down his dictations, which made Elander’s insistence on banal chattering disruptive on its own. A mere baseline being conversational with his genesire was bound to raise Sicarius’s hackles, an audacity that grated fiercely at his nerves when his time standing guard was otherwise a reprieve. 

That talkative attitude extended to every single person he interacted with, serf and Astartes alike, which provided plenty of evidence towards Sicarius’s theory of what a little fraud Elander was. That calm, airy politeness he practiced, the flattery and the warm inviting expressions. Soothing but utterly empty. He’d seen the sharpness through the new drapings of Ultramarine blue and gold, the biting and calculating words he dished out where his Primarch didn’t hear.

But that wasn’t enough, the wretch had also insisted on talking to him, calling out with a pithy little greeting every time he waltzed through the office’s doorway. Feeding him those plastic smiles, asking him useless questions and having the gall to look amused when he failed to sink his hooks into him, trying to lure him into a chat. 

How are you doing today, lord angel?

Lovely planet to be deployed to my lord, what do you think?

Care for a mint, Commander Sicarius?

By the Throne, the accursed mints were a whole other problem. Without fail there was always a tin of mints in his pocket, and always one in his sharp little mouth. His jaw was always working as if he was thinking of the next thing to say, pensively sucking on it in a way Sicarius found infuriating, that deft serpent’s tongue rolling it between his teeth and neatly moving it out of the way when he needed to speak.

The scent of menthol followed Elander everywhere, announcing his presence even before he was seen, accompanied by the equally bright and pungent citrus tang of his awfully sweet cologne. Maybe that was where the problems started, sparking some strange urge to grab the ambassador by the scruff of the neck and breathe him in to find out if there was a real man underneath that sugary veneer.

It wouldn’t be difficult, the ambassador looked as though he had never so much as touched a weapon in his life, picking him up would be as easy to Sicarius as grabbing a tissue. Elander was short even for a baseline male, with long legged and slim gangly proportions, favoring dark tailored waistcoats that gave the illusion that Sicarius could wrap his fingers around his slender frail waist with one hand. Speaking of, the Ambassador’s hands matched the rest of him, delicate and small and soft. 

Sicarius had never met a man of Elander’s station who appeared so utterly useless in combat. The dusty waves of his hair were so pale as to be almost white, so fair that it seemed they would stain with a touch. A porcelain face pockmarked by moles, split wide by frequent smiles that ruined the illusion of doll-like pink lips. He should be stuffed up on a shelf like one and left to gather cobwebs, to be some pretty ostentatious thing to be admired glanced over, rather than taking up so much space for something so insignificant.

Cato Sicarius had never considered anyone pretty. Let alone a man, let alone a baseline… and he was certainly not going to start with Kiran Elander. The weasley little whoreson.

Yet somewhere between his arrival and now, the bastard had gotten into his head. Those disgusting little lips and tongue were always moving, distracting from whatever it was Elander had elected to drone on about, and now even in his absence Sicarius could imagine them, lurid and pink in his mind. Maybe they were warm… but they were just as likely to be cold and hard like plasteel. Fake. He could picture gripping Elander’s face so hard he shattered in his hands. Throne, if Sicarius wanted to, he could ruin him.

So why was he doing as he asked?

-

The shower was an exercise in frustration, as none of the amenities in his accommodations were sized for an Astartes. Such a backwater planet was only being returned to the Imperium due to the presence of humans, of course they’d never been graced by the likes of the Ultramarines before. Elander’s presence is merely to not waste ammunition. Still, Sicarius was forced to maneuver his body under the spray much to his chagrin, cursing under his breath every time he headbutted the showerhead or bumped his elbows against the tiled walls. 

The frustration had to be why his hearts’ rate was so elevated as he aggressively scrubbed himself down, then toweling dry just as mercilessly until his skin prickled. Frustrated with the fact his curiosity was winning over his indignance as he pulled on a set of fatigues in favor of his itchy dress uniform and set off towards the ambassador’s room in long strides. 

Elander didn’t deserve the courtesy of knocking, so Sicarius simply let himself in, growing irritated when he was met with the smell of menthol and saw that the dignitary had been waiting for him. His jacket and waistcoat had been hung over the back of a chair, with Elander lounging sidelong in it, his legs draped over the arm.

“Thank you for joining me, Commander Sicarius. Are you ready to hear my rules?” Sliding out of the chair, the ambassador smiled as he slinked unhurriedly across the room. All of his finery had been shed, leaving Elander in a plain dark blue dress shirt and slacks, the only adornment left being a thin black bracelet.

“The rules of what? Some sort of game?” Sicarius scoffed as he closed the door behind him, cocking his head to look down at the man.

“If it would please your immature attention span, you may think of this as a game.” Hand planted on his hip, the ambassador evenly met Sicarius’s critical glare, expression so placid as to seem bored.

The Ultramarine growled. “You would do well not to mock me.”

“Your cooperation would be appreciated. I have no need to insult you otherwise. Now, are you ready to hear my rules?” 

“Concisely, yes.”

“The goal of this exercise is to test your patience, as I want to see you wait to be rewarded. For the duration, I ask for you to follow my instructions and nothing more.” Elander sighed and tucked an errant strand of cream colored hair behind his ear. “If you disobey, I stop. If you don’t want to finish this exercise, you need only say the word.”

“I assume failure to complete this exercise would mean forfeiting the reward?” Sicarius inferred, searching Elander’s honeyed hazel eyes ringed with grey, probing for any signs of deception.

“Correct.”

“I’ll ask you again, what sort of reward could you possibly offer me.”

The ambassador appeared thoughtful, likely because the crafty little bastard was thinking of a way to sound more enticing. Pursing plush lips, he started to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing surprisingly shapely forearms— perhaps he had the ability to pick up more than just a measly stack of paperwork. 

“Some playtime with your pleasure receptors.” Elander neatly cuffed his sleeves just above his elbows. “Please remove your clothing and be seated on the bed.”

Sicarius barked out a hysterical laugh, head spinning. This was far more bizarre than any feverish Warp-damned dream his subconscious could cook up. “You’re a whore.” He spat out the accusation before his silence and racing thoughts would betray him.

Merely frowning slightly, Elander raised a brow. “Are you implying that I’m tempting you, Commander Sicarius? Because a whore takes payment for someone’s desire for them, I merely have skills to use for your benefit.”

“Of course not.” Sicarius hissed. Tempting? He, Cato Sicarius, was not a victim of temptation. There was no attraction involved. That explanation was easier than whatever justifications and explanations his mind was scrambling for, and that was good enough. 

“Good.“ Elander flashed that inviting conniving smile. “Now, if you’re ready to continue, I recall giving you instructions.”

Removing his fatigues merely required efficiency, but Sicarius felt oddly conscious of how quickly he undressed. Speed could imply anxiety or eagerness, and of course neither of those was the case. However taking his time would be putting on a show for the little slut, a thought that sent a shiver down his spine. Just his spine, certainly nowhere else. There was absolutely nothing exciting about this situation. 

There was nothing vulnerable about stripping himself bare in front of Elander, because of course nakedness amongst his battle-brothers was nothing but mundane, and that wouldn’t change in front of a baseline so undeserving of his glory. Surely it should feel the same.

“A beard like yours but no body hair? What a shame.” The ambassador interjected with that grating tone of faux-innocence and curiosity. Sicarius was extremely aware he was being watched as he discarded his fatigues in a pile on the floor. 

“Depilatory treatment is standard for the use of a body-glove.” With a grunt he sat heavily on the bed, the springs creaking as he settled on the edge, lounging back on his elbows with knees parted to take up as much space as possible and present an intimidating view. It seemed to be working as the expression on Elander’s face was nothing short of admiring as he moved to stand in front of him.

“Someone’s showing off.” A grin crept across his face and Sicarius let out an indignant growl. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” There was no reason to prove anything so obvious as size to such a puny baseline, Cato Sicarius knew he was impressive, and naturally Elander would too.

“It’s okay to be proud.” As if Sicarius needed his permission. He suppressed a shiver of surprise disgust as Elander’s fingertips alighted on his thighs, so delicate it was like the brush of a feather as they trailed over two pairs of neural ports and down to his kneecaps, pale eyes soft with appreciation. “Such a lovely specimen.”

Whether it was the words or those delicate fingertips suddenly slipping under his shaft, Cato felt his cock twitch, reeling as his thighs shuddered of their own volition. Elander’s hand tightened on his knee, as if to remind him of his presence positioned between his legs. How could he forget?

“You will be still.” The ambassador murmured gently, almost crooning. “Wouldn’t want to explain how I was injured if you couldn’t keep control of yourself. You can be patient for me, right?”

Sicarius grunted and nodded once, not trusting himself to open his mouth and hear his own compliance from it. No, he was merely tolerating this. Not an order, an exchange. 

“Very good.” Another traitorous twitch. “Tilt your hips up, please.”

Lifting his pelvis as Elander had suggested, Cato closed his eyes. There was no need to complicate spoil this experience with a view of the bastard ambassador’s face, this was merely a service he could do with his own hand, and certainly didn’t require Elander to be involved.

Yet his hand couldn’t compare to the sensation of those ministrations. Where his were callused, the fingers wrapped sinfully around his cock slid like velvet, soft and warm and precise. They seemed to know his body in a way he didn’t know himself, dexterously squeezing and fondling until Cato began to sigh, his hesitation drowned in new and pleasurable experience. Tension bled from his muscles, relaxing back onto the mattress with a relief he didn’t know he needed.

Then something hot and wet made contact with his glands and those fingertips slid down to uncharted territory and his hips bucked in surprise. Cato’s eyes flew open, feeling cold as those warm touches suddenly withdrew.

“Be still.” The ambassador murmured a patient reminder, one hand resting on Cato’s thigh as the other reached into the pocket of his slacks. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“Are you going to continue?” Despite knowing the rules, he couldn’t help but feel ornery. How dare this feel good? How dare he stop?

“If you can behave. I know you can, you can be a good boy for me.” Okay, the praise was definitely doing something— some sorcery to him, making a heat pool in his gut, a weakness that had gone previously unexploited. This wasn’t the pride he felt after a glorious victory, it was a syrupy sort of exhilaration that he wasn’t quite ready to interrogate.

Especially not when Elander’s next move had him transfixed. Gripping the shaft, he tapped the head of Cato’s cock against his pillowy lips, holding eye contact as his perfect sinful pink mouth swallowed his glans in one go. That mouth had haunted his mind, but only now did it occur to him why. He didn’t go down far, especially with the way those plush lips stretched around the girth of an Astartes, but that hardly mattered when his tongue was doing all the work.

Swirling around the head in teasing circles, playing with the slit, a bouquet of new experiences dragged a helpless groan out of him. Still stroking Cato’s length, there was a massaging pressure at his perineum, gentle circles slowly migrating down.

“The hell are you doing with my ass?” He grunted, but surprised himself by remaining still as velvety fingertips traced around the hole.

“No hope of finding your head if it’s too far up there.” Elander muttered sarcastically, Cato’s cock resting against his cheek as he fiddled with the thing from his pocket, accompanied by the quiet pop of a bottle opening. “This will feel a bit strange, but if you’re patient I promise it’ll feel good. Pull your legs up, that angle should be more pleasant for you.”

“Fuck you.” Gritting his teeth as he did as he was told, Cato craned his head up as if he could possibly see what Kiran was doing between his legs.

“Patience. This will be cold.” Despite the warning, the sensation of a gelled finger rubbing against the pucker of his asshole made Cato flinch, growling low in his chest.

It was definitely strange. He had certainly been examined before, every last inch of him observed and tested, and that was not the way Kiran touched him. Slow and incremental was his work, first massaging the outer ring of muscle with slick fingers slowly warming the lubrication, the pressure of his circular strokes beginning to dip inside.

That foreign sensation was accompanied by more attention to his cock, mouth now beginning to roam its length as Kiran licked stripes up the shaft, and Cato fought between keeping his eyes on the other and letting his hand sink back onto the bed. He was painfully hard, there was so much more he wanted before he was satisfied, and it was ecstasy. Patience didn’t seem like a chore to appease Kiran anymore… it was becoming very appealing. Cato didn’t even mind when the first finger sank into his hole.

Pain was negligible to an Astartes, but the only thing Cato could think of to describe the feeling of being stretched was an ache, the push of tight muscles initially unwilling to yield. Some vague sort of discomfort, and yet even that was pleasurable, enhanced by whatever witchcraft Kiran was doing with his tongue.

“Do you want me to keep going?” The fair haired man asked softly as the intrusion of his finger rocked in and out, to which Cato groaned. “Yes or no.”

A tremor shook his thighs as he felt his muscles unspooling, from his hips downward. “Don’t fucking stop…”

“I said, yes or no.” Cato whined vocalized his displeasure as Kiran’s fingers withdrew again. This pathetic little baseline knew things about his body he had yet to discover for himself, attempting to play him like a fiddle.

Cato was letting him.

“…Yes.” 

The approving look Kiran gave him was sin, a warm rush of achievement and pride low in his gut, right where his nerves had been sparking at his touch. To Cato’s confusion he unfastened the bracelet around his wrist with some invisible attachment, then deftly wrapped its soft thin silicone around the base of his cock, where it easily snapped into place. The thought that Kiran’s wrist was comparable thickness to his shaft made Cato dizzy, made his mind flounder at thoughts of holding them for a moment before being brought back to attention.

“So good for me, thank you for using your words. Remember, you’re being patient, and you’ve done such a wonderful job at it so far.” Kiran palmed at the tip, spreading the transparent fluid that had begun dripping from it like another lubricant, his touch somehow even more silky and warm.

Two fingers this time, pressing and prodding and stretching. An Astartes could withstand any temperature, and yet Cato felt himself growing hot. An Astartes never tired, and yet his breaths were rapid, his two hearts quickening. A scissoring motion of Kiran’s fingers made that pleasurable ache grow, a feeling of fullness he wanted to chase as they crooked inside him.

“You crave approval, don’t you? Such a beautifully honed weapon, singing to be used for the glory of battle.” Three fingers, pushing, pistoning. “But there’s an easier way to feel that good, to know that you’re doing what you’re supposed to. So good. So natural.”

Cato couldn’t help it as a wanton moan slipped through his teeth, his head falling back onto the bed, just listening and feeling. An Astartes’s duty was service to the Imperium, and yet this new idea of service…

“It’s a shame for such a lovely weapon to be unused, a blade left unpolished… let yourself be used and adored.” Four fingers, now? It was hard to tell, the slender intrusion was sliding so easily. “You don’t even have to do anything, simply experience your purpose of serving mankind and enjoy it.”

Cato Sicarius had never considered submission to be an option. Defeating an opponent in debate or combat brought the joy of triumph, the glory of Ultramar at his heels. There was something perverse in those feelings coming so easily, through… obedience. It was perverse and it felt wonderful, and so very easy. Obeying and being rewarded and feeling so full as Kiran’s fingers sank into his hole, faintly aware of the obscene sound of his whole hand—

“Good boy.” There was barely enough time for Cato to process the fact that Kiran was wrist deep in him before he was seeing stars, hot sparks coursing up his spine, turning his thoughts to static. 

The feeling didn’t let up, repeatedly pressing that spot inside him, the sensation of fullness and pressure building in his gut. Pistoning in and out at a relentless pace as his legs began to shake, eyes rolling as his mouth fell open, dignity forgotten as each thrust drove into him and drew a torrent of gasps and moans from his lips.

“Fu-uck, Kiran—”

“You’re doing so well, sweet thing.” Kiran cooed over the wet and lecherous sound of his ministrations against Cato’s body. “You may move now. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

He needn’t speak twice. Heels barely kept purchase against the sheets, his hips bucked, and a vicious new rhythm formed. Every time Cato rocked back Kiran’s fingers rammed against his prostate, and thrusting forward had him rubbed up against his palm in exquisite torture, the barest shift making his head spin with pleasure. There was nowhere to move to escape those hands, and it was making him more and more desperate.

Pressure built, his cock red hot even as something felt stoppered at the base— where Kiran had placed the bracelet. He needed something, and he could barely comprehend what it was, only that denying it felt like dying.

“Ah—! Please…” Cato gasped, hips stuttering as he couldn’t decide whether to try and escape the sensation or seek more and more and more.

“Asking nicely, Cato? Do you want to cum?” That was it. He wanted to cum, he needed to, he couldn’t care less about the insubordination from Kiran or the begging he was about to do.

“Mnh… ah, please let me—!” His breath hitched like he was trying to come up for air, like swimming in the seas of his youth, desperate to surface. “I need to cum! Ple—ease…”

“Well, since you asked so nicely. Cum for me.” 

Fingers slipped around the base of his cock and in a moment Cato’s world exploded. Release rocked his nerves as his hips snapped up, something white hot and molten coursed through his cock, feeling Kiran stroking him through it as everything else dissolved around him. 

His mind was warm, pleasant fuzz, tensed muscles melting and loosening as his orgasm steadily ebbed, laying flat against the bed. The room came back to him slowly, the savory scent of sweat and his own spend registering before he finally opened his eyes.

The sight that greeted him was one that had appeared in dreams he had tried to forget, but was now burning itself into his mind’s eye. Kiran Elander, covered in thick strings of cum, opaque strands in his face and hair, ruining the fine dark blue fabric of his dress shirt. The ambassador’s hazel eyes shone with affection and pride as he wrapped his bracelet back around his wrist, taking a fistful of the sheets to gently press it against Cato’s slicked asshole and wipe away some of the lubrication.

“Was that enough of a reward for you?” Elander looked… smug. Sicarius felt furious.

How dare this useless little baseline think he had any power over him? What sort of games was he playing to think he could get Cato Sicarius to submit to his whims? He could break him.

With superhuman speed he had Elander by the collar, dragging him to the mattress to pin him there, growling under his breath and trapping the little ambassador’s arms by his sides. 

Elander should have been fearful, he should be groveling for his life. Instead, after his eyebrows raised in muted surprise, he appeared to simply go numb. Body limp, face blank, staring owlishly into Sicarius’s eyes. It was like he was playing dead, but there was an air of… disappointment in his gaze. Despite everything, it made him feel nauseous and leaden. Not afraid, disappointed. As if he had expected it.

His heart certainly didn’t squeeze at the thought that Kiran had praised him so warmly, only to expect Cato to disappoint him.

Slowly, Sicarius lowered himself to lay on Elander, slipping his thick arms around that trim waist, and after a moment of hesitation began to clean him in turn. He lapped the drips of seed from Elander’s skin, letting his breathing slow as he licked his porcelain-smooth brow. For a moment the ambassador lay stock still beneath him, but ever so minutely Sicarius felt him relax, slim fingers slipping into his hair.

You, your boyfriend Nick and the friends you two have met along the road, Layla, Paul and Jenny, had set up a “camp” of sorts. You’ve found an old suburban neighborhood, checked through the abandoned houses for danger, and when you’ve cleared them up, you decided to settle in three houses for a while before you’ve scavenged enough supplies to keep going. Where? God knows where. You were wanderers like most survivors out of the QZ and life pushed you together because, as Nick was trying to convince you, “There was strength in numbers”. But when Layla and you came back from a scavenging trip and you came into the cozy blue suburban house you’ve lived with Nick, he was nowhere to be found. He didn’t tell you he was going anywhere. Worried for him, you knocked on the door of the neighboring house Jenny resided in. The door was locked. You had a bad feeling. You knocked harder and when the door didn’t open, you looked through the window, but all you saw was a hand closing the curtain... A male hand. You shouted through the door desperately.

“I’m gonna break the windows if you don’t open up!”

You put your ear to the door and heard hushed whispers. What the hell was happening? Then the thought finally popped into your head. The thing you were so afraid of, you didn’t even let yourself think about it until then. “Innocent until proven guilty”, you repeated to yourself in your head. Sure enough, the door opened up and it was Nick and Jenny. Alone. In a locked house. You had an awful feeling in your gut akin to butterflies. You looked at Nick and he had a guilty expression on his face. You’re sure you were pleading in your head for it all to be a dream.

You looked at Nick, already anticipating the disappointment. “Nick... Let’s talk at home, huh?”

He nodded, his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, let’s.”

He came out of Jenny’s house and walked with you to yours. You opened the door and came in, him following silently. You closed the door and went to the kitchen, distraught, tears pooling in your eyes. The bright interior of the hallway, with white walls, a silly rainbow welcome mat and plants, wilted but appreciated, looked dimmer than usual. He sat down on the kitchen chair and leaned his arm on the back of it, guilt and dread of the conversation coming up written all over him.

You turned to him, disbelief and shock still written all over your face. “Nick... What was that?”

He could just stare at you in silence with a guilty expression.

You pleaded “Say something.”

He shook his head, debating on what to say and settling with a weak lie, not even sure he wants to keep hiding this. “I was just visiting Jenny. I was bored while you were out.”

You looked at him with a disbelieving face. “Alone? In a locked house? Nick, do you think of me as a fool?”

He looked at you for a long moment before deciding to speak in an impatient tone. “You want me to say what was going on there?”

You were getting angry at his tone. “Yes!”

“I was... With Jenny.”

You looked at him, feeling like the air was knocked out of your lungs as he confirmed your suspicions. “How long?”

He admitted, almost looking annoyed at himself for getting caught. “Three weeks.”

“Three weeks? Wait a minute... Every time I went out on a supply run for three weeks... And Jenny was there... You were banging her?” You had to let out a disbelieving and biting laugh at the thought.

He just nodded hesitantly, afraid of how you’d react if he acted smug.

You stared at him for a moment, anger building up inside you. You knew one thing. Cheating was the end of a relationship for you. Especially when it happens like this. “Let me get one thing straight. You cheated on me as soon as you got the damn chance.”

He kept quiet for a few seconds, scared of how you’d react. He knew you were a skilled fighter and someone not to be messed with. Yet, he didn’t appreciate the accusatory tone of your voice. “Listen... I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve been spending time with her while you were out. Jenny’s... She’s warm, caring, easygoing. I just... I like her. A lot.” He was holding back a faint smile while he was talking about her, hiding the depth of his growing feelings for her.

Warm, caring, easygoing. Unlike you, you thought. You looked at him in shock and said in a deadpan tone. “Yeah? So you decided the best course of action was cheating on me?”

He was getting mad and defensive. “Listen, we never made a strong commitment. We met on the road and I liked you-“

You cut him off. “So I was there when there was no better option?” You were sporting a biting grin you’re sure he wanted to punch off your face.

He was getting frustrated with you not letting him speak. “No, I cared about you. I wouldn’t have done everything that I’ve done for you if I didn’t.”

You looked at him as you recalled the things he did do for you. The way he’d always shield you from danger, wrapping his arm around you as you were hiding behind short walls and bushes. The way he’d make sure you ate, even if it meant less food for him. The way you walked backwards in front of him as he was walking straight, talking and laughing with him like a teenager. And it’s as if you feel a stab in your heart when you remember it’s not going to be like that ever again.

“I... I just can’t believe it. I trusted you! I loved- love you! Still do! And... You don’t even look sorry!” You huff.

He looked at you sadly and said your name softly. “You know I am... I’m sorry I hurt you.” He stopped and thought about what he was going to say before he continued. “I care about you too, but Jenny... She’s really special to me. I just wanted to be with her. Any way that I could.”

“So what now?” You raised your voice as he kept quiet. “Huh?” Tears streamed down your face as you accepted the finality of your relationship.

He looked at you sadly. “I’m really sorry... I shouldn’t have done it like this.”

You looked at him, almost softening. Hearing the regret in his voice, but refusing to budge. You shouted desperately as tears streamed down your face. “How could you? How could you do this to me?!”

Your sadness quickly turned to rage. Because... Here he is, leaving you high and dry, after trusting him not to. You decided not to let him see how he’s affected you. Not to let him see your world breaking in two. Not to let him see the true you anymore. You let yourself cry though and faked pleading back for him.

“Listen... Nick, we can’t end it like this. Okay? I can’t live without you! Please, please... Just... Break up with her. Promise you won’t do it again and I’ll take you back!”

He was wary of your change in attitude, having expected to be thoroughly dragged through the mud by you, but he brushed it off and looked at you sadly and almost feeling sorry for you as he said “I can’t. I love her.”

And that’s when it dawned on you. He said he cared about you, but said he loved her. He never said that to you. Never said it back. You were seeing red at this point. Because after years of closing yourself off, you opened up for him. Gave him all of you. Gave up on the way you used to live because you loved him. And he had the gall to not just cheat on you, but practically tell you he never loved you and that he loves another woman. You just... weren’t enough?

You had made up your mind in that moment. You ran to your bedroom, crying to lure him in, moving next to the backpack under your desk, taking out the thing you swore you’d never use on someone you traveled with again; a syringe with an anesthetic. You kept crying while you were staring at the syringe, both at the revelation and at what you’re going to have to do, and sat down next to the doorway. He came in to check on you and you quickly rose to your feet and put him in a headlock, injecting the syringe into his arm. You moved him to the bed and laid him down, and as he was losing consciousness, he had a panicked and pleading look in his eyes.

He whispered, his mouth moving slower as he was losing consciousness “Don’t do it...”

You took out your pocket knife, moving to kneel on the bed next to him. You looked at him as he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, closing them. For the first time in forever, you hesitated as you looked at the sleeping form of the man you love. Tears were streaming down your face and it took a lot of willpower not to break down at the very moment. You closed your eyes, trying to get yourself together. You opened them again and looked at him, thinking you can’t do it. You can’t, not to him. Looking at his unconscious form, you knew that you still care about him. You always will.

You almost broke down, when the ugly thought reared its head again. You imagined him with Jenny in bed, telling her he loves her with no regards for you. You felt like you were nothing. Nothing to him, nothing to anyone, like you didn’t even exist. You couldn’t stand that feeling. You’d do anything not to feel it. So you leaned in and did it. You slit his throat, blood gushing out of his neck and splashing your face and hand. It was soaking the white sheets of the bed as you looked at it in an almost hypnotized shock. Your hand was shaking as you lightly pressed on his pulse point and felt his pulse slowing down. You panicked. Because when it stops, that’s it. Guilt was threatening to consume you, but you fought against it. Then his pulse stopped and you’re sure your face went pale. What have you done?

You instinctively grabbed your backpack and packed the little clothes that you have in it, your full backpack straining against the guns, canned food and clothes. You rushed to the kitchen and took a plastic bag out of it, packing up the remaining ammo and canned food you gathered on scavenging runs over the last month. You were acting without thinking at this point, unable to face the reality staring down at you like a ticking time bomb. You came back into the bedroom and, without looking at what you’ve done on that bed, took his backpack too, stealing his supplies. He won’t need them anymore, after all. You put your backpack on your shoulders, carrying Nick’s backpack and the plastic bag of supplies, then ran out of the house towards the black Toyota you Nick and you had found and restored. You put everything in the trunk of the car, Jenny running out of her house as she heard the commotion, shouting “What are you doing?!”

You shouted with a feigned worried expression. “We have to move, go check on Nick, he’s not well!”

She looked at you angry and in shock, knowing you’ve done something but her worry for Nick overriding the anger, running into the house. You took the chance and got into the car as quickly as you could, pulling out of the driveway and driving fast down the road. Jenny’s screams were growing fainter as you made distance.

After a few hours of driving... You couldn’t keep it together anymore. You pulled over on an empty field and started crying inconsolably, punching the steering wheel. You came out of the car and sat down on the dirty grass next to it, putting your head in your hands. He’s... God, you killed him. He’s dead and it’s all your fault. You screamed into the empty filed and sobbed. The only sound you heard as you were staring into the open grass field, the sky growing darker as night set in, was your echo in the distance.

You’re not a saint, that’s clear as day. Nick never knew what you did to get by before him and you liked it that way, not sure he could ever even look at you the same way if he did. You... You used to find men just like him, spontaneous and easygoing. You’d lure them in with a promise of sex, of doing whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, of pleasure, of an adventure. When you’d feel them getting bored and distant, you’d... You’d kill them. Steal their supplies after using them to protect you, rinse and repeat.

What were you supposed to do? You escaped the QZ at twenty eight, alone so as not to put your cousins taking care of you in danger. You wanted freedom. You wanted an out from the corrupted and controlling guards you couldn’t even look at anymore. To live life on your own terms. But you soon realized life outside the walls is tough and unforgiving, especially for a woman.

With your first boyfriend on the road, you realized... As a woman, you have a bargaining chip, and if you use it right, you can get men to do the dirty work for you.

You didn’t have a lot of regret about it. You were completely numb, your feelings buried deeply inside you. No matter how easy feelings are to bury though, they keep trying to fight their way back in. When they do after a long time of numbness, after all the horrible things you’ve done with no regard to anyone but yourself... You feel like you can’t take them. You remembered the faces of the boyfriends you’ve killed. Their desperate and pleading expressions before the deed. Your body was shaking from the guilt.

The worst part is... The lines in your head were blurred. They weren’t relationships, not to you, but you’re human. You had moments when you’d find yourself caring about those men. When they’d do something nice for you, when you’d talk and laugh for hours. There were moments when you thought you were in love. You know now it was merely infatuation. Maybe caring for them as people.

You felt used in these arrangements. Dirty and used. Because the guys you were with knew you relied on them for shelter and supplies. They weren’t the most moral of men. They took advantage of you the same way you took advantage of them, and part of you doesn’t regret killing them just for that fact.

You could have survived without doing that. You could have found work around the QZ or a real partner, but you didn’t want to be alone, and you didn’t want to trust. So you lived in these fake relationships and left a trail of blood in your wake. Admitting that to yourself is... Horrifying.