A one shot focusing on Brute, because she doesn't get enough attention. The story is told from Brute's POV.

Summary: You're vicious and cold and hard. You're a woman. She's just a silly girl that's taken the only person that's ever made you feel something.



You don't understand.

You can almost hear your sisters' cackles spilling from their perfectly glossed lips, rolling their eyes at such an absurd statement because of course you don't understand.

You're the tough one, but when you look into the eyes of those innocent civilians you love to make squirm you know you're so much more than that.

You're vicious and cold and hard. Your body is just somewhere to house the pure ferocity and raw, primal impulses that control you.

Your name is only a reminder of what you are, and it's so apt it hurts.


You'll never understand feelings.


You hate him.

No, really, you do.

You hate the way his lips are always curled into a cruel smirk, never a smile. How his large, dark green eyes are a one way mirror, always able to bore into your entire being, but never showing his. The way his charcoal black hair is always messy and unkempt.

He's cocky and wild and bad, but you like that.

He's just like you. You're him and he's you. One in the same.

And when it's late at night and your hands are tangled in that perpetually messy black hair and begging for those always smirking lips to touch your lips, you forget to hate him.

You're too lost in flawless, rough skin and the feel of his body on yours. You almost remember to hate him, but then he does that thing with his hips and shit you've forgotten again.

In the morning, when he's already left your bed and pulling his shirt over his head, he always turns around and gives you that shit eating smirk.

'You asshole.'

He just winks and leaves through the window. You hate how he made your supposedly nonexistent heart flutter.


You hate him.


Why her?

She's just a lesser, weaker version of you and you think it's bullshit when people compare the two of you.

You're nothing like her.

She's loyal and determined and good. It makes you laugh till your red at how fucking naïve she is. She flies around that joke of town, playing hero to people who are as useful as the gum on the soles of your boots.

Her eyes are too bright and her skin too clean. Her punches are too soft and her sympathy is downright sickening. Her hair is dull and even when it sticks up in different directions it's still too perfect. Everything about her is too much and when you see her arrogant smile on yet another magazine cover you destroy the entire thing.

She's nothing.

You're a woman. She's just a silly girl.

Just a silly, silly girl that's captured Butch in a way you never could.


You don't understand.


It's been weeks since you've seen him.

You tell yourself he's off with his brothers, causing havoc around the city. He's with his friends drinking stolen beer in the school parking lot. Or maybe he's high out of his mind at a party, feeling up some slut as they dance the night away.

It's all lies, but you'd rather hear the pretty lies then the scorching truth. The truth that you know exactly where he is. He's with her, instead of with you in your bed where he should be.

And as you sit rigidly on your bed, you can hear your sisters' cackles again. They're laughing because of course you don't understand. You'll never understand feelings.

You'll never understand love.

You do though. When you feel that small thumping sensation in your chest you tried so hard to ignore and squeeze your eyes, refusing to let those damn tears out, you break.

You understand.

You finally understand.