#people into cats’ story is clearly such bullshit given that he always heads straight into Jon’s office everytime he goes into the archives

[teamfortresstwo]

…Thinking about an au where Tim gets leitnered into a cat and Elias ‘coincidentally’ walks in just as Jon is like petting him and shushing him because oh no! This poor cat is so obviously distressed! And like Tim would find this cute and tease him over it under any other circumstance but seeing as he’s the cat and would very much like to become a person again it is kinda annoying! And then Elias is like ‘is that a cat, Jon?’ And Jon gets all flustered is like ‘ah-uh-yes, someone must have let it in… I-‘ and Elias just cuts him off and insists on taking is outside and Jon wants to prove he can be responsible by doing it himself but Elias refuses and takes cat Tim and Tim doesn’t really like him and he doesn’t seem to know anything cause this is s1 so he’s scratching and biting but Elias just won’t let him go and…he’s not actually taking him outside?

And so Elias just brings him up his office and is like “well this is quite the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into mr stoker” and then they spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how to reverse it with Tim getting to be all cuddled up to Elias and being pet.

[missinghan]

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language 

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales. 

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage. 

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is. 

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess. 

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time. 

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back. 

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school. 

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.  

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence. 

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield. 

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene. 

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers. 

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where? 

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck. 

“What’s your name?” 

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed. 

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform. 

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief. 

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care. 

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease. 

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.” 

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.” 

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly. 

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night. 

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom. 

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle. 

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you. 

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next. 

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world. 

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path. 

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat. 

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind. 

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail. 

“What the fuck?” 

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely. 

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less. 

Because that’s the least of his problem right now. 

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization. 

four. 

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that. 

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand. 

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground. 

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home. 

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager. 

Minho feels awful. 

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him. 

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice. 

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out. 

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up. 

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions. 

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?” 

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand. 

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously. 

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?” 

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.” 

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life. 

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld. 

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?” 

“It’s Lee Minho.” 

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five. 

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility. 

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here. 

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life. 

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much? 

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for. 

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too. 

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great. 

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one. 

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike. 

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes. 

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away. 

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor. 

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now. 

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave. 

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child. 

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his. 

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place. 

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then. 

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are. 

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself. 

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process. 

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words. 

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares. 

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in. 

You can only nod. “Yeah.” 

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest. 

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony. 

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists. 

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years. 

Nothing makes sense. 

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself. 

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break. 

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin. 

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms. 

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within. 

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear. 

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react. 

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about? 

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.” 

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done. 

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart. 

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?” 

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess. 

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection. 

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause. 

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

[preparetosufferemotionally]

Home, Part Four: You Left Me to Bleed

Prinexity

TW: Trauma, cursing, Unsympathetic Janus, Unsympathetic Patton, past abusive relationships, child growing up in a toxic home, manipulation, emotional abuse, physical abuse, a stray cat, playboy, Remus, Trans!Virgil, friend break up, trauma, alludes to dissociation, traumatic experiences. 

Jeremy Empire was the school heartbreaker. Fitting, since he had his broken first. He knew that these weren’t the only names he was called. Gay JD, bad boy, fuck boy, and no good peice of shit were a couple of his other favorites. Remy was never in one place, he was in five at once. He caused trouble, but no one could ever declare him guilty. HIs fathers weren’t exactly pleased with what he did, but they did acknowledge that they gave him those traits. Roman gave him the romance, Virgil the emo rebel, his uncle Remus lent the trouble maker, and Emile...oh he gave him pain. 

Pain seemed to be a family trait. Everyone in Remy’s family always had some heartbreak, some emotional destruction. Hell, even their cat, Panic!, had something wrong with his life. The cat was a stray until Remy’s dads found and adopted him. 

Regardless, none of that mattered. Remy threw on his leather jacket, grabbed a coffee, got on his father’s old motorcycle, and went to school. It was junior year, a year of stress and susceptible emotions. So, the perfect time to find someone new to hit on. Remy went through the ideas as he walked through the halls. Maybe an aggressively straight guy with obvious internalized homophobia? Or the gay nerd that really wants attention? Or the- 

Remy’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted when he accidentally slammed into a fellow student. 

“Shit,” He cursed. He saw the person’s tawny hair and sweater vest. Clearly a nerd, considering how many books were lying on the ground. Maybe he should help? But by the time Remy came to that conclusion, the books were already in his arms. 

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” the person mumbled. “I’ll just go.” The person started to walk away but Remy grabbed their sleeve. They sounded familiar. The person stopped. “Could you let go of my sleeve please?” Remy didn’t respond, instead pulling the sleeve slightly, which caused the person to turn around. Remy attempted to make eye contact through sunglasses, but the person dropped their head, avoiding it like a pro. He was impressive. “Please let go of my sleeve.”

“Make eye contact and I let go.” The person shifted the books in their arms and sighed, before lifting up their head. Remy stumbled backward. A sixteen year old Emile looked at him uncomfortably through glasses. He barely changed since they were kids, still with a face that looks like it could smile in moments.  “Emile?” Remy gasped, too shocked to say anything. He hadn’t seen him since sixth grade, he had assumed he transferred schools. 

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Emile asked, dropping his gaze again to avoid eye contact. Remy felt all his emotions rush forward again, just like the day Emile abandoned him. He attempted to keep his cool, but it was so hard when fucking Emile was standing there, acting like they had never been friends. First leaving him alone, and now this. Emile was a son of bitch. 

Remy didn’t even realize Emile had shrunk back, holding his books to his chest, until he came close, almost nose to nose with him.

“You should.” Emile flinched, taking a step back. 

“I’m really sorry, but I just don’t know who you are,” Emile panicked. At this point people stopped to watch. It was the most interesting they’d see all day. Everyone knew who the two were. Emile would always be there with a smile if you needed help and Remy had broken hearts so many times, he was probably heartless. 

“You are a fucking monster.” Emile’s eyes filled with tears that he stubbornly held back in. Those words echoed in his skull.  Remy glared at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Emile whispered, quickly running off into the crowd. Remy watched him run off. Then he stormed off into the opposite direction. 

For the rest of the day, gossip followed the two around school. Were they scorned lovers? Mortal enemies? Did Remy break his heart? Did Emile break Remy’s? Was there a  dramatic backstory? Did the two meet and one had a concussion and forgot? Was this some alternate universe that they traveled to where only Remy knew he saw Emile? Nobody was too sure. But two things were known. Remy was furious, and Emile was terrified. And that was enough for the rumors to make their way home. 

“All I’m saying is, hypothetically, you could murder him.”

“REMUS!” 

“Whaaat?” Roman shook his head at his brother, holding Virgil’s hand gently as they sat on the couch. 

“I don’t know if you know this Mr. Mad Scientist, but in the real world murder is illegal!”

“Only if you get caught,” Virgil chimed in, petting the cat. Roman looked at him, exasperated.

“It's amazing that I’m the only impulse control in this house.” Remus cackled as Virgil chucked a pillow at Roman’s head. Remy sat silently, not talking about anything that happened today. The adults stopped when Remy remained silent.

“Hey Remy, sweetheart, are you okay? I know that must have been very upsetting,” Virgil said softly. Remy rolled his eyes and huffed. 

“Upsetting is one word for ripping out my heart and stopping on its already broken pieces.” 

“You sound exactly like your father,” Virgil snorted. Roman smiled, leaning over and kissing the top of Virgil’s head.

“What can I say, I have the better genes.” Virgil leaned on Roman’s shoulder. 

“Aren’t you related to that trash rat?” 

“Regardless, still better.”

“Alright, stop flirting with you two. Clearly your son is having an emotional crisis. And I’m shit at emotions, so do your thing,” Remus said, gesturing to Remy. Virgil sighed and nodded.

“I know this is rough-”

“You have no idea how ROUGH this is. How could he just forget me like that? We were best friends, and he abandoned me.” Virgil and Roman exchanged a look as Remy fumed. Then Roman sighed, and stepped forward.

“He didn’t abandon you.” Remy looked at him incredulously, standing up.

“Um, I’m pretty sure he did dad!” Roman shook his head. 

“He didn’t. At least not on purpose.” Remy fell back into his seat, confused.

“What?”

“Virgil will explain better.” Virgil got up and sat next to his son, one hand on his back soothingly. 

“So it looks like I’m going to have  to tell you a long story. It started in college.”

“You’re kidding. Emile abandoning me, starts when you were in college? Bullshit.” Virgil rolled his eyes while Remus and Roman exchanged a look. 

“You are very lucky I didn’t start when I was in sophomore year of college. Trust me, this shit goes back a long while.” Remy flopped backward. 

“Fiiiine.”

“Good. I wasn’t dating your father at the time, instead I was dating Deceit.”

“Okay, this is not some dudes name is it?” Roman joined in, responding for Virgil.

“No it's not, but it's very difficult for your father to refer to him by his given name.”

“Why?”

“i’m getting to that,” Virgil said, getting irritated. “I will explain everything, just please stop interrupting.” Remy rolled his eyes but nodded. “Now Deceit was not a good person.”

“That's a nice way of saying absolute dickhead,” Remus muttered. Virgil glared at him and he shut up. Remy sat up, a bit more interested.

“Anyway, he wasn’t a good person,”

“Dickhead,” Remus muttered. 

“AND his brother was a person named Patton Lugner.”

“How is this important?” Remy asked, becoming bored again, grabbing a cup of coffee and starting to sip out of it.

“COULD YOU ALL JUST LET ME SPEAK?” Everyone immediately shut up. “Thank god. Now, I had been dating Deceit since sophomore year of highschool and we moved to college together. He was the only person I knew, so I was very isolated and alone. I had terrible anxiety at the time and being alone around him made it worse.” Virgil hitched a breath. Roman came over, encouraging him with a gentle arm around his shoulder.

“Deceit could get violent. In fact, he rarely didn’t. On the outside, you wouldn’t have known it. It was so easy to fall into his trap that way. He smoothly talked and lied about everything. He could have said, ‘The sky is green’ and I would have accepted it without question. That was the type of person he was. I had been incredibly nervous so I only saw people with Deceit. Naturally that met the only people I ever saw were people Deceit trusted to not help me. So, I met his brother Patton. I was convinced he didn’t know, so I acted secretive. He did know though. About everything that went on behind the closed doors.” Virgil inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm back down. Roman soothed him, and he began to speak again.

“Then I met your uncle Remus. He was best friends with Deceit.” Remy spit out his coffee.

“WHAT?!”

“Hey, I didn’t know he was a complete dolphin’s asshole at the time,” Remus shrugged. Remy gaped at his uncle. This was quite the story to be hearing and it had barely started.

“We didn’t talk much, he was quite loud and out there, and frankly I was terrified. But one night I ran out of the dorm, absolutely terrified and in pain. And your uncle Remus was there. I was hidden by the dark and my hoodie, so he didn’t know it was me, but he was kind and asked why I was here. I said I had been hurt badly,” Virgil unintentionally flinched at the memory, trying to get back on track. “He asked who did. And I said it was my boyfriend. He wanted to get me help immediately, because despite his off the wall attitude, your uncle was a good person.”

“Why thank you Virgey.” Virgil rolled his eyes.

“I said no, because I was so scared what would happen if he found out. But he tried to encourage me to leave, even if he couldn’t help. I didn’t listen at first, but the words sunk into my brain and stayed there. He succeeded in planting the doubt in my head. And one night, when I had finally had enough, I broke up with Deceit and immediately ran out the door, not listening to what he wanted to say or do next. Next thing I knew I was in the center of the grounds running as fast as I could away. And then I bumped right into your father.”

“This is like a cheesy rom-com,” Remy muttered, before Roman, not Virgil shot him a dirty look. 

“Anyway, I ran into your father. And I didn’t really know what I was doing at the time, but I begged for him to let me be in his dorm. I said I was running from someone who was trying to hurt me. Your father was always a big softie and let me come in. Turns out he was sharing a room with your uncle Remus. He was surprised to see me because,” Remus joined in.

“Aren’t you J’s roommate?” 

“I panicked immediately, but your father helped me through my attack and I calmed down. I didn’t tell them why I was scared, just that I switched rooms because Janus had a partner who was there all the time and it freaked me out. They let me stay, and eventually, I met their friend. His name was Logan Berry, and he was a very smart law student. As it happened he was friends with Deceit. Or not friends as much as acquaintances. He was, however, close friends with Patton, Deciet’s twin brother. So naturally, the twins hung out with us. I hadn’t told anyone about Deceit, but I quickly figured out from side glances and careful looks, Patton knew. And he didn’t care.”

“Should these names feel familiar? Because they are to me, but I can’t place them,” Remy asked. Virgil nodded.

“Oh they should. Patton scared the crap out of me, but he was Logan’s friend and by extension mine, so I tried to get rid of the underlying fear. And I just tried to pretend Deceit wasn’t there.  At some point your father and I started dating. He knew I had serious issues from something, but he didn’t know what. Eventually he discovered it was Deceit and I swore him to secrecy, albeit reluctantly. Then, Remus came in. He was crying. Actually crying so we knew something had happened. Remus, want to take this bit?”

“Yup! So, Logan dropped me as a friend. I didn’t know why, but it was very painful. At first I wanted to cry, and then I wanted to rip out his internal organs. But your dad was suspicious of what happened, especially after Logan started to date Patton. He went to talk to Logan, only for Logan to dismiss it and leave. Your dad got home, and then vowed to confront Patton about this.” Virgil sighed.

“So, after class, I went to go find Patton when I was stopped by Deceit. He threatened me with exposing what happened to me to everyone if I did anything. And while I had more confidence, I didn’t have enough to say ‘Fuck you, I’ll do this anyway.’ So I listened and went back, my suspicions confirmed when Logan walked back to class with foundation on his face. I’ve put on enough makeup in my lifetime, whether it was for me or to hide a bruise, so I could immediately tell what happened. I wanted to do something and tell someone what happened. But I knew no one would believe me and everyone would just end up hurt.” Remy looked confused.

“Why wouldn’t someone believe you pops? Surely people take this seriously.”

“I wish that was the case. But I was a scrawny twenty year old trans man, who hadn’t even fully transitioned yet. They don’t take this seriously when someone with confidence says stuff, how the hell could I even think of it. Regardless, things got better for me and unfortunately worse for Logan. I didn’t see him in class a week later. When I tried to call him, my number was blocked. And then he got married Patton, becoming Logan Hart.” Remy’s jaw dropped. 

“WHAT THE HELL? ARE YOU SAYING WHAT I THINK YOU’RE SAYING?” Roman and Remus couldn’t help but laugh at Remy’s reaction. Virgil smiled. 

“Wait until I finish and you’ll really be shocked. Obviously, me and your dad got married and had you after we finished college. We lost contact with Logan, for obvious reasons. We knew he was married to Patton, but that was about it. Once you turned four we sent you to a preschool. You know the one fifteen minutes away? Then your father ran late to pick you up one day and that’s when we get to you. Patton was your teacher and your father vaguely recognized him. Your father suddenly saw Logan and everything clicked. You were playing with Emile, so you didn’t realize. Naturally, your dad told me what happened and I was tempted then and there to hunt down Patton Hart.”

“But,” Roman interrupted, taking the conversation, “I didn’t let him do that. Instead we bided our time. We didn’t want to ruin your and Emile’s friendship. You were both so happy. But everything went wrong on your first playdate at a house. It was ours and you had a good time. Everything seemed fine. Me and your father remained civil with Patton. Maybe this would work out. And then you asked-”

“What loud noises start at night?” Remy whispered, pulling up the distant memory in horror. Virgil nodded as Roman continued.

“And Patton immediately shut the door in our faces, bringing Emile in with him. You didn’t understand and were led back to the car. We don’t know what happened next in their home, but you can bet it was nothing good. I strongly suspect Patton might have manipulated or scared Emile into ignoring you.”

“And,” Virgil added, “Emile likely associates you with a traumatic memory and his brain blocks you out to stay safe.” Remy stared in horror at his fathers, who stared at him solemnly. 

“Holy shit.”

[johannas-motivational-insults]

For the DVD commentary ask, my first thought was the BDE/“no toasters” scene from Chapter 3 of Satisfaction, because the idea of a “making of” commentary over that is very funny to me for some reason. But since that probably falls quite a bit too far on the NSFW side, my fallback was the scene from Chapter 20 of Demons where Catra decides to leave the Horde. That one is probably my favorite of the story so far.

omfg, that would be hysterical but I don’t even know what I’d say about that. Your easy pick is an excellent choice though so I’ll do that! (Commentary is bolded.)

I was so excited to finally release this chapter after so much buildup of Catra becoming disillusioned with the Horde and her identity in it. It was clear to me that Catra would not leave just because something bad happened to her, that would only make her more determined to stay and prove herself, so she’d have to see people she cared about getting hurt to make that mental leap. And so, this scene was born.

Eyes scrunching shut, Catra covers her mouth in an attempt to suppress a yawn. It leaks out through her fingers all the same, high and squeaky and embarrassing. Blinking the focus back into her eyes, she flicks them around in search of witnesses. Seeing no cadets looking her way, she sighs in relief and folds her arms back together. She scowls into the sparring circle, watching but hardly paying attention. Is she really supposed to give a shit about any of this?

Don’t forget this happens the morning after Catra has her big breakdown when it hits her that she’ll never have another chance to earn Shadow Weaver’s love or approval. She’s finally at a tipping point.

A few more moves and Lonnie is victorious, slamming her opponent on his back before rolling and dragging his wrist into a devastating arm bar. He taps out and Lonnie gets a modest amount of applause as she stands. Grinning with a sweeping bow, she offers a hand to her opponent, who takes it grudgingly. Kyle and another boy take their places in the circle and Lonnie shares high fives with a few cadets on her way out. She’s nursing a sprained ankle from a couple days ago, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she struts.

When Lonnie’s eyes lock onto hers, Catra groans internally. Of course Lonnie can’t just ignore the folded ears, crossed arms and twitchy tail that very clearly say ‘leave me the fuck alone.’ No, that’s like a homing beacon for Lonnie. She’s always gotten a kick out of getting under Catra’s skin.

Well, Catra won’t give her the satisfaction. As Lonnie sidles up to her, she extends a congratulatory fist. “Nice armbar, dipshit.”

Lonnie grins, bumping it with pride. “Thanks, bitch.”

I love these two so much. Anyone who reads my fics can probably tell but I am Invested in Catralonnie. In my head this ship falls under the category ‘brotps who hate fuck.’

She turns to the circle and they stand silently side by side, watching as the next fight gets underway. In theory, anyway. Catra’s zoning out, her lips sinking into a frown as she settles back into the numb, dark, heavy place she’s been inhabiting today. Grief, she supposes, though not in the usual sense of the word. She’s not grieving that abusive witch who tormented her all those years, body and soul. No, what she’s grieving is the end of their relationship, how it’s encased in stone forever, how she’ll have no more chances to make things right. No more chances to make Shadow Weaver proud, to earn a gentle touch and kind words, to earn her pride and her trust. But that’s bullshit, and she knows it. Those things were never earned, never given fairly.

Oh, she’s starting to get it...

Catra grits her teeth, glaring straight ahead. Today’s numbness has been punctuated by occasional bursts of anger, rage so blinding it makes her wants to tear her own skin to shreds to purge the feeling from her body. (*thousand year stare into the camera*) She rides out this latest wave of fury in silence, clenching her fists but keeping her claws sheathed to avoid making a scene in public. She takes a few deep breaths, pushing them out until the sensation releases her and she sinks back into the depths.

Shadow Weaver is gone. Catra will never get what she needs. It’s over.

Girl, you need to get you some therapy.

“What’s eating you?”

Catra jumps slightly at the invasive words, turning to find Lonnie watching her with those infuriatingly smug green eyes. Licking her lips, Lonnie cracks, “I know it isn’t Adora.”

Me @ y’all:

Catra’s eyes narrow and she gives Lonnie a weak shove, prompting a laugh. “Nothing’s eating me,” she growls. “I’m fine.”

“Then why aren’t you sparring?” asks Lonnie. “Usually you love the chance to beat the shit out of some dumb human.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Catra answers flatly, mouth twitching only slightly. She doesn’t have the energy to be indignant. She doesn’t give a shit.

Damn that’s when you know Catra’s really got it bad.

Nodding with an exaggerated hum, Lonnie remarks, “You’ve been weird all day, dude. Broody, like more than normal.” (Have I mentioned how much I love Lonnie??) Catra summons the strength to shoot her a withering glare, but she’s undeterred. “You snuck into the barracks after midnight last night, then you woke me up again with your snivelling at four in the fucking morning,” she says with a glare of her own. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you anything, assface,” retorts Catra, jamming a threatening claw against her chest. “And I was only snivelling because I inhaled something weird up on the rooftops.”

Lonnie tips her head with a condescending smirk. “Sure, Catra.”

Yes, this is in fact a hat tip to ‘Sure, Jan.’

“I’m serious,” insists Catra. “There must’ve been some kind of spill in one of the factories.”

“Uh huh.”

Catra turns away with a glower, shaking her head. “Whatever, fuck you.”

“You wish,” snickers Lonnie.

“Ughhh!” Catra smacks her forehead with a huge sigh of exasperation. “Fine, I’ll fight you if it will get you to shut up. For fuck’s sakes, Lonnie.”

Lonnie’s preferred method of therapy is to piss people off enough that they’ll fight her and I think that’s very sexy of her.

Chuckling deeply beside her, Lonnie slings an arm around Catra’s shoulder and gives her a playful shake. “That’s my girl.”

Catra would usually shove Lonnie away in this situation, but she doesn’t this time. She’s too tired to fight the contact and needs to save her strength for the actual fight. Besides, it’s not the end of the world. Lonnie’s arm is beefy but not so heavy as to be uncomfortable. The pressure is actually kind of soothing in a way, clearing Catra’s mind and lulling her into a state of calm. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone, let alone Lonnie.

BROTPS WHO HATE FUCK Y’ALL. Okay but honestly I love that I have this relationship to work with because having someone who’s really good at getting under Catra’s skin is another way to open up her character. Lonnie is not only a loveable character she’s a very useful one for a writer who tells stories primarily through character work and relationships.

A loud thud and a howl of pain pierce the air, snapping Catra back to the moment. Her ears prick up at the familiar sound and she moves toward it on instinct, only to realize she’s half a step behind Lonnie. Humans like to say that cats aren’t pack animals, she’s heard that one many times as a reason she can’t be trusted. Catra is no more an animal than anyone else here, but she thinks Magicats must be different from their feline relatives in that way. The urge to protect her pack is overwhelming and immutable. One of her squadmates is hurt, and she needs to be there to help. Now.

Anyone who says Catra doesn’t care about other people can fucking fight me and that’s a fact.

She and Lonnie arrive at the edge of the circle to find Kyle sprawled on his stomach, moaning and writhing, pounding the floor as he tries to hold back wails of pain. It’s not immediately apparent what the problem is from Catra’s vantage point, but Rogelio is already kneeling on Kyle’s other side, telling him to breathe and that he’s going to be fine.

Okay so I fucking went 16 chapters never specifying whether the rest of the squad understood Rogelio’s language because it wasn’t clear in canon and I wanted to see if they would confirm it one way or the other, and of course as soon as I posted chapter 17 (where I specify that they can) season 4 came out and implied that they know him well enough to understand via his tone and gesturing but they don’t understand the language. So mark me down as annoyed over that. Anyway that wasn’t something I wanted to retcon so I kept it for the rest of the fic.

The instructor, some lower tier officer Catra doesn’t really know, steps into the ring. Pushing Kyle’s worried sparring partner aside, he shouts, “Enough theatrics! Get up and fight!”

Oh boy, Shadow Weaver likes to use that word on Adora too. I don’t remember if this mirrored that intentionally.

Catra feels Lonnie tense beside her, hears Rogelio snorting at Kyle that his leg is broken and he’d better stay the fuck down. Cringing in anticipation, Catra peeks over Kyle’s body and immediately wishes she hadn’t. The sight of his unnaturally bent shinbone sends a shudder of sympathy through her bones.

The instructor must not have any reptile friends (likely) or he understands and is a complete and utter asshole (also likely), because he keeps yelling at Kyle, “Come on, don’t be such a princess! I said get up, you coward!”

The boys’ wailing and snorting is getting them nowhere, so Lonnie intercedes. Gesturing down at the deformed limb, she shouts over the din. “His leg’s broken! You really think that’s a good idea?”

The instructor’s mouth falls open and he peers down at Kyle and then back up at Lonnie, his face turning red. “Don’t talk to me that way, Cadet!” he barks. “You’re running laps for the next half hour.”

Okay, Shadow Weaver Lite.

Lonnie blinks, purging her face of emotion. “I’m just trying to help. You needed a translator.”

“The next hour!” he shouts. “Wanna push it more?”

Scowling, Lonnie shakes her head tersely and begins to push her way out of the circle of cadets. Watching her go, the instructor puffs out his chest and waves a dismissive hand down at Kyle.

“Someone take this weakling to the infirmary,” he orders.

Rogelio glares up at the instructor, though to be fair the asshole probably can’t read reptilian expressions either. Lucky Hel. Rolling his whimpering boyfriend to lie on his back, which results in another howl of pain, he grunts out an apology. Then, supporting the injured leg with one massive arm and the rest of his body with the other, he scoops Kyle up and carries him away.

Okay but the bridal carry is *chef’s kiss*

As the crowd reforms around the sparring circle, the instructor claps Kyle’s partner on the shoulder and declares, “Alright, let’s get a real soldier in here to fight this guy!”

I feel really bad for this kid tbh.

The cadets erupt into cheers and several rush forward to take Kyle’s place, which results in a couple of impromptu fights as they try to push each other out of the circle. Catra is knocked back into the crowd in the process, but she doesn’t react with her usual bared teeth and claws, too busy staring slack-jawed at the chaos. Never in her life has she felt more disconnected from her surroundings, not even when she wanted to be.

At one point in her life (okay, many points), Catra would have been clamoring along with the rest of them. For a chance not just to prove herself, but to avenge her injured squadmate. But she feels no need to prove herself to this incompetent asshole of an instructor, and it’s not that kid’s fault they’re compelled to fight each other like this. He clearly felt terrible about Kyle, anyway.

As Catra watches the scene play out, watches the instructor continue to egg the cadets on, only one clear thought forms in her head.

What the fuck is wrong with these people?

Seriously. How is it weak and cowardly not to stand and fight on a broken leg? That’s not how the body works. Then again, they also like to say that deserters are weak and cowardly. Maybe they don’t know what those words even mean. Maybe weak and cowardly just means having a mind of your own.

Catra’s eyes track Lonnie as she hobbles around the room with a red face and clenched fists. Though she isn’t visibly fuming in the same way, a similar heat smolders deep in Catra’s belly, filling her mind with treasonous thoughts. The whole thing is so fucking unfair. But that’s hardly some grand revelation. Nothing that happens in the Fright Zone is fair.

So what is she even doing here?

That thought in particular makes Catra blink. Hard. She knows why she’s here, she’s been saying it over and over, clinging to these words, this need. She needs to show them they were wrong, she needs to achieve what everyone thought her incapable of. If she leaves, she’ll never do that, and everything that happened here would be for nothing. But if nothing is fair here, rising to the top says nothing about her qualifications, only her ability to work the system. A system that’s absolute bullshit.

And who does she need to prove it to, anyway? These mindless idiots submitting to an incompetant authority figure? Her temperamental former boss who put blind faith in her one day and took it away the next? Her deceased sorry excuse for a mother? Her ex-best friend who left her alone to suffer, but has since come to understand her wrongdoings? No… the only person Catra really needs to prove it to is herself. But if the system is bullshit, there’s nothing to prove, only a painful void to fill with… something.

Honestly this is a rough feeling to deal with but at least now that the illusion has been broken she can go about trying to find that thing to fill it. And no that’s not a sex joke lmao, though I suppose it could be.

Scorpia’s words from last night filter into Catra’s brain through the distant sounds of cheering and shouting. If it feels like everything is for nothing, she needs to find a way to make something of her suffering so she can be at peace. Her eyes fall on Lonnie again, her ears recalling Kyle’s sounds of agony. If she can stop other people from being hurt the way she was, would that make something of it? Would that be enough to satisfy the longing deep inside her, to heal the yawning, yearning chasm Shadow Weaver created with her rejection and cruelty, with her refusal to provide validation and affection? Catra doesn’t know.

All Catra knows is she’s done with this shit.

Catra I am so proud of you bb I love you and you deserve better.

Anyway sorry I had less coherent thoughts for this commentary but this scene makes me emotional so I got a little meme-happy. I have had many experiences like this where I was just holding, holding onto something that was unhealthy or a lost cause and then something happened and a switch flipped in my brain, releasing me from that mind trap. I really wanted to get the feeling of that experience across and I’m proud of how it turned out. It’s a great payoff scene for that whole ‘return to the Horde’ arc for Catra. I didn’t want her to leave for Adora but I also knew she wouldn’t leave for herself until she witnessed the brutality and inequality hurting someone else.

[bloodyknuckles]

and my heart is playing hide and seek.

hey guys read my breakfast club fan fic i’ve been working on for only god knows how long! :) 

read on ao3 here

[read fic under the cut] 

Brian liked long car drives.

He liked them the same way he liked to consume four hundred page novels in one day, or do science experiments that went horribly wrong; he liked them like he liked midnight showings, and creating suicides with the movie theater coke machine. He liked long car rides like he liked the day he was in detention. He’d made friends then and felt like he belonged, even though he was clearly an outcast, and he had fun, as weird as that was to say. After detention, though, they didn’t speak to each other. Brian didn’t really want to talk to Bender, even if they grew to have a standing ground it didn’t mean that the dude didn’t scare him still. He liked Allison enough, even if he still didn’t trust her all that much, and Claire was fun to be around. But what Brian didn’t understand was why he was so crushed when Andrew—or Andy—hadn’t even bothered to look at him; to even acknowledge his existence. It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, but for some reason, it got under his skin. Even Allison and Bender had given him small, hidden, and guarded waves and hi’s when no one was looking.

Andy hadn’t though, and that bothered Brian. He tried not to think about it too much.

He shoved it off and studied for his finals, he didn’t know if he did well (nor did he really care), and he went on with his life. His job as a busboy at Monroe’s Diner sucked, and he’s pretty sure he only got the gig because Claire pulled some strings for him. The place was always packed because it was seemingly the only good restaurant in their rundown Chicago suburb, so he was always worked to death. He was exhausted by the time he came home and often struggled through dinner. One time, much to the chagrin of his family, he fell asleep at the dinner table. His job paid well, so he kept it, no matter how exhausted or angry it made him. A month after school ended, Brian didn’t even have a fleeting thought of Andy. It was like he’d simply dropped off the face of Brian’s mind.

The only weekend Brian didn’t have to work in a month, Claire dragged him out to a public pool. It wasn’t like she didn’t have a pool in her backyard, so he was confused when she pulled up to his house and made him drive her to the only public pool in his old beat-up pickup truck.

“Remind me why you’re making me take you to the public pool again?” Brian asks, pulling into a parking spot.

“For fun,” Claire shrugs and unbuckles her seatbelt.

“You have a pool in your backyard.”

“And?”

“Go swimming in your backyard?”

“I have a feeling that wouldn’t be as fun.”

“You know something I don’t, don’t you?” Brian asks, turning around to face her. She grins and winks and doesn’t say anything else. She hops out of the car and grabs the towels from the backseat, and Brian follows suit.

“Have fun today, okay?” Claire says, bumping his shoulder. Brian rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. Brian had never been a big fan of swimming. There wasn’t a story behind it, he just didn’t enjoy the way the water made him feel and that he always had to shower after he went to the pool because the chlorine made him feel sticky.

The first hour goes uneventfully. Brian and Claire spend most of their time in the shallow end of the pool or sitting on the edge chatting about how their summer is going so far. Brian’s summer has been filled with work, which lead to some very interesting customer stories he’s been itching to tell. Claire’s has been filled with shopping misadventures, which lead to even more interesting stories, especially in the changing room of a Gucci store. It’s when Brian goes to get drinks for him and Claire when things get complicated. He’s gone for at least three minutes, as there’s no one at the counter and he has to wait for someone to pop up, which takes a few minutes, but it’s enough time for Andrew Clark to make a bright appearance at Claire’s side. When Brian returns, it clicks in his brain why Claire wanted to take him here.

Andy gives Brian a charming smile that makes his knees go weak and brain turn to mush, and waves at him. Brian smiles back, but his hands are full so he can’t really wave.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Brian says, after sitting down and handing Claire her drink. Andy shrugs and squints in the sunlight.

“Needed some air. Just not at the ballpark,” he says. There’s a wary air of silence as they sit there. Brian uncomfortably picks at the top of his water bottle.

“What are you two doing here? Claire, don’t you have like… a pool in your backyard or something?” Andy asks.

“I said the same thing!” Brian says, laughing. Claire grins and leans back on her elbows.

“I can see people I actually like here, and shit talk the people I don’t,” she says.

“But then they might hear you,” Andy says. “You can do it peacefully from your pool in your backyard.”

“Then I wouldn’t have the chance to get a chance meeting with people I do like, such as this one,” she says, waving her hand over to Andy. He chuckles and it makes Brian’s heart palpitate. They continue talking, and Andy’s stories from the summer aren’t as eventful as Brian’s or Claire’s. His summer seems to be more boring than either of them assumed. It’s been four hours before Brian and them leave. They wish Andy well before heading back to Brian’s house. They slide into easy conversation, and Brian complains about how the chlorine is making his skin feel and how he’s going to take a shower as soon as he gets home. Claire just laughs and scrolls through her phone.

Claire gets to stay over, much to Brian’s excitement, they just have to keep the door open. To his surprise, Claire came prepared, as if she knew she was going to stay over. Claire has a silk, baby blue nightgown on, while Brian has on a simple t-shirt and joggers. It gets cold in his room at night, so he usually sleeps shirtless, but always with joggers on. They sit on Brian’s floor, the cool wood against his palms, while Claire’s lay in her lap.

“You knew Andrew was coming to the pool today,” Brian says.

“Did I?” Claire says, smiling and picking her hand up to look at her nails.

“Claire!” Brian says. He tries to sound angry, but he sounds more distraught than anything.

“Listen, stupid, have you seen the way you look at Andy? The first day he didn’t talk to you after detention you looked like a kicked puppy,” she shrugs, stretching her legs out. “Brian, you’re whipped and you don’t even know it.”

“Yes, I, a straight man, am totally into boys. Thank you for this groundbreaking information, Claire,” Brian says sarcastically. Claire huffs and rolls her eyes.

“Fine, fine,” she says, leaning back on her elbows. The night passes by a little more quietly, and only once are they hushed by Brian’s mom for laughing too loud.

They sleep in and make brunch when they wake up. Neither of them are very good cooks --Claire has never cooked a day in her life, so of course she’s not good at it. This leaves Brian to do most of the work--, but it pulls off in the end. Claire stays for a few more hours before she sends herself off back home, claiming she missed her cat and clothes. This left Brian to his own devices and thoughts. Specifically, what Claire had said last night, about how he was whipped for Andy and didn’t even know it.

He tried not to dwell on it too much.

The Saturday that Brian worked was uncharacteristically slow. He didn’t really mind though, it just meant he wouldn’t be completely and utterly exhausted when he got home. Maybe he could spend some time with his little sister, Christine, for once in his life. He’s wiping down an already clean table when he rears back in surprise. Andy waltzes through the door, a girl wrapped into his side, and they’re being lead to a table by Allison’s mother. Brian’s stomach is upset by the sight of the two, and he doesn’t quite understand why. Andy gives him a wave and a smile, but Brian acts like he didn’t see him. It’s clear he did though.

Brian thinks he’s gonna be sick.

Andy’s just his friend, he should be happy for him, if anything. But the sight of him holding that girl’s hand makes his stomach churn, and makes him want to throw his breakfast up in the nearest toilet. He continues to wipe down the table, and then leaves to go to the other side of the diner. Somewhere where he can’t see Andy and that girl.

God, he can’t wait for his shift to end.

“Hey, Claire,” Brian says. Even after the short day of work, he was exhausted. He collapses on his bed, Claire on speaker phone.

“You sound upset.”

“I am and I don’t know why.”

“Really now?”

“I think I have an idea. I don’t want to admit it though.”

“Why not?”

“Because you might’ve been right last Saturday,” he says. It’s hard to admit it because Brian’s never felt attraction to girls, so maybe deep down he knew that Claire was right. Everyone had found Claire so pretty, but he had never really considered it. Yeah, she was nice looking, but she wasn’t really Brian’s type. It all makes sense now, and Brian’s head is in a fog and his thoughts are a mess. He feels like he could breakdown and cry right then and there.

“You okay?” Claire asks.

“Can I come over?”

“Of course. You’ll just have to sneak through the window.”

“Alright.”

Claire’s window is open when Brian scales her home. He all but tosses himself through it and scares the hell out of Claire.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” she asks, helping him up.

“Not actively,” he replies, standing and sitting his backpack down. Claire turns back around, and flops onto her bed.

“Okay. Talk to me about it,” she says, looking up at Brian. “And before you pull some bullshit excuse and say you don’t know how to describe it, or something stupid like that, you can trust me. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I-thanks. I just…I don’t know what to do. Claire, this shit’s just so weird. I saw him at Monroe’s today. He was with this girl, I’m pretty sure they were on a date, and it just left this pit in my stomach. I felt so hollow and disappointed. I felt like I was gonna be sick! Is this okay? Just…this feeling I have towards Andy, is it okay?” Brian’s desperate for validation at this point. His hands are tangled in his hair and he’s hunched over, pacing the floor. He’s so caught up in his thoughts, when Claire grabs his shoulders he jumps.

“Brian, hey, Brian, it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re okay,” she says, looking him directly in the eye. She rubs her thumbs across his shoulders gently, a small grin dancing across her face. It makes Brian smile, but he doesn’t feel any less nervous about how he feels. If Andy were to find out about how Brian felt about him, Andy would lose all contact. Brian’s skin starts to crawl.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this. Hey, I have a solution. I’ll raid my parents liquor cabinet, we get drunk, you don’t think about this. That sound good?” she suggests. Brian shrugs.

“I mean, yeah, sure. That sounds fine,” he shrugs and wipes his eyes. Brian can’t really argue with expensive wine either.

The night continues. Brian’s glad he doesn’t have work on Sunday, that way he can get plastered with Claire, and he falls asleep in a heap on her carpeted pink floor.

Claire wakes Brian up with the promising smell of breakfast, and he parents aren’t home either. They’d left that morning, apparently they were going to Bali and Claire didn’t want to come, so they have the entire house to themselves. While they’re eating, Claire points her fork towards Brian.

“Okay, so don’t kill me, but I figured out who Andy was on a date with,” Claire says.

“Oh my god, Claire!” Brian yelps, his voice coming out eight octaves higher than usual.

“Her name is Eileen, fancy, right? Well, anyway, he didn’t like her all that much so no second date. So, I decided that he should come on over and join our little party. Called my dad, pulled some strings, and you have off tomorrow now. Now we have a sad little party going down!” she says, tossing her hands in the air.

“You said ‘okay, so don’t kill me’ and somehow I knew I was going to want to kill you by the end of this conversation,” Brian says, shoving a bite of omelette into his mouth. Claire shrugs.

“Sometimes, dying is a worthy cause,” she feigns dramatically across her chair and lifts up giggling. Brian can’t help but laugh either.

“When’s he coming over to join our sad little party, huh?”

“I told him whenever, so hopefully soon. Says he’s been itchin’ to get out of the house for days now,” she shrugs. Brian hums and continues eating. The rest of breakfast passes peacefully, and it’s another hour before Andy appears at Claire’s door. Brian’s antsy, suddenly remembering his conversation with Claire last night.

Somehow, in some way, he’s going to fuck something up.

To be fair, it wasn’t Brian that ruined the night.

Somehow, Allison had found her way to Claire’s house, and when they opened the door, she was drenched in sweat and looked terrified. That was… interesting to say the least.

“Allison, hey,” Claire says.

“Bender’s in jail,” at least she’s straight to the point.

“Wait, what?” Andy asks, shock evident in his voice. None of them had really gotten along with Bender, and they’d always assumed he’d end up on prison, but now? They shouldn’t really be as shocked as they are.

“Armed robbery,” Allison says.

“Shocker,” Brian says, waving his hands in mock surprise.

“Where the fuck was he robbing?” Andy asks. Allison shrugs.

“No clue. Just called me with his one call and said he was going to prison,” she says.

“And you thought to tell us because,” Claire drags on the because. Allison rubs her arms.

“Listen, I just thought you’d want to know. That you’d, like, care or something. Guess I was wrong,” she says and begins to turn to walk away. There’s not really much the other three can do, so they watch her go. Claire closes the door.

“Well? Let’s get drunk!”

Andy is probably the most sober out of all three of them that night.

It’s also taking everything inside of Brian to not grab his face right there and kiss him senseless. Being drunk didn’t really help his case either. It just made Brian want to do things he knew he’d regret later. So, of course, he ends up doing it anyway.

Claire’s fallen asleep on her bed, and she’s thrown some pillows and blankets down for Brian and Andy. Brian finishes the bottle of Absolut, there wasn’t much left in it, and falls backwards into the nest of blankets he compiled for himself. Andy looks at him, a soft grin stretched across his face.

“What?” Brian asks, grinning. Andy wheezes and looks down at his lap.

“Nothing, nothing,” he says. Brian snorts and sits on his elbows, still laying down. Andy’s jaw looks sharper than it actually is in the soft yellow of Claire’s lamp. His cheeks look shallower than Brian remembers, like a sharp cut stone. The Standall house was always freezing, and then was no exception. Andy scoots closer Brian to where he’s almost hovering above Brian. The sight of Andy, the way he looks almost ethereal in the soft light, make Brian’s guts turn to mush and his stomach roll. He could kiss him, he could kiss him right now.

Andy beats him to the punch.

Andy dips down, his hand soft on Brian’s cheek, and he gently kisses him. It’s sloppy and they probably shouldn’t be doing it on Claire’s bedroom floor, but Brian’s satisfied. Brian wraps his arms around Andy’s neck, pulling him down to the floor with him. They pull away giggling.

The rest of the night is a blur.

Brian wakes up with a pounding headache and in a tangle of limbs and blankets. Andy has an arm wound around Brian, tucking him into his side. He smells like Old Spice and faintly of lavender; the smell in Claire’s room and also on her blankets and pillows. It’s not hard for Brian to wiggle out of Andy’s grip and then immediately shield his eyes from the sun. He wants to lay back down again, but he also doesn’t want to stay and see the consequences of his actions from last night. Claire is already downstairs, a glass of water in her hand. There’s no doubt in Brian’s mind that she’s already had some Tylenol. There’s no doubt in Brian’s mind that Claire saw him and Andy tangled together, but she says nothing about it.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Not at all,” Brian says, rubbing his face. Claire hums and takes a sip of her water. It’s not too long before Andy stumbles downstairs, rubbing his eyes, and looking adorably dishevelled. His shorts hang low on his hips and his sweatshirt rides up a little, revealing a sliver of the tan skin of his torso. Brian feels his face flush and he quickly averts his eyes, drinking the rest of his water. He fidgets nervously.

“I should probably be getting home. I still have work tomorrow and I don’t think my mom would be too happy if I missed dinner for a third time,” Brian chuckles. Andy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge him, but Claire nods. Andy taps his fingers on the counter before turning around, a strange look on his face.

“Hey, uh, Brian, can I talk to you for a second?” he asks. Brian has to swallow down the lump in his throat, the utter terror and panic that washes over him. He nods. They both walk out of the kitchen, leaving Claire alone, and she’s more than likely going to eavesdrop on the two of them.

“Do you remember what we did last night?” Andy asks. His hands are shaking.

“No.” It’s a lie. He does.

“Oh. We, uh, we kissed.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Uhm, I get it if you, like, don’t ever want to talk about it again. We were both drunk, so obviously it meant nothing, but…I just thought you should know that it happened,” Andy says. He sounds disappointed, almost defeated.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, thanks,” Brian says.

He feels guilty. He feels wrong for lying to Andy about not remembering the kiss from the night before, like he’s broken a trust, a bond, between the two of them. Andy doesn’t waste any more time standing there. He seems upset, almost like he might cry, and he rushes back into the kitchen to avoid making contact with Brian.

Brian gathers his things and leaves.

The week is hell. Work is long and slow; he cuts himself off from his friends, and he doesn’t try to talk to his family at all. It’s two weeks before Claire gets fed up with his bullshit and drives herself to his home, and lets herself inside his room.

“Okay, you can’t mope around like this forever. Andy talked to me,” she says. Brian tenses and shifts uncomfortably, turning around to finally face Claire. Her arms are crossed and she has a more dominant flare than Brian. It’s like she owns the room.

“I don’t possibly know what you mean,” Brian says. Of course he does know what she means, he’d just rather not admit it. Claire raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!”

“Brian.”

“Fine.”

Claire sits on the edge of Brian’s bed. The door is shut and if they speak softly no one can hear them. They continue the conversation in whispers and Claire’s hand gently on top of Brian’s.

“You need to talk to Andy about it,” she says to him softly.

“I already told you, and him, that I don’t remember that night,” he says, more angry than he wants it to come out.

“Really? Do you really not remembering something as pivotal as your first kiss?” she asks. He was drunk, he thinks. An easy excuse out. “Listen, I know you were drunk, but you weren’t as drunk as your making yourself out to be.”

Well, there goes that excuse.

Claire forces Brian out of the house for some leisure time at the public pool. Again.

“I swear, if you pulled a stunt like you did last time, I have every legal right to leave your ass here,” Brian says, nonchalantly. He’s practically dead on his feet. Sleeping wasn’t as much of a priority as he would’ve liked it to have been, wallowing in self-pity was more of a chore.

Claire tans in a chair. Brian sits beside her, in another thin, white chair that’s on the brink of breaking; napping. He’s only awoken by Claire about an hour into his nap, when she’s shaking him so violently he thinks he’s about to die.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “What’s up?”

“We gotta go.”

“Why?”

“Trust me,” but Claire doesn’t have to say anymore. Brian notices Andy and the way he swaggers into the pool area like he owns the place.

“Fuck, dude. I told you I would leave your ass!” Brian is more distraught than anything.

“Do you think I’d be waking up and telling you to leave if I’d invited him in secret? Fuck, Brian,” Claire says.

“God, okay, okay, I’m coming.”

“Hurry before he notices us!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!”

“Too fucking late.”

“Shit.”

Andy notices them. He smiles at Claire, and when he notices Brian his smile falls a little. Still he approaches them.

“Where are you guys going?” he asks, voice chipper.

“We were just…we were just leaving,” Brian responds. There’s so much going through his mind. If he doesn’t go, there’s no way he won’t fuck up in some way with Andy again. He’s gotten rather talented at doing it, but he’d rather not admit that to himself right now.

“You guys should stay!”

You’re just saying that to be nice, Brian thinks.

“We really have to go,” Brian says. Andy sighs.

“Brian, can I talk to you?” Andy asks. Claire looks at Brian nervously.

“Uh, yeah,” Brian says.

“Alone.”

“I—yeah, sure. Fine,” Brian says, shrugging. Andy nods his heads towards the bathrooms and begins walking.

“Run to me if things get bad, okay?” Claire says, softly putting a hand on Brian’s shoulder.

“Of course.”

“Okay, what’s up?” Brian asks, leaning on the sinks. Andy scopes out the stalls making sure none of them are occupied. A public pool bathroom isn’t exactly the most private place to talk, but it was as good as they were going to get.

“What’s wrong with you? Do you have a problem with me?” Andy asks, putting his hands on his chest. His bare chest, for that matter. Brian averts his eyes, suddenly nervous. “No, I don’t have a problem with you. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“That sounds hilarious. You’ve been avoiding me for, what? Days now?”

“To be fair, I also avoided Claire.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t kiss her while you were drunk.”

Brian flushes and falters. He crosses his arms and runs his hands up and down them.

“That’s not what it is.”

“Is it not? God, I’m starting to wish I’d never told you. Maybe this wouldn’t be so fucking awkward.”

“Sometimes you need to shut up.”

“Brian, you ca—” Andy never gets the chance to finish. Brian wraps his arms around Andy’s neck and kisses him. For a moment, Andy doesn’t do anything. Brian starts to panic and pulls away, but it’s not too long before Andy is kissing him again. It’s more desperate than soft. There’s a hint of yearning, like both boys have been waiting for years, just for this moment.

They’ve pushed themselves into one of the stalls, luckily, by the time someone walks in. They pull away and giggle, Brian’s head falling into the crook of Andy’s neck. Andy kisses the top of Brian’s head.

“We can’t just pretend this didn’t happen,” Andy sighs softly into Brian’s hair. Brian feels his body tense. What else was he expecting? Both of them are wide awake and clearly not intoxicated; Brian can’t play this off as some drunk mistake.

Brian shakes.

He’s not straight.

“Why can’t we, though?” he asks, lifting his head from the crook of Andy’s neck.

“I think the reason is quite clear,” Andy says, confused. He looks like a lost puppy, and Brian doesn’t want to kick him. There’s no way that Brian is gay, he can’t be. He can’t be gay. “Neither of us are drunk, and we’re both in the right state of mind, so… We can’t pass this one off.”

“Oh. I feel like we can, though,” Brian says. He tries not to shake.

“Brian, we can’t.”

Brian drops Claire off at home and doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t go home, either. He has thirty-two dollars in his wallet, which isn’t enough to eat out and find a motel, and god forbid gas.

He doesn’t care.

There’s so much going on with him right now. Brian feels like he’s going to lose his fucking mind if he doesn’t get out though. He turns his phone on do not disturb and throws it into the passenger’s side seat.

Brian pulls up into the parking lot of a diner in Missouri.

There’s almost no cars in the parking lot, and from what Brian can see there’s only an old couple sitting at a booth in the diner. It’s bright and colorful, and Brian feels his shoes sticking to the floor when he walks into the diner. The hostess, a tired girl around Brian’s age, doesn’t question why he’s here so late at night. She looks at him with lidded eyes and a tight lipped smile while she seats him, and wishes him a goodnight when he’s settled. The waitress is an older woman, probably in her thirties, and she takes his drink order quickly.

The table feels greasy and sticky, and so does the booth. Brian wants to go wash his hands.

When he’s done eating, he bids the waitress goodnight and tips her nicely. It feels nice to leave the diner and it’s sticky, greasy atmosphere. Once he’s in his car, he finally checks his phone. Claire, his mom, his sister, his father; everyone has called him.

Even Andrew.

He calls Andy back.

“Hey, oh my God, hey.”

“Hey, Andy.”

“Jesus, we thought you were, like, dead or something. Like you got kidnapped. Where are you?”

“Missouri.”

“Jesus fucking christ, you did get kidnapped!”

“No, I didn’t. Just had to get out.”

“Get out? Why is your definition of get out go to Missouri?”

“I don’t know.”

“God, Brian, what’s up with you?”

“You! You are what’s up, Andy!”

“Me?”

“Yes! You waltzed in this summer, and over the school year, and something about you just… messed with me. Ever since that day in detention, I haven’t felt the same. Then you kissed me when we were drunk, and something just felt right! I know I told you that I didn’t remember that, but I was lying because I was scared. Then you just kissed me in that bathroom like there was nothing wrong, and it all made sense. Andy, I’m fucking scared.”

“Come back home, we can talk about this.”

“I-okay. I’ll be there later.”

Andy is at Brian’s house when he gets there early in the morning. The sun is rising. Andy is half asleep and leaning against the railing of the stairs. He’s wrapped in his thin blue windbreaker, and he perks when he hears Brian slam his car door. His hair is a mess and when Brian looks closer, it seems that he hasn’t slept a wink except for the nodding off he just did.

“Hey,” he says softly, wiping his eyes. He pats the concrete beside him.

“Hey,” Brian replies, sitting down.

“So… let’s talk, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You remember our drunk kiss?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I do.”

“Why’d you say you didn’t?” Andy asks. He doesn’t sound angry, just confused. There’s a soft tone of disappointment and sadness deep in his voice. It makes Brian feel guilty. He grabs Andy’s hand and squeezes.

“Because I didn’t know my feelings at that moment. I just-I thought lying would be easier, y’know? I still don’t know myself enough, but I think I know enough,” Brian shrugs.

“I’m bi.”

“Oh. Oh, okay.”

“I’m not like out to my family, really anyone for that matter, but I feel like you should know that.”

“It’s nice to know,” Brian says. Andy rubs his thumb against Brian’s. “I think I might be gay.”

“Nice. You know I’m always there to talk if you need it, yeah? Sexuality isn’t like a quick trip journey, this is gonna take awhile,” Andy says, turning to face Brian instead of the sunrise.

“Yeah. Thanks, though, really,” Brian says. Andy pulls their combined hands up and kisses Brian’s knuckles.

“Of course. Anything for you.”

[xtattlecrimex-blog]

Canon doesn’t work that way [AKA: Why Hannigram Isn’t Canon]

This is an actual comment I received on an Instagram post I made explaining why Hannigram isn’t canon. Let’s take a look at it:

This isn’t how canon works. At all. Canon is like well, a bible of information. Something literally written in stone. In fact, that’s the origin of the word. From biblical times. Though I can agree to some extent, some, the bible is open to interpretation there are still a bunch of things the bible does or doesn’t say and still hard and fast rules the vast majority of Christians will all agree with, no matter how they interpret the bible otherwise. For instance, the ten commandments. No matter if you go to a Catholic church, a Baptist Church, an Evangelical church, everyone has pretty much all agreed that the 10 commandments are solid rules to live by. Even when you do find that the bible has a slightly different interpretation than others, you will not find something so wildly outlandish that it doesn’t make any sense. This is what canon is and why it exists. It’s rules that are written down, set in stone, and definitely words that define a story, ideology, whatever you want to call it.

Once canon is written it cannot be changed. This has been the rule since, well, the beginning of Goddamn time. I know I’ve already brought this up but apparently it needs to be repeated because the Hannibal fandom still doesn’t understand what canon is and what fan fiction is. It really doesn’t help that the creator of the show, Bryan Fuller, doesn’t seem to understand this either. We are talking about a guy who literally got fired from a show for demanding he be able to write fan fiction instead of follow the book adaptation, and not only is this ridiculous but he demanded the actual author allow this when the author was the producer on the show. If the creator of Hannibal is this freaking self entitled, all he does is pass it onto his fans who believe him but will defend him.

Case in point: Hannigram. It is not canon. Not by any stretch of the word. It’s not even open to interpretation given the actual facts of the show and the events that took place. You cannot possibly interpret Hannibal’s behavior towards Will as love or romance. It is factually abuse. End of story. If Bryan Fuller wanted this to be canon because he writes the canon he had all the power in the world to make it canon. He failed to do that and all the “Hannigram is canon” tweets in the universe will not change the content of the show or the scripts that he already wrote. That’s not how that works. Let’s look at the plot, just the plot, not speculation or emotion. Just straight up facts of the show as it pertains to Will Graham and Hannibal’s relationship. I’ll go in order as sort of a timeline to make it abundantly clear how bad Hannibal was to Will.

Hannibal messes up Will’s investigation into the Hobbs murders by calling Garret Jacob Hobbs to warn him that the FBI is coming for him. This triggers Hobbs into murdering his wife and attempting to murder Abigail.

Hannibal uses this situation against Will almost immediately because he notices how guilty Will feels about what happened to Abigail so he just makes it worse. On purpose. Using Abigail as a pawn to manipulate Will.

Hannibal recognizes that Will has Encephalitis. Instead of doing literally anything to help him as a friend or doctor, Hannibal lets the disease get worse and worse to use it to his advantage to manipulate Will even further.

Hannibal starts to plant evidence for his eventual crime of framing Will for murder.

Hannibal starts to sew seeds of doubt in the minds of the FBI and Will’s friends so when it finally gets to the end, no one will believe Will when he says he isn’t the copy cat and hasn’t murdered anyone. Hannibal continues to use Will’s undiagnosed condition against him.

This entire time Hannibal has been feeding Will (and several other people) human flesh without their knowledge.

Hannibal is successful with his set up and though Will eventually gets treatment for Encephalitis he ends up being framed for murder and going to prison.

This is just season one, okay? I didn’t even include episode 11 where Hannibal blatantly gaslights Will by telling him no one is there when Will brings Abel Gideon to his house. What exactly, in all of this, denotes anything more than sadistic emotional torture on Hannibal’s part? Where is the love, respect, and care this awesome, romantic, “murder husbands” relationship is about? Even if Hannibal “completely changed” and totally stopped being evil at this point, is this still not bad enough that Will should ever forgive him? Could? Especially after one of the murders Hannibal made Will think he committed was Abigail’s which basically destroyed him? Really? This is your romance? Okay, let’s move on to season two events…at least to the best of my knowledge.

Hannibal pretty much knows the whole time Will is in jail he didn’t do it but does very little of anything to help him, until he hires Matthew Brown to help.

Hannibal moves in on Alana and uses her for sex and an alibi to cover up other crimes that he intends to commit.

Hannibal also somehow has Abigail alive, not that it makes any sense, but the events of season three show he was brainwashing Abigail the entire time so this pertains to Will mostly because of how Will cared for Abigail. It’s straight up disrespectful towards him and his wishes.

Hannibal nearly kills Jack on a rampage during their fight in the kitchen, stabs Will with a linoleum knife, and then to top it all off he slits Abigail’s throat while Will watches as some sort of punishment or revenge.

Okay, so I’m willing to bet if this happened to someone or their friend in real life, at this point people would recognize the reality of the situation, namely being that this isn’t love. This is high level abuse and manipulation. Now, just to be clear, the specific shippers I am talking about are the shippers that insist this is romantic, Hannibal loved, cared for, and respected Will, and literally nothing is wrong with their relationship. I am not against toxic shipping or people shipping people DESPITE the abusive or dark nature of the ship. What I am against are people turning crap like this into romance to justify the ship. Calling this behavior LOVE and not abuse. That’s what I’m against. Ship these assholes all you want but at least admit it’s not healthy. Moving on to season three:

There’s at least one scene with Will panicked and depressed in Hannibal’s kitchen thinking he can’t live without him and not in a good way. This scene denotes massive signs of codependency which, once again, isn’t love. It’s the result of extreme emotional and physical abuse on Hannibal’s part.

Will chases Hannibal all over the world to find him and does but Hannibal attempts to cut his head open and eat his brain. Seems like he would have done it had he not been stopped by whatever deus ex machina plot device happened, think it was Chiyoh but whatever it was, trust me it was bullshit.

Hannibal and Will are brought back to Mason in the states and once again endure a bunch of torture and none of this is anything that would have happened had Hannibal not dragged Will into all of this in the first place.

They eventually escape after Hannibal kills basically everyone and takes Will home. Will tells Hannibal, point blank, he wants nothing to do with him anymore because Hannibal is bad. Very bad. Will openly recognizes this to be the case and states it. Hannibal gets upset and turns himself in just so “Will can always know where to find him” and if you wanna tell me that’s not the trademark of an emotional abuser you don’t know what emotional abuse is.

Will actually goes on to get married and loves his wife. He’s dragged back into working with Hannibal to catch another killer. Will seems to try to avoid bonding or getting near Hannibal at all costs but it’s too late. The codependent bond has already been formed, Hannibal gets into his head again.

Will, recognizing that this is a very bad situation but he’s never going to get away from it, decides to kill both Hannibal and himself instead of living this life of torment he so clearly hates. The end.

Now, if you read all of that and thought “Wow this is a beautiful romance story with loving caring devoted husbands” I got news for you, you’re insane. If you had a friend who went through all of this with a partner, you’d get them away from that partner and never let them go back. You also wouldn’t call it love or caring or anywhere near the sort, except these Hannigram shippers they do. They overly justify this behavior and call it romance. It’s sickening. It’s like they are willing to ignore 90% of the actual events of the show to insist that this ship is canon. It’s not.

Not once in the show did Hannibal and Will kiss. Not once in the show did they say “I love you”. Not once did the show establish they were actually a couple or even gay. Not once was there any factual on screen indication via dialogue or action that showed these two being sexually interested in each other or romantically linked. If these events weren’t shown or stated in the show then their relationship isn’t canon and a tweet doesn’t make it canon. All the Bryan Fuller tweets and fan service in the world can’t make it canon. What the idiot shippers bring up THE MOST is the scene where Will asks Bedelia if Hannibal loves him as if this is “the scene” where Will totally confesses his love to Hannibal. Except, that’s not what it means at all. Here’s what’s actually going on here:

If I think that a person I know has a crush on me, and I ask a friend of theirs “Does so and so love me” what indication does that give about my feelings towards that person? Did you guess none? Asking the simple question “Does X person love me” gives no indication as to how the person asking feels about the person they think loves them. None. Will never actually followed that by saying he loved Hannibal as well, and the “bride” comment the Fannibals site was clearly said in a dark sarcastic way, they remove the context to make it real. When you have to jump through this many hoops to say a ship is canon, then your Goddamn ship isn’t canon. Furthermore, Bedelia was a well established liar, manipulator, and former victim of Hannibal’s. WELL ESTABLISHED. There is literally nothing to say she actually knew what she was talking about or she wasn’t just fucking with Will. None. Because that’s all she did through the entire show was fucking lie and meddle with people, including her own patients which was shown in season three. Bedelia has no credibility on this matter because she was already established as a liar.

I do honestly wonder sometimes if I watched an entirely different show than these people. Alright, so even though I covered this before I will say it again and explain it a bit better this time. This is why Bryan Fuller tweeting “Hannigram is canon” doesn’t make it canon. Casual viewers of the show don’t follow his twitter or interviews. I know dozens of people who watched the show and only did that. Watched it. They didn’t go see what anyone had to say about it. They didn’t stalk Bryan Fuller on twitter. They didn’t read every fucking interview that ever happened. This means that what casual TV viewers saw was an absolutely NON-ROMANTIC NON-CANON relationship between Will and Hannibal. People saw what I listed. People saw abuse, manipulation, emotional anguish and torture. They weren’t cross checking with Fuller’s twitter and interviews to make sure their agenda was being pushed. This means that the only place this is canon is literally in fan fiction in the mind of Fuller and in the minds of the fan girls who believed him. It does not make this canon to the show and it certainly does not make the behavior romantic at all.

Even if, at the end of all this, after all Hannibal had done to Will, they both confessed love to each other why would anyone forgive that? Why would anyone call that romance? Why? When this was clearly a system of abuse designed to brainwash Will into codependency and anyone with two brain cells can see that. Why would you want this to represent “Gay love” why would you think this is good representation for gay couples? Why in the hell do you think this matters so much that a show that is literally about one man with power abusing another man be seen as GAY CANON. Why not choose a better more healthy relationship for your cause? What the fuck is the point of all of this? At the end of the day, Hannigram isn’t canon to the show. Hannigram is and always will be fan fiction. Since any “example” of love or romance anyone can give me boils down to nothing more than actual abuse, torture, and murder I’m going to say that it just doesn’t exist. If you want to WRONGLY BELIEVE that it’s canon you go ahead, but you’re still wrong. Opinions do not change facts no matter how badly they hurt your feelings.

[blackcat-horror]

Darkness, Pt. 4

This part is longer than the last few, since I really wanted to get it all out before I lost it. Enjoy!

WARNING: Contains horror, gore, violence, body horror, blood, profanity, and anyone who suffers from Nyctophobia, or has a weak stomach should not read this. You’ve been warned.

The house didn't have a single light on when Catherine got home from work, save for the porch light. She paid it no heed as she closed the garage door and went through the laundry room into the kitchen. Everyone was probably asleep, and that worked in her favor. Her feet were dragging, and she couldn't lift her arms after an eight hour shift of scanning cans of pumpkin puree, turkeys, and bags of potatoes. She hated the holidays, and couldn't wait till her next days off. Too bad that was in another three days.

She flicked the switch for the dining room lights, and hesitated when they didn't turn on. She tried again, then gave up and went to check the box in the garage. She didn't find anything wrong with it, except when she tried to turn the power back on, there was no change in the darkness in the house. She swallowed hard, remembering how when she was a child, her brother used to torture her with ghost stories that left her nearly catatonic for months.

She shook it off, then used the flashlight of her cell phone to find the spare flashlight up on the shelves above her dad's workbench. It was where it was left as always. Luckily the batteries had just been replaced. Clicking it on, she went back into the house to find some candles.

As she moved past the dining table, a dark shape darted under it, hiding in a corner, followed by a low growl. Catherine kneeled down, sweeping the beam under the table. It was her cat, Othello. He watched her with flattened ears and his body backed as tightly into the corner as possible. His eyes were huge, glowing yellow from the reflected light. He mewled as he watched her, realizing it was her, and he inched forward, but only slightly.

Catherine frowned as she watched her cat. She'd only ever seen him like this once, and that was when he was a kitten, and he had just become acquainted with the vacuum cleaner. Catherine still had the scars on her leg from where he climbed up her and launched himself onto the fridge and stayed there for several hours. But even then, he came to her when she held her hand out to him, but not now. Now, he flinched away from, and even hissed when she tried to pet him.

“What is wrong with you, baby?” she cooed, then froze when she heard an odd sound come from upstairs. It was the sound of claws catching on carpet, like when she used to have a polydactyl cat, and you could hear him wherever he was, even when he nails were clipped.

Only, this sounded bigger. Much bigger.

Catherine's hair stood up on the back of her neck as she stood and pressed her back against the wall, hiding the flashlight's beam with her hand, which was beginning to shake. It sounded like the noise was moving towards the rooms at the far end of the house, which was away from her. She took the opportunity to try to sneak towards the front door, which was maybe ten steps away from where she stood. Her stomach clenched, and she found her hand going to the crucifix at her throat, a tiny thing she'd been given at her baptism, and kept since, although she'd long since stopped believing that her prayers would ever be answered. Now she was wishing she'd been just slightly more devout, but the cool metal still comforted her.

The dining room floor was risen a few inches above the living room floor, as a way to deter people from stepping on the carpet with dirty shoes, but Catherine had other things to worry about than a little dirt. As she stepped off the landing, there was a soft, wet squelch, which nearly made her whimper. She pointed the flashlight down first, and then she looked down. Oh, how she wished she hadn't.

Her mother's prized plush eggshell cream carpet was soaked in blood. It was dark- arterial blood, her mother would say, from watching too many damn crime scene investigation shows. The blood only filled a small spot, but even that was too much for Catherine to accept.

Smaller spots, but not too much smaller, led away from it, and she followed the trail, across the coffee table, onto the floor again, and then up, across the socks and sweatpants of Catherine's mother, and landing on the bloody mess that used to be her chest. It had been ripped open like a steak and lobster dinner, and most of her organs were partially devoured, or missing altogether. The light flickered as the hand holding it began to shake violently, and Catherine's throat and chest tightened as her body struggled to take in air, and her knees turned to water, folding under her and making her collapse and drop the flashlight.

It bounced slightly, rolling, and her eyes followed it as it came to stop on the strange, hairy form of something she could only think was a grotesque Halloween decoration, except for a couple things. It was breathing, and it was moving towards her.

It lunged, screeching at her, and she screamed in response, snatching up the heavy duty flashlight as it grabbed her, sinking its claws into her shoulders. She struggled and screamed her heart out, bashing it in the head with the flashlight. That seemed to stun it somewhat, and it let go. She kicked at the creature, pushing it off and making a run for the front door.

Yanking it open, she made a start to run, but then she heard Othello screech and hiss. The creature had decided Catherine was too difficult to kill, and was going to go for him instead. It was having some trouble reaching him as he backed into the corner.

“Oh no you fucking don't!” she snarled, then grabbed a lamp, ripping the cord from the outlet, and bringing it down on the creature’s head. “Get the fuck away from my cat, you motherfucker!”

She continuously brought the lamp down on the creature, which yowled in pain the entire time, even managing to slash at her calf, making her stumble, but she made sure the creature was no longer moving before she grabbed her cat, her bag, and her keys, getting in the car and speeding towards the nearest hospital. Unseen by her as she drove away, a limping silhouette climbed up onto the top of her roof, and somehow managed to take off into the night.

“So what are you trying to tell me you saw?” the police officer asked as he took notes in his little book. He looked ready to drop, and definitely looked like he didn't want to be here, taking notes from someone he clearly thought was crazy. The nurse was taking her vitals, and Othello was curled in a tight ball in her lap, unmoving due to shock. It had taken some coaxing, but they allowed it when she flat out refused help if they removed him. If it wasn't for the pain medication going through Catherine's system now, she would've told him to shove that notebook right up his ass. It wasn't like she wanted this to happen in the first fucking place.

“Look, I told you. It was like something out of a 90's vampire movie, okay? It was uglier than balls, hairier than them too, and had big, red eyes and nasty little teeth, and it had bat wings, with opposable claws.” She gestured, gingerly, towards her wounds, which were now stitched up and bandaged. The doctor had said it was a miracle the artery hadn't been hit.

“Are you sure you didn't just see a Halloween decoration, miss? Maybe you imagined seeing this... animal attack you, and the image was impressed on your mind when the real attacker injured you?”

Catherine did her best not to roll her eyes. “Officer, with all due respect, I don't think a normal human being could rip open a woman's chest and devour most of her fucking organs! So no, I don't think it was a fucking Halloween decoration!”

The nurse glanced at the officer, who looked like a deer in the headlights now, and was having trouble finding words. He muttered something sheepishly about protocol, and she scoffed.

“Protocol would be asking me if I was on drugs or some bullshit, but I can prove that I'm not, because my work requires random tests thanks to some of the fuckwits I work with!” He bowed his head in shame, scribbling some things down as he started to tuck tail and leave the room. “You want the paperwork?” she yelled after him, ready to fight despite her sluggish state. “I got it all! It's in my house, but be careful not to trip over the fucking corpse!”

“Please, relax, Catherine,” the nurse, Daniela said, sighing softly, petting her back. “You're going to rip your stitches and hurt yourself more.” She helped Catherine lay back and adjusted her pillow. “There, take deep breaths. We won't let any more police question you until you feel better. All right?” She smiled warmly, putting a blanket over Catherine's legs.

Catherine suddenly burst into tears, clutching Othello as he huddled on her chest. “My.... She... She didn't even stand a chance!” she sobbed, taking in shaky breaths. “I couldn't do anything to help her!” She hiccuped, pressing the heel of her hand to her eye.

Daniela hushed her, rubbing her upper arm. “I'm so sorry, Catherine, I really am... But you saved your cat, didn't you? He's here with you, and that counts for something.” Catherine nodded, sniffling, taking tissues when she was offered some.

“Hey,” a gravelly voice said from the doorway, making them both jump. It was a big, older black guy, dressed in a trucker getup. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he looked down at Catherine. “You said somethin' about a big bat lookin' thing, right?”

“Please, sir,” Daniela began, “She doesn't need this right now-”

“I'm not gonna harass her, Nurse, don't worry.” He turned his attention back to Catherine. “So, that's what you saw, right?” “Yeah, I saw it, but no one believes me.” “I believe you,” he stated with a straight face. Catherine and Daniela felt their jaws drop. Catherine couldn't believe what she was hearing. “You... You actually believe me?” Her head was beginning to spin from the drugs kicking in more, and her eyes grew heavier. “You're shitting me, dude...” “No, I ain't shittin' you. I believe what you said you saw, because I've seen it too.”

That sobered her up real quick. “Wait, what?”

“Yup. I saw it, and I hit it with my truck, and I picked someone up who looked like they went through what you did, but a bit worse. She's in the room down the hall, if you wanna meet her when you're ready.” Catherine nodded, but her head was beginning to loll, and eventually sank back into the pillow.

Daniela tucked her in slightly, then nudged him out of the doorway.  “You can talk to her again in the morning, when it's visiting hours,” she added sternly, closing the door.

The man nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek slightly as he glanced through the small window in the door, watching as Catherine slipped into a peaceful, albeit drug-induced sleep, her chest rising and falling slowly, but he noticed that her left hand was clutching the blanket with a white-knuckled fist.

[kuriquinn]

Why Sasuke Uchiha Will Never Drink Again [One-Shot]

Masterlist & Disclaimer

Summary: One of Konoha’s best kept secrets is no longer a secret.

Disclaimer: This story utilises characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelisations, comics or short stories is intended by KuriQuinn in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author's own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All plot and Original Characters except for those introduced in the canon books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn. (© KuriQuinn 2016- )

Rating: T

Warning: Mild OOC? They’re characters that grew up differently than the canon, so a little bit of change in personality. Mentions of OCs (Manako Inuzuka)

Canon/Fanon Compliance: AU ‘verse. Sasuke left Konoha, but he came back right away or right after training or something. Team 7 went on to become ANBU

"This," Sasuke says, "is ridiculous."

"No, this is genius," Naruto retorts. "And long overdue. You're back for the first time in two years—with a secret baby you didn't tell anyone about—"

"Because you wouldn't have overreacted about it at all," Sai interjects.

"—and I finally have a night off from learning all the most boring Hokage crap—"

"Ahem," Kakashi cough as he carefully pours several shot glasses full of the strongest nihonshu that Tsunade ever hid in the Hokage's office. He still keeps it around for days when his choices are between getting blind drunk or committing homicide.

Usually because of the three other men in the room with him and their female teammate.

"—and our lovely wives are catching Sakura up on two years of gossip—"

Sasuke rolls his eyes. "It wasn't two years, idiot."

"—so we are going to spend the night doing manly bonding stuff," Naruto concludes.

"Which apparently involves copious amounts of alcohol."

"Damn straight."

"Why am I here?" Sai asks. "I'm secure enough in my masculinity that I don't need 'manly bonding stuff'."

Kakashi raises an eyebrow at him. "Did you just use air quotes?"

"Did I not do it properly?"

"No, you did. It's just…weird."

"Noted."

"I'm going home," Sasuke sighs and heads toward the door. "Kakashi, I'll be back to give you my report tomorrow, when you're not surrounded by morons."

"Hm, it appears what Sakura told Ino was true," Sai remarks innocently.

"Huh. Looks like," Naruto agrees, also affecting a casual tone of voice.

"I never would have believed it," Kakashi concludes, and Sasuke can practically hear him shaking his head.

He stops, mid-step, and his eyes drift closed in resignation. Every brain cell he was ever given tells him to ignore it. People have goaded him with worse in the past and he has learned not to rise to the bait.

However—

It's Naruto. And an insinuation by Naruto does not go unanswered, for any reason.

"What has my wife been saying?" Sasuke asks, not turning around and trying to keep his tone carefully measured.

"Only that your alcohol tolerance is worse than Lee's," his oldest friend concludes happily. "And here I was going to give you a chance to prove that was just a lie…"

Sasuke's jaw clenches, hearing the challenge in Naruto's voice, and he really should just keep going.

Of course, that's not what he does.

Whirling around he marches towards the filled shot glasses and reaches for one, intending to throw it down his throat just to prove he isn't worried about it.

Naruto stops him.

"Hey-hey, hold on, you're not just gonna chug them!" he protests. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Ah, is this where the 'manly bonding stuff' comes in?" Sai inquires. "I assume you have some kind of drinking game in mind, then?"

"Not happening," Sasuke declares, although he doesn't return on his path to the door.

"Kiba showed it to me," Naruto says cheerfully. "It's called ‘Never Have I Ever’."

"Oh, this is going to go well," Kakashi gives a resigned sigh.

"The rules are easy! Someone confesses something they have never done, and the other people who have done that thing all have to take a shot," Naruto explains.

"And the point of this is…?" Sasuke asks.

"To see who passes out drunk first," Sai says.

"And manly bonding," Naruto adds.

"I'm going home," Sasuke says.

"I can assign you cat retrieval missions from now until Sarada enters the Academy," Kakashi points out innocently.

Sasuke glares and takes a seat in front of the desk where several shot glasses are just waiting to be consumed.

"Very well, I will go first," Sai declares, considering for a moment. Then he beams. "I have never sung karaoke."

Naruto throws back a shot, and Kakashi sighs before doing the same.

"Really?" Sai asks.

"It was one of Gai's tamer challenges," Kakashi says, which explains it all. He side-eyes his former students. "Never have I ever snuck into a movie."

Naruto and Sasuke exchange glances and down their drinks.

"Why would you bother doing that?" Sai wants to know.

"We were thirteen," Naruto explains. "And technically we paid. But sitting on the ceiling wasn't exactly allowed, so we had to sneak in."

"But…why?"

"Training," Sasuke answers shortly, and then smirks at Naruto. He nods at one of the shots in front of him. "I have never accidentally set myself on fire."

Naruto glares, but reaches for the drink nonetheless. "That was once."

"It still happened."

"Yeah, well I never set someone on fire on purpose."

Sasuke snorts but reaches for his drink without outward complaint. Kakashi takes a drink as well.

Through that damned mask, as usual. I guess it's a good thing you're not supposed to taste the alcohol anyhow…

Sasuke's eye twitches as the liquor burns its way down his throat, and he wonders if it's possible to learn to speed up one's metabolism in a matter of minutes. He knows kunoichi are taught that trick in the Academy and makes a mental note to ask Sakura about it later.

As for now, he is going to have to play this ridiculous game in a manner that gets his friends inebriated before he hits his limit.

Sakura is going to pay for mentioning this…

"Never have I ever…" Sai begins, and then says brightly, "urinated in the shower."

Kakashi groans in disgust and Sasuke casually tells him, "There is something deeply wrong with you." When Naruto turns red and takes a shot, he adds, "And in your case, that goes without saying."

"I blame dealing with your bullshit," Naruto shoots back.

"Now, now, let's think of happier things," Kakashi lectures in a mocking tone. "For example, the fact that I have never been beaten up by an ostrich."

Sai sniggers as Naruto and Sasuke adopt identical beleaguered expressions and throw back their respective shots.

"Why are you guys picking on me?" Naruto complains, wiping his mouth.

"It's not our fault you've done pretty much every idiotic thing under the sun," Sasuke retorts, having to concentrate on enunciating his words. His cheeks feel a little warmer than usual, too. "Unlike you, I've never graffitied public property."

Naruto reaches for the next shot and sneers at Sasuke, "Yeah, but at least I've never been to prison. That's pretty idiotic."

Sasuke chooses not to reply to that, mostly because he still retains enough of his (ever-lessening) judgement to know that picking a fight while under the influence of alcohol would be a bad idea.

Also, he's pretty sure that Sakura would kill him. And Hinata would give him that disappointed look, the one that always makes him feel like he's kicked a puppy.

In deference of a wife with super-strength and not facing any kicked-puppy expressions from the mouse of a woman that could conceivably kill him with two fingers if she felt the inclination, Sasuke lets it go.

This time.

"My turn," Sai pipes up. "I have never streaked naked through the village."

Sasuke glances at Naruto, half-expecting him to take a drink, but the blond man simply looks amused at the idea. To everyone's surprise, Kakashi takes a drink.

Naruto guffaws and Sasuke raises an eyebrow at him. "Another of Gai's contests?"

"Yes."

"Clearly Naruto isn't the only one with tendencies toward poor judgement," Sai determines.

"Oh, I wouldn't call it poor," Kakashi muses, "it was actually quite liberating. You'd be surprised how good it feels to have a breeze between your—"

"Nope! Uh-uh, don’t want to know! Stop talking!" Naruto yells, while Sasuke's eye begins to twitch again. "It's your turn anyhow, Kakashi-sensei."

The white-haired man sighs. "Are you guys ever going to stop calling me sensei? I haven't been your squad leader since you were kids."

"If it helps, I never called you sensei," Sasuke points out. Then he frowns, because that was a little more candid than usual. His head is beginning to feel like it's being buoyed up by cotton. Why did he think this was a good idea again?

Kakashi regards him with an amused look in his eyes, and shakes his head. Then he juts his neck toward Sai, "Never have I have crossed-dressed.

Sai blinks. "How did you know about that?"

"Manako saw you. She says you're surprisingly adept at walking in high heels."

"Ino makes me practice," Sai shrugs, throwing his drink down his throat.

"Why?" Naruto demands, looking scandalised.

Sai smirks. "Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

"At least he's finally had something to drink," Sasuke mutters.

"Why, are you worried you'll be the only one inebriated here, Coward?"

Sasuke narrows his eyes. "Never have I ever been part of a secret black ops organization."

Sai frowns and takes a shot; Kakashi does as well.

"Can we perhaps stay away from the darker topics?" he suggests.

"Good idea," Naruto says. He pauses to think, and frowns as if he can't think up anything good. In the end he settles on, "I have never sung in the shower."

Kakashi and Sai both drink.

"Did you even know what a shower was before marrying Hinata?" Sasuke challenges.

"At least I knew what a naked woman looked like before I got married."

"Oh, have we moved on to nudity then?" Sai speaks up, interrupting Sasuke's inner argument about whether to throw a fireball at his friend or electrocute him. "I have never engaged in naked pursuits with a woman that is not my wife."

"'Naked pursuits'?" Naruto asks.

"Sex, you moron," Sasuke rolls his eyes.

"Oh. Oh."

Kakashi reaches for a shot. When he notices Naruto and Sasuke's somewhat judgemental expressions he snorts.

"I wasn't a monk before I met you guys, you know. Not all of us can have some great, epic love story that spans years and continents, or ruins lives and sheds blood. Sometimes a good relationship starts out just as sex," he takes a drink, and then looks around as if he hasn't just imparted some oddly deep philosophy. "My turn, right? Alright—my first kiss wasn't with a man."

Naruto and Sasuke make identical noises of choked outrage and grudgingly down their shots.

"I heard about that," Sai sniggers. "Ino says it nearly caused a riot and that Naruto is lucky to have lived through puberty."

"Damn right he is," Sasuke mutters.

"Your turn, my adorable student," Kakashi points out.

"I'm thinking…"

"Oh, wow, only five shots and you already have to think?" Naruto jeers.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't counting drinks invalidate things somehow?" Sai wonders. "Or does that just mean you haven't had enough?"

"Shut up. I have one," Sasuke interrupts, an idea coming to him before he can think too clearly about what his former teacher just said. "I have never read porn."

"There's a difference between porn and erotica," Kakashi grumbles, although he takes a shot; Naruto and Sai do as well.

"Semantics. It's still something closet perverts like you three do."

"That was research—and it paid off!" Naruto points out. "Remember the time my Reverse Harem Jutsu almost saved the world?"

"And how many naked men did you have to look at to get that one right?" Sai wonders. "At least when I've watched porn, it's been women."

"Your wife lets you watch porn?" Sasuke asks, squinting at the other man. For some reason that doesn't jive with what he knows of Ino.

"Hey! I've got the next one!" Naruto shouts as he refills their shot glasses. "Never have I ever watched porn with someone else!"

Sasuke shudders at the idea of that brand of awkwardness, and to his utter lack of surprise, both Kakashi and Sai drink.

"It was for educational purposes," Sai says unabashedly, while Kakashi shrugs, "It's really not a big deal."

"Please tell me this was with your wives and not some random dude you decided to watch porn with," Naruto groans.

"No," Sasuke interrupts. "Don't. Don't tell us anything. Ever. Just…take your damn turn and move on."

I'm going home. As soon as my feet don't feel like bubbles, I am leaving…

"I have never had sex with more than one person at a time," Sai declares.

Sasuke groans inwardly; he should have known they weren't going to leave the topic of sex alone once it had been broached.

This is about to take a turn for the awkward.

Again, Kakashi takes a drink.

"Really?" Naruto looks scandalised and fascinated. "Was it with two girls, or a guy and a girl?"

"Gentlemen don't kiss and tell," Kakashi says mysteriously.

"Gentlemen don't play stupid drinking games," Sasuke points out.

Kakashi raises an eyebrow at this, and then says innocently, "I've never had sex outdoors.”

Sasuke rolls his eyes.

The other two watch him in expectation, as if waiting for him to outright lie. It occurs to Sasuke that playing this game with a bunch of shinobi wasn't a good idea. Even if he wanted to lie about something, they'd be able to tell.

Aware of the warmth in his cheeks, he reaches for his drink, pointing out as he does, "That's common knowledge."

"It still counts."

"Fine. I've never had my child walk in during."

Mostly because Sarada is a long time away from walking, but it's something he figures must have happened to his sensei at some point. He's got three kids past the toddling age.

As expected, Kakashi has to take a drink, and Sasuke basks in a momentary sense of victory.

Until Naruto laughingly shouts, "Oh, hey, I got one! I got one! Never have I ever…done butt stuff during sex!"

And Sasuke promptly chokes on his own spit.

Because no, no, no, that is not something he ever expected to be brought up here.

Naruto is smirking a challenge at Kakashi, like he figures learning one or two perverted things about his former teacher have given him total insight into how to get his sensei drunk.

Kakashi takes a drink, and then crosses his arms (his attempt to look unbothered is tempered by his pink cheeks). "I'm not ashamed. My sex life is amazing."

Naruto gapes. "No way! That was totally a joke, I didn't think—" He is interrupted as Sai cheerfully takes a shot as well. "Ehhhh?! You too?"

"Don't knock it until you try it," Sai says. "It's actually an interesting sensation when experienced in conjunction with—"

And that's my cue—

Sasuke wobbles to his feet. "I don't need to know any of this. I'm leaving."

"After all that ridiculousness, this is your limit?" Kakashi challenges, a knowing tone in his voice. Sasuke continues making a dogged beeline to the door. "Huh. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to avoid another shot, Sasuke."

"Hahaha!" Naruto sniggers. "No way."

Just a few more steps…

"Sasuke would never be into that sort of thing, he's way too boring," Naruto continues. "Remember, we had to practically tell him what sex was before he got married…"

Almost there…

"As I recall, he had a very interesting reaction to certain topics that night," Sai points out. "Particularly when we asked him the sort of things he had done with Sakura already. His neck used to get very red. A bit like what's happening right now."

Just reach out and grab the door –

"No way," Naruto murmurs blandly. "No fucking way."

"I did not see that coming," Kakashi says, sounding too surprised to be teasing.

"You mean Sasuke Uchiha took it up the ass?!" Naruto shouts.

Sasuke turns around, glaring daggers at this friend. "Shout it a little louder, you utter moron!"

There is silence.

Naruto's jaw drops, and the other two are blinking in surprise. The tableau would be funny if it weren't for the fact that Sasuke has realised his usual perfect control over his emotions have just caused him to confirm the one thing he did not want to confirm.

Shit.

"But wait…if you've never been with anyone you weren't married to, that would mean…" Sai begins.

"Don't finish that sentence," Sasuke warns.

"Sakura," Sai concludes.

"So she used a…?" Kakashi makes a lewd gesture.

"I did not need to know that about Sakura," Naruto murmurs, shuddering. "Oh, gods, I just got a mental image—oh my god, somebody scramble my brains, please!"

"That can be arranged," Sasuke growls, feeling electricity beginning to crackle in his palm.

"Aaaaand I'm calling an executive order to end tonight," Kakashi says, staggering to his feet. "By order of the Hokage, blah blah blah, you are all to go home and sober up. And no murders while in the Konoha environs."

"Seriously?!" Naruto squeaks at Sasuke, still apparently struggling with the concept.

"If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'm taking off an arm," Sasuke hisses, taking a menacing step forward. "Or a leg. Probably a leg. Think how ridiculous you'll look, hopping around on one leg. Then you'll never be Hokage."

"And that's how we know Sasuke is drunk, gentlemen," Kakashi says. "Rambling death threats. I think we can call tonight a success, don't you?"

"We should do it again some time," Sai agrees.

"I'm leaving," Sasuke grumbles. "I'm taking a mission to the middle of fucking nowhere and never coming back. And I'm telling my wife it's your fault, and she's going to kill you all for me. I won't even have to get my hands dirty."

Kakashi chuckles. "I suppose I should make sure you get home alright and don't end up walking into a tree."

"Tch."

He stalks off, wobbling and angry and wondering if it's worth the headache to use a portal to get home.

"So, is this butt-sex thing something I'm missing out on?" he hears Naruto asks Sai, and then he sees red.

With a snarl of rage, Sasuke whirls around and makes a dive for Naruto's neck.

終わり

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome, but if you feel like keeping me caffeinated out of the goodness of your heart, it certainly would be appreciated! I’m also starting to post original works to my patreon.

I’m only able to keep writing as I do thanks to the support of readers like you, so every bit helps!

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