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where have all the heroes gone?
ALMOST DONE WITH REQUESTS. after this there's what, six left?
for anonymous, who requested the following two pieces:
brick/blossom + how blossom manages to make it into brick's dorm room despite their apparent hatred for one another (also referenced in 'skirt', part v):
“Worst. Class. Ever. Officially.” Brick flung his arms in the air as Blossom shuffled morosely beside him.
“Professor Kell has gone too far with this one,” she agreed sourly.
“You know he only did this because he gets a rise out of us screaming at each other every single time we go into class discussion,” Brick pointed out.
“Maybe he genuinely wanted to challenge us,” Blossom said, trying to find something positive about this whole predicament. “I mean, he’s basically asking us to teach the class next week—”
“Because then we’ll be up on stage and it’ll be like a big freaking production, you and me at each other’s throats,” Brick said bitterly. “Keep in mind, I don’t object to defacing you onstage. It’s the exploitation angle that gets me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re right. Class attendance is going to go through the roof if we’re up there having it out.”
“That sick bastard.”
“We’ll show him,” Blossom agreed, though as soon as she said it something died inside her, deep down.
Brick made a sort of groaning sound as they reached his dorm building, rising up out of the dusk with a very ominous aura about it.
Blossom’s heart sank as she stared at it, recalling the packed libraries and study halls as students frantically prepared for finals in the upcoming couple of weeks.
Her dorm had been out of the question. The last thing Blossom wanted was to sit in her cramped living space with Brick as they tried not to listen to her roommate engage in nefarious bedroom activity with God knew who on the other side of the paper thin wall.
Thus, his dormitory was the only option.
He stepped forward and swiped his access card, swinging the door wide open and turning to her with an expression on his face that suggested vomiting was in his near future.
“After you,” Brick said, voice dripping in sarcasm as he bowed.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Blossom snarled back. “After you.”
He straightened and walked through the doorway. “Suit yourself.”
Blossom rolled her eyes and took a step forward just as he slammed the door in her face.
She sighed and prepared to rip the door off its hinges.
It was going to be a long night.
***
blossom/butch + attraction:
Blossom has never been one for chaos. The destructive, unwieldy sort that Buttercup seems to have a knack for. Not exactly Blossom’s… thing.
She craves control, order, the best laid plans, because nine times out of ten the best laid plans do not go to waste. Brick is the same way, she notes, save for the whole supervillain thing. If she ever strayed from the side of good, she knows that’s what she’d be—Brick is detached, cool, calculating in his movements, his attacks, his stares. His gaze always holds steady when they meet each other’s eyes, no matter how much destruction rages around them as their siblings wage war in flight.
Buttercup lands beside her now, panting and grimacing at her counterpart, who takes his place beside his own leader, sneering at the two girls even as his chest heaves with the arduous task of breathing. Bubbles and Boomer battle on in the distance. Blossom and Brick never break eye contact.
A bladed insult suddenly escapes Butch’s throat, cutting into her concentration, and she glances at him as Buttercup snaps back. The glittering spark in his green eyes jars her, so unlike the cold, distant stillness in Brick’s, and her breath catches in her throat.
Because the best laid plans work ninety percent of the time, and chaos isn’t Blossom’s thing.
But the remaining ten percent of the time, she realizes as those brilliant green eyes turn on her, it’s exactly what she needs.
***
for anonymous, who requested butch/buttercup + the game bloody knuckles + a chinese zodiac menu + midol + a pair of pink crocs:
It wasn’t often that Buttercup was called on to fight for her sisters’ honor; usually, they fended well enough for themselves. But the boys had ruined dinner. That was just not on.
Bubbles was still in the booth, fanning a pale Blossom and trying to feed her some Midol. Their fearless leader had been engaged in a heated argument with her red male counterpart when abdominal pains of a feminine nature suddenly bore down upon her, swift and merciless. Buttercup had been called to arms in her stead.
With a grimace on her face, she’d reluctantly pushed her still-full plate away and rose, turning on the boys.
Almost instantly after Buttercup had planted her feet and narrowed her eyes at Brick, Butch had shoved his brother into a table, grinning maniacally.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice low and dark, and suddenly it wasn’t about the atrocity that was Blossom and Brick both signing exclusive, highly sought-after endorsement deals for Crocs (in pink and red, respectively).
Buttercup bit at her watch and ripped it off with her teeth. “You wish.”
The owner of the restaurant had already ushered his patrons out, not wanting to bear witness to what could devolve into a very ugly game of Bloody Knuckles.
Now, with Bubbles cooing over Blossom, Brick seething in a corner booth, and Boomer tallying the score on the back of a Chinese Zodiac placemat, Buttercup rubbed her raw mitt against her cheek while Butch examined his for split skin.
“Ready for another round?” Boomer announced, voice echoing in the empty restaurant.
Butch scoffed, “Ready? Please.” He bent his knees and raised his fists, eyes glittering as they took in Buttercup. “I was born ready.”
She was only dimly aware of their brothers’ and sisters’ attention on them as they squared off. Butch was so prevalent in her world right now that she could almost taste the blood she was going to make him spill.
Buttercup rolled her shoulders and lifted her mitts, pink and raw, looked Butch directly in his deep green eyes, and laughed.
“Ready?” she echoed, and sneered. “No. Not for this you aren’t.”
***
for anonymous (lots of these, huh?), who requested butch/buttercup + chopsticks + a hospital:
She’s been here for two days already.
After the first twenty-four hours Butch stole into the East wing, because a whole day was an unnaturally long time. Since then he’s been in and out of her room, slipping away when he hears anyone coming. The window opens easily enough.
Three am the following evening and dinner remains uneaten beside him, still sitting pretty in its wrapped takeout boxes. He slipped his chopsticks out of their wrapper nearly six hours ago, split them and scraped one against the other, and that’s as far as he’s gotten.
His body’s been stuck on repeat, the movement of his arms abrupt and mechanical as they scrape, scrape, scrape those sticks smoother than polished leather.
He doesn’t mind. It gives his hands something to do as he watches Buttercup.
He guesses her condition isn’t critical, or else the nurse would be by a lot more often. But still. She hasn’t opened her eyes. Two days. Buttercup, of all people.
It’s kind of hard to think about, so instead Butch stares and scrapes and stares and scrapes, waiting for Buttercup to wake up so he can apologize properly for putting her there.
***
to the first anonymous request, i'm sorry i didn't tackle "Butch/Buttercup + the summer before senior year high school (as referenced in 'A Skirt for Sunday Evening', Part V)." the reason why is because that will be addressed in bks (and it WILL be updated, i swear!).
will get around to comment replies within the next day or so :B
ETA: btw, REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. just a reminder :D
for anonymous, who requested the following two pieces:
brick/blossom + how blossom manages to make it into brick's dorm room despite their apparent hatred for one another (also referenced in 'skirt', part v):
“Worst. Class. Ever. Officially.” Brick flung his arms in the air as Blossom shuffled morosely beside him.
“Professor Kell has gone too far with this one,” she agreed sourly.
“You know he only did this because he gets a rise out of us screaming at each other every single time we go into class discussion,” Brick pointed out.
“Maybe he genuinely wanted to challenge us,” Blossom said, trying to find something positive about this whole predicament. “I mean, he’s basically asking us to teach the class next week—”
“Because then we’ll be up on stage and it’ll be like a big freaking production, you and me at each other’s throats,” Brick said bitterly. “Keep in mind, I don’t object to defacing you onstage. It’s the exploitation angle that gets me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re right. Class attendance is going to go through the roof if we’re up there having it out.”
“That sick bastard.”
“We’ll show him,” Blossom agreed, though as soon as she said it something died inside her, deep down.
Brick made a sort of groaning sound as they reached his dorm building, rising up out of the dusk with a very ominous aura about it.
Blossom’s heart sank as she stared at it, recalling the packed libraries and study halls as students frantically prepared for finals in the upcoming couple of weeks.
Her dorm had been out of the question. The last thing Blossom wanted was to sit in her cramped living space with Brick as they tried not to listen to her roommate engage in nefarious bedroom activity with God knew who on the other side of the paper thin wall.
Thus, his dormitory was the only option.
He stepped forward and swiped his access card, swinging the door wide open and turning to her with an expression on his face that suggested vomiting was in his near future.
“After you,” Brick said, voice dripping in sarcasm as he bowed.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Blossom snarled back. “After you.”
He straightened and walked through the doorway. “Suit yourself.”
Blossom rolled her eyes and took a step forward just as he slammed the door in her face.
She sighed and prepared to rip the door off its hinges.
It was going to be a long night.
***
blossom/butch + attraction:
Blossom has never been one for chaos. The destructive, unwieldy sort that Buttercup seems to have a knack for. Not exactly Blossom’s… thing.
She craves control, order, the best laid plans, because nine times out of ten the best laid plans do not go to waste. Brick is the same way, she notes, save for the whole supervillain thing. If she ever strayed from the side of good, she knows that’s what she’d be—Brick is detached, cool, calculating in his movements, his attacks, his stares. His gaze always holds steady when they meet each other’s eyes, no matter how much destruction rages around them as their siblings wage war in flight.
Buttercup lands beside her now, panting and grimacing at her counterpart, who takes his place beside his own leader, sneering at the two girls even as his chest heaves with the arduous task of breathing. Bubbles and Boomer battle on in the distance. Blossom and Brick never break eye contact.
A bladed insult suddenly escapes Butch’s throat, cutting into her concentration, and she glances at him as Buttercup snaps back. The glittering spark in his green eyes jars her, so unlike the cold, distant stillness in Brick’s, and her breath catches in her throat.
Because the best laid plans work ninety percent of the time, and chaos isn’t Blossom’s thing.
But the remaining ten percent of the time, she realizes as those brilliant green eyes turn on her, it’s exactly what she needs.
***
for anonymous, who requested butch/buttercup + the game bloody knuckles + a chinese zodiac menu + midol + a pair of pink crocs:
It wasn’t often that Buttercup was called on to fight for her sisters’ honor; usually, they fended well enough for themselves. But the boys had ruined dinner. That was just not on.
Bubbles was still in the booth, fanning a pale Blossom and trying to feed her some Midol. Their fearless leader had been engaged in a heated argument with her red male counterpart when abdominal pains of a feminine nature suddenly bore down upon her, swift and merciless. Buttercup had been called to arms in her stead.
With a grimace on her face, she’d reluctantly pushed her still-full plate away and rose, turning on the boys.
Almost instantly after Buttercup had planted her feet and narrowed her eyes at Brick, Butch had shoved his brother into a table, grinning maniacally.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice low and dark, and suddenly it wasn’t about the atrocity that was Blossom and Brick both signing exclusive, highly sought-after endorsement deals for Crocs (in pink and red, respectively).
Buttercup bit at her watch and ripped it off with her teeth. “You wish.”
The owner of the restaurant had already ushered his patrons out, not wanting to bear witness to what could devolve into a very ugly game of Bloody Knuckles.
Now, with Bubbles cooing over Blossom, Brick seething in a corner booth, and Boomer tallying the score on the back of a Chinese Zodiac placemat, Buttercup rubbed her raw mitt against her cheek while Butch examined his for split skin.
“Ready for another round?” Boomer announced, voice echoing in the empty restaurant.
Butch scoffed, “Ready? Please.” He bent his knees and raised his fists, eyes glittering as they took in Buttercup. “I was born ready.”
She was only dimly aware of their brothers’ and sisters’ attention on them as they squared off. Butch was so prevalent in her world right now that she could almost taste the blood she was going to make him spill.
Buttercup rolled her shoulders and lifted her mitts, pink and raw, looked Butch directly in his deep green eyes, and laughed.
“Ready?” she echoed, and sneered. “No. Not for this you aren’t.”
***
for anonymous (lots of these, huh?), who requested butch/buttercup + chopsticks + a hospital:
She’s been here for two days already.
After the first twenty-four hours Butch stole into the East wing, because a whole day was an unnaturally long time. Since then he’s been in and out of her room, slipping away when he hears anyone coming. The window opens easily enough.
Three am the following evening and dinner remains uneaten beside him, still sitting pretty in its wrapped takeout boxes. He slipped his chopsticks out of their wrapper nearly six hours ago, split them and scraped one against the other, and that’s as far as he’s gotten.
His body’s been stuck on repeat, the movement of his arms abrupt and mechanical as they scrape, scrape, scrape those sticks smoother than polished leather.
He doesn’t mind. It gives his hands something to do as he watches Buttercup.
He guesses her condition isn’t critical, or else the nurse would be by a lot more often. But still. She hasn’t opened her eyes. Two days. Buttercup, of all people.
It’s kind of hard to think about, so instead Butch stares and scrapes and stares and scrapes, waiting for Buttercup to wake up so he can apologize properly for putting her there.
***
to the first anonymous request, i'm sorry i didn't tackle "Butch/Buttercup + the summer before senior year high school (as referenced in 'A Skirt for Sunday Evening', Part V)." the reason why is because that will be addressed in bks (and it WILL be updated, i swear!).
will get around to comment replies within the next day or so :B
ETA: btw, REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. just a reminder :D
no subject
Ahem. I'll just let you two get on with it, then.
no subject
but a big, hearty YES, YES! WITH SUGAR AND CREAM AND SPRINKLES! to that.
i want to go on but work would probably frown upon that, or something :P