Greens fans are getting lucky 'round these here parts
The gas tank that is my body is running pretty low on fuel and high on nausea right now. Dumb. It needs sleep. (I promise you will get sleep soon, body. Thanks for carrying on.)
I had hours to kill, so I brought along the USB that all my writing is loaded up on with the intention of burning through some of those fic requests, only to discover the stupid laptop I was equipped with only possesses USB-C ports. DAMN IT MAC. STUPID DESIGN.
I wound up working locally on a request I hadn't started yet instead - and then I finished it. So here it is!
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roseshower requested a Greens kissing competition.
These titles are killing me. Let's go with Sign.
***
“You would not.”
“I one-hundred-and-fifty-fucking percent would,” Butch asserted.
A sharp, derisive “Ha!” exploded out of Buttercup’s mouth, silencing the crickets that had been scoring their late walk home. The night had been a winner, filled with bad movies and good friends, the kind of night that delayed your ‘Goodbyes’ until the last possible moment. One by one the rest of the gang had been picked off, leaving Buttercup and Butch to wander a de-populated Townsville Park, eerie and magical in its dedication to silence.
Not ones for peace, they were happy to break that stillness with their own conversation. They never ran out of things to talk about, anyway. And arguing was a kind of talking.
“You have no willpower!” Buttercup’s voice lifted at the end, paralleling the upward curve of her mouth. “As soon as someone’s mouth touched yours, you’d go full slut on them!”
“Don’t slut-shame me,” Butch said. “And don’t underestimate my innate, primal need to win at everything.”
Buttercup scoffed. “Your needs are out of touch with reality.”
“I bet I’d last longer than you,” he reiterated, which was the same dumb statement that had gotten them on this dumb argument. Dumb dumb dumb.
“No, you wouldn’t, see, because I have hangups. I don’t like being touched.”
“But you’d still react. You’d punch ‘em. Instantly.”
“Not wrong,” she allowed.
“And it’s about not doing anything. I could absolutely stand there stock still while someone was macking on me and do nothing. Not even kiss them. Or punch them.”
“You wouldn’t punch ‘em.”
“Depends on who’s kissing me. And I’d definitely outlast you.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“We should find someone to test this theory on,” he said, because he was stupid enough to believe this was within the realm of possibility.
“It’s nearly two in the morning. No one here but us. And probably some drunk people.”
“Well, I don’t want to kiss a drunk person.”
Buttercup’s throat caught, and then she realized he had been making a simple statement and not attempting to flirt. Which he still did, occasionally. Not as often these days. Not that she was keeping track.
Townsville was quiet and full of magic tonight. The crickets had started singing to them again. The darkness made her brave.
“Alright then,” she said, and she sensed him tensing because he knew her voice, and her voice had taken on a different color. “Let’s test it.”
“Huh?”
She pulled out her phone and opened up her clock app, wondering if the glow from the screen cast enough light on her face to reveal a blush. “I’ll kiss you, and time you. Let’s see how long you can keep still.”
“Are you drunk? I said I didn’t want to kiss a drunk person.”
She thought of saying something, but knew that if she did, they’d just fall back into their usual banter, and the opportunity would quietly slip away, the same way the flirting had. She stayed silent, waiting for the night to work its magic.
“Ugh.” He groaned, the pitch of his voice in perfect harmony with the cricketsong. “Fine.”
***
He wasn’t much taller than her, but she still floated up to meet him.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Thank God we were chewing gum,” he said, eyes elsewhere, a part of him still trying to pull her into conversation. She ignored him.
Here goes nothing, she thought. Or everything.
She pressed close, her eyelids fluttering shut as she stabbed at the Start button on her phone.
She was glad that she’d had practice, that she’d had a boyfriend once, that she’d given in to curiosity as a sullen middle schooler and permitted herself a couple of games of Spin the Bottle. She did not want Butch to think she was a bad kisser. In this, she knew she had a leg up on him. While he wasn’t exactly a stranger to kissing, she’d borne witness to enough of his encounters to know he went in too hungry, too desperate to be liked, or remembered. An earnest kiss had its charm, but Buttercup had developed technique.
She started chaste, shy, with just enough pressure to feel the fullness of his stone-still lips against her own, then instantly pulled it back. She let her lips skim his—first his lower lip, then the upper. She lingered, taking advantage of the occasion to create a map in her mind, each rise, each dip. A small kiss at the center of his lower lip. Just a taste.
Slow, slow, slow.
Her teeth appeared, grazing the areas her lips had just ghosted over. Still a light touch. She felt his Adam’s apple bob and realized her free hand had drifted up to his neck. This was a part of it, too. She let her hand wander around, brushing the hair at the nape of his neck.
More small kisses, one for each corner of his mouth. She thought of saying something, of congratulating him—aside from his swallow, he hadn’t budged—but didn’t trust her brain to say something that was flirty enough, that communicated the message she wanted. Her brain was an unknowable beast, but her body, she knew. She knew how hard she could hit, and, conversely, how soft.
She drew his lip—the lower, again—between hers, pulling gently at the fullness of it, of him. Oh, how full he made her. A paradox. How stupidly full and hungry. She thought of him kissing other girls, how plain it was to see that he thought of kisses as a signature, and if he went in hard enough, his name would emboss itself onto them permanently and he’d never be overlooked or forgotten again. He wasn’t wrong. This was a sort of signature.
The pressure she’d let him have a sip of at the beginning returned, and she tangled her hand in his hair, trapping him as she parted her lips against his and her phone dropped to the grass. Butch tasted like her gum and magic, like a boy who was going to lose a game that had never mattered in the first place.
He made a noise against her that felt like sunlight blooming in her chest. The orchestra of crickets swelled. Butch’s mouth parted for her, her, her, and she felt so full and hungry, all at once, and signed her name.
***
As always, thank you for your patience. ♥
I had hours to kill, so I brought along the USB that all my writing is loaded up on with the intention of burning through some of those fic requests, only to discover the stupid laptop I was equipped with only possesses USB-C ports. DAMN IT MAC. STUPID DESIGN.
I wound up working locally on a request I hadn't started yet instead - and then I finished it. So here it is!
roseshower requested a Greens kissing competition.These titles are killing me. Let's go with Sign.
***
“You would not.”
“I one-hundred-and-fifty-fucking percent would,” Butch asserted.
A sharp, derisive “Ha!” exploded out of Buttercup’s mouth, silencing the crickets that had been scoring their late walk home. The night had been a winner, filled with bad movies and good friends, the kind of night that delayed your ‘Goodbyes’ until the last possible moment. One by one the rest of the gang had been picked off, leaving Buttercup and Butch to wander a de-populated Townsville Park, eerie and magical in its dedication to silence.
Not ones for peace, they were happy to break that stillness with their own conversation. They never ran out of things to talk about, anyway. And arguing was a kind of talking.
“You have no willpower!” Buttercup’s voice lifted at the end, paralleling the upward curve of her mouth. “As soon as someone’s mouth touched yours, you’d go full slut on them!”
“Don’t slut-shame me,” Butch said. “And don’t underestimate my innate, primal need to win at everything.”
Buttercup scoffed. “Your needs are out of touch with reality.”
“I bet I’d last longer than you,” he reiterated, which was the same dumb statement that had gotten them on this dumb argument. Dumb dumb dumb.
“No, you wouldn’t, see, because I have hangups. I don’t like being touched.”
“But you’d still react. You’d punch ‘em. Instantly.”
“Not wrong,” she allowed.
“And it’s about not doing anything. I could absolutely stand there stock still while someone was macking on me and do nothing. Not even kiss them. Or punch them.”
“You wouldn’t punch ‘em.”
“Depends on who’s kissing me. And I’d definitely outlast you.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“We should find someone to test this theory on,” he said, because he was stupid enough to believe this was within the realm of possibility.
“It’s nearly two in the morning. No one here but us. And probably some drunk people.”
“Well, I don’t want to kiss a drunk person.”
Buttercup’s throat caught, and then she realized he had been making a simple statement and not attempting to flirt. Which he still did, occasionally. Not as often these days. Not that she was keeping track.
Townsville was quiet and full of magic tonight. The crickets had started singing to them again. The darkness made her brave.
“Alright then,” she said, and she sensed him tensing because he knew her voice, and her voice had taken on a different color. “Let’s test it.”
“Huh?”
She pulled out her phone and opened up her clock app, wondering if the glow from the screen cast enough light on her face to reveal a blush. “I’ll kiss you, and time you. Let’s see how long you can keep still.”
“Are you drunk? I said I didn’t want to kiss a drunk person.”
She thought of saying something, but knew that if she did, they’d just fall back into their usual banter, and the opportunity would quietly slip away, the same way the flirting had. She stayed silent, waiting for the night to work its magic.
“Ugh.” He groaned, the pitch of his voice in perfect harmony with the cricketsong. “Fine.”
***
He wasn’t much taller than her, but she still floated up to meet him.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Thank God we were chewing gum,” he said, eyes elsewhere, a part of him still trying to pull her into conversation. She ignored him.
Here goes nothing, she thought. Or everything.
She pressed close, her eyelids fluttering shut as she stabbed at the Start button on her phone.
She was glad that she’d had practice, that she’d had a boyfriend once, that she’d given in to curiosity as a sullen middle schooler and permitted herself a couple of games of Spin the Bottle. She did not want Butch to think she was a bad kisser. In this, she knew she had a leg up on him. While he wasn’t exactly a stranger to kissing, she’d borne witness to enough of his encounters to know he went in too hungry, too desperate to be liked, or remembered. An earnest kiss had its charm, but Buttercup had developed technique.
She started chaste, shy, with just enough pressure to feel the fullness of his stone-still lips against her own, then instantly pulled it back. She let her lips skim his—first his lower lip, then the upper. She lingered, taking advantage of the occasion to create a map in her mind, each rise, each dip. A small kiss at the center of his lower lip. Just a taste.
Slow, slow, slow.
Her teeth appeared, grazing the areas her lips had just ghosted over. Still a light touch. She felt his Adam’s apple bob and realized her free hand had drifted up to his neck. This was a part of it, too. She let her hand wander around, brushing the hair at the nape of his neck.
More small kisses, one for each corner of his mouth. She thought of saying something, of congratulating him—aside from his swallow, he hadn’t budged—but didn’t trust her brain to say something that was flirty enough, that communicated the message she wanted. Her brain was an unknowable beast, but her body, she knew. She knew how hard she could hit, and, conversely, how soft.
She drew his lip—the lower, again—between hers, pulling gently at the fullness of it, of him. Oh, how full he made her. A paradox. How stupidly full and hungry. She thought of him kissing other girls, how plain it was to see that he thought of kisses as a signature, and if he went in hard enough, his name would emboss itself onto them permanently and he’d never be overlooked or forgotten again. He wasn’t wrong. This was a sort of signature.
The pressure she’d let him have a sip of at the beginning returned, and she tangled her hand in his hair, trapping him as she parted her lips against his and her phone dropped to the grass. Butch tasted like her gum and magic, like a boy who was going to lose a game that had never mattered in the first place.
He made a noise against her that felt like sunlight blooming in her chest. The orchestra of crickets swelled. Butch’s mouth parted for her, her, her, and she felt so full and hungry, all at once, and signed her name.
***
As always, thank you for your patience. ♥