![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Spoke too soon.
RL rearing its head again. Memorial Day weekend doesn't look any more promising. Quickie TFR post, then!
This isn't quite totally fucking rejected, as I posted it ages ago in a very sexy bitch's lj. Don't remember why. (Probably because she was and still is a very sexy bitch.)
I actually did send intend on posting this for realz at some point and sent it to a beta, but it fell by the wayside and, well, here we are.
Butch is too calm and smooth in this one. I was writing him like this a lot in 2007, it feels like. W/E, past self. I like the voice overall, though.
Greens Drabble from 2006, NOT 2007. Watch it, there's f-words. (LIKE HANGING OUT AT MY JOURNAL IS GOING TO MAKE THAT SOME SORT OF SURPRISE.)
--
"What are fingers good for, anyway?"
Butch considers. "Finger-fucking."
Buttercup considers. Punching him, that is. "Thanks. That was pretty classy."
"I'm a classy kind of guy."
Buttercup examines her curved, fingerless mitt. "Don't people ask you that a lot? What life's like without fingers and toes?"
"... No. But I don't pay a lot of attention to other people."
She snorts. "Very true."
"What's got you so hung up on it?"
"Just wondering what the big deal is."
Seated on the steps of Townsville's ritziest bank (for no real purpose other than to make Townsville's genteel exceptionally nervous about two superpowered teenage layabouts slouching all along the marble stairs), there is a stretch of silence as they watch civilians scuttle around them.
Butch suddenly jerks his head, his way of nodding, and says, "There."
Looking over, Buttercup sees a young couple walking by, their hands locked together by their fingers.
"I hold hands as well as anyone else," Buttercup shrugs, unimpressed.
"Well, la de-freakin'-da."
"Seriously," she continues, "I hold hands as well as anyone else, I can push buttons, strum a guitar, hold a pencil... all without fingers!"
Butch shrugs. "I think your problem is you keep thinking about what you use them for, when really? It's about touch."
"I'm capable of touching things, too," Buttercup retorts, and punctuates this with a slap on the tile. "Did you catch that? Here, let me do it again in case you missed it."
She slaps the tile a few more times, and mid-slap on the fourth one his own hand reaches out and stops her.
She stills, and her eyes look up at him.
He meets her gaze and begins stroking her wrist, gently. "Imagine that," he says, "only instead of one hand it's split into little pieces, so it feels like a whole, tiny trail of ants crawling on your skin, leaving little tingles..."
Her gaze flicks from his eyes to his hand and back, while he remains fixated on her shifting expression, clearly amused.
He continues stroking her wrist for awhile before she clears her throat and pulls her hand away.
"You're crazy," she mutters and looks forward again, thinking that her skin feels ridiculously tingly anyway, fingers or no.
She can feel him smirking at her, and then he leans in close and now it isn't just her wrist that tingles.
"You're in denial," he whispers in a smooth voice that shivers across the skin of her neck.
But she still isn't convinced. Because if tingly touches are all fingers are about, and Butch makes her tingle anyway without them, then she's right back where she started.
Although, well. Finger-fucking.
This isn't quite totally fucking rejected, as I posted it ages ago in a very sexy bitch's lj. Don't remember why. (Probably because she was and still is a very sexy bitch.)
I actually did send intend on posting this for realz at some point and sent it to a beta, but it fell by the wayside and, well, here we are.
Butch is too calm and smooth in this one. I was writing him like this a lot in 2007, it feels like. W/E, past self. I like the voice overall, though.
Greens Drabble from 2006, NOT 2007. Watch it, there's f-words. (LIKE HANGING OUT AT MY JOURNAL IS GOING TO MAKE THAT SOME SORT OF SURPRISE.)
--
"What are fingers good for, anyway?"
Butch considers. "Finger-fucking."
Buttercup considers. Punching him, that is. "Thanks. That was pretty classy."
"I'm a classy kind of guy."
Buttercup examines her curved, fingerless mitt. "Don't people ask you that a lot? What life's like without fingers and toes?"
"... No. But I don't pay a lot of attention to other people."
She snorts. "Very true."
"What's got you so hung up on it?"
"Just wondering what the big deal is."
Seated on the steps of Townsville's ritziest bank (for no real purpose other than to make Townsville's genteel exceptionally nervous about two superpowered teenage layabouts slouching all along the marble stairs), there is a stretch of silence as they watch civilians scuttle around them.
Butch suddenly jerks his head, his way of nodding, and says, "There."
Looking over, Buttercup sees a young couple walking by, their hands locked together by their fingers.
"I hold hands as well as anyone else," Buttercup shrugs, unimpressed.
"Well, la de-freakin'-da."
"Seriously," she continues, "I hold hands as well as anyone else, I can push buttons, strum a guitar, hold a pencil... all without fingers!"
Butch shrugs. "I think your problem is you keep thinking about what you use them for, when really? It's about touch."
"I'm capable of touching things, too," Buttercup retorts, and punctuates this with a slap on the tile. "Did you catch that? Here, let me do it again in case you missed it."
She slaps the tile a few more times, and mid-slap on the fourth one his own hand reaches out and stops her.
She stills, and her eyes look up at him.
He meets her gaze and begins stroking her wrist, gently. "Imagine that," he says, "only instead of one hand it's split into little pieces, so it feels like a whole, tiny trail of ants crawling on your skin, leaving little tingles..."
Her gaze flicks from his eyes to his hand and back, while he remains fixated on her shifting expression, clearly amused.
He continues stroking her wrist for awhile before she clears her throat and pulls her hand away.
"You're crazy," she mutters and looks forward again, thinking that her skin feels ridiculously tingly anyway, fingers or no.
She can feel him smirking at her, and then he leans in close and now it isn't just her wrist that tingles.
"You're in denial," he whispers in a smooth voice that shivers across the skin of her neck.
But she still isn't convinced. Because if tingly touches are all fingers are about, and Butch makes her tingle anyway without them, then she's right back where she started.
Although, well. Finger-fucking.