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This isn't terrible.
I wrote this back in 2006 and had indeed planned on posting it - again, a case where I sent it off to beta and everything - but it needed some work done and I put it off and then it was just... eh. I guess I stopped caring about it.
Reading it over, though, I don't hate it. As I recall, I had come off of writing/posting Swordplay, and wanted to do two things: 1) show them maybe kinda actually working out, and 2) a tasteful sex fic.
I cringe at some points, but they're few and far between. It's really not that bad - actually, it's probably my best TFR post yet - but it does need work that I'm not willing to put into it at this point.
Not going to f-lock this, because it's not really graphic, but I would say it's a hard R.
--
Buttercup swept a hand across her bare stomach, feeling cool, sticky liquid on her skin. She cringed. “That… was such a mistake.”
Butch was sitting up with his back toward her. The bedsprings creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. “No fucking kidding,” he muttered.
She closed her eyes, fervently hoping that she could just sink into the mattress, away out of sight and out of this awful, awful situation. Oh, if only. If only they hadn’t gotten so pissy at each other, if only they hadn’t started fighting, if only they hadn’t kept pinning each other and snapping at each other and rubbing up against each other…
“Oh, God,” she groaned, bringing her clean hand to her face. She leaned a bit—fuck, her stomach was a mess—to reach for the tissue box on the nightstand, and started ripping Kleenex out by the handfuls and patting them to her stomach. If she got… if she messed up Robin’s guest bed, Robin would not be a happy neighbor. And when Robin wasn’t happy, Robin tended to get very, very… frightening.
The bed shifted a bit, and out of the corner of her eye Buttercup saw Butch fidgeting with his jeans. The sound of his zipper seemed unbearably loud, loud enough to stop the party that was still going on downstairs. She cringed again.
The bedsprings squeaked when Butch swung his legs over and stood up, wobbling dangerously. “Oh, fuck,” he mumbled, practically falling back down on the bed. “Oh, fuck, I can barely stand.”
Red rose to Buttercup’s face, but whether it was anger or shame or a reaction to what might have been a compliment in any other case, she couldn’t decide. She grabbed another tissue from the box and mopped her stomach clean. “Not surprised,” she said quietly, snapping her bra back on and yanking down her shirt.
“Fuck you.”
“Little late,” she grumbled, and felt around for her jeans and panties… where the fuck did they go—
She sat up and Butch’s hand suddenly shot in front of her, clutching her clothes. He still had his back to her, obstinate in his refusal to face her.
Without a word Buttercup practically ripped them from his hand and threw her legs over the other side of the bed, wriggling back into them. She hesitated at the zipper, then bit her lip and slowly drew it up, attempting to make as little sound as possible.
They both sat on their respective sides for awhile, each looking in opposite directions. Finally Buttercup carefully stood up, closing her eyes at the brief dizziness, then slowly made her way to the bathroom to flush the Kleenex. While there she ran some cold water in the sink, scrubbing at her hands and her face—she would’ve preferred to have jumped in the shower, but she was starting to have the feeling that no matter how much she lathered or rinsed it wouldn’t make a bit of difference; she was never going to get him out of her skin now.
How depressing.
She reluctantly made her way back to the bedroom and saw him cracking the windows open. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What the hell does it look like, genius?” he shot back, words a little slurred. He shook his head, and the next time he spoke clearer. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this room just reeks of sex. Reeks.”
“Ok, thank you so much for reminding me!”
“What, one look at the bed isn’t enough for you?!”
Buttercup glared accusingly at the fussy sheets and just whispered, “Fuck,” over and over as she tossed the pillows aside and started flattening the sheets against the mattress. When she threw the pillows back on and straightened the coverlet she looked up and saw Butch staring at her, a look of contempt on his face. She gave him an equally contemptuous look back and floated over to the armchair, perching herself on its edge and burying her head in her hands.
After heaving a great big sigh she whispered into her hands, “What the fuck am I going to do.”
“… Excuse me? Excuse? ME? What the fuck are you going to do?! What the fuck am I going to do?! Jesus fucking Christ!!!” Buttercup raised her head and saw him leaning against the wall, one hand against his forehead. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, like he was trying not to faint. “Fuck, I could use a nap right now.”
A bitter smile crept onto her face and she sniped, “So much for your so-called ‘superhuman stamina,’ huh?”
He glared viciously at her and snarled, “Look, you little bitch, I’ll have you know I was working pretty fucking hard to—”
He caught himself, horror flitting in both of their eyes before he turned back to the wall. Buttercup turned her warm face to her lap, where her hands were rubbing against the denim layer covering her knees. Rubbing so hard her skin was starting to burn. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “Well, I just figured the way you get around, you’d have built up a certain level of tolerance for—”
“Yeah? And you? I guess you worked up a pretty decent level yourself, practicing with Jake after every football game, and by the way, your hands are shaking and your face looks a little pale and your eyes look a little glazed. What was that you were saying about stamina?”
Gritting her teeth, Buttercup fisted her hands to keep them from trembling and hissed, “For your information, I just broke up with him an hour ago downstairs.”
“Oh, so you came around looking for somebody else to fuck, then? What the hell does that have to do with me?”
Buttercup groaned and buried her face back in her hands. “Nothing. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. I just said it, I don’t know. Fuck. Fuck, I can’t believe this happened, goddammit.”
Butch crossed his arms and said miserably, “Well, I can’t fucking believe it either.”
Angry, sullen silence filled the room. After a while Buttercup heard him shut the windows, followed by a heavy thump on the floorboards. She looked up to see him sitting cross legged on the floor, staring thoughtfully at the rug.
“Say,” he finally said, and she blinked. “You’re not… you’ve done this thing before, right?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “What, fucked my worst enemy? Oh, of course. All the time.”
“You know what I meant, you dumb bitch.”
“It isn’t your business in the first place,” she snapped, and huffed as she sat back in the chair.
“Figured you’d say that.”
She watched as he started to pick at the rug, and after awhile she said, “Yeah.”
He lifted his eyes and asked, “Jake?”
She gave a noncommittal jerk of the head to signify an affirmative. “What about you?”
The look he gave her clearly said DUH in bright neon letters. “That’s one really stupid question.”
“Oh, and yours wasn’t?” she shot back.
To her surprise he muttered, “Yeah, mine was a stupid one. It was pretty obvious. I mean, that you weren’t. You know.” His voice got softer and softer, and he started shrugging. “You know, it’s… you can tell. The way you… I dunno. You can just tell.”
His hand went back to picking at the rug. Buttercup wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to feel flattered or not, because she kind of did, and she wasn’t really sure that was what she wanted to be feeling.
“So how is he?” he asked.
“What? Jake?”
“Who do you fucking think?”
“I’m not telling you!” She stared incredulously at him, a mixture of horror and disgust on her face. “Are you trying to compare yourself to him?”
“I take it that means he’s got no clue what he’s doing when you’re both naked, right?”
“What is the matter with you?! I can’t believe you’re asking me this shit! I can’t believe—oh my God, I can’t believe I let this happen. I knew I should’ve just gone home, I knew it, I knew it—”
She shook her head and groaned. Why the hell was she even still here? For that matter, why was she still in this room? With him? This was wrong, just wrong. There’d been something in that punch. She knew it. It smelled funny. Oh God, why wouldn’t she just go home?
“This,” she moaned, “is all your fault.”
“Why the hell is it mine? If I remember right, you weren’t exactly saying or doing anything that said, ‘STOP.’” He glared at her as she lifted her head and growled, “You’re the real good guy here. If anything, you’re the one who’s really supposed to get the blame. It should be in my nature to do fucked up shit like this all the time.”
“I don’t need this,” Buttercup suddenly said, and abruptly stood up to head for the door.
“I agree.” Butch stood up too and headed after her.
She stopped and whirled around. “What the hell are you doing?! They can’t see us exit together! You know how freaking obvious that is?!”
“Very. Which is why I’m leaving first.” He reached for the lock, but Buttercup shoved him away.
“The hell you are,” she snapped, and fumbled with the doorknob.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?!” He grabbed her wrist and she instantly whipped her other hand around to deck him square in the chest, but he grabbed that one too.
Buttercup got a sudden sense of déjà vu and her voice cracked when she said, “Get away.”
Butch paused, but held her wrists firmly in place. His gaze darkened and he whispered, “You would have to be a complete idiot to think that I would ever want to touch you again.”
Her eyes flickered to his mitts encasing hers and snarled, “So don’t.”
He tightened his grip and his eyes narrowed. “Fuck you.”
Mock shock entered her expression and she said, “Oh, but wait! You already did!”
She tried to rip her arms away but he held them fast and snapped, “You know, if you hadn’t been going out of your way to give me shit while the party was going on, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“What?! Who was the one who dragged me into the room? The fucking Easter Bunny?!”
“I did that to ask you what your goddamn problem was!! And then you just went totally apeshit and attacked me!”
“I did not!!! You attacked first!”
“The hell I did!”
“Let go already!”
“Not until I’m sure I’m getting out of this door first!” He twisted between her and the door and tried to push her back, but Buttercup charged him and knocked him hard against it.
His lip curled and he started to shove back, but his elbow bumped into the lamp next to the door, and they both paused. It teetered back and forth, and just when it was about to lose its balance, Buttercup shot an arm out to grab the pole and steady it. When it was stationary again, they both exhaled a sigh of relief.
“Thank God,” Butch breathed.
“No kidding.” The last time Robin had thrown a party, they’d both broken a vase. After having a… talk with Robin, they’d silently agreed that from then on, fighting (should it occur) was to be done without excessive use of their powers and in such a way that not a scratch would appear on the furniture.
As noted, Robin was a frightening person when she wasn’t a happy one.
After a second, Buttercup shoved Butch back against the door, but he countered by shoving her in return and pinning her to the floor. She knocked her head hard against the wood and drew in a sharp breath of air at the sting, but mustered enough concentration to flip him over, driving her elbow into his shoulder hard enough to elicit a wince of pain.
Butch tried vainly to shove her off, but he was already panting and slumping. “Oh God, I don’t have the fucking energy to do this,” he gasped.
Buttercup should’ve felt more triumphant, but she was already starting to shake from exhaustion herself. Her arms were trembling as she fought to keep her hands fisted in his shirt, and finally she dropped her head next to his, breathing hard and straining to keep her arms steady. Which wasn’t happening. God, that last… um, God, that’d really taken a lot out of her.
“Get…” Butch breathed, but didn’t (couldn’t?) finish.
Off, she knew, but she just felt so tired, and his chest was heaving and bumping against hers, and it felt so familiar…
Oh God, but the reason it felt so familiar was…
She didn’t want to think about it, but it was too late. Because it was impossible not to think about it. It had been fucking incredible. It had been incredible fucking. He was so good, he was so fucking good, Jake had never been good at it, and here Butch was amazing, and she hated him, but he was so amazing in bed and she hated him even more for it.
“God, I hate you,” she hissed, and her breath was warm against his neck; she could feel it rolling back against her lips.
“Is that supposed to be news to me?” he asked, and his chest heaved and felt so good and warm against hers.
She was recalling everything with crystal clarity, the movement of his hips, of his hand up her shirt, every little trick of the mouth and his tongue, and the taste of his skin when she bit his shoulder as she came (Jake had never made her come like that, had he ever made her come at all?), and it had all been so sensational, she’d barely remembered to keep her voice down so the people downstairs wouldn’t hear—
She felt his head turn, just the slightest, to rest lightly on hers, and his hand hesitantly skimmed against the waist of her jeans.
This wasn’t how the first time had happened. The first time they’d been fighting, a writhing mess of sweat and snarls, and somehow the writhing had gotten out of hand, too out of hand, and they’d wound up crashing onto the bed in a heap of entangled limbs and heavy breathing, neither of them wanting to admit how weird it was to get turned on by just doing what had come so naturally to them since they were little kids…
Buttercup leant her head back against Butch’s and rubbed her cheek against his, before angling her head in the other direction so she could tease her tongue along his neck. He exhaled when he felt her lips on his skin and lifted his hand to push her head up higher so he could look her in the eye right before he kissed her.
They hadn’t really kissed the other time. The other time was just like breathing open mouthed against each other, not so much kissing as it was trying to suffocate the other with their teeth and lips, and Buttercup decided she liked this better.
She sighed into his mouth when she lifted her head away, and whispered, “God, I hate—”
“I know already,” he interrupted as he undid her jeans and slid his hand between her legs, and as she arched against him and fumbled with his zipper she thought of him hissing, “Christ, you feel so fucking good,” into her hair after pressing into her, and how she tried to say, “Ditto,” but then he’d started moving and, well, so much for that.
“No, I—” Her mouth dropped open and her hands stopped messing with his fly and just clutched in response, and he inhaled sharply and sat them both up, whispering, “You need—you need to take this off, you need to fucking take this off right now,” as he worked his hand against her and tugged purposefully at her shirt.
Wordlessly she lifted her hands to the hem and pulled it over her head, hating how warm his cheek felt when he pressed it to her chest. “I hate—” she started, but stopped, because in one swift movement he’d undone the clasp of her bra with one hand, and she had to say, “That takes a lot of practice.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” he breathed, before sliding to the left and pressing his open mouth to her breast.
She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or appalled, but then she didn’t have time to worry about being unsure, because all she was worrying about was the heat of his mouth enveloping her skin and how quick her body was to respond to the feel of him against her.
She wove her hands up into his hair and pressed him closer, wanting to kiss him but on the other hand not wanting him to stop what he was doing but on the other other hand wanting his mouth to go somewhere else but on the other other other hand wanting him to just throw her on the bed and fuck the living daylights out of her.
She briefly tried to calculate the probability of success she would have at attempting to get him to do all of the above, and decided instead to fuck math and just work on getting his clothes off first.
The tricky part was getting him away from her long enough to at least yank off his shirt, which he seemed very keen on not doing until it hit him that she was just trying to get him naked, dammit. The moment the cotton polyblend slid off his skin she pressed her body against his and, before he could get a word in edgewise, hissed, “I fucking hate that you’re so Goddamn good at this; Christ, all I can think about is, is, God, I can’t even talk, just, please let’s get on the bed, please please please let’s just get on the bed—”
“Um,” he whispered decisively, feeling the rub of her chest on his, and grabbed the waist of her jeans and slid them down (she did this incredible thing where she just rolled her hips, and the denim curved off of her like a snake shedding its skin, and holy fuck that was sexy). “Bed, yeah, bed’s good.”
Without warning she wrapped her arms around him and floated them both up onto the coverlet, her hair pooling around her face in ripple and whirlpool patterns against the pillow.
“We’re going to ruin their sheets,” he warned as she curled her hands in his pockets and tugged downward.
“No we won’t,” she argued, looking up at him with her gaze all askance and enticing, and what might have been the makings of a smile faded from his face as he lowered his head to nudge her lips open with his. He had a way of kissing her that made it feel like his tongue was going deeper than it really was, or maybe it was his knee curving her legs into a wider V that was distracting her and making her hallucinate. Yeah, that fucking knee.
Suddenly she remembered something, something important, and when he pulled away from her she lifted her forehead to his chin and whispered, “I’m guessing you don’t have a—”
He laughed and said, “You know, I seriously wasn’t expecting to do this tonight, so no, and by the way, that would explain the mess I made on your stomach the first time.”
She tilted her head up and kissed his lower lip and said, “Right. Ok.” She felt his hand weave back down along the inside of her thigh, and when he touched her she took a deep breath and dropped her head back against the pillow. “I thought… you know, maybe that was your (gasp)… kink.”
He laughed, and leant his forehead against hers. “Yeah, that’s it.” After a pause, he added, “Buttercup.”
He said it in a voice she’d never heard him use before, particularly not when he’d ever talked to her, and her chest felt tight and she had to swallow the lump in her throat.
The look on his face was just as uncertain as the look on hers, and as he pulled his hand away and shifted his body she lifted a hand to his face and whispered, “This… is such a mistake.”
He pressed his head into the smooth movement of her hand along his cheek and then leant a little closer.
“No… fucking kidding,” he whispered back, and he moved, and she arched against him, and before her brain completely gave in Buttercup decided that maybe (just maybe) this wasn’t such a big mistake after all.
*end*