disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: for les oh my god this is going in the tumblr drabbles thing bc no one ever looks here oh my god what am i doing who am i what am i am i even a real person
notes: im not saying it's more than human fanfiction but it's definitely more than human fanfiction.

title: schism
summary: In which there is dancing. — Butch/Buttercup.






"Shit, shit, shit, shut up, stop giggling, you're gonna get us caught!"

Floyd stuffed his fist into Harry's mouth to shut him up. Harry made a gagging sound, and—by the sound that Floyd made next, licked him. Children, all of them. If she didn't like them so much, she'd never put up with this nonsense.

"If you aren't quiet in the next five seconds, I'm going to shove Butch's dick in your mouth!" Buttercup snarled out through her teeth at them.

"Bitch, don't bring me into this," Butch said mildly, raising his hands.

"I will shove Mitch's dick in your mouth, pencilween, and then you can pull a Human Centipede for all I care! But I am getting into this show tonight, I swear to god, do you even understand how long I've been waiting to see these assholes play?! I swear I will end you, I swear to god!"

None of the boys surrounding her said anything; they'd fallen silent in the face of her wrath.

"Good," she said out of the corner of her mouth, ran a hand through her hair to drag the black mass back from her face. She blinked at them. "Are we going, or not?"

They all nodded, properly fearful. This was acceptable, and Buttercup went back to eyeing the long lineup to the club doors. It was an over-eighteen club, because of course it was, because of course nothing could be easy. Because of course she couldn't see a band she'd been following since its inception nearly a decade earlier. Of course not.

The air whistled through her teeth. Even with her superspeed, she couldn't sneak all the boys in, and they didn't sell tickets to anyone without ID or a credit card or both. And Buttercup had once stolen the professor's credit card to buy a video game; suffice to say it had not gone over very well.

"Butch," she muttered. "Butch. Can you hear anyone scalping?"

He cocked his head, listening intently.

(Buttercup didn't know why she was asking him: her hearing was as good as his, and she couldn't hear anything: but maybe she'd get lucky and he'd catch something she missed, and then maybe they could get in legally. Probably not, though, because Butch, seemed to enjoy it when she broke laws. The fuck. Who even was he.)

"Nope, sorry, nothin'," he said, grinning widely, teeth an even white shine in the dark.

"Useless," Buttercup grumbled. "Fine, you take Harry and the twins, I guess I'll bring Mitch and Mike—"

"Hell no, I'm not doing that," Butch said flatly. "Harry'll cop a feel."

"Like I'd want to—!"

"Zip it," Buttercup said, voice dropping to that low and positively dangerous tone that brooked absolutely no argument. "Dickweed, grab Harry and the twins. Mitch, Mike, you're gonna wanna hold on."

"Gotta go fast?" Butch quipped.

"Have you been watching Bubbles' weird Japanese shows again? I swear to god, Butch…"

He laughed a sharp hard sound that wasn't really a laugh at all. And then he was moving, whipped an arm out and around Harry and took off so fast that Buttercup was tempted to shout something about babies and broken necks. He was gone for only a split second, and then he was back for Floyd, gone again, then back for Lloyd. No one seemed to notice the dark green streak of light flickering in and out of the club—he could have been just another strobe.

"Clench up, Mike," Butch sniggered, and grabbed at him.

"What the he—?!"

And then Mike was gone, too, disappeared off into the depths of the club. The thud of heavy bass and synth strains were already singing through her blood.

"C'mon, Mitch," Buttercup tried to keep herself from sighing in exasperation.

"Is my head gonna do what Harry's head did? That—neck thing?" Mitch asked, wincing.

"No, because I'm not trying to kill you," Buttercup said, rolled her eyes. "Butch is the psycho, not me. Remember?"

"Right," Mitch said, humourlessly.

The asphalt seemed to bow under her feet, gave her an extra oomph as she shot toward the doors. The wind blew the stink of spilled beer and too many unwashed bodies all packed into too small a space at her, and suddenly she was so excited she could barely stand it.

The club was below ground, in the dingy depths of Citysville's downtown, where the sidewalks were grimy with age-old gum and the scuff of a hundred thousand dirty shoes. Where scrawny teens lit garbage can fires, cheap convenience cigarettes smoking thinly clenched between their teeth, eyes yellow in the streetlamp light. High society's nightlife was two streets over: there were no saviours, here.

"Ugh, why are men's bathrooms always so gross?"

Her friends all looked very confused about why they'd been dumped unceremoniously on the sticky bathroom floor. Buttercup floated a foot off the ground, absolutely unwilling to allow any part of her body to touch the grunge that surrounded her. The boys could handle it, but Buttercup would not tolerate that level of filth.

"What was that for?" Harry whined, rubbing his head. The others, too, made similar noises of pain, glaring out of the corner of their eyes at Butch, who was lounging in the air like he hadn't a care in the world.


"Meet you guys out there, I feel like I'm gonna catch something from being in here," Buttercup announced. She was out of the bathroom like a shot, settling down only when she was sure that she wouldn't contract a venereal disease via osmosis from the ground.

The club was bigger than she'd thought it'd be—there were plenty of people milling around, watching as the band set up. Buttercup wandered towards the stage, a need to be close to the action pushing her forwards.

The boys would find her later. They always did.

"You excited?"

"Fuck, yeah," she said, grinning with all her teeth sharp in her mouth like knives. Butch was half in shadow, the lights on the stage not meant for the audience; she couldn't see where he was looking, too busy being entranced by the dark-clothed guys above her moving pieces of drum-set here and there. "I can even handle what Bubbles dumped on my head, this is gonna be great."

"What'd she do now?" he asked, almost too casual. Buttercup shot a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, but there was nothing unusual in his demeanor.

"Glitter," she sighed. "Again."

"What a bitch," he laughed.

"Right? I'm gonna look like a disco ball," Buttercup snorted and shook her head ruefully, ran her hand through her hair again. It came away glinting white-purple, and she made a face. "Look at this shit."

He laughed again, harsh and warm and low right next to her ear. Buttercup didn't startle, but only because she was used to it: Butch didn't have a sense of boundaries as other people understood them. She shoved him away.

"Idiot," she said, and it came out almost sounding fond.

"Bitch," he said, and it came out sounding fond, too.

She kicked him in the shin for good measure.

Butch went down with a string of obscene words and a constipated look on his face. Buttercup smiled blissfully, and turned her attention back to the stage. The room around her was filling quickly, and as people milled about and pushed close as they could to the guard rail, Buttercup slowly began to tense.

She'd never been fond of people touching her without her permission; Buttercup could be very solitary when she wanted, and now was absolutely no different. She glared around darkly, hoping that the dark waves of intent rolling off her shoulders would deter people, but it didn't. There was too much going on for anyone to pay her any mind.

Buttercup gritted her teeth, and decided to bear it. She had elbows, and she knew how to use them.

"Chill out, dyke," a voice in her ear sounded. His arms came up to settle on the guard rail just outside of hers, forming a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world.

Buttercup had no idea how to handle this development.

"Fuck you, too, pencildick," seemed a good response as any.

If she sagged back against him, no one had to know.

Because the thing was, Butch was big. He was a near half-foot taller than she was, and his shoulders jutted out, all knobs and wings and bones, skin, sinew. She could sag into him and no one would know because no one could see.

He kept the rest of the world out, and for now that was okay.

And then the music started.

It was an explosion of noise.

She was up and dancing before she even knew what she was doing.

Dancing was Blossom's thing. It always had been—Blossom did the ballroom, Blossom did the tap, Blossom did the glitz and the glam and the performances and all the nonsense that Buttercup had never had time for. Dancing belonged to Blossom, but at the same time, Buttercup could almost guarantee that Blossom had never danced like this before.

It was the pulse that sang beneath her skin, the wordless timed beat, the way her arms were in the air and her hair was in her face and her blood rushed through her veins in time with the thud thud thud of the bass. It was the taste of sweat, salt-sweet-tangy like humanity. It was the thrumming of her pulse, the shh-shh as her denim-clad hips rolled, the hollow of her throat lit up with the LED.

It was the whole world in the movement of her chest, like the pounding of her heart.

Buttercup danced, and no one even knew she was there.

Hands bit in at her waist, tight as shackles, hot as a brand.


"God, you're such a freak," she breathed, and even though it barely came out a whisper, she knew that he would hear.

"So're you," he slurred into the arch where her throat met her shoulder, the words trembling along her skin. "Hate you, hate you so much—"

"You, too," she murmured.

She leaned back into him, wrapped a palm around the back of his neck, eyes closed. The flash of the strobe was blinding even through her closed lids. Butch was a long line of heat at her back, his shirt sticking to her skin through the slashes in her tank top, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN scrawled across the front slick and golden, catching the light. She breathed harsh and fast, dragging in air thick as mud.

He wasn't quite kissing her.

Buttercup shuddered as his hands skimmed over the curve of her abdomen, curled low around her hip. She was going to punch him for this later, but right then—right then—

"Wanna get out of here?" he said into her ear, voice ragged.

It was a desperate question.

Buttercup was feeling pretty desperate, herself.

"Fuck, yes," she hissed in reply.

Butch hoisted her up, an arm around her thighs, trying to keep her still. She bit down on his shoulder, punishment, control, everything inside suddenly screaming for copper-red past her lips.

"Go already," she snarled, dug her nails into his back.

His laughter was audible even over the screaming of the girl on stage. "Do it yourself!"

"Fine!" Because for all that Butch was stronger and bigger and more homicidal than she was, Buttercup was meaner. The crunch his bones made when she slammed him against the back wall was everything she'd ever dreamed of.

"Christ," Butch choked out, exhilarated, breathless, the burble of blood at the back of his throat sweet siren song.

"That works, too," Buttercup said, breathless, already climbing her way up his body, wrapped her legs around his waist. "Here, c'mere, Butch, fuck."

"Planning on it," he grinned.

Buttercup kissed him frantic, nails digging deep crescents into the nape of his neck. She needed—friction, the zip of her fly pressing hard into her stomach in exactly the wrong place. She needed his pants off.

A distant part of Buttercup wanted to grind his face into asphalt, for that. The other part of her, the wild-eyed hungry part of her, wanted to grind his face against hers. She wanted to break apart his insides, wrench him inside out, take cold gulping bites of his bitter pumping heart.

She bit him so hard he bled.

"Bitch," he said, then bit her back. He paused for a second, looking at her like she wasn't even herself. "You sure?"

"I will take your pants off with my teeth," Buttercup growled.

"Christ," Butch managed, and went for his buckle.