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aclosetfan · 2 years

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Maybe 18 or 36 (hug prompts) for the greens? I always love the way you write them! 💚

Oh my gosh, you're seriously too sweet 💚💚💚 between the two prompts, I'll have to pick 36! @foxgloveglen requested that prompt previously, and I feel like it's finally time I sucked it up and committed myself to it!

Hug prompts: 36. I thought you were dead hug

Characters: Butch, Buttercup

Word Count: 2713

Content warnings: near-death experiences, body horror, slight gore, blood, demonic entities, implied major character deaths (but from the perspective of an unreliable narrator)

Basic background: Apocalypse AU where the world has ended under mysterious (HIM) circumstances (it was HIM), and now, man-eating creatures roam the streets. Through a series of unfortunate events, both the rrb and the ppg are all split up. Depending on who you ask, BC and Butch are the last known survivors of the two sets of triplets. Currently, they live in the last Townsville stronghold defending the “City” from those man-eating creatures as they wait for their siblings to make their way home. The stronghold is made up of the previous citizens, along with a few ex-villains. The tough of the tough are on night patrol (unless you’re an ex-con, then night patrol is mandatory), which is the City’s only chance at survival.

a/n: whoops i made this sad, but there's a happy (?) ending. sorry : ( this wasn’t at all what I had planned on writing but I was trying to think up a new angle for the prompt instead of the old same-old, same-old.

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"No," Butch mumbled to himself, the mantra slowly ramping up in speed as he picked his way through the debris, "no, no, no, no, please no."

The sun was bright on his back, but the air was still too crisp, and the day was still too early to truly feel its warmth. He maneuvered around on auto-pilot, combing through one pile of trash to the next, careful to avoid the shadows. As long as the sun was on his back, he would be safe enough to search for her. But when it started to get dark out? If he couldn't find her in time?

"Buttercup!" He cried out, listening for an echo of an answer, but only hearing his own voice in response, "Buttercup!"

What would he tell everyone? What would he tell Bellum?

He tried again, shouting louder, "Come on, you fucking bitch, answer!"

Butch had no idea how he'd ever find the courage to tell the Professor. Or—he thought, his heart dropping into his stomach—her sisters. Butch couldn't.

When—not if (never if)—he found them all again—his brothers, her sisters—there was no way he could look Bubbles in the eye and tell her Buttercup was gone. Just gone. Done for. Dead. Her heart would break. His heart would, too, he thought dully, if it hadn't already. He didn't know; it was at the very least breaking, but he didn't think there was much of a difference—between broken and breaking.

Was his heart really breaking—or broken—or whatever the right word was? When had Buttercup even wormed her way in there and made herself at home? When had she started to mean this much?

Butch turned on his heels, checking for the sun, then for any clouds, revealing only a crisp blue mid-morning sky, before pivoting quickly in another direction to dig through just another pile of broken concrete. Still no Buttercup. He was less precise about things now, throwing the trash to the side and chucking concrete out of the way. They—those things in the shadows—would no doubt notice that he was being too loud, but Butch couldn't find it in himself to care.

"You just had to play stupid freaking hero, didn't you!" He was not entirely hysterical, but very close to it, "I told you not to! I said it wasn't worth it! And here we are!" He stopped digging and leaned back on his heels, whipping his head side-to-side, looking, searching, using the x-ray vision he was always forgetting about for any possible clue or sign she was around.

"This wasn't my idea! You were the one who wanted to do a night run!" He continued to gripe at the Buttercup living rather contently in his imagination—the one that kept laughing at him every time he turned over the wrong rock. 'Come on, Butch,' She mocked, 'if you seriously can't find me, how will you find our family?'

"Bu—Buttercup!" He called out, cupping his hands around his mouth, ignoring the way his voice cracked its way through his ever-tightening throat. When there was again no response, he fell onto his ass and held his head in his hands. "Don't leave me alone," He muttered, trying his best to blink back the stupid, pointless tears, "I can't be alone."

But he was, wasn't he? Butch hadn't seen Boomer in 789 days. The last time he had seen Brick was precisely two days before the world had ended. According to Buttercup, Bubbles had been gone for almost just as long, and Blossom had left three months into it all. She had been following some lead regarding the whereabouts of their sister, and supposedly, the apparent start to all of this madness. That, of course, had been almost four years ago.

Buttercup had wanted to go with Blossom; Butch knew first-hand how she still cried about it. But Blossom had said someone had needed to stay back—to keep what was left of the City safe. Buttercup had always been one of the best superheroes back in the day, so Butch understood why Blossom had made her stay behind. He didn't think Buttercup knew that, though, that people—that Blossom—had considered her one of the best.

Now, Buttercup was just another martyr on the ever-growing list. So, he supposed, her never knowing didn't really matter anymore.

"Tough my ass!" He yelled at the sky, sneering instead of crying because it was the easier thing to do, "Of course, you'd die! Of course, just to specifically piss me off!"

He fell onto his back and stared up at the blinding sun. It was now near noon. He could hear the creatures—the demonic things that stalked and hunted from the shadows—skittering about watching him. They didn't go where the sun touched; nightmares did their best work when it was dark out.

For a moment, Butch did little more than bask in the sunlight, watching almost numbly as a lazy cloud trekked its way across the sky. The moment it reached the sun, he would only have two options. The first was two-part: fight and run. The second choice was death. And the second choice was far more tempting.

The sun was coming out less and less now that the days were growing shorter. Even before the creatures had begun stalking the City, Butch had always thought winter was the most brutal season to get through. He wasn't big on the cold. However, winter was now more dangerous than it ever had been before, and if he didn't get back to the stronghold soon, the gaggle of survivors that made up what remained of Townsville would be dead within the week. It wasn't like Ima could keep handling the Night Patrol units by herself, especially with Princess still in the infirmary. If both he and Buttercup died today, Bellum would have her work cut out for her—figuring this one out.

But what was the point? Really, honestly? They were all dead anyway. So, what did it matter? It wasn't like the only thing he was living for would ever happen. He already knew he'd never see his brothers alive again. It was a fool's dream to think otherwise. No one had caught wind of Boomer anywhere. His baby brother had just seemingly disappeared. And it had been so long since Butch had last seen Brick, he wasn't sure he could even remember his brother's voice outside of nightmares.

Not for the first time, grief gripped his heart and he found himself mourning. He couldn't quit his brothers no matter how hard he tried, no matter how often he tossed their things away and tried to bury the sound of their laughter in some metaphorical grave deep in the recesses of his mind. Now, Butch could only see Brick in his mind—how wide his smile got when he laughed, how freckles covered him head to toe, how fucking smart he was, and how fucking dumb Butch had been all those years ago taking it all for granted.

The last thing Butch had ever said to his older brother was to go fuck himself. They had been fighting over the grocery list—Butch had forgotten the milk.

The fucking milk.

If he had just remembered the milk then—

His throat tightened unbearably, and again, he swallowed past the sobs, squeezing his eyes shut.

'They're not dead,' the Buttercup living inside his head chided, rolling her eyes, 'Are you thick or something? How many times do I have to this clear to you?'

He gritted his teeth, grinding them together as he tried his best to ignore her. He didn't want another ghost haunting him, especially hers.

'I believe in them, Butch, I believe in my sisters more than anything else in this world,' Ghost-Buttercup continued, 'They're alive. They'll be back.'

You don't know that, he thought, you really don't.

'Blossom promised.' Her voice echoed inside his head, something the real Buttercup had told him time and time again, 'Blossom doesn't break promises.'

Promises don't mean anything, he argued back, not anymore.

'Always put your money on Blossom, Butch, trust me.'

"You're dead." He told her ghost rather bluntly out loud as the world beyond his eyelids went dark, the cloud finally devouring the light of the sun, "You're gone."

"Butch?" Buttercup asked, and his eyes snapped open, "Who's gone?"

He stared up at her, mesmerized as she knelt above him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was always falling loose from her stubby little ponytail, that dumb strand of hair; he dreamt about it.

"Buttercup?" He whispered.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, tilting her head ever so slightly to the left in question, "Yeah?"

He brought a shaky hand up to the cheek of her face, cupping it and ignoring how the temperature of her skin made him shiver. Then, quickly, he propped himself up on his elbow before fully sitting up so he could cup her whole face between his hands—her wonderful, beautiful, very alive face.

"You're not dead," He continued to whisper, still stunned—she was perfect. A vision.

Buttercup smiled, revealing the slight gap in her front teeth, "It takes a bit more than a few shadow freaks to kill me."

"You're not dead." He repeated, at a loss for words before the reality of the situation settled into his heart, and he swore he could have died right then and there, happy and content. "You're not dead! You piece of shit," He laughed, removing his hands from her cold face, so he could encircle them around her neck and bring her into a bone-crushing hug, "you scared the hell out of me."

She laughed, her breath tickling his ears as she returned the hug, wrapping her arms around him, "I'm okay!"

There was an odd tickle in his stomach, and he could feel the palms of his hands start to sweat, but he attributed it to the close proximity. He could count on one hand how many times he had hugged Buttercup in his life, and each time had left him more flustered than the last.

"Yeah," He agreed, heartbeat in his ears as he squeezed tighter, holding onto her like she'd disappear if he ever let go, "I thought you were dead."

"I'm not," She hummed after a long moment.

He broke out into a grin, agreeing quickly and hoping she wouldn't notice the tears of relief slipping down his face, "You're not."

"But you are, though." She said rather matter-of-factly, "You're dead."

His eyes fluttered open as he let go of her ever-so-slightly, "What?"

"Butch!" He heard someone scream, and he snapped his head to the left, following the sound, but Buttercup pulled his face back and locked her eyes with his.

"I said," Buttercup smiled—but now that he was looking, like really looking, it wasn't Buttercup, was it? Her voice wasn't quite right, and her smile was just a little too broad—and cupped his cheek, "I'm not dead, you are."

The nervous fluttering in his gut grew tenfold as black spots started taking over his vision. Butch tried shaking them away as he looked down at his stomach, his arms dropping on their own from around her neck. He swallowed, choking slightly on thick salvia mixed with blood, as he watched an impossibly long and bulky knife-like claw lodge itself firmly into his gut. The claw twisted around inside his body until the nail finally broke all the way through him, breaking through the skin of his back. Then, slowly, the claw began to pull out. With wide eyes, his head lulled up to meet Buttercup's stare once more.

Where bright, wonderful green eyes had just been, two ink-black eye sockets stared back. The stare was emotionless, but the corners of its mouth—whatever it was—was stretched out into a wide and grotesque smile with two pus-infected industrial staples keeping the corners of the smile permanently high up its face. It was almost cartoonish in style, but vaguely, it reminded Butch of HIM, how the demon's mouth would stretch up to its eyes when it was amused (or hungry).

The nightmare in front of him brought the blood-slick elongated claw up to its mouth, and a black tongue slithered out, wrapping its way around the nail. The blood that wasn't licked off dribbled down the creature's arm, where the black of its clawed hands gave way to the blistering and white skin of its arms. The creature sucked and licked contently, and with sick fascination (because he had never seen one of these things so up close before), Butch watched.

It had no nose or ears and only small tufts of hair covered its head. And it was horrible to look at, but Butch couldn't look away. Every inch of its large, awkwardly proportioned body was covered in peeling and blistered skin like it was suffering from a 3rd degree sunburn. When it noticed him watching, its' smile grew, irritating one of the staples that kept the corner of its mouth up, and Butch watched as pus began to ooze out of the wound.

"Butch," It cooed at him, "Oh, Butch!"

"Butch!" There was another scream, "I'm coming! Just hold on! Butch!"

"Buttercup lovesss you!" It giggled, "Oh yes, I doooo!"

Even though he absolutely knew that the thing in front of him wasn't at all his Buttercup (she was dead, he could remember that now), his traitorous heart still jumped at the admission. Or maybe, he was just dying. He couldn't tell. The last time he had died, he had just blown up. This was different altogether; it was like the Chemical-X in his body was frozen, unable to heal what was broken—it was just so cold all of a sudden. Where had the sun gone?

Butch's vision became darker and darker as the world around him swam. He slouched to the side, leaning onto his elbow, and tried to find his breath, barely responding to the sticky claw that tapped sharply against his cheek.

"Buttercup lovveesss you." The creature continued to coo as it began to push its' nail into the skin of his temple, "I lovvee you!"

"Hey, asshole—" There was a voice behind them as clear as day.

Startled, the creature looked over its shoulder with a hiss as Butch struggled to keep his eyes open. The figure was a tall green blob wearing a black hat, but Butch couldn't discern anything more. He was having a hard enough time remembering where his own feet were. Whoever the figure was, they snatched up the creature in front of him, grabbing it by its head like a bowling ball and holding its face up to the sky.

"—the sun's coming out." The green figure hissed, finishing their sentence, as the cloud from before finally moved away from the sun, continuing its lazy trek across the sky. The creature in the figure's grasp flailed about for a moment before it erupted into a high-pitched scream. The blistering on its' skin increased, bubbling as if the creature was being boiled alive.

Butch collapsed into a heap on the ground, too tired to support his own weight as he watched the creature's body bubble into a final convulsion. The gut of it exploded, a black substance spraying out, but the figure didn't seem interested in that as they chucked the monster's corpse far away and dropped to their knees in front of him.

"Butch!" They gasped, "Oh—Butch! I thought you were—shit, oh no, no, you're bleeding out! I—I need to get you to the Professor!" The figure in green, who smelt of sweat, blood, and something incredibly familiar and warm, scooped him up off the ground with a strength he had never thought a human could possess.

"Just stay with me, okay?" The figure pressed their foreheads together, their voice cracking, "Don't go just yet. I've got you now, okay? I'll protect you, I promise."

He tried answering, but his tongue was like cotton in his mouth.

"You're not dead yet," The figure whispered with a mouth pressed to the crown of his head, "we're not dead yet."

#long post #ppg greens #butchercup #my writing #hug prompts #whoa does Butch die?!?#idk #maybe request prompt 18 again or something sappy like that and find out #or something #i dunno just a suggestion #not like i've already planned out a f/u part 2 for this ficlet #no way that would be crazy lol #...unless?#thanks for playing bre!!#fox i hope you like this too!!

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