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Friday evenings are usually spent with the smell of nicotine and the taste of mojitos. It’s where short skirts and chiffons would usually come out to play. Girls accented in gold from the tip of their heels to the grill on their teeth and the boys showed off their wealth by the size of their watch and the brands of their shirts.
The people of Townsville always mixed business with pleasure. Red wine floated on silver platters and stuffed arrays of seafood lay wait on the white buffet table. Matte black, pink and silver balloons decorated each archway followed by the pure whites draped over everything. Heels clanked around a table as Gossip Queen Julie routinely spilled tea while loud grunts emerged from the boys’ shy game of poker. Buttercup tugged relentlessly at her tight gold skirt.
Sequins.
Of all the fucking things; sequins. Even now, in her afflicted decade of knowing the blonde-haired Katherine Heigl wannabe, she couldn’t believe the true power of Bubbles persuasion. For the most part, the side part slit was enjoyable but… gold… fucking … sequins. Discomfort was what she felt the first time she noticed how the material managed to wrap itself provocatively around her waist. She never really felt comfortable with such pretentious, strumpet like clothing. Why girls dressed up five-cent, fallen lady of the evening, lose it on a first date, hussies were beyond her wildest imaginations.
Having been developed earlier than most girls, Buttercup was far more used to covering up than showing off. You could safely say that she was basically one of the guys. A sneak out of your house in the middle of the night kind of drinking buddy, a kick your ass when you cheat on CoD kind of bro and best yet, a mother fudge-pop soccer freak… she surely wasn’t used to standing out like this and this was most definitely the first time she heard boys define her as ‘a good fuck’.
Those rude ignoramus; she didn’t even flinch at their alpha male façade. In fact, she’d been nursing the same bottle of Grant with the hope of finding the rude twat that was dumb enough to smack her ass and run. It wasn’t surprising that hungry eyes were ogling her. Between that that infinite strap bralette and the hugging short skirt, it was no shocker that she’d been attempted pick up more times than she could count. The fucking horning pile of horse shit they were; the lot of them. Those kinds of waste your time, two-timing, backstabbing, order your menu, disease inflicted momma’s boys were of the right picking for an ass-whopping. And if she wasn’t in such a tight skirt with barely any clothes on, she’d wipe those bad intentions off their concupiscent little twat-like faces; those damn twats.
The speakers blared noises so harshly edited that she couldn’t tell the difference between who was Grande and who was Minaj. Had she have thrown back a few more drinks like her missing blonde friend would, maybe she’d enjoy the murderous techno music that was forced into her ear canal. She was wondering why she stuck around. Buttercup was never fond of parties.
She found it too loud and frivolous. A sad excuse for attention-seeking college kids to dress up, get paltered, and brag about ‘how cool the are’ on social media.
Like anyone cares. She didn’t.
Her face caked with translucent shades of brown and peach, her face obstructed with the glittering bronzer monster; her face violated by the ‘sneak’ Bubbles who chose to disappear the second a pea-brained jock called her name and pat her back.
The cheese platters that circulated the floor only added to Buttercup’s uneasiness as she remembered how pretentious this ‘house party’ was. As if anyone’d believe that Princess’ party would actually be ‘casual’. This wasn’t even her goddamn house! The felt triple-string black choker itched her neck as its tightness became a swelling issue. That darn Bubbles with her damn fashion beliefs, ‘tight is right!’ my ass. Butters had only asked the blonde bombshell for advice, but no, the Scooby Doo, meddling kid wannabe just had to take out her own credit card and buy the tomboy a whole slut suit; one she knew couldn’t dismiss because of the ridiculous price tag.
‘I just wanted him to see me as a girl.’
Buttercup regretted every single letter. She felt ridiculous with these rose gold heels and those frivolous chandelier earrings. Worst of all — well her opinion did waver a bit — the bloody pompous curly bob that granted her the most attention. A fucking curly bob that could put even Marilyn Monroe to shame; a fucking curly bob that took two hairstylists 3 hours to do – whilst blaming it on her immeasurable amount of split ends and frizziness. A fucking curly bob that-
“Aren’t you looking delicious tonight?” Entered Bud, aka the guy she would never have.
“Yah think?” She replied, curling a lock of her hair behind her ear.
She was at a standstill, wondering if she should milk in her Cinderella experience or accept the reality that tomorrow she’d be left with a dozen unanswered text messages… like before. He only knew her when she was popular; when she was somebody being worth calling. The moment her name wasn’t on everyone’s lips, he’d ditch her for some fluke with extensions and painted nails.
She wasn’t his type. Poor girl sucked balls at fitting in. She was much too busy focusing on her fitness and her gameplays than getting her glow on like a future airheaded trophy wife. But it wasn’t Bud she was waiting for, it was Mitch… though, she couldn’t help but be overjoyed… the moment his lips brushed past her ear.
You’d think that a small girl like Bubbles would be a lightweight but that night she showed some serious promise. Ball after ball, drink after drink and she was annoying the hell out of Princess Moore or ‘Morbucks’ as her father’s company is so affectionately called. Her messy twin buns were daring to become unraveled as she extravagantly threw the golf ball; hands swinging, her body rocking, her bun hitting the Floyjoydson twins at her opposite sides; her buns slowly becoming undone.
All signs of timid and meek always had always left Bubbles at the door of the party. She’d always find confidence in her nose highlighter and the bitter-sweet taste of alcohol. She hadn’t missed a single shot, nearly clearing half the drinks laid before Princess – the hostess.
Nothing pleased her more than the splashing success of wet balls. The feel of the bubbly champagne dripping down her throat made her vibrate with ecstasy alongside the feeling of letting go of all her college assignment issues. Her hips swayed naturally to the music like the artistic dancer she was. Her face, a natural red blush from the alcohol she was too quickly ingesting.
The familiar smell of tobacco and Versace Eros made her head whip around faster than her neck could handle.
“AND IT’S IN!” Wes had yelled, quickly grappling the cup for the victor. “CAN SHE HANDLE ANO- “
“It’s only champagne Wes! You bitch more than my mother” Princess swore with a tad bit of colorful language inserted in the end.
“Uh, yeah,” Bubbles replied, courteously accepting the cup. Her eyes still searching for the owner of that scent, capturing to memory the latest brands being worn and possible gossip all the while. Seeing Butch fool around with Laurel for the fourth time that night was no surprise to her, so too seeing Julie accidentally tripping any girl that came within 1 meter of her hips while she went to ‘treat her parched throat’. Her lips firmly met the plastic cup with a chug and she squealed in delight at the sensation once more…. And Princess had missed the next shot…. And in went Bubbles with a hearty hell yeah!
She smirked, relishing in the uneasiness of Princess’s demeanor. Never had black leather ever perfectly suit Bubbles’ as she both mentally and figuratively destroyed Princess. More half-baked teens sauntered in to watch the two beauties competitively duke it out. Princess in her signature gold colors that could almost literally scream ‘all that glitters bitches’, making Bubbles wish she had a reason passively and aggressively push her into the obviously spiked punchbowl fountain.
She missed; Princess didn’t and the cup was drained into the red head’s mouth. The redheaded temptress liked her lips sensually as the finale, causing Bubbles to roll her eyes in frustration. In her game of foot balance, she staggered, making it monumentally obvious that she was dumb enough to initiate a drinking game right after hard pregaming… though, even without her impeding drunkenness, the smell of scotch still lingered on her breath.
The boys hollered, playfully shoving and bumping; causing a fucking ripple of human interaction — causing poor onlookers like Mary to trip over. Poor thing, keeled over the table, wet with cool effervescent liquid. Her glasses fogged and heel broken with a dress torn at the corner of the table. Bubbles gasped with hands clasped to her face and shaky irises. The urge to help was suppressed by her impeding need to puke… that darn… champagne pong… was most definitely mixed with vodka.
Butch had let go of Laurel’s hands only to watch with a mischievous grin at the situation. Princess was fucking reeling like the faux carbon copy 90’s mean girl she tried to become. And the commotion — and her upset stomach — made Bubbles miss the redhead — who said she was too busying studying for midterms to show up for a booze fest by the way — who cascaded up the staircase with a haste unnatural for someone in such high heels. Naturally, when Blossom was in her mood, it had to be the result of the dim-witted, smart-mouthed, pillion of a person that was Brick… actively pursuing her. And his pursuit was so great that she slammed the door behind her.
“Why is it that you’re the one ignoring me?”
“If you know that, why are you following me?”
“Earth to Blossom, in the real world, I’m supposed to be the one ignoring you,”
She opened the door with a wry smile on her face, arms buckled to her sides and a chin stuck so high up in the air, you’d swear his neck was broken or something.
“Funny how it turned out huh?” She said, smiling wickedly at the hunk of a man before her. Her mind quickly pondered whether or not locking herself in that donkey shit of puke-filled bathroom was better than facing the demon that is Brick Caffrey before her. The demon with a jawline sharper than her eye-liner and a 5 o’clock shadow that could possibly bring her to her damn knees (again)… not that she’d openly admit it though; dammit he was attractive.
“Fucking talk to me!” he shouted, the influence of alcohol making him on edge, the unintended threats laced under his tongue.
She knew he was a bad drinker… and even worse, a fucking shitty person. It’s almost like these shit brick, self-entitled, privileged jackholes were made in a factory and you’re the asshole if you don’t give them what they wanted. Between him, the darn spiked punch, and those fashionably uncomfortable, overpriced shoes she was wearing, the party blew balls. She’d have loved kicking back and getting some good groves down on the dancefloor like the next person but frankly, that wasn’t her night. Between her ride, Dexter, ditching her to go hang out with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and her having to possibly carpool with Harry Pits of all people — because Bubbles didn’t know she's there… and if she did, she’d complain… and she couldn’t ask Boomer for a ride because Bubbles would freak out since he was such an active playboy and flirt.
“Jeez Brick, you kiss your mom with those lips?”
“I kissed you with it didn’t I?”
“Kill me now,” she grunted, faking sickness.
Maybe she was a sociopath or just a god-awful person like him but seeing that exasperated look on his face made the neurons in her head spark up in delight. Desperation was an emotion he’d always have a knack of perfecting; being to not rat him out to his blissfully ignorant father, or to get those extra points to earn his squad the easy ride to the championship. Whatever it was, he was just too darn good at the sad puppy bit.
“Fuck it, you fucking hell know I didn’t tell nobody,”
“What? Brick? That wasn’t” she sighed, removing herself from the frame of the smelly as hell door frame and back to the sanctuary that was the hallways. “I just.”
“You just, you just what?”
And while they were having their usual, whatever it was, and when Bubbles had been hurled over a toilet bowl with… surprisingly, Boomer holding her hair back, Butch couldn’t help but be amused by the tight skirt, sequenced and dolled up Buttercup wearing a flushed face like she was a fucking high schooler in love.
“You could clean up?” and like the ass he was, his question was a statement and a very rude one at that.
“You really like picking fights?” Butch was a few stops short of being Buttercup’s worst nightmare and that’s saying much as… well… if anyone knew Princess when she got in her moods, that’s a high bar. His eyes scanned her get up with mock humour, and even though it was a complete betrayal of everything he felt, he acted disgusted simply because he understood she felt disgusted.
“Well, you look ridiculous.” That lie needed a drink to chase it down, and he’d rather think about his mechanical engineering test he probably bombed two days ago than think about how great her ass looked in that dress… skirt… whatever the fuck it was and he definitely wasn’t watching. Because if he was, she’d kill him.
Buttercup’s hair would have barely made it in a ponytail, but the way her curls kept floating to her eyes, the way her neck felt ridiculously warm and the way she just wanted to feel a bit in her element was nearly killing her. So Butch’s eyes weren’t leaving her awkward movements and it this time it wasn’t because of surprised admiration, or because he probably wanted her to stomp him with her heels.
“Gee, thanks. Such a confidence booster!” She could have just buried her face in her palms with a forced sadness and made him carry that guilt look he’d wear when he accidentally made girls cry, but she hadn’t the time, and Mitch was missing, and she couldn’t fucking find Bubbles anywhere and this was all her doing.
“Seen Mitch anywhere— twitchy?”
“Oh, fuck you.” Sometimes the sound of Mitch’s name activated the bigger asshole in Butch. He never knew why… or maybe he did. The idea that Mitch — who was invited on the group date as an afterthought — stole the attention of the girl Butch had been pining for since… probably two, four semesters ago was bloody aggravating! But if he could just stop twitching now and talk to her like a normal fucking human that’d be great for their friendship at least.
Buttercup didn’t like the smell, the ambiance, or the weird feeling the alcohol was giving her. And Bubbles had warned that frat boys liked to slip pills, but she’d been so cautious that she couldn’t blame the settling butterflies on some wayward guy’s misdeeds.
Butch really knew how to full out a shirt, and a part of her believed he’d dressed to brag. With a vertical tattoo barely revealed on his neck and a simple iron chain that made him feel so… what was it? But nothing good ever came from ogling him. If he knew, he’d call her out, and she’d be teased about it until Blossom put her foot down, drag him into a room and give one of her god-awful lectures on how not to be an asshole to others.
So she’d stick to watching him from her peripheral view until he beat it like he usually did and they went their separate ways, except, he didn’t. And despite the literature major, she’d been talking to not returning like he promised — probably because Butch’s presence was basically to mark his territory because everyone could finally see what he saw in his dreams — she wasn’t finding an out. Telling him to 'piss off' would’ve lead to him asking ‘why’ and she still couldn’t impress the guy she came to fucking impress.
“And this is dog shit!”
“And there’s Mitch,” his finger pointed, and he couldn’t get over how fucking packed and sweaty the room had gotten the moment more upbeat and gaudy dance songs started playing.
“With someone else.”
“Probably just friends?”
“Gee, thanks.” Is it wrong of him to absolutely love how she turned jealousy into sarcasm? Never mind his classmate who was too wasted, or too stupid to realize he’d been trying to devote his time to Buttercup, he just loved to see the balls on her when she'd gotten the nerve to take his own drink, down it, and saunter over to Mitch because she knew she looked good. But she hated how she felt. It was as if she was just another boxed up barbie seeking the attention from someone possibly emotionally unavailable. But he snored cutely when he slept, was respectful of her private space, fucking listened when she spoke — like… he actually listened, and… he was a solid six. She was okay with that. She liked that what made him special wasn’t his looks, but his fucking charm which was… by far, out of this world.
And the look of adoration in her face was now making Butch uneasy, and he would have taken another sip, but Buttercup had already taken his drink as if she understood that he’d give her anything she wanted if she just asked. Like, if she wanted him to just sit still and look pretty, he'd fucking do it. He'd probably even shut up for like ten minutes or so because she was kind of definitely his type. Ballsy, funny, goofy, unproblematic, headstrong, and all that other good stuff… and she didn’t take a whole fucking hour to get ready like Bubbles did, and she didn’t fucking school him like Blossom did… who, by the way always wondered why she was 21 and forever single despite the multiple comments on her beauty and smarts.
Her lips tight, her knuckles clenched, and Mitch’d realized Buttercup’s presence a second too late because he’d kissed his night’s date right in front of her and she shattered because he probably only recognized her because of the layers of makeup. And suddenly, this wasn’t worth it. It would’ve been okay if she actually enjoyed this kind of stuff but she didn’t. She did too much in so little time and it just made her feel like a cheap thrill who’d probably have to rely on pity tips if she’d ever been adventurous enough to make an OnlyFans account.
So how’d she and Butch manage to share a cab on the way to his apartment? Well, for starters, she probably should have thought out her decision to drain whatever the fuck was that strong concoction Butch had in his cup. And he actually didn’t know where she lived and she’d been too much in her own head and hating the atmosphere to speak clearly.
Obviously, Boomer refused to drop Butch home. Wasn’t his fault Butch didn’t know how to have a good time without the aid of alcohol, and Boomer'd been so busy nursing Bubbles that he hadn’t the time to attend to his date… who was very pissed and needed twice more attention than usual.
Bubbles’ mascara may have been waterproof, but her eyeliner wasn’t, and had she expected Buttercup to be crying up a storm on the side profile of Butch’s shirt in the back seat of a car that smelt like a Christmas tree had an orgy with lavender and jasmine, she’d probably gone a bit lighter on the eye makeup… or emptied half her setting spray on Buttercup’s face.
But that Friday night had been a waste because kissing Laurel didn’t throw away Butch’s exam anxieties and knowing Buttercup tried her hardest to get the attention of some guy — who probably was a shitty kisser, or lover anyway — rubbed him all sorts of wrong. She wore his shirt and boxers, but not in the way he wished she did. She smelt like his soap and shampoo, but not for the reasons he wished it was. She was lying on his bed while he’d thrown some extra blankets atop a yoga mat — which his mom bought him because she never liked him doing sit-ups on the bare floors or a carpet — and you know what? He wished he trusted himself enough to share the bed with her… because she surely did, or maybe the aftereffects of the bartender’s ‘death-bomb’ clouded her judgment. And he wished to god she would’ve asked him to share a bed while she was sober… and he wouldn’t mind if it was plutonic or in the sense his dreams would often show.
But who was he kidding? Buttercup wouldn’t come near Butch’s apartment ‘because of the sentiment’ or some dumb shit like that. Always talking as though she was a 17-year-old afraid to move because of what her parents might think… which was... cute in its own way, but sometimes… and by sometimes meant all the fucking time, he felt powerless to try to move their relationship from ‘kind-of-friends’ to 'lovers' or something. So he was now stuck sitting in his own goddamned room with the lights off, fan blowing, can’t sleep, on a yoga mat, a possible hard-on as he watched that gold sequined skirt on top her heels and a wide-eyed Buttercup staring at the ceiling.
“What are you thinking about?”
She sighed so breathlessly, and even though she’d done it to not answer his question, it still raked up the goosebumps because… did she even hear how she fucking sighed? That pants-tightening sigh? Like goddammit, woman. Out of respect for his date, Mitch held back from being her arm candy about an hour ago, but had Buttercup approached Butch at any time of the day, looking like she did then, or even now, with her makeup off, hair semi braided into a ponytail and especially braless? In his shirt and boxers?
Bloody hell, now he was sure he had a hard-on.
“You.”
It was almost soundless, sleepy, and definitely induced by alcohol, but it didn’t stop Butch from jolting off that shitty makeshift bed he made… and it would have been smarter to drag his sofa inside… but he hadn’t the time, the energy nor the patience to do that so he just ignored the possible backache and asked, “What?”
She snored with snorts and the fact that she’d fucking passed out after saying some earth-spinning shit like that would definitely be the end of him. Waking her up would be a waste of time, and none of what she said now mattered anyway. If soberly, she could display have the brazen interest she usually showed in Butch when she’s drunk, then Butch’d finally get the incentive to do what he’d been planning all semester and make Buttercup his. But for now, he’d let her get her sleep, just so he could get to his own dreams.
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