This had to come out sooner or later. It's the only *finished* piece I've written on the PpG, while everything else is bits and pieces of. . . um, nothing yet. ^^; Was a one shot piece, if any of you guys know what I'm talking about, so it may read a bit choppy. . . some things you need to know:

1) It involves Buttercup and Butch
2) It IS a romance (kinda)
3) They're around the teenage age (juniors or seniors in high school) and
4) This is only my second fanfic posted online, and my FIRST PpG one.

Criticism is always appreciated, since that's the only way I'll get better, though there IS a difference between constructive criticism and flames -_-;

Rated PG for mild language, girl. . . stuff ^^; and a bit of angst (hey, we ARE talking about BUTTERCUP here). Oh, and if any of you are bothered by the fact that I didn't explain how the RRB came back, it just wouldn't have fit the flow of the story. But if you MUST have one. . . um. . . they were brought back to life by a hive of killer bees. Yes. And went to live in Townsville. Maybe I'll write a story about it sometime.

Shoot me for making the author's notes too long. Provided you're still here, please read & review afterwards, if possible.

***Being Moody***
-songbird_jen

It's that time of the month again.

Of course, I'm not quite so reserved when outwardly speaking to others, provided I choose to speak to them at all. I mean, you know how women get during *ahem* that time: you're a LOT better off leaving them alone.

In my case, anyone within a five-mile-radius of wherever I am had just better get the hell out of my way.

They know enough not to cross me when I'm angry. In fact, they know enough not to cross me, period.

. . . No pun intended.

Well, MOST everybody.

If it weren't for that bullheaded good-for-nothing always in my face, rain or shine, sleet or snow. . . God, I could KILL him at times. But I gotta keep the body count down every now and then, you know?

That was a joke, by the way. Just because I'm PMS'ing doesn't mean I don't have a sense of humor.

Anyways, back to the situation at hand. There's kinda this daily schedule I adhere to. I'm heading to my locker. Last bell has just rung at 3:55. I get there roughly 4:02, delayed since I have to drop stuff off at the gym. Takes another five or six minutes for me to think about what books I need to take home, since I never write anything down.

And every day, promptly at 4:05 pm, he shows up. But I never see him coming. The dumb prick always sneaks up on me, either shutting my locker door halfway through my organizing, tossing his jacket on my head when I'm not looking, or--and this is the worse yet--body contact.

Not the bad stuff they nail perverts for and everything--though I still say he's a pervert anyway--but considering the fact I'm not a "touchy-feely" type of person, I don't particularly find it "cute" when he whispers into my hair, tickles me, or starts massaging my shoulders.

. . . Granted, it--no.

I'm just biding my time till he comes, the entirety of my five senses keeping a lookout for a flash of vibrant green on ebony, that deep, husky laugh, that musty scent of outdoors and sun he always manages to impossibly saturate his clothing with. . . but nothing comes.

I glance at my watch. 4:07 pm. Two minutes late.

He's never late.

I'm already done with my locker. My hands are empty; I have no homework. Score.

But for some reason I'm not celebrating. I'm looking around, but why, why does it matter whether or not if. . . if. . .

It shouldn't matter, I'm telling myself, Go home, go home, go home. . . and I continue to stand there totally alone in the hallway, continually looking at my watch as time continues to roll on by, rolls till it hits 4:14 and I'm feeling dumb for waiting for him and mad at myself for bothering to care when all of a sudden two strong arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides and lifting me slightly off the ground and I know he's here.

I scowl. "Butch, you--"

"I knew it," he whispers cruelly into my hair and chuckling, "you've got it BAD for me."

"What are you talking about?" I growl at him and ignore the intense throbbing in my chest at the moment, kicking feebly and struggling to remove myself from his arms, those soft, wonderfully warm arms. . .

"You're joking, right?" He laughs again, leaning in to my neck. "I saw you. Standing around for seven minutes, shooting looks at your watch every fifteen seconds to see if I'd arrive or not."

I almost hear him smiling, that bastard. "I was not," I say defiantly, jutting out my lower jaw and struggling more to free my body, which only serves to tighten his embrace.

"You lie, you lie, you lie. . . and badly too."

I grit my teeth and fight against his arms, those arms, why is it so hard for me to break free?

Suddenly, without warning, he strokes my cheek with one hand, runs it through my hair, traces his other down my side, and I'm becoming increasingly aware of my back crushed against his chest, his hot breath on the nape of my neck, the incredible sensation of his skin touching mine, all the while screaming at myself IGNORE IT IGNORE IT IGNORE IT--

One of my elbows manages to ram him in the stomach, giving me enough leeway to break his hold and finally confront the stupid punk face-to-face.

Unsurprisingly enough, he greets me with his classic smirk and intense, dark gaze, hands-shoved-in-the-pockets
-of-his-jeans casual pose.

My mouth goes momentarily dry as my eyes meet his.

. . . Momentarily.

"You are--"

"Fantastic? Charming?" He lowers his eyelids. "Incredibly sexy?" Smirks again. "Oh, how I know all too well."

"--late."

"FASHIONABLY late, mind you."

I roll my eyes and attempt to shove past him. "Jerk."

He grabs me by the shoulders and yanks me back in front of him, holding me steady. "Before you go, I have a proposition to make to you."

I narrow my gaze. "Proposition?" It comes out sounding more suspicious than I intend it to.

He inches closer, his bright, penetrating eyes never leaving my face. I feel a blush creeping up and fight it back, telling myself I don't like making eye contact with people, naturally I'd feel nervous. . .

My eyes go to the side and I bite my lip. His expression is dead serious, an emotion I'm not accustomed to seeing him in, and I find myself shifting uneasily, fidgeting, nervous. . .

. . . Then his face breaks into a grin, and I feel comfortable again. Enraged, yes, but comfortable--and why is that?

"I'm asking you to come to the prom with me." He leans in closer. "And I KNOW you want to come."

I stare at him, open-mouthed and disbelieving. Prom? What? "I thought you were going out with--"

"I DON'T CARE. I'm asking YOU." Even closer. "And after seeing you act the way you did just now, I KNOW the answer's yes."

My demeanor instantly ices over. "What do YOU know about what I want?"

Ignoring my question, he touches his forehead to mine and whispers, voice dark and mysterious, "Come to the prom with me."

. . . I've never felt so confused in my life. He's got mobs of girls at his beck and call, ready to do anything for him at the drop of a hat. All more girly and pretty and smarter and popular than me. Girls who don't mind dancing, who don't spend school dance nights alone at home curled up under the covers with the lights turned off and wishing. . .

"I wish--"

I barely realize the words have tumbled out of my mouth before his mouth sinks onto mine and muffles my words.

I'M BEING KISSED.

BY BUTCH.

BUTCH.

KISSING ME.

. . . me.

There's this unfathomable swirl of feelings racing through my head, all strange and unfamiliar to me, I'm mixed up, confused, why is he kissing me, why don't I stop it?

Something so warm and refreshingly sweet is pulsing throughout my body, throbbing like mad in my temples and chest, and i know it's all triggered by his lips on mine, his hands on my shoulders. . . his TOUCH.

I feel unfamiliarly safe and secure in his arms, his kiss, locked away from the world--

--but it's TOO unfamiliar.

I've never felt so safe in my life. It's foreign to me, and so when the whirlwind of emotions in my head finally stops I reach out for the one I know best.

And it's anger.

I shove him violently away, ripping the two of us apart, and strangely enough I'm fighting back tears as I rack my brain for an answer to why, why me?

How could it be me?

"I hate you," I spit roughly at him, and break into a run, sprinting past him, ignoring the pounding in my head, the tears behind my eyes, the look of utter disappointment and frustration on his face. . .

He doesn't follow me, and I'm glad for that, because I'm too angry to try and make sense of what's going on and why does it bother me. . .

Because it shouldn't.

"You're just being moody," I tell myself out loud, still running.

Never mind how wonderful it felt being wrapped in his arms. . .

"You're being moody. . . "

. . . how much I longed to hear his voice as he spoke. . .

". . . being moody. . . "

. . . how even now the taste of him lingers on my lips, in my mouth--

"IT'S NOTHING!"

I stop and scream, panting heavily, upset at myself for thinking of him, him, HIM, him and me, because that's not what I want.

It can't be.

"You're just being moody, Buttercup."

It's that time of the month again, after all.

My voice is a hushed whisper, my steps brisk and precise, my mind a brick wall, protecting me from those wretched feelings and emotions that pound on its surface. I ignore every last one of them, because that's really the only thing you can do when you're running away.

And I'm used to that by now.