Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.
And now I give you, Butch thinking Wren is insane and feeling sad for the first time. PSST, PSST. WREN WREN'T DREAMIN'.
blue. adj; the colour of the sky; holding or offering little hope; dismal; bleak
'One Year Old'
The room was dark, warm, and full of activity.
In the small cavern's rightmost corner lay a duo, visible only by the glistening of the stars that cascaded through their open window. A tangle of powerful limbs held the two together like a cluster of the coldest hibernating snakes, though the temperature between them was far from low.
This pair, famed in their lust, brutality and strength, was Butch and Buttercup.
Panting wildly, Butch snarled, baring his untainted teeth; the glint of the moon caught the shining white edge, illuminating it in a brutal glory as he dove down on his partner, sinking the sharpened edges into the sensitive flesh of her neck.
Below him, clad in nothing but a vividly torn, silken nightshirt, Buttercup snickered, raising a hand that seemed as fragile yet emotive as porcelain to grasp Butch's spiked, onyx locks; her voice raspy with a slew of emotions; "Is that all you got, fucktard?"
This time it was Butch's turn to snort, but as he opened his mouth, hand reaching down to grab the edge of his own shredded boxers, a noise echoed through the small, four roomed apartment the two superhumans shared.
A cry, no, a call – that of a small, stubborn, and intelligent infant.
Wren.
"I'm not gettin' it." Buttercup spoke softly, almost instantly, closing her vivid green eyes and nestling into the storm-grey bed sheets she and Butch shared, her small, pink tongue darting from her mouth to lick at a still-bleeding bite wound below her lower lip.
Butch licked his own pair, swollen and red, in response, lowering himself closer to his partner until her hovered only a pair of centimeters above Buttercup; "And you think I am, I've got a fucking monster dancing around in my—"
"Not gettin' it." Buttercup repeated, her eyes still fluttered closed, hands now invisibly inspecting the bruises and gashes that cascaded over her arms, legs and stomach. In any other household, these violent marks would be considered a severe case of domestic violence.
But for Butch and Buttercup?
Fucking awesome foreplay.
Butch rolled his eyes, prying himself from the severely tangled and torn duvet.
He'd have to get yet another this week, they were going through the things faster than toilet paper.
"Shit, fine. Whatever. I'll go bone our daughter, have fun touching yourself up." Buttercup snarled from behind Butch's turned back, cracking a foot as it collided with his marred vertebral line.
The marred and aggressive male chuckled; the payment had been dealt, he'd check on the fucking kid now.
And so Butch sauntered into the darkness of the near-windowless flat, his chemical x dimly lighting the way like the darkened optical of a cat. Nonetheless he reached a marked hand out, his scars as his only tattoos, occasionally touching a dirt-coated wall as a second reassurance to the fact that Butch wasn't ramming himself into anything solid.
And then, he was there.
The fourth room was smaller than the rest, on the opposite end on the tiny corridor that made up Buttercup and Butch's living space. The only other rooms within the whole settlement were the bathroom and kitchen, and like fuck would this shitty wunderkind be next to his bratwurst or condoms, those prizes were fucking gold.
As Butch entered the tiny archway, he gave himself a second chance to look around; the walls of the room were simple. Some spots of the faded viridian paint were charred – a result of Wren learning that her strength wasn't her only weapon, but that her tiny eyebeams could pack quite a punch as well.
The ceiling was low; a single lamp, that constantly flickered, to light the space in the evenings hung from it's middle. One baby picture was framed next to one of the two large windows the room held, yielding Butch smirking in the view of most of the shot, with Buttercup holding Wren in the background, an annoyed look on her brow as her sisters cooed over the ebony baby nestled in her arms.
Wren's birth certificate hung next to the neighboring large window, boldly yielding her date of birth – 364 days from the current day – and pronouncing Butch himself and Buttercup as the infant's conceivers.
The furniture in the room was scarce, a simple rocking chair with a chipped dark-grey paint sat in the corner, slewed over with stickers from the Cockney Rejects, Sex Pistols, and whatever the fuck Butch felt like plastering on it to give it his edge.
A broken guitar lay in the opposite corner of the room, followed by a tiny (also plastered) dresser that held pint-sized clothing and blankets, with the most prized item in the Jojo household adjacent to it.
A wide screen television.
With six different consoles, and hundreds of games. Oh, the fucking orgasmic games.
Butch gulped down the mouthful of drool that built on his tongue – he'd save his baby until morning. For now, the most important manner of his visit lay in the final piece of furniture within the musty flat's carravice.
Wren, nestled in a chipped and faded oaken crib, with tiny demonic ornaments swirling in a circle above her. She cooed as Butch approached her, her oxidized-copper toned eyes twinkling in the lunar light with awareness and excitement.
"Hey Himmler, how's daddy's favourite little cock-blocker?" Butch murmured as softly as his rigged voice would allow, smirking characteristically as Wren wriggled her arms toward him, asking to be lifted from the prison she could easily escape herself (and had done so many times, Butch noted, resulting in complex-wide searches).
"Ahm bowered." Wren gurgled out, sloppy in her undeveloped tongue – still, the super-powered toddler was brilliant, far more advanced than any at her current age.
While most babies could only spit out 'mama' or 'dada' at a full year of age, Wren could already throw out comprehendible phrases and be fully aware of anything her parents echoed towards her or one another.
She could walk, float, and fly higher than her original height (the distance and leverage seemed to come as the tiny thing grew and developed), and perform simple actions like flushing the toilet and standing on her own, though for some reason shoving food in Wren's own hole was still a difficult task for the wunderkind.
"Tah-mawwows mah biwf-dai." Wren bubbled out, a pretty little smile caressing her rose-red lips. She twirled her head, and the messy, punk-like onyx hair bounced in response, slightly past ear length in it's height.
"Yeah, it is, isn't it? Fuck, it's been a year since Butts popped you from her cunt," Butch snickered, never afraid to sensor his language around the happy, knowing toddler he fathered.
That, Butch decided, was for sensitive pussies; "You caused quite a bit of coochie-carnage there, Adolfo."
He reached down as he spoke, lifting Wren from her aging crib and placing her against his scraped, bare chest. The child smiled, receiving exactly what she wanted from Butch, and she laid a tiny porcelain hand against his arm, surprised to find the area wet, slick with the tiniest film of crimson. Naturally, Wren had to question this; "Shwaggin' mamuh?"
Butch snorted, and not wanting to feel left out, Wren chuckled with him, clapping her reddened hands together.
"Yeah kid, we were makin' you a brother. Someone won't need sex ed when they're older, eh?"
Wren had bellowed in the middle of so many sessions and had so been exposed to their brutal foreplay; she seemed immune and even charmed whenever Butch or Buttercup exited their room, coated in scratches and sweat. She found it fascinating, and that fact pleased Butch even more.
She was growing more and more into a kid that the greens wouldn't mind heralding as their own.
And now, rocking Wren in the toned arms, Butch began to recall his original purpose for leaving his fucking wonderful sexing session; "So is that it kid, yah ready to head back to dozing school and get some hot dream-toddler ass?"
But Wren shook her head, tapping Butch's arm with a child's impatience. Her fragile brow knit together, as if in serious thought, before Wren finally seemed to find a fitting combination of words to speak.
"Mawmah came two meh yestahday, an' 'er fayc waz wett, laaik rayn."
Butch raised an eyebrow, slightly distraught and puzzled. Yesterday had been a clear, sunny day.
And Butch defiantly recalled, he fucking hated the sun.
But nonetheless, the brutish and aggressive male had been out, called across town to do one of the few kind acts of his existence - to help deal with the newly born spawn of Brick and that fucking stupid, red-coloured mate of his, Blossom. Just a month before they'd birthed an auburn-haired male with dark, crimson eyes, who 'in the (shitty) bird theme' was named Warbler.
Personally, Butch would've gone with Woodcock. Or at least Willow Tit.
But back to the matter at hand. What the fuck? Buttercup wet, Buttercup crying? While he was away?
Crying?
She had to be shitting him.
The thought brought a slight clump into Butch's stomach, and though he'd fucking hate to admit it, it was defensiveness.
Buttercup, no matter how distant-yet-close their relationship was, was Butch's property; she was his mark. They weren't married, not even under a civil union, but she was defiantly and uniquely his. Therefore, anything that made the violence-inclined Powerpuff upset was his fucking business; "Why was she wet, Wren? Can you give me some details? Try hard, love."
Butch was rarely gentle; rarely spoke a phrase without 'fuck, shit, ass' or 'bitch' somewhere in context. And when prying for information, he was often more destructive than his normal program.
But this was Wren, and she held his roots. So intuitively, instinctively, Butch knew the only way to get the intelligent toddler to spill details was to give her the upper hand, the power, in this situation. And the gut-driven instinct payed off; Wren gave a child's smirk, though her eyes held an obvious worry for the female she fed from, the one called her mother. She thought for a moment, forming phrases, then spoke; "Ahh theenk, mawmuh theenks yoo donnea cahre 'boat her orh, uuh, luhve huhr, ahh theenk."
The statement caught Butch off guard; he wasn't sure what he was expecting but, fuck, it sure as hell wasn't that. The near-naked female that he'd left just minutes ago, sprawled out and moaning after a violent foreplay, her dark emerald eyes sparkling with a disdain for anything mundane or ordinary, never caught Butch as anyone who would ever care for that kind of shit.
Buttercup, even after the birth of Wren, had always said she'd hated him, that she just fucked him, and he her; she snorted whenever the two stopped at Boomer and Bubble's household, gagging and cursing under her breath as they whispered sweet nothings betwixt one another. She hated everything about their relationship, and she'd said she wouldn't have it any other way.
This was Buttercup, and Buttercup certainly never cared.
So Butch smiled wearily, a pang of a foreign emotion hitting him; soft, but still there. In wretched at his stomach, and he felt a slight prick at the sides of his eyes that wasn't pain, wasn't pleasure.
It was odd, blue, cold, and it made him sick. Butch snarled, violently enough to spook the tiny little songbird still cradled within his arms into a slight yelp.
He apologized, carefully laying Wren down into her cradle and commanding the child to forget about the shit event and go to sleep; Butch was finding it more than a tad difficult to keep his voice level.
Cursing loudly once he left into the empty crevices of the hallway as he exited the 'nursery', Butch struck himself in the stomach. The impact caused the male to sputter wildly, but Butch smirked as a line of slobber traced down his sculpted chin.
That was better, that cleared his mind.
Wren had probably dreamed it all, she'd been read too many of tose sitty fairytails.
Buttercup didn't care, as always.
And Butch had nothing to worry about.
Tomorrow was Wren's Birthday.