NOT MY TYPE by katocchi
3. She always smells like fresh fucking laundry.
Sugar, spice, and everything nice is written in their DNA, and that's what most people expect the Powerpuff Girls to smell like. Brick isn't exactly sure what that's supposed to be. Snickerdoodle cookies? An open market? The nondescript hand soap found in high end hotels?
It doesn't matter because Brick can go on record and testify that the Utonium sisters smell like none of those, and no, he's not going around sniffing girls like a total creep. He blames his heightened sense on the puppy dog tails in his blood, and he blames that on Mojo. How'd he even get those ingredients in prison? And if he managed snips and snails and tails, why couldn't he order pizza or something?
But that's a different conversation, a series of questions that sends him spiraling into an existential crisis, so here are his thoughts on the Powerpuff Girls instead.
.
Bubbles uses perfume, which is probably obvious. She cycles through different brands, occasionally branching out to new ones, but when she smells like the same thing for weeks, it's clear she's found a new favorite. Sometimes she comes up to him in the hallway, twirls, and asks point-blank what he thinks of it. Like he's her personal perfumer or something. He tried being as prickly as possible, waving away the cloud of fragrance and sparkles, but her hidden super ability is being an even bigger pain in the ass than his brothers, so now he humors her inquiries with non-committal sounds that she somehow deciphers with a giggle and flip of blonde hair. Yeah, he doesn't understand it either.
She doesn't claim a top favorite, but she does have a special good luck scent that transports you to a picturesque mountain cottage by a rolling grass field dotted with wildflowers and embellished with a clear blue sky. She had it on when Boomer asked her out, when they shared their first kiss (the admission of which made Brick promptly gag), when she got her first perfect test score, and when Blossom accidentally cursed on live television―which wasn't really a moment of good luck, but it was as unexpected as a meteor strike so Bubbles counts it anyway.
"Do you think Blossom will do it again if you use this?"
He nods at the bottle in her hands. He has the viral clips of the Puff leader's slip up somewhere in his Twitter likes, backed up on his computer, and saved on an external hard-drive in case she manages to wipe it from the internet. It's not everyday you hear Townsville's uptight princess drop three F-bombs in one breath.
Two quick bursts of perfume. Brick tries not to sneeze.
"I wish for it every time!" Bubbles smiles brightly. A devil with a halo, this girl.
.
Buttercup smells like sweat and deodorant. Not in a bad way. Brick lives with Butch and knows quite well how gross sweat can be, but graced with the infuriating perfection that comes with being a Powerpuff Girl, Buttercup makes it work. It's her addiction to athletics. She's always on some field and never has an off-season―not that she competes, of course. Chemical X is apparently an unfair advantage. And when sports are paired with counterpart fistfights and saving the day, it isn't an exaggeration to say that she never runs out of things to do.
She used to piss him off by swinging her sticky arm around his shoulders, but Brick doesn't mind her smell anymore. Doesn't stop her from still trying by lifting her arms and shoving her armpits into his face, though, which is nasty on so many levels. He's just glad she's out of her excessive Axe spray phase, a phase Butch has yet to emerge from. The heady smell of sweat and Cool Rush deodorant suits the middle sister. It's satisfying at times, like he's the one who runs a marathon before school every morning.
"Y'know, BC, I really thought you'd be the type to oversleep your alarms," he tells her once, leaning against the lockers and waiting for her to grab books. "Like you'd set seven of them and still get up two minutes before class starts."
"Used to. As if Leader Girl lets me anymore. She's worse than any alarm clock you have, trust me." She hefts the bookbag onto her shoulder and kicks her locker closed. "I only sleep in on weekends anyway. Weekdays, I get my exercise in the morning 'cuz school keeps me dumb busy."
"Sounds strangely responsible of you, but I guess that makes sense." He pauses, then snorts as they walk to class. "In another universe, you'd probably be a Rowdyruff."
"Fucking ew."
.
Blossom. She uses a bit of perfume for events, but otherwise, she smells like fresh linen and a hint of something he can never place. The mini Mojo Jojo in his brain runs itself ragged trying to figure it out; he's been called out in English plenty of time for not paying attention, too focused on deciding whether or not the elusive scent is Irish Spring soap.
And he doesn't know if this is a counterpart problem that arises from how he's genetically hard-wired to pay attention to her, but it's so damn inconvenient how his brain short-circuits whenever she walks by, and it's even worse when his brothers are there and ready to clown him.
"What were you saying?" Boomer asks, fighting back a grin as Butch snickers into a hand. The sound is muffled, muted, distant.
Red eyes blink. "I, uh, I was saying―that our, ah, our ven―"
She flicks her hair over one shoulder, hitting him with another wave of sun-kissed cotton, and he involuntarily takes a deep breath, which drives tiny shocks down every single nerve ending. His gaze trails after her; she's dressed in pink again, cradling a book on quantum physics, the next topic of their two-person book club. She claims the third edition of Razul et al. is the best one, a blasphemous opinion he's determined to prove wrong.
"That our vending machine is coming and you paid for it 'cuz we're your favorite siblings?"
"Yes." His eyes snap back to his brothers. "Wait, no, shut the fuck up, Butch. No vending machines. I was going to say that our venture into graffiti art's gotta wait. Can't make enough to pay this month's bills and buy your spray paint supplies."
"Aw, but Boss, you promised!"
"You want it so bad, get a damn job, Butch. I'm doing my best."
"Being a hero sucks," Butch mutters, crossing his arms behind his head. "They don't pay us for shit but still make us pay for everything. Maybe we can move to Citiesville and go back to bank robbing...I'm kidding, jeez."
"I hope so. We've changed―changed our ways to―to, uh―"
Why is she turning back around? His nose tickles. Legs straining to walk over to her, Brick's fingers clench around his bag strap. It's so, so, so stupid. Who's she waving at anyway? He follows her line of sight to the other end of the hall, to where some jock is waiting with a wrapped box.
"―to cut our ties to Mojo and―and to stop the―to prove―"
The monkey in his head is tripping over its own tail watching her smile and take the proffered gift. It's a book. Even at this distance, he can tell how nice it is: plush cover, gilded edges, satin bookmark. She flips through it, thumbing the pages like she's holding something precious, which is somewhat true. It's Jane Eyre, one of her favorites―why, he doesn't know. He hates it, can never get through more than a few pages at a time, but he's reading through the dumb thing for their book club. Only to tear the passages apart, not because she asked.
She's saying something he can't hear, and moments like these, he wishes their super hearing could sift through background noises. Instead, he's bombarded by the band practicing several doors down, the chatter of passing cheerleaders, and the bustle of students heading to lunch. His jaw clenches. He looks away.
"Anyway," he grits out, annoyed at himself for feeling annoyed and even more annoyed at Butch and Boomer for sharing knowing glances. They wisely keep their mouths shut. "No street art for now. When pay day comes, we'll see what happens."
As dishonorable as their past was, the Rowdyruff Boys had, still have, and will continue to have an honor code, and the number one rule is to have each other's back regardless of the situation. Butch and Boomer will always be Brick's first priority.
He rubs his thumbs against his temples, mentally calculating how they can budget their finances for another week between water, gas, internet, food. They weren't lacking, technically, just stretched thin after recent events. Brick can't even tell Blossom, even though she knows he's stressed about something. She'll get huffy and indignant like the goody two-shoes she is and march straight into the Mayor's office to demand a contract salary for Brick's family, which is both embarrassing and unneeded. Jojos don't beg. He might have to dip into his savings, though. The money sits in a shoe box under his bed, safe guarded by dirty boxers and dirtier socks.
Whatever. Brothers first, presents for counterpart second. The antique store owner will just have to hold onto that first edition Anna Karenina copy for a little longer.
a/n.
brick, baby, you know these aren't ~platonic feelings~, right? buying gifts? taking comfort in how she smells? being upset with some guy's presence? hmmm? AH, this was my favorite to write so far. and while the show made both sets of super siblings crazy OP, i like to put limits on their abilities. as always, if you liked, please review!
again, you can contact me and get fanfic updates at aerysian (tumblr)!
next chapter: she's so fucking bossy. mar 1, 2021
katocchi
