HLL: This will be a series of drabbles that I've written that don't have any place in longer narratives.

Why are Buttercup and Butch so fun to write? Probably because I love the poison in their love. They're both sadomasochists when it comes down to it. Also, Butch still remains my favorite RRB to write. Enjoy, folks.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.

One: Photograph.

Her mouth watered. When desire scratched at the inside of her chest, she swore.

No. No way.

She slammed a fist into the red bricks. Someone screeched. Blossom snatched her by the ear and dragged her off, a disgusting display of Christmas colors as they disappeared from the tiny crater next to the school bulletin board.

"What the hell are you doing?" She asked, voice dark in a way that it only was when they were alone. Behind the school, they stood, two sisters. The unsuspecting glorious weather did nothing to settle Buttercup's rage.

"Nothing," she replied with a snarl.

Blossom narrowed her eyes. "Why are you assaulting innocent school walls?"

"Because I have an attitude problem," Buttercup growled back. Because that's what her sister was thinking, so why not just say it for her? "Because I'm the sister that fucks up."

Blossom seethed and turned on her heel, muttering something about hormones and tempers and things that nobody but a team leader had to deal with.

Buttercup wasn't thinking about her sister, though. Her mind was throwing back the image. Tossing it in her face with smug force. That stupid photo fastened to the cork, boasting the boys' soccer team victory. It championed their star player, a disgusting splotch of heinous masculinity and slurred speech.

His grin. His nasty twisted face. His cheekbones. His glittering eyes. His victory glow.

Her chest tightened. Pressure mounted. She was a bomb waiting to blow, ready to take out a city block.

Because she hadn't thought about wanting to punch that face.

She had thought about kissing it.

Her hands curled into fists.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

The wave of self-loathing came, the way it did when she was watching her sisters socialize with smiling faces that didn't cower in fear.

And she, a wild girl, a monster always hungering for destruction. She licked her lips, tasted the dust flying up from the dry patches of grass and wished it was blood.

So, when he caught her in thought and called at her snidely from his pack of beef-headed comrades, there was no hesitance.

"What's the matter, Butter-cunt?"

She'd beat that handsome face into the ground until the desire stopped.

When she lunged for him, the flicker in his eyes was everything she lived for.

They tore into each other, his friends spilling by the wayside with guttural protests and shouts.

Every bruise was a line of a poem. She swung and listened to the sweet sound of their bones cracking.

When Blossom walked by the next day on the way to testify as a character witness in the school hearing, she noticed the faint outline of a photograph missing from the bulletin board.

A sly smile bloomed on her face.

The toughest sister always had a habit of taking war trophies.

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