Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's late when there's an unexpected knock on her door, well past midnight. Her freshly steeped chamomile tea goes forgotten, along with the last few chapters of her book, as she leaves her bedroom and heads for the front door. Blossom knows who it is before she swings it open. Doesn't have to see his face to know that it's as bloody and beaten as the rest of his body is sure to be.

Her porch light isn't on, but when he takes a step closer, excess light from the living room filters through the opening of the door, just enough to highlight his features.

Brick.

She always thought his eyes were comparable to blood before she found herself faced with both colors at once. They aren't the color of blood at all. They can't be, because she doesn't get that gut wrenching feeling of dread when he stares back at her. His eyes don't remind her of violence and injury at all, they're more alluring than they are dangerous.

Their intensity could slice her clean in two if she let them, in ways that have nothing to do with heat vision.

The backdrop behind him is ominous. Grayscale. Desolate. The first few drops of rain begin to fall, as if on cue, to properly set the mood for their reunion.

Her gaze flicks away from his to follow a fresh trail of crimson that gushes from his head, the wound somewhere lost in his heap of unruly ginger spice hair, a few shades darker than her own. It's rare that he doesn't wear his signature red snapback, the same style that he's worn from the very first day they ever met, but it's still with him, tattered and in hand.

Sweat and blood leave his hair damp, ends dripping. If it stains her floor she won't mind, she's been meaning to rip out the offending carpet anyway. She just knows there are beautiful hardwood floors hidden underneath.

There are no words exchanged, they'd never had much use for any. Blossom pushes the door open wider and steps to the side in silent invitation.

She's not as surprised to see him on her doorstep as one might guess, given the nature of their relationship. He's been here before, in situations all too similar.

If asked why she bought a house in the middle of nowhere she'd never say out loud that nights like these had any influence. She likes living apart from everyone else, on the small plot of land that her life as a hero has afforded her. There are still plenty of outraged citizens screaming that a 'real hero' would never accept compensation, but Blossom never asked to be a hero. And it's not like she has the time for a formal education or a real career to pay her bills, what with the safety of an entire city resting on her shoulders.

She shuts the door, locks it out of habit, and follows Brick down the hall to her bathroom.

Her arms reach out before he can step inside, snaking around his firm middle. Hands that suddenly seem so small slide against pronounced abs that she can easily feel through damp fabric. They search his body for anything out of place, but get caught up in the familiarity. Blossom tightens her hold on him, doesn't let go when he winces. She presses her front to his back, bodies fitting together to fill any empty space between them. He's all hard ridges and when she isn't flexing, she's all soft curves. Her cheek rests between his shoulder blades, and for a moment she just breathes, feeling the way Brick traces along her forearm with the rough pads of his fingers, after abandoning his cap. It's the kind of delicacy that nobody would expect from someone like him, but she knows better.

The sharp smell of iron stings her eyes, and makes her nose wrinkle.

He's hurt. He only comes to her when he loses his powers, when the damage is bad enough that the Chemical X can't replenish at a fast enough rate to heal his body. They might be super, but they aren't invincible. They were created to be durable and fast, but they still feel every ounce of pain when something or someone is strong enough to inflict it.

It's not like he can go to the hospital, and he can't go to the Professor's lab like the girls can. Her father doesn't hate anyone, doesn't have it in him, but if he did then Brick would top his list. Followed closely by Butch and Boomer. No, he doesn't hate him, but he isn't in the business of aiding and abetting known criminals and Blossom would never ask him to.

Thankfully it's not bad enough this time that he's losing consciousness, or in need of an emergency blood transfusion.

Her hands find their way under his shirt, seeking the warmth of bare skin, but he's not running as hot as he usually is. He tenses almost imperceptibly. Now that there aren't any extra layers between them, she can feel a smattering of deep cuts, some welted over and some still bleeding. Her hand is wet with the proof as she splays it over his heart, to make sure he's breathing normally. She's not.

Blossom hardly has to tug on the end of his shirt before his muscles are flexing with the task of dragging it over his head. It gets lost somewhere on the floor and she only catches the briefest glimpse of his injuries before he's distracting her from their severity.

She lets herself get lost in it, the hungry way he pushes her against the wall, just shy of the amount of pressure it would take to crack the plaster. He kisses her with fervor, like his very existence depends on it, and when he groans into her mouth she isn't sure if it's out of pleasure or pain.

Brick doesn't care if he stains the wall rusty. Blossom doesn't either right now. Tomorrow she'll roll her eyes and pretend to be more annoyed than she really is at having to clean it up. There's already an open can of paint waiting in the garage.

His hands are bruised, knuckles red and swollen with the blood beneath the surface. They roam the shape of her body before settling on the dip where her waist and hips meet. The reason he's here, the blood drying on her hand, running from the gaping cut on his eyebrow, it turns to background noise under his touch. Under his lips as they leave her mouth, only to find solace in her outstretched neck.

"Brick," she gasps, and he nips, fingers digging into her flesh.

Her hands make their way to his neck, feeling his heaving chest, and defined collar bones along the way. She traces up his pulse point, until her fingers thread through his hair. If she was in her right mind she might be disgusted at the feel, grime and grease and blood, but his teeth scrap across her throat and-

Blossom's middle finger touches something too soft, skin that's too squishy, it doesn't feel.. right. Her stomach clenches at the same time that her eyes pop open and she finally sees all the damage that she couldn't see before in the dark, or when she was behind him, or when her eyes fell closed at his lips' command. There's so much blood, too much blood. 

Brick doesn't seem nearly as distraught as he does impatient. Sighing as if her discovery is more of an inconvenience than anything else, one that's clearly interrupting the fun.

"You ass! You could have said something," Blossom scoffs, pushing out of his hold. She balls her frustration into a loose fist that hits him weakly in the peck, and then she's pulling him forcefully into the bathroom. If she doesn't do it now, it feels an awful lot like he'd risk everything just to keep holding her.

He's chuckling, without a care in the world, when he closes the lid and sits in his usual place on the toilet. Blossom is already digging through the cabinet to pull out the necessary supplies, pointedly ignoring the way he watches her.

The wounds on his head are hard to look at under bright light. No matter how much violence and devastation she's seen, it never gets easier, especially so close and personal. It's hard to stomach, disorienting when it's one of them.. a super. Brick, or one of her sisters. They were made to be near indestructible, and in situations like this it's hard not to think of her own mortality.

Treating Brick isn't a daunting task. He's probably lost a good amount of blood, but not enough that it requires specific medical attention. She doesn't have to give him stitches, or staples, not even to close the heinous split in his head (thank fuck). The only thing she has to administer is a syringe of Chemical X, straight into his bloodstream. The extra dose will give his body the boost it needs for a speedy recovery.

Once upon a time he would've been able to get the top secret formula, literally the only thing on earth that can heal their bodies, from Mojo Jojo.. but that time has long since passed.

She doesn't have to ask to know that these 'minor' injuries, as well as the more serious ones that have nearly killed him over the years, came from the very same person who gave him life in the first place.

Ever since Mojo disowned his 'failed creations' for refusing to murder the Powerpuff Girls in cold blood, he's focused his time on actively trying to destroy them instead. Ironic, since he isn't even interested in killing the girls anymore either.

HIM, having basically adopted the boys themself, is the one really at war with Mojo. But not even they can protect the boys from everything. These days Mojo's evil is less in cooky inventions, and more in chemical warfare and underhanded attacks. He's adapted with purpose, grown more malicious than resentful.

Since he doesn't live in Townsville anymore, the girls aren't even legally allowed to intervene.

All Blossom can do is watch from the sidelines while Mojo Jojo comes up with horrific new ways to try and torture his sons with Antidote X infused weaponry, with every hope of poisoning them and taking away their abilities. So far she has only treated Brick, who seems to be the main target, but she knows he wouldn't hesitate to bring his brothers here in an emergency. She wouldn't think twice about helping them either.

She's fought Brick until he's known he lost and fled, she's fought him until he was detained and safely handed over to the police. But she has never fought to kill. The idea makes her sick.

Blossom loads up the syringe with the same eerie, black liquid that courses through her own blood, and steps closer to where Brick is staring up at her with something like awe in his gaze. It all comes naturally to her by now, turning the needle upside down, flicking it twice, squirting just a drop from the tip.

"Ready?" She asks.

Brick straightening his posture and puffing out his chest with a pained hiss is all the answer she needs. A quick scan with her x-ray vision shows multiple broken ribs, and a possible punctured lung. All of which he was carelessly agitating, and allowing her to agitate while they fooled around moments ago, downplaying his pain instead of just admitting to it. Dammit.

She plunges the needle straight into his vena cava, the vein that will carry blood from his heart back to his head and chest the fastest. Though in all honesty, it doesn't matter which vein it's injected into. Their bodies aren't human after all.

The effect is immediate. She watches cuts and bruises heal in an instant, like they were never there at all. Brick's eyes dilate with the adrenaline rush that she knows all too well. She sets the emptied syringe on the counter, but doesn't move from between his legs, knowing that a surge of agony is fast approaching.

It's not lost on her that she risks life and limb to protect Townsville's citizens during the day, only to turn around and heal the wounds of a man known to cause harm to the same citizens under the cover of night.

Blossom doesn't actually know the extent of his crimes, selfishly, she doesn't care to burden herself in that way. There's a time when the guilt of his forbidden company would have weighed heavily on her. Before she realized how abusive her relationship with the people of her hometown had become.

There's some resentment there now. It's not the lack of appreciation, really, but the expectation. The sense of entitlement they feel over her entire being. Too many years of sacrificing everything for everyone have left her jaded in a way that Bubbles would never understand. Buttercup feels it, she knows, but she fights for the thrill not the rescue, always has.

In a town this small, she's saved every citizen countless times. Of course that doesn't stop the old church types from rudely remarking on how skin tight her hero suit is.

"Back in my day young women had at least some decency."

It doesn't stop the media from criticizing how long it takes her to get to the scene of a crime. Like she's supposed to be hovering in the sky, ready for a monster attack or a jewelry store robbery at any given time.

People very wrongly assume that because she was born from chemicals and compounds, that it somehow means she has no soul. But she has a brain and a heart just like anyone else. Sometimes she thinks she has more humanity than they do..

Not everyone is this way. But enough to leave her torn between wanting to help because she can, and wanting to put her own happiness first for once, and leave.

So yeah, the first time Brick showed up at her place, years after any personal vendettas had ended, with no warning and no explanation on how he'd gotten her new address.. She just let him in.

Blossom hasn't fought him in a while, not seriously. Occasionally he still shows up and causes chaos, but she could swear that it's out of nostalgia more than anything else. And fighting him does help release pent up energy in a way that fighting monsters never could, so maybe she looks forward to those visits too. Secretly.

But not nearly as much as these ones.

Blossom pulls him close, cradling his head to her chest at the same time that his arms wrap around her, looking for purchase. He squeezes her with near back breaking strength, eyes closed and jaw clenching as every broken part of his body heals, lesser damaged areas first. When his bones are snapped back into place and deep muscle and tissue fibers begin to rapidly repair throughout his entire body, he actually whimpers.

It's a little demented the way she savors these moments. The ones that are the most excruciating for him are the same ones that she finds endlessly endearing. Aside from possibly Butch or Boomer, she's the only one who's ever been privy to his most vulnerable state. Having him lean on her for support, hide his watery eyes in her shirt, helpless, it's almost more than she can handle. Brick is a lot of things in public; fierce, relentless, troublemaking, egotistical. But he's a lot of other things in private, when he chooses to let his guard down, with her; flirty, attentive, affectionate.

Cute.

The pain is over as quickly as it begins, the memory of it fading just as fast, and they both breathe a sigh of relief.

"Shower with me," he mumbles against her, not giving her the chance to decline before he's pulling off her bloodied top and tossing it into the hamper, freeing her breasts.

She's never refused him before, and has no intention of starting tonight. They both crave these moments of reprieve, few and far between. At least something good should come from the unfortunate events that bring him here.

Brick just holds her for a minute, kissing down her stomach, hands moving from her lower back to cup her ass. And then his teeth tug at the strings of her pajama pants, equal parts playful and demanding.

She never smiles more than when she's with him, laughing as she breaks free from his wandering hands, to turn the shower on. It'll take a minute to warm up, just enough time to get the rest of their clothes off.

Strong arms catch her around the waist from behind. He lays his chin on her shoulder and whispers a quiet, "Thank you," against her neck. Seconds later her pajama bottoms hit the floor, followed by his own pants, briefs and socks. He's already half hard, semi pressing into her lower back.

Before she can slip out of her panties, he proves just how much of a menace he is, and lifts her into the shower with them still on.

The water hasn't even fully heated yet, making Blossom yelp and scramble against his chest for whatever warmth she can find. She likes the water near scalding, and he likes it too cold.

Once they're in the shower it's like things pick up exactly where they left off in the hallway, like the stint of first aid never happened at all. Her back is against the wall again, away from the spray of the shower head. Her nipples grow taut from the slight breeze coming from the water that cascades down Brick's back, washing away blood. His teeth sink into her neck, hard enough to leave marks, and harder still. A claiming bite that will never last.

Faded scars cover his body, more than she has herself, nearly all from Antidote X. From his creator. Some wounds never fully heal. They don't make him any less beautiful, they might even make him more so. A way of letting the world know that he's still standing after all he's endured.

As many undeniably terrible things as he's done, she cannot bring herself to think he's inherently evil. A societal nuisance with violent tendencies, maybe worse. He's not a good person. He takes from society, rather than contributes. He's flawed and destructive, and she's probably making excuses, but..

Whether it says something about her, or just how toxic society can be, the only person she seems to find any comfort in these days just so happens to be a villain.

She's not pining after him, not trapped in some unrequited love story, but she does find pleasure in the time they spend together.

They're too similar, too different, but they work. At least they do in these stolen hours, in the dead of night.

Blossom pushes away from the wall, walking Brick backwards a step, maneuvering until she gets hold of the temperature knob. She turns it up just enough to keep him from pouting. With both of them under the shower head now, her hands disappear into his mess of matted down hair. A mixture of crimson filth slides down his body and spirals away in the drain. He makes a half assed attempt at complaining, when she pours a comical amount of shampoo into the palm of one hand, before rubbing them both together. It wouldn't do for big bad Brick to actually seem like he enjoys being cared for, so she pretends not to notice when he hums contentedly at the feel of her soapy hands massaging his scalp, washing away his troubles.

She lathers up his body next, running slippery hands over his neck, shoulders, arms and chest. There's so much of him. He's much broader, with so much more lean muscle than when they were mere teenagers. Whether or not he's always been more than a head taller than her she can't say, she was never close enough to kiss him back then. Never lingered long enough for her chipped nails to scrape over his waist on the way down, to more lucrative places.

Her hand teases just above his groin, just out of reach. Her eyes flick down to watch his length jump with anticipation, and when they meet his again, he crushes her into a desperate kiss. His mouth is hot and languid, tasting her lips and tongue until she has to wrap a hand around the base of his cock, just to catch her breath as he pulls back to groan.

She gives him a few slow tugs and then pulls away, using his late reaction time to slather her body in soap. Brick watches, tongue darting out to wet his lips while she grazes over subtle curves, shiny and smooth. And then his hands are on her too, gripping her thighs, hips, butt. His thumbs circle over her nipples, a weak imitation of helping to clean her, that makes her whine.

Blossom almost forgets that she's still wearing a thong. One that's soaking wet and clinging to her skin, which would be much grosser if she were outside of the water, but still.. she wants them off.

"Brick," she rasps, lips against his throat, "Take my panties off."

He doesn't. Just smirks and draws her closer, slipping a hand beneath the band of her underwear, until his fingers touch soft curls. "Not yet," he says, and her legs still part for him anyway.

His middle finger circles her clit before dipping into her heat where she's still wet from earlier, even more so now.

Whatever, possibly unhealthy, thing she has going with Brick is the closest thing to a relationship that she's had since highschool. She isn't hooking up with anyone else right now either, so she's tight as she takes one thick finger and then two.

When she's breathless and panting out tiny, pleading gasps, he gives in and tears her underwear off. They hit the tiled floor with a nasty, wet plop that makes her cringe.

Any disgust is short lived, expression turning curious as Brick removes the extendable shower head and adjusts the pressure setting before spinning her around.

"What are you- Ahh.. Oh!" Blossom mewls, leaning back against his chest, and allowing him to take on some of her weight. She lifts one foot to rest on the ledge of the tub, opening herself up to the heavy stream of water that Brick is angling at her clit.

Arousal rolls down her spread thighs, only to be immediately washed away. Brick is relentless, hitting her in exactly the right spot to leave her slack-jawed.

"You ready, baby?" He moves the shower head away momentarily, dragging his erection through her lower lips to get it nice and slick.

She turns to glare at him. At least she means to, but there's no venom behind it, and he just laughs. "If you don't fuck me, I'm gonna cum without you."

"So needy," Brick whispers, lining his cock head up with her entrance. Blossom's lips part on a gasp that lets him know it's been a while, and he takes his time easing in.

Her senses are flooded all at once, the return of the water pressure on her aching nerves, the slow roll of his hips against her ass. Then his unoccupied hand is moving from her waist to the space between her ribcage, fingers spread, but not touching anywhere of value.

His pace is not frantic, his grasp is not bruising. His thumb massages between her breasts, and it's torture. Sweet, sweet torture the way his touch is everything, and not nearly enough.

Every thrust is painfully, brutally languid. What she needs is to feel so, so much more of him. To know him in the way that's familiar.

"Fuck me like you mean it," she breathes.

"I do mean it," Brick mumbles against her hair, kicking the shower head into full gear. The intensity contradicts his own. "What if I want to fuck you like I love you?"

The air is stolen from her lungs when he drops the shower head completely and shoves her hard against ceramic tile. She can feel the abandoned stream against her calves, it's at an angle where water is probably ricocheting and soaking the bathroom floor. Blossom pushes back against their connection, palms, breasts and cheek smashed into the wall.

Her hips become handles, and finally he slams into her with the force that she's used to from him.

"Is this what you need?" He asks, fucking her into complacency, and she knows he's doing it more for her sake than his own. She's known from the minute he walked through the door that something was different, that the mood was changed.

She'll be sure to ride him nice and slow after this.

Blossom nods uselessly into the wall, words failing her as Brick's middle finger takes the place of the water's forgotten massage, and it takes almost nothing. A few hard passes and she's gone from the world for precious seconds, going limp just in time for Brick to catch her.

She thinks he must not have finished, because suddenly there's a towel around her shoulders and she's being carried into her bedroom, laid down on her bed. Brick is still impossibly hard, cock hanging between his thighs, too heavy to stand on its own.

When he crawls over her, she uses her remaining energy to flip him, until he's trapped underneath her. "Is this what you need?" She echos back to him, lifting her hips to take him inside again. She doesn't expect him to answer, but he does anyway, hands sliding up her thighs to land on her hips.

"Yeah," Brick exhales in a whisper, and the way he sounds completely shattered has her heart in a chokehold.

His brows furrow, like he's trying too hard to concentrate on her. His not so blood red eyes are fighting a losing battle between staying open to watch the leisure way Blossom rides him and rolling back in pleasure.

Every ounce of control is hers. It's not the give and take, tooth and nail fight for power that it usually is. He lays beneath her, not only completely content, but looking like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

Delicate fingers crawl up his chest, trace over time-lightened scars and she thinks that if she told him he was beautiful right now, he might not even fight her on it. Instead she presses forward to mouth at his neck, keeping a melodic pace that Brick matches from below.

They could probably stay like this for hours, rocking their bodies together and touching each other in the most intimate ways they ever have. But then her lips find his again, and after one soft kiss Brick chokes out a, "S-Shit," at the same time that she feels a gush of warmth coat her insides.

He's still pulsing inside her when she kisses him again and collapses against his chest, not out of exhaustion, but fondness.

"Stay," Blossom wants to tell him, knowing that she'll spend the next few days smelling him on her sheets, and reminiscing over something that will never be. But she knows he won't.

She lays there, running a hand through his still wet hair, breath syncing with his, until sleep takes her. When she wakes in the morning, she knows he'll already be gone.

Only this time.. He isn't.

This time when she opens her eyes the first thing they fall upon are freckle specked cheeks, rosy with warmth. She doesn't know how long she openly stares before her gaze must become heavy enough to wake him. He isn't at all surprised to find himself still in her bed, as she assumed he would be.

Brick just kisses her like she's his, like she's always been his, and whispers, "Good morning, gorgeous," like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it can be. 

Likes and comments appreciated!