scubatankfilledwithfarts: (god help me)
[personal profile] scubatankfilledwithfarts

21's senses wander-- not quite like stretching spidey-senses, no, but the gentle come-down from a slumber that probably ended in a dream where he's falling. But right before he hits the ground he lands in a big pie.

[they say when that happens it means a you in another universe died; he tries not to wonder if that 21 had traded places with 24]

About as clear as creme when it comes to the psychological dream-reader shit but he can't complain. Not to mention his heart totally hiccups. Sure, he, in this twin sized bed, is way too squished to imagine, and the warmth on either side of his body definitely cannot be associated with rolling into the crack between wall and bed in the middle of the night. And there's something that isn't blanket and suspicious hair-like that keeps brushing into his face. These aren't his wavy locks.

And-- well he can't stave off waking up any longer. Twilight sleep has ended long ago and he's got the munchies like wicked bad. Open those two hazel peepers go--

"Jesus fuck--"

21 claps one hand over his gaping mouth while he takes a moment to stare, stupefied.

The Mighty Monarch (and equally damndable Blue Morpho) lays sprawled beside him, so close that 21 can count each lash fanned across his cheek, the shadow of that strong nose like its own sundial in the room awash with sunlight.

A myriad of thoughts flash across Gary's mind; the hows, the whens, the does this make me a home wrecker hussy nows and especially--

I haven't been out of the house in two days so I still had the same goddamn undies on.

But also, also...maybe this was inevitable. Destiny, like Hank talked about and that is decisively not destiny filling out there against his hip. Nope.

Nor...not, for one stunning moment, are those his own bountiful breasts, soft and lush, pressed into his back. What the everloving fuck--

21 hardly dares turn his head but when he does the shape of black hair and make-up caked on the pillow beside him nearly has him going ghost.

An automatic whoop slides like butter right out of 21's mouth before he can stifle his hopes, dreams and future parallel universes. He's only been dreaming of this for the past five years! The kind of fantasy where there's no room to consider the consequences.

[mostly because this is what lulled him to a sticky slumber every night, wondering if he'd wake up tomorrow]

The reason this has stayed in the fantasy realm, the shadow realm, actually, isn't because of pointy hair or fuzzy balls. No its fuzzy eyebrows, his lack of abs and for many years the fact Doctor Girlfriend never knew he existed.

Speaking of fuzzy brows, that victory cry had most likely woken his boss. Or maybe it was just irony that had to make a tinkle so early. Either way, 21 begins to shake in his boots [actually just one sock, because the other is mysteriously absent this morning] as the Monarch stirs beside him.

Two dark eyes snap open, come into focus like some kind of Terminator scan. Gary holds his breath and thinks make room for me, 24- I'm coming home.

Kiss swollen lips split into a grin before 21 can process the bird that is his heart attempting to kill itself in the glass window of his rib cage [and Jesus CHRIST that's dark maybe he really is losing it] because here come the butterfly kisses: the tickle of the Monarch's eyelashes across his cheek.

21 is speechless. Further as such when he registers the raspy drawl of his leader's voice that sends shivers the very opposite of fear up his spine. It zings. They always said it would do that.

"Why are you shivering, babe? Is that the anticipation for round three I feel? The copious stinky reminder?"

No, that's the lack of Gary's dirty underwear to protect him from the reach around, that's what the Monarch feels with his surprisingly skilled fingers just-- yup, that's interest.

[that old Monarch charm is far more effective than he'd thought. Shit. Isn't that just adorable, that big smile]

"I'm gonna need you to not freak out, dude, okay? Okay." 21 holds up his hands in peace, and also in case he needs to use them to sooth his leader.

"I'm Gar-- er, 21. Not your wife. Whatever you got shot with should be wearing off, I guess? Maybe like, butterfly contacts that made you go crazy? Soaked in rum? I don't know, I'm not the expert on all this."

The Monarch holds him at arms length to peer deep into his eyes, an uncomfortable movie-stare kind of moment no one would deal with unless it meant big Hollywood bucks.

"Honey, get a load of this: 21 doesn't fucking remember," the Monarch huffs, dark eyes taking in the sight of his wife on the other side of his henchman.

Doctor Mrs the Monarch chooses that moment to roll over, toss one arm over 21's chest and a leg over his hip, and snorts and snuffles into his shoulder.

"Shut up already," comes that delectable baritone-- is there anything deeper than that? Has anyone figured that out? "If I knew you two were gonna have pillow talk so early I'd make you sleep on the couch."

The next moment is filled only with the sounds of her adorable snores and the ever present smugness of his boss, complete with shiteating grin. Smugness engulfs the room to the point Gary could choke on it and only complain a little.

"I know our sexual prowess was powerful enough to put the A-bomb and A-team to shame but I didn't think amnesia was our sexy power!" The Monarch laments in his own true fashion; teeth wrung in his bottom lip, smudged eyeliner.

Gary's heart hammers words in his ribs, spelled out suspiciously like hope. Without thinking, 21 drags the pad of his thumb over the corner of the Monarch's eye. Traces his cheek. His heart is full, head in a jumble, and he's really wondering about the underwear.

But, oh, but when the Monarch leans in, crushing their mouths together, its like the fireworks the movies talked about. Gary threads his fingers into ruddyred hair like he was meant to do it, and somewhere from beneath the covers a long, usually leotard-clad leg pokes out-- the foot pop.

When they part Gary's more than a little breathless and definitely a quarter hard. More importantly, with fireworks come stunning clarity and recollection.

"Oh...oh! That really happened!"

The murderflies-- or maybe shitflies-- in his belly hatch into butterflies in an instant. Where they fly off to, it isn't for Gary to know.

Ironicals of irony: another one of Rusty Goddamn Venture's toys had backfired, ironicals isn't a word, the world is fucked with this super scientist genius on America's payroll and they'd all rushed home (separately and secretly of course) only to confess in a rush of skin and probably movie lines.

The Monarch rolls his eyes. "Yes, that really fucking happened. Unbelieveable! I told you I'd only spank you if you're bad and this is completely shitty! Unacceptable!"

No longer afraid, Gary watches as his leader scrambles from the bed in full Monarch pose, buck ass naked and flushed red in love bites from head to toe:

"I want you and the wife back here in-- two minutes! I'm going to have to remind you why the sting of my caterpillar is one you should never forget! Even after a weekly amnesia plot!"

A snore from the wife doesn't drown out the skepticism.

"Dude, you call it that?"

"Fuck you, dude."
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