scubatankfilledwithfarts. (no subject) (Reply)

Of course a man remembers the first time he makes it with his future wife [and the second, and the third, and so on and on until he only has to watch those blue eyes play out across the backs of his eyelids like a work of art brought to life just for him], but the first time he’s vulnerable to her, the first time they’re bare to one another? Not something a cruel, clever and brilliant villain would admit to anyone but her.

Nothing compares to lying upon her wheezing bosom in the scalped-out beginnings of their cocoon [their home], not a snazzy sandstone [not a field of wingbeats, the futile warmth of fragile bodies tickling his cheeks as he curled into sleep], nor a dorm. The rattle of her voice, the softness of her body curved around his.

[and “this is heaven”, and he believes it the same way he believes he was destined to hate Rusty Venture] Her fingertips trace up his navel, up, up, to a puckered scar across his rib cage.

“How’d you get this?”

The Monarch puffs his chest out, mouth widening into that too-big grin. “Oh, this little baby? I just broke a lightbulb in my nemesis’ lab, then was thrown onto it by this skinny bitch in a pant suit.” And without asking, naturally, the skinny supervillain in the making sits up, flexing his taunt body to stretch and show her another on one delicate ankle—

“This one is from a mosquito bite I got as a kid that I scratched too hard—you’d think nectar would help that—and this one is from when I fell out a window while putting my pants on at school, and this—”

Watching him contort in all kinds of incredibly unsexy positions, Dr. Probably-Girlfriend’s face softens, and The Monarch stops, awed by the warmth he finds there [not futile like fragile wingbeats, and oh, his heart beats hard like a windstorm].

She takes his face in her hands, her mouth smudged with the leftovers of her lipstick, and his lips [equally smudged and not cherry flavored], and The Monarch’s brain stutters to a halt. He does what he never [always] does: he panics, heart in his throat, or maybe in his taint, who knows.

“Uh, wait—wait, I forgot how—” And damn him, Dr. Girlfriend stops, too, and there’s something blank in her face, something he refuses to latch on to [the crushing of his heart]—

And she chuckles, lighthearted, the sound reverberating deep and pleasantly between their chests where they’re pressed together.

“I’d better show you again, hmm? Would you like that, Monarch?” And she still draws him in for that kiss. Again, and again, dizzily, and again.