He’s reading as she flits around the room getting ready for bed, he hasn’t read in a long time and is determined to get most of it read tonight, back propped up a bit as his long legs are spread across the mattress. He pays her no mind as she buzzes around the room, gaze not leaving the page as she crawls into bed next to him. He’s completely immersed in the words till she begins unbuttoning his shirt just a bit more.
She had gotten bored cuddled next to him moving instead to lay between his legs her elbows resting carefully on his hips while slender fingers trace over the two little birds. She’s not doing it for attention it’s just something she likes to do, trace them, his tattoos running her finger along the lines trying to feel a difference that isn’t there. He sneaks a glance looking to her face under the book, she’s not smiling or frowning her cheek smushed a bit as she rests her head in her free hand, she looks content it makes Harry feel funny he likes this just being in each other’s company not needing anything more than the comforts of each other’s presence … little does he know …
He returns to the words hand faltering as he turns the page, her nimble fingers cold against his stomach as she unbuttons the rest pushing it away with featherlight touches, she’s going for the butterfly, it’s her favorite one, she’s told him plenty of times before, that and the ferns she especially likes to trace with both hands mirroring the movements of one with the other across the identical ink.
She starts with the antenna to the right tracing the outing ending with the left antenna before running her fingers along the details of the middle. She too caught up with her tracing she doesn’t notice him setting down the book after dog earring the page, keeping his hands at his sides, it’s not hard just letting her do her thing biting at his plush bottom lip watching her touch him like he was some kinda work of art. She traced a finger down dragging it in a lazy circle around his belly bottom before weaving it through the course hairs crowing his boxers. His breathing has picked up a bit, something about the moment making his head swirl and blood begin to relocate.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing to him, starting at the rightmost part of the tattoo and tracing to the left, she feels it then as she shifts to have better access to the other branch, his growing cock, it’s been getting heavy and full with her touching, his lip is abused as he bites it to hold back the sounds. At the first feel she looks up at him shyly, “What’re yeh doin’ hmm?”
She looks back to where her finger is just starting the final tattoo, “I’m just touching you" she responds as her finger begins to move again. He doesn’t respond right away, letting her almost finish,
prompt from @sanverspotsticker – “Clark meets Maggie kinda in the way he met Mon El tonight”
She’s not that excited to meet him.
He’s only Alex’s cousin.
He’s only Superman.
And Maggie Sawyer is not – will not be – Winn Schott.
Winn, who practically tumbled down a flight of stairs when Superman flew back in (Vasquez lost ten bucks to Maggie in the process).
She’s certainly not excited to meet him.
It’s not like she idolized him growing up.
No, she’s not excited to meet him at all.
Because he’s only Alex’s cousin.
So she’s not excited.
She’s absolutely terrified.
It had gone well with Alex’s mom, and Kara was warming up to her.
It had gone well with J’onn, and with Alex’s brothers.
But Clark was the extended family; Clark was the part of the family that Maggie was shuttled out to at fourteen. The part of the family who hated her, perhaps, even more than the parents who didn’t have to deal with her anymore.
So, ordinarily, she’d be nearly tumbling down those stairs right alongside Winn.
But this isn’t just Superman.
This is Alex’s cousin.
Alex watches her with curious eyes and a soft grin. She knows what a big fan of Leslie Willis, Cat Grant, James Olsen, Batwoman – the list goes on – that Maggie is.
Superman’s sure to be on the list.
So Alex nudges her slightly right before Clark catches her eye, before he tilts his head, before he strides over to them with a midwestern gait and a small smile in the middle of a war, because his cousin’s never giggled about anyone before, but god, she giggles about Maggie.
So, war or no war – dire circumstances or not – Clark is eager to meet his cousin’s girlfriend.
He holds out a warm hand, slight wariness mixed with genuine welcome in his eyes.
“You must be the woman my cousin is absolutely crazy about,” he offers, and Alex tries not to preen.
“Maggie Sawyer,” Maggie nods and shakes firmly, her voice somewhat smaller than it usually is, her eyes somewhat shier.
“You’re treating her right?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.
“I try to every second of every day,” Maggie tells him, restraining herself from adding a “sir” to the end of her sentence. She reminds herself that Kara used to change this guy’s diapers.
Superman grins, and his smile is almost as bright as his cousins’. “And is she treating you right?” he asks while Alex pffts and shoves him.
But Maggie’s voice is solemn, serious, when she answers.
“No one’s ever treated me better.”
Alex’s giggle cuts off mid-breath, and Clark holds Maggie’s eyes with such intensity that they almost start up his heat vision.
She holds his gaze, her chin up, her eyes earnest, her palms somewhat clenched at her sides.
And then she’s being pulled into a long, warm, surprisingly gentle hug.
She tries not to squeal.
“You two should spend a weekend with Lois and I in Metropolis when this is all over. She’d love to meet the newest member of the Danvers family, Maggie.”
Before Maggie can stammer out a response, the radio buzzes with information about a fresh attack west of the DEO.
Superman points upwards, and Alex nods.
“Up, up, and away,” he winks at Maggie, taps his index finger underneath Alex’s chin, and soars toward danger.
“Superman hugged me!” Maggie’s voice is slightly strained.
“Thought it was no big deal, he’s only my cousin?” Alex grins and nudges her with her shoulder as they both head back to tactical command.
“But he hugged me,” Maggie repeats, and she sounds an awful lot like Winn.
The wonderful orenjimaru (I put a link because it refuses to tag) drew a fabulous piece with Jack and Gabriel on TumblrandTwitter!
Which inspired me to write this:
Gabriel visited the one Angela called ‘Jack’ every time he was at the watchpoint.
It had taken her weeks to relent and let him inside, she thought his intentions malicious, but that was to be expected. A cancer was growing inside of Overwatch and it was Gabriel’s job to snuff it out. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t at the top of the list in ‘persons of interest’.
The first time he visited, it was for a routine check-up and the large, bubbling tube of green liquid caught his eye from the exam room. He had migrated to it like a bug to a light, booted footsteps heavy against Angela’s tile floor.
I went to ACEN this weekend and in all the Voltron prints there was a disturbing lack of Coran so I’m taking matters into my own hands to draw my fav! (Second pic just accurately shows my love for him)
I’ve seen a lot of fanart and fics where aged up Lance has scars on his skin,
and man do I dig that aesthetic, but what if it’s the opposite? What if healing
pods not only repair injuries to the point where there’s no scarring, but they
also repair old damage? Like, say, regenerating tissues and cells to the point
where the whole body is like brand new.
scar that Lance’s sister gave him when he was four? Gone. The old burn he had
when he was twelve and touched the stove? Like it was never there in the first
place. And siblings fight, and Lance has a lot of siblings, so he’s bound to
have many “battle” scars, but they’re wiped away, one by one
like they were
never there, like his past with his family never happened.
maybe at some point, when he only has so many scars left, Lance starts fearing
taking an injury, not because of pain and blood, but because that means another
trip to a healing pod. Another mark of his past, proof that he really is a boy
from Cuba, washed away like ocean foam. Maybe at some point, even if the injury
is severe enough to warrant a visit to the pods, but not quite severe
enough that it’d keep Lance from piloting Blue, he denies Coran when he
suggests he visit the infirmary. Maybe he wants to heal naturally, welcoming
new scars to join the old ones.
he learns to accept it, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe the birthmark on his hip is one
day wiped away, replaced by unblemished tanned skin, and maybe Lance stays up
till two crying because there’s so little left of who he used to be. What’s
left of him that hasn’t been stomped on by parades of war and sullied with
blood, tears and duty?
maybe, when years have passed and the universe is finally well off that they
can return home for a few vargas, maybe… Maybe Lance still looks the same.
Maybe all his visits to the healing pods; being exposed to their magic and
quintessence has regenerated him to the point where he still looks exactly the
same as he did when they snuck out of the Garrison that one oh so fateful
night. Maybe it’s been two years, maybe it’s been ten, but the Paladins all
look the same, to the dot, like they’re untouched by time. But Lance’s family doesn’t. His little sister, who used to only
reach Lance’s hip, all pigtails and freckles, maybe she’s now tall enough to reach his chest and
better at math than Lance will ever be. Maybe she has new scars Lance has never
seen or kissed away.
Maybe his mom has worry lines and grey hairs Lance knows she didn’t have when he last saw her, and maybe she talks less than he remembers. Maybe she has to pinch herself when she first sees her son after however many years, because he hasn’t changed a bit. Maybe she breaks into tears at the sight of him, and her hug is just as warm and three times as tight as Lance remembers.
Maybe his siblings give him a new scar to cherish before there’s another planet, another crisis that needs Voltron.