These Things by Nancy Brown (nancyelizabrown@aol.com) Copyright 2004 NC-17 Disclaimer: DC and Warner Brothers would be very mad at me if they knew about this. Feedback: Sure. I haven't written smut since the days when I was still available for sacrifice at the local temple of your choice, so public or private crit will help me, um, serve your needs better. Ahem. * These are the things he should not think about. After his sixth double shift this week, he should have been too exhausted to think, to do anything more than collapse into his bed. He'd timed his last cup of coffee so the caffeine would be out of his system now, not flickering through his veins, forcing his eyes open to watch the ceiling, or worse, in his restlessness allow his arm to wander too far from his side of the bed and meet no resistance beside him. He ought to have been far too tired to think of her. Instead, streetlights streamed in through the chinks in his blinds, making small, bright patterns on the wall and floor. It was too muggy tonight for much activity on the street, but he could still hear the mutter of cars go by, and in the silence of his room, every noise from outside amplified into a sleep- robbing ruckus. Too noisy, too bright, and far too hot to sleep. She was always cool, her resting body temperature about six or seven degrees below his, and curling around her tonight would be like resting in the shade after a long day in the sun. He would wrap his arms around her waist, and he would be so very careful not to pinch her wings this time, and she would make a soft noise in her throat as he slid his body behind hers, covering her everywhere. He had to stop thinking like this. Had to stop it now, because his mind had provided more than enough information for his body to react. John got out of bed, ran water in the bathroom sink until it was icy cold, and splashed his face. The chill caught him off-guard, but only for a few seconds. The water picked up the heat off his skin and the night, and then instead of being wet and cold, he was just wet. But cooler. In the corner of the mirror, he saw the bath's small trash can. He only ever used it for the rare tissue or dull razor blade, but she ... "What are you doing in there?" The shower had gone silent a good ten minutes ago, and he knew she wasn't shy. She paused. "Preening." "Do you need a bigger mirror?" he teased. "Not what I meant." He tapped at the door, opened it slowly so as not to hit her with the knob. Shayera gave him her "You're in my way" frown, but continued her work while he watched. She was still entirely nude, and this made his observation that much more pleasant. She ran her hands through the layers of feathers on her left wing, and plucked two, no bigger than quarters in her palm. She dropped them in the trash. "Doesn't that hurt?" "They were about to fall out." "Oh." He wanted to ask her more, ask if she did this every day, but then she was done and she had her smile back on, and she pressed up against him, and then the bathroom was really far too small. He didn't look in the trash can, wouldn't look. He knew he hadn't emptied it in over two months, and she had only been gone for one. He pulled the chain for the light, stood in the warm darkness in front of his mirror and he was just another shadow. Back in his bed, the heat wasn't as bad as it'd been. He pulled the sheet back up and over, thinking maybe he could change it out with the sheets in the closet, and have cool linens for a few minutes before they absorbed his body heat as well. Headlights drifted across his ceiling again and again. Every morning when he'd made the bed — her concept of making a bed meant throwing the top blanket on the crumpled sheets — he'd expected to find to find tiny grey feathers. Not one, not ever, and maybe that's why she was so fastidious about her wings. And he'd washed these sheets twice since she'd left, and the others three times, and was he really thinking about laundry at two a.m.? He had to stop thinking about her. He could do it around the others, had to. He couldn't stand the way they looked at him, or tried not to look. J'onn's great sad eyes told him he understood, but John didn't want someone to understand. Wally spent every spare minute trying to "cheer him up." John felt he'd shown remarkable restraint in not decking him the last time, an instant pride that made J'onn look even more somber. Superman and Diana were being very careful not to mention anything in his presence that might possibly remind him of her. And Batman, well, he had gotten over it, and acted as though he assumed everyone else had too. "The point is, these things happen. You just have to deal with it." Like he could do that. Like he could just forget everything, and go on like a robot. Hell, Batman probably did expect that, would have done that. Batman didn't know what she was like, not really, although maybe John didn't know her so well either if she could fool him so easily into believing she cared. No. She hadn't been pretending. He'd known then, knew even when he'd seen her with Talak, knew it now. He knew her. He knew her eyes, knew her smile, had made a careful study of every other inch of her. He remembered the taste and scent of her skin, how his mouth curled in amusement every time he breathed in the apricot scent of the soap she favored, the clean smell of her shampoo. He knew the soft place just under the swell of her breasts where one swipe of his tongue would make her shiver, would raise gooseflesh along her arms. He knew just how much pressure to apply with the tips of his teeth to bring her nipples into hard peaks, and just how long to suckle at them to make her moan. The calluses on his own hands were long familiar on his cock, and it wasn't like he was getting to sleep any other way. He wasn't even surprised to notice he'd already removed his briefs. He ran his hands over her, down her sides to touch and tickle as he continued loving her breasts. It wasn't long before his fingers slipped down, cupped her tight ass, making her squirm even more, because she knew what he wanted. His fingers slid around to her front, slid inside her and she was so wet he groaned. Pre-come slicked the head of his cock, and he ran his palm through it, lubed himself, kept his pace slow even as his breathing quickened. Her breathing quickened as he lay her back — gently! — as he left soft kisses on her stomach, as he took that first, heady taste of her. Every woman was different, human or alien or what have you, and each one had her own unique shape down there. He explored her now, and her soft places were unlike any other he'd known, so he placed kisses everywhere, though not at her center. She wriggled again, trying to coax him to her most sensitive places as he teased and tasted. "Dammit, John," she said, but the irritation was a thin cover. He pulled off the sheet. No use for it here and now, and he was steaming. His fist jerked faster. He flicked her central exposed ridge with his tongue and she shouted, grasping for purchase in his too-short hair. Now that he was through teasing, he nibbled and lapped at her like he was licking a melting ice cream cone on a hot July afternoon. He felt a soft rush of fluid from her in his mouth, and again he knew her ancestors had crawled out of a different sea. Her cries came from deep inside her throat. God, he wondered what the neighbors thought, if they ever saw her come into his apartment, if they whispered and pointed. Then she drew her legs up around him, rested her heels on his back and he didn't give a damn about the neighbors or anyone else. He prayed like mad the commlink wouldn't go off again. "Now," she said, and he pulled away from her with one last touch of his tongue. She pulled him to her, and they kissed, and he knew she tasted herself in his mouth as her own tongue probed deep. They rolled, and he was on his back, still trying to kiss her even as she set her legs to either side of him. She wasn't always on top, but it was the easiest, safest way, whether they were in the bed or on the rug. He loved backing her against the shower wall, helping her balance as her own weight pressed him deeper inside her and the water slowly went cold. Once he'd had her on her knees, holding onto the couch and panting as he'd taken her from behind, both of them turned on after she'd mentioned it was how things were traditionally done back home; even that paled in comparison to having her in the same position an hour later, with her face buried in his pillow, and her knees spread wide on his comforter. He lost it then, lost the rhythm, almost lost his erection. Before, when she'd told him she'd had other lovers, he'd seen them as abstract, unreal figures who had come into her life and were gone like the women in his own past. Now he had a name and a face to go with her most recent lover, and his mind helpfully provided a clear image of Shayera on her knees with Talak behind her, thrusting again and again as she cried out her pleasure. Part of him would always wonder if she'd slept with Talak during the invasion, if only for old time's sake. He was almost certain she hadn't, but then, he'd been certain of plenty of things about her right up to the moment she'd hit him. "It wasn't personal." She'd only hit him once before, and it had been to save him from Brainiac's control. This time, he could argue that she'd actually saved his life because Talak was coming with hundreds of troops, and John would have died before being captured. She knew that. She knew him. It was two-fifteen in the morning, and he was allowed his delusions here alone in his bedroom. He could pretend he knew for sure that she had taken him down to save him. He could pretend he knew she would never betray him, not in her heart, that she had intended to set them all free when she'd gotten away from the watchful eyes of that Lieutenant. He could pretend he knew she loved him, wanted him still. "I want you," she breathed when they stole a moment alone in a storage room in the Watchtower. Like some horny kid, he fumbled at the closure to her top and she arched as he placed a kiss in the hollow between her breasts. His cock stiffened in his hand again, and he restarted his slow pace. A fingertip against his glans was like her tongue the first time she'd taken him into her mouth. Her throat was deep and slick and he'd bucked against her. "Need you," she said, and his heart beat even faster than it had when she'd brought him back to life hours before. He let her set the pace, let her lead him to what she wanted because he was so tired, and so bruised, and he wanted her so very badly. Her hands were on his briefs, pulling them down and away. He watched her watching him, and wondered which of the million questions they needed to ask each other would come out first, and then she'd bent and kissed him, and he knew he loved her more than anything. The bed was firm against his shoulders, and he was hard. He licked at his hand, tasting the salt, and then gasped at the wetness against his cock. She was above him and beautiful. Her hand guided him in, and she was tight and cool like nothing else he'd ever known. His hips rose to meet her, and then she shifted, just an inch, and now he could feel his cock rubbing against that sensitive ridge, could see her biting her own lip to keep from screaming at the contact, instead making the tiny whines he knew meant her climax was close. He thrust harder, watched her jiggle in all the right ways as she rode him. God, she was gorgeous. He wanted to touch her, wanted to stroke her face, her neck, her wings, her legs, but all he could do was hold on to her small waist. "I want to watch you," he gasped, "want to see you come," and her face looked almost pained. He moved his hand between them, placed his thumb just above where she made contact with his skin, felt her ridge at his thumb tip, and pressed in just so. He was right there, right there, and he fucked his fist like he had countless times before but it was Shayera he was fucking, and he squeezed. "Oh god!" She cried out something in her own language, dug into his side with her sharp talons — later he would see that she'd drawn blood — but the bright pain in his side only heightened the pleasure of her internal spasms surrounding him and he came with a shout, felt her crest a second, lesser time even as his thrusts abated. She pulled his face to hers, and kissed him, and pressed her forehead to his, and stared into his eyes as their breathing returned to normal. He was so sensitive now, and he gasped again as he pulled out of her, still staring back. "I love you so much," she said, and he could only nod, and place a tired kiss at her lips. There was a mess on his chest and stomach. He reached beside the bed, grabbed his discarded briefs, and cleaned up the best he could. One good toss landed the abused underwear in his hamper. The bedclothes had survived unstained, so he didn't have to change them after all. John pulled the thin sheet over himself again. His heart rate slowed. His sleepy thoughts drifted to a half-memory, when they'd gone to her favorite lonely spot in the mountains, and lain together in two sleeping bags they'd zipped into one big bag, watching as the stars wheeled around above them. She'd curled behind him, enfolding him in her arms and her wings and her love, and he'd never felt so safe, or so happy. His last conscious thought was a hope that she was safe and happy, wherever she'd gone. But he couldn't make himself believe that, not even at two-thirty in the morning, not even in his dreams. *