A HAIRY SITUATION
Summary: Things get a little hairy.
It's surprisingly hard to find a spare moment alone with another super hero. There's always a third -- or fourth or fifth -- party around getting in the way. Or one hero is assigned to go with Wonder Woman and Superman to save people from a volcano and the other is assigned monitor duty.
Therefore, it is of the utmost importance to *make* time to be together when one hero is attempting to romance another. So, if a man must get up at four in the morning to pack a picnic that will be stowed in the Watchtower fridge until dinnertime, that, apparently, is exactly what he'll do.
A two-hour vacation, he called it when he enveloped them and their picnic basket in a green energy bubble and descended from space to a tiny deserted island in the South Pacific. Ever one to argue a point, she simply called it a long dinner hour. But to her it didn't matter what name they hung on it, because it was the nicest way to eat a meal she'd ever experienced.
Now John sits upright, his bare legs stretched out before him on the beach. When they arrived, he used his ring to morph his green and black bodysuit into a loose fitting, brightly colored shirt and white shorts.
Maskless, Shayera leans against his shoulder, her wings drooping lazily. She, too, is dressed in the "appropriate beach attire" he supplied her. The white tank top easily accommodates her wings and the bright blue shorts hug her hips comfortably.
In silence, they watch the sun inch its way into the ocean, eventually leaving them with only the fading light of a used day and a small fire to see by.
He digs his bare toes into the soft sand, occasionally kicking a bit in her direction. She suspects he does this just to hear her giggle, because she made the mistake of letting a small titter out when they first arrived and he tackled her to the sand.
She can feel his gaze on her, but she chooses to keep her eyes forward, on his dark legs. It's one of the few times she's ever seen him in anything but his Lantern Corps uniform, and the very first time she's seen him in short pants. A tiny chill runs up her spine when she contemplates seeing him in even fewer clothes.
She reaches out and touches his knee. His skin contrasts sharply with the white sand, while hers tends to blend in with their current surroundings. She decides she very much likes the differences in color. It makes a good contrast, like just about everything else about them.
It's John's turn to shiver when she slowly drags her nails up his thigh, her fingers dipping toward the inside ever so slightly. The coarse hair bristles under her touch and it fascinates her.
"Do humans have hair all over their bodies?" she asks, looking up at him, as she absently plucks at a few individual strands.
John chuckles somewhat squeakily, but he quickly clears his throat. "Pretty much" He reaches down and slides his palm up her smooth calf. "I see you've shaved yours off."
"I don't have hair on my legs," she tells him.
"Really?" His eyebrows creep up, then his eyes lower to her leg. A smirk flashes in the low light. "Must be a real time saver in the morning."
"Actually, I don't have hair anywhere."
That gets his attention because his eyes snap right back up to hers. "What? No way..." He picks up her hand and examines her forearm by the firelight. Her arm is just as smooth and bare as her leg. He makes a funny huffing noise. "Well, I'll be damned."
She reaches up to his face and drags a finger over his stubble. He leans into her touch as she moves up to his eyebrows then gently glances over his eyelashes. Her hand ends its travels on the top of his head. "There are so many different textures."
John quirks an eyebrow at her. "You act like you've never felt hair before," he chuckles.
"I haven't really."
The look he gives her clearly states he's not falling for the joke. He points to her red mane. "What do you call all that?"
He blinks. He blinks again. He then purses his lips and shakes his head. "Right. Nice try."
She scowls at his lack of trust in her. "Not feathers like on my wings. Those are mostly flight and contour feathers."
His glowing eyes remain narrow.
Miffed, she tilts her head down so he could get a closer look. "My 'hair,' as you call it on Earth, is a type of specialized down that can grow to almost any length." She lifts her head and points to her lashes. "These are bristle feathers. And these," she points to her eyebrows, "are modified filoplumes."
John frowns dubiously, but moves closer. Apparently unable to see a difference, he raises his thumb to her face. Her eyes slide shut as he trails over her lids and brow. She now knows there's a tactile difference between his hairs and her feathers and she waits for him to discover it as well.
"They're stiff," John observes out loud.
Warily, his hands rise, and she knows he's anticipating a rough feel on the top of her head as well. A gentle touch and she sees his eyebrows fly up. Almost instantly, his fingers plunge through to her scalp and are then dragged back out very, very slowly.
He's had cause over the years to touch her, but usually with his gloves on, and never with the express purpose of checking texture. She's pleased when he smiles broadly and exhales, "So soft."
He continues to comb through the thin feathers, clearly intrigued by how it flows and reacts almost exactly like human hair. His fingers pull back gradually, stretching the slight curls out flat before the strands fall completely away.
"Wow." He darts in for a kiss, but she grabs him by the neck and holds him close, locking her lips to his. It has been, after all, a good forty minutes since he's kissed her. He presses forward; she pushes back, the very tip of her tongue darting out for a taste of his bottom lip. A moment later she's examining the rough surface of his molars as he reclines to the sand, taking her with him.
Her calf comes in contact with his leg. The rough feel of the hair against her smoothness feels odd. Experimentally, she draws her leg up and then moves it slowly down, paying careful attention to the scrape against her skin. It sends a tingle to her toes. She rubs him repeatedly, calf to calf, and he groans his approval around their tongues.
John's hands move over her body. His fingers twist through feathers on her head and wings, they caress her arms and back. A palm slides lower and again travels the length of her leg. She feels him smile beneath her lips. His fingers continue their upward trek, poking beyond the blue fabric barrier to points he has yet to discover. His lips suddenly pop free and she can't help but chuckle at the stunned expression on his face.
Nearly as quickly, the look softens. His radiant eyes spark with mischief just before his mouth returns to hers and his fingers resume their exploration of the only other place Thanagarians have feathers.