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“As the mission concerns the arrest of a criminal that the League is invested to bring into custody,” J’onn’s calm stare that he settles upon you is an oasis in the sea of chaos, “This means that we must rely on the assistance of less savory characters.”
“Which is why we’re working with him?” you ask, feeling a degree of growing trepidation as you cast your eyes out of the second floor window. Below, you can see Guy in the backyard hoisting up the lawn table for an arm-wrestling match his opponent seems ready to begin. You let your eyes dare over said opponent’s broad figure as he hefts himself down into his makeshift chair, ready for the kill.
“Yes,” J’onn affirms your question with a weariness that belies his usual demeanor, “Because his expertise in…tracking will help. Guy is familiar with intergalactic travel, which makes him another excellent candidate for the mission.”
“And me?” you ask, watching as the flimsy table is already beginning to buckle under the weight of the exertion liberally pushed into it. “Why am I going?”
J’onn knows that it’s not the question of a petulant whiner—not like other people who might complain on the League—it’s a question borne of genuine curiosity. This is why he chooses to deign it with a proper answer beyond what waters down to a ‘you’ll do what you’re told.’
“You are invulnerable and an excellent fighter,” J’onn says, his praise without excessive gravity laved upon it, “And you will not encourage Guy or Lobo’s…”
He pauses as he searches for a family-friendly word, settling upon a slow, “…Antics.”
You nod, your expression level as you mentally buckle down for the long road ahead of you. “Is there anything else I need to keep in mind?”
J’onn nods, appreciative of your presence of mind. “Yes. Bring Guy back alive.”
You swing your gaze back down to the window, where it appears that Guy has settled upon creating his own construct table. The previous one appears to have become a twisted, crumpled heap of metal tossed to the distant side of the yard in between two gaudily painted lawn gnomes.
“What about Lobo?” You ask, feeling your mouth dry as you speak.
“I am required to ask you to keep Guy alive because he is a member of the League.” J’onn seems to be drawing from that reserve of Martian reticence, where one says much more than they actually do. “If you wish to extend the same care to the bounty hunter, then you may do so.”
Your eyes sweep down to where the two of them, it seems, have devolved to regular wrestling in the shrubbery, rolling through the grass. You intuit, from the deep sigh that J’onn gusts out, that he is watching them both as well.
“I understand,” you say, and it appears that he is grateful that you do.
The Brex are a group of roaming space-brigands that blaze a path of stealing, maiming and killing wherever the inclination encourages them to roam. They are also, if coddled enough, as Lobo says, excellent informants. This means that it falls upon the three of you to find appropriate candidate and make them, also as Lobo says, squeal.
It’s no difficult fight—their capability is warranted through sheer numbers and the fact that those they usually encounter are more willing to part with their valuables than their lives. But there seems to be a great deal of them that swarm down upon you three in this landscape of the stars. So this means that it’ll take longer than you initially hoped.
Guy and Lobo seem to have no predilection with getting down and dirty, which means that you have to leap into the fray after them. Guy has constructed a green baseball bat that he snaps across the purple shins of a Brex.
It appears they the same lack of integrity in that general area that humans have, based off the way they howl and fold at site of impact. They don’t have long to question what’s broken, as Guy cracks the bat down their skull and they drift off, victim to the tide of space’s weightlessness.
You catch the blade of a rather primitive sword that seems to be a sharpened pane of metal twined to two rather sturdy sticks that suffice as a handle. The interrupted arc of impact towards your face tremors through your would-be opponent who gapes, six eyes ogling at you in fear.
J’onn’s words ring through your head as you seize your fingers inward and the blade snaps against your curled fist. With your other, you palm the Brex’s head—unpleasantly tacky to the touch—and push down, so the alien goes speedily coasting across the vastness. It’ll take him a while to swim back to join the fray, which means that you can focus on the other three that don’t know when to quit.
They’re easy, embarrassingly easy—which means that you can keep an eye on your compatriots, who are appearing to be having the time of their lives. Guy shouts “fore!” as he sends a comically large golf club through a thicket of Brex, scattering their stunned bodies across the black oblivion of space. And Lobo—you turn, slapping a blaster away from your face, the laser ricocheting off the full of your brow.
Lobo appears to be flocked by the Brex, who each appear to be about a third of his size—and that’s being generous. A few feel brave enough to cling to his impressive arms, diving for his legs—for all the good that it does them. He’s laughing, a booming roar of a noise that shudders through you even with the vacuum of space—he viciously shakes off a trio that collide into each other.
Another gets grabbed by the skull and flung off until he’s little more than a blip, another twinkling star with the other heavenly bodies. Two more are grabbed in his great hands, seized by the ankles, and slapped together with a sound you actually liken to coconuts. When he releases them, a smug look of enjoyment on his face, they float away limply into the air. It’s beastly, but you’ll admit it’s efficient.
He’s taking long enough time to enjoy his handiwork that neither he, nor Guy, who is zipping after an escaping pair, see a Brex resurfacing with a plasma diffuser aimed at Lobo’s head.
You don’t waste breath—you fly against the pressure of gravity, arm cocked back. You’re so focused on trying to keep the bolt from releasing into the back of Lobo’s brain that you’re barely cognizant of the fact that you have to grab his shoulder and lean over him, your hand covering the muzzle of the shotgun.
The Brex has the span of a second to stare open-mouthed before you wrench the diffuser from his unexpecting grasp—then the grip of his own gun is sapped hard enough into his face he’s not conscious enough to appreciate your capabilities.
You don’t release the gun, though, taking care to adjust your grip as you slam it down on the remaining Brex that are crawling up Lobo’s legs, swinging it back wide so that it renders the approaching five unconscious—and then you pause.
It seems that the Brex have decided that this is not a worthy fight, from the way that the remaining mobile members are returning back to their jump-jets or cycles—Lobo chuckles throatily at how they run.
“Wait—”—you say, releasing the diffuser to let it be reclaimed by the lack of gravity—“—The informant—”
“Looks like Guy’s got that taken care of, sweetheart.” Lobo gruffly informs you—you turn, locating the green silhouette nearing close enough you can see a captive trussed up by a radiant green lariat.
“Oh, good.” you say, unsure of what else to add upon this. You don’t envy the Brex about to be submitted to their tender mercies—Lobo’s voice disrupts you from thinking too deeply upon this.
“Looks like you got me handled too,” he says, and you turn back, confused as you look down. A shock of embarrassment lances up your spine as you realize that your hand is still on his shoulder. Your fingers are locked tightly into his bare skin that flexes under you—whether to release tension, or for your pleasure remains unknown to you—under your grip. He chuckles at your discovery, and it’s an unpleasant, crude noise that sends another wave of heat through you.
“What else do those hands do, honey?” He asks, his eyes locked upon yours—you gape, searching for words that won’t come.
“I, uh—”—is all that you offer, and you release him, reclaiming your hand as your own, “Um—”
He laughs again, entertained at the way that you look at him like a deer caught in headlights. Still nothing seems to come to mind.
“Tongue tied in front of the main man, huh?” He’s pleased at your inarticulacy, closing back the distance that you had put between the two of you—he looms, blocking out your view of the stars that surround you both. “I get that I have that effect, baby.”
“I was trying to help—”—is all that you can come up with. “They were going to shoot you.”
“Yeah, saw that nice move with the diffuser.” Lobo doesn’t sound appreciative—he sounds smug, a wolfish grin on his face. “Didn’t know you had a soft spot for me like that.”
“I don’t—”—you begin, frowning as you try to hear yourself over the rush of the pulse in your heart—it’s never been quite so loud before, so concentrated in the base of your throat.
He gives you a dubious laugh that seems to sing through you with the deep, reverberating bass of it.
“I know what I saw, cutie.” He laughs, disregarding your statement as he rolls those massive shoulders again. “You can deny it all you want—I know when someone’s barkin’ up my tree.”
“What—”—you blurt, and now it feels like you’re bathed in an all-consuming heat as he seems persistent to press further into your space. Your mind has become devoid of any retort that could be proper counter-argument to this, an odd swooping in the pit of your stomach. This, it seems, is only adding fuel to the fire.
“Leave ‘em alone, Lobo.” Guy says as he arrives in the nick of time with his traveling buddy—you’ve never been so grateful to hear his voice. “They ain’t so good with words like I am.”
Lobo isn’t excited to let this prospect go. “Maybe I like that quality in someone.”
Guy totes his cargo a little closer to him as you finally settle upon something to ask, your voice undisguised to the flustered note in it. “Why—why is that?”
Lobo’s lighting up a cigar of victory, his face illuminated with a strident red. “Way I hear it, with your type, actions speak louder than words.”
He leans in so that you can smell the musk of his overwhelming cologne, voice thick with something you don’t want to discern at the moment. “So what’re you gonna do about it?”
The limits of your verbal capacity are reached. You stretch out a hand into the dense muscle of his chest, and push him away, turning to instigate some distance between the two of you. Guy’s cackle sails after you.
“Think that’s your answer, Lobo.” Guy taunts him. Lobo’s reply that you hear coursing back across space is indifferent to this temporary rejection.
“Good thing I’m a persistent guy.” He cheekily replies, and if it’s laden with intent, you pointedly ignore it for now, narrowing your eyes to admire blinking stars.
The Navigator’s Rest-Stop is a glorified Motel 6 In Space, with a tired three-eyed receptionist that looks levelly at the three of you darkening their doorstep. You figure that it’s better if you do the talking for this surface-level interaction to give yourself a respite from the friendly bickering behind you. Neither of them seem to complain at this, so they take the rear, and you try to imagine that you can’t feel the persistent stare of one of them admiring your backside.
“Do you have three rooms?” You ask—the receptionist doesn’t even do you the courtesy of looking through the ledger collecting dust by their scaly green arm.
“We have one room available.” They inform you, with an intonation you might find in the recesses of an Earth casino seven cigarettes deep. “No other vacancies.”
You assume, from the grim way that they watch you, that you must go through some type of face journey, your mental train of thought running deep turmoil at this revelation. Surprisingly, they’re patient enough to let you endure the five stages of grief before you speak up again, your voice an urgent whisper.
“Are…are there three beds in there?” You ask, bowing your head as if this will further hush your voice.
“There’s three ways for people to sleep in there, if that’s what you’re asking,” They inform you, not giving you the same courtesy of whispering. You try not to cringe as you’re certain the news of your current predicament is making waves through your two companions.
“We can share a bed if you’re worried, sweetheart,” Lobo’s voice carouses towards you, a hot, heavy hand clapping over your shoulder, “I don’t mind sharing.”
“Hey, what the fuck about me?” Guy grouses as he pulls up to put in his two cents about the situation.
“Fight me for it, Gardner,” Lobo returns crassly, a wicked smile displaying some rather sharp canines, and then jerks his head down to you—“—They get special privileges.”
“Yeah, what kind of special privileges?” Guy shoots back snidely as he scowls up at his obstacle for comfortable bedding.
“Figure it out yourself,” He grins, and squeezes your shoulder possessively, the heat leaching into your body. “They will.”
Once again, you find yourself robbed of words, his statement making you inhale sharply—he chuckles again, and this time, the noise isn’t so awful to you—you need to sit down. There’s simply far too much the spread of his hand on you is inspiring each continuing second he touches you.
“So, are you taking the room or not?” The receptionist asks, looking rather disinterested with the devolution of the three-man act in front of them.
Mercifully, there’s a bed, a couch, and a large-enough chair. You decide to take one for the team and grab a few blankets off of the bed to rest on the chair, hoping you won’t be too sore in the morning.
The outlook of fighting Lobo for the bed or the couch, based off of the expectant look he shoots you, makes you feel…uncomfortable. But, not entirely unopposed. It’s something you want to sort through and reconcile with later, in the comfort of your own room, back on earth. Away from the madness.
The two of them want to go into the nearest spaceport to get fucked up—Lobo sells Guy on the promise of some great Korugarian ale that they have stockpiled.
“Wanna come with?” Guy shoots you a look over his shoulder as they make way to the door—you shake your head.
“I’d rather sleep on the bed while I have the chance.” You nod in the direction of said furniture.
“Without me?” Lobo taunts. This has the particular effect of making you take flustered stare down to the ground, without ammunition of words again.
But you look up again when Guy warningly says, “That’s limited time only—shit’s mine the second I get back.”
“That’s what you fuckin’ think, Guy—”—Lobo warns as they pass through the doorframe, and he has to actually stoop to pass through—but not before he sends one final, lingering look upon you. You don’t think that you’re imagining the smirk that crosses his face before the door shuts behind them both with a click.
You decide after a few minutes of laying flat on the bed, admiring the hairline fractures that are making their way through the stucco ceiling, that it’s time to check in with J’onn. His small hologram as it appears on the communicator is a small sliver of comfort.
“How do you three fare?” He asks, no small note of relief in his voice as you appear profoundly intact.
“Well enough.” You answer. “Guy is Guy, but Lobo is—”
You trail off, hoping that your dearth of vocabulary is sufficient enough for him—it appears that it is.
J’onn’s voice is stark. “He is a thug. Worry about protecting the thug we employ and you will not have to deal with the other afterwards.”
“Okay, J’onn.” You say, and there’s little to talk about afterwards, so you make your farewells and return back to silent repose. But not for long.
You’ve almost been able to drift off into a doze when you hear the door swing open on the hinges, hitting the wall adjacent to it. You start and sit up, blearily blinking away the shade of sleep. Lobo saunters through, supreme satisfaction written thoroughly on his face—without Guy. This summons you to wide-awakened alertness, hefting your legs over the side of the bed.
“Where’s Guy?” You ask worriedly as he stalks to the dresser opposite you. The slow scrape of the drawer as he pulls it open seems to echo throughout the room.
“Wanted to stay out ‘n drink some more—”—Lobo’s wide back is to you as he searches through the contents—“—Said he’d catch up.”
“What about you?” You ask warily, finding your footing as you make your way off the bed. From your new angle, you can see that he’s searching for another one of those suffocating cigars and a lighter.
“Got other things I’m more interested in.” He replies honestly. The wheel of his lighter making an audible scrape as a plume of flame bursts from it.
“Like what?” You continue, feeling a maelstrom of emotions course through you at the brevity. He takes a sizzling drag, puffing out a great gust of smoke that likens him to the proverbial dragon in his lair. He stalks over to the corner of the bed, but doesn’t yet settle himself onto it—he’s but a few yards from you.
“Like figurin’ out what I’m gonna do all alone in this bed.” He sneers back—you swallow. The way the corner of his mouth cocks up lets you know that he’s seen it, enjoyed the effect his words have had on you.
“You seem fine.” You reply, feeling your voice waver. He takes a step towards you, easy, languid—he exhales smoke that seems to curl around you, choking you of your senses.
“Maybe I need some company.” He asserts, his voice a low rumble.
“Ask Guy when he gets back.” You say, and the way he runs his eyes down your figure is searing, something drawing painfully taut within you.
“Nah—”—He doesn’t move his focused stare from you—“—Thinkin’ I got someone else I’m interested in.”
There’s something that tightens between the two of you before it clicks into place.
“Me?” You ask, wracking your brow up in confusion. He blows a thick plume in your direction—it seems to wreath around his head, making him look all the more malefic. In a thought you keep to yourself, all the more attractive.
“Why not?” He asks, as though it’s simpler to him than it certainly is to you.
“Is this—a joke?” You find the correct wording for once, on time. And for once, your apparent suitor is as sober as the grave. He takes another lumbering step towards you.
“You’d be laughing if it was.” He’s cocky even in his sincerity, taking a drag that makes him exhale smoke with each syllable. “I think you’re interested.”
“What—”—You feel that heat pooling under your skin, gathering under your cheeks—“—What makes you say that?”
It seems he’s game to play along, a crooked smile and a lazy drawl as he speaks, taking another ample, appreciative stare of you. “You don’t talk much—but your eyes do. I know when someone’s scopin’ out the main man.”
You make a disbelieving noise, but it’s too quick, too poorly acted. Your voice seems to ring false even to yourself when you counter with, “You’re crazy.”
“That’s not a no.” And with this final step he takes to eat up the distance, he’s right before you. You can’t help but set a long glance at the shirt that frames the tight muscles on display, trailing your eyes slowly up his frame until you’re staring back at those red eyes.
There’s something fraught that bolts through you as you realize he’s watching you, the cigar in his hand as a thin plume of smoke ekes up to the cracked ceiling. When he leans down close, you can smell the musk of his cologne—overwhelming and intoxicating at once.
“You don’t want me.” You bravely argue the losing fight; he chuckles against your mouth and you know you want to taste him.
“Yeah, I think I do.” He disagrees. The drag of his palm against your arm silences any other argument you have as he pulls you towards him; you find your arms wrapping around the wide span of his figure, greedy now that you finally have him.
He tastes like smoke and spirits and when his teeth click against yours, insistent to explore more of you, you’re quick to respond, scraping your tongue against his. This—physicality, without words exchanged—is your forte, and you bunch your hands into the rough fabric of his vest, pulling him against you, making clear your unspoken want. He makes a throaty, amused noise into your mouth, his hands making sharp descent down your body.
You feel yourself being lifted, his fingers digging needy purchase into ample flesh of your ass—you moan. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist as he hitches you up a tick against him, eager to bear your weight—something else is pressed against you that you can tell is also eager to see some action. All the while, his mouth works against yours, the only sound in the room hot, huffed gasps.
You’re carried roughshod to the bed, pressed unceremoniously to the mattress as he sucks a bruise into your collarbone—you needily groan through gritted teeth and tangle your hands in his hair, keeping him there. The pain sparks an agonized type of pleasure you’re ready to explore more of as his hands clench around your waist, squeezing a possessive grip into the vulnerable skin.
His teeth sink into the already abused flesh, making you gasp and angle your head backwards.
“Fuck, Lobo,” you gasp—it’s enough of a distraction that you hardly mind as his hands begin to pull down your pants, ready to begin the next chapter of the night. You want him to, you’re dying for him to.
The door slams open with a bang, making you jump. Your companion has less reaction than you would expect, barely cocking his head to the side, his great frame draped protectively over you. You’re grateful for this as you look past the bulk of his arm and feel a visceral mortification as you watch Guy tipsily stumble in, a terrible glower on his face.
“Hey,” he gripes like an oath, “Why the fuck didja leave me—”
Guy cocks his head to the right, sees the two of you caught in flagrante delicto, and makes a noise that seems stuck between a snort and a cough. He straightens up to his full height with stunning regularity, rubbing his jaw as he assesses the situation. You find yourself wanting to die more as he actually laughs when his eyes sweep over your prone, half-naked form.
“You know,” He’s clearly relishing the situation, “You two wanted some privacy, you could’ve fuckin’ asked.”
“Need me to write you a fuckin’ letter?” Lobo asks, his arms caging you in. You gasp and decide now is as good a time as any to cover your face, the inside of your palms more tolerable than acknowledging reality.
“Nah, I’m good.” Guy mock-cheerily replies, and it sounds like his voice is retreating in the direction of the door. This emboldens you to stare through the slats of your fingers at the witness to your sins. To your growing shame, he’s aiming an interested stare in your direction.
“You know, you need someone for round two—”—he says, and there’s enough layered in his voice that you can tell it’s not quite a joke. But you find your voice working, to your advantage, for a second time tonight.
“Goodnight, Guy,” you say, re-covering your face, and there’s another guffaw before the door clicks shut behind him—the barrier isn’t enough to block the jaunty whistle careening after his wake. But what is enough distraction is the rasp of teeth against your stomach, catching on the waistband of your pants.
You shudder, lowering your fingers to see Lobo affixing you with a heady stare—you can only see the raw hunger of his eyes, but you can feel the smile bared against your skin, drawing lower still.
“How ‘bout we get back on schedule?” Each word, the breath punctuated so low on you, sends goosebumps up your body. “Think you were sayin’ my name, baby.”
And you think you’re quite intent to get caught up.