🦇☽☾ Sky 🦇☽☾

You’re making the finishing touches to your outfit when you hear Guy’s voice sailing up the stairs to you, calling your name.

“—Lobo said he’s pullin’ up right now. Better get down here if you know what’s good for you.” He warns, and that’s all you need to hear as you snag your duffel bag for the night and make a quick exit to the door. You have to take a second to adjust the hem of your shorts at the top of the stairs, barely cognizant of the fact that you have an audience until they verbalize their thoughts aloud. 

“Fuck are you wearin’?” Guy asks, and you look up from your last-minute adjustments to see him with a tallboy in one hand for the night, a dirty magazine tucked into the other, and a wide-eyed look as he stares you up and down. Appraising just exactly what you’re wearing—or rather, what you’re not wearing, to be precise. 

“Lobo said the less the better on Warworld.” You inform Guy as you descend the staircase. He silently ogles everything that bounces and jiggles with the lack of clothes to restrain them, looking like he’s watching a bomb detonate in his face. 

“You know he was bullshittin’ you, right?” Guy asks as he takes a long swallow of his beer, watching your face carefully for any hesitancy. “He’s gonna eat you alive if he sees you in all that.” 

You smile. “Maybe that’s what I want.” 

Guy laughs aloud. 

“Yeah—”—knowing his warnings have all fallen by the wayside, he opts for something useful to do with his time instead, heading for the door. He can’t help but hesitate as he passes through the frame, taking one last glimpse at your near-nudity as if to commit it to memory.

“Hey.” He says, and you look up at him from the compact you’ve unfolded for a last-minute check. 

“Yeah?” You ask, smiling broadly. 

“When he brings you back on a stretcher—lemme know if it was worth it.” Guy gives you a lascivious grin before he retreats to greener pastures. In response, there’s a rev of a motorcycle engine outside that makes your heart skip a beat and start a journey to the door that has never felt so slow or laden with importance before. 

The cool New York air passes over you as you step outside, summoning familiar pinpricks of goosebumps up and down your body. But this time, it feels as if there’s a new layer that washes over you as your date reclines on his bike, a cigar smoldering between his teeth, his eyes slowly raking over you. 

“Lookin’ good, sweetheart,” he drawls as he watches you approach. “Glad you dressed up for the occasion.” 

“You know me,” you grin, hitching your bag’s strap a little higher over your bare shoulder, “I like to make a good first impression.” 

Warworld, it turns out, is pretty fucking nuts. The streets of this metallic pseudo-planet are clotted with aliens eager for the next match, stopping by vendors hocking hot, greasy food that you can’t help but ogle and try to make sense of. Some are buying the chopped-up remains of the last piece of meat to eat it in the ring, while others argue with the tellers over the last ruined wager they made. Even still there are some stumbling drunkenly through the loud, bustling throng, all in the purpose of having a good time. 

It’s deafening, overwhelming, pulsating—and the two of you haven’t even made it to the colosseum yet, a black monolith that towers over all. It seems to possess its own sense of gravity, drawing all minor planets such as yourself and your chaperone further in. 

Ever since you arrived, you could hear the roar of the crowd within that ebbs and rises, pitching higher and higher with the resolution of each match. Some of them, based on the announcements, conclude with stunning alacrity. Others, it appears, drag on and on—not that the crowd, from how it screams, their demanding shouts for blood singing through you, seem to care. 

All the while, your escort has been keeping a possessive hand on your back, the wide span of his hand a brand as he keeps you flush to the front of him. You worried as the two of you touched down planetside that it would be a treacherous struggle upstream to make it to the fights—but people know Lobo. Or, rather, some know him affectionately. And the rest, based on how the crowd parts as he approaches, fear him. 

“You popular around here?” You ask, as what you can only describe as a three-headed purple people eater evaluates you, sees Lobo, and then pointedly retreats in the opposite direction. 

“Yeah, you could say that,” you can hear the grin in his voice even though you can’t turn to look up at him, “I’m the big man on campus around these parts. Go this way—”

His thumb finds a spot behind your shoulder blade, thick fingers curling around the flesh of your shoulder—you have to suck in a sharp breath at the shock that careens up your back. He guides you down a path between a vendor selling something deep fried and vaguely chicken-shaped and another pawning one-way trips to Rann. 

“How much longer ‘til we get there?” You ask him as the noise of the outside crowd begins to fade, having passed this gauntlet. In the distance, you can hear the rumble of the arena approaching rapidly.

“Little longer,” he informs you; in this pocket of privacy as you both continue down the alleyway, his hand begins to slide from your shoulder down your back again, lower than it had settled before. “We’ll be there in no time.” 

“Sounds good,” you say, casting a glance to the dismal, smoggy sky that warriors fight and die under, “I didn’t know how much walking it was going to be.” 

“I could carry you over my shoulder if your feet’re tired,” Lobo offers; this time, you can glance over your shoulder to see the rather unprincipled grin on his face. “Gives me a chance to check out that cute little number you got on.” 

You have to take a longer second than you thought to consider this proposition, looking at the great swathe of that shoulder that you would be thrown over, thinking of his hand resting securely over your ass as he carries you to your seats—

“I think I’m good for now,” you smile back at him. You have to dig your fingers into the soft flesh of your palm, using the strap of your bag that is bumping into your hip with every step, to really keep your eyes on the prize. 

“Let me know if you change your mind, honey.” he replies, unruffled by your momentary rejection. “I’m always happy to do community service.” 

Surprisingly, Lobo wasn’t lying, which makes you grateful that you turned down his offer of easier transportation—the two of you walk up a flight of stairs that he insists that you walk in front of him (“Just so I can keep an eye on you, babe”) and then the hiss of an automated door permits you into the actual building. 

If you thought that the cheers of the crowd were loud before, they practically reverberate through you as the door slides shut behind you both. You look out to the open-air, tiered seats no more than a few yards away, and start to walk in the direction. But his hand on your shoulder halts you in your tracks. 

You look up to him, a touch of confusion passing over your face. “What’s wrong?” 

“We got a private room, sweetheart.” He says, already lighting up another cigar. “Wouldn’t want yer first taste’a Warworld to be with the other grunts.” 

All you can think is to reply with a quiet, “oh, okay,” before he stalks off in the direction that you are made to follow, taking in the sights within as quickly as you can while keeping pace with him. All the while, the phrase private room keeps tumbling over in your head, with all the other implications that come with it. 

A short elevator trip later, the two of you exit out into a hushed hallway with nary a face alien nor robotic to be seen, with polished, clean doors and placards beside each one. The thundering of the mob is still present, but more muted than you’ve ever heard before. You follow Lobo silently to a room with a foreign number beyond your comprehension as he produces a slick, metallic card that he places against the door. 

“Didn’t think you’d roll out the red carpet for me,” you opine honestly as you drink in the view of this new floor. He makes a low, amused noise in his throat as the door hisses open and with it the noise of the arena returns again. 

“That’s ‘cause I’m the real gentlemanly type, babe,” He grins, the embers from his cigar casting his face into menacing scarlet relief. “Now come on and check out the pad.” 

There are a few items that you don’t recognize, given the varied clientele that you’re certain Warworld must host, but you recognize on the far-side of the room the unobstructed sightline of the wall-to-wall view. 

Already out this window—at least, you assume that that’s what it is, with a faint shimmering sheen that you assume is a translucent forcefield—you can see distant figures already engaged in gladiatorial combat. Besides this window are two large, cushy chairs placed for guests to recline in and watch the bloodbath in comfort; further inspection displays tasteful art on the wall, alien flora housed in vases in random intervals throughout the room. 

And you don’t have to be an alien to know a giant bed when you see one, pushed up against the wall. Lobo makes little note of it, save to toss his own bag on the mattress, before sauntering over to the seats. You place your own bag next to his, staring at the wide landscape of the bed, mesmerized by the thread count of the fabric as your mind seems to go blank. 

“Ya want the sound on or off?” you hear him ask roughly, and you turn over your shoulder. 

“What?” You ask, furrowing your brow—you look to see a small, orb-shaped remote in his hand. 

“Of the games,” He gruffly explains. “It’s muted now—we can turn it on so you can get the real experience.” 

Sufficiently distracted, you begin to cross the distance over to him. “It’s my first time here—who knows when I’ll be back again. Turn it up.” 

There’s a cruel grin that crosses his face at this—this is the answer that he wanted to hear—there’s the click of a button and you can’t help but jump as the resounding cheers of the crowd awash over you both. A voice that you haven’t heard before cuts through the maddening clamor. 

“Welcome to Warworld, maggots—”—You frown in confusion, looking up to Lobo, who is watching as one of the four-armed combatants lops off the head of their opponent. 

“That’s Mongul,” Lobo explains, "Guy who set us up with the room. Likes to announce the top-ticket matches.” 

He points in a direction where you can see a balcony, where a domineering, brutal-looking figure stands before a microphone with an ever-present sneer. His voice is sleek and monotone as he continues to welcome all the other low-bellied creatures to another wonderful night at Warworld. 

“Good friend of yours?” you ask, pressing your fingers up to the forcefield that buzzes under your touch, trying to get a better look. 

“Somethin’ like that,” Lobo returns with no small degree of humor to his voice. There’s a soft crackle as he takes a deep drag from his cigar, the click of a tab being pulled open as he cracks open a beer, the creak of the chair as he settles his great frame into it. 

“—You’ve come for blood, brethren, and blood you’ll be served. Tonight we bring you two reigning champions—”

From the marked distance, you can see two doors down in the epicenter of the arena below rise open—a gray-skinned behemoth lumbers out of one end, and a red, rockily-textured figure slinks out of the other. 

“—But we know the rules here at Warworld. No holds barred—and only one champion receives the thrill of victory. Are you ready to be entertained?” 

As an answer, it feels as though you’re nearly rocked side-to-side with how the crowd all around you explodes with raucous approval. You can’t help but feel an infectious smile spread over your face as you feel yourself already getting swept up into the action—and then you remember your company. 

“Have you ever fought down here? In the ring?” You ask Lobo, and have to fight the heat of self-consciousness as you realize that his eyes have been focused in the direction of your ass. He’s slow to tear his gaze away from it, removing the cigar from his mouth to answer you, languidly tapping out some stray embers onto an ashtray he’s propped up on the other chair. 

“Been banned for a while now, sweetheart.” He boasts. “They don’t like repeat winners down here at Warworld.” 

“But you fought here?” You ask, turning back quickly as there’s a collective gasp, just in time to see the gray titan lose a hand to the slice of a wicked blade. “And won?” 

“Looks like an even match so far, folks—but who will come out on top?” 

“You expect the main man to lose?” He asks, and there’s almost a degree of mock-offense as he leans back in his seat, opening his legs wider. 

“No, of course not.” You grin, feeling an odd heat settling under your skin as you find yourself more and more distracted from the action below, those red eyes taking you in. “I just think it would’ve been awesome to see you fight.” 

“So you could heal me up afterwards with those bandages of yours?” He asks, and there’s a roguish smile on his face. “Just can’t keep your mind off feelin’ me up, huh?” 

“It’s part of my job,” you reply back with a calm smile that belies the tempest raging within you. “Can’t help it if I end up grabbing something I’m not supposed to.” 

“Our champion’s lost a hand, but he hasn’t lost his edge—how will he respond?” 

That predatory smile grows as he realizes you’re playing along. “You do that often, doc?” 

“Only to the patients I like,” you retort, feeling yourself turning away from the bloodbath below and more to other pressing concerns. He takes another drag, the end of his cigar blazing bright with the gesture. “And I only like a few.” 

“Am I on that list, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice a coarse note cutting through the din. The walls could be collapsing around you both but all you can feel is the sharp, almost painful tension that feels like it’s choking the words from you, making your mouth dry. 

“Oh, and there’s a game-changer right there—look at that defense coming out to play!” 

“Maybe you are,” you reply calmly. “Why else would I come with you to Warworld?” 

“Most babes just like the free tickets,” he returns back, challenging you, waiting to see how you’ll respond to this open provocation. He puts the cigar down on the edge of the ashtray, smoke issuing from the end, into the air.  

“I get the feeling you don’t bring other babes to the private room, do you?” you ask, casting an eye over his shoulder back to the open bed that seems to be awaiting you, a silent elephant in the room waiting to be acknowledged. 

“Maybe not,” He provides as a non-answer—it’s clear he’s enjoying the back and forth. “Maybe you’re just a favorite of mine.” 

“And what do you do to favorites, Lobo?” you ask, feeling like if you don’t now, then you’ll never have the nerve to offer it up again. Behind you, the screams of the crowd seem to amplify with the swell of the fight beyond you both. 

“Why don’t you come an’ take a seat on the main man and find out?” He asks—at this, his legs spread wider, offering free real estate for you to take advantage of. 

“An opening in his offense—but will they be able to navigate it?” 

The boldness that carries you over to him seems to dissipate the second that you’re in between his legs again. Something reminds you of when you stood in this same spot a few days ago, but the dynamic has shifted—you’re not in control anymore, in the safety of your office. 

It’s his turf now, his call—something in you is excited for this. 

“Thought I said I wanted ya sittin’ on me,” he grunts, and before you can react, you’re turned around, seated on his lap—and on something firm that seems to be awakening as you unconsciously rub your ass against it. 

You can’t help but gasp in surprise; a chuckle thrums through you as he clearly enjoys making you unmoored. 

“Sure you’ll be able to enjoy the fight from here?” You ask, trying to find something to regain some semblance of balance—the only thing are the sides of his thighs that you palm, making him laugh. It’s not a kind noise, but it makes your heart beat faster all the same.

You feel a nosing, wide finger curl through the one of the loops on the back of your shorts, and easily pull you back—you can’t help but make a strangled noise of surprise as you feel yourself pulled up against the broad plane of his chest. 

His prickly, corrugated voice speaks into the shell of your ear. “Who said I gave a shit about the fight, honey?” 

His hand slides out from behind you, snaking around your short. The frayed hem is already canting higher up your thighs due to the awkward angle your legs are pitched back at. 

“Think there’s somethin’,” he growls as his hand finds purchase on the button of your shorts, “I’m a lot more interested in right now.” 

“How will your reigning champion respond? See that look in his eye—pure bloodlust!” 

“Lobo—”—you begin, but your voice is already so layered with need, your hands holding onto him for dear life, something taut throbbing within you. “Hurry up already—please.” 

He chuckles at your last-minute recall to be polite, and obliges. There’s a crude rip of fabric, a minute clatter as the metal button of your shorts goes tumbling somewhere distant to the floor, and then you feel his other hand wrap around your chest, pulling you back against him. In one swift motion and a flex of muscle, he’s freed you from your shorts, which are tossed to the ground in a limp heap. 

You’re half-naked now, both the cool air and the fact that if anyone were to turn away from the fighting, they might see you on display—it summons goosebumps up your body. The idea excites and arouses you, making that throbbing need between your legs near-painful, your heart in your throat as you remind yourself to keep breathing. 

“Sit up fer me,” he instructs you, the coiled arm that has slid around your midriff loosening fractionally so you can follow his instructions. Momentarily bewildered, punch-drunk with the way things have so quickly escalated, you begin to move, but it isn’t quick enough for his liking. 

You make a breathy gasp as he fixes you, so that you find yourself on all fours on his wide lap, your knees and the heels of your hands touching, balancing precariously upon his muscular thighs. And you are the most exposed, spread open that you have ever been. 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “Yeah, think I like this view.” 

“Y-yeah?” You ask, trying to keep yourself from toppling over; he makes a crass laugh at your valiant attempt to appear braver than you actually feel. As if to give some accommodation, one of those great hands, hot and grasping around you, finds the crook of your hip and waist, and squeezes. 

“Wouldn’t want you to fall,” that grin is all but evident in his voice, and you barely have time to register it before you feel the crack of his hand on your ass. Stars of pain wink in your vision as you cry out, and something wrenches in you needfully. 

“A direct hit! How will he respond, folks?” 

“Fuck, Lobo—”—you whimper, but you find this choked off as that same hand drapes down the curve of your cheek, and further into the cleft. Instinctively, you stiffen, a quaver in your arms as you feel his thumb graze over your hole. 

“Tell me ya want this, sweetheart,” his voice is dark, wanting, waiting for your abject approval even as the digit lazily circles over it, driving you up the wall as your thighs twitch around nothing. 

“Do it,” you practically whisper, unable to verbalize anything at a louder volume than that. You’ve barely uttered the words before you’re wrenched up, pulled back by his grasp that has wrapped around the joint of your thighs. Surprised by this unexpected unmooring, your fingers scrabble across the scratchy fabric of his pants, as you are lifted up to him.

“Oh my god—”—is all you’re able to articulate before you feel the wet, rough rasp of a tongue on your hole and your words are swallowed by a satisfied, wanting moan. You barely realize it’s you until it’s escaped you.

“Oh my god—”—there’s a rumble of laughter that shocks through you as he continues to lick greedily, noisily. Your fingers curl into tight fists as you grab what you can, trying not to collapse in a heap of limbs when he inevitably settles you down. You’ve never felt so vulnerable, so totally subservient to someone else’s whims, as he holds you to his mouth and continues to take his fill, the lewd noises filling the room even over the endured screams of the throng. 

He sets you down too quickly, leaving you to regain the footing that you had before. Your hands are canting with an odd numbness against his legs, your knees quavering. 

“Jesus—”—is all that you’re able to get out before one of those hands that held your thighs finds the crook of your waist, squeezing painfully. 

“Had to get you ready, babe,” he says, clearly unrepentant for your state of disarray. “Wouldn’t wantcha unprepared, would ya?” 

“No—”—is the ragged, needy reply that you’re able to articulate, but you find your words interrupted yet again by the presence of his forefinger that taunts around your hole. Before you can even say anything else, it starts to work its way in—the only thing that you can do is hold on for dear life and make a high-pitched moan that you don’t think you’ve ever made before. 

“Oh, you like that, huh?” He gloats as you lurch your hands forward for better purchase, but push your ass into that digit that’s slotting itself into you. You find yourself clenching around nothing again as something rises behind your skin, sweat beading on your temple as the feeling slowly, torturously crescendoes in your abdomen. 

That finger continues to work in and out of you, but he doesn’t move faster even as it’s clear you’re becoming undone—he keeps that damning steady pace as you writhe under his domineering grip. 

“Think you’re gonna come, cutie?” He asks, and he’s taunting you now, sinking that finger even deeper in and out, past the knuckle. You can’t help but keen with the stretch and pull, your back arching as he does so. You’re full-body trembling now, as you feel that sensation growing and growing still. And still he continues.

“Think yer gonna—”—he pushes his finger in even further, and it’s terrible and wonderful at once, making the edges of your vision edge with hazy spots—“—Come ‘cause of the main man’s finger?” 

The only thing you respond with is a wailing sob as you do, stiffening tightly, your muscles seizing—you’re grateful for his arm that slides around you again to carry you through it, that finger still working through you. All the while, you can hear his smug encouragement, “Yeah, that’s what I thought—look fuckin’ hot like that, sweetheart—”

“Oh, what a finish, folks! Looks like we may have a new reigning victor—”

You’re barely cognizant of the fact that he’s moving, unbuckling his belt with a metallic click as you tremble through the come-down, shoulders heaving. You don’t realize what’s happening until you hear the pull of the zipper and feel something spring free against your inner thigh, impossibly large and girthy against you. 

“Thought you’d like a warm-up before we got to the main show, honey,” he says, and it’s all you can do to keep up, leaning your elbows back against the dense muscles of his chest, his stomach, a practical furnace burning into you. Those hands have slid up your waist, those fingers wrapping around your stomach, holding you securely as you feel the graze of his cock under you. 

You can’t help but turn your head back at him, swallowing thickly as you find the willpower to finally speak aloud, breathlessly. “Do you—is it gonna fit?” 

“Only one way to find out,” you can see the ravenous grin on his face, and then you feel yourself being spread, sinking down on his cock. Your mouth opens to moan, to wail—nothing comes out, as you endure the painful stretch, impossibly large, impossibly thick—

“Doin’ good, honey,” he praises you, groaning lustfully as you dig your nails into him—but he continues to lower you down, settling you onto him. Your mind is totally empty, your thighs working overtime as you seat yourself, tilting your head back as if this will help you get more air into your system. 

“Oh, but what’s this? Do we see a comeback—”

His hips roll into you experimentally and you shudder in agonized pleasure, fingers digging into him—he laughs, satisfied at the reaction he’s coaxed out of you. 

“M-more,” you stutter out, and he bucks his hips into you again, making you cry out and lie back against him. You feel the scrape of teeth against your shoulder as he takes a taste—you hiss in pain but you want more. 

“What was that, honey? Didn’t hear you the first time,” his teeth are against your ear. You screw your face up in concentration as you try to summon up the strength again. 

“More, Lobo—please.” You beg as your body arches against him. “I can—take it.” 

“Since ya asked so nicely,” He returns, and his hands grip around you tightly before he begins to set the pace. 

It’s like all thoughts are banished from your head, the only thing that you can think of the slide of his cock as it sails in and out of you, the demanding pull as he digs his fingers into you, slamming you down. The only noises that you can make are sloppy, pleading moans, sharp exhales of air as you’re practically used like a fuck-doll, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. 

It’s so hot, so intoxicating, so much—you feel like you’re going to pass out, skewered on his cock. But you can’t get enough of it, you want more, need more, you’ve never wanted anything more in your life—

“Harder, harder, harder,” you find yourself babbling, begging him as your legs jerk and quiver from the position you’ve been made to hold on him—but you’re willing to endure it. You don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Sure thing, honey,” He’s clearly relishing this, and drags you down so that you’re fully taking it, fully taking his length—you bite back a moan and find your arms losing feeling, your fingertips going numb. 

“Holy shit,” you utter, but he doesn’t slow down—you asked, so he provides—and you find yourself being fucked into again, the pace unrelenting as you clench around him. Your brain feels like it’s going to short-circuit as you feel something approaching again. 

“You’re going to—I’m going to—”—you can’t even get out the words, your thighs shaking violently as he continues to bury his length in you, the smack of his skin against yours getting louder, less controlled. “Lobo—”

“Heard you the first time,” He says, unaffected by this as he tilts you back, “Go ahead and come.” 

When he sinks into you at this new angle that seems to hit the very back of you, you howl—and let your second orgasm overtake you, this one more brutal, overwhelming as it rockets through you, going totally motionless. He slows down enough for you to get your bearings as you collapse against him, a sweaty, trembling mess. But he doesn’t pull out, leaving you filled up— the idea of him still inside you still so fucking hot even as you’re still processing the last orgasm. 

“Fuck—fuck—”—you say, feeling overused, every nerve raw as his thumbs work into your back. “I can’t believe it.” 

Your chest heaves as you gulp down air, looking back at him—he seems supremely satisfied. “I can—I can do more. I promise.”

“Good,” he huffs as he begins to start up again, making you groan needfully, “I’m just gettin’ started.” 

“Looks like it’s going to be a long night, folks—better settle in for the long haul!” 

“So, how was Warworld?” Guy asks you sing-song from the bed that you’ve been relegated to for the past few days, bearing a shit-eating grin as he looks down at your prone form. The IV that’s plugged into your arm beeps in regulated intervals as you turn your head to look up at him with a sheepish smile. 

“It was…very educational.” You respond, your voice hoarse with disuse—he tilts his head back and cackles. 

“Oh, yeah? Have a good time?” He asks, peering down at you with a mocking lilt to his voice. You pointedly turn away from him, to the door he walked in through, wishing he would disappear in a puff of smoke. 

“…I might be going back again next week.” You mumble to the wall rather than him—this prompts another echoing guffaw, making him bend over to slap his knee. He actually laughs so hard he needs to find the bedside chair to sit on it. 

“Oh, man—”—He wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye. “Bring me back something next time, will ya?” 

He pauses, giving you a sly, sidelong glance. “Maybe you oughta wash it first before you give it to me, though.” 

“Please leave, Guy.” You say—this prompts a final loud laugh from him. 

"You suck at making chicken soup"

"Feetal's Gizz, babe, this ain't chicken."

"... what the hell is it then"

"Kester."

"Fucking what."

"Kester! It's like... space chicken."

"Gross space chicken."

"Gross space chicken that's gonna help ya not be sick, open UP."

Lobo tried to spoon feed the soup to you again, but you artfully dodged and managed to get him to spill it on the pillow.

"Sugar, I killed this myself. Eat it."

"Greeeeat incentive, Bo, but I'll stick to my cold meds."

He sighed and rolled his eyes, then put the bowl down and crossed his arms.

"What I get fer trying to be a good boyfriend. Whatever."

"Baaaabe."

"No, uh-uh, save it, traitor."

"I'm sorry for saying that space chicken is gross"

A sigh, and then he gave in. He sat on the bed next to you and rubbed a hand over your hair.

"Get better, mkay? It sucks when ya get sick because y'can't do stuff with me."

"I'll do my damndest."

"Thanks."

His lips pressed against your sweaty forehead and you settled into the bed. Dodging his soup attacks had tuckered you out, and you were ready to sleep.

Once you'd conked out, Lobo stood up and grabbed the bowl. Taking an experimental sip, he wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

"Stuff IS gross..."

Looking back on you, he felt his heart do an (in his mind) incredibly stupid little tap dance. You always made him feel... gooey. It was dumb. That was dumb. You were dumb. But dumb in a very very cute and likeable way. More like he was dumb for being... what?

What was it? He knew he liked you but how? It was... weird. He didn't really do committed relationships, so he didn't really have anything to base this off of.

... You were probably just a phase, anyway. But if you were then why did it hurt to think that?

He looked at you again from the door and smiled a little. If you were a phase you sure were a nice one.

________________________________________

Months later, after you had gotten better, you were sitting in the bedroom, reading. Bo had been out on a bounty for about a week now, so the house was much quieter. Much... emptier. You missed him, but he was coming home soon.

The door slammed open and shut, there was the thud of boots being tossed off, and a loud sneeze.

"Babe! Hey, welcome home!"

"Mm. Hi, sugar."

You ran out to see him, and he looked... bad. He was sweaty, his eyes were bleary, and his nose was running.

"Oooh. Hi, Bo"

"Mmh."

He leaned down a bit and wrapped his arms around you. It was a warm hug. Far warmer than normal. This man was absolutely sick, what with the fever and sweating. You pulled away and looked him in the face.

"What happened?"

"Got inna fight inna lab. Knocked into a fridge."

"... did anything... spill on you?"

"Lotta stuff."

"Oh, baby..."

"M'fine, what's fer dinner?"

He peeled himself off and stumbled to the kitchen. Oh, the poor dear, he looked like he was about to fall over. While he rested his head in his arms, you set some stir fry in front of him, along with a bottle of cold meds. He ignored that, chomping on the food, and you crossed your arms.

"Take the meds"

"M'fine."

"You are very obviously sick"

"I got a healing factor."

"Well it's not working!"

"Babe..."

"Dearest. Most darling. Light of my life. Please take the cold meds."

"No."

Pushing himself up, he put his plate in the sink and lumbered to the living room. Again, you followed him, getting more and more worried.

If he'd been exposed to just one virus, that would be fine, but a mixture? That might confuse his healing factor enough to actually get him sick, at least for a while.

Coughing, Lobo tried to focus his eyes on the TV, but they kept drooping shut. He didn't brush you away when you sat down, so you put a hand on his. It was icy. Sighing, you pulled it to your lips, and he groaned and leaned into you. He was heavy, and you struggled to pick him up off the couch, but you eventually did.

Once you got him into bed and covered him up, he huffed and closed his eyes.

"Lobo..."

"Dunno why yer worrying, m'fine."

"Sweetheart, you don't have to be tough around me. It's just me."

His breathing hitched at that. When his eyes opened, you saw pupils. Genuine pupils. You'd only ever seen him have pupils when he was just waking up, at his most vulnerable.

"Bo?"

"...you take good care of me."

The bed springs creaked as you sat next to him, and you took his hand into your lap.

"I have to. You wouldn't take care of yourself if I weren't here."

"Been getting along fine fer years..."

"Lobo, please. It was a fight to get you in bed in the first place. You're stubbornness is matched only by your radiant beauty."

He chuckled at that, then coughed.

"Stay with me?"

"You don't even have to ask."

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. As soon as you did, he yanked you down onto the bed and latched on. God, for a sick guy he was still strong.

After a few moments of initial shock, you decided to stop struggling. If it made him feel better, hey, let him cuddle you.

Maybe an hour passed before you remembered something important.

"...baby, you do realize that I still need to give you medicine, yeah?"

"Few more minutes."

"Ok. A few more minutes"

_________________________________________

A.N.