#lobo dc

Bruce Wayne

To watch the way that Bruce takes defined repose amongst the gargoyles that delineate the upper echelons of the skyscraper they all cling to: he is magnificent.

Domineering in posture, intimidating in mien, with chiseled jaw and defined anatomy that has been gained through lifetime of hard-earned work.

“Fearless leader,” Dick says from besides him in calm recline on the edge. How very languorous he appears as he sways one leg over the ledge—death-defying heights have been old hat for him for some time now.

Bruce doesn’t respond. But Dick has accrued excellent skill to comprehend the hieroglyphics of his body language. So Dick continues into the silence subtly undercut by the ambience of a world teeming with life and soft-suffused light below, bathed in the chill of an unending night.

“Thinkin’ about hittin’ the hay anytime soon?” He asks—Dick has been none-too-subtle about eyeing the clock tower that looms in towering monolith within eyesight across the city skyline. The very one that determines that the time is closer to three than he would appreciate.

“We’ve only done one sweep of the city,” Bruce answers in rather unyielding, characteristic fashion. “It’s not sunrise yet.”

Dick knows better than to voice his opinion on that observation. So, perhaps it is divine providence that the chime of a familiar intercom beeps in the confines of Bruce’s cowl.

It’s a noise that Dick knows as well as he does the pulse of his own heartbeat shuttering in the real estate of his ribs—Bruce even more by intimate degrees.

It means that you’re calling. Dick provides excellent imitation of the gargoyle sitting besides him as he does his best to pretend he isn’t desperately eavesdropping on the muted din of your voice on the other end. Bruce raises the trigger finger to his ear that allows the dam to come cresting through.

“Bruce, it’s too late. You need to come home.” Dick strains to hear the dulcet tones of your voice in saccharine delivery. You aren’t mad: yet.

“We’ve finished one circuit of the downtown district,” Bruce returns in low timbre. But Dick knows the precarious thin ice that he operates upon—and knows what to expect from you in reply.

“Bruce, I’ve been tracking yours and Dick’s location for the past four hours. You two have been as thorough as you possibly can.” There’s a nuance of steel that is communicated in the advance of your argument, something lost in the patience you speak cadence with.

Bruce is no more than marble etching upon the ledge. Dick pretends that the loose thread on his glove is far more interesting than whatever is being spoken with soft threat into the shell of Bruce’s ear.

“Jace and Cass will be going out in half an hour—they don’t need you to double up with them.” Your voice speaks with logical reasoning, without erring in pico-decibel: you don’t need to assert volume of tone when your argument holds water to his.

Bruce’s voice does not err in retort—but there is a weakening as he replies. “It’s been a quieter night than most.”

Dick has to press the heel of his palm into his mouth and pantomime a sneeze.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I don’t want to go to sleep in an empty bed, Bruce.” Comes a reply that is more plaintive in plea: the final death-stroke—appealing to a man’s empathy.

And surely not even the Bat is infallible to his spouse making plea for his presence in warming their marital bed.

Dick holds his breath. The silence makes endured duration measured in the gravity that it settles on his shoulders, his heartbeat.

“We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Bruce says in that infallible voice. But Dick knows a beaten man when he sees one.

“You better be. I’m not going to fall asleep waiting for you.” Loving but bearing an undercurrent of aggression waiting to be tested. The line crackles with a quiet burst of static and Bruce is left standing, regarding the city skyline he has spent a lifetime protecting.

“Let’s go back,” He tells Dick with the monotony that one resigned to their fate does. Dick tries his best to conceal his smile and fails miserably.

“Thought we were staying out later,” Dick responds, to which he receives a scowl akin to the glacial shelf splintering for his troubles. He can wade further in dangerous waters than others can: but even so, there’s only one person who can go for a swim in them.

And Dick knows that that person is at home, curled up in the office chair in the Cave, waiting for their husband to come back to them. They should all be so lucky.

Lobo

No one else understands, truly. It’s an odd thing, to see you, dwarfed nearly double in the way that he towers over you. It’s not that he operates with gentility around you, nor that he is of more gentlemanly, chivalrous quality. But he is, for lack of better word—tolerable.

Much as he is with you seated on the spread of those massive thighs, scratching the barrel of his revolver idly against the stubble of his jaw. Watching the league who views him with open disdain as he runs idle finger down the meter of your shoulder.

“So who you want fragged?” Lobo asks, working his thumb into the nuance of your skin, a self-soothing motion that you lean into. How very like a doll you look, seated upon him like some trophy of past hunt.

Clark sighs silently through his nose, using the remainder of his patience to proceed. “Not fragged, captured.”

Lobo makes a shrug that lifts you with the flex of that great muscle that you’ve taken residence upon, a note of indifference carried in his grunt. “Same difference. Money spends all the same.”

Diana decides to take the torch for Clark on this one, crossing her arms over the span of her chest. “You’re getting immunity for this one. Not money.”

It’s here the bear is successfully poked—Lobo rears forward with subdued outrage spelled on his lips. His hand tucks around you to keep you stable as he takes advancement towards the League.

“Immunity?” He spits out the word like the anathema that he views it to be. “Thought the credits were part of the deal.”

It’s clear that something is burgeoning if someone doesn’t make mollifying statement. And this is where you come in, turning topside to rub a hand on the underside of his jaw, your voice drawing through the miasma of fury roiling on the horizon.

“But if you’re pardoned—”—You make defense for the point, your words level, unhurried.

To Clark’s surprise, Lobo seems to deflate in tick of shoulders as he takes reckoning of your words—“—No one can do a thing until you make another crime. So you get a grace period, honey.”

Lobo weighs the gravity of your argument, considering the virtue of this. Letting reasoning weigh out over knee-jerk reaction. And then: he settles, letting the heft of his body, and you with it, angle back into recline.

“Hmmmm. Alright.” He amends his mood after great interval of thought. His hand works into your cheek, worrying at the sink of the skin to let himself reintroduce his touch to your body.

“So, uh, when’s that go into effect?” Lobo asks through his teeth.

Clark recovers. “Once you bring back the prisoner.”

“Yeah.” Lobo nods in affirmative; a slick grin crosses his mouth. “It matter if they’re missing a limb or two?”

You take point on this one, piping up with careful directive. “Probably does, honey.”

“Ahhh. You justice league fucks are boring.” Lobo’s head rolls on broken swivel as he flexes the tendons of that column of neck.

“Whatever—”—He rises to his feet, not even seeing necessity to let you be relegated to the ground. Up you go in princess carry, one-handed, with such ease and such comfort—you’re exactly where you want to be. Where he wants you to be.

“See you idiots in a few days.” Lobo makes by means of farewell—and departs with you in tow, smiling with cheerful wave goodbye. No one exhales in relief until you both are gone.

It's probably for the best that he always brings you along on these little social calls.

Miguel O’Hara

Miguel stands before the obelisk of information relayed in milliseconds—a flurry of realities that have yet to be comprehended by any but he.

The vortex of information so vast and multitudinous but his to perceive alone, made easier in the translation by the time that he’s spent in the deluge—his to command. His to protect. His to control.

The hours are demarcated by the noise that ebbs and flows from distant hallways. They indicate the patrols that have returned from missions he has organized, rescues he has arranged, acceptances that he has dedicated to the roster.

All his to make mastery over: but still nothing is perfect. Nothing must be left unattended so long as an iota of detail is left out of place.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Comes a voice so dedicated to the sanctity of his memory he can conjure conversations without needing hear the source. He keeps his eyes trained on a strain of information so fluted in passage that he delays response to better decipher it.

“Miguel,” You warn—he is working your patience. It’s something that you permit to a point, which necessitates that he must speak. And in providing an answer, he becomes aware of his other faculties returning to him.

The scent of your body which is his alone to taste. The shudder of breath returning to you in normal meter, disrupted in homeostasis by the mission he directed you to. The smell of fresh, baked dough that barely restrains the fresh aroma of meat.

“I don’t need to eat,” Miguel returns in passive response, which is answer enough. He continues to scroll through screens that dictate avenues yet unexplored.

And a hand that he has felt on every inch of his body makes slow, unhurried journey up the slope of his arm, searching for the Miguel that shares a bed with you. The Miguel that knows you deserve more than dismissive shoulder.

This is why he turns the arc of his gaze away from the screen, so that radiant afterimage winks in his vision, framing you in beatific display of light. Marking you as the heavenly body he does not deserve, come bearing gifts to his humble altar.

“You need to eat,” You offer in determined gentility—and because he has made mistake of directing his body to you, making himself exposed—you go in advancing offense.

He does nothing to stop the journey of your hallowed form into his lap, the muscle of your thighs working around the great span of his.

You are a shape that he takes into detailed worship on instinct; the rough underside of his hands navigating down the flush of your hips. His broad fingers clenching in proprietary nature: you are his and it is uncontested even by you, who works yourself against the plateau of his chest.

But he cannot claim the privilege of your mouth slotted against his. Not until he acknowledges what you press with the encroach of your knuckles against him. His eyes dare briefest of glances to what lies in your hand on unassuming plate.

“Pupusas?” He asks in inquiry. His brow is moved in inquisitive arc, and you smile.

“So you do have object permanence,” You joke in manner only you may do so. He accepts your gift without removing the press of his stare from you. The other hand he works around your waist compensates for what he must sacrifice.

“How else would I keep you in here?” He asks—and here carries multitudes, as does everything for him. In work, in collegial bearings—in the twisted sheets he keeps you pleased in. You finally reward him with a genuine grin.

“You don’t need to try,” You reassure him of a truth he always needs to hear again. “But you do need to eat.”

Your arms work around the impressive schooling of those shoulders that are less-resistant by degrees to your touch. Your forehead presses against his as he drinks in appraisal of you like a starved man.

“So eat, Miguel,” You order him, “Then you can have the main course later.”

And he becomes poignantly aware of the pulse that thrums in the column of your neck: his as well. And because Miguel knows the exchange of quid pro quo: for you alone, he obeys.

Wade Wilson

Logan uses the operative term ‘handler',’ while Cable has adopted the phrase ‘caretaker.’ It’s of assumption that either would be excellent term to explain the categorization of your relationship. But it always comes into excellent demonstration whenever the two of you are tasked into collaborating with other people.

Though perhaps Peter would better describe this as ‘foisted into unnecessary circumstances.’ After all, he needs a sharpshooter, and he needs backup. And this is where the two of you come in.

“Aren’t they, just like,” Wade says as he takes near perch on Peter’s elbow, overwhelmed with ebullient glee, “Just so cool when they post up like that?”

Peter would agree if it wasn’t perhaps the approximate 84738292nd time that he had seen you knelt over the ledge, sniper rifle held in the firm housing of your arms. Watched the way that your eye squinted into scope that perhaps was not even necessary, save for reassurance for Peter’s sake.

“Yes, Wade,” Peter agrees in rather resigned notion, “They are.”

“Just you wait, Spider-Manling,” Wade coos into Peter’s ear, mask doing little to disguise the spittle that is currently splattered on the interior of his cowl, “One day you’ll get to wear the big boy pants and have a partner like mine.”

“Uh-huh, Wade,” Peter says. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man considers how long it would take for Wade to dissolve the webbing if he pinned him to the concrete ground right now. “I can only hope.”

“Just make sure they have some type of survival skill on hand,” Wade chirrups with oblivious devotion, “Wouldn’t want them to be a liability in the old cape-crusading endeavors—”

Peter doesn’t usually weigh the virtue of manslaughter, but thankfully, this is where you speak up. The diction of your voice is both restrained and layered in a patience that seems near effortless—and with nary a degree of vexation.

“Leave the nice spiderling alone, Wade,” you direct as you trail the barrel of the rifle in refined arc, “And come over here and rub my shoulders.”

“Your wish is my command, my liege,” Wade instantly releases Peter from the crushing grip of what he qualifies as embrace. It’s almost as if there is cartoonish silhouette of smoke where a Deadpool once stood.

He crouches behind you with such diligent airs, fingers pirouetting as he warms up for the attack—and slides Peter a conspiratorial look that Peter perhaps wishes he could’ve gone without.

“That’s my sniper main,” Wade croons, working his knuckles into the slope of your shoulders, “Gonna tranq the baddies Spider-Man needs you to bag, you’re so cool—”

“Just like my man,” you say back without any errant disruption of your expression—but the sincerity layered in your voice is without question. Peter can only marvel as Wade makes rather coquettish giggle, and continues to make diligent craft of massage into the seized knots of your shoulders.

“I don’t get it,” Peter mutters. But he stares—and admires the besotted Wade Wilson—all the same.

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