Ooc:/ Our first look at Lobo in the Woman of Tomorrow trailer! He was there for less than a second, and I just had to analyze whatever I could. And I like what I see 💣🐬⛓️
a/n: beloved mutual @dorianism requested this and I ran away with it. Hope you all enjoy! :)
cw: blood drinking (reader is a vampire), dry humping, flirting, groping, use of honey/sweetheart/babe, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
masterlist ao3 requests
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“Wanna try some prime blood, then?” He asks, and his voice is affected deep and hoarse for this.
“Who’s offering?” You ask, and when he doesn’t provide any elaboration, you feel your brow furrow. “You?”
He rewards you with the sight of his bared teeth. “Why not? Bet you never had blood like mine before.”
“Is that a threat?” you ask, feeling one of your brows instinctively cock up at the proposal.
tl;dr: you take a bite on the wild side. Lobo/Reader
“So you’re like a vampire?” Lobo asks as he sidles into the lounge. You look up from the book that you’ve been perusing, a romance novel that Bea and Tora have been passing between each other with no real intention of finishing it.
You’ve decided to finally liberate it from the cycle of incompletion, and while it’s no intellectual challenge, it certainly is helping to pass the time as you while it away.
That is, until the bounty hunter has deigned to interrupt it. You get the feeling that while he occupies the same space as you, you won’t be afforded the opportunity to finish it. The cover finds itself reluctantly closed as you watch him puff away at that acrid cigar, filling out the ample space of the doorframe as he regards you.
While his appraisal is silent, it’s filled with all that remains unspoken between the two of you, from the slant of his eyes, to the crooked, relaxed posture he assumes.
You realize you still owe him a response to his inquiry, and shift from where you sit on the couch. You manage a wary reply steeped in what you hope communicates as supreme caution.
“Something like that, yeah.” You watch as he stalks from the door frame to the couch opposite with you, with what one might classify as languid ease. Unafraid to be interrogating or asking such inquiry in a space that is not his, asking you questions that took other members of the Leagues shy, protracted months to work up the courage to make of you.
He settles into the cushions with a gusty sigh and a creak of furniture, the muscles in his arms flexing as he drapes them over the back of the furniture. You think that since he has made his presence known in the doorway, he has not taken his eyes off of you once.
“You drink blood?” He asks coarsely, going straight for the jugular, if you will. You purse your lips at the question, and decide to abandon the book to the side of you, where it seems it will continue to remain untouched. The smoke from his cigar curls up into the air and begins to circle the light fixture as it evaporates.
“Not just from anyone.” You offer assertively—you don’t know who supplied him with the information, although you can make your deductions. “I want them to be willing.”
“What’s it do fer ya?” Lobo asks, although the question should be fairly straightforward, the effects implied, the abilities inferred. He’s asking, it seems, because he wants to get to the heart of something, but what, you don’t know. It seems it’ll be up to you to suss that out.
You rest an elbow on the cushion, tuck your legs up under you. Better to portray yourself as unfettered by this line of questioning than unsettled, which you are certainly feeling a small modicum of.
“Gives me strength.” You return easily, lolling your head at an angle as you watch him tick his legs wide, putting himself on display for your pleasure. You try not to look. “Makes me invulnerable.”
“‘Makes you?’” He repeats the response, the tense that’s used in it. His fingers go to pinch the cigar as he removes it from his mouth, cocking his head to perceive these supposed abilities better. Or maybe it’s just to get an improved view of your assets. “You sayin’ that’s gone now?”
You can’t resist a smirk because it seems quite in-character for what you’ve seen of him. Always trying to champ at the bit, to sniff out the challenge, the skills that others can levy his way, to his advantage.
“Not entirely.” You say, because it’s not a lie, and you definitely don’t want to portray yourself at a disadvantage to him right now. “But I’m not up to my strongest right now.”
He thinks on this for a whiling second, though he has yet to provide you the privilege of a respite from those red eyes. He takes a stark drag from the cigar that audibly crackles, and when he exhales through his nose, it provides an impressive visual as the smoke wreathes around him.
“Who’s your go-to on the team?” He asks, because this is logical. If you need blood for power, then there must a blood bank, so to speak. You just don’t like how he’s gunning for all of these secrets.
You decide to operate on ambiguity and shrug. “Whoever’s willing.”
“That’s not answerin’ the question.” He says, and you curse him for the virtue of being brighter than he looks. It seems like he’s going to be insistently dogged on finding the answer to this question, even if you do choose to leave the room right now.
This doesn’t stop you from casting your eyes to the door, and then back to the monolith that reclines opposite you.
“Usually Guy.” You finally grace him with an answer. He graces you with a slow, languorous smile, as though this is what he expected. When he gives you a demonstration of those teeth, you have to admire the way that they improve that rugged quality to his face.
“He like it?” Lobo asks, and there’s definitely a salacious quality to the question. You try to ignore the way that the question stirs something deep and low in you.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘like.’” You return, because you’re venturing out into uncharted territory now with an unknown variable, and you’re ambivalent about the ride.
“You get anything different out of him?” Lobo asks, and this is a question that brings you up short for a few reasons. It’s actually an insightful question—not a sexual follow-up, like you expected—and it makes you think. You look at him in a light that seems to be evolving positive the longer that you continue to engage with him.
“Mmm, that’s a good question.” You muse, looking back out the doorway to the unhurried nothing going on beyond you. “I guess I feel more energized. Maybe more angry.”
He makes a sharp bark of a laugh that expels that smoke from him, the way that you would assume a beast of fabled yore would. It only serves to demonstrate a more assertive menace than the quiet one he’s been radiating since he’s walked in.
“I’ll bet.” He takes another pull, and looks directly at you as he takes aim with his next question. “He into you?”
You were expecting some iteration of this question, so you’re prepared for it and the dry tone that you respond with. “Is he into anyone?”
To your mild relief, he growls out another laugh at this, a crude noise that makes a shiver of sensation draw up your arms. There’s only a second that elapses between the two of you, before you watch him lean forward, putting that wide frame on illustrative display for you.
“Wanna try some prime blood, then?” He asks, and his voice is affected deep and hoarse for this.
“Who’s offering?” You ask, and when he doesn’t provide any elaboration, you feel your brow furrow. “You?”
He rewards you with the sight of his bared teeth. “Why not? Bet you never had blood like mine before.”
“Is that a threat?” you ask, feeling one of your brows instinctively cock up at the proposal.
“It’s a promise, baby.” He says, and doesn’t move, remaining the obstacle between you and the light at the end of the tunnel. The predacious leer has yet to degrade as he asks, “So how’s about it?”
There’s a simple fix for this one. You tell him very calmly, “I don’t need blood right now.”
“You don’t have to need it to want it.” He argues the merit of his proposal to you, and you know that you’re not imagining the lascivious manner in which he informs you.
There’s a moment of over-affected hesitation as he takes another pull and then tacks on, “Or maybe you’re just worried of makin’ your boyfriend jealous.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” You chuckle, because he’s not, and you know that this bounty hunter is trying to get a rise out of you.
“Actin’ like he is,” Lobo contends, his eyes tracking every minutiae of movement you make, “The way you don’t want to get a bite of anyone else.”
You settle a long stare upon him, weighing the pros and cons of giving into the very foolish bait that he’s asking you to take. But that smile has yet to waver, the offer yet to be rescinded. The line in the sand is, apparently, begging for you to cross over it, into the meridian that he awaits you in.
And it’s been so very long since you’ve had a meal freely offered your way.
“Fine.” You sigh as you heft yourself to your feet. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Consider the warnin’ ignored,” He returns with cavalier ease, and reclines back in the seat again. “How we gonna do this?”
It’s a good question, one that you’re temporarily unprepared for. Usually with Guy, it’s more of a grab-and-go situation where he tugs down his collar and you drink what you can as he gripes about how you owe him a six-pack for his troubles.
But Lobo is seated and doesn’t seem inclined in the slightest to move from where he sits. And he’s far too large to try and post up beside him and drink.
“I’m going to get on your lap,” You declare as you cross over to him, “And you’re going to be as gentlemanly as you can be.”
“Gentlemanly?” He asks, and carnal would be the best way to describe the expression that makes itself known. “I wrote the fuckin’ definition of it, honey.”
“Uh-huh,” you return dryly, and as you near, he makes his lap accessible; even like this, you’re hesitant to huck your legs over this great plateau. But you’ve made it this far—there’s no backing out now.
He holds out a hand that you eye with extreme suspicion, but when you take it, all he does is guide you onto him with a casual flex of that massive arm. He’s roiling with heat, every square inch of his real estate shedding a fever-pitch that you’ve willingly entered the radius of.
As you settle yourself over his lap, he chuckles, but doesn’t move, doesn’t make inclination to grab you. You’re certain that if you tried to leave, he’d give you a fair fight for it.
But he only stares down at you, waiting for you to be the one to cross this unspoken rubicon. And then he tilts his neck, keeping that cigar champed between his teeth, a canine winking out at you.
“I’m waitin’,” He informs you huskily. So you inch forward, take in a whiff of that cologne with hints of leather and cedar and musk. You thread your hand through the mane to make way to that thick column of neck. The pale sinew reveals a pulse that practically hums with life, with blood—for you.
“You sure?” you ask his neck rather than his face, though you know that the press of his eyes are still drawn upon you. “Some people get scared.”
You offer an unamused groan; a rumble of laughter tremors through you as you roll your eyes to the ceiling. “Alright, alright.”
As you’ve found through your experience with Guy and other people who have willingly donated their blood to you, the experience can be as intimate as you want it to be. A quick meal given between comrades, or something sensuous and animal.
As you display your teeth and feel the sink and give into his skin, hear his satisfied groan, feel the instinctual roll of his hips into you, sense the temperature that seems to spike and grow rapidly electric—this one hums with something hedonistic.
Your hands seek out the spread of his shoulders to steady yourself. His own search out the width of your hips, keeping you stable and secured to him.
“Oh, that’s fuckin’ good,” He says, and there’s something that awakens in the back of your mind, in your core, in the junction of your legs as your body adjusts to the shape of him. You drink from him and there’s a headiness, a quality to him that seems to make the world grow hazy, intoxicating—but you can’t stop drinking.
You won’t stop drinking, not when his hands are so warm and his body is so inviting and underneath you and you realize—you want this. You want him.
The grind of his hips under you makes you want to respond back in kind, and you rock against him, feel something grow firm—his hands clasp around your ass and help to set the rhythm as you continue to drink.
There’s a muffled moan that you make as you continue to drain his life’s blood, and you receive a pleased grunt in return, a squeeze to your ass for your troubles.
“Fuck, just like that—”—He grits through his teeth, and you feel a rush of adrenaline, punch-drunk and delayed, through the fog of pleasure—it’s time to stop.
You pull away, and there’s a wave of satisfaction that rolls through you, that sings through your veins, that awakens as you look at him. You know there’s a trickle of his blood that trails down your chin, the line of your jaw, as you grin at him. There’s something similar that regales his face as he watches you.
“So how d’you feel, babe?” He asks, and though he bears your mark, he’s no worse for wear. In fact, he looks downright happy with the way that the night has devolved for him. For the way that it will continue to devolve for him, if you have any say in the matter.
“Feel like,” You say, curling your fingers into the flesh of his shoulders, “I wanna fuckin’ kiss you.”
“Yeah? Good thing I’ve been tryin’ to do that the whole fuckin’ day.” He chuckles, and pulls you to him to finish the job.
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed, feel free to like/reblog/comment if you did! :)
Description - Headcanons about Lobo as a caregiver
Warnings - Mentions of smoking and drinking (but not in graphic details), mention of the pub, one swear word, maybe mischaracterization (sorry!!) and that's pretty much it.
Didn't quite understand what agere was when was when you told him, but was still supportive even though it took a while understand why someone would even do or like that
Although it took a while for lobo to wrap his head around age regression, he is fiercely protective of you, especially when you're feeling little
Is quite a chaotic caregiver in the way that he would go on spontaneous motorbike rides with you, lets you have as much lollies as you want (even tho you have crazy sugar highs) and stay up as late as you want
But will step in if it goes too far as he still wants you to be happy, he doesn't want your mental state to worsen even more (that means bedtimes and limited lolly binges)
LOVES doing Halloween with you (pretend that he knows what Halloween is)
Tries to not smoke or drink in front of you as much as possible because he doesn't want you to get sick or get any bad ideas of him
Got you your own motorbike helmet for when the two of you went on motorbike rides and even helped decorate it by putting stickers on it
Whenever Lobo goes on a mission, he'll always manage to pick up a toy, trinket or just SOMETHING for you to play with or keep you busy with
Does the classic dad move of saying that he isn't interested in what your watching but is lowkey more into what your watching than you're at times
Can't cook for shit, like is HORRIBLE at it leading to him feeding you warm milk and hot chips for dinner sometimes (he even blows on the chips so they aren't too hot before giving it too you)
But genuinely tries to feed you nutritious meals for the most part
Is very into playing pretend with you, whether it's pretend dress up or a nerf gun fight, he will play the hell out his role
You frequent the pub with Lobo a Lot, to say the least (can't leave kids alone Lobo says) he also lets you drink a ton of soda and also run a muck in the kids area. After a while you end up also making a bed out of chairs and your jumpers to sleep on while waiting to leave
He is very to manipulate as he hates seeing you cry, caves immediately
