"Don't look at me like that," Lobo grunted under his breath, letting his head fall back as he downed another bottle of awful beer.

He fraggin' hated when you looked at him like that, with those god damn eyes, and that god damn face. It mixed him up inside, made his entrails twist in a way they never should, and made him feel things he never thought he could, things he couldn't name. Connection wasn't in his vocabulary. Devotion was hardly a concept to him. And Love? A load of shit. He was the Main Man, not some whipped puppy dog falling head of heels for ya.

"Come on, we gotta get movin'," Lobo put out his cigar on the bottom of his boot, before straightening himself up with a stretch and cracks of his joints. You weren't pleasure, or business, or anything else to him. You were just...

Lobo clenched his sharp teeth as he made his way to the exit of the shitty galactic bar you found yourselves in, letting his knuckles pop as his hands clenched. Nope.

He was not whipped. You didn't mean nothin' to him. Not a thing, not a goddamn thing.

Nope.