#maybe I head canon a little that he cleans it as a stim

[steviewashere]

If It Has to Happen, Let It

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Emetophobia, Vomiting, Panic/Anxiety Attack, Negative Stimming as a Form of Self-Harm/Self-Regulation Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Emetophobia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling, Steve Harrington Has Good Parents

Okay, I wrote this while enduring a migraine. So we'll see how good this actually is. But I couldn't shake this idea, so here it is. Also, this is based on experience and I have pretty debilitating migraines and emetophobia. I'm asking y'all to be kind about this, that's all. <3

Read On AO3

🤢—————🤢 Steve used to have normal, everyday headaches when he was younger. They’d last a few hours. Be kind of an annoyance, prickling him with an undercurrent of ache. Sometimes make it hard to focus on tasks at hand. But they weren’t life changing. They didn’t affect every aspect of his day to day life. They didn’t linger or take over or knock him down for the count. His headaches used to be normal.

Now they aren’t. They’re debilitating. Humiliating. All consuming.

It wasn’t the concussions that resulted in the migraines, surprisingly enough. Everybody seems to think that and they’re not wrong, not really. But his mom had them. And his dad had them. And his nana had them.

The migraines started out as being mainly genetic. It sucked, sure. They’d come and go. Once every few months, maybe. At most. Just for a day. Isolate him to his bedroom. Leave him to spread on his bed with an ice pack on his forehead. That sort of thing.

Then the concussions came. One after the other after the other. They got worse. Astronomically worse. It wasn’t just a day that the migraines would hang around. It was multiple days. It was an entire week. Even once, it was three weeks in a row. He was sensitive to everything, sometimes nothing. The smell of Robin’s perfume. The sound of Dustin’s voice. The lights inside Family Video, inside Scoops Ahoy, inside his own house. He’d hole away. Lay in the expanding darkness of his bedroom. Curtains closed. Bed stripped of his sheets. Ice on his head, under his head, wrapped around his neck. He’d sleep shirtless, sleep nude, sleep fully clothed—his body couldn’t regulate. Would barely get up because the world would swirl around him like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Worst of the worst, though, was the nausea.

When he was little, he remembers his nana taking him out for his seventh birthday. Pancakes—Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, topped with fruit and whipped cream and as much maple syrup as he wanted. He drank orange juice, bubbled the liquid with his straw, took bites of his nana’s egg salad, giggled and snickered and cried with joy. It was fun. A good day. And then no less than eight hours later, he couldn’t keep himself standing. Could only kneel, stripped to his dinosaur themed underwear, hair stringy to his head, his mom cooing softly in his ear—hurling and spewing and coughing on and off for hours. Until, eventually, he landed himself a pretty uncomfortable spot in the emergency room, IV in his vein, and tears on his cheeks.

He remembers the all consuming fear when his stomach would flip. When his mouth would begin to salivate and his throat would burn with the bile that came up through burps, and how his hands would shake. Remembered all the times between being seven and now where he’d kneel on the tile of his bathroom, head stuck inside his toilet bowl, clamping to the porcelain with his slick palms, heaving until there was nothing left to give. And then he’d hack some more, just to see if he was done. If it was over. If he could be relieved instead of walking on glass.

He’d ruined plenty of Pyrex bowls. Dirtied plenty of blankets. Stained several mattresses. He’s apologized through tears as his mom helped clean up the carpet in his bedroom. Let her pet his sweaty hair and say it was alright, even though he knew it wasn’t. Even though it would scare her when he’d dissolve into hysterics.

Steve doesn’t do nausea. He doesn’t do throwing up. He doesn’t even do burps. That’s how afraid he is.

The migraines don’t help. If anything, they make him anxious. Make him trapped inside his own body, shaking and breathing shallowly. Knobby knees and burning tears. Flapping his hands out at his sides as if the stupid movement could will the feeling away. Sometimes, when he’d get really upset and he couldn’t calm down, he’d take to slamming his closed fists over his thighs. Trying to distract himself with another sensation. Something else that should bother him. Steve would slam his palms into his chest. He’d claw at his stomach until he’d either bleed or tire himself out. Would tangle his fingers into his hair and pull, hard enough to leave long strands in his palms. He’d hurt and hurt and hurt until he could forget what it was like to have bile coat his throat.

And he knows, by all means does he know, that to any ordinary person he looks like a basket case. He knows that sometimes it seems like he’s overreacting. That he’s making something out of nothing. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the little freakouts or the rapid breathing or the sound of skin smacking against skin.

Sometimes he knows how to regulate. When he’s feeling even the slightest bit sick. Open a window, stick his head out and take several long gulps of cold night air. Stick himself under a near third degree burning hot shower. (Because his mom had said that hot water helps. Not this hot, but she doesn’t need to know.) He keeps a case of ginger ale. Has a new addiction to peppermint gum. Shoves his big head between his knees and just prays. He’ll say over and over in his head: “You will not throw up. You don’t need to throw up. You aren’t sick. You won’t throw up.” 

It’s all worked. Kept himself puke-free since sixth grade.

But now he gets migraines.

And today’s the worst one he’s ever had.

——— If he doesn’t open his eyes, he won’t throw up. Because if the light gets in his eyes, the pain will worsen. And if the pain worsens, he’ll throw up. But he won’t. Because he doesn’t do that.

It’s 9am on a Monday. He woke up nearly four hours ago, head throbbing, lights infuriating, and body aching. His sheets have been pulled away. And his blanket is tossed somewhere on the floor. Down to his underwear and nothing else. Very briefly, he considers stripping those off, too. He’s sweating, even though the A/C is on, even though his window is open, even though it’s something like forty-three degrees out.

He can’t take the smell of himself. Or the pillow under his head. Laundry detergent, sweat, and the lingering ghost of cologne. His stomach is churning like crazy. Every little movement makes his insides flare. And he thinks, at any moment, he’ll upchuck onto his mattress. Maybe he should go lay on the cold bathroom tiles, wrap himself around the base of the toilet.

I won’t throw up, he thinks behind the deep furrow of his eyebrows, I can’t throw up. I don’t need to. Don’t throw up, Steve.

He should get up. Get an icepack. Something to snack on. His medicine.

But if he stands up, he’ll be slammed by vertigo. If he’s dizzy, he’ll throw up. And if he throws up, he probably won’t stop. And then his heart will try to burst out of his chest and he’ll still be throwing up and then he’ll have a heart attack all by himself, but he’ll be covered in his own puke. He gently turns his head into his pillow, where the cold is running from him, and groans.

Something clatters to the ground downstairs. Followed by the thud of several footsteps. But he can’t get up. Vertigo means throwing up. I won’t throw up, I won’t throw up, he repeats, a mantra.

Then, all at once, his bedroom door is swung wide open and the bright amber light in the hallway is bleeding into his room. It’s lighting up the hand by his head, the hairs dangling over his eyes. He doesn’t bite back the whine that erupts from him. Somebody’s walking closer, their shadow overbearing and large over him. Their body heat like the lick of a freshly lit campfire. He’s burning in their orbit—crisping, boiling, ready to be eaten alive.

“Christ, Steve,” the person states. The person is Eddie, once he hears the voice back in his head. A familiar rasp in his voice. And that’s when Steve picks up on the scent of a recently lit cigarette. He kind of wants to reach up and strangle Eddie, choke him until he promises to never smoke again. Maybe this is how Robin feels about him, too. “It’s fucking freezing in here. Why is your window open?” He steps away towards the window, the light coming back full force. “You’ve got a shift today, y’know? Robin’s already there. Called me to come get you because you’re late and—“

“Shut up, Eddie,” Steve finally gets himself to grumble. It doesn’t have the bite he wants it to have. Weak and small and breaking. He opens his mouth again to add more, but his mouth begins to salivate. He shuts up, swallows and swallows and…It doesn’t work. His stomach clenches harshly and he whimpers, hand traveling down towards his overheated middle, digging into his soft flesh, nails sharp and biting. I won’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Eddie heaves a disappointed sigh. “Dude, you have to go to work. I’m sorry if you didn’t get enough sleep, but you have to go.”

Steve’s chest rises and falls a little too quick. He can’t catch his breath. Can sense the tremor in his hand through the back of his neck. Too hot. Sweating. Drooling onto his pillow. Kind of wants to cry, but can’t do that. Can’t do that in front of Eddie—he won’t understand. Won’t be able to calm him down like his mom can or give him words of comfort like his dad sometimes does.

Instead of dignifying Eddie’s conversation with a response, Steve sits up hastily. Legs dangling over the edge of his mattress. Vision swimming. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. His stomach swoops deep, then sloshes up towards his lungs as if it’s trying to break free. The throbbing is back full force, pulsating and overwhelming. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t get himself to wade away the nausea. I won’t. I can’t throw up. I can’t. I can’t.

He groans, reaching up to the sides of his head, gripping himself harshly. Fingers in his hair, pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging. Head tucked towards his knees. Swallowing and swallowing and…He tugs as hard as he can on his hair, eliciting a loud whine from his throat.

The window doesn’t close. The curtains don’t even move. But Eddie does. His body swarming Steve, his heat engulfing him as if he’s a house on fire. Hands flittering out. “Steve? You okay?”

“Mi—Mi—“ Steve stutters before gagging. He cries through a quick exhale from his nose. He can’t make it all stop. His heart’s beating too fast. His chest hurts from how fast his breathing has gone. He can’t. He can’t.

“Sweetheart? Are you gonna be sick? I can get you to the bath—“

“No, no, no,” Steve rushes out. “Not gonna—Won’t throw up. Can’t.” He tries to take a breath through his mouth, but with his lips agape and his tongue working to make words, saliva floods out of him. The heat of his own spit warm on his thigh, it glistens in the little bit of light from the hallway. “Head,” he whimpers, “hurts.”

“Shit,” Eddie softly curses. He crouches down in front of Steve, his hands floating above his trembling knees. “It’s a migraine. Okay,” he whispers, “what can I do, sweetheart?”

Steve sobs. “I dunno,” he wetly murmurs. Another wave of nausea crashes over him and he leans forward with his next gag. He’s not going to throw up, but the more the pain increases and the more his stomach flips and the warmer he gets, he may just do the opposite. That thought alone makes him cry harder. He detangles his fingers from his hair, flaps his hands out in front of him like mimicking a bird, and then thrashes them down onto his thighs. In front of him, Eddie visibly winces. But he does it again, harder.

He can’t see that well, but notices the way Eddie’s hands scramble out to stop him. But he flinches away. Fisting his hands tighter, enough that his nails bite into his palms, and punches down on the surely forming bruises. “Steve, stop it. You’re hurting yourself, stop it,” Eddie scolds firmly. But Steve doesn’t. Eddie visibly is shaken up, rocking forward on his heels, hands stuck between actions, and his voice warbles when he speaks. “I think,” he states slowly, “we should get you to the bathroom. And you should go ahead and try to flush out your system—“

“No!” Steve yelps with a whine. “No, I don’t need’a—“ He takes a quick, shuddering breath. Chest caving in with his panic. His thighs are sore and his hands sting. But he slams down again. “—don’t wanna—“

“Stevie,” Eddie murmurs lowly, placating, “you’ll feel better if you let it out. I promise, sweetheart, you will feel better, okay? I’ll sit with you. Put a cold rag on your neck. I’ll—“

Steve’s saliva dribbles from his mouth again, more this time. His stomach gurgles. And it’s like somebody has an iron grip on his brain, squishing the organ between their fingers, toying with it like Play-Doh. I’m going to throw up, he realizes in panic. “Eds—Ed, ‘m gonna—Gonna—“

Gently, though purposefully, Eddie grabs Steve by the elbows. Half-walking, half-dragging them to Steve’s ensuite. He shoves them down in front of the open toilet bowl. And lays his left palm flat on the center of Steve’s back, wincing at the first jarring wet-heave that comes from the back of Steve’s throat.

He pets his palm up and down Steve’s spine. “Get it out, Stevie. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

With Eddie’s words and the soothing touch, Steve finally allows himself to expel. Bile burns through him. And he shakes through the first splatter into the toilet bowl’s water. He could never stand the smell, the sound, or the look of vomit. Yet here it is, sour and salty and yellow. Chunky and swirling and fresh. The next heave makes him start crying again, but he doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t care about breaking down in front of Eddie because he now has to deal with this—the overwhelming anxiety that floods through him, out of him with each hurl. The rabid beating against his ribs and the gasps through sobs.

There’s so much coming out of him. Too much.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, “holy…You’re okay, Steve.” He leans across to the toilet paper dispenser for a few sheets. Folds it with one hand and wipes away at Steve’s face between short bursts of vomit. Barely draws his hand away before it starts up again.

Steve spits big globs of saliva-puke. Angles his head so Eddie can catch his eyes. Meekly says, “‘M sorry, Ed. ‘M sorry.”

“Shhh,” Eddie soothes. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You gotta do this, it’s alright.”

“Yucky,” Steve sighs. “’T’s…I hate this.” He closes his eyes as vertigo slams sideways at him, T-boned by the dizziness. Takes a burbling breath through his mouth.

“If you have more, let it out, Steve. It won’t do you any good to keep it in.”

He cries softly with his next exhale. “‘M sorry,” he keens. And then he’s convulsing forward with his next gag.

Time stretches, it feels like, for hours. His knees ache and his skin is cold and his hands are slipping with how wet the toilet bowl is from his sweat. Throat sore and stomach empty. But the malaise from gagging for so long lingers, making him dry-heave when there’s nothing left to give. He rests his forehead over his left forearm over the back of the toilet seat. Sniffs and keeps his eyes closed. Shaking through the last bit of it.

Distantly, the sound of the sink goes off next to him. He’s so out of it, he didn’t even realize that Eddie stood up and left him momentarily. Wishes he could leave this, too. Wishes he could step outside of his body and not experience this anymore, for the rest of his life, for the rest of time itself.

Eddie crouches down beside him again. Gently grasps him by the chin and pulls him up to be face to face. He runs the lukewarm rag over his chin, his lips, and under his nose. “Good job getting it out, Stevie,” he whispers, “how are you feeling now?”

“Tired,” Steve mumbles, “and gross and in pain.”

He gets a nod in return. “Okay,” Eddie mutters, “let me get your migraine things, alright? I’ll take you back to bed.”

Steve sighs. Closes his eyes in exhaustion. “‘M embarrassed, too.”

The rag and Eddie’s hand slowly comes off his face. The cloth is crumpled in Eddie’s palm when Steve glances. “Why’re you embarrassed, Stevie? It’s okay to throw up. It’s fine.”

He shrugs. “Just—“ And Steve looks down towards his lap. At the mottled bruises on his thighs, peeking out from his two day old underwear. The light scratch lines on the soft give of his belly. “—It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m afraid of vomiting. Of vomit. I—I have a meltdown like a toddler when I feel like ‘m gonna puke and…and I get all hysterical and whiny and I sob like crazy. And I—I dunno. I was overreacting and I made you have to take care of me and it’s just…I’m just being dumb.”

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, that scolding edge back. “It’s not dumb, Steve. Vomiting is traumatic, I get it. And—Before you try and interrupt me—you didn’t make me help you. I helped you because I noticed that you were struggling. And had I not, you probably would’ve made a big mess in your room. I wasn’t going to just leave you in a state like that.”

“But it is stupid, Eds,” Steve urges, voice wavering. “It’s stupid because I’m a grown fucking adult. And I should be able to handle this. I should—“ The tears come back. “—Just fucking look at me. Crying, again. I’m so—“ He groans in frustration, fingers clenching into his palms, cutting them up again.

Gently, Eddie unfurls Steve’s hands. “Look at me, Steve.” He does. Fiercely, softly, Eddie continues, “You are sick right now. You didn’t feel good. You were scared. You were anxious. In no way, shape, or form were you stupid for reacting like this. Alright? Steve, you were overwhelmed with it all. I’m not going to judge you because you’re afraid of vomit. The only thing I’m concerned about is the hitting, but we can talk about that a different time, okay?”Eddie’s thumbs work tenderly into the backs of Steve’s hands. There’s a glimmer of protectiveness in his eyes and Steve latches onto it. Lets himself begin to believe that it’s actually okay. Even if his circumstances are concerning. “You wanna know a truly dumb fear?” Eddie murmurs lightly.

Steve almost wants to cry more with how caring Eddie is, but he pushes it to the side. Favors the distraction. “What?” He mumbles.

“I’m afraid of birds. And not them existing or being in my space or landing on my shoulders. I’m afraid of birds flying above me and pooping on my hair,” he states genuinely. Steve can’t help but snort, albeit weakly. “See? It’s kind of dumb, y’know? When have I ever cared about my fucking hair, Steve? Never, that’s when. Well, unless there are birds nearby.”

“I guess it is a little dumb,” Steve whispers.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, grinning. “Vomit isn’t dumb, though. I promise, Stevie. We can talk about it later, if you want. Or never, if you prefer. Let me get you settled in bed and I’ll grab your stuff.”

He lets Eddie guide him back to bed. Fluff his pillow. Lay him supine. When he returns, he’s holding three ice packs, a bottle of prescription migraine medication, a plate of toast, and some water.

Steve watches in silent infatuation as Eddie lays it out all careful on his bedside table. As he tucks the icepacks where they need to go. Helps Steve take his medicine, eat, and drink. And almost begins crying again when Eddie rubs gentle circles on his chest.

“Lay with me?” He quietly asks.

Instead of making up some long winded excuse, Eddie immediately strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He slides right next to Steve, not touching, but not too far away, either. Rolls over onto his side to face Steve and gently places his hand over the cold compress on his forehead. “This okay, baby?”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he tries to relax back into his pillows. “Yeah,” Steve whispers, “‘m just nauseous still.”

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, “I’ve got some Altoids in my jacket if you want them. Your chewing gum might agitate the migraine more.” He reaches over the side of the bed and fishes out the tin can of mints. Pinches three with his index finger and thumb. And requests, “Open your mouth, Stevie.”

Steve lets him place the mints on his tongue. He spreads them out so that one is in the center and the other two are on either side. “Will this help?” He asks around the Altoids. As if to mock him, a feeling of malaise washes over him. Immediately, he lays his hands over his stomach and digs his fingernails in.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie whispers urgently, abandoning the ice pack and grabbing Steve’s hands instead. Soothingly rubs his thumb up the back of his hands and down to the underside of his wrists, where his pulse is hot, fast, and concerning. “No more of that. No more making yourself hurt.”

“Don’t wanna be sick,” Steve pants, breathing heavy through his nose.

“You won’t be sick,” Eddie says like a promise. Somewhere deep within Steve he knows Eddie’s saving face, saying something false. But he can’t bring himself to come to that realization. It sounds like the voice in his head. I won’t throw up, he thinks in tandem. “Just keep your eyes closed, alright? I’ll keep the door closed. I didn’t shut the window. Focus on the icepacks for me, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, relenting when it only makes the migraine pulse alive. He tries to center the cold spots. “Where are they, Stevie?”

“My…My forehead.”

“That’s one,” Eddie whispers, “two more.”

“And my neck. And—“ He takes another deep breath. “And under my head,” he breathes out.

“Good,” Eddie praises softly. “That was good, baby.” He gently squeezes Steve’s palms. “Tell me what usually helps. Let me help you through this so that you don’t…I don’t like seeing you hurt yourself.”

Steve quietly whines. Digging back into the icepack underneath him. Breathing out the last little bits of nausea from that particular wave. But he knows it’ll be back. It’s how his migraines always are. “I like the cold air on me,” he confesses near silently. “And I need to make sure I have mints or gum in my mouth. And I—It’s stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid, just tell me.”

He huffs. “I have to tell myself I won’t throw up. Like I need to hear that I won’t, I guess.”

Gentle and nimble fingers massage his hands and wrists. Small circles, little vertical stripes, horizontal strokes. “I’m getting the box fan from your parents’ room. And then we’ll just lay here. You won’t throw up, Stevie.” As Eddie gets up, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek—even where it’s sallow and tacky.

There’s something in the way Eddie says it, nonchalant but not dismissive, that makes Steve believe he’s right. Something in the way he’s not disgusted or afraid of Steve’s everything after, something in that kiss like a vow. So he indulges. Lays with his eyes shut, the box fan eventually blowing the cold air from his window onto his too warm skin, and Eddie’s fingers massaging his hands. Every single time he tenses, Eddie soothes him with that same promise.

He keeps Steve away from harm. Squeezing his hands firmly when he tries to hit or scratch at himself. Pets his hair and coos softly in his ear. And holds the icepacks when Steve goes boneless with sleep, mouth agape and drooling, snuffling softly into the calm silence stretching between them.

At the end of the day, he’s still afraid of vomiting. It’s probably something he’ll never get over, something he’ll be challenged with for the rest of his life (or however long these migraines last). Though, Eddie doesn’t judge him. Doesn’t let the negative in. He’s braver with Eddie. Safer. Afraid, but comforted.

That’s all he could ask for while going through this.

🤢—————🤢

[its-in-the-woods]

Chapter five, Life's Too Short

Chapter one , two, three, four <- if you missed it.

Cooper howard/The Ghoul x Lucy Maclean

Post end of season 1

No beta.. I tried to edit 🫠

Ninety five percent written just tweaking

⚠️ Warning ⚠️

There will be canonically typical violence and eventually smut. Things will deviate from canon. Angst/fluff, self-hatred so on and so forth.

🚨+18 only - MDN🚨

Slow burn sorta kinda

Please be nice this is my first fic in almost a decade 🫣

Will eventually post on AO3 once I can get access... or where suggested 🤷🏻‍♂️ Like please tell me I am old and don't know things anymore.

“You asshole.” She whispered leaning down to kiss the top of his bald head  “I am not leaving you, I don’t care. You’re gonna wake up.” 

Grabbing a stim pack and painkillers she finally injected herself. The world is fading into darkness. 

***

The Ghoul groaned, a splitting migraine was a hell of a way to wake up. He blinked a few times expecting to find himself outside only to be met with grey and black. He was in a building, blinking a few more times he could see a slit of light from around the doors. He closed his eyes, groaning. What the fuck did he get up to last night, his foot moving to hear the clinking of glass viles. That was never a good sign. Opening his eyes again he tried to take stock of the space. Some kind of military warehouse maybe. 

Flashes of a Deathclaw exploding made his head spin. His left hand went up to rub over the spot where something had hit him. His fingers felt ridges of a good-sized hole that had started to heal over, probably why his right arm was still a little limp. It always took longer for the ligaments and what was left of his nerves to catch up. As he felt the hole his hand grazed over the top of his fingers. Freezing in place he forced his eyes look. Two bloody hands and arms were draped over him almost possessively. He went to push them away only to catch sight of a purple-grey finger. Lucy. Realization hit him as he was resting against her, the feeling of her heart pulsing against his back. She had made it and had dragged his ass the whole way.

Getting himself up proved tricky. The drugs were still making him a little woozy on his feet. Rubbing his face with his good hand he looked down at his companion. It was hard to tell with the lack of light but she looked pale and feverish sweat had broken out across her brow. Looking around he saw a light switch, chances of the lights working were low but he flipped it anyway. A small amount of light blinked on. Had to love fusion cores. It wasn’t a lot but enough for him to get a good look at the women. Crouching down he could see that her vault suit was covered in blood. A lot of blood and it wasn’t all his. 

He needed to lay her down and see what was going on. He eased her down as best as he could with one arm. Her left thigh was full of birdshot, and the top part of her right shoulder had a gaping wound. Getting her wounds clean would be vital if he wanted Lucy to live. He tried the zipper but between the blood and dirt, it wasn’t moving. Rummaging into his saddle bag he pulled out a smaller knife, one usually used for making some ass jerky. Taking the curved edge he ran it down beside the zipper opening it up. Pushing the sticky clothing away from her was tricky, everything kept snagging. Growling he gave up and used the knife to cut the rest of the suit off. It would be useless to her now with all the holes anyway. 

He examined the wounds. The shoulder wound was long and ragged but it would be fine with stitches and some gauze. What was really concerning was the puss-filled, bright red wounds on her thigh. He’d need to dig whatever she’d been shot with out. As he dragged the suit out from her he noticed holes in the back of it, rolling her limp body over he saw that her back was covered in a mapwork of marks. They were just as red and pusy as her thigh. He ungloved his hands and could feel how hot the skin was. 

“Fuckin ‘umb-ass smoothskin’.” Ghoul hissed out. “Gonna end up lookin’ like me.”

He grabbed everything he could, the linen bag full of various meds was also dragged over. He took out a thin metal skewer and the same skinning knife. He cut the rest of her top and bra off so he had better access to the work ahead. At the same time, he hit her with two shots of med-x for good measure. He did not want her waking up while he did this. Torture wasn’t what he was looking to do right now. A non-moving body would be the easiest way to clean up this disaster. He doused everything in some moonshine and began to work. Halfway through the process his right arm finally started to cooperate. Once her back was done he poured the moonshine over the wounds. Grabbing the last stimpak he shot her up with that. Rolling her back over his eyes didn’t stray. Well not entirely. It was hard not to look at the sprawled-out naked women. He licked his lips and went back to the thigh, it had far less shrapnel but it was deeper. Blood seeped out, the smell made his mouth wet. The thought of running his tongue over the wounds made his fingers itch. He grabbed the inhaler and took a puff. 

“Get the job done, fuckin’ monster,” He growled at himself fishing out the next few pieces of debris. 

He sat back on his ass taking a swig of moonshine and another puff of chem. He rubbed at Dogmeat ears, the dog had been watching silently except for a few whines when Lucy would stir. The Vualtie was currently hooked up to some RadAway and covered in several different pieces of clothing. Most of them came off the skeletons that dotted through the warehouse. He needed to take stock of what they had, and where they were. His head spun a bit. He could still smell her blood on his hands. The girl had dragged him across the damn desert after blowing up a Deathclaw. He rubbed his bare head with a clean hand, realizing that somewhere along the way he had lost his hat.

“Should have left me,” He said out loud, still scratching Dogmeat. “What the fuck did I ever do for you to drag me all the way here. Save my ass, again. Stupid girl. Told you to leave me in the sand. Got to start saving your own ass. Cute as it is. Can’t be watchin' you die out there cause of me.”

He looked around the room, saddle bag, Lucy’s pack, the mostly empty med bag, a bunch of empty syringes, and a whole lot of tattered clothes. He had vials, some water, and not a whole lot else. Lucy stirred a bit mumbling in her sleep, they wouldn’t be moving anywhere for at least a day if not more. The Ghoul plus he missed his hat. As silly as it was, he had had it for so long that it felt wrong to not have it. With a reluctant sigh, he got himself up. His right arm still was struggling to cooperate, but at least he had some mobility. He put on a new shirt, slipped his bandoleer over his head, gun placed firmly in its holster.

Walking to the door he opened it, the smell of rain hit him, the sting of radiation tinged on his skin. Storm must have passed over while they were out, at least they had missed that. Looking out over the sand there was almost no sign they had even been out there. If he peered out he could see the edge of the cliff they had run to. He figured they’d probably made a direct line to this building. So if he headed back that way, the chance of him finding his hat and possibly whoever Lucy had pilfered from was high. 

He rubbed Dogmeat’s ears. “You’re going to stay here girl. Watch’er, I won’t be long.” 

The sand was hot as ever, he was still moving a little slower than he’d have liked. At least he was moving. His mind was trying to piece together the night before. Or had it been longer? His hat was stuck to an old dead cactus. Pulling it off he brushed the dust and needles off before placing it back on his head. As he continued to walk he also found Lucy’s shoes. Why she had taken them off was beyond him. Peering back towards the ridge he made out what looked like an upturned cart. Moving that way he came across what was left of the traveler. Bits and pieces of body lay strewn across the sand. Bits of ash were still near the center where a fire must have been. Deathclaw He thought absently, big fuckers were the scorn of the Mojave. Not as many as there used to be, but enough to make them a giant pain in his side. He rubbed at the scar, he could have looked like these poor unfortunate souls. 

Scouring the place he found a couple of canteens of water, and a bag full of dried fruit and meat. Whoever these folks were, they had been well stocked. The wagon was covered in blood and gore, he tangled up some rope. It was always good to have on hand. As he went to go a long call came out of the waste. Standing about a hundred yards from him stood a Brahma. Tail flicked back and forth as it ate some scrub grass. 

“You got to be the luckiest damn cow alive.” The Ghoul chuckled, he wandered over to the creature. Making a makeshift halter out of some of the pilfered rope. “You are going to come in handy.” 

***

The Ghoul slipped inside the warehouse, cow was tied to an old lamp post. If all went well they could trade it when they got to the next outpost. Brahma where not common and often fetched a fair amount of caps. Caps meant lodging, food, and most important chems. 

He sent Dogmeat out to watch the thing, the last thing he needed was their food ticket to get eaten by a roving critter. Walking over he took a look at Lucy, the girl was still pale but not nearly as bad as when he had left. 

She stirred a bit, her eyebrows furrowed together a wretched cough spilling out of her. The Ghoul crouched down at her side. She had gone from being on fire to being cool to the touch. He grabbed the bed roll from her backpack, laying it on top of her. He smoothed the hair out of her eyes, it had grown longer since they started walking. Lucy stirred her eyes looking up at him, those big damn eyes. Her hand slipped from under the fabric and grabbed at his. 

“I am so cold.” She whispered out, her voice sounding raw and cracked. He grabbed her flask of water, it was almost out. He pressed it against her lips and let her drink. 

She coughed again, her hand not letting go of his. Lucy pulled at his fingers, her eyes flickering shut as the young thing fought to keep herself awake. “Don’t be so stubborn.” She choked out trying to meet this gaze. “Please, I need to be warm.”

Cooper blinked at her, his drug-addled brain finally processing what she was asking. He let himself lay down on his better arm. He unbuttons his shirt some so she could lay directly on top of him. It wasn’t like he felt the cold much, but he could feel how cold she was. He moved the material and dragged the Vault-dweller against his chest. Her shuddering breath made him hesitate for a moment before he felt her cold hands wrap around him dragging herself closer. He bundled up some torn-up clothes and stuffed them under their heads. The girl sagged against him humming slightly as she pressed her lips against his scared chest. 

Maybe he had died. The Deathclaw had to have eaten him, or he was still high on drugs or needed more drugs. More drugs could never be a bad thing, right? No way in all the wasteland, in all two hundred-plus years of being on this damn planet did he think he’d have a Vualtie curled up against his chest giving him. Tiny kisses? He did his best not to laugh out loud at the ridiculous situation. Too scared to move and wake this living daydream.

He couldn’t sleep, even with Dogmeat standing outside the door. If he let himself sleep it would mean he’d wake up with her gone. He was a no-good bounty-hunting piece of shit. He had done some fucking terrible things to just about anyone who had crossed him. Fuck, he regularly ate other people. He used the Vaultdweller as bait, cut off her fingers, and sold her for Chems. But as he felt her breath against his chest, her heartbeat with his. None of that seemed to matter. He knew he should slide out from under her, let her rest and recover. But when something good in the wasteland came it was better to hold onto it, even if it was only for a second. 

***

Everything ached, a deep well of ache overflowing like the water she desperately wanted. The warmth she was currently surrounded by helped with that. It was the first time she could remember being somewhat comfortably warm. Even at the hotel, she had not felt comfortable like this. It wasn’t like being out in an irradiated wasteland under the sun. No this felt like being in a hot shower or cuddled under a blanket with hot tea. Her fingers traced over the rough surface of-. Her brain connected the like plugging in a lightbulb. Eyes opened just a crack to see that, yes, she was lying on top of the Ghoul. No, not the Ghoul. Cooper. The man she had dragged across the desert. The man she thought had died because she decided to throw a grenade that she stole from a vendor without telling him. She closed her eyes again. Part of her wanted to stay right here. But part of her also needed to move so that her aching bones would possibly stop yelling at her. 

She opened her eyes and drummed her fingers against his bare chest. In an attempt to gain his attention without him shoving her away. She looked up to see him looking back at her. Those gold eyes were not blown wide like before, they were focused on her. If he had had eyebrows they would have been raised. 

“Warm ‘nough yet?” The man growled his voice rumbling against her. 

She shook her head, biting her lip and looking away as her cheeks flushed. The man chucked his leathery hands rubbing against her bare shoulders. Another lightbulb. She was stark naked. 

“Where are my clothes?” She whispered quietly, almost trying to hide herself underneath the pile of material.

“Had to cut them off,” He said as if it was no big deal. “You soaked them with blood, I couldn’t get the zipper down.”

Her stomach flipped at the thought of him cutting them off. Part of her wished she had been able to see that. 

“Didn’t think you were going to make it for a little while,” When did his voice get so soft? 

“I thought you were dead.” She whispered her fingers, finding the now healed wound. “It didn’t want to heal. I kept giving you drugs and nothing would happen. Thought for sure I had killed you.”

The Ghoul chucked a small smirk crossing his face. “Can’t get rid of me, that easy sweetheart. Pretty sure you blowing up a Deathclaw saved our asses. Was good aim.”

Lucy smiled at the compliment, “I will give you more of a heads-up next time. Maybe you could teach me about what other monsters are out here.”

He grunted a reply shifting slightly. Lucy realized he was probably uncomfortable, she had no clue how long she’d been out. She moved a bit sliding off the man’s chest, she grabbed the bedroll and covered herself as best she could. Cooper groaned a bit, his joint clicking and cracking as he sat himself up. The same crooked smile plastered on his face, it was near predatory. 

Lucy looked down at her bare feet. Damn, she had forgotten to grab her boots. Cooper had stood up stretching his slim body. His skin looked closer to lizards, tight but it still stretched as he groaned, twisting back and forth. She longed to feel that textured skin under her hands again. Instead, the two of them turned away Lucy grabbing clothes that kind of fit and pulling them on. They’d need to get something better at the next outpost. Her jumpsuit on the other hand was completely done. Between mud, blood, and hundreds of holes it wasn’t worth trying to save. Her boots clattered to the floor beside her. 

“Found them with my hat you conveniently forgot,” Cooper grumbled as he buttoned up his shirt. 

Lucy was moving before she thought about it. If she thought about it too long she’d stop herself, right now it didn’t matter. Her fingers ran over his back and he stood up looking down at her. Lucy’s hands came up cup his textured face leaning up on her toes she kissed him. His whole body went rigid. Lucy pulled back his eyes wide. Oh, she had messed up. 

He immediately pulled away from her, his eyes covered by his hat. Lucy went to move towards him again but he puts up a hand between them.

“Stop.” The Ghoul growls. “It’s just the drugs. Give yourself time to wake up.”

Lucy scrunches up her face and pushes his hand out of the way. “Do not tell me it’s just the drugs.”

She gets right up into his face, forcing herself to stare up into the hollows of his eyes. “You are all I have. I thought you were dead. You giant-t-” Lucy grumbles her fist clenching at her side. “I thought I killed you. And you know what, I didn’t want to keep going. I don’t care what you think of me, or what you think of yourself. But this-” She gestures between the two of them, “Is what we got. We got each other, and gosh darn it. I want to kiss you.”

Cooper looks down at her, his face tight as she stares him down. “You don’t want this Lucy. I am glad you’re alive. But you don’t want this. I am no good, I’ve been around longer than most have been alive. I’ve done things that would make you want to put a bullet between my-"

“Fuck you.” Lucy spits, she can see his shock at the curse. “I killed four men saving you, and probably an animal too. I didn’t even hesitate, I cut them open and shot them up so that-that thing would eat them instead of us. I don’t give two mating pigrats what you’ve done.”

He looked down at her his face falling at her words. “You should have left me in the sand."

“No. No. You don’t get to tell me what I do or want anymore. I may be some greenhorned Vaultdweller but I am sure as heck not taking any of that from you.”

“Lucy-” He whispered out, she could see he was trying his damnest to hold back.

“I don’t care what you did. I care about what you do right now. If you want I will leave. Go on my own. But you and I both know that neither of us wants that.”

She can feel his body relax, and take the moment to move herself closer to him. Her hands reaching up to cup his face. “You don’t have to be strong with me. ”

His eyes close and he leans against her hand. She can feel how warm he is under her touch, she rubs her fingers over his rough face. It feels more like melted wax than callouses.  Cooper sighs and looks down at her. 

“If you want this-” His eyes scanned her face, looking for some kind of disgust. “I don’t know if I will be able to let you go.”

Lucy’s face breaks into a grin, “I’d like to see you try and keep me.”

Last chapter

-I thought about ending it here but decided to write some smut cause fckit

-I think the next chapter will be the last.. as I have some other stuff I want to play with

-Let me know if you enjoyed it! if you have ideas whatever strikes your fancy

[leonicscorpio]

Batboy Headcanons because I made this for me but you all can enjoy this too if want. (May contain mild NSFW)

Dick:

Has a weird relationship with unwanted gaze and the attention he receives because of his physique. He genuinely likes the attention but he draws the line when people start getting touchy. Just because he's shirtless working out doesn't mean he gave you consent to touch him.

Has good dieting skills but he's in his mid-late 20's and his metabolism has 0 signs of slowing down. He once ate a whole xl bag of M&M's in front of Steph and Babs and both said they wanted to murder him because he won't gain a pound.

Dick has ADHD and I'm sorry if you don't think otherwise. He has hyperactive type ADHD and while he's gotten better at controlling his symptoms he still stims stretching and flexing his arms and shaking his arms.

While not so much in Gotham, Dick is very politically active and volunteers at voter registration and working with organizations with the mission of police demilitarization in Blüdhaven.

Dick is a very sexually driven individual. However, I don't think it's entirely healthy. His ADHD also comes into play with this but Dick just needs to have a release at least twice a day or he'll feel physically sick.

I don't know if you all have seen male gymnasts. But Dick, like the rest of them, has FREAKSISHLY large biceps. Everyone talks about Dick has the best ass in the bat family and while Jason may be larger and stronger, Dick has the best physique.

Dick's apartment is littered with sticky notes in places such as the fridge/in front of his computer. If it's not written down and in a place where he can't ignore it, it's not going to get done.

I'm sorry I know everyone says his birthday is in March but I have to go to the older Nightwing comics and say his Birthday is December 1st. I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me this man doesn't give off Sagittarius energy. You can't. I respect you but you can't look at that and tell me that man isn't a Sagittarius or has super heavy Sag in his birth chart.

Dick's at home doing nothing but chilling? You best believe he's gonna be shirts off, tits out, and rocking some blue flannel PJ's.

Dick is currently the only member of the family asides from Barbara who is regularly attending therapy. And he actively encourages each of his brothers and sisters to go every time.

After his Agent 37 days. He sits down with Jason and talks about having to use a gun and how hard it was. And how having to kill people has affected him. When he had to kill the KGBeast (Agent 37 days he snapped his neck) I headcanon Dick just trauma v*mit*d. Jason hugged him and just consoled him.

It's canon that Dick has anger issues but to me, it's not explored or talked about enough and not a lot of people like to talk about it. Dick is very much the 'if I ignore it it'll go away' type when it comes to his anger and he can brush most insults or harassment off fine enough. But when he breaks, he makes Jason look like a saint. I'm talking slamming you into a wall and screaming in your face angry. He'll be profusely apologetic afterward but still.

Despite popular belief, I don't think he's that bad of a cook. He's just not very experimentative. He can follow a recipe and does look at some guides. But to me, Dick Grayson just is that guy who is like Chicken veggies and rice are a meal that I can cook 4-6 times a week.

Dick has a slight fear of dentists. He doesn't have bad teeth and has good dental health. He just doesn't like the idea of a drill going in his mouth and the few times Bruce has to take him to a dentist he had a panic attack every time.

Everyone lives for the fics where Jason beats the shit out of Tim and everyone is just like lol well Bruce and Dick just forgives him. No. When Dick found out it was Jason who beat Tim to the ground, Dick was literally seething and told Jason "Pick on someone your own size or else I'll make you wish you back in that f'ing coffin."

Dick's favorite foods (some based in Canon*): Milk Chocolate*, Cereal*, Asparagus, Bananas, Banana flavored candy, Hawaiian Pizza* (suffer its canon) Rum, thanksgiving Turkey.

Jason:

He may be the self-diagnosed black sheep (rightfully so) of the family, but Jason does genuinely love spending time with his siblings. Whether it be sharing memes with them on social media or just randomly showing up where they are and abducting them to go get ice cream/coffee/snacks.

He'd probably attempt to harm you if you told him this to his face. But he is the closest acting to Bruce out of all of the family. In terms of mannerisms and inherent warmth and kindness behind a dark façade.

Has two moods: either exceptionally, almost neat-freak levels of clean, or his life is completely falling apart and Jason can't tell you for sure what color his floors are because there's so much stuff scattered about.

Despite their initial hatred of each other, Jason truly feels closest to Tim and Tim is the only person asides from maybe Barbra who he can just talk to without feeling any judgment.

Jason only smokes when he's extremely nervous about an operation or a hit. For those who don't know criminal justice cigarettes are the fastest way to get genetic material on someone. That being said he does still like to smoke occasionally.

Me, plus a lot of people give him this sort of 'Lazarus Rage' as I like to call it. When he's in the heat of a mission or if he's getting upset/angry his vision will get blurred with green, and it feeds on his anger and just gets perpetually harder to contain until he releases it. Jason has gotten much better at controlling it. But as he will tell Tim or Babs, he's "seeing green" which means they need to be careful because Jason could kill.

Everyone says Dick is the mother hen. I see you, I accept you, but let me raise you. Jason came to realize that he died because of his rash decision to go after The Joker alone. If Jason finds any of his siblings out acting alone, or even at the very least without Oracle. Jason WILL forcefully interject himself and ask them what the fuck they think their doing.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Trying to get close to Jason is hard. He will degrade you can attempt to try to get you to hate him before he lets you in (that cheeky Tsun of him)

He genuinely cares for and supports all of his siblings but has been rough on them needlessly. But if Bruce is being the distant or absent parent he is, you better believe if any of the siblings drops him a text or a call, Jason will be there in a heartbeat.

He's the most physically powerful of the whole Bat Family. You don't understand because of his time in the League, his time with the All-Caste, and having abused Venom for a time, he can snap an arm bone like it's a carrot with little effort.

Everyone in the family likes dogs and goes out of their way to gush over a dog, but Jason takes it to a whole new level. And even when he's masked up dogs just gravitate to Jason.

Can and has grown a beard in a matter of a few days. He usually likes to be clean shaven but some days he likes to wear a beard just to throw everyone off.

One time him, Steph, Tim, and Duke all went to a restaurant (Red Robin lol) and the waitress got his order wrong and his burger had raw tomatoes on it, Jason took the tomatoes off and ate it while looking absolutely miserable. Tim: Jay why did you eat that you didn't have to you know you could have asked the server to fix your burger. Jason, almost in tears: "She works really hard and she tried and I'm a scary dude I don't want to make her upset.." Duke: "... Jason you literally shot at a cop for looking at you funny the other day. But you're afraid of upsetting a waitress?!? I mean ACAB but dude.. "

Jason's happiest big brother moment™ was taking Tim and Damian to the shooting range and watching them both get their first bullseye.

You can't tell me Jason Todd was into the Emo/Screamo/Warped-Tour Scene. His favorite bands/Albums in no particular order, That's the Spirit (Literally the whole album is Jason Themed and I'm gonna die on this hill) & Sempiternal by Bring me the Horizon, Digital Renegade & Everyone's Safe in the Treehouse by I See Stars, The Resistance: Rise of the Runaways by Crown the Empire,

Jason Todd's favorite foods: (Also some based in Canon*) Burgers, Chili Dogs*, Lager-style beers, Freshly baked bread*, Neopolitan ice cream, grilled corn, and Chinese Chicken noodle soup with Duck.

Tim:

This boy *slaps car roof* gives off so much asexual energy. I know New 52 exists but I just feel like Tim is the person who really, REALLY has to trust you and like you before he's sexually active with you.

HYPERFIXATES. You also can't tell me Tim isn't on the spectrum/or has ADHD.

Is the only member of the family who regularly checks up on Jason and talks to him every day via text message. The two are memelords together and love to play pranks on the other members.

While Dick may give the most frequent hugs and Jason gives the tightest, most secure hugs, Tim's hugs are always the warmest and make you just feel good.

Tim's birthday is July 19th. Meaning he's a Cancer. Let that sink in.. no, really let that information just soak. (Note I have nothing against Cancer women, cancer men however....)

All of the bat boys really struggle with talking about their feelings. Dick will manipulate you into changing the subject via twisting it to be about you, Jason will just cut you off or will ignore you, Damian will deflect everything and harass you until you stop, Tim however, Tim is very emotional and while he's very calculated about who he's emotional with, he's not afraid to break down and cry if he trusts you.

Everyone who says he's the level headed Robin haha how's it feel to be WRONG. Tim is at best the least functional college student and at worst a lemming. 'No Tim, coffee isn't a meal I'm going to make you some food or I'm going to stick you in a room with Damian for an hour.' Richard (Dick) John Grayson.

People overblow how addicted to caffeine Tim is. But it's true. Just overblown. You can talk to him before he's had his caffeine just don't expect him to be anything but curt and blunt.

Everyone says Jason would be the worst at texting but it's Tim. He's the master of leaving you on read. While Jason may do it on purpose, Tim is just really bad at texting people and while he always will read your messages he forgets to respond unless it's really funny or really pressing.

Everyone sees Tim as this bean pole super skinny boy Robin. Tim may not be stacked like Dick or a freaking tank like Jason, but Tim is NOT super skinny. He's just as muscular and likes to work out as anyone, but he just is super lean, so he looks a lot bigger and his muscles are more defined because of how thin his skin is. He has those almost disgusting spider veins on his arm. Kind of gross to look at, but he's the dream of any nurse. This means Tim is also the king of accidentally sending/posting thirst traps.

He really is the glue of the Bat Family. Everyone kidnaps Tim for 'Tim Time'.

Dick likes to spar with and in general just hang out with Tim. Tim tried to teach Dick how to skateboard and you'd think the boy who mastered the trapeze would know how to skateboard but you'd be wrong.

Babs and Tim always hang out and talk about computer stuff and Babs knows she can vent to Tim about anything and he won't say a word.

Tim and Steph were a thing for a while and even though they're just friends now, they still are very close and the two have a very deep bond, liking to shop with each other and watch movies,

Cass just loves to be around Tim because of how calming he is but also she knows she can spar with him AND Cass can also skateboard with Tim too.

Even though him and Damian are always fighting, the two still end up being together and have this unspoken bond. They work great together on a team but other than that they still hate each other.

And while everyone still is hesitant around Jason, and despite the fact that Jason literally beat Tim to within an inch of his life, AND would still trigger Tim and taunt him about it. The two have this odd closeness that rivals even him and Steph. Tim will always be the first to bat for Jason. Jason was Tim's Robin. And despite the fact Jason literally beat it into Tim's head to "never meet your heroes." Tim will always be there for Jason should he ask. The two are just close. And it's hard to describe. Bruce has caught Tim and Jason just platonically sleeping next to each other or just doing their own things shoulder to shoulder silently, just enjoying each other's company.

Tim and Duke also have a really positive relationship with one another and the two can stay up all night just talking about anything. Their minds just mesh well together. The two also love to team up and prank the other members of the Batman Family.

Tim's favorite ASMR/Stim? Watching those Tik Toks of people cleaning computers or cleaning phones. The sound of an air duster is like music to his ears and if any of the Bats need their technology cleaned it secretly makes Tim so happy to help them.

Wear his hair up or wear his hair down? It depends! While Tim likes his long hair he also has gotten plenty of compliments for his short hair and likes to style it to suit any occasion.

My one pet-peeve with Tim is that he probably is that person who lets his privilege show from time to time. While he was essentially raised to just sit down, shut up, and be a perfect trophy son to the Drake's. The Drake's were in the same tax bracket as Bruce and Tim definitely was a rich kid. He never means to come across as spoiled, but sometimes Jason will give him harsh looks if Tim just throws away food he doesn't like or says things like Chipotle is 'poor people food'

Tim Drake's favorite foods (you know by now*) Donuts*, Shallot and Artichoke Pizza with Canadian Bacon* (odd choice but it could work) Artichokes in general are his favorite vegetable, Strawberries, and Beef Pho.

Damian:

I headcanon that he has the worst teeth of all of the Bat Boys and he actually has to use lingual braces. (Hence why you can't see his braces)

Canonically is a very good artist and while him and Tim don't get along, Tim introduced Damian to digital art and gave him a photoshop pack and a nice tablet for his birthday one year and Damian loved it so much.

Damian is a capricorn and I will die on this hill. A January capricorn too.

Now you want a good chef? You've got Damian. Having converted to veganism Damian has had to get creative whenever he goes out to eat so he tends to like to eat more home cooked foods. Damian loves all matters of mushrooms, eggplant, and bell peppers.

Damian really struggles the most with his wanting to just be a normal kid. Despite the fact he will dismiss you for it, anytime he gets to spend at Gotham Academy with Jon and the rest of the kids he's naturally the happiest.

Damian LOVES to give gifts. He loves the look on people's faces when they are shocked when they actually get something from Damian.

Despite the fact that he's been traumatized from both his times with Ra's and Talia as well as with Bruce. He just wants Bruce and Talia to be together because he loves them both equally.

While he's the least flexible and least gymnastic of the Robins do let your guard down around him. He is the fastest runner and the guy is rivaled only by Jason in terms of lethality.

So someone (Jason Todd & Duke Thomas) introduced Damian to trap music and ever since anytime his phone gets stolen people will be shocked to find he's listening to some combination of Lil' Yachty, X, Kendrick Lamar, Wiz, and Kodak.

If any random person tries to hug Damian he'll immediately push them away, he'll bitch and moan about just about anyone hugging him other than Bruce & Dick.

Damian loves to go to the beach/the ocean. He just thinks it's so vast and he loves the brineness of the air. Also being half white, quarter middle-eastern and quarter Chinese (Yes everyone forgets Talia is half Chinese) Damian gets DARK. And although he's just okay as a swimmer he still likes bogeyboarding and eventually wants to learn how to surf.

I'm genuinely afraid once Puberty is done with this kid and everyone in the family is. He has Bruce Wayne AND Talia Al-Ghouls genes and those are two SEXY human beings. Damian's gonna grow a beard one day and people aren't going to know how to act.

Damian secretly plays Fortnight and not even Jon knows. He doesn't want to get shamed. He'd rather lose a match and ruin his streaks than deal with the shame of anyone in that family finding out he plays Fortnight.

Damian Wayne's favorite foods (canon*) Cereal*, Avocados, Grilled Tempeh, his mom's Tabbouleh, Mushroom Tacos, and Vegan Sushi rolls, and grape juice.

Duke Thomas

Duke is like, freakishly good with a piano, and he picked it up naturally!

Also everyone says Tim brews the best pot of coffee in the Bat Family, cue to everyone's surprise when Tim was sick one day and couldn't make a pot. Only to find the coffee was freaking amazing. Duke didn't take any credit at first until Alfred let it slip that Duke was the one who brewed the pot.

Duke being the only Meta of the family originally thought he was the double-token because he was a Meta and a black boy. Needless to say his fears were seriously unfounded the moment he got to know everyone.

Although he somewhat fears Jason and his temper initially, he and Jason have one of the closest relationships in the family. If Tim isn't around to bat for Jason, Duke will happily take his spot. The two work on each other's bikes and grew to share the same taste in music.

Duke uses his Photokenetic powers as a force for good and for shenanigans. Jason wants to play a prank on Dick and Damian while Dick is reading Damian a story? Duke will hide Jason in the shadows and will cover up his shadow. Alfred dropped something in the dark? You better believe Duke will find it in 3 seconds or less.

Duke makes it a point to visit his parents every weekend to talk to them. Although they are making some progress in their recoveries, it's still slow going. Eventually, he starts bringing members of the family to see his parents. It started with Cass, then Jason, and the rest followed suit.

Duke loves playing video games with Damian and even helps Damian beat some tougher levels when Damian is about to rage and destroy the console.

Duke is into Magic the Gathering and you cannot tell me otherwise. Duke also is the DM for the Bat Kids annual D&D games. I can and will make a D&D Batfam Headcanons if asked.

Loves Pho just as much as Cass and Tim and they all call it a date night every now and then where they can go to a hole in the wall pho place. It's really a secret between the three of them.

DUKE THOMAS IS THE BEST SWIMMER OF THE BAT BOYS AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL. HE JUST THRIVES IN THE WATER.

Finding out his birth father is a supervillain was really tough for him. He went into a shell for a little bit afterwards. Cass and Steph were there to help talk him out of his funk.

Duke Thomas's favorite foods (lol what canon DC hasn't acknowleged our boy in a while..) Chicken Pho, Thai Iced Tea, Papaya, Crab Cakes, Italian Hoagies, his mom's Lemon Poundcake, mint chocolate chip ice cream.

I hope y'all enjoyed! Up next (eventually) will be the Bat Girls!

[mrknifes]

please provide your thoughts on autistic bruce. I love projecting onto that bat bastard (this is asilentguardian btw)

I already answered that last ask detailing why batman is autistic so here's some of my own headcanons about different stuff

Bruce usually "stealth" stims when he's in public / around strangers. He does it in discreet ways like tapping a pen, or bouncing his leg, etc. because he's used to people being ableist about it. So he only flaps his hands or does other stims when he's around friends / family who understand.

Bruce doesn't touch people often for two reasons. Firstly because he doesn't understand what's socially acceptable and when it's socially acceptable, so he avoids it altogether. Again, he's used to being yelled at, bullied, etc. So it's been deeply engrained in him not to do things that people might not like, even when he's around people he trusts fully. It's why he has trust issues. I imagine it's why his kids don't think much of it when people wonder why Bruce isn't physically affectionate.

And secondly is because of sensory issues. Sometimes he's overly stimulated, and touching someone else could lead to him having a meltdown. So he shrugs off people's attempts to touch him / moves away.

Bruce needs time to "recover" after going out in public as his false persona. He has to mask a lot and pretend to be extroverted, and fake all of his social interactions. He has to purposely overstimulate himself and put himself through sensory hell for other people. It drains him. He needs to lay down in a really soft thick blanket in a dark room alone for a while just to recharge his batteries. I imagine sometimes he rocks back and forth for a while too. If he's up to being around other people, sometimes he likes watching a movie with the kids, or letting Alfred bring him comfort food.

As a kid, it was often Alfred or his parents who found him curled underneath tables or in another room during large events, because he was having a meltdown caused by all the noise. (No I'm not self projecting what do you mean.)

He either burns holes into people's eyes, or he never looks at them. This is pretty much canon anyways. It's because he doesn't understand when it's "okay" to look away, when he does make eye contact. And honestly he's probably just gonna be thinking about how pretty your eyes are because he's only half paying attention.

But when he doesn't make eye contact, it's because he doesn't feel comfortable looking at someone. He doesn't wanna deal with the information overload. No, he's not going to look at you. Please stop telling him to. It's just gonna result in him zoning out during the entire conversation.

He absolutely uses his batarangs as stim toys. He loves twirling them around, and flipping the blades of the retractable ones. Yes, maybe he's accidentally cut himself a few times but listen, he's VIBING.

This is why he doesn't register pain most of the time. It's not that he doesn't feel it. He does. But there's a disconnect between his head and his body. His body feels it, but his mind doesn't register it. He'll limp around for hours and not notice but it's only when he sits down later in the batcave that he's like "ok actually this kind of hurts a little?" Meanwhile Alfred loses his mind. It only hurts a LITTLE? you have a whole KNIFE in you!!!!!!!!! Bruce just sits there munching on his gummy worms and shrugging. Like ok Alfred it's a knife, who cares.

He needs the cowl covering his ears because if he has to listen to everything that's going on around him, he WILL punch a wall out of frustration.

This is why Bruce alternates between clean shaven and fuzzy. He hates the scratchy feeling of his facial hair, and hair touching the back of his neck. It's sensory hell. But then his autism also leaves him in a depression where he can't function or take care of himself, so it grows out for a while. It's a vicious cycle. He hates it. If he had it his way, he would always be clean cut.

Unrelated to autism but also still related to autism. Bruce prefers the dark because 1) his eyes are very pale and therefore sensitive and 2) lights are sensory hell in general ok. Even if his eyes weren't almost white in color, he would still flip off the sun for being so damn bright.

He prefers grunting sometimes because he can't get out physical words. This is why he is very enthusiastic about signing with Cass, because it means he can communicate far more comfortably. He hates talking a LOT. He would be very happy if he never had to speak ever again.

I could do more but I, like Bruce, need to recharge after emotionally taxing work

[beerecordings]

hey i don't want to be too critical but i know you write jackie as autistic and i don't know if you're nd but sometimes he comes across like he's an allistic person with some sensory issues. i'm sure you try your best being inclusive and all but there's lots of common stuff like vocal stimming, comfort objects, picky eating, hyperfixations, phobias, hyperverbality etc. that i've never noticed in him. i hope this is helpful feedback i really love nd jackie headcanons.

thank you for your warm tone and your feedback i love hearing from you!! let’s talk about this! maybe you can help me get better at representing him.

to be fair, I do sometimes worry that Jackie’s ASD is too confined only to his sensory issues, but I don’t think that it’s the only thing represented in the story. I know the sensory issues are very obvious, but I do try to put other things in there. Yes, it would be more obvious for me to say “Jackie stimmed and flapped his hands” but sometimes I say “Jackie pulled on his hair and scratched at his arm” instead. Or it would be more obvious for me to go out of my way to say “Jackie gagged at the taste of the eggs in his mouth and refused to eat anymore” but instead I say “Chase remembered to get peanut butter. Jackie always buys them peanut butter.”

if I may? maybe you could look at some of these and see if you like my ideas for how I could emphasize or better represent this? but at the same time I don’t want to be so upfront about it that I reduce Jackie only to his symptomology or make him a caricature,.

Jackie’s comfort object is his sweatshirt (see the section where he refused to take it off even though it might help him evade the cops and the fact that he constantly wears one and rubs at the fabric)

maybe I could give him more comfort objects?

Jackie stims (often pulling at his hair or chewing on his nails and aching for a run all the time even when he’s not allowed outside)

maybe I could use the word stim more often instead of just saying “Jackie gnawed on his nails”?

Jackie has anxiety about his ability to interact with others, acknowledging that he’s often awkward and misses social cues (see his fear in the very first chapter that the new twin Anti has given him won’t like him, see his fear that Max won’t like him now), and is known to be a bad liar, also associated with autism

maybe this can come up more once Jackie meets more people outside of his family?

Jackie’s hyperfixation is Max right now (see his complaints that he constantly thinks about him, genuinely unable to get him out of his head and often going “distant” because he’s daydreaming)

maybe I can acknowledge some other interests of Jackie’s?

Jackie admits he doesn’t understand poetry (struggles with non-literal language) and tries to send Marvin a happy poem, but actually sends him a fairly sad one.

If I have the chance, I will acknowledge that Jackie struggles with non-literary language at some point.

Jackie obsesses over small things he’s done wrong because of his rejection-sensitive dysphoria (associated with autism)

Jackie is overwhelmed not only by sensory issues, but by too much going on in his head (see Dark making him experience intense emotions, causing a meltdown)

Jackie has problems with his temper and has been physically violent with the others because he finds it difficult to control his emotions sometime

maybe I can have Jackie losing control more often?

Jackie has shutdowns as well as meltdowns (see the part of chapter two where he’s chained to the bed and super emotionally drained and quiet)

maybe I can represent his shutdowns more clearly at some point?

Jackie is clingy and was the one who lead their family to become very physically affectionate - the amount to which Jackie touches people would not be appropriate with strangers, but he struggles to find the difference

Jackie will meet others at some point, I expect, which is when this might be a problem. Max didn’t mind his touchiness lol

Jackie uses certain things as scripts, repeating things he’s heard others say (this meshes with my writing style, but Jackie often repeats things the others have said to him verbatim or copies speech styles, like becoming much more talkative when Max was around)

maybe I can emphasize this more and have him doing some verbal stimming?

Jackie has a high need for stimuli and movement and hates being stuck in the house or chained up. Jackie is VERY neat and hates to have his things moved (see his room in the past and how he misses having clean clothes and things of his own)

maybe I can address this more when Jackie has a chance to own his own things again?

If there’s other things I can make stand out more, I’d love to, but I’m sure you know that autism markers are a sundae bar and everybody gets slightly different ones! Jackie does not have phobias associated with his ASD, though he does have some that have developed alongside his PTSD.

also, if you ever want to hear more about Jackie’s ASD, just ask him! it’s an ask blog for a reason :) some things that haven’t come up but that I do consider canon include:

Jackie is actually a picky eater, but he rarely gets to pick what he eats :( he hates eggs but loves peanut butter!

Jackie wishes everyone would stop changing beds every night lately. he actually likes it when it’s him and Blue in one room, Dok and Trick in another, and Dap and Anti in another. neat and tidy and no one’s in his space!!

Jackie used to hyperfixate on the criminal cases he and Max were investigating, Spider-man, martial arts, and crime statistics.

Jackie’s a talented hacker because he loves how objective and formulaic everything is and how he can just focus on one things for hours... and hours... and hours... lol

Jackie honestly goes through a ton of emotional distress and is, like, constantly a nervous wreck. This was a pretty big theme of Chapter One, but Blue’s helped to alleviate it a little.

IF Jackie gets away from Anti, I do plan to talk more about him finding ways to cope with his need for structure and organization and routine, his struggles with the newfound freedom, and him learning how to actually manage his symptoms instead of just constantly suffering because he sometimes thinks he’s just being a wimp and Anti has never gone out of his way to acknowledge or plan around Jackie’s difficulties.

are there particular things you’d like to see me acknowledge? is there more I can do? I won’t just add random markers to Jackie just to make it more obvious that he’s autistic, but if there are more sensitive ways I can handle his specific symptomology and struggles, let me know. or let him know!! he’ll talk about it! and I will too as the situations arise - things like Jackie meeting new people outside of his family for the first time in a long time, Jackie being allowed to have freedom and hobbies for the first time in a long time, and Jackie having more pressure put on him by him taking leadership of his family.

[slipperyskell]

Cicero Headcanons

Yup. It’s time for dirty gremlin jester boi headcanons. Prepare thine bootyholes.

+ Very small lad. 5’ at most, and only 80 pounds when he first gets to Skyrim. He does gain a bit of weight as time goes on and he’s got access to food on a regular basis, but even then, he’s 100 pounds soaking wet. Very small boi.

+ Mid to late thirties, early forties at most. He’s been involved with the Brotherhood most all of his life. Was in the Bruma sanctuary first, and spent most of his twenties there until he was transferred to Cheydinhal. Spent the rest of his twenties and most of his thirties in Cheydinhal, then headed out to Skyrim. Only stayed in the Dawnstar Sanctuary for a couple of months before finally heading to Falkreath.

+ He does like his sweetrolls and carrots in particular, but more as a snack than a staple. He’s actually quite fond of a lot of food, and despite his tiny size, he can and will eat quite a bit! He didn’t have access to much of anything fresh during his time in Cheydinhal, and once he did, he garnered a new appreciation for his fruits and veggies. Hates mushrooms, though. Absolutely despises them if they’re cooked.

+ Is bi/pan, and demisexual. Before he came to Cheydinhal, he kind of took people for granted, in a sense. After contracts he would sometimes spend a bit of his money on some... rewards, shall we say. After everything that happens to him afterwards, however, he is FAR more grateful for good, genuine company. The lad needs a friend, and/or smooches. NSFW happenings aren’t completely off the table, but it takes a LOT of trust and reassurance on his end for him to want to get intimate with someone again. And I mean a lot.

+ He has a lot of tricks up his sleeves. Literally. His outfit is decked out with all sorts of secrets to give him an edge in a fight if he absolutely needs it. Steel toes at the ends of his boots, mini knife compartments also in boots and pretty much everywhere else on his person, knuckles in his gloves, and lots and lots of pockets.

+ Very early riser. When it’s the designated day of the week for oiling mother, he wakes up as early as five in the morning. It’s a very time consuming process, and he likes to get it out of the way as soon as he can so he has time to do other things. Otherwise, he may sleep in till seven at the latest. That being said, if he is sharing his bed with someone, he’s incredibly careful to not wake them, and once he’s done and all cleaned up, he comes back to wake them for the day.

+ Before getting a bit more settled in Skyrim (kind of Falkreath, but more Dawnstar, should he be spared during the Cure for Madness), he had issues with not taking care of himself properly due to issues with disassociation caused by his time in Cheydinhal. Didn’t bathe regularly, didn’t eat regularly. It isn’t until he’s among the company of his family (and was likely fed up with getting shit talked, if I’m going to be honest) that he makes a bit more of an effort to care for himself. Having someone as kind and caring as the listener certainly helps, however.

+ He had some pretty greasy ass hair before he started bathing properly again (the hair we see him with in-game). Once it’s all nice and clean and brushed out, though? Floof. Big ol floofy mane of copper hair.

+ He’s very, very well read on the history of the Dark Brotherhood. Quite the fan of Lucien Lachance, funnily enough. (I’ll get into some headcanons about these two nerds in the future if anyone is interested).

+ Him switching to third person is a very telling sign if he’s having anxiety issues or is otherwise upset. People with mental problems similar to him often switch to third person as a way to comfort themselves. It allows them to disassociate a bit, to make it feel like whatever is happening to them isn’t actually happening to them.

+ That being said, Cicero’s madness is likely comprised of survivor’s guilt (kind of a given), PTSD, and potential issues with bipolar and/or multiple personality disorder. He can certainly be helped, and his past isolation is largely to blame and can assumably be combated against, but it will always leave a mark on his psyche.

+ His laughter can be used as a nervous tic. Not all the time, but sometimes.

+ Speaking of tics and stims, this lad. This boy right here. He jiggle he leggy. He taps his fingers on the table, or his thighs, or wherever his hands may be. Has a habit of feeling at his face whenever he’s thinking, and sometimes picks at it if he’s feeling really anxious. He can’t keep still to save his soul.

+ Has an odd but fitting habit of keeping everything very neat and tidy. During his time in Cheydinhal, he didn’t really have anything else to do when he wasn’t tending to mother, so he spent a lot of his time making everything spic and span, despite him being the only person living there. The place was found almost unnaturally clean when he left. And just like that, in Falkreath (and especially Dawnstar, as he prides that place as HIS sanctuary), he keeps everything very nice and clean to keep himself busy when he isn’t tending to mother.

+ Actually a way better singer than he lets on. A lot of the time, when he “sings”, he’s just screwing around, but when he actually tries? Surprisingly good.

+ When he and the Listener are traveling together, he likes doing a lot of riddles and stuff to keep both himself and his dear listener entertained. Makes I Spy With My Little Eye actually fun.

+ Speaking of him and his relations with the Listener... this lad? This tiny boio right here? Absolutely provides contract advice, as well as leadership advice should they need it (and chances are, they will). When he first brings up such things, he’s uncertain. A bit anxious, worried they may take offense to him providing such a thing despite his experience. But with enough encouragement, he breaks out of his shell and provides his thoughts much more regularly. This lad craves validation, especially when it comes to things like this. He’s very... creative.

+ Very, very appreciative of the outdoors when he comes to Skyrim. He gets cold hella easy, sure, and he hates being cold, but to see the sun again? To see the light glimmering off a lake or river? To see grass and tree branches bending in a gentle breeze? To feel rain on his face, and see lightning flash across the sky and thunder rumbling after it? To see the aurora borealis Skyrim’s night sky so readily offers? He would trade anything in the world to see it again.

+ Fascinated by all things shouts and dragons. He’s like the only person I know who actually comments positively on the Dragonborn shouting.

“For someone known as the Listener, you do an awful lot of shouting!”

“Oh! Hahaha! What a fun trick! Teach me, teach me!”

He never new dragons had actually existed until Skyrim, and while he is respectful of their power and rather wary of them, he still finds them immensely fascinating.

+ That being said, the whole notion of dragons coming back to life, along with the civil war breaking out among Skyrim’s people, really does set him on edge. He’s seen and known enough war, and prospect of even MAYBE having to deal with more stresses him out.

+ He needs to have some form of background noise when he sleeps. Otherwise it gets far too quiet, and it makes him very anxious.

+ As I had stated in a previous artwork post of mine, if he’s in the sanctuary and the listener is away, he spends a lot of his time in the torture chamber if he’s got nothing else to do. While he’s no longer able to fulfill his own contracts, it doesn’t mean he’s entirely forbidden to kill. Besides, he’s got lots of time and subjects, willing or not, to test out all sorts of wonderful, twisted little ideas on. More than likely excitedly shows the Listener what he’s been up to while they were gone.

+ Very heavy drinker. Has had to cope with a ton of shit, and while he knows, deep down, it’s not the right way to deal with things... no one really wanted to talk to him. Hear about his problems. He could rant to mother all he wanted, sure, but... it just wasn’t the same. That’s not to say mother doesn’t care; without a doubt, she does, but for him, not having any kind of response makes it all the more frustrating.

+ That being said, his go-to drink is usually wine. And he tends to get very moody on wine. Be careful. You might get an earful.

Aight folks, this is about all I have on general/main Cicero headcanons. If y’all want me to do more on specific things, like romance, NSFW happenings, or interactions between him and certain canon characters (or my own, if/when I get to introducing them properly here), y’all lemme know. I hope you enjoy! :D

[gildedusurper]

{ HEWWO AGAIN FOLKS. I finally beat King of Cards meaning I got all the juicy deets about my boy to play around with for the Empatheorem fun time zone! 

Spoilers will be underneath the readmore so don’t worry about being accidentally spoiled unless you actively seek it out!

Welcome to the brat zone! King Knight is king of it. He’s very “me, me, me” and “I’m #1″. That selfish attitude has seeped down to the core, so expect a more selfish outlook if your character stays in his body for too long. Got that big ol’ “I can do no wrong” attitude. Apparently doesn’t know what constitutes as “lying” either - it’s more like stretching the truth. Expect to adore your reflection or even kiss it because he’s that full of himself.

Alongside brat boy genius, he’s extremely overemotional and dramatic. He angers easily and loses his cool over minor things unless he’s got some “ultimate plan” in mind to keep him focused. Expect an increase in all kinds emotions; happy, sad, angry, lonely... Not to forget but he’s extremely gullible too.

Despite the little “dumb of ass” show he plays up, he’s actually quite clever and deadly too. Knows how to play with people like a fiddle to get his way. Learns things very quickly and then molds it around until it benefits him in some way.

Social cues are very hard for him to pick up on. He tends to judge people heavily based on their clothing as well. Little things like making eye contact can be rough and is usually avoided. He’s also extremely touch starved and strives to gain some kind of attention. Doesn’t matter if the outcome will be good or bad - he wants to be cherished and held and not be so alone. Cue an extreme adoration for men of a similar build to himself. Especially older men. 

King Knight likes to keep his body in tip-top shape. He’s a power house capable of breaking down doors and stone walls but hates getting dirty. Wears heavy make up, a lot of strong perfumes, carries around things like lotion and tissues to keep himself from sweating up a storm or his skin from chafing under all that heavy armor. Dirt/grime/all things messy + him is a big bag of nope. Gotta keep himself constantly buttery smooth and clean!

King Knight’s a power house and all that, but his weight and magic are connected to his vitality/vigor. Basically, if he feels happy, he’s a lightweight. Angry or sad? Heavy. If he feels physically weak, then his powers are going to reflect that.

His outfit is extremely special to him. Any dent or scratch on his armor or cape is a death sentence for whatever caused it, sentient or not.

His current unlocked powers are listed on his stats page. Endless propeller rat y’all.

His inventory system works exactly like it does canonically in Shovel Knight. Just open it ez? Maybe you can access his bank account who knows! 

OOC:

I won’t be sharing icons unless they’re of my own artwork. My friend Bax made most of the ones I use, but others were also from artists I asked permission for so I’m not comfy just givin’ them away without their permission.

I’m not comfortable with King Knight swapping bodies with any underage muses.

If you have any other questions, my IM is always open!

SPOILERS TIME! If you want to delve into his memories but don’t want to be spoiled, you’re free to use the stuff that happened in Treasure Trove (main game) for memories!

He hasn’t spoken to his mother in years since he betrayed everyone. It’s something he regrets heavily as much as he likes to pretend it doesn’t bother him. In fact, he’s gone to visit several times to apologize but either felt too scared or too proud and turned back around a little over half way.

His mother has essentially “disowned him”. Not exactly a fun thing to swallow down, and little things like the smell of meat-y soups or even stimming with his cape (she made it for him, after all) will make him think about her.

His obsession with becoming a King happened because of a lifetime of being talked down to. A lot of people acted like he was a naive child during his journey for the Joustus crown, and he hates being belittled. He tolerates it with his mother since she means well, but everyone else? He truly believes betraying them all was well deserved for all the treatment he received. Nicknames such as “son” or “boy” or “prince” will anger him.

A lot of happy childhood memories. Most were of helping his mom in the kitchen. For a while, he wanted to learn how to cook just like her, but somewhere along the way growing up he lost his way. Got too spoiled - maybe too angry with the world. It’s hard to say, but since then, he hasn’t given a damn about learning how to properly cook. It’s like rocket science for him. He’ll even set cereal on fire. Who gives a damn, just order some takeout or have someone cook for you.

He tries his best to suppress that feeling of isolation. There were several times where he tried to invite people and his mother to several galas. None were really successful. If anything, he sat at a big empty table in a big empty room trying to pretend things were fine and eating twice as much turkey just to keep himself from thinking about things.

Speaking of thinking, he claims he doesn’t think much, but shows otherwise. Head empty until it ain’t.