Head Empty

"what is this BABY doing in space!???"

you can never get a clear listen to him. his primary sense node is covered in "hair" and the part that isn't is hidden by two crystals that refract sound waves in a pleasing but disorienting way. he covers his body in billowy cloth at all times. not snug and sensible and unobstructive like eridian coverings, but loose and layered, draped and flowing.

the most clear part of him are his internal organs. because yes, the alien's carapace isn't sound-proof. his single heart beats insistingly in his core, his lungs exchanging gas constantly, his long digestive tract always bubbling and contracting. his thorax is packed impossibly tight and it's all moving and singing.

and it shouldn't be possible, with how fragile he is, for that internal pressure to maintain. how does the thin membrane of his external organ (another horror that sends eridians reeling) keep it all contained? his "skin" is so easily pierced, cut, bruised, burnt, how does he not split open under his own mass?

when savior rocky first arrived home and described the environmental needs of his alien, the scientists thought he'd made a mistake in his frantic panic to get everything out. it isn't possible this being lives at such low atmospheric pressure, at half the gravity, and in a gas that's nearly double the weight of ammonia. in a gas so dangerous, so caustic. and if it does then how is it obligately terrestrial like rocky claims? shouldn't it fly or float instead? (and then to see it in the water, learning that it can float or sink at will.)

and this alien has come bearing gifts that will not only save your species but launch it into impossible heights of technological and intellectual advancement. he has discovered the solution to astrophage and bred it to thrive on threeworld and translated his instructions into eridian. he has given your people the complete sum of his people's knowledge, advanced in ways the eridians can't believe and behind in ways that seem ludicrous. and he has given his life for your people to have these things.

he knows how your solar system was formed. he knows how the universe started.

his name means beautiful and generous and relieving.

the eridians experiencing cosmic bliss.

You know, every time I draw something stupid, I think to myself "surely I can't top this!" And then somehow I draw something even dumber

Jason Todd would absolutely pay for your nails. Not just because he liked the way they looked—though god, he did—but because it was his money, his treat, and if anyone so much as suggested you shouldn’t, he’d laugh in their face before flipping them off. He’d let you drag to the salon, slouching in the chair beside you like a bored prince, scrolling through his phone with one boot propped on his knee. But then he’d glance up, catch the way the light hit the fresh gloss on your nails, and suddenly he’s leaning in, voice low. “That one. The dark red. Like blood.” And when you raised an eyebrow, he’d smirk, all teeth. “What? It’s hot.”

He liked your hands on him. Everywhere. The way your fingers curled around his cock, nails biting just enough to make him hiss; the way they tangled in his hair when he was between your thighs, his name a prayer on your lips; the way they scraped down his back when he was inside you, leaving half-moon imprints he’d trace later in the mirror with a grin.

His favorite, though, was the way they scraped. Not hard—just enough. The light drag of your nails over his scalp when you were half-asleep, your fingers splayed in his hair like you were anchoring him to the earth. He’d go boneless under your touch, all that restless energy finally still, his breath warm against your collarbone. You could feel the moment he gave in, the way his muscles loosened, the way his weight settled over you like a second skin.

That’s how you found yourselves now: him sprawled across you on the couch, one of your hands fisted in his hair, the other slipped under his shirt, tracing the ridges of his spine. He was limp, completely out of it, his face buried in your neck like he was trying to breathe you in. You, meanwhile, were rambling, because of course you were.

"And get this," you muttered, your voice muffled against his hair, "when they’re playing against each other years later, Patrick does the serve Art does. And Art immediately knows. Like, his whole face just—" You pulled your hand from his hair to mime an explosion. "—because he recognizes it."

Jason made a sleepy, incoherent noise. "How?"

You rolled your eyes so hard it should’ve been audible. "I told you this. You weren’t listening."

"Was listening," he mumbled, but his voice was thick, his words slurring together. "Just… don’t get tennis."

"It’s not about tennis," you scoffed, giving his hair a sharp tug. He hissed, but didn’t move—just pressed closer, like he was daring you to do it again. "It’s about the subtext. The way they’re all lying to themselves. Art thinks he’s finally won Tashi over, Patrick thinks he’s over Art, Tashi’s just… there, smirking like she’s already won everything in life when really all she ever wanted was to play. But that was taken from her. Because of the injury. "

Jason went quiet for a long moment. You could feel the gears turning in his head, slow and reluctant, like a rusted engine. Then, with a sigh that ruffled your hair: "Sounds like a bunch of people making bad decisions over a game they take too seriously."

You laughed, because of course that’s what he’d take from it. "It’s about love and competition and—"

"Scratch." His voice was suddenly sharp, his head lifting just enough that his breath ghosted over your pulse point. His fingers found your wrist, guiding your nails back into his hair, pressing down. "You’re not scratching hard enough."

And just like that, the conversation was over. Because Jason Todd had the attention span of a goldfish and the focus of a predator, and right now, all he wanted was the sting of your nails.

"Jason, I was talking. "

"Mhm." His teeth grazed your throat. "Talk, then."

You huffed, but your fingers curled tighter in his hair anyway.