#dissociative drug

[cruelplatonic]

my personal headcanon is the vees were unremarkable nobodies when they were alive. i just love it as a thematic throughline for them. they love to let the public of hell speculate on them being famed and acclaimed since before death, but the the truth is they were a d-list failed influencer that got by on cheap controversey and scamming, a broke junkie who burned every shaky bridge he ever had, and a worn-out broadcast production assistant with more rejected auditions and tossed out script pitches than he could count. nobody missed them when they were gone, nobody cared who they were until they were dead.

[pixl-place]

as much as i have personal beef with nora for the way she does not gaf about the foxes or their trauma (this is a joke pls don’t come for me) i am honestly looking forward to the rest of the tsc trilogy to maybe redeem her for that, possibly positioning those books as a, sort of, foil to the main series. one thing i feel like people really don’t get about the main series is how deeply rooted in the trauma of its characters it is. like some of them are going through actively depicted trauma throughout the series. i think that’s another reason why there’s such a clear divide between the upper classmen and the monsters, because the upper classmen are already in the process of healing from or at least bettering themselves a little bit in terms of their trauma. the only time the monsters are even remotely close to that is andrew and aaron going to sessions with bee. for the most part, they’re actively going through events that are traumatic. the series is not about them healing, which is why i think a lot of the fandom becomes so divided about characterization, we are not necessary seeing them for their true selves, we are seeing them through the lens of unhealthy coping mechanisms and layers of pain. but back to my original point about tsc it really centers the idea of healing in a way that (don’t even get my started on the extra content 🙄) the foxes never get to experience in their books. i’ve seen a lot of people be like oh yeah i can’t wait for more angst, and yes, there’s no easy way to heal from trauma, it is extremely rough so there will undoubtedly be angst moments from jean and maybe even jeremy if we find out what’s up with him. but i think a really key thing to talk about is that the sadness is a jumping point for happiness and healing. like the romance aspect of the story is important because we are seeing them heal together and actually get good things ! sure it’s important that they do reflect on that trauma which will means that trauma is present in the books (angst hours) but i do really like that tsc is tame and “boring”, that they get boba and coffee, and get to live like normal college kids despite it all. i would really love more of the fandom to embrace that for the foxes too tbh. again with all love to her, i think nora accidentally built them into a trauma prison and it would be nice to see all of the characters escaping out of that.

tldr: i’m sick of people only liking this series for its sucky shit cause i would like to see characters healing depicted in media !! (esp to this quite accurate degree)

[syscultureis]

CW mentions of weed

Sys culture is your therapist asking if you used (weed) before your session because you were heavily fucking dissociated

-🌕🥀

Honestly as a stoner system, weed (specifically sativa for us) feels a lot like dissociation, just in a /pos way rather than the usual /neu or /neg

[asurrogateblog]

The Syd Poll

the topic of this poll is one that is frequently avoided in the pink floyd fandom, but inevitably one we all consider – our individual views on what we think caused syd's psychological struggles (and by extension, led to his departure from the band). I think that – at least in this neighborhood of tumblr – this is a conversation we are capable of having in a way that is civil, nuanced, and at least minimally disrespectful to syd.

So, to help facilitate this, here are some ground rules:

let's all assume we have a mutual understanding of the complexities of this. syd could never actually be reduced down to a poll, and all of our viewpoints are limited in various ways

the poll options just serve as just a conversation starter, and responses are not necessarily a statement of absolute beliefs

feel free to discuss as much or as little of your own perspective as you feel comfortable sharing.

in the case that debates break out, please try to assume good intent – and also demonstrate it (unless, for instance, someone is being blatantly insulting beyond a misunderstanding that needs correcting)

please do NOT vote if you are not actually a pink floyd fan with at least basic knowledge about what we're talking about here.

The options I've included below are not meant to be exhaustive, they are simply the "theories" that I have seen most commonly circulated. I have also decided not to include combinations. I'm fairly sure we'd all agree multiple factors were involved. Rather than make the poll too complicated, I ask you to instead select the one that you think is the "most" important to your viewpoint, and clarify further in your tags/comments as you wish.

so. here we go.

READ BEFORE VOTING ^^^^

(note of correction: "late-onset schizophrenia" should just be "schizophrenia". the typical timeline for onset of symptoms is late adolescence/early adulthood, so syd would've been well within that period at the time)

[feldsparred-mo-reblogs]

No nuance november: If your main headcanon for Gabbro is that they are "a stoner" because "they are so chill" I actually don't want to hear anything else you are saying because I am already bored

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 18: Infection

cw: dissociation, implied aftermath of torture, vaguely implied past noncon, substance dependency, left for dead (implied), slight death wish, carewhumper

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 410

=~=~=

“Fuck. That's bad, isn't it?”

“I knew it would happen. I told you.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“I don't fuckin know. Nothing?”

It (he) is curled up on the icy concrete, unable to stop shivering, too hot and too cold all at once. The pain in its leg is nearly background noise now, numb; the wounds scattered across its form are nothing but another layer, bland in comparison to the symphony of hurt that wraps around it like a blanket. Some things hurt worse than others, but it can hardly discern which is which at any given moment. Reality comes and goes. It only wants to escape.

The creature sleeps when they dose it, allowed peace between the bouts of anguish and spells of unconsciousness that are far from restful.

The spy dreams of Vic, heavy hands and unwanted touches, inability to get away

(stop, stop it please)

Sahota’s dreams are just as agonizing; stabbing pain, snakes making a nest in his guts.

Ander’s dreams…

(they could come for him)

They shouldn't.

The spy (creature) can understand what the guards are saying, but comprehension doesn't quite reach

(tired, hurts)

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“The boss said questions are a waste of time. He's had his fun. Why even bother keeping him alive?”

“Doesn't feel right just to leave him like that…”

“Yeah? Well anything else is work. We got shit to do. I don't have time to play nurse.”

“Fuck, shouldn't we at least clean it out?”

One of the guards drops to a crouch beside it

(the spy is too exhausted to try and pull away)

White hot pain surges through its body as the guards prod at a wound above its hip; the creature screams, nausea rising in its chest

(pulsing, reddened skin, festering)

“Fuck, that's disgusting.”

“You didn't have to touch it.”

“It's your fault it got this bad.”

(infected)

“Get off your high horse. I'm not stopping you from doing anything.”

The creature perks up at the sound of a water bottle opening, eyes fluttering open. It can't move towards the sound, can hardly move at all, only utter a creaking please.

The bottle is held to its lips, static crackling across its body at the prospect of escaping the way it feels.

“What are you doing now?”

It finishes the bottle, the easy mindless fog already nipping at its consciousness.

“Just giving him something to make the end a little less painful.”

[paingoes]

Destroyer - MK

(Masterlist)

they were doing some MK ultra shit to delta im ngl

(Content: medical whump, drugging, dissociation, living weapon whumpee, begging, needles, addiction implied)

Lights and colors. It was all dreamy in the void. How long had he been there? The question made no sense. He was always here. Always had been. Something milk white and slimy nuzzled up against his leg.

“Attention, Control. You’re drifting off again.” A voice cut through the noise. He hadn’t noticed the noise just until the voice had cut through it. What did it sound like? Water on rocks. A rainstorm heard from the inside of a tin chest. Mewling. Drool dripping. 

Something pricked at his forehead. He gasped.

“Tighten up.”

He nodded weakly. For a moment, he was back in the office. The faces surrounding him were blurry and tame. His body was nowhere, but his wrists were bound. A thin line of fire worked its way around his neck. Then the office was gone and so was he. Light and colors.

The sharp tip of a blade rose out of the water, held aloft by a hand whose flesh was slipping off of it. The skin debris dripped down into the lake. It floated there like broth that needed to be skimmed. Disgust rose up in his stomach. Had it been full, he thought it might empty itself. He’d have to have a body for that, though.

Pain replaced everything. He couldn’t tell the source of it. He couldn’t tell where it ended and began. 

Inside of you, something said. It’s inside. Get it out. 

He whimpered. From somewhere far away, someone sighed in disgust.

“Delta. One-oh-seven. Enough. Follow the rabbit.”

The instruction was only vaguely familiar. It was coming to him so slow this time. A sine wave hit him directly in the side of his head. It hurt. Abstract concepts soared over the pit he’d carved out for himself. He was helplessly lost. He was scared. Not how he usually was. It was otherworldly.

A snake bit his ankle. It winded and winded.

“Simon?” He called weakly.

Pain, sharp and hot.

“Dr.Leach isn’t here. And you are not to call him that.” 

He felt the firm grip on his face, but couldn’t see it. His vision was dislocated somehow. He did not know what he was seeing instead. It wasn’t nothing. 

The dragon had two tails. He made out the shape on its side.

“Yellow,” he managed, “Yellow, four-sided, decimal. Cobra. Holly.”

“Designation?”

“MK. Omega. Ow. Fucking ow.” 

He felt a hand come down hard against his cheek. He’d just been slapped. Even in his drugged state, he knew that that wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t procedure. He knew Dr.Martino hated him. Really hated him. It didn’t come as a shock everytime he remembered — but the slap had. He made a soft, choked noise. The drugs made the pain feel more intense; they didn’t numb it, like he hoped they would. Weren’t they supposed to?

“Again.”

Something electric and circuitous played against the flesh of his bound hand. The vision shifted.

“Threat level magenta,” he choked, “Seven. Spades. Diamondback. Juniper.”

“Juniper?”

“Pike,” he corrected. “Please make it stop.”

“You know better than to ask,” The doctor said. Something sharp. He couldn’t tell if it was a punishment for having begged or if it was just part of the procedure. They drew no distinction, expecting him to take either complacently. It burned against the inside of his skin.

“Again.”

========

When the drug finally wore off, he was shaking so badly that the chains binding his wrists rattled softly and continuously. He’d been bound up for too long, too tightly. His shoulders and knees ached from the pressure. All the spots on the body where the needle had jabbed him bled through the bandages. There was a dull and constant ache all throughout his body that heightened at each injection site. He tried desperately to subdue his crying, but the tears flowed freely and undisturbed. He couldn’t even roll his shoulder enough to wipe them.

Dr.Martino went about his business like he wasn’t even there. There was no reason for him to still be bound, to still be kept kneeling. The experiment was over. It had ended thirty minutes ago. He didn’t voice this, sure that if he did Martino would make a point to keep him there longer. He tried to readjust his position to relieve the tension. Nothing worked. He just wanted to sleep.

“That was pathetic,” Dr.Martino finally addressed him. Delta cringed. He still didn’t move to free him, which was all Delta could really focus on in the moment.

“Needless to say, I don’t think the Cytopline is a good match. We’ll run a few retrials with different dosages to be sure, but I’m not confident it’ll be to any greater effect.”

Delta tried not to cry again. He thought he meant today. He just needed a break before they started again, just a few minutes to get out of position. He wouldn’t be able to handle going under again.

“There’ll be a bit of a cooldown period before it becomes effective again. You might be inoperable the next few days,” the doctor clarified, much to his relief.

“I can write you a note, if you want.” 

========

Delta laid numbly on the floor of his bedroom, in the same position he’d been in for hours. The blanket was a tangled mess around him. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, just that it was well past when he was supposed to have risen. He drifted in and out of consciousness. There was a sudden banging at the door.

“You know you’re not allowed to quit, right?” Paris called from the other side of it. Delta closed his eyes. 

He was sure that Dr.Martino hadn’t told him on purpose. The unexplained absence would put Paris in a bad mood off the gate, make him totally unwilling to listen once Delta was forced to explain, and Paris was by no means obligated to comply in the first place. The excuse wouldn’t count for anything. He’d still be forced out into the field. He’d probably still be punished just for trying to get out of it. It was such an underhanded move. Delta resented whenever the doctor called him sneaky; if anything, he had learned it from him.

He braced himself up on one elbow, getting ready to open the door, when Paris opened it himself. Right. Not like it had a lock. Delta collapsed back. That was fine. He hated having anyone in his space, but he also didn’t think he’d be able to walk in a straight line all the way to the door.

 But Paris’s anger was always so visibly telegraphed that its absence was immediately obvious. If anything, he was annoyingly chipper. He had one hand pressed up against the top of the doorframe, leaning casually in the entrance. The end of a nicotine lollipop hung off to the side of his mouth. He let himself into the room.

Delta adjusted roughly, just barely pulling himself upright into a kneel. He was already on the floor, so that helped. His hair fell messily in his face. He reached one arm behind him, feeling around clumsily for the doctor’s note on the desk. He offered it up with one hand. 

Paris took it. He read it over slowly, trying to make out the nearly indecipherable doctor’s handwriting. Somehow he managed.

“Oh shit. Comedown?” Paris popped the candy out of his mouth.

“Yes, sir.” Delta stopped himself from rolling his eyes. It was technically true, but he would never call it that.

Paris winced in sympathy, giving Delta some indication of just how pathetic he must have looked. He glanced at the note again. His eyes hovered on the medication name.

“…Do you have any more?”

Delta pulled the pill bottle out from his desk drawer, tossing them over. He was glad to be rid of them. Paris caught them in one hand, letting the note drift back to the ground.

“Take oxitriptan,” he called over his shoulder. He slid the pills into his pants pocket and disappeared out the door. Delta collapsed back against the crumpled blanket. He wasn’t going to take anything. He was pretty content to just lay there. He pulled the blanket over his face, not sleeping, nor moving.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[disrealities]

Recreator.

An alter that relaxes the body by doing recreational drugs! This role may be interpreted as both negative and positive, and generally depends on the alter it applies to!

[void-bitten-ghost]

Okay but what if I believed in 'Angel-hasn't-actually-come-in-years' supremacy?? Huh???? What then???

I'll tell you what then. It means when he admits that to Husk, the cat makes a bet with Angel that he can change that

[cyancherub]

have any of u guys ever gotten way too high and experienced a psychotic episode.......

[chicago-geniza]

Wait. Guys. Was "Fido" the archetypal pet dog name during the 19th and early 20th century because of fucking. Latin. Your dog is your loyal and trusted companion. Sorry I saw a postcard from that period with a cute caption referring to the lady's lapdog as "Fido" and am just out of it enough on Benadryl to Realize

[moldybits]

notes: symptoms in this poll are defined as ptsd/trauma symptoms (dissociation, amnesia, hyperarousal, etc)

this is an inclusive poll for any type of system/system origin. but it’s specifically how weed affects systems with trauma. this is not syscourse and i want nothing to do with it!

reblogs are encouraged for sample size

i’m convinced that all the progress we’ve made since december has to do with THC and our endocannabinoid system and i’m curious if other people benefit the way we have.

[syscultureis]

CW weed use/highness

Plural culture is having different tolerances and reactions to weed so I, an alter with a very high tolerance and get mellowed out by weed, am getting high knowing full well when we switch (because we always do when high) that an alter with a low tolerance is going to get absolutely bitched slapped by this shit lmao

-Luna

[cultofcreatures]

progression of the cosmic entity

[writing--with--the--stars]

Who needs love when it only hurts.

✭✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

✧ A/N; Pico angst and Heartbreak.

✧ CW; Hurt/No Comfort, Dissociation, Self Harm, Breakdowns.

✧ Notes; Pico gets my projection and feelings, so the hurt is strong with this one. Art was also done by me.

✧ Word Count; 1,577

ﾟ₊☾ Taglist;

@drxgonspine

@undertheknightwing ☽₊ﾟ

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“No hard feelings, right Pico?” …. “Yeah. No hard feelings.” A lie. One that rolled off his tongue way too easily for his own good. No hard feelings? Is that what was expected from him? To not feel the stinging ache that was drilling itself deep into his chest? To not feel the way the rejection was lighting his heart up into flames, killing him slowly? Staring up at the ceiling, the conversation replayed over and over in his brain like a broken record. “I guess so.” The ginger spoke out to no one in response to his own questions. His eyes were heavy and tired, made worse with a headache that was slowly pounding and making its presence known behind his eyes. Adding a vice-like pressure against his temples. Pico sighed, turning his attention to his phone screen, absentmindedly scrolling through videos and posts, trying his damnedest to shove back his thoughts. Shove away his feelings. But the thoughts and pain just lingered. And God did it hurt. It hurt so much, seeing Boyfriend and Girlfriend happy and lovey-dovey with each other on their Instagram posts and stories. It all sent a wave of hurt through his body like a lightning strike. They looked so much happier…without him. Was..Was that why Boyfriend broke things off, deciding on cutting him out of their prior polyamorous relationship? Because they didn't feel happy with him in it? …. That thought. Just the idea that he was nothing but a nuisance, a third wheel made his body shiver from emotion. Letting out a choked noise that had been building in his throat and suffocating him, Pico felt hot tears burning in his eyes, building and blinding him. He sat up and clutched onto his green sweater with one of his shaking hands, his bottom lip trembling as fresh tears streamed down his pale skin. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Pico felt like he was drowning, hyperventilating and unable to catch his breath. He couldn't swim out of his sorrow over the break up, over not being needed. How could he let himself stoop so low? Didn't he remember the last time this happened? Was he really THAT stupid and naive still, that he trusted and gave his heart to Boyfriend once again, only for the bluenette to crush it under his shoes as if it were a nas ty, disgusting insect? Yes. Yes, he was that stupid. That naive.

He ran his fingers into his hair, his fingers slowly and tightly gripping at the ginger locks, his nails digging into his scalp in a way to ground himself. He needed to calm down. He needed to stop being so dramatic. Quiet padding to the bathroom, and the splash of water onto his face, Pico stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red, his cheeks and nose were flushed and his hair was disheveled and messy from crying. He looked so.. pathetic. His body trembled with emotion again, him looking away from the mirror. He felt sick. Turning, he looked down at his phone, the time being a quarter past 11 PM. It had been a little over 15 hours since he had been broken up with and was left to be alone with his heartache. Yes, he would admit that he had been distant for a few weeks, his mental health declining slowly once the remembrance of the day his school got…attacked came up. He always got like that anytime it came around, but this time. This time, he had no one to help calm him down and console him. No one there to help him out of his funk. Boyfriend had been too wrapped up in Girlfriend to care or remember, him slowly leaving Pico in the background as if he were a distant memory. He'd be blinded by the onslaught of tears that were building and building, threatening to spill over again. Calm down. He needed to calm down. .. Stripping off his sweater, and clothes, he tossed them aside and into a clothes pile in the corner of the room. He stepped into the shower, turning on the stream of water, letting the warmth wash over his body from his head and down. It was a nice distraction from his aching chest and heavy mind. His stray tears mixed with the flow of water that cascaded down his face, him letting out a low sigh. No matter how comforting the shower was, it couldn't help the lingering pain he felt in his psyche, and heart. He cracked his eyes open slightly, blankly staring down at his feet, his mind hazy and filled with the static that was his self hatred, it buzzing and screaming at him. Deafening him with the loud smack of reality. His hand twitched, his eyes slowly casting their sights up and back over to the mirror behind the glass doors of the shower. He stared at himself. He didn't even seem real to himself. He just looked fake, much like how everything felt to him now. As if he was watching back on a memory that he could somehow control, despite his body feeling full of heavy pins and needles. Swallowing thickly, he scowled as he could taste the bitter agony that threatened to swallow him whole. He needed to ground himself, he needed to feel SOMETHING other than this. But he couldn't. Usually he had Boyfriend help him when it came to being grounded back to Earth, back to reality and the present.

But Boyfriend wasn't there anymore. His nails dug into his arms, puncturing his pale skin and leaving deep indents to ground himself. He kept digging, and digging, before something in him snapped up on feeling the small trickle of blood that ran down his arm. Slowly lifting up his hand, Pico would furrow his brows and wince at the sight of the blood he drew up from his arm. “Shit—” Was all Pico could murmur under his trembling breath, him running the wound under the stream of water from the shower head. He'd open the door with a hit of his hip, before he'd reach out and grab a bandaid. His movements were heavy, and he felt like he was moving on autopilot. After he patched himself up, he stood under the cascade of water, the temperature slowly dropping till it was cold as ice, drawing him out of his thoughts. He sighed and rinsed the shampoo from his ginger curls, him hating how his brain would drift to the memory of the gentle touch of his ex's fingers combing through his hair. It tore him up inside, made him choke out another sob he tried to keep in. He shut the water off after finishing his shower, and stepped out, feeling more miserable than ever before. Pico could only stare at himself again in the mirror, his white eyes harboring all the emotions he kept inside. He could see the way he was so broken up inside. Over a stupid boy. A stupid boy that stole his heart, only to crush it with a smile. ….. Why did everything go wrong in his life? Why? WHY. He didn't understand. Couldn't understand why everything went wrong. Who did he have now? His dad? Busy in the army. Nene and Darnell? They were too caught up in getting money and slaughtering targets to get it. His cousin…Otis. Otis wasn't even in the country, living out in Mexico with his parents. God how he wished to be anywhere but where he was right now.

He slumped against the wall, him trembling before going back to his room, laying back down after getting clothed again. And he was back where he was before, staring up at the ceiling in his thoughts. He looked through his Instagram. A poor move on his end, his self esteem dropping lower than low when he saw a picture of Girlfriend and Boyfriend sharing a kiss on the beach. A screamed out sob came from out of his body, his emotions overwhelming him, him throwing his phone as hard as possible at the wall, before he broke out into tears and cried. He was a wreck. A mess..but he deserved it, didn't he? What did he bring to the table? Nothing. All he ever brought to it was his emotional problems, his anger issues, and his distrust in others while they were all out and about. But he couldn't help it. People scared him. He couldn't trust people, not when his mind would be screaming at him, telling him that they wanted to hurt him and kill him. His hands were trembling. Everyone was a threat, his mind flashing back images of his elementary school, of the incident that brought about his trauma and mental health issues. Why didn't he see the signs… Why did he never see the signs with anything? “I'm so pathetic..” Pico whispered out to himself, his voice cracked, and shaky from tears. He rubbed his eyes, them puffy and red from his breakdown, him laying in bed now. Silent. His chest felt heavy. He left his phone by the wall on the floor, before turning onto his side, having no energy to pull the blankets up over himself. Maybe he'd feel better if he slept away the heartache and sorrow he felt. And he laid there, letting his eyes get heavy before he drifted off. Alone for the first time in years.

─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✭

[paingoes]

Rubies

Haircare

(Content: accidental whump, past abuse, PTSD, dehumanization, conditioning, drowning mention, dissociation, crying)

It had happened so quickly. Delta leaned against the kitchen counter, comfortable enough now to stand but not quite enough to be using furniture. It wasn’t so odd then, though. Apollo was standing on the other side, trying to explain the difference between originalism and textualism through an analogue about beekeeping. Unsuccessfully. Still, Delta listened with rapt attention. He did not care particularly for the subject matter, but appreciated the novelty of being talked to like a person. Kitty passed behind him. She tugged at his hair abruptly, forcing his head to the side.

“I’m sorry,” he winced. The apology had come just as reflexively as the flinch. He didn’t even know what he had done wrong, but he had suspicions, the same ones that had been eating at him this entire time. He'd gotten overfamiliar, probably. He'd been too comfortable. He'd been acting too much like he was their equal. It always happened like this - some brief lapse in his judgement, then immediate correction to ensure it would never happen again. It hurt worse coming from her, though. She'd not hurt him at all before and he had tried so hard not to give her reason to. Now he had. He was really, really sorry.

“Yeouch,” Kitty hissed as she tried to untangle her claw. Her eyes widened as she saw the still, scared look on Delta’s face, “Oh, no, no, no, babe. It was an accident. Accident.”

Apollo reached over to unhook them. Oh. Accident. Delta brought his head back up, touching it gingerly where the hair had been pulled. Kitty rubbed at her nail; it had split at the top. It was his fault. His hair had only gotten so knotty because he hadn’t been taking care of it. He just didn’t have the energy to do it when he wasn’t being forced to. Especially if he only had one hand to work with.

Kitty seemed to have the same thought, because she offered to brush his hair out that night. He sat down cross-legged on the floor. She sat behind him, gently working the brush through his ends. It went all the way down his back and then some. 

“You have such nice hair, Delta,” Kitty said, running her fingers through it. Some of the luster had faded from days without wash, but it was still soft.

“Thank you, miss,” he said quietly.

“What?” She had heard the discontentment in his voice. He wondered when he’d started slipping so much. He’d always believed he’d been good about hiding his feelings. It occurred to him that maybe everyone was just ignoring them.

“…I don’t really like it,” he admitted. 

“Why not?” She asked. He could sometimes hear the :? in her voice.

Because it gets caught on everything. Because it takes forever to clean it. Because it’s too easy to grab. 

“...Too long,” he mumbled.

“Why don’t you cut it?” Kitty tapped her claw against the back of the brush.

“Wasn’t allowed to.” He rubbed his neck. Paris had been weirdly particular about it — some carryover from his own aesthetic neurosis. Even before then, none of Delta’s handlers had ever allowed him to modify his appearance in any way. He’d never though about it much until it had become such a chore to take care of. 

“Oh.” She frowned. “Do you want to cut it now?”

Delta blinked. He hadn’t realized that was an option. It made sense, though. He guessed he didn’t have any reason to keep it long anymore. If they didn’t mind.

“Would that be okay?” He asked cautiously, trying to distinguish an offer from a trap. That was another thing he’d been good at before. He felt less confident in it now. It felt like he was returning too many false positives.

“Yeah, it’s your hair. I can do it for you, if you want.”

“Um. Yes, please.” He still kept his tone polite, just in case she changed her mind.

She led him into the bathroom. He had to suppress the urge to fight it. Memories of his head being forced underwater. Paris higher than he had ever seen him. His certainty about his own death, proven wrong but just barely. He shivered. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub where Kitty indicated. His nerves calmed slightly. No chains. No water. He still clutched at his own arms anxiously, needing something to hold onto. Kitty ran her hand over his scalp softly, smoothing out his hair. He practically melted into the touch.

“How short are you thinking?” She asked, repositioning herself with a pair of scissors. He tapped a finger by the nape of his neck, a little lower than his ears.

“You’re sure?” She checked in again.

“Yes, miss.” 

“Kk.” She clicked the scissors together. 

His head felt so much lighter, so immediately. He hadn’t realized how much dead weight the hair had been. He was sure it was part of why his migraines had gotten so bad. He gave a little sigh of relief, which he was immediately embarrassed by. Thankfully, Kitty didn’t acknowledge it.  She kept busy with the scissors, cutting layers into his hair to give it texture. She kept running her hands through it, trying to see if it was even. It felt so nice. He let himself sit like that for a while, eyes closed, just enjoying the touch.

“All done!” Kitty grinned. He felt a little sad when her hands left him. She stood him up, letting him view the cut in the bathroom mirror. 

He’d been avoiding his reflection for a long time. It always made him dissociative, much too uncertain of what it was he was seeing inside. The depersonalization had been trained into him. 

His hair was cut short. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes and a faint mark on his nose where the bone had been broken. His freckles glowing dimly just beneath the surface. Some of the color was returning to his face. His hair was cut short. It looked nice. It felt a lot better.

He covered his face with his hands, unable to control the soft sob that escaped him. There weren’t tears, not really. Those still did not come easy. But in all other ways, he was crying.

“Oh no,” Kitty gasped. “You don’t like it? I’m so sorry. It’ll grow back. I can try and fix it.”

Unable to stop herself, she put one hand against his shoulder, rubbing small circles with her thumb. He shook his head.

“I like it,” he said softly. His voice was muffled through his hands. She rubbed his back gently. He sat down on the bathroom tiles, inconsolable.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety