Work Text:
Mark Berskii tried.
He really did.
There was a time when he thought he could live without them—when he let his tail drag behind him in dimly lit venues, when he kept his sleeves rolled up even though his scales caught the light.
He had talent. He knew that much. His beats hit hard, his mixes were good, and the underground scene knew his name.
But no one wanted a croc hybrid headlining a deal.
Whispers followed him after every gig. Executives shook his hand, then wiped their palms against their suits when they thought he wasn’t looking.
“Shame. He’s got potential.”
“Imagine the PR nightmare.”
“You think he even fits the image?”
Mark gritted his teeth and told himself he didn’t care. He didn’t need their approval.
But then came the meetings, the contracts just barely out of reach. "Adjustments," they called it. A small price to pay for success.
The pills were the first step.
They dulled the edges, softened the sharpness of him. His tail shrank a little, his scales lost some of their shine. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
And for a while, it was enough.
But “enough” didn’t last.
The gossip didn’t stop. The execs still hesitated. He caught people staring at his hands—Aren't his nails growing too fast? Are those scales?—and the second-guessing never ended.
Then came the injections.
Stronger. Riskier. Illegal.
But they worked.
His tail shrank to nothing. His hybrid traits faded completely. And just like that, the world finally saw him as human enough to sign.
That should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
The first time he tried to go without an injection, he thought he could push through. Just ride it out. Mind over matter, right?
He lasted six hours.
By the seventh, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His tail—that fucking tail—felt heavy and sluggish, knocking against furniture like it wanted to remind him it was still there. His spine ached, his skin felt tight, scales prickling like they were trying to surface all at once.
By the tenth hour, he was sweating. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe.
He tried to work—tried to drown himself in sound, in bass and synth and distortion—but his fingers fumbled. Wrong notes. Wrong timing. Wrong everything.
His body wasn’t his own anymore.
A hiss of frustration. Nails—blunt, now too short from his habit of biting them—scraping against his arms. It wasn’t enough.
He needed it.
His fingers moved before he could think, reaching for the case under his desk. The needle was already in his hand before he even processed the thought.
No.
He should stop. He should try to stop.
But his muscles ached, his bones felt too heavy, and his mind screamed that he couldn’t—not today, not now, not when he had deadlines, not when he needed to function, not when he couldn’t even sit still without feeling like he was suffocating in his own body—
The pinch of the injection was a relief.
Warmth spread through his spine, burning at first, then numbing. His tail recoiled, shrinking, disappearing inward until it was just a ghost of itself. His heartbeat steadied. The shaking stopped.
He slumped back in his chair, exhaling slow.
There.
Better.
He stared at the empty syringe in his hands.
He should feel guilty.
But all he felt was nothing.
And wasn’t that easier?