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You know that the shifting sunset mass your fingers are buried in isn't really hair, that it's closer to filament-like strands of symbiote biomatter. You also know that it doesn't really get tangled like they say it does, because you've seen it in actions as it tangles up opponents (or you, occasionally). But it makes your girlfriends happy, and you enjoy doing it, so here you are with Scream's upper half pillowed in your lap and your fingers diligently combing through their not-hair.
The three of you are sprawled on the couch, you leaning against the side while Scream takes up the rest of it. Her arms are wrapped around your waist, clawed fingers gently rubbing at the strip of exposed skin between your shirt and pants, while her face is pressed to your stomach. When your stomach gurgles, she giggles. Both Donna and the symbiote are blissed out, white eyespots narrowed into slits of relaxed pleasure. The symbiote half of Scream is purring somewhere in the chest they share with their human half, a high-low rumbling that starts in her chest but ends in yours.
The radio is playing in the background, voices crooning something that none of you are listening to, too wrapped up in each other. The sun peaks through the blinds and illuminates dust motes in the air like fairy dust as they hang there.
You move your hands to her scalp and gently scratch it, raking your blunt nails through her hair and ending just at the soft, shorter filaments at the nape of her neck before starting back up again. Her purring ratchets up a notch and you smile as she tries to fit more of herself in your lap, further wrapping herself around you.
"Like that, huh?" You ask through your smile, and duck down to press a kiss to her hairline. She lets out something like a trill and sits up in your lap, her hands sliding up to your shoulders as she brushes her forehead against yours. And then she is flipping you over in one smooth movement, her hair coming alive to wrap around your wrist as she settles against the arm of the couch with you cushioned on her chest.
"Yes," she grins through a mouthful of sharp little black fangs. "Allow us to return the favour."
You smile up at her, your heart so full of love and adoration that it feels like it could burst, and rest your head on her chest as her sharp fingers gently scrape down your scalp. "This is nice," you say, the words murmured against the symbiote's skin. Scream hums a lazy agreement, one hand tracing nonsense patterns up and down your side as the other works through the–real, actual–tangles in your hair. Her hands are smooth, thanks to the symbiote covering them. There's no callouses like the ones you have, earned after years of hard days of labour in your garage, no grease caught in the serrated edges of her claws like the stuff perpetually under your fingernails. (And if there is, that's blood probably.)
"Love you," you sigh into her chest, eyes slowly slipping shut. You didn't plan on falling asleep, but it's just so warm and it's getting hard to keep your eyes open and the world is all fuzzy at the edges. And your girlfriends certainly aren't helping, not once letting up in their soothing assault, carefully tangling and untangling their fingers in your hair as they all but massage your scalp.
"We love you too," you hear them say, just before you begin to doze off on Scream's chest, arms loosely wrapped around her neck with hands buried in her sunny locks and legs tangled together.