#Scars

[support]

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[dogtoling]

its background character day (sisyphean task)

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

hiiiiaaa bill's parents haiiii

[dsudis]

Dreamling Bingo Fill: What Remains

Square/Prompt: D2, "Scars"

Title: What Remains

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dreamling

Additional Tags: Scars, Hand Injuries, Graphic Description of Wounds, Retired Dream, The Kindly Ones

Summary: Dream is content with his scars.

Dream woke to a springtime smell, bright and sharp in his nose, and opened his eyes to see that the marigolds in their windowsill pots had bloomed, orange and yellow and cheerful. The morning sun was shining on them, and Hob was already out of bed; the sounds of him puttering around the flat were faintly audible over the music that was always playing if Hob had no one to talk to.

He didn't recognize the music, though he knew that if he listened long enough, the name would come to him. It was something up-tempo and cheerful; Hob knew, too, that spring was here. Spring, and Sunday, which meant a changing of bandages.

Dream lay on his back and raised his right hand into the light, studying it in the glow of the sun. The scars that made up nearly the whole inner surface of his index finger and thumb had faded from red to a vibrant pink which he found he rather liked. Yesterday he and Hob had wandered about some botanical garden or other, looking for a flower to match the color, debating happily over fuchsias versus azaleas until they found that stand of calla lilies that were absolutely inarguably perfect.

The scar also trailed downward from his hand nearly to his elbow, with a few jagged branches curling around his forearm. These, too, had healed to sturdy scars; it was only the palm of his hand where a waterproof tan bandage still obscured the wound.

It might not be a wound any longer. Today was Sunday; today he would find out.

He lowered his right hand a bit, and raised his left to meet it, trying, as he often did, to recreate what he remembered of his last moments as—whatever he had been, before he became a human being whose identification bore the name Morris LeReve, which Hob found delightful and Dream found as good as any other name. He had no right to the one he could no longer even speak—not Dream, though Dream was the nearest approximation in English, the one Hob had latched onto after hearing his sister say it.

His sister had been beside him, before it happened. They had sat side by side in some desolate place, and she had been sad, and angry, and resigned.

He had only been tired, so tired that he could feel nothing else through it, smothering under the weight of what he had been, back then. He had not been able to feel sadness, or fear, or anything, but he had known that he was about to die. He had known how it would happen: he would take his sister's hand.

He had not known that when he took her hand, there would be a great flash of light, like lightning striking from the tip of her finger to his palm. He had not known that dying would make a hole in him, letting loose all of him that was too much, too heavy to bear, too vast to be held in a form that looked like his.

It had torn free of him in that instant, in that great flash of light, and gone away to someone else who could, thus far, bear it better. And he had been left with this form, and this ragged hole in himself, and—

He smiled, dropping his two hands to rest on his chest, and remembered how it had been, the beginning of his life as he knew it.

There was the flash of light, and the impossibly vast something rushing away from him, or he from it—for he was no longer in that desolate place when he could see again. He had blinked the afterimages from his eyes, had still heard the echoes of the explosion in his ears. He had been leaning against something, just barely sheltered from the torrential downpour that had arrived along with him.

He had looked down and seen his hand, his arm—raw from fingertip to elbow, torn open to reveal wet red insides. He had seen the blood vessels of his wrist pulsing nakedly among the shreds of muscle, miraculously unbroken but horrifically vulnerable. He had not known where or what he was, but he had known that he was hurt, even if he could not exactly feel any pain; he had begun to keen, a high helpless wordless sound, for he had not known what words he could possibly use in that moment.

Then the door had opened, and he had barely begun to fall through it before someone was kneeling beside him. All at once strong arms were cradling him, and he had looked up into a face he knew just as Hob said, "My friend, my friend, what has become of you?"

"My friend," he echoed back, his head lolling against Hob's shoulder as he realized he knew what these words meant, and how they applied to this man. Hob had been worried for him, the last time they met. "My friend, my friend—" and then the words came to him and he answered Hob's question. "Death became of me. I became this. Here."

"Not a bit dead," Hob had said. "Too warm and chatty to be dead," and then he hoisted Dream up and carried him inside.

He had bandaged Dream's arm, asking again and again if it hurt, but it didn't; eventually he had conceded that there didn't seem to be enough left of the ruined places to have nerves to hurt with, and he attended to other concerns instead.

It was only days later that Hob had suggested seeing a doctor about it, but Dream had refused. That had been after Dream had remembered where the townhouse was, and realized that the key in the pocket of his jeans opened its door, and discovered the cards and papers neatly arranged on the table which made him not only the discarded shell of an unfathomable being, but also a human being and citizen of the United Kingdom named Morris LeReve.

Hob called him Morrie sometimes; Dream faithfully pretended to be mildly annoyed by it, so that Hob would continue to find it funny and thus continue to call him by it, just now and again. Hob would stop, if he were actually upset by it, and if he knew that Dream actually liked it, he would scrupulously call Dream by that name and no other, but Dream liked the ordinary name his sister and Hob called him by well enough. He liked Morrie being a thing Hob said just sometimes, half jokingly.

Hob always listened when Dream was definite about something, as he had been about the fact that his hand and arm would heal in their own time. Hob had done all he could to help without forcing Dream to change his mind: he had bought a variety of salves for the wounds, and yards of gauze and tape to shroud them in, and he carefully examined and cleaned and re-anointed the whole length of the broken places. First each day, then every other day, and then every three, every five, as the bandages grew smaller and more and more scar tissue could be exposed to air and light. Every day, whether bandages were to be changed or not, Hob rubbed in a cream to soften the scars, and helped him to flex his fingers and hand and wrist, to keep them mobile.

Now the marigolds Hob had planted to make his own salve from were blooming, and they might never be needed for anything other than their bright lovely colors.

There was only one way to find out. Dream got out of bed and then spent a few moments carefully tidying the coverlet and putting the pillows neatly in place.

It was one of the things he had never needed to do in his old life, one of the thousand things Hob had taught him to do with his own hands now that he was human. He could use his right hand nearly as well as the left now, even if his index finger and thumb could not bend on their own or grip; it was mainly a matter of smoothing things into place, and that his right hand could do well enough.

When he was finished he stood for a moment, admiring his work, and then he pulled on a t-shirt and went looking for Hob.

Dream found him promptly; Hob was in the kitchen, studying something on his phone. All the things for bandage changing were set out on the table, along with a steaming mug of tea and a jar of honey.

Hob looked up with a smile as soon as Dream walked in. "What would you like to do for breakfast today? Full—" Dream kissed him before he could offer a Full English, something Dream had declined every morning of his existence thus far. Hob thought he was wearing Dream down; Dream was sure he could train Hob out of it sooner or later.

"Poached eggs," Dream announced, sitting down beside his mug of tea and opening the jar of honey, noticing as he did that it was easy now, just like making up the bed. He spooned the honey out left-handed, until the rich sweet scent of it drowned out the tannic smell of the tea, and added, "I'm going to get them right this time. I watched more videos."

"Ought to move somewhere with beehives," Hob murmured. "Or stop bothering with the tea bags."

"Every man has a right to make his tea the way he likes," Dream informed him primly; it had been Hob himself who told him so.

He smiled when Dream defended himself, and didn't make any more objections, nor offer to put the lid back on the jar for him. Dream could do it just fine, and did, once he had had a sip of his wonderfully sweet tea.

Then he offered his scarred hand to Hob, his palm turned up to display the bandage.

"Right, let's do this," Hob said, and ceremoniously applied sanitizer to his hands while Dream peeled the bandage back.

It didn't hurt to pull it off; it didn't feel like anything, except maybe a faint tugging sensation. Everything the bandage stuck to was scarred.

He gasped a little at the sight of what the bandage had covered, but Hob made a calmly approving noise. "We did think it might be this week," he said, and ran gentle fingers down along the angry red spots that had been the last raw places when he put the bandage on—and now were scars, closed up and shiny-smooth. "Look at you go, you living creature. Look at you heal."

Dream smiled, feeling oddly shy at the warm, proud look in Hob's eyes. He hadn't really done anything, except to go on living all these weeks, and eating and sleeping and letting Hob look after his injuries—and learning things, and dancing, and laughing, and discovering all the ways his human body liked to be kissed and touched, and comparing them with all the ways Hob's body liked to be kissed and touched...

He had done a lot of things, actually. He had lived; he had healed. And now the last of the wound left behind by what he had been before was closed, and all that was left was one great scar.

And him, a person who liked his tea very sweet and was going to successfully poach some eggs today while Hob made toast. Here he was: living on, scars and all.

----

[This fic is also on AO3!]

[cristalk]

Dancing!

Hope the proportions aren’t too off, I think I did ok?

[burrowingdweller]

Being a horror artist is an important part of girlhood 🌸

[doctordiscord123]

Whumptober 2024: "I'm Alive, I'm Just Not Well."

Dark is the victim of an attempted mugging, and it ends unexpectedly badly.

For @whumptober, @whumptober-archive

Commission Info | Buy me a ko-fi

+++++

Dark walked through the city, hands clasped behind his back, just taking a walk. The cool air was bad for his bones, but Dark didn’t care – he loved this city, he’d lived here all his long, long life, and people watching as the seasons turned was a wonderful past time.

As he passed an alley, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a flash of movement. He paused, turning his head, and then he was being grabbed by the tie and yanked into the alley. He startled, his hidden aura flaring wide, his skin going grey, and the poor kid who grabbed him went pale. Dark’s expression became stony. “…And you are…?”

The kid swallowed. He was young, maybe sixteen, and dirty. Was he homeless? Dark almost felt bad for him, until he brandished a large, wicked looking hunting knife. “Give…Give me your wallet!”

Dark raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head. His aura coiled around the boy’s legs, his wrists, and the kid began to hyperventilate. “Oh, you poor child…you picked the wrong man.”

The boy took a deep breath, and he lunged. Dark moved faster, his aura coiling tight around the boy’s throat. Dark almost snapped his neck, but…he was just a child. Just trying to find his own way. Dark watched the boy choke for a second, before he was sighing, and reaching into his pocket. He summoned a small wad of cash, and pressed it into the boy’s hand. “Get out of my sight.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

[mansand]

[gawki]

Euphoria

~When you turn to the side and see your new chest for the first time~

[oifaaa]

Decided to draw that post from the other day

[superdogbiter]

Put in the tags how many scars you have and how you got them

[luminarai]

kintsugi (all my scars are golden) // prints, etc

[dogtoling]

this is a big day for the few people in the crowd who think theyre crazy for thinking i have like 10 characters with the same name. no it's all the same engel

I made these yesterday mostly as ref for myself but since i went through the effort to color these now, yeah i'll post it. um. trick or treat. i might do more for other characters in the future but these take forever so idk

[lemon-lime-behavior]

Zosan through the ages

some notes:

Sanji’s chest scar is from when Zoro stabbed him through the heart making good on a certain promise (dont worry he got better)

everyone got the Mugiwara Jolly Roger as a tattoo after Luffy became king of the pirates. Not everyone got them on the shoulder but Zoro and Sanji like to mirror each other.

Sanji grew out his beard and started braiding it as a tribute to Zeff after the old fart finally passed away. Zoro is of the opinion that he could’ve found literally any other way to pay tribute.

Zoro’s arm got chopped off when he finally lost his title as world’s greatest swordsperson to a determined young upstart (she and Zoro have since become good friends). Now he just has to use two sword style at most, like a normal person.

By the time he’s 70 Sanji’s voice sounds like straight gravel from all the smoking, to the point where he’s actually a bit hard to understand when he’s talking fast.

Once he no longer had to defend his title Zoro fully indulged in retirement and being *very* well fed, though Sanji is keeping an eye on his salt intake, and the alcohol cabinet is nigh Zoro proof.

I had to power through drawing the young and trim version of them to get to the REAL PRIZE, OLD MEN AWOOOOGA

[originalartblog]

Unforeseen learning opportunity!

(wikitionary to explain the scar)

(bonus)

[2022dirt]

For some people, scars can’t get dirty. Scar skin tissue isn’t like normal skin tissue, and it doesn’t regenerate with sweat glands. As a result, no dirt will stick to it.