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Aug. 17th, 2004 02:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Forming Scars
Word Count: 279
Pairing: Very vaguely Zoro/Mihawk
Rating: PG
Notes: This is somewhat gross. Not very much in my opinion, but it does discuss wounds, etc. I tried to think of a funny bad habit, but instead I got stuck with this weird thing.
* Steady, steady, don’t rush it. Almost…look the blood’s welling out already, one more pull... *
The scab came off, thick and still slightly gummy underneath. It left a warm smear across his thumb as he flicked it over the rail, forgotten now, as he started on the next stubborn bit of dried blood. The trick, he reflected as he worked a fingernail under a ragged edge, was to use a slow and steady hand. Start at the most healed section, ease that back, tease the scab up, and finally it’s off. Too fast and pieces get stuck or the wound doesn’t open fully.
That’s the important part. That and the stinging, welcome pain that comes from prying apart your own flesh. Another quick movement overboard, and he was done. It taken nearly his entire watch but it was worth it. The stitches cut and yanked out so he could savor the next part. It was a bad habit left from childhood. He never could resist a scab. And once he learned that scars were deeper and lasted longer if you kept picking at the initial wound, well, nothing could stop him. After all, scars were signs of strength, as well as indicators of weakness.
His chest throbbed, painted red once more. In the dim lantern light, he rewrapped the bandages. It would be two, three days at least before the wound closed over again. Not that he’d let it stay that way. Impressive enough if he’d just leave it alone, he wanted that man’s mark to be a permanent part of his body. A reminder of how far he’d come and how far he still had to go.
Word Count: 279
Pairing: Very vaguely Zoro/Mihawk
Rating: PG
Notes: This is somewhat gross. Not very much in my opinion, but it does discuss wounds, etc. I tried to think of a funny bad habit, but instead I got stuck with this weird thing.
* Steady, steady, don’t rush it. Almost…look the blood’s welling out already, one more pull... *
The scab came off, thick and still slightly gummy underneath. It left a warm smear across his thumb as he flicked it over the rail, forgotten now, as he started on the next stubborn bit of dried blood. The trick, he reflected as he worked a fingernail under a ragged edge, was to use a slow and steady hand. Start at the most healed section, ease that back, tease the scab up, and finally it’s off. Too fast and pieces get stuck or the wound doesn’t open fully.
That’s the important part. That and the stinging, welcome pain that comes from prying apart your own flesh. Another quick movement overboard, and he was done. It taken nearly his entire watch but it was worth it. The stitches cut and yanked out so he could savor the next part. It was a bad habit left from childhood. He never could resist a scab. And once he learned that scars were deeper and lasted longer if you kept picking at the initial wound, well, nothing could stop him. After all, scars were signs of strength, as well as indicators of weakness.
His chest throbbed, painted red once more. In the dim lantern light, he rewrapped the bandages. It would be two, three days at least before the wound closed over again. Not that he’d let it stay that way. Impressive enough if he’d just leave it alone, he wanted that man’s mark to be a permanent part of his body. A reminder of how far he’d come and how far he still had to go.
