#scarification reclamation

[griefabyss69]

05 scarification reclaimation for wip weekend?? (title alone has me like, hello? 👀)

Thank you for asking!!! So this one is like, an idea I've had for about a year, but didn't start writing until a few months ago (and didn't get much written on it). It's one of those things I wanted to just let rest for ages before attempting and then even now it's like, it needs time! And care! The gist of this fic is that Eddie needs to do something to take his body back for himself and is struggling with the aftermath of the UD This snippet is earlier than the stuff I just wrote (like twenty lines lmao) but I think it's a better introduction: ---

It's not until he's taking a weekend trip into the city that would make both his doctor and Steve go all tight in the mouth that he learns about what would really help.

The path to the answer is like a thread. It starts with a billboard advertisement about plastic surgery, moves onto a well timed news segment about scar reduction technology as he passes by a TV display, and almost it ends there, two simple steps to figuring out how to get himself back.

But he's dropping in to say hi to his tattoo artist even though he's not getting anything done, zoning out while he waits for their appointment to be done, a list of piercing prices going all blurry in front of him as someone drops into a seat near him in the waiting area.

"Hey, that looks pretty gnarly," greets a voice that sounds too much like Jonathan's neon friend Argyle to be coming out of a guy with a bull ring in his nose.

He just smiles, his confusion coloring it as he tries to think of what he's referring to, clearly something about Eddie with how it's just the two of them there.

"The scar," the guy clarifies, tapping at his own cheek, reflecting where Eddie's got the aftermath of a demobat's whip-like tail curled up around his jaw. "You get that done here?"

The confusion gets worse, and he squints at him, trying to puzzle it out, knowing he gets a slow brain sometimes but he's been feeling good today.

"Maybe not," the guy mumbles, before saving face with the barreling grace someone who doesn't let putting his foot in his mouth get in his way. "Just looked intentional, sorry man."

"People do that on purpose?" He asks, and he must sound interested enough because the guy lights up.

"Yeah dude," Heavy Metal Argyle says. "You ever hear about scarification?"

Eddie's mouth twists as his brain works over his memories, finding them all pretty inaccessible at the moment. He just shrugs, shakes his head, and indicates for him to go on.

He ends up digging through the stack of magazines on the waiting room table, an alternate dimension mirror to a hospital lounge, except all of the mags are of body modifications and alternative lifestyles, instead of recipes from ten years ago that will let housewives all across America throw the best Sunday Dinner or whatever.

Eddie watches him work, his one-track focus leaving Eddie sitting in an ignored silence, but he doesn't care, this guy is working hard just to find an example of something he wants Eddie to know about. It's kind of touching, makes him really miss just meeting strangers and caring way too much about them for like five hours before they part ways and never see each other again.

"Here we go! I knew it was in here," the guy eventually says, holding out a magazine he's folded open. "Read over that shit, and tell me yours doesn't look as cool as the photos there."

Eddie's flattered before he's even got his eyes on the page, used to any compliments about his body these days coming from praise for like, doing two pushups without giving up, or relief about how well the scar cream worked on his face - though given how obvious the injury is, it could be working a lot better.

It feels good, and so he gives the guy a smile, and yeah, maybe it's flirtatious, fucking sue him. It'll just look friendly anyway.

"Thanks man, I really appreciate that," he says, and starts to skim the page, looking for the gist of what he's been talking about.

He's still re-reading over every word when the guy's appointment comes up, and he nudges his foot against Eddie's, shooting him a grin.

"That's me, gonna punch another hole in my face," he says, winking as he stands. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he says, giving him a casual wave as he watches him walk away.

He realizes when it's too late that he never got the guy's name.

Maybe he knows he's just changed Eddie's fucking life.

[glitteratti]

tbrm marks cont: I really hc that they started as scars (some self-inflicted angsty scarification ritual jutsu idk hes weird) and Then he seal-tattoos/paints them red to show he is proud of them and make them useful (being that some of his top traits are Efficient and I-Made-That)

OH WAIT HIM FILLING THEM IN AS AN ACT OF RECLAMATION IS SO GOOD......my main hc is stolen from a friend who mentioned the possibility of them being scars from butsuma so the combination of that PLUS him filling them in is leaving me BREATHLESS

[kestrelsward]

an intervention

Pairing: Jyn Erso/Cassian Endor

Word Count: 1946

Setting: A mission. There’s undercover action going on, and then there’s action going on. [the hopefully and steadily growing one-shots collection is on ao3 // ffnet]

She knows Cassian has seen the target - woman’s image enough times to remember how she looks like, but he does it, again, now, as he puts his credits into his pockets, enough to include as the alibi of an influentially-wealthy human in Tatooine.

Her mission is simple: simply disappear into the masses and waits for the opportunity, if need be, to distract (Solo had nudged her gleefully and muttered: just for the sake of it, and smirked when she landed an elbow into his ribs, which had earned a warning glare from Draven).

Cassian’s mission is to brush the dust off the contacts Willix has been gaining through the years, to meet a recently-surfaced source of data leak from the Scarif reclamation project being conducted by the Empire. There are risks, the whole team being the ones who actually are responsible for the destruction of the base, but a risk Draven is willing to take, Cassian to plot a two-person undercover operation, and for Jyn to volunteer as his second (under Princess Leia’s not-subtle-at-all looks).

So here they are now: Jyn in a hastily cut-off dress that was lying around the base, and some hosiery and shoes that Shara procured for her; Kes’ spare arm strap for weapons only fits around her thigh, which is just fine. Cassian in his tailored uniform, the collar stiff enough that when Jyn had reached over to take his headset to bid Bodhi goodbye, it audibly scrapped against her palm and caused Cassian to jumped, cursing, and gripped her hand in his gloved one. The planet is not cold enough to warrant any outerwear, and she isn’t going to pass away the excuse of needing to head home because of the chill.      

“An hour, then in and out.” Cassian is saying as he slips a vibroblade into her holster. He must have felt the shape of her extra palm-sized blaster and mutters about Han Solo and Leia before pushing away from her, officially starting the mission.

Jyn hangs back and waits in line as Willix flashes his uniform and gets into the bar without, and glances around and across to the grubbier parts of Mos Eisley, separated only by a sandy street.

She spends half the time waiting to get into the bar, and indulging anyone who strikes up a conversation with her, about her potential date, an officer, no less, and preens under their wishes of luck and fortune. She cracks her toes in her heeled shoes every time they told her so. She is just getting used to fluently offering up her daily routine as a secretary in the city building and how the laws to ban the Jawases from edging closer into the city going when the ones minding the door yells at her to enter the bar or get the kriff out of the line. Jyn offers a somewhat genuine smile as she cheerily promised the ones behind her that she will see them inside.

The bar is not as busy as they predicted, but crowded enough she doesn’t realize the bar-keep is trying to get her attention.

“Are you the girl in the velvet dress? Your date is waiting over….” The bartender grimaces. “Sorry about that. At least the drink’s on him.”

It’s only because of the face, Jyn uses the motion of hoisting herself up to the chair to emphasize her scoff and tucks into her drink.“Huh.” she supplies, and takes the glass from the bartender. The clip is still stuck in the bottom and palming it, she scratches at her collar, for the benefit of the cover if the unfamiliar bartender decides to stay gauging her reaction, which he does not, and slips the data into her bra.

The bar, and her height for once, gave her a vantage point, the rest of the room reflects to the mirror behind the counter and she shifts slightly, stopping herself from rolling her dress back down, to nonchalantly prop her chin on her arm so she can keep her gaze trained at the back corner, just as Cassian has assigned himself to be.

It is the drink, she tells herself, yet she can’t make herself look away; her eyes sears the image into her head. How Cassian’s fingers tangles into her hair, slicking through her golden head, how their heads contrasts and basks in the spiralling lights, how he looks so normal and carefree in his clothes, how the woman seems to embrace him without the air of desperation, how he is touching her without fear, smoothing his hands down her back.

Something grips her the way pretending never did: they are on a mission, they are both playing a part, but how normal Cassian looks is what she can’t look away from. He looks like someone that belongs there, not because Cassian Andor is good at his job, no, but in a fairer world, his life’s worry will be spending his nights and earnings on the gambling tables, or drinking and laughing with his friends that doesn’t worry when they will be called to their deaths, or meeting a woman’s eyes across the room and doesn’t need a reprogrammed-droid’s liability assessment in his ear if he wants to bring her home.

If they, existing in that kinder universe somewhere, does get the chance to cross, will he turn his head to glance back at her? Will she choose the chair next to his at the bar? Will he admire her from afar, his brain churning out questions he knows he will not fumble over? Will she allow him a smile that only has the meaning of wanting to know more of him?

As he glances up and meets her eyes in the mirror, Jyn blinks, once, and Cassian lets go of the woman. The woman purses her lips and covers it to stop laughter from escaping. Willix offers her a smile and gestures back to their glasses.

Jyn left a tip and with the extra credits, goes over to the music booth and abruptly changes the tune. The night is well underway that no patrons rises their heads to protest. She offers up another bright smile to the minders by the doors before heading out into the cooled night, keeping her chin up, towards the stars as the guise of making sure there is no surveillance on the rooftops. The night is still young and she doesn’t even need the cover of the lively night crowd for her to force the power-source box open with her blade. Her ferocity is not necessary, and it does the job too well. Sparks flies from the wiring and the lights from this side of the city falls from the buildings and there are surprised yells, mixed with a few screams.

The secretary from the city building who got stood up by her officer slips away from the city, distraught that her prospects and progress to pass discriminatory laws have all failed within the day. She even wistfully waved farewell to the two men who stood behind her before.      

It is a mission for two, and she is thankful and not at the same time, that K-2 did not come along. Jyn leaps into the ship, satisfyingly ripping the dress clean up her thigh. The ship is started, humming when three fist and a flat slap signals his arrival.

She knows he expects the whole verifying procedure, but she is not in the mood. Jyn grabs her pack and her combat boots as she opens the door, and heads down to the lower deck with a brief acknowledgement. Then, without even glancing back, she slips the data chip from her dress, takes it between two fingers, and balances it on the top railing.

Cassian jumps down the ladder, the same time he yanks his cap from his hair; his fringe falls across his forehead and he roughly pushes them back, but it does not comply. Jyn turns her head back to the controls, and hears his gruff sigh and him walking towards the communication port. She keeps an eye on the secondary transmission screen and waits, until his second attempt from trying to impatiently force-feed the data chip in goes through and transmitted, before vacating the pilot seat and back to the body of the ship.  

Cassian has been gritting his teeth, his eyes ablaze and she smothers his apology into his mouth, her tongue licking into his lips, and she can’t help her groan as his hands cages her waist too tightly; she can feel him try to indent his fingers against her skin and flesh, searing through her thin dress. Her hair is done in a long side-braid and she feels him try to tangle his fingers into her hair and found no purchase, realizing the difference. She takes the chance, to remind herself, that as she pulls the back of his shirt up and spreads her hand over the base of his waist, she can count the ridges of his tailbone, that when he gasps into her mouth, it is not pain now, but it flares him backwards, a whimper escaping him as her hand cushions him from the hard steel of the spacecraft.  

She can’t help thinking that maybe he does like her hair long like this. His fingers came up to trace the bow of her lips, and she ends up kissing his fingers, still covered by gloves, as he firmly passes the paint from her mouth.

He  brushes the hair by her cheeks away, cupping her under her cheekbones. “You, Jyn,” he murmurs, pressing the words into the bridge of her nose, which explains the soreness of it, and moisture passes to the corners of her eyes as she shuts them tight. He is still there, his knees bending slightly so their legs can tangle in the right places for him to reach her height. “I fight by you. With you.”

Jyn doesn’t reply, because he knows she is upset, and he will not take what she wants to say seriously. She does know why she is upset, but she doesn’t know why she is crying when he is trying to re-memorize her. Maybe she does, she thinks as she peels part the uniform as he tears off his gloves, and his hot hands cups her face, grinning as he brushes the rest of the lip color from her chin before taking her mouth again, angling his head up to her.  

She allows herself to be cruel, intentionally cruel for once, and his groan tells her that it is what he wants, too. So her leg stays between his legs, and she lets her lips stray, sponging her kisses from his lips, to his jawline, to his temple and only goes back to his mouth as he utters her name.

Her eyes opens when he shifts back and watches him gathers air, how his long lashes flutter, how his forehead creases. “I fight,” he says, skimming the tip of his nose against hers, “I fight to be with you.”

He leans in to kiss her again, and he is tangling her legs around his waist and tosses her shoes off her feet and she holds on, fiercely.

(Back in the confines of his room, when he presses his chest to her back, his nose at the crook of her arm, his steady breathing matching hers, she allows herself to savor those words. And she is calm, then, content to stay in this universe.

She utters the words that she has been cradling too protectively into his hair, and thinks it as a rehearsal, a promise and an acceptance all at once.)

[expressandadmirable]

Sum Of Our Parts

“Breathe, kid. Let it go. Atta girl, get it out of you. Just… breathe.”

Lux exhaled slowly, trying her best to relax back into the pillows. The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across her face; just as her mother still called her “baby” and Mourat had never stopped calling her “little one”, she suspected Mae would call her “kid” until they were both old and grey. Sharp pain radiated through her chest, pressing against her lungs and making her heart pound. It was necessary. She had asked for this. Breathe. She closed her eyes and let the incense do its work.

The first time she had been sixteen, angry and lost and searching for something permanent in her ever-crumbling world. The Dwarf in the shop next to the brothel had taken her coin without much conversation, directing her to his chair and using a small chisel to stab the ink into the back of her neck. Every tap sent white-hot starbursts through the base of her skull, making her disoriented and dizzy, but weathering the pain filled her with a sense of accomplishment she could not fully describe. The tattoo, elegant twin F-holes copied from her violin that reached up toward her hairline and down into her collar, made her feel as if a missing piece of her had been returned. She had found a way to make herself whole.

She returned to the shop next to the brothel periodically over the next three years, paying her coin and speaking little and watching her bare skin slowly fill with delicate illustrations. But when she asked him for letters, he had refused. Words had power, he said, and he was not willing to delve into that sort of magic. She had left the shop in sullen disappointment, but eventually came to accept the Dwarf’s reaction not as a sign that the tattoos were wrong, but simply that they were not yet meant to be. So she sketched her ideas in her book, and she waited.

The Festival of Torches that autumn was plagued by inclement weather. Some days started with rain but would clear by the afternoon, while others began with bright sunshine until the sky filled with huge, ominous clouds. It was in one of these flash storms that Lux found herself caught, hugging her violin case to her chest as she ran for shelter. She had been performing in a stall-sized open space in a long row of merchant’s tents, but none she could see had enough of an overhang to provide any cover. Slowing to a walk, her shoulders hunched over her instrument, she looked around in desperation. So much for busking.

“Hey, kid. Why don’t you come inside?”

Startled, Lux whirled to see an open tent flap and a red-skinned face peering out at her. The woman beckoned. Lux bobbed her head in thanks, breaking into an embarrassed smile as she ducked inside.

Warm and quiet despite the rain pounding on the canvas, the interior of the tent felt like another world. A richly patterned rug covered the hard-packed dirt beneath their feet, a pile of pillows in the centre of it and a single large cushion to one side. A low table sat beside the cushion, covered in an array of small jars and long, thin implements. In the far corner across from the cushion sat another small table, this one holding crystals of varying sizes, dried herbs, a small statue of a deity Lux did not recognise and incense burning in a bronze holder. A round lantern made of tiny panes of glass hung between the two supporting poles, casting soft shafts of light through the smoke filling the air.

“You alright, kid? Get caught out there?”

Lux nodded, shivering involuntarily as her body adjusted to her sodden clothes. “Yeah. Saw the clouds roll in, couldn’t pack up my supplies in time.” She loosened her shoulders enough to rake her fingers through her wet hair.

“You’re the musician, yeah? From up the row?” The Tiefling woman was shorter than Lux and easily her mother’s age, her dark blue hair tied in a messy bun behind the sweep of her horns. She was barefoot, clad in soft trousers and a sleeveless wrapped tunic, her skin covered in intricate designs from her throat to her fingertips. Even the top side of her tail was decorated, a complex geometric pattern accompanied by a row of paired silver studs travelling from the hem of her tunic all the way to the tail’s tip. Her black eyes regarded Lux curiously as she puffed on a wooden pipe. “I can hear you from in here. Good stuff, that. Makes for good ambience.”

“Thank you.” Lux’s gaze darted about the tent with childlike curiosity, trying to absorb every detail. “What do you do here?”

“Ritual, restorative and sacred body modification.” Seeing the questioning tilt of Lux’s head, she continued. “Tattooing and scarification, mainly. Sometimes piercings. Whatever my clients need.”

Listening intently, Lux squinted. “Need?” She had never considered tattoos a need before.

The woman nodded. “Need. I specialise in working with clients looking for some sort of healing. Trauma victims, those dealing with loss or illness or spiritual crisis, those who need protection.” Her tone was brusque, but not unkind; clearly, she was used to explaining her craft. “Scarification and tattooing are lengthy, painful processes, and putting your body through an ordeal like that can bring a lot of buried emotions to the surface. When that happens -- in many cases by design -- I help my clients release the energy and begin to come to terms with its causes. We work together to create the piece they want, discuss its meaning and their intentions for it, and then I guide them verbally through the session. It’s a powerful, transformative experience.” She smiled softly. “They call me a white witch,” she confided. “I’ll take it.”

For a long time, Lux considered the older Tiefling’s words. Then she met her eye. “Do you work with letters?”

It became a tradition. Each year when Festival time came and Lux had earned enough money to afford her next session, she would visit Mae’s tent. First, Mae’s needles traced Lux’s father’s name into her vermilion skin, the sloping Infernal symbols making the younger Tiefling smile even as she wept. They added animals, alchemical runes, plantlife and sigils onto her arms, covering them with pictographic armour; eventually, they connected the pieces on the left arm with snaking ivy and the right with the notes of Lux’s most precious piece of music. They pierced silver rings into her ears and tiny studs into her brow, nose and lip, and with each addition, she felt more beautiful. More protected. More whole.

Today, nearly a year since she had left one of the darkest chapters of her life behind, Lux lay on the pillows with her vest unlaced as Mae’s needles worked the ink into her sternum. Each tattoo was different; her upper arms had felt like sunburns, while the creases of her inner elbows had been sharp, like a thousand bee stings. With no tissue to protect her chest, however, every lightning-fast knock of the needle against her breastbone vibrated powerfully through her body. Mae worked quickly, her rough hands steady and warm. She reminded Lux to breathe. Her journey was only beginning.

It was a different high than when she smoked, almost a trance state, brought on by the waves of sensation emanating from the tattoo site. The heavy, spiced smoke of the incense filled the warm air of the tent, and as she inhaled, she opened her mind. She was ready.

Heartache. Despair. All the emotions she fought to suppress, all the memories she had tried so hard to bury, slowly drifted to the surface of her consciousness. The hell of her own past. But she knew she could not turn away; this was what she had come to face. She reached deep into the pain, acknowledging it, soothing it, pushing it up through nerves and pinprick wounds as tears slid gently down her cheeks.

Infernal runes. The sacred from the profane, inscribed in a place that was only for her and those who earned her deepest trust. A reclamation.

It hurt. It needed to hurt. She breathed.

[griefabyss69]

Six Sentence Sthursday

rules: post 6 sentences of an unfinished work and tag 6 people

thank you to @hitlikehammers and @steddie-island for the tag!!! <3 this is from the scarification reclamation WIP! A direct continuation off of what I posted for WIP weekend [linked here]:

Of course, that's when Steve's spidey-senses must be tingling because he comes and knocks at his door, a courtesy these days because Eddie usually just tells him to come in whenever he wants. The bad mood must be obvious somehow, like a stench maybe, and when Steve pokes his head in Eddie can only imagine what he's seeing, because he's pulled his blankets over his head. "Have you eaten?" he asks first, then comes and sits at the foot of his bed. "Need to take a piss?" Eddie groans, because now that Steve mentions it, yeah. "I'm fine," he mutters, kicking out at him with his good leg. "Go bother Wayne, there's probably sports on."

Tagging @jamiethegardener55, @wynnyfryd, @zombiethingy, @carbonbased000, @vecnuthy, and @thefreakandthehair (No pressure etc, unless you're Wynn, then high pressure instead)

[griefabyss69]

05 scarification reclamation for WIP Weekend perhaps?

Hello!! Thanks for asking! <3

Look in the tag for the earlier part I posted, this was written today and comes later in the fic: --

The decision has been made.

In reality, he knew there was no way he wasn't going to do it. He's always been interested in going against nature - including the blank canvas he'd been given just by existing - and no matter how incongruous it felt to say it, the Upside Down was just as natural as anything else.

Besides, he had to get the courage to stop showering with a towel over the mirror. He wants to feel proud of something, or at least neutral, and since he can't go back down and steal his flesh back from the toothsome horrors that claimed it, he'll just have to pull a trick from their own book.

Figuring out the design he wants is a lot harder than he thought, though.

At first he thinks; maybe they can all be of the same theme. But finding a theme in general is frustrating, and trying to map it to every one of his scars is impossible. Then he thinks; maybe different parts of his body can be their own little environments, weird tableaus made of swirls and straight lines.

That doesn't end up working either.

With an afternoon of trying to sketch out his scars, studying them in the mirror, trying his best to translate them to paper, he's ready to crawl into a hole and live there until he dies. It's not rock bottom, there's no moldy tarp and he's not covered in blood, but he feels like fucking dirt.