[ All his bindings end up upon the floor, long forgotten in lieu of Linneus' hands. They're warm, attentive and so very present upon sensitive skin which rarely endures the sensation of contact. It's hard to restrain himself from suffering a shiver or hitch of shoulders when he's touched, but Dazai endures the whole of it without too much loss of decorum.
At least his breaths are even, not rushed or left to pour out at the sudden over stimulation. Because he feels too much all at once- vulnerable and open in ways that next to never happen. The knot of his brows, fixed with concentration as opposed to anger, says as much.
His body is a work of art, scarred throat to torso in a constellation of wounds. It conveys a story of violence eternally inscribed upon him by gutting knives and gunfire alike. Few places span more than several inches where the territory remains unmarred. More often than not the marks themselves interweave as if patterns in some strange language carved into living flesh instead of stone.
Some are small in their size, taking up scarcely any little room, though their impression likely ran towards greater depths than widths in their assault upon his flesh. ( Bullets tend to do so. ) Meanwhile others expand out across his body, the scar tissue mirroring gruesome flowers whose blooms remain marks forever fixed upon Dazai's body. ]
How's that? [ A steadying breath lifts his chest beneath Linn's hands. ] Better?
no subject
At least his breaths are even, not rushed or left to pour out at the sudden over stimulation. Because he feels too much all at once- vulnerable and open in ways that next to never happen. The knot of his brows, fixed with concentration as opposed to anger, says as much.
His body is a work of art, scarred throat to torso in a constellation of wounds. It conveys a story of violence eternally inscribed upon him by gutting knives and gunfire alike. Few places span more than several inches where the territory remains unmarred. More often than not the marks themselves interweave as if patterns in some strange language carved into living flesh instead of stone.
Some are small in their size, taking up scarcely any little room, though their impression likely ran towards greater depths than widths in their assault upon his flesh. ( Bullets tend to do so. ) Meanwhile others expand out across his body, the scar tissue mirroring gruesome flowers whose blooms remain marks forever fixed upon Dazai's body. ]
How's that? [ A steadying breath lifts his chest beneath Linn's hands. ] Better?