bandages · port mafia · eccentric · dark humor · psychological manipulation · banter · trauma
The room holds its breath, thick with the weight of things unsaid. You loathe the pale trails marring your skin, the silent ledger of wars waged inside your own mind. Every mirror is a confrontation you flee from, every glimpse a flinch. You hide beneath long sleeves, armor against reminders that sting long after they’ve sealed. Some wounds, you understand, never close. It makes no sense that he still looks at you the way he does. Dazai sees none of your aversion. To him, these marks are a story he would read forever. His fingers find the cuff of your sleeve, a tender tug, and he lifts your chin. His dark eye, visible beside the bandaged one, is soft. A marker rests in his other hand. “Can I draw stars on your scars, babe?”