#( ...cough. )

SOME ONE WORD PROMPTS.send one of the words for our muses to interact based on that word.ACCEPTING.

bloody. my muse coming to your muse with blood stains on their clothes and hands, shaking.

        dazai wishes he could say it was an ACCIDENT… wishes he could say it wasn’t therapeutic— but killing that man had felt like the first breath he has taken in four years. 

        HE DIDN’T SET OUT TO HURT SOMEONE. rather, it was someone who set out to hurt him. but the no-name criminal chose the wrong day to try to rob him. it’s three in the morning on the anniversary of odasaku’s death and he’s sleeplessly wandering the graffiti'd slums when the man JUMPS HIM from behind. which in itself isn’t completely unusual; nor is the scuffle that follows. it isn’t the first time he stepped foot in a bad neighbourhood. it also isn’t the first time he has been set upon because of it. but oda’s matchbox is in his hand— and when the man (high on adrenaline and narcotics and alcohol and who knows what else) manages a fist to his stomach, he drops it. the six remaining matches scatter; the box CRUSHED beneath his aggressor’s foot and something in him snaps.

        eyes as black as murder, he whips out his gun and, brain unplugged from the rest of his body, he shoots the man POINT BLANK in the head.

        and keeps shooting, until the corpse looks like swiss cheese, until his clothes are soaked with blood and his breaths come in shrill gasps. IT’S ALL OVER. everything he has been working towards at the armed detective agency… every day he’d spent trying to become a good man… his fledgling morality, nurtured, testing its wings— stomped on in a split second. HE HAS BROKEN HIS PROMISE. he’s going to lose his job, lose his purpose, lose his friends, lose his family—

       he runs. 

        yokohama is a blur, his pulse fluttering, legs only stopping once they’ve brought him to kunikida’s door. kunikida is the only person he knows who will be BLUNT enough to snap him out of his hysteria. the only person he knows with enough strength to catch the world as it slips through his fingers. the only person he knows who he trusts to see him like this; bandages dirtied with someone else’s blood, shaking convulsively, as white as a sheet. the only person he knows who might UNDERSTAND. 

        did he knock? he can’t remember, he can’t think… but the door opens, and it’s a SOB that splits his chest as he falls to his knees.